I made it home from Boykin’s and Stoddard’s Grocery & Meats in time to meet Thayne as he ambled near the corner of Church and Bishop, where Mrs. Stoddard’s house—and subsequently, ours—stood. Upon seeing me, he jogged to the car, then reached for the driver’s-side door handle as I parked. He opened it, gave me a perfunctory kiss, spied the groceries in the backseat, and said, “Looks like I’m just in time.”
“I’d say you are.”
We unloaded the groceries and paint. While I prepared sandwiches and Saltine crackers, he talked incessantly about the church. “It’s not big,” he said as though I expected a cathedral. “I’d say if it were packed to the gills it might hold two hundred.” Then he laughed. “That would be sitting hip to hip, mind you, but I can picture it.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “What about your office?”
“Well, let me tell you about the inside of the sanctuary. It’s old, okay? The walls are wide pine boards, painted white, and the altar is not really an altar at all. There’s a rise near the front of the church and a podium that looks like it has been polished about a million times and—oh! Stained glass windows, Mariette. The prettiest colors you’ve ever seen just dance all around first thing in the morning when the sun comes through, and I bet in the afternoons when the sun goes down it’s just as pretty. Different, but still impressive. There are some cobwebs that could stand being swept out. I looked for a broom but couldn’t find one, so I thought I’d ask Mrs. Stoddard for one before I go back.”
I raised a finger. “That reminds me,” I said. I darted out the front door and down the path to the car, opened the trunk, and brought out a broom, mop, and tin pail, then headed back in. By now Thayne was at the window. Seeing me approach, he opened the door. “Now you don’t need to bother Mrs. Stoddard,” I said. “Your wife has supplied your every need.”
He kissed me again as he smiled broadly at the broom, looking like a boy who’d scored a BB gun at Christmas. “I’m going to take the car back to the church, unless you need it,” he said as he propped the broom next to the front door.
“No, I don’t need it.”
“I want to take my books to the office. My office has a bookcase, you know.”
“I would imagine so.”
“So what are you going to do the rest of the day?”
“Me? Well, I thought I’d read a book, listen to some music, eat bonbons. You know, that kind of thing.” I screwed up my face as playfully as I could. “There isn’t a TV in this cottage, so I suppose watching General Hospital is out.”
Thayne looked at me as though I were an alien from outer space, one of those War of the Worlds creatures straight from the mind of Orson Wells. “Seriously.”
“Seriously?” I slipped a paint brush from out of the paper bag from the five-and-dime. “I’m going to teach myself how to paint.”
Thayne blanched. “Oh, now wait a minute . . .”
“I can do it, Thayne. I know I can. I may not be a good housekeeper or cook, but I’m gifted in artsy kinds of ways. Give me a chance.”
He splayed his fingers around his waist and sighed as he looked around the room. “Start with the bathroom,” he said. “If it doesn’t go well, at least only you and I will see it.”
A television and a fresh coat of paint weren’t the only things missing from the cottage. There was also no phone. After lunch, when Thayne had left with the car and a few boxes of books, I strolled back up to the center of town—if it could so be called—to the lone phone booth I’d seen on the corner of Main and Railroad Street. All in all, it was a three block walk, and it brought me to the very end of Logan’s Creek’s city limit.
I called Mama collect.
“Oh, Mariette! I’ve been so worried. Your father said not to, but I just couldn’t help it. Tell me. Tell me everything.”
“Well, first I’m sorry to have to call you collect. We don’t have a phone in the cottage.”
“Cottage?”
I sighed in sweet relief at hearing her voice. For once, her bit of social snobbery comforted me. “That’s what I’m calling it. It’s practically no bigger than my old bedroom and yours and Daddy’s combined.”
“Oh, Mariette!”
I giggled. “It’s not so bad. I bought paint and I’m thinking . . . well, if you could, would you send my sewing machine? I can get material here at the five-and-dime—goodness, they have everything in that store.”
“What else do you need?” she asked. “I knew I was sending you to the wolves.”
“It’s not so bad. So far I’ve met a few people and with the exception of one . . .” I rambled as long as I dared. I didn’t want Daddy to have a heart attack when he got the phone bill.
I must have apologized one too many times about the collect call because later that afternoon, as I stood in the bathroom, covered in droplets of paint, a knock came to the door. I stole a glance at myself in the mirror. One look told me I’d best pray no one from the church had come to surprise the reverend’s wife with a little visit.
It turned out to be a representative from the telephone company from Hudsonville. He took one look at me, grinned, then held up a wall phone he carried in his right hand. “Afternoon,” he said.
“Hello.” I blinked at him. “I’m sorry; are you sure you have the right house?”
“I am if you are the daughter of a Mrs. Carroll Puttnam of Meadow Grove, Georgia.”
I couldn’t help but note he didn’t need a notepad to look at in order to remember my mother’s name. “I am.”
He shook his head. “That’s some demanding mother you have. I’m here to install a phone by six o’clock or else.” He looked at his watch. “That gives me just a little under an hour.”
I stepped aside to give him entrance. “Then by all means,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with my mother.”
He chuckled; the tools on his belt jingled. “Me neither. But if you’re her daughter, you probably know that.”
I closed the door. As I did, I spotted Alma peering out her kitchen window toward the cottage. Even with the distance, I could see she was frowning. I raised my chin and turned on my heel. “You think she’s bad,” I said to the telephone man. “You should meet my father.”
“No, thank you.”
A half hour later, I flipped through the phone book the man had left behind until I found the name of the one and only church in Logan’s Creek. I dialed the number, then smiled as I waited, thinking, Won’t Thayne be surprised!
When he answered I heard him say, “Goodness,” as he picked up the phone, followed by “Reverend Scott” spoken directly into the mouthpiece.
“Reverend,” I said, lowering my voice so it sounded like the late Marilyn Monroe’s.
“Um . . . yes, this is Reverend Scott.”
“Oh, Reverend,” I said, keeping up the ruse. “I’m desperately in need of spiritual counsel.”
“Oh. Okay. Um . . . may I ask who is calling?”
I wanted to laugh out loud, but I managed to hold myself together. “I’d rather not say,” I answered. “But . . . well . . . I saw you today when you were walking to the church, and I have to admit, I’ve done nothing but think sinful thoughts of you since.”
There was a long pause. “Ma’am, I’m not sure what this is about,” he finally said, “but I’m a happily married man. And a pastor. A pastor who is a happily married man.”
“But, Reverend,” I said, adding my best Marilyn pout. “I’ve never . . . um . . . been with a reverend before. I almost was . . . but then a knock came to the door . . . an old woman with a quiche . . .”
“Mariette!?”
I burst out laughing then. “Who’d you think it was? Marilyn Monroe phoning from the grave?”
“I thought it was my worst nightmare. The professors warned about women like you, you know.”
“I’ll just bet they did. Hey, we have a phone now. Compliments of my parents.”
“Is that where you’re calling from?”
“Mmmhmm. It’s a wall phone in the kitchen.”
“Let’s hope we can afford the monthly bill.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’m heading home in just a few minutes and I’m starving. What’s for supper?”
“Supper?” I touched my hand to the bandana around my head. “Oh, dear.” I sighed. “Thayne? How do you feel about leftover quiche?”
While Thayne busied himself with getting acclimated, I kept busy with the interior of the cottage. My first few days were spent painting the place. The bathroom and bedroom: stark white. The living room and connected kitchen: creamy white trimmed in glossy white. There was a nook between the living area and the kitchen that I thought perfect for a home office for Thayne, and I painted it a muted shade of gold, a color Miss Carolyn had to read a manual to mix. I drove to Hudsonville one morning, found an old desk and chair at a junk store, then paid for it plus a little extra to have the owner transport it to Logan’s Creek in the back of his truck. I bought some lemon oil at Boykin’s, and when the desk arrived I polished it until it gleamed, then decorated it with a lamp and a photograph taken of Thayne and me with Ward and Missy at a community picnic.
Mama sent my sewing machine, which I set up in our bedroom. Then I went to the five-and-dime and purchased yards of material.
“I’ve always liked this red and white large check pattern,” Carolyn Boykin said as she stretched it across the measuring table and prepared to cut it. “What are you going to do with it? Kitchen curtains?”
“No,” I said. “I’m going to make a drapery for the bathtub.”
“You mean, like a curtain to go around it?”
“Actually, no. Over it. I found three rods, which I painted white like the walls. Then Thayne mounted them to the wall for me, one high over the center of the tub and the other two, one on either side about two feet down and over . . . like this. . . .” I spread my arms wide. “Anyway, I’m going to sew a drapery that will drape over the tub. Like a canopy.”
Carolyn shook her head. “Try hard as I may, I just can’t seem to picture that. I do declare, you young people have so much creativity these days.” She patted the bolt of off-white gossamer tulle. “What are you doing with this?”
“I’ll wrap it around the bedposts.” When she looked at me strangely, I said, “Romantic, don’t you think?”
She pressed her hand against her ample breasts. “Oh yes.” Then she leaned closer to me. “You know, I guess one just doesn’t think about the pastor and his wife . . . you know . . . being romantic.”
“We can be,” I answered with a smile.
Between Monday when we’d arrived in Logan’s Creek, and Saturday morning, Thayne spent most of his days and evenings pondering over and studying for Sunday morning, when he would give his first sermon. He asked me what I thought the theme should be, and I told him honestly that I had no idea. “Aren’t you supposed to ask God that kind of thing?”
“Depend on the Spirit to guide me,” he affirmed with a nod. Then he walked out of the bedroom where I was busy sewing new slipcovers for the kitchen chair pads. I shook my head, partly in wonder, partly in confusion.
On Wednesday he expressed his displeasure that midweek services had been cancelled by the most recent pastor, then determined he would have them back up and going before the end of the following month. With all his stress over one sermon on Sunday, I couldn’t imagine him wanting to preach twice in one week.
On Saturday night, with the decorating nearly complete and poor Mrs. Stoddard’s neck nearly out of joint from craning it so much as she spied out her windows at my comings and goings, Thayne and I went to the Oglesbys’ for a social, a welcoming from the town. I was informed via Carolyn Boykin that I “didn’t need to bring anything, just show up.”
“Wonder what I’d need to bring if we weren’t new here,” I said to Thayne as we readied ourselves for the evening. Thayne was dressed in his best dark blue suit and sitting on the sofa, listening to Elvis belt out the gospel while I dressed in the bedroom. I chose a slim sheath dress with three-quarter length sleeves in charcoal gray that gathered in little tucks at the front waist. The neckline, trimmed with black satin, dipped at my bra line in the back. I slipped my feet into matching pumps, my hands into black gloves, and was reaching for the red clutch lying on the bed when Thayne stepped in to tell me we’d be late if we didn’t hurry. “Wow,” he said. “You look too good to stay home and too sexy to go out.”
I turned to face him. “Too sexy? Do you think this is too much? I’ve never been to anything like this, you know. Not as the reverend’s wife, anyway.”
Thayne pinked. “Nah, nah. You’re fine.” He looked at his watch. “Seriously, we’ll be late.”
I ran into the bathroom for a final look. I was wearing more makeup now, mostly black eyeliner to accent my eyes, a pat of powder, a kiss of rouge, and the pinkest pink lipstick. “Do I look okay?”
“You look great, honey. Seriously. Come on!”
I ran out of the bathroom and through the bedroom. Thayne was already at the front door, which was wide open. Bursts of cold air blew past him and into the room. “The temperature is dropping,” I said. “Will I need a coat?”
“You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine,” he said. He jerked his head a few times toward the car in a “come on” motion.
I stopped short. “What about my hair? Does my hair look okay?” It had grown out again. I wore it teased around the crown; it fell in a precise flip just below my jawline.
“You’re as cute as Natalie Wood. Come on.”
“Natalie Wood?”
Thayne started to shiver. “Okay. It’s cold.” He shut the door. “I’ll get our coats.”
He ran past me, toward the bedroom. I was right behind him. “I’ll get mine.”
I had found a coatrack on sale at Boykin’s. It now stood in the corner of our bedroom, perfect for hanging our coats and jackets. I’d also found, behind the store, an old and rusty circular clothes rack that Carolyn said was from “back when we used to sell clothes here.” I asked her if I could have it, and she said I could. I brought it home, sanded it—something I would have never dreamed I’d know how to do—then wrapped the poles with batting followed by wide ribbon. It thus became our closet, a place for us to hang our clothes. Even Mrs. Stoddard—who’d managed to stop by more than a dozen times—had to admit the idea was pretty ingenious.
Thayne grabbed our coats, helped me on with mine, jerked his arms into his, then escorted me to the door.
“Are you sure I look okay?” I asked again.
He stopped long enough to kiss my cheek. “You look great. Everything is great. And you look fine. Everything is fine.” He smiled and I smiled back.
But before the night was over, I wondered if I should have sent Thayne to the social and just stayed home alone.