Page 122 of Charlotte

Delly squeezed her arm.

The little white church was already filled when they arrived. The Busy Bees occupied their usual pew with the moral confidence of women who had decorated half the town and intended Heaven to notice. Cornelia sat with Tucker near the front. Jeremy Stafford’s chair had been placed at the end of a pew, his fiddle case tucked beside him from the night before. Jeb stood near the aisle, waiting for Delly.

He looked at her as she came in.

Lottie saw it.

So did Delly, though her sister pretended she did not. Jeb held out one large hand. Delly took it after only the smallest hesitation, and he helped her into the pew as if she were precious, not fragile.

That was the difference, Lottie thought as she sat beside them.

Precious was not the same as fragile.

She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her head. “Lord, please make today quick so I can go back to the hotel room. I know I should let this go and let You handle it, but I want to hold on to my feelings a bit longer. Amen.”

“Amen,” Delly said, wrapping her arm around Lottie’s shoulders and giving a squeeze.

The church was a terrible place to have a tender heart. There were hymns, Scripture, and silence. Polished pews held a person still when every feeling inside wanted to pace. There were people who loved one another and noticed too much.

Worst of all, there was preaching.

Preacher Sutton had an unfortunate habit of saying true things in a calm voice, allowing no argument.

She picked up the hymnal and shifted in the pew, making the mistake of looking toward the back.

Cecil sat among the loggers near the last pew. He wore his Sunday coat. His beard had been trimmed. His hair was combed back, though one stubborn wave had already freed itself near his temple. His right hand was wrapped clean and visible, resting against the pew in front of him instead of buried away.

He looked up at the same moment.

Their eyes met across the church.

For two days, she had been teaching herself how to live with the space between them. One look from him threatened to ruin the whole lesson.

He did not look away first.

That was new.

The bell gave one final, bright note, calling the congregation together. People settled. Preacher Sutton rose, and Lottie faced forward before anyone could see what Cecil’s eyes had done to her composure.

The service began with prayer, followed by hymns.

Lottie sang because she had always loved hymns, even when the words scraped against tender places. Her voice was unsteady at first, but Delly’s came in beside hers, low and sure, and after a few lines Lottie found her way.

Behind her, from the last pew, she heard Cecil.

He wasn’t loud, but she knew his voice. She knew the depth of it, the careful steadiness, the way it seemed to carry sorrow without collapsing beneath it. He sang the old words as if he had not allowed himself to believe them for a long time and was trying to remember their meaning.

Lottie gripped the hymnal harder. Preacher Sutton preached on freedom.

Of course he did. It was the Fourth of July, and even Mrs. Hanford would have taken issue with a sermon that ignored the day entirely.

He did not stay with flags and speeches, nor with the nation’s liberty, though he honored both with grave affection.

Lottie listened as the preacher spoke of chains a person could see, then of chains more carefully hidden. He preached on fear dressed in sensible clothing, and pride which wore humility so convincingly a person might mistake one for the other.

Lottie’s gaze dropped to her gloved hands.

She did not look at the back of the church. She did not need to.