Superior Storm (Lake Superior Mysteries) (10 page)

I made it to the church with five minutes to spare. After I opened up the doors and turned the lights on in my office, I thought I'd better make a pot of coffee for Angela and her husband. My keen memory recorded that Angela was a partaker of the third Lutheran sacrament.

When the coffee was done, it was only natural that I should taste it, to make sure it was acceptable. It was. Angela walked in halfway through the first cup. She had ditched her hippie outfit for expensive jeans and a long
-
sleeved orange shirt with frills at the sleeves and down the front. As before, her expression was troubled and serious. Beside her
,
was a man in his
late thirties
, clean shaven with messy brown hair and dark brown eyes of the type that I always thought women would find sensitive and appealing. He also wore jeans, and brown boots
,
with a light colored blue denim shirt that might have been either pretty cheap, or very expensive, depending on whether he'd bought it at Wal-Mart or a
boutique
.

I got up and greeted Angela.

“Pastor Borden,” she said. “This is my husband, Philip.”

“Phil Kruger,” he said, sticking out his hand. It was hard without noticeable callouses,
but
his grip was
limp, like a man who doesn’t really know who he is
. His brown eyes met mine,
briefly, and then slid away
. There seemed to be too much tongue in his mouth. He kind of left his lips parted, and I could see it
in
there. It was vaguely sensual, in a way that was gross to me; maybe Angela found it attractive. Or maybe that's why she'd had her affair.

We exchanged the normal pleasantries, and then got seated in my office. I was happy to see them sit together on the love seat. Angela seemed to sit very close to her husband, which was another encouraging sign.

“Philip has agreed to come and see you,” she said, unnecessarily. “I haven't spoke
n
with him about – what you and I talked about last time,” she said.

“Is that what you want to talk about now?” I asked.

“What do you think?”

“Let'
s
just start at the beginning, and see where things take us,” I said.

Angela seemed much less rigid in her opinions than she had
been
when she met with me on her own. I invited her to share her reasons with Phil for wanting marriage counseling. Phil and his sensual mouth
sat there looking insecure, and
when I thought about the secret his wife was keeping from him, I
felt a little
sorry for him.

“Really, I don't have any complaints,” he said, patting Angela's hand, which he was holding. “But I want her to be happy too, and I'm willing to do what it takes for that to happen.”

“I just sometimes feel like you don't recognize who I am as a person,” said Angela. “I am a woman. I am powerful. I'm not just an accessory to your life.”

Kruger looked at her with an expression of quizzical concern. “I know that
,
Angela
,” he said,
respectfully, and patted her hand again.
She slapped his hand away. “Don't patronize me,” she snapped.

Kruger looked at her strangely, but he kept his cool, and the moment passed. All in all, whe
n the session was winding up an
hour later, I thought the prospects for their marriage were good. There was still the matter of Angela's affair to negotiate, but I felt like with a solid beginning, they might be able to handle that.

“Listen,” I said, looking at my watch, “time's about up for today. It isn't productive to do this for much more than an hour at a time. Except in certain circumstances.”

They looked at me. “What do you mean?” said Angela finally.

“Well, I am putting together a little sailing cruise in a few weeks. I'll have two couples along, and we'll spend three days or so
,
out on the water together. We'll use the time together to work on some marriage issues. I wondered if you guys would like to be one of the couples.”

They looked at each other. A little smile played near Angela's lips. It was good to see. She was normally so serious.

“Actually, that would be wonderful,” she said. Phil nodded. “My previous therapist offered something like that, but Phil didn't connect very well with him.”

I'll bet he didn't
, I thought. Phil nodded again. “It seemed like a great concept, but the timing and circumstances just weren't right.”

I wondered if Phil suspected the affair.
I gave them the cost and the other details.
“Well, you two think about it, and give me call. Let me know by next Wednesday, if you can,” I said.

They thanked me and then left, hand in hand. Angela looked over her shoulder at me, gave a small smile and waved. It seemed to take ten years off of her, and transformed her from a somber, even gloomy
individual into a vivacious woman in the prime of life. It made me feel good about my work, which just goes to show you how stupid I can be sometimes.

I preached
an
outstanding sermon on Sunday.
Less than five people fell asleep
,
and
a
few others went to the extraordinary lengths of making eye
contact and nodding at me as I spoke.
After church, the Olsens invited Leyla and me to Sunday lunch at their house.

Leyla and I seemed to be back on an even keel of friendship. I always enjoyed spending time with her, and she seemed able to enjoy it once again as well. There was a still a spark that slumbered between us, but for now, both of us were able to ignore it. So
,
we accepted the invitation for lunch.

John and
Kim
Olsen were about my age, which
is to say middle thirties, with,
apparently
,
two hundred children. Actually, it was only four kids, but what they lacked in size, they made up for in noise and energy. I bought fresh eggs and fresh milk from their farm every week.

I
n the middle of the living room of their white, clapboard farmhouse
, there
was a little exercise trampoli
ne, three feet in diameter
. A small girl of about three bounced on it, unceasingly chanting, “Daddy...Daddy...Daddy...”

“Lindy, Lindy, Lindy” said John, smiling at the little girl
,
whose name was Belinda. His response had no effect, and she continued bouncing and chanting the entire time that John and I talked about the weather, the Vikings and the Almighty, while we waited for
Kim
and Leyla to finish dinner preparations.

When everything was ready, three other miniature humans came rolling in like a freight train, yelling at the top of their lungs that the British were coming. John scooped Belinda off the trampoline to accompanying shrieks of joy.

“The British are coming?” I asked mildly.

“We are studying the American
R
evolution,” said
Kim
. She home-schooled Mandy and James, their two oldest. The third child, four
-
year
-
old John Jr
.
, apparently had apprehended the ride of Paul Revere by osmosis. This was not uncommon with home-schooling, according to
Kim
.

“Would you pray for us, Jonah?” asked John. For some reason, wherever I go for dinner, people always feel the need to ask me to
say grace
, as if it is better done by a professional or something. Or maybe my reputation as a cook had them scared, and they felt the need for divine support.

In the case of
Kim
Olsen, God had already blessed the hands of the cook. It was like a kind of minor
T
hanksgiving, with roast chicken and stuffing, roasted red potatoes and carrots, home-canned green beans and fresh corn on the cob. All delicious. In situations like that, it is a liability to be a pastor, because people naturally don't expect you to eat like a pig. Never one for social niceties, I ate like a pig anyway.

“Hungry, are we?” asked Leyla.

“Just want
Kim
to feel appreciated,” I said.

After lunch, John and
Kim
settled the little ones in front of a movie, and the four of us had a pleasant conversation over coffee and apple pie.

As we were leaving, I remembered the cat. I said, “Say, do you mind if I take some leftovers home?”

“I’m honored,” said Kim. “You’re such a chef
yourself.
T
hat means a lot to me.”

Proving that even old pastors can learn new tricks, I kept my mouth shut about the cat.
“It was delicious,” I said truthfully.

Afterward
s
, I drove Leyla home. “What is this music?” she asked.

“I'm kind of on a Steve Miller kick,” I said.

“Huh.”

“The Steve Miller Band was big in the '70s,” I said.

“But you were small in the '70s” she pointed out.

“Yes
,
I was. But the
I
nternet evens everything out. Most of what I listen to, I discovered on the
I
nternet.”

“
Jungle Love
really sort of ruins your pastoral image.”

“I listen to Tchaikovsky too. And Bach, Beethoven, all those guys.”

“Steve Miller, Beethoven and the guys.”

“You were afraid to say Tchaikovsky, weren't you?”

She hit me.

“Hey, I'm driving.”

“That's right
,
buddy. You haven't got time to be mocking me.”

Take the Money and Run
started playing.

“Oh, I love
Sweet Home Alabama
,” said Leyla.

I let it play a bit longer.

“This isn't Sweet Home Alabama, is it?” she asked, after Steve and
the
boys started telling the story of Billy Joe and Bobbie Sue, and how they robbed and shot a man, and then took the money and run.

I shook my head, smiling.

“You could have said something,” said Leyla, pretending to be hurt, “instead of letting me feel stupid.”

“I was instructed to shut up and drive,” I said. “And specifically not to mock my very
entertaining passenger.”

She hit me again. We were silent for a minute.

“This is an awful song, isn't it?”

“Well
,
the lyrics glorify senseless violence perpetrated by shiftless drug addicts and resulting in immoral, illegal, selfish gain. But musically
,
the song doesn't get boring for almost thirty seconds.”

“Why did you download this?”

“I remembered that it was some sort
of
classic hit, and I listened to less than thirty seconds before I made the decision.”

Leyla smiled broadly. “It's good to
see that
you don't always know exactly what you are doing.”

I looked over at her sharply. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know, Jonah, it's just that you're so – confident. It's part of what makes you attractive, but it can also be irritating sometimes. You're a terrific cook, a trophy fisherman, perceptive, smart, a great preacher.
” She paused.
“
An outstanding kisser.” She looked at her hands for a second. I didn't stare at her, because I had to drive the car.

“Anyway,” she said, waving her hands in the air now, “sometimes people just want to see that you aren't good at
everything
. Or that you aren't always right about everything.”

It was my turn to smile broadly. “You wish I was a bad kisser?”

She tossed her hair. “You know what I mean. Some people can be just too perfect.”

“Sure,” I said. I had no idea what she meant.

She looked a
t
me a moment. “You really don't see it, do you?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I just don't even try t
o do stuff I won't be good at
. But I think it's more likely that you are just overcompensating for letting me down in my moment of need. But you don't need to
,
you know.”

I paused. “I leave the toilet seat up.”

“Too much information.”

“There's another one
– I give too much information.”

She sighed dramatically, and looked out the window.

“I hate Jane Austen flicks.”