Marrying Minister Right

Michael watched Heather flinch. He’d said those words to her before, and on the steps of this very church. He’d gotten a face full of flowers—her wedding bouquet—the last time. This time he got much worse.

Heather turned and looked him straight in the eye. In that moment he saw unmasked all the hurt and disappointment she had carried with her all these years.

“Please, Heather.” He came down one step, and then another, his hand extended. “Please stay. And then we can—”

What? Take up their lives where they left off? With her looking to the wrong people and places for happiness? And him, wishing she’d just once look at him, really look at him and see how much he loved her?

After the Storm:

A Kansas community unites to rebuild

Healing the Boss’s Heart—Valerie Hansen

July 2009

Marrying Minister Right—Annie Jones

August 2009

Rekindled Hearts—Brenda Minton

September 2009

The Matchmaking Pact—Carolyne Aarsen

October 2009

A Family for Thanksgiving—Patricia Davids

November 2009

Jingle Bell Babies—Kathryn Springer

December 2009

ANNIE JONES

Winner of the Holt Medallion for Southern Themed Fiction and the Houston Chronicle’s Best Christian Fiction Author of 1999, Annie Jones grew up in a family that loved to laugh, eat and talk—often all at the same time. They instilled in her the gift of sharing through words and humor, and the confidence to go after her heart’s desire (and to act fast if she wanted the last chicken leg). A former social worker, she feels called to be a “voice for the voiceless” and has carried that calling into her writing by creating characters often overlooked in our fast-paced culture—from seventy-somethings who still have a zest for life to women over thirty with big mouths and hearts to match. Having moved thirteen times during her marriage, she is currently living in rural Kentucky with her husband and two children.

Marrying Minister Right

Annie Jones

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Annie Jones for her contribution to the After the Storm miniseries

Therefore put on the full armor of God,

so that when the day of evil comes, you may

be able to stand your ground, and after you have

done everything, to stand.

—Ephesians 6:13

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Questions for Discussion

Prologue

July 10

10:00 p.m.

Wichita, Kansas

“That’s it! I am officially changing my name.”

The old door to the main office of Helping Hands Christian Charity slammed, echoing through the darkened hallway. The charity’s founder and long-time director pushed her straight light brown hair off her shoulders and stared at her name printed in gold on the frosted glass. “I am no longer Heather Waters.”

Mary Kate Madison, her assistant, marched onward flicking off lights as she headed down the hallway. She raised her voice to be heard over the drone of the TV in the lobby, calling back, “Not this again.”

“From this point on, I am going by what everybody and their dog seems to know me as.” The thin soles of Heather’s three-year-old, faux-leather bargain pumps kept a quick rhythm on the scuffed linoleum floor. “Heather Willya!”

“Did you say Heather Will You?” Mary Kate asked as she charged on ahead of her boss.

“Will ya,” she corrected above the hum of the TV in the lobby. “As in Heather, will ya sign these forms? Heather, will ya see if you can find a few more dollars for this cause or that? Heather, will ya juggle your schedule to host an important meeting of the Interfaith Community Needs Assessment Council?”

“You love being counted on and we all know it.” Mary Kate, who at twenty-three was five years younger than Heather but still tended to play mother hen, clucked her tongue as she reached the well-lit and finally vacant lobby. In the doorway she pivoted and held up her hand. “Oh, wait. Check the doors to make sure they’re locked as you come down the hallway, if you don’t mind, will you?”

“That’s Ms. Willya to you!” Heather called back. She rattled a doorknob, found it secure and moved on. “All is as it should be. Everything is safe and secure and we can trust—”

“Hey, didn’t you come from High Plains?” Mary Kate cut her off.

“High Plains?” Heather stopped in her tracks. “Why do you ask?”

Mary Kate pointed to the TV hung high in the lobby.

“An F3-level tornado devastated the small community of High Plains, Kansas, yesterday evening,” the TV announcer was saying.

“What?” Heather stepped forward. She’d been so busy with work that she hadn’t heard any news all day.

“The destruction is widespread,” the announcer went on. “Emergency crews are on the scene. We are still waiting to see if there are any deaths or serious injuries.”

Dead or injured? In High Plains? Heather staggered forward toward the small, flickering screen. A knot tightened in her stomach.

“You grew up there, right?” Her assistant looked from the broadcast to Heather then back to the broadcast.

“Yes, it’s…” A place she had not visited or even so much as driven through since she had left it behind a decade ago. Heather couldn’t imagine rubble where once had stood homes and businesses.

To her surprise, an aching sense of the familiar washed over her. The threat of tears blurred her vision. “It’s home.”

All her life that was all she had wanted. A real home. Her mother tried so hard to make one for their family. But no amount of love and kindness on her part had made it happen. Nothing either of them did could make Heather’s father love her.

“At present the town is using High Plains Christian Church, which escaped virtually unscathed in the storm, as a base of operations.”

The image of the simple old white church flashed on the screen and the world seemed to spin backward through time. Her cheeks flashed hot. Her knees wobbled for only a moment before she took a deep breath and shut her eyes to steady herself.

The day she left High Plains for good, never looking back, she was supposed to have been married in that very church. As long as she lived she would never forget opening the envelope in the sanctuary where she had spent so many joyous days of her life. In that envelope, delivered by a private investigator hired by her fiancé’s family, she found a truth her mother had taken to her grave. Edward Waters was not her biological father.

And John Parker, son of the wealthiest family to ever live in High Plains, wanted nothing more to do with her. There would be no marriage. For only a moment Heather had blamed the private investigator’s report. But young as she was, she wasn’t foolish enough to think that in this day and age someone would refuse to marry a person because of her lineage. No, Heather now understood why Edward Waters never would love her and that, despite his many youthful professions, John Parker had never really loved her.

Her world had fallen apart that day and she had crumbled with it. She had come so far since that wretched day. Yet this awful reminder of her hometown proved to her that she may have moved away, but she had not wholly moved on.

“Built in 1859, the church remains much as it did then, a beacon to those in need.” The reporter spoke with a cultivated calm that belied the tragedy of the situation. “We interviewed the minister from the church earlier today and here’s what he had to say.”

Heather raised her hand to block the screen from her view. “I’ll look this up online later tonight. It’s just horrible but…it really doesn’t have anything to do with me anymore. It’s not like I even know anyone there any—”

Just then, between her splayed fingers, she caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered man with wavy dark brown hair. He looked rumpled but in charge.

“Michael.” Heather dropped her hand to her throat and fought to drag in a breath deep enough to allow her to speak above a dry, shocked whisper.

The years had treated him kindly. Given him fullness in the face and the beginning of lines fanning out from his startlingly blue eyes. Still, there was no mistaking him. “Michael Garrison.”

“You know him?” Mary Kate’s head whipped around.

The picture began to break up.

“I’m sorry,” the news anchor came back. “We seem to have lost that connection. We’ll go back to it after this message.”

Heather exhaled slowly, her eyes on the TV where moments ago she had confronted her past. “Yeah, I know him. Or knew him. That is…I thought I knew him.”

The Three Amigos. Everyone in town had called Michael, her and John Parker that from the time they had all been the lousiest players on a fairly lousy Little League team. They had formed a bond then—John, “Take-A-Hike Mike,” so called because the only way he could get on base was to get hit by the ball and get a walk; and “Heather Duster.” She threw herself into every base, trying too hard, wanting it too badly. Needing to prove she could do it, she would dive headlong, gritting her teeth and sliding with all her heart.

“You can never tell where Heather is standing until the dust settles,” the coach would say.

From grade school through high school, nothing could separate the trio. Until one day during the summer between their junior and senior years. That was the summer that John Parker kissed Heather. Suddenly, three became a crowd. Michael hadn’t seemed to mind; he wanted the best for his friends, he had said. He wanted them to be happy.

That’s what he had said.

“So you do know him, or what?”

“I know him.” Heather nodded, her eyes on the screen waiting to see if they would return to the story shortly. “The last time I saw the man, I threw my wedding bouquet in his face.”

“You were going to marry him?” Mary Kate stabbed her finger at the TV.

“No, he was just—” A friend? A friend would never have done what Michael Garrison had done. In many ways, his role in what happened that day had hurt Heather more than John’s. She knew why John couldn’t go through with the marriage. Even though she still chafed at the way he had handled it, she had found a grudging respect for the fact that he hadn’t gone forward with wedding vows he knew he could not honor for a lifetime. But Michael? Why had he gone along with it, allowed her public humiliation and done nothing to stop it? That, she could never understand. “Michael Garrison was just a—”

“Tell us, Reverend Garrison, what can people watching do to help?” The news correspondent had come back on. He thrust the mic into the bleary-eyed, disheveled minister’s face.

Such a good face. Heather could still see the kindness and commitment in the way he stood firm among the chaos and destruction. In the fact that he looked as though he had not rested since the storm had hit. In the fact that he was willing to speak on behalf of those who could not, at the moment, speak for themselves, with no regard for his own needs.

“Reverend Garrison,” she murmured, shaking her head. Michael had always talked about entering the ministry, but she had never heard if he had actually followed through on that.

He stroked the stubby shadow of bristles along his jaw. When she had last seen him, he’d hardly been shaving at all. He had been so young then. They all had been.

“For the time being we have most of the basics covered,” he said.

His hoarse voice tripped over her weary nerves the way she imagined a thumb would strum over the taut strings of a guitar, leaving them vibrating. The news churned up a sudden clash of emotions, leaving her feeling raw.

“This is not something that will be a quick or easy fix.” He shifted his weight. Tugged at his collar. Cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the media attention. Still, he understood how important it was to get the message out, to speak for the people and the town he so loved. “We have a lot of damage, the full extent of which we still don’t know. We have a fund set up through a local bank for contributions. So to anyone who wants to help that way, we’d appreciate it.”

“Done,” Heather said softly even as Mary Kate lunged for a pen and paper to jot down the information scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

“Should I write a request for a check from the board or send something from the floating fund?” Mary Kate asked above the scratching of her pen on the pad.

“Neither,” Heather said. “I’ll make a personal donation and solicit others on their behalf.”

It was her calling to do for other people the things she had never been able to do for her own parents—give them a chance to heal their differences, to stay together and be a real family.

“And, of course, we could use your prayers,” Michael concluded.

“Also done.” Heather pressed her lips together, drew in a deep breath and finally looked away.

That was all she could do right now. Her father was ill; she couldn’t leave town. Helping Hands Christian Charity was not designed, nor was it equipped, to rush in and give aid in emergency situations like this. She had an obligation to the people who donated to the organization to adhere to their mission. Still, she would do all she could personally to help the town she still loved, even if it had not seemed to love her back.

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?” the reporter pressed on. “Anything more people can do to make a difference?”

For a second there was only silence.

Heather took the slip of paper from Mary Kate and did not look up. She did not need to see the man to know he was stroking his hand back through his hair, rubbing his chin and generally stalling for time. It was a habit he’d had since Little League. Always wanting to be sure he did and said the right thing, wanting to be conscious of other people’s feelings. That was why, when he had completely disregarded her feelings on the biggest day of her life, it had wounded her so deeply.

She would send money to the town and certainly pray for all of them, but that was all she would do. All she could do.

“There is one more thing,” Michael finally spoke up. “There are some tourist cottages by the river, a whole row of them.”

Heather tensed.

“I, uh, I used to know the owner,” Mike went on. “Well, uh, the owner’s daughter, actually.”

A shiver went down her spine.

“These cottages survived in pretty good shape. They aren’t luxury accommodations by any means, but for families who have nowhere else to turn, who want to stay together in High Plains, they could become a real, if temporary, home.”

“Home,” she whispered again. She spun around and searched first the background of High Plains behind Michael, then the man’s face. He had practically just spelled out Heather’s personal mission statement. She fought back the tears for the second time tonight.

“If anyone knows how to get in touch with any member of the Waters family, or if any of them hear this interview…”

She could not go to High Plains herself right now. She could not send money from her charity without going through a time-consuming process. But she could do this. She could answer Michael Garrison’s plea to help keep the families of High Plains together. She could grant permission on her father’s behalf for the use of the cottages.

Doing so would mean that, at some point, she’d have to go back to that town to deal with the cottages in person. She shut her eyes. Would it really be so bad? She needed to check on her father and could easily let him know what she had done. He might not be happy with her acting on his behalf, but he hadn’t been feeling well for some time. Nothing had been done with those cottages for so long, he would likely be glad to pass their responsibility on to her.

“Heather, will you help us out if you can?” Michael finally asked outright.

“Is he talking to you?” Mary Kate’s eyes grew wide.

“Yes.” He was talking to her. As an old friend. As a man of God. Perhaps even as a nudge from God. “Mary Kate, make the call and tell Michael Garrison they can use the cottages. I’ll get it cleared through my father.”

“What if he asks to speak to you?” Mary Kate had already picked up the handset, her hand hovering above the keypad on the phone.

“He had his chance to speak to me ten years ago and he kept quiet,” she said softly.

“What? You really want me to tell him that?”

Heather blinked and came back to the present. “No. No, of course not. Tell him…” She looked out at her car next to Mary Kate’s in the dark and otherwise empty parking lot. “Tell him I have a lot of personal and work-related issues colliding right now, but I will come to High Plains as soon as I can, to do whatever I can.”

“When?” Mary Kate wanted to know.

Heather rubbed her eyes. They felt as though she had been in a sandstorm, tired, burning, as if they could use a good cry. She exhaled. Crying didn’t accomplish anything. Action did. “Just tell him I’ll be in High Plains when the dust settles. He’ll understand.”

With that she dug her cell phone from her bag to call her father, only then seeing multiple missed calls all from the same unknown number.

“Michael?” she whispered. Her pulse thumped in her temples and her hand shook as she punched in the code to retrieve the first message. But it wasn’t Michael.

“Ms. Waters, this is Galichia Heart Hospital. Your father was brought in a half hour ago. He’s been asking us to get in touch with you. Please get back to us as soon as you can.”

Chapter One

Dust. The Holy Bible tells us God created human life out of dust and that in time we would all return to it.

Almost a full month after the tornado had ripped through his town, Michael Garrison felt as if everything he owned, wore or ate was still covered with the stuff. Whole neighborhoods now seemed like little more than dump heaps and sandlots. In so many places the storm had stripped away not only grass and trees but also much of the topsoil. Some of the old-timers likened it to a small-scale dust bowl.

His scuffed and battered tennis shoes kicked particles from the church’s maroon-colored carpet even as he pushed the vacuum cleaner back and forth. The aging machine whirred loudly, practically wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Hang in there just a little longer, baby. We can’t afford a new broom right now, much less a vacuum.” He dragged it back across a spot he’d gone over…and over…and over before. “If you stay with me until we’ve got some sense of normalcy around here again…”

The engine sputtered.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He kicked the off switch at the base of the old-fashioned upright to turn the thing off. “Normalcy may be asking for way too much these days.”

“You’re talking to the vacuum cleaner now?” His niece, dressed in a lavender shirt and overalls, her light brown hair in braids, poked her head in the door. At just five foot one and wearing the deceptively sweet and modest outfit that she had complained about all morning, she looked even younger than her fourteen years.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and raised his head to call back to her, “Talking to inanimate objects gives me practice for talking to people who never listen. Like my niece, whom I asked to go to the store to get us sodas about three minutes ago.”

“I’m going, I’m going, all right? I just—”

“Whatever they have will be fine.” He cut her off before she could launch into another list of excuses why she shouldn’t have to go out in the heat. “Or if you want to stay here, you can vacuum and I’ll go get us something cold to drink.”

“Vacuum? With that antique?” She crinkled up her nose. “My mom never makes me do that stuff. I don’t even know how. Besides, I think that thing is actually making the carpet dirtier.”

“Don’t you listen to her, old girl.” He patted the bulging cloth bag on the old upright and was rewarded with a cloud of ultrafine powdery dust.

Avery laughed.

He liked hearing her laugh. She’d had a hard year and didn’t laugh nearly as much as he thought a kid her age should. So he played up the scene for her enjoyment, waving his hands, pretending to stagger around unable to see, coughing.

More girlish laughter.

Spinning around, he grinned to himself. Sunlight streamed in around him. The play of shadows and light against one another made a spotlight in which specks and dots sparkled.

“I’ll be back when the dust settles.” The message Heather Waters had sent echoed in his thoughts again, as it had many times in the last four weeks.

He watched the residue drip and drift and glitter in the sunbeam for a moment. He gritted his teeth to stave off the pangs of unresolved emotions twisting in his gut. If Heather held true to her word, he might never see her again.

Hadn’t he resigned himself to that fate ten years ago? He had kept his thoughts and feelings to himself, wanting only her happiness, when the only girl he had ever really loved wanted to marry John Parker. And then when that girl had fled from this church, hurt and humiliated by John leaving her at the altar, he had let her go because it was best for her and, in the long run, for him.

Now he had to do that again. He had too much work to do, too many people counting on him to allow himself the luxury of being distracted by something that could never be.

“Okay, how about I go for sodas and you do something else to pitch in around here?” He wasn’t letting the girl slip free of taking some responsibility for basic chores.

“I said I’d get the sodas.” She gave a huff.

Michael tugged free the hem of the well-worn multicolored T-shirt he had pulled from the pile of donated clothes. He’d tried to make sure Avery had clean laundry, but neglected to do the same for himself. He wiped his brow, then took a moment to look over the sanctuary.

It was a simple design. High, wooden ceilings with sturdy support beams arching upward. The style, he’d always been told, was meant to mimic the inside of a boat to remind them always that they were to be fishers of men.

He studied the long, tall, stained-glass windows, glowing in shades of red, blue, yellow and purple. Years ago their insurance company had required them to be encased in protective safety glass. That and the sturdy boat-bottom design had protected the sanctuary from all but cosmetic damage.

But not from dust and dirt and even trash that still blew through the streets and gathered like fallen leaves in corners and along curbs all over town.

“And I will get the sodas, if you want me to or whatever, but…” Avery launched into yet another excuse for her not having done as she was asked.

“No.” Michael sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “I’ll go. Why don’t you—”

“Why don’t you tell me why you didn’t go when I asked, Avery?” She spoke in a low voice, a booming imitation of him with one thumb hooked in the strap of her overalls.

In the next moment, she turned her shoulders, folded her hands in front of her and spoke in a soft, sweet voice. “I’m trying, Uncle Michael. Why won’t you listen to me?”

Back to the imitation of him, she blustered, “That’s because I’m a big grump like I’ve been all week, Avery. In fact, I’m so grumpy lately I’ve had to resort to talking to my cleaning supplies.”