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Authors: Macy Beckett
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backfired.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “I was tired of being controlled.”
But her feeling of vindication hadn’t lasted beyond a few weeks. Several times, she’d picked up the phone to extend the olive branch, but fear had stopped her. Not fear of Grammy, but of the disappointment and loathing in her voice. She couldn’t bear to hear it again.
“Did you miss her?” Luke pressed their palms together, comparing the lengths of their fingers.
“Yes.” There was no reason to deny it. “But she made me feel shunned. And each year that went by, it got harder to call. I kept imagining she’d hang up on me, or worse…” Tell me I’m “trash” like she said in our last fight . “Anyway, I’m here now.”
“Well, Junebug, I’m glad you’re back.” He released her hand, then patted her knee and rose to his feet.
“Me too.” Because it wasn’t only Grammy she’d missed. “And I want to help while I’m in town,” she reminded him.
Luke didn’t answer, just sniggered as he skipped down the steps. He grabbed his wallet off the car’s roof and slipped it into the worn back pocket of his jeans, drawing her attention to his magnificent backside. Off limits! She glanced away and swallowed hard.
“Tell Pru good-bye for me.” Then he hopped in his truck and drove off to supervise the Helping Hands crew.
After one day, not even a full day, of working at the Jenkins house, June’s back and arms had ached so badly she’d needed two ibuprofen pills to sleep last night. Luke intended to spend his days laboring there, before driving an hour and working all night on his investment property? Impossible. June needed to figure out how to make Luke see she wasn’t a walking catastrophe and accept her help before he worked himself into an early grave.
Chapter 6
About fifteen years ago, an argument over whether or not Jazzercise counted as sinful dancing broke out among the Sultry Springs churchgoers, and a few disgruntled members marched their leg warmers over to a new house of worship: Holy Baptism by Water. The rift had rocked the county, pitting brother against brother, much like the Civil War, but far more serious. These pious soldiers fought for everlasting glory, as opposed to something as trivial as states’ rights. The Sultry Springs Holy War raged on for six months, until the Jazzercise instructor ran off to Vegas with her boyfriend. Then, with their heads hung in defeat, the defectors returned home and rejoined the flock. Nowadays, if a person wanted his soul saved, there was only one option: Holy Baptism by Hellfire.
June brushed her fingertips against the shiny oak pew, polished to a high gloss by hundreds of bottoms and decades of use. Years ago, she and Luke had squirmed in these pews and found ways to amuse themselves during the long sermons: passing notes, playing tic-tac-toe or rock-paper-scissors, and her favorite distraction—replacing the nouns and adjectives in the church bulletin with dirty ones. Mr. Peterson’s white corn for sale, you shuck it! became Mr. Peterson’s sweet ass for sale, you… well, something obscene that rhymes with “shuck it.” Sometimes her ribs had ached from holding in the laughter.
The church had added a new fellowship hall off the sanctuary—a boxy, red brick structure that looked out of place next to the weathered, white wood of the main building. Otherwise, nothing had changed. The air inside the church still smelled like dusty silk flowers and arthritis ointment.
“Well, look at you, Mae-June.” Pastor McMahon ambled out of his office. June recognized his voice—a drawl thicker than molasses that stretched “Jesus” into four syllables, Jay-ee-us-sus— but he’d lost all his hair and found a hundred pounds instead. “Sister Pru told me you were back.”
Grammy gave June’s arm a zealous pat. It was the first time Gram had touched her since she’d come to town two days ago, and June’s muscles stiffened at the contact. Her grandmother had
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “I was tired of being controlled.”
But her feeling of vindication hadn’t lasted beyond a few weeks. Several times, she’d picked up the phone to extend the olive branch, but fear had stopped her. Not fear of Grammy, but of the disappointment and loathing in her voice. She couldn’t bear to hear it again.
“Did you miss her?” Luke pressed their palms together, comparing the lengths of their fingers.
“Yes.” There was no reason to deny it. “But she made me feel shunned. And each year that went by, it got harder to call. I kept imagining she’d hang up on me, or worse…” Tell me I’m “trash” like she said in our last fight . “Anyway, I’m here now.”
“Well, Junebug, I’m glad you’re back.” He released her hand, then patted her knee and rose to his feet.
“Me too.” Because it wasn’t only Grammy she’d missed. “And I want to help while I’m in town,” she reminded him.
Luke didn’t answer, just sniggered as he skipped down the steps. He grabbed his wallet off the car’s roof and slipped it into the worn back pocket of his jeans, drawing her attention to his magnificent backside. Off limits! She glanced away and swallowed hard.
“Tell Pru good-bye for me.” Then he hopped in his truck and drove off to supervise the Helping Hands crew.
After one day, not even a full day, of working at the Jenkins house, June’s back and arms had ached so badly she’d needed two ibuprofen pills to sleep last night. Luke intended to spend his days laboring there, before driving an hour and working all night on his investment property? Impossible. June needed to figure out how to make Luke see she wasn’t a walking catastrophe and accept her help before he worked himself into an early grave.
Chapter 6
About fifteen years ago, an argument over whether or not Jazzercise counted as sinful dancing broke out among the Sultry Springs churchgoers, and a few disgruntled members marched their leg warmers over to a new house of worship: Holy Baptism by Water. The rift had rocked the county, pitting brother against brother, much like the Civil War, but far more serious. These pious soldiers fought for everlasting glory, as opposed to something as trivial as states’ rights. The Sultry Springs Holy War raged on for six months, until the Jazzercise instructor ran off to Vegas with her boyfriend. Then, with their heads hung in defeat, the defectors returned home and rejoined the flock. Nowadays, if a person wanted his soul saved, there was only one option: Holy Baptism by Hellfire.
June brushed her fingertips against the shiny oak pew, polished to a high gloss by hundreds of bottoms and decades of use. Years ago, she and Luke had squirmed in these pews and found ways to amuse themselves during the long sermons: passing notes, playing tic-tac-toe or rock-paper-scissors, and her favorite distraction—replacing the nouns and adjectives in the church bulletin with dirty ones. Mr. Peterson’s white corn for sale, you shuck it! became Mr. Peterson’s sweet ass for sale, you… well, something obscene that rhymes with “shuck it.” Sometimes her ribs had ached from holding in the laughter.
The church had added a new fellowship hall off the sanctuary—a boxy, red brick structure that looked out of place next to the weathered, white wood of the main building. Otherwise, nothing had changed. The air inside the church still smelled like dusty silk flowers and arthritis ointment.
“Well, look at you, Mae-June.” Pastor McMahon ambled out of his office. June recognized his voice—a drawl thicker than molasses that stretched “Jesus” into four syllables, Jay-ee-us-sus— but he’d lost all his hair and found a hundred pounds instead. “Sister Pru told me you were back.”
Grammy gave June’s arm a zealous pat. It was the first time Gram had touched her since she’d come to town two days ago, and June’s muscles stiffened at the contact. Her grandmother had
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