The Krafts had their own pew in the Baptist church. Whether it was theirs in a formal sense or people simply knew to leave it vacant for the family, I didn’t know. Either way, the third pew on the left side was empty when we arrived, while most others were filled. Lucy went into the pew first, followed by Ruth, then Henry and myself. Henry had tried to usher me in to sit next to Ruth, but I’d held back long enough to let him know I’d prefer he sit next to his mother. Although she was treating me civilly, I couldn’t get those things she’d said about me out of my head.
Sitting in the church, waiting for the service to begin, I was very aware of my “differentness.” My so-called foreign looks. The fact that I’d never before been to a religious service outside the Catholic church. The loneliness that came with knowing not a soul in the church other than the three people I was sitting with—and those three people were near strangers to me as well.
There was quiet chatter around us as we waited. I kept my gaze straight ahead. I was certain people were looking at me. Certain that the whispering I heard was about me. The church felt all wrong. It was too brightly lit, to begin with. There was no altar, only a lectern standing empty in front of us. No communion rail or crucifix or tabernacle or candles. There were none of St. Leo’s extraordinary frescoes or stained glass or murals. No stations of the cross, no statues. No kneelers! I would have given anything at that moment to be back in my own church. I didn’t belong here and I had the feeling that everyone around me knew it.
The man who appeared at the lectern wore a suit, like every other man in the church, and it took me a while to realize that he was the minister or preacher or whatever he would be called in a Baptist church. No vestments. Nothing to set him apart from anyone else. He welcomed everyone and then called for announcements. People stood up here and there throughout the church, asking for prayers for a sick aunt, announcing a birth, calling for donations for a youth mission trip. It was like being at a community meeting, not a church service, and I was extraordinarily relieved that the Kraft family refrained from announcing Henry’s brand-new marriage. It was nothing to be proud of, I supposed. I was glad to keep the focus off myself as much as possible.
After the announcements, Henry handed me a hymnal and we sang a couple of hymns I’d never heard before but that everyone else seemed to know by heart. I stumbled through the words and melodies. Then the minister delivered a sermon about sin, which I tried hard to imagine had not been penned specifically for me. My mind began to drift as he spoke. Where was Vincent going to church this morning? Was he praying for me or had he given up on me altogether? How had he reacted to my letter? Was he angry or was he grieving? Most likely I’d left him utterly confused. He wouldn’t understand that I’d saved him from myself.
When the service was over and we left the church and congregated outside on the sidewalk, people began to approach us. Henry rested his hand on my elbow in a manner that felt both protective and comforting and I was grateful.
“So you’re the young lady who swept Hank off his feet,” one woman said, her smile overly curious.
“What lovely hair you have!” said another. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen hair quite that thick before.”
I greeted everyone with a warm smile, trying to imagine them as part of my new church family, but their curiosity didn’t feel like friendliness to me.
An older man and woman approached us and Hank let go of my elbow to shake the man’s hand. “This is my wife, Tess,” he introduced me. “Tess, this is Hickory’s mayor, Arthur Finley, and his wife, Marjorie.”
“How do you do?” I smiled at them.
“Welcome, dear,” Marjorie said. “We’re happy to have you with us.” It felt like the first sincere greeting of the morning.
“Our Hank is full of surprises,” said the mayor. “How long have you two known each other?”
“Quite a while,” Henry answered quickly, and I nodded.
“Well, I hope you’ll be very happy in our beautiful city.” The mayor touched my shoulder and then he and his wife moved on to speak with someone else. I wished they had stayed with us. I wanted to hold on to their kindness.
I kept a smile on my face, and as I continued to meet people and respond to their comments and questions, I became aware of a girl standing nearby. She was chatting with a group of young women, one of them Jeanetta Gill from the justice of the peace’s office, but her eyes kept darting in my direction and I knew in my bones who she was: Violet Dare. She was a stunner, her white-blond hair in a silky pageboy, her eyes so blue I could see the sky reflected in them from where I stood. Her legs were slender and long, and beneath her charcoal-gray princess coat, I could see that her figure was shapely, the coat nipped in at her tiny waist. I saw Henry nod to her, and watched her turn away from him with a haughty shake of her head.
“That’s Violet, isn’t it,” I whispered to him.
Before he could answer, the minister broke through the throng of people and came to stand in front of us. “Mr. and Mrs. Hank Kraft!” he boomed. “Congratulations!”
Henry smiled at the man, reaching out to shake his hand. “Pastor Smith,” he said, “I’d like you to meet my wife, Tess.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Tess.” The man lightly touched my arm. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling more awkward than ever. I doubted he’d meant that comment as a compliment.
“You’re from Maryland, is that right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Baltimore.”
“Some wonderful Baptist churches up there. Which one did you attend?”
“I … actually, I attended a Catholic church.” I glanced at Henry to see the muscles in his jaw contract.
“Ah, I see,” the pastor said. Then he chuckled. “Well,” he said, “we should get you into a Bible-study class pronto! If you call my office, we can let you know the schedule.”
“Thank you,” I said, knowing I would never call. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Lucy had walked over to Violet’s cluster of girlfriends. She embraced Violet, who shot me one more glance, then gave Lucy a mournful look. I turned away. I hated being the cause of another girl’s pain.
I leaned close to Henry, my lips nearly touching his ear. “Can we go, please?” I asked, and he nodded.
I stood still and alone on the sidewalk as he collected his mother and sister, and it seemed as though an invisible wall formed around me, letting the good people of Hickory keep their distance. I was the interloper. The stranger. No one dared get too close.