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“I don’t either,” he admitted. “That’s why we’ll figure it out together.”

Maggie leaned forward, resting her forehead on his. “I can’t get his face out of my head.”

“Then we’ll learn to live with him.”

Theo’s arms went around her then, pulling her into his lap.

“I wish I could have talked to Sarah,” she said, suddenly. She wasn’t looking at him; their faces were too close to focus, and she was too bone-weary to pull back. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, his breath gently brushing her cheek. “I can promise that she would forgive you. I know I do.”

There was nothing to say to that, so Maggie let her head fall to Theo’s shoulder, and let him continue holding her together.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Margie’s father, as Margie had predicted, was unhappy with what he had heard about Reverend Myerson. He had left Rydersville, a town an hour or so away, immediately upon receiving Margie’s letter and was now sitting in Maggie’s parlor, looking furious.

“We are, as Christians, supposed to be warriors of equality,” he said, his hand gripping his chipped mug of tea so tightly it rattled against its saucer. “I have seen first-hand Reverend Myerson be as kind and generous as Christ himself at the orphanage, ladies, so you must understand what an unpleasant shock this is to hear.”

Bridgers, who had wedged himself between Maggie and Lou on the settee, nodded vigorously. Now that Tom was back at home, the full weight of Sam’s bizarre campaign had fully hit Bridgers like a ton of bricks, and he was as invested in the man’s downfall as any of the book club members. Tom was busy making sandwiches and more tea but offered supportive noises when needed.

“We at the church were on the front lines—quite literally the front lines, Miss Cruthers, you must believe me—of the war. I, myself, fought the Confederacy at Athens in ’61, and although violence is not ideal, I am proud of the service I provided for my fellow man.” His lips thinned. He was over six feet tall and slim, with a mustache that Maggie privately thought was entirely too bushy for his face; but his eyes were a soft brown and crinkled kindly when he smiled, and unless he was an excellent actor this news had truly shaken him. “We preach, I’m sure you know, about love and acceptance, and the reverend trying to—to shame members of his own community is reprehensible. I’d like to speak to him myself, try to appeal to him as a fellow member of the clergy.”

“Of course.” Maggie still felt vaguely ill at the idea of such a calculated attack on Sam, although she knew that was inane. Tom was perfectly comfortable threatening to kill the man, which had earned several approving glances from Lou. “I only hate that we’re causing so much trouble.”

“I keep telling you,” Lou said, annoyed, “this isn’t just about you. If he thinks he has some sort of power that’s strong enough to create pariahs in our town, then he needs to be reminded that he’s only one man.” She quieted, looking embarrassed, and picked at her nails. “In my opinion.”

“I suppose I could always write to my Uncle Jack,” Bridgers said thoughtfully. He was gazing at the ceiling, a finger softly tapping his chin. “He’s some sort of religious person. A bishop, perhaps?”

“Your uncle is a bishop?” Deacon Harpe leaned forward, placing his now-cold mug of tea onto the floor. “What’s his name?”

Caught-off-guard Bridgers wasn’t one Maggie saw terribly often, and she rather enjoyed watching his expression briefly blank out. “Er, Jack Monet,” he said. “But he isn’t here; he and my aunt are in Chicago.”

The deacon’s hand flapped dismissively. “That is of no matter. Write to him at once. Did he also serve in the war?”

“He … No, he has poor eyesight.” Bridgers looked at Tom, who was plopping a tray of sandwiches down in front of Lou. Tom offered a shrug, then returned to the kitchen.

Deacon Harpe’s nod was sage. “Write to him,” he repeated. “But I’ll still talk to Sam tomorrow. Thank you, my dear,” he turned to his daughter, placing his hand on hers, “for alerting me to this.” He offered the room a smile. “It’s a unique sort of disappointment to discover a wolf in the sheep’s clothing of the church,” he said solemnly. “I hope we can redirect this young man to the correct way of doing things.”

Gazing at Bridgers, Maggie sincerely hoped so, too.

“Chess,” Bridgers said, putting the final pawn on the board, “is a gentlemen’s game.”

“I’m not a gentleman,” Maggie observed, picking up a rook and examining it. “And neither are you.”

“Don’t touch that yet,” Bridgers snapped, plucking the piece from her and placing it back on its square. “It’s a game that requires great intellect and strategy. They say that it was invented by the Mayans in the Yucatan of Mexico to honor their gods.”

“I believe it came from India, Bridge.”

“That’s what I said. Now, this is your pawn. Think of it as the frontline soldier. A scout, as it were. It can only toddle one space at a time, and only one direction.”

“Bridgers, I know how to play chess.”

He held up an irritating finger. “Ah, but not very well, Mags. You know how I always beat you?”

Maggie was anticipating a mid-afternoon cup of gin. “You beat me because I find chess tedious and therefore don’t pay attention.”