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“Just a moment,” she responded. She stood, grabbing her shawl, and looked down at Sam.

He steepled his fingers and looked at her over them.

“Sam, I can’t tell you what to do, but I think you’re capable of many good things. Perhaps not the preaching or the following Jesus’s teachings, but the orphanage is wonderful.”

He nodded. “It’s my favorite thing, that place. I love those children.”

“Focus on that, perhaps.” She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, squaring them. “Just tell Reverend Monet the truth; I’m sure he can help. No one wants a pastor whose heart isn’t in it, Sam.”

Sam hesitated. “Thank you, Miss Cruthers. And I am sorry about … Well, you know. I just want to protect my family.” He sighed. “You’ve been very understanding.”

“To be honest, Sam, I’m too bewildered to be anything else.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “And I think, given the circumstances, you’d best start calling me Maggie.”

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

The last place Maggie wanted to be on this crisp, clear Sunday—the last place Maggie wanted to be ever, any time—was where she was: seated on an uncomfortable pew, twenty feet away from Reverend Samuel Myerson, who looked about as worn out and defeated as the last time they had met. She was perched securely between Tom and Bridgers, and Jake looked over his shoulder to shoot the three of them a quick wink. The wink wasn’t necessary, really, but she supposed he felt guilty and wanted to ensure their tenuous allyship.

She was beginning to think that Jake felt guilty about a lot of things.

She barely paid attention to Sam’s sermon, long-winded and gloomy as it was, but Tom’s focus was squarely on the pastor, his brow furrowed, mouth set in a thin, uncompromising line. Bridgers was barely managing to stay awake, and she kept elbowing his ribs when his yawns took on too loud a volume.

“… misled, despite our best efforts,” Sam was saying solemnly. “We are all but human. If you prick us, do we not bleed?”

“Isn’t that line about Jewish people?” Maggie muttered to Bridgers, who was chewing on his bottom lip. “Did the Christian pastor just steal a Shakespeare line about Jewish people?”

“He’s very progressive,” Bridgers whispered back, nodding approvingly. “I wonder if he’ll invite the Engelsens to church.”

Maggie thinned her lips to keep from smiling.

Behind the pulpit, Sam droned on. Maggie was staring at the back of Jake’s head—he needed a trim, his dark hair beginning to brush the top of his shirt collar—when Tom patted her knee and jerked his chin towards Sam. She glanced up, forcing herself to listen.

The reverend was looking off beyond his congregation, setting his gaze near the door behind them, and Maggie peered over her shoulder.

Lou sat at the edge of the pew nearest the door on the left, head high, unblinking gaze fixed on Sam. Her hands were folded firmly in her lap, her face set into a blank expression, some whiteness around her mouth the only indication she felt anything at all. Maggie flashed her a smile—which Lou did not see, having given Sam her full attention—and turned back around.

“There is—” Sam looked down, frowning, at the paper before him on the pulpit. He paused. “There is a disconnect that I fear—that I know—I have perpetrated. I have spent weeks, perhaps longer, using my position in the church to …” He looked up, once again peering beyond the parishioners and settling on Lou. “Be unkind. To be ungodly. It was my own hubris, my own fear, which drove me, and I will spend as long as necessary repenting for it.” He shifted his gaze to Maggie, flicking between her and the boys. “Instead of strengthening our community, I said and did things to drive a wedge between members. For this, I am truly regretful. Of great comfort to me is knowing how few of you listen.”

A surprised murmur of laughter rose, and even Tom’s mouth cracked into a small smile.

“We all know too well how fragile morality is, how easy it is to break. I prided myself on strict adherence to my own moral code, but I was lying to myself.” His smile was grim. “I have been ruled by my own fear and dissatisfaction, and I let it bleed into my purpose here, when I am supposed to be advising and leading you. I humble myself before you. I beg your forgiveness. I vow to do better.”

Maggie knew actors; she could read most people as plainly as words written on a page. Sam was sincere. Uncomfortable, embarrassed, but sincere.

“Did he have a near death experience?” Bridgers asked quietly, not removing his gaze from Sam.

Tom shrugged. “Seems like it.”

“This is a short service,” Sam concluded. “It’s a beautiful day out, and I hope you can go enjoy it. In closing, please take from my lesson: be frank, be honest, be kind.” He looked at Maggie. “Be welcoming. And please, be well.”

When Maggie stood and turned towards the door, Lou was gone.

They migrated outside slowly as Sam bid farewell to the crowd; Tom remained silent, standing beside his partner like the royal guard. The reverend shook Bridgers’ hand warmly, eyeing him with some wariness, and Bridgers dimmed his light a bit.

“Good of you to admit wrongdoing,” he said, cheerful. “Takes a big man.”

Sam’s smile was a grimace. “Kind of you to say. Thank you for attending. Always good to see you.” Well, he was a decent liar, at any rate.