The Secrets of Rosa Lee. Jodi Thomas

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      Calvin helped himself to breakfast laid out in silver dishes along the sideboard. He rattled one of the lids and peeped in as if fearing what might be inside.

      Isadore glared at him with disgust but spoke to her daughter. “Aren’t you going to have more than coffee, Lora? I know the magazines say you can never be too thin, but you’ve lost so much weight since the divorce. You look like a coat hanger. If you get any thinner, you’ll never catch another man.”

      To Lora’s dismay her father joined the assault.

      “That’s right, hon.” Calvin didn’t look up from his food. “Men like their barbecue and their women with just the right combination of meat and fat.”

      Though Isadore slapped at his arm, he didn’t bother apologizing.

      Lora thought of telling her mother that she planned to get a doughnut on the way to work, but didn’t want to hear the lecture. Isadore had set out the same breakfast for her family all her married life. Lora could go down the neat little silver servers and tell what was in them without opening the lids. Eggs, always in the first. Ham, if a serving fork rested beside the second dish. Bacon if there were tongs. Toast, if butter and jam were on the table. Muffins if only butter sat out. On weekends, pancakes, or if company was there, Belgian waffles. Always served with fruit Isadore bought frozen and never bothered to let thaw before serving.

      “I really have work to catch up on.” Lora put her coffee cup on the silver tray closest to the swinging door leading to the kitchen.

      Calvin set his plate at the far end of the table. “Let her go, dear,” he mumbled, giving equal support to his girls. “It’s a fact, she’s got work waiting.” He turned his attention to Lora. “I signed on as one of the rodeo sponsors yesterday. Told them you’d give the new president a hand. Real nice fellow running the show this year. Talk is he’s planning to run for the state senate next year, so being in charge of the rodeo will get him in front of the public.”

      Lora wasn’t surprised. Her father had always been an easy touch for any fund-raiser. He seemed to believe a marketing degree made her an expert in the field.

      In the six months she’d been home, she’d talked him into giving Cadillac Cash instead of real money. Some charity would auction off a thousand dollars in Cadillac Cash or have it as their special door prize. The clubs wrote thanking him for the donation, which the business wrote off. He honored the “cash” on any new car. Everyone won and at worst the dealership sold a new car for a few hundred less than they’d planned.

      “Is he single, by any chance?” Isadore asked.

      “I have to run.” Lora moved fast, knowing that if she didn’t, Isadore would snare her in meaningless conversation. Her father had already opened his paper. At least he could read while he pretended to listen.

      “But—” was all Isadore got out.

      Lora grabbed her case at the foot of the stairs and hurried through the side door leading to the garage. She climbed into her Audi, adjusted her seat from where her mother had played with it the day before, and backed out of the driveway as if she were auditioning for a part in a chase film.

      At the café near the downtown square, Lora ordered her usual chocolate-covered cinnamon roll and black coffee before she spotted the reverend at the counter, with a worried frown wrinkling his forehead as he read the paper. Yesterday, he’d been all calm and strong. This morning he looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all.

      She hesitated. He hadn’t seen her. She could grab her food and run. But, to her surprise, she wanted to talk to him. She needed to touch base, make sure he was okay, learn any news. She slid onto the swivel stool next to him and motioned for Polly to bring her order to the counter.

      Polly turned away, but her head wobbled back and forth as it always did when she talked to herself about all the extra work she had to do. If friendliness determined tips, Polly would be working for pennies.

      “Morning, Preacher.” Lora returned his smile as he glanced up from his paper. “How’s today treating you?” His eyes didn’t seem so sad when he smiled. He blinked as if she’d caught him deep in thought. Studious. That was the word for him.

      “Morning, Miss Whitman. How are the battle scars?”

      She twisted on the stool and showed him the huge Band-Aids covering her knees. “They hardly show under my hose.”

      He glanced down, then looked away.

      “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled and straightened.

      “For what?”

      “Guess I shouldn’t be showing my legs to a preacher.”

      He lost his grin. “Guess not,” he answered. “After all, we’re not men. Not quite human.”

      If she could have, Lora would have pulled Micah Parker to her and hugged him. She’d never heard someone sound so miserable in her life. She hadn’t thought of it before, but he was right about the way people think of men in the church. Ministers weren’t like other people.

      Polly delivered Lora’s breakfast with a thud. “It’s still hot from the fryer, so be careful.”

      The chocolate sauce bubbled across the top of the round cinnamon roll. Lora took a deep breath. “Chocolate and grease, my two favorite food groups.”

      Micah’s smile returned. “How often do you indulge in this slow form of suicide?”

      “Every Tuesday,” she answered as she cut off a bite and blew on it. “I came home on a Monday after my divorce. We moved what little I had left into storage, set me up an office next to my father’s at the dealership, and I went to sleep in the twin bed I’d slept in most of my life. The next morning I thought I couldn’t get out of bed. Nothing…nothing would make me want to face this town, this job, my failure.”

      Micah winked. “And then you remembered.” He pointed to the roll.

      “Right,” she laughed. “My reason to live.” She pushed the first bite in her mouth.

      Micah folded up his paper as Polly slammed down his oatmeal and wheat toast. “May I have one of those rolls?” he asked politely.

      Polly groaned. “Instead of this?”

      Micah quickly added, “Oh, no, for dessert. I still want this order.”

      Polly mumbled something about breakfast don’t have no dessert as she moved away.

      “You’re very brave, Preacher. Not many locals have the nerve to change their order once Polly writes it down.”

      He tasted his oatmeal. “I must be living dangerously lately.”

      “I’ll say,” Lora agreed.

      As they ate, they talked about yesterday. Neither had much in the way of news, but it felt comforting to rehash the details. They were like veterans in an unknown war.

      After Polly delivered his roll, Micah said, “Sidney’s getting out of the hospital today. I talked with the sheriff when I came in and he said Will’s driving the ambulance over to pick СКАЧАТЬ