Annie Jones - Marrying Minister Right

Heather raised her hand to block the screen from her view. “I’ll look this up online later tonight. It’s just horrible but…it really doesn’t have anything to do with me anymore. It’s not like I even know anyone there any—”

Just then, between her splayed fingers, she caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered man with wavy dark brown hair. He looked rumpled but in charge.

“Michael.” Heather dropped her hand to her throat and fought to drag in a breath deep enough to allow her to speak above a dry, shocked whisper.

The years had treated him kindly. Given him fullness in the face and the beginning of lines fanning out from his startlingly blue eyes. Still, there was no mistaking him. “Michael Garrison.”

“You know him?” Mary Kate’s head whipped around.

The picture began to break up.

“I’m sorry,” the news anchor came back. “We seem to have lost that connection. We’ll go back to it after this message.”

Heather exhaled slowly, her eyes on the TV where moments ago she had confronted her past. “Yeah, I know him. Or knew him. That is…I thought I knew him.”

The Three Amigos. Everyone in town had called Michael, her and John Parker that from the time they had all been the lousiest players on a fairly lousy Little League team. They had formed a bond then—John, “Take-A-Hike Mike,” so called because the only way he could get on base was to get hit by the ball and get a walk; and “Heather Duster.” She threw herself into every base, trying too hard, wanting it too badly. Needing to prove she could do it, she would dive headlong, gritting her teeth and sliding with all her heart.

“You can never tell where Heather is standing until the dust settles,” the coach would say.

From grade school through high school, nothing could separate the trio. Until one day during the summer between their junior and senior years. That was the summer that John Parker kissed Heather. Suddenly, three became a crowd. Michael hadn’t seemed to mind; he wanted the best for his friends, he had said. He wanted them to be happy.

That’s what he had said.

“So you do know him, or what?”

“I know him.” Heather nodded, her eyes on the screen waiting to see if they would return to the story shortly. “The last time I saw the man, I threw my wedding bouquet in his face.”

“You were going to marry him?” Mary Kate stabbed her finger at the TV.

“No, he was just—” A friend? A friend would never have done what Michael Garrison had done. In many ways, his role in what happened that day had hurt Heather more than John’s. She knew why John couldn’t go through with the marriage. Even though she still chafed at the way he had handled it, she had found a grudging respect for the fact that he hadn’t gone forward with wedding vows he knew he could not honor for a lifetime. But Michael? Why had he gone along with it, allowed her public humiliation and done nothing to stop it? That, she could never understand. “Michael Garrison was just a—”

“Tell us, Reverend Garrison, what can people watching do to help?” The news correspondent had come back on. He thrust the mic into the bleary-eyed, disheveled minister’s face.

Such a good face. Heather could still see the kindness and commitment in the way he stood firm among the chaos and destruction. In the fact that he looked as though he had not rested since the storm had hit. In the fact that he was willing to speak on behalf of those who could not, at the moment, speak for themselves, with no regard for his own needs.

“Reverend Garrison,” she murmured, shaking her head. Michael had always talked about entering the ministry, but she had never heard if he had actually followed through on that.

He stroked the stubby shadow of bristles along his jaw. When she had last seen him, he’d hardly been shaving at all. He had been so young then. They all had been.

“For the time being we have most of the basics covered,” he said.

His hoarse voice tripped over her weary nerves the way she imagined a thumb would strum over the taut strings of a guitar, leaving them vibrating. The news churned up a sudden clash of emotions, leaving her feeling raw.

“This is not something that will be a quick or easy fix.” He shifted his weight. Tugged at his collar. Cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the media attention. Still, he understood how important it was to get the message out, to speak for the people and the town he so loved. “We have a lot of damage, the full extent of which we still don’t know. We have a fund set up through a local bank for contributions. So to anyone who wants to help that way, we’d appreciate it.”

“Done,” Heather said softly even as Mary Kate lunged for a pen and paper to jot down the information scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

“Should I write a request for a check from the board or send something from the floating fund?” Mary Kate asked above the scratching of her pen on the pad.

“Neither,” Heather said. “I’ll make a personal donation and solicit others on their behalf.”

It was her calling to do for other people the things she had never been able to do for her own parents—give them a chance to heal their differences, to stay together and be a real family.

“And, of course, we could use your prayers,” Michael concluded.

“Also done.” Heather pressed her lips together, drew in a deep breath and finally looked away.

That was all she could do right now. Her father was ill; she couldn’t leave town. Helping Hands Christian Charity was not designed, nor was it equipped, to rush in and give aid in emergency situations like this. She had an obligation to the people who donated to the organization to adhere to their mission. Still, she would do all she could personally to help the town she still loved, even if it had not seemed to love her back.

“Is there anything else you’d like to say?” the reporter pressed on. “Anything more people can do to make a difference?”

For a second there was only silence.

Heather took the slip of paper from Mary Kate and did not look up. She did not need to see the man to know he was stroking his hand back through his hair, rubbing his chin and generally stalling for time. It was a habit he’d had since Little League. Always wanting to be sure he did and said the right thing, wanting to be conscious of other people’s feelings. That was why, when he had completely disregarded her feelings on the biggest day of her life, it had wounded her so deeply.

She would send money to the town and certainly pray for all of them, but that was all she would do. All she could do.

“There is one more thing,” Michael finally spoke up. “There are some tourist cottages by the river, a whole row of them.”

Heather tensed.

“I, uh, I used to know the owner,” Mike went on. “Well, uh, the owner’s daughter, actually.”

A shiver went down her spine.

“These cottages survived in pretty good shape. They aren’t luxury accommodations by any means, but for families who have nowhere else to turn, who want to stay together in High Plains, they could become a real, if temporary, home.”

“Home,” she whispered again. She spun around and searched first the background of High Plains behind Michael, then the man’s face. He had practically just spelled out Heather’s personal mission statement. She fought back the tears for the second time tonight.

“If anyone knows how to get in touch with any member of the Waters family, or if any of them hear this interview…”

She could not go to High Plains herself right now. She could not send money from her charity without going through a time-consuming process. But she could do this. She could answer Michael Garrison’s plea to help keep the families of High Plains together. She could grant permission on her father’s behalf for the use of the cottages.