Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(51)
Jilo made her way downstairs, giving a wide berth to the large communal dining room, where she could still hear bits of Paul’s Letter to the Corinthians being read aloud. Jilo surmised that the apostle’s thoughts on the topic of charity were intended to fortify Mrs. Jones’s resolve to remain patient with her. Lord knows, the pastor’s wife had quoted the passage often enough to her over the past years. The thought elicited an eye roll, and Jilo barely remembered to adopt a suitably remorseful expression before knocking on the frame of the pastor’s door. The door itself stood ajar, the amber light from his desk lamp spilling out into the hall. She stood in the doorway, waiting for the pastor to look up from his studies.
For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her. He remained bent over a thick concordance, scratching notes on his pad. Finally, he laid down his pen and looked up at her. “Miss Wills.” He waved her forward. “Do come in,” he said, folding his hands before him on his desk. “Close the door behind you.”
After doing the pastor’s bidding, Jilo turned to face his beatific stare. He let her stand there for a moment, just long enough for the silence to grow awkward, then pushed back in his chair. “Please, sit,” he said, extending his hand toward a chair opposite him. Normally she had to face his private sermons standing; this chair was a new addition to his space. Though its cushion now wore a different fabric, and a back leg had been repaired with a brace created from splints of wood and heavy screws, Jilo recognized it as a poor relation of those that were still used around the dining table.
“Don’t worry,” he said, watching her eye the repair work. “I mended it myself. It may have been broken once, but now it’s stronger than it ever was.” She stepped around the chair and lowered herself onto the seat. “Just like the human soul,” the reverend added, the smile on his lips showing her he was quite pleased with his own simile.
Jilo crossed her legs at her ankles, just the way the mistress of comportment at the college had shown them all to do on the first day of classes, giving the hem of her skirt a slight tug as she did so. Smile. Keep quiet. Jilo had played this game with the pastor more than a few times over the years. Experience had taught her that the biggest mistake she could make would be to assume she knew which infraction she’d been caught committing.
She and the pastor sat face-to-face as the clock on his desk ticked off a full minute. Twice. The entire time, his eyes searched her. The smile fled his lips, replaced by a stern expression meant to intimidate her and wear her down. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “I’m sure you can guess why I asked to speak with you.”
Jilo had been composing a mental list of reasons, but shook her head. “No, sir.” She made her voice come out as sweet as dew on the morning grass, but then the devil himself twisted her tongue. “Are you in need of spiritual guidance?” The words escaped her before her common sense could close the gate.
The pastor jerked his head back as if she had slapped him. “Spiritual guidance, indeed.” He puffed out air and tapped his finger on the desk. Ten times. He was obviously counting. He stopped and relaxed his shoulders. “You may not be aware of this,” he began, seeming to have decided on another tack, “I’m unsure of how much your grandmother has shared with you, but I once had a church not far from her house.” Despite herself, Jilo betrayed her interest by leaning just a bit forward. It was the first she’d heard that the pastor had any connection to her world. She ran through a list of churches in the area, trying to figure out where he’d come from.
“That’s right,” Jones continued, “your family and I go way back. As a matter of fact, the first time I laid eyes on you”—for a fleeting moment a smile came to his lips—“you were nothing but a tiny bug of a thing.” His focus weakened, as if he were reliving the memory, but then his attention snapped back on her like a mousetrap. “Your grandmother did not send you to live in this house by chance. She sought me out, and I believe her reason for doing so was that she knows I am quite familiar with the women of your family. The best are willful and stiff-necked. The worst, weak. Given to sinning and always ready to drag the nearest man down along with them.”
Jilo very nearly lost her cool, but sensing a weakness in the man, she instead took a moment to sharpen the stick she was about to jab in a very soft place. “I see you’ve met my mama.” She leaned her elbow against the arm of her chair and rested her chin on her hand, smiling sweetly.
The pastor flushed, but collected himself in the next instant. “Indeed,” he said, a sadness filling his voice. He shifted in his seat and leaned over to open a drawer. He reached into the drawer to retrieve an item, then flashed her another, knowing look, before placing it on the desk.
It was a book, the cover of which she instantly recognized, even though it was upside-down from her point of view. He pushed it toward her, never taking his eyes from hers. “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” He raised his hand to preempt the question he anticipated. “Before you ask, how this came into my possession is beside the point. I know even you would have better sense than to leave such a work sitting out for any and all to see, so you can believe me when I tell you the girl who brought it to my attention has been heartily reprimanded for going through your personal belongings.” He tapped the image on the cover. “This bird appears as if it has already been caught in the fires of hell. My aim is to make certain you don’t share this poor misguided creature’s fate.”