The Dark Divine(23)

Guilt washed through me. How could I say all that? I mean, I was the one who wanted to give up on Daniel just because helping him had turned out to be difficult in ways I hadn’t expected. And I really couldn’t believe I was the one expounding scripture—however crudely—to my father.

Dad rubbed his hand down the side of his face. “I’m sorry, Grace. You’re right. These are my burdens to bear.” He put his hand on Don’s shoulder. “I guess I can talk to Mr. Day one more time.”

Don lunged and wrapped his arms around my father’s middle. “Thank you, Pastor D-vine!”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Dad sounded breathless from Don’s death-grip hug. “I’ll have to take your knife away for a little while.”

“No,” Don said. “It was my granddaddy’s. The only thing I’ve got of his. I need it … for the monsters….”

“That’s the deal,” Dad said. He looked at me. “Grace, put that thing in a safe place.” He led Don from the room, the latter gazing longingly at his knife as they went. “We’ll discuss its return in a few weeks.”

I put my test in my backpack—today was obviously not the right time to get it signed—and picked up the dagger. I held it out in my hands. It was heavier than I’d expected. The blade was stained with tarnish and other strange, dark-colored marks. It seemed ancient, valuable even. I knew where Dad wanted me to hide it. I tipped back the potted poinsettia on the bookcase and slid out the key it concealed. I unlocked the top drawer of my father’s desk, where he kept important things like the cash safe for the Sunday offerings and his first-aid kit. I placed the knife under a flashlight and locked the drawer.

I replaced the key and felt a pang of remorse. I knew what Don was capable of doing with that blade of cold silver, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for his loss. I couldn’t fathom having only a single item to remember a loved one by.

“Hey.” Charity slipped into the office. “That was really nice, what you did for Don.”

“I did it more for Dad,” I said. “I don’t want him to wake up tomorrow regretting the things he did today.”

“I don’t think Dad will be back to normal tomorrow.”

I looked up at her. She seemed to be blinking back tears. “Why?” I asked, though I really didn’t want to know the answer. I’d been holding on to the fantasy that I would wake up tomorrow and everything would be the way it was supposed to be: oatmeal for breakfast, uneventful day at school, and a genial chicken-and-rice supper with the whole family.

“Maryanne’s daughters want her funeral to be tomorrow, before Thanksgiving, because they don’t want to cancel some big trip they’ve been planning.”

I sighed. “I guess I should have thought of that. Death is usually followed by a funeral.” Helping Mom prepare loads of rice pilaf and all varieties of casseroles for bereaving families was just another part of the pastor’s-kid gig, but I hadn’t been to a funeral for someone I was actually close to since my grandpa died when I was eight.

“That isn’t the bad part,” Charity said. “Maryanne’s family asked the pastor from New Hope to come over for the funeral. They don’t want Dad to do it. They still blame him.”

“What? That’s not fair. Dad knew Maryanne all his life, and he’s been her pastor for as long as you’ve been alive.”

“I know. But they won’t listen.”

I sank down in the desk chair. “No wonder he’s talking like he wants to give up.”

“You know the worst part? Pastor Clark heard about our duet from Sunday, and he wants us to sing it at the funeral because it was Maryanne’s favorite song.”

I opened my mouth to protest.

“Mom says we have to.” Charity sighed. “She says it’s our obligation or something like that.”

Obligation. I was beginning to hate that word.





CHAPTER EIGHT

Temptation





WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AT THE FUNERAL




A somber shadow cast over the parish, touching the hearts of all those who shuffled into the sanctuary for Maryanne Duke’s funeral. School had even let out early for the afternoon service. Everyone was affected by the gloom of it all—everyone except my mother. I could tell she was still in perfection overdrive when she started banging around the kitchen at four a.m. to make a feast big enough for a thousand mourners. Her enthusiastic tone startled more than a few sullen people as she greeted them before the service with Pastor Clark, and she invited anyone who looked the slightest bit lonely to tomorrow’s Thanksgiving extravaganza at our house.

“Invite whomever you’d like,” she said to Charity and me as we loaded trays of food into the Blue Bubble. “I want this to be the warmest Thanksgiving your father can remember. He could really use the company.”


But I wasn’t sure she was right about that. Dad shrank away from his greeter duties before the funeral and ended up sitting in the only deserted corner of the chapel by himself, rather than taking his seat on the pulpit as the presiding pastor of the parish. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was stuck on the choir benches with Charity, watching the back of Pastor Clark’s robes sway as he talked in melancholy tones about Maryanne’s warm heart and giving nature, even though he barely knew her. I scanned the sanctuary and wished I could send a telepathic message to either my mother or brother to go put their arms around Dad, but Mom was busy setting up for the dinner in the social hall, and Jude was nuzzled close to April in the third row.