The Last Harvest(29)

“It’ll give me time to think. You’ll be doing me a big favor. It’s not all good looks, you know. I’ve got a lot going on up here.” I tap the bill of my cap.

She giggles. “Like thinking about Ali Miller?”

I can’t believe it was just last night that Ali was lying here in my truck, right where Noodle’s sitting. On pure instinct, I reach for the stereo, forgetting that I ripped it out a couple of days ago.

“What happened here?” She touches the wires.

“Broke.” I squint into the sun.

“You know, Ali’ll be at the Preservation Society tonight, the Harvest Festival.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You should dance with her.”

“You think?”

She nods her head emphatically.

“And who are you going to dance with?”

“Maybe Mom.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Jess, if she’ll let me.”

“Don’t pay any attention to Jess. She’s going through a phase. Best if we let her alone.”

“She’s just sad ’cause Dad died.”

I feel a tiny stab in my heart. Maybe Noodle’s right. I should probably cut Jess some slack. She may look grown up, but she’s still just a kid. I need to remember that.

Noodle rolls down the window, carving her hand through the air like it’s a paper airplane, and smiles over at me. All it takes is something simple like this to make her happy. I hope she can stay like this forever.

“Do you want me to sing for you?”

“Sure.” I chuckle.

Noodle starts singing a tune I recognize. It’s this weird counting song she made up when she was little. I can’t believe she still remembers that.

With the sun in her hair, her fairy wings flapping in the wind, and that toothless grin, I feel something I haven’t felt in over a year. Hope.

As I pull off the highway into Murpheyville, the church comes into view. It’s all dark-gray stonework surrounded by a grove of old oaks and pines. I’ve never really looked at it before, but it’s imposing, like something straight out of a history book—something you’d see in the English countryside, not some hick town in Central Oklahoma.

“Look, Miss Granger’s here.” Noodle leans up on her knees and waves at her as we pull into the parking lot.

“I didn’t know you’ve met Miss Granger.”

“Sure, silly. She’s always at Oakmoor when I help out Mrs. Gifford on Saturdays. She makes the best Rice Krispies Treats. And she came to Dad’s funeral, remember?”

I don’t remember her being there, but then I don’t remember a lot about that day. It’s weird to think she’s been watching me all this time. Watching all of the Preservation Society kids.

“I like her,” Noodle says. “She’s nice.”

Miss Granger waves back. She’s standing in front of the chapel with two nuns. She’s wearing a blue blouse that I saw hanging in her closet with a slim tweed skirt, her hair pulled back in its usual tight knot.

“I like her, too,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed about rummaging through her things last night.

We get out of the truck and Noodle practically drags me across the lot like a Clydesdale to meet them. I’ve never seen a nun in real life. They’re pretty intimidating looking, but Noodle doesn’t seem fazed in the least.

“This is Sister Agnes and Sister Grace,” Miss Granger says.

“Hello, Natalie.” Sister Agnes smiles down at her warmly.

“It’s Nood—,” I start to say, but she steps on my foot.

“Yes, I’m Natalie Tate.” She reaches out to shake their hands.

Fresh start. Maybe she’s been craving it, too. Natalie. That’s going to take some getting used to.

“Are you a good fairy or a mischievous fairy?” Sister Grace asks.

“I count things.”

“Oh, well that’s a very useful fairy skill, indeed,” Sister Agnes chimes in.

“I’m not a real fairy. It’s just a costume. I like your costume, too,” Noodle says, as she admires their black robes. “Do you have wands?”

“Afraid not,” Sister Agnes replies.

“I can make you one if you want. I can teach you my counting song, too.”

“That would be lovely. Let’s show you around, a private tour.”

I start to follow, but Miss Granger holds me back. For a second, I forgot why we’re really here.

Miss Granger leads me up the steps to the chapel. She opens the heavy carved door and my stomach coils up in knots. I peek in to see two grim-faced priests dressed in fancy robes and weird hats standing at the end of a very long aisle.

I glance back to give Noodle a reassuring wave, but she doesn’t need it. She’s skipping along with the nuns, holding their hands, her head held high.

Miss Granger pulls me inside the chapel and bolts the door behind me, shutting out all the natural light.





18

THIS PLACE is over the top—carved mahogany pews, frescoed ceilings, marble floors, a gold pipe organ. Hundreds of candles line the sides of the cathedral, casting an eerie red glow on the stained-glass windows.

This looks like a place God would live.

Nothing like Midland Baptist. All we’ve got are plain rickety oak benches, an upright piano, and dusty windows cluttered with decorations some kids slapped together at Sunday school.