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She was also entirely too eager to tell him about her fellow congregants. Properly handled, a minister would find a woman like her useful. But she had to be handled like nitroglycerin. Every church he’d ever pastored had had at least one Mrs. Beemis.
It was Wednesday evening, after prayer service, and about fifty people were milling about in the tiny parish hall, sipping grape juice and soft drinks and eating cookies. Too many of them, thought Elijah, were able-bodied men who ought to be helping with the fire fighting. On the other hand, it was his official welcoming party, and many of them may have felt it necessary to be there.
Mrs. Beemis was still waiting for an answer. The longer he delayed, the more likely she was to think he was hiding something. And Elijah had nothing to hide. He hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Yes, he’s my son, Mrs. Beemis.”
“Oh, my, how delightful! He’ll be joining our congregation, then?”
It was not a harmless question. Elijah took a second to consider. “We all have to follow our own paths to the Lord.”
“Yes, of course we do.” Her eyes indicated that her curiosity hadn’t been quenched. It was entirely likely that in a half hour she would be phoning everyone she knew to suggest that a preacher who couldn’t raise his own son in the faith was one who ought to be watched.
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