“Jocelyn made a seven bean salad. Said it will last in the refrigerator for any number of days.” I took the casserole dish, and he thrust the flowers toward me.
I shook my head, pointed to the living room doorway and whispered, “She’s talking to Fern. They’ve been on awhile. Should be wrapping up soon. Would you like to wait in the dining room? I made some sweet tea.”
His head gave one quick bob up and down, which I took to be a yes, especially when he followed it with, “Hotter than usual for November.”
When I brought in his glass of tea, he was still holding the flowers and Augusta was still on the phone. My thought was to have him present the flowers directly to her. Hopefully she’d admire them, and then I’d take them into the kitchen, find a vase and take my time arranging them, giving Augusta and Pastor John a chance to talk. Pastor looked uncomfortable holding the outsized bunch of white and yellow flowers that were nearly overwhelmed by a profusion of island greens. I took the bouquet and laid it sideways on the table, with the blossoms hanging over the edge.
“Thanks.” He sounded a wee bit chagrined. “I was afraid I’d crush them if I put them down, and those are the last of this year’s asters and yellow buttons. We struggle to keep the church garden filled with native wildflowers.”
Proud of the churchyard that perennially won the Natural Public Garden Award from the local Rotary Club, he puffed his chest like a bantam rooster; then, remembering why he’d brought the flowers, he raised one bushy gray eyebrow and lowered his voice. “How is Augusta doing?”
“Needing a prayer or two with Delia dead and all,” Augusta rumbled from the doorway.
I hurried to her side and tried to steer her back to the living room and her comfortable chair, but she jerked away with a strength that contradicted her size. “I can sit right here, thank you.”
She pulled a chair out from the dining table and plunked down hard on the seat. “Glad you’re here, Pastor. We got work.”
Pastor John struggled to express his condolence, but Augusta brushed him away like a swarm of no-see-ums. “Lots to do. We need to get Delia’s funeral service exactly right.”
Not one to give up, Pastor tried to hand her the large yellow and white spray of flowers, but Augusta pushed them off to me and started outlining her plans.
As I took the flowers to the kitchen, I heard Augusta telling Pastor to have the organist practice “I’ll Fly Away.” I smiled. As if practice would be needed. I’d listened to that plaintively joyful hymn at nearly every funeral I’d attended since coming south.
I puttered around the kitchen, checking supplies and making lists until I heard another knock at the door. Augusta boomed, “Come on in.”
John’s wife, Jocelyn, opened the screen door, and I was surprised to see that she was carrying a straw basket covered with a gaily striped dish towel.
“The muffins weren’t quite ready when John came over with the bean salad so I had to stay behind for a bit.” She sounded contrite, as if not showing up with two courses of a meal at the same time was a severe failing. However contentious Jocelyn might be at book club meetings, when circumstances required, she habitually slipped right into her role as docile pastor’s wife.
“I wanted to bring everything at once, but John was in such a hurry. Pastoral duties and all. Still, a clergyman’s wife gets used to having to rush when the unfortunate happens.”
“What’s all that whispering out there?” Augusta banged her hand on the table like a schoolteacher demanding silence.
Jocelyn startled. “It’s me, Miss Augusta. I brought some muffins.”
“Thanks for your kindness, but Pastor and me have plans to make. We need quiet.”