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“AND I GIVE MY HEART TO KNOW WISDOM, AND TO KNOW MADNESS AND FOLLY.” —ECCLESIASTES 1:17

I t was a smaller building than the one in Ft. Worth, about a quarter of the size. Still it loomed larger than life. She sat in her jeep, trying to decide if she was going to get out. Sydney had allowed an extra fifteen minutes, but it hadn’t been necessary. She found her way here without a glitch. She’d promised Ginger that she would go to church—and here she was, in the parking lot. She smiled ruefully. If she turned around now and left, Ginger would never know the difference. Even as she contemplated it, she opened her door. People were walking into the building. She gave her lipstick one last check before grabbing her purse and heading that direction.

“Hi, I’m Julie Parkinson. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sydney extended her hand to the petite brunette who was so pregnant that she looked like she was going to pop. Julie followed Sydney’s gaze and rubbed her belly in reply. “My doctor has promised that if I don’t go into labor by Tuesday, then he’ll induce me.”

“Mom, Derek won’t give me back my car.”

Julie looked apologetic and turned her attention to the distraction. Sydney looked down at the little boy who was furiously tugging at his mother’s dress. He was the mirror image of his mother with his brown eyes and dark hair. Julie’s face grew stern. “Kevin, what did I tell you about bringing toys to church? You know the rules.”

The little boy shrugged and she tousled his hair. “Now, you and Derek behave and listen to your teachers.”

“Okay, Mom.” He let go of her dress and ran down the hall.

Julie turned to Sydney.

“It looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Sydney said.

Julie sighed. “I do.” She pointed at her stomach. “This makes number four.”

The woman couldn’t be much older than she, and she couldn’t imagine having one child, much less four.

Julie smiled brightly. “Are you visiting?”

“I live in Stoney Creek.”

“That’s great. Come on, and I’ll take you to the women’s class.” Julie’s friendly manner was infectious, and Sydney started to relax.

Sydney would rather have sat in the back, but Julie led her to the front row. There were about eight or nine other women in the room whose ages ranged anywhere between mid-twenties to seventies. A blonde with short wavy hair was conducting. She looked very stylish in her tailored navy suit. A song was sung and then a prayer was given, and then it was time for the blonde lady to speak again. She looked at Sydney and smiled.

“I want to welcome our visitor.”

Before Sydney could introduce herself, Julie spoke up. “Sydney’s not a visitor. She lives in Stoney Creek and will be attending church with us.”

This brought a wide smile from the lady. “That’s fantastic. We love having new members to join us. Would you please stand and tell us where you’re from and a little about yourself?”

Sydney cleared her throat. “Um, my name is Sydney Lassiter. I’m from Ft. Worth, Texas. I live in Stoney Creek. I’m the safety coordinator at the sawmill.”

“Welcome,” the lady said. “We look forward to getting to know you.”

Sydney sat down, and Julie leaned over and whispered. “You’ll have to meet Tuesday Phillips. She’s the older lady in the back with the light blue blouse and white skirt.” Sydney fought the urge to look. “Her husband used to work at the sawmill.” Julie’s whisper grew softer. “He was killed in an accident there.”

Another lady stood and began teaching the lesson, but Sydney hardly noticed. Her throat had gone dry, and her mind was reeling with the possibility. Phillips! Avery mentioned Buford Phillips in his journal, and then there was the accident report. Someone else besides Avery had added that Buford Phillips had been drinking. Could it be the same person? Sydney’s heart was pounding. She leaned over and whispered in Julie’s ear. “What was his first name?”

Julie looked confused. “Who?”

“Mrs.—I mean—Sister Phillips’ husband.”

Julie paused. Finally she shook her head. “Sorry. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t remember.”

It was all Sydney could do to hide her frustration. She looked up at the lady who was teaching the lesson and stared right through her, her mind a thousand miles away.

Fifteen minutes later, Julie nudged Sydney. “Buford,” she whispered. “His name was Buford.”

After the class was over, Sydney made her way to the back of the room where Mrs. Phillips was standing. She wasn’t sure how to approach the woman and hoped the words would come.

Mrs. Phillips’ warm smile was a good sign. She was at least a head shorter than Sydney, and her spiky gray hair shot out like a porcupine. She was as round as she was tall, reminding Sydney of a weeble wobble toy.

Sydney extended her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she said and then plunged right in. “As I mentioned earlier, I’m the new safety coordinator at the mill. Sister Parkinson told me that your husband used to work at the sawmill.”

The smile on Mrs. Phillips’ face faltered, and her face grew clouded. She nodded.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you sometime about it.”

Mrs. Phillips shook her head. “That was a long time ago. I’m trying to put all of that behind me. I’m sure you can understand.” The woman turned to leave, but Sydney touched her on the arm.

“Please.” Her voice came out hoarse. “I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”

Mrs. Phillips studied her. “Okay,” the older woman finally said.

“Can I stop by and see you this afternoon?” Sydney was unable to hide the eagerness that crept into her voice.

“No, today’s not a good time.”

Sydney was crestfallen. “Tomorrow then?”

“That will be fine.”

Sydney scrambled in her purse to find a pen and scrap of paper to write down the address.

It was nearing the end of church. Sydney let her gaze wander to the families who were sitting on the pews. The children were getting restless, and a few of the adults had dozed off. Julie Parkinson and her brood were sitting on the next-to-the-front row. Julie’s husband had his arm draped around her, and she was leaning her head into the curve of his shoulder. Families. What must it be like to be a part of a real family? It had been so long for her that she barely remembered. These people—they all belonged. They had a place, people to love. Her stomach knotted. This was one of the reasons she avoided church. It was so hard to see this much love and know that she could never have it.

The notes to the closing song filled the room. She recognized it instantly, God Be With You Till We Meet Again . It was a song of parting and had a sense of finality. Even though she’d joined the church after her parent’s death, it was this song that reminded her most of them. The lyrics hit her full force. G od be with you till we meet again ... when life’s perils thick confound you … put his arms unfailing round you …

Her mind stopped at that line. She ran it over and over again in her mind. Where was God when her parents died? Where was God when she was lying in the hospital? Where was He now? She tried to remember the advice that Stella had given her, but it was no use. Put his arms unfailing round you. S he didn’t feel God’s arms around her. She didn’t feel anything. She was utterly and completely alone, and no one, not even God, cared. Tears started gushing like a river down her face. When the closing prayer was over, she fled out of the room and to her jeep before anyone could see.

Sydney rounded the bend to Mrs. Phillips’ house and had the impression that she’d left the twenty-first century and gone back in time about fifty years to the television show The Walton’s . A picket fence across the front yard was the only thing missing to make the picture complete. She pulled into the driveway and heard the gravel crunch like crushed ice under her tires.

She knocked and then waited. A couple of seconds later Mrs. Phillips opened the door. Sydney pasted a polite smile on her face and hoped that Mrs. Phillips would remember her. Her fears vanished when she saw recognition in the elderly woman’s features.

“Come in.”

“Thank you.” When Sydney stepped inside, a musty smell swept over her, and she had the feeling she’d opened an old trunk hidden away in an attic. It was as if the aged house had absorbed all of the woman’s treasured memories in its gnarly walls.

“Please have a seat.”

Sydney chose the plastic-covered couch. The material underneath was olive green with an intricate gold pattern swirled into it. She could feel it crinkle under her jeans as she sat down.

“Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

“No, thank you.” How many people still offered lemonade to their guests?

“Water then?”

“Sure.”

Mrs. Phillips returned with the water and a big platter of shortbread cookies. She handed Sydney her glass and then sat down in a recliner directly across from Sydney. She juggled her glass of lemonade in one hand and reached for a cookie with the other. “My doctor gets onto me all the time for eating too much sugar.” She chuckled. “I told ’im that he done stopped doctoring and started meddling. It’s patients like me that keeps him in bid’ness. Anyways, I reckon we all die of something sometime.”

The hint of a smile crept across Sydney’s face. She took a sip of her water and set it on the small round table next to the couch. A creamy lace coverlet caught her eye. She touched it. “This is beautiful. Did you make it?”

“Yes, it’s called tatting.”

“I know.” Sydney rushed on. “My grandmother does it. She says it’s a lost art.”

“Do I know her?”

“Who?”

“Your grandmother.”Sydney’s heart accelerated. She’d let her guard down. One slip of the tongue could ruin everything. “No, she lives in Texas.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re not from around here.”

Sydney nodded. Mrs. Phillips’ short hair wasn’t silver like her grandmother’s, it was slate gray. Mrs. Phillips caught her eyes and held them until Sydney broke away from the woman’s probing gaze. There was a strength, no a light, in those weathered eyes that radiated like a beacon. Even the octagon-shaped glasses that Mrs. Phillips wore couldn’t cover it up. It felt oddly familiar. Where had she seen it before? Ginger! The answer warmed into her consciousness like a ray of sunshine on a cold day. She’d felt that same light in Ginger. It was as if Ginger wore an invisible armor that made her impervious to all the suffering that came from living in this wretched world. Mrs. Phillips had it too.

“So your husband worked at the sawmill before he died?”

“Yes, the sawmill. It always comes back to that.”

The meaning in Mrs. Phillips’ odd words eluded Sydney.

“Buford worked as a log puller. They said he got too close to the saw and a section of log hit him.”

“Yes, I’ve read the report.” Sydney said and then wondered if she was giving away too much information. Thankfully, Mrs. Phillips’ expression didn’t change. Sydney struggled to keep her voice neutral. “The accident report was filled out by Avery McClain. Did you know him?”

“Mostly I knew of him. He did visit me once.”

Sydney’s throat went dry and she took a gulp of water and swallowed hard. Don’t probe too hard, she told herself. If she appeared too anxious, Mrs. Phillips might clam up.

“Mr. McClain seemed like a nice man. He visited me right after Buford died. I don’t think he believed what I told him about Buford though.”

“What was that?” The question came out in a half croak.

“I told him the truth. He asked me if Buford had been drinking, and I told him Buford quit drinking when he started goin’ to church.”

“What else? Do you remember anything else?”

Mrs. Phillips munched on her cookie and took a sip of lemonade. “Now, Sydney, tell me again. What exactly do you do at the sawmill?”

Sydney could have screamed, but she kept her face blank. “I’m the safety consultant. It’s my job to investigate accidents at the mill.”

Mrs. Phillips nodded. “But this accident happened years ago. Why are you worrying ‘bout it now?”

Sydney realized that Mrs. Phillips was a lot more perceptive than she looked. “I’m trying to establish an accident trend so we can prevent future accidents.”

“I see.” Mrs. Phillips placed her glass on the table. Sydney hoped that her explanation had sounded convincing.

“Whereabouts are you from in Texas?”

“Ft. Worth.”

“I have a cousin that lives in Arlington. He and his family moved there ‘bout five years ago. They say it’s a dust bowl in the summertime.”

Sydney scooted to the edge of the couch. She had to figure out a way to get the conversation back on track. Before she could think of anything to say, Mrs. Phillips asked her another question.“How long did you say you’ve been a member of the church?”

“About a year.”

“How long have you lived in Stoney Creek?”

“About three months.”

“Well, yesterday was the first time I saw you at church.”

“I’ve been really busy.” She knew her response did little to placate the woman and feared that the next words out of Mrs. Phillips mouth would be a stern lecture on the importance of attending her church meetings. Her thoughts must’ve shown on her face because Mrs. Phillips chuckled. Sydney glanced at her watch. “Mrs. Phillips, I have to get back to work. If you don’t mind, I need to ask you a couple more questions.”

The smile faded from Mrs. Phillips face.

“Are you telling me that Buford was a member of the church?” Mrs. Phillips nodded. Something wasn’t adding up. “Members of our church don’t drink.”

Mrs. Phillips slapped her knee the way a teacher would when the student finally got the point. “Exactly!”

“Did he tell you anything that was going on at the mill?”

Sydney could see the wariness in Mrs. Phillips’ eyes before she finally spoke. “I asked him about it once or twice, but Buford kept things inside. I always tried to give him his space. You know what I mean?”

Sydney nodded. The disappointment was so tangible she could taste it. The woman had to know something. But whatever it was, she wasn’t telling—at least not today. Another question was forming in the back of Sydney’s mind. It was about the light in Mrs. Phillips’ eyes. She had to know the source of that light. Somehow the words forced their way to her lips. “How did you get through it? How did you pick up and go on after your husband’s death?”

Silence settled between them and Mrs. Phillips pondered the question. “It wasn’t easy. I guess I could come up with some pie crust answer. But the truth is that it’s still hard sometimes, even after all this time.” Moisture formed behind her glasses.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”

Mrs. Phillips brushed aside the apology and went on as if Sydney hadn’t spoken. “I don’t know how I made it through the first few weeks after he died. Everything was black. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t break out of it. After about two months, things got real bad. I had so much anger boiled up inside that I felt like I was gonna fly off the handle. I knew I needed help. One Sunday I put on my best dress and hat and marched right down there to that church. You see, I weren’t a member then. Buford had tried to talk to me about them things he learnt, but I wouldn’t have no part of it.”

Sydney nodded. “I can understand that.”

“Anyways, I went down there and told them people that I wanted to know all the things they’d been teaching my Buford.” She chuckled. “After they picked their jaws up off the floor, they started teaching me. Little by little, the darkness in me started to fade until one day I came home and opened my curtains and let in the light. I’ve been going toward it ever since.” She looked at Sydney and saw that her eyes were as moist as her own.

“Thank you. That was a beautiful story.” Sydney stood, and Mrs. Phillips picked up on her cue and stood as well. “I have to get back to work.” Sydney reached in her purse and retrieved a folded sheet of paper that contained her cell phone number. “If you think of anything, will you call me?”

Mrs. Phillips nodded.

Sydney took a step out the door before Mrs. Phillips stopped her. “There is something else.”

Sydney turned.

“Buford tried to tell me something before he died.” Mrs. Phillips shook her head. “I couldn’t understand him.” She leveled her eyes with Sydney’s. “I do know Buford was worried about some of the men at the mill. I’m afraid he was involved in something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. Buford was tryin’ to straighten out his life. I think he tried to get out and was kilt because of it.” The words came out in a hushed tone, as if Mrs. Phillips were speaking them for the very first time.

“Did he ever mention any names?”

Mrs. Phillips searched her memory. “The only thing he ever mentioned was that this one feller whistled the same tune all the time. It like to of drove Buford crazy.”

“And you think this man was involved?”

Mrs. Phillips nodded. “I’m sure of it. Buford used to meet him at the sawmill late at night. Some nights I’d stay up till four in the morning walking the floors till he got home.”

“And you don’t know this man’s name?”

“No, I don’t think I ever knew—only that he whistled all the time.”

Sydney clasped Mrs. Phillips’ hand. “Thank you. If you remember anything else, please let me know.”

Mrs. Phillips watched Sydney walk to her jeep. She wasn’t sure what in the tarnation had possessed her to tell that young girl all them things. Things she’d never told another living soul.

She stood in this same door all those years ago and watched Buford leave, and somehow knew she would never see him again. Many considered her premonitions a gift, but to her it was a curse. Mrs. Phillips closed the door and tried to push away the nagging fear.

Sydney was in danger.