Reinventing Leona by Lynne Gentry Page B

raisins. “They always do,” he snapped.
    A stunned disenchantment washed over Amy’s flawless complexion. “Sorry about your father.” A quick spin on her pump-shod heel and the little bombshell was headed in the direction of the kitchen.
    Mentally patting himself on the back, David credited his legal training for his ability to swiftly and effectively go for the jugular. Then why did the vivid image of the confusion clouding those stunning crystal blue eyes gather like a storm in his conscience, igniting in a flash of shame?
    David glanced around the humming room, half expecting all eyes to be upon him, the perfect pastor’s son who’d just lost his cool with an innocent woman. But clusters of jovial conversations continued, oblivious to his undeniable rudeness, his obvious failings. A heavy weight pressed his shoulders. The poor girl was a victim of circumstances beyond her control, or his for that matter. They were mere mortals tossed to and fro by a power he could not escape, and the unsuspecting nurse had been accidentally caught in the updraft. Noticing he stood alone at the dessert altar, David abandoned his pudding and seized his exit opportunity . . . a skill Momma promised could be honed to perfection if practiced on a regular basis.
    * * * * *
    Maddie tried to slip her sweaty palms free of Wilma Wilkerson’s vise grip. How the woman made those arthritic mitts tickle the ivories was nothing short of miraculous.
    Wilma lifted a gnarled hand and stroked Maddie’s. “With fingers like yours, it’s a shame you gave up the organ.”
    The church organist would have made Liberace feel like he could’ve been something if he’d only practiced his scales a bit more. Maddie remembered her music lessons with Mrs. Wilkerson. Every Thursday after school, she’d drag into the darkened sanctuary, her untouched practice book tucked under her arm. In the glow of the reading lamp, Mrs. Wilkerson would be coercing the organ to sing as if it were a celestial chorus, her short, stubby legs stomping the pedals while her hands ran up and down the stacked keyboards.
    When the rotund lady came to a stopping place, she’d scoot over, making a sliver of room for Maddie on the slippery bench. The croaking scales Maddie pecked out threatened to shatter the stained glass above the baptistry, but her organ teacher suffered through every one of them, offering a word of encouragement here and there, before faithfully assigning more pages for the next week.
    Maddie squirmed under the pressure. “Momma was disappointed.”
    Mrs. Wilkerson smiled up at Maddie. “I’ve been praying the Lord uses your hands to his glory.” She brought Maddie’s hand to her lips and kissed it lightly. “And he will. Practice and these hands will make the music of healing.”
    The glimpse of understanding Maddie saw in her teacher’s eyes sent a sudden surge of warmth to a part of her heart she thought she’d effectively sealed off. “Cotton told me what you did for my father. Thank you.”
    “I’m just the Lord’s instrument.” Wilma patted Maddie’s hand, chose a plate with a big slice of apple pie, then lumbered off.
    Maddie picked up a dessert, then scanned the crowded fellowship hall. She’d had enough of the icy tension between Grandmother and Momma at the head table. She spotted Cotton across the room and threaded her way through well-wishers to reach the empty seat beside him.
    “Did you get some of Bette Bob’s pudding?” Cotton dragged a plastic spoon around his empty bowl.
    “I don’t eat sweets.”
    One bushy brow raised, he asked, “Does banana cream pie count as a fruit at Vanderbilt?” Cotton’s ribbing covered Maddie like hot fudge melting cold ice cream, a comforting combination sure to sweeten the bitterest of situations.
    She slid the plate onto the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “Okay, I don’t eat as many as I used to. Gotta watch my figure, you know.”
    “Your figure seems fine to me.” The rich