Reinventing Leona Read Online Free

Maddie pulled her jacket hood over her head and waited for the taxi to the airport. She scrolled to the med school number. The message she left on a secretary’s voice mail claimed a family emergency.
    Next, she scrolled to her boyfriend’s number. Maddie hesitated before pushing Send. Maybe she should wait, call Justin after it was too late for him to insist on coming. Finding the right time to introduce the aspiring country-western singer was . . . dicey. Choosing this moment to spring the announcement that she planned to move in with him when her current lease expired was . . . suicidal. Snow had better survival odds in the eternal lake of fire.
    Tears streamed down Maddie’s cheeks. She brushed them away. This wasn’t her father’s fault. Unlike Momma, the good pastor never expected someone to jump in and rescue him. Maddie’s breath hitched in her chest. Without Daddy, who would quiet the storm of her exasperating mother in cahoots with a rule-chiseling God?

Chapter Three
    Surrounded by a circle of stunned church members, Leona sank onto the threadbare couch in the parsonage living room. A plate of food appeared under her nose, but she shook her head and waved it away. Behind her, she could hear the quiet rumblings of concern rippling through the multitude as if turning down potluck fare ranked near blasphemy.
    Let them think what they want.
    Maybe if she had made a sign years ago that said, “Don’t feed the preacher,” J.D.’s arteries would not have been clogged by the abundance of cholesterol-laden casseroles that appeared every time two or more Christians gathered in one spot.
    Roxie broke through the disquieted throng, her face a billboard of concern. “Girlfriend, the Storys are here.”
    Leona eyed the Mason jar Roxie held far out in front of her as if the pickled contents were radioactive. In her mind, she popped up from the worn furniture and tended to the horde of unexpected guests. But after a quick glance at her clasped hands lying in her lap, Leona realized her sluggish body was not cooperating with her good intentions. With a concerted effort, she hauled herself to the edge of the couch. “We’re gonna need more chairs.”
    “You stay put. I know where these go. I’ll send someone to the church for a few folding chairs.” Stiff-armed, Roxie marched the quart of homegrown baby gherkins to the kitchen, and Leona allowed her upper body to fall back against the green and gold plaid upholstery.
    “Yoo-hoo.” Nola Gay Story pressed through the crowd, reminding Leona of a desperate World War II bomber plane looking for Hiroshima. The elderly woman gave her a pitying look, then offered a veined hand. “Sister and I are so sorry about the passing of Brother Harper.”
    “Thank you.” Why was she thanking people? Shouldn’t they be thanking her for sacrificing her husband for the good of the cause? She released Nola’s calloused hand, shirking her too-little, too-late benevolence.
    Etta May Story, Nola’s twin and constant wingman, wiggled in close, her bare leg a glaring testimony to the failure of knee-highs to restrain excessive varicose veins. “Sister and I never figured J.D. Harper to be the dramatic type, but he certainly went home with a glorious flair.”
    Nola Gay turned to Etta May. “That we could all meet our Maker with the words of the Lord upon our lips. Almost makes you wish women could preach, doesn’t it, Sister?” Her jowls jiggled agreement.
    Leona diverted her eyes. The swaying motion gave her a touch of seasickness. Erecting her body position adjusted her sightline, but now her focus lighted on identical feathered lips moving in unison, but emitting a garbled sound. Her mind drifted back eighteen years to the day the Harper U-Haul arrived at the two-story yellow brick parsonage. Leona had expected a shady wraparound porch, an anxious welcoming committee, and a tall glass of lemonade. What she got: a flat, crusty yard with a fire ant mound the size of a small