Embrace Me by Lisa Samson Read Free Book Online Page B

wouldn’t budge easily. “This is providential because you’ve come up in conversation around the Hopewell house lately.”
    â€œYou sure have,” Harlan said. “Quite a bit.”
    â€œGood stuff, I hope.” Dorky card played nicely.
    She batted my arm. “Of course, you silly. What’s not to like about a nice guy like you?”
    Even she was fooled. Good.
    Harlan wiped a crumb from his mouth. “Yep. We were talking about needing some new lifeblood on The Port of Peace Hour .
    You ever watch the show?”
    â€œSure. Almost every Sunday night.”
    â€œYou do?” Charmaine’s brows rose. “Oh, that’s so good!”
    Harlan scratched his head, digging deep to get the itch beneath the grid of his wig. You know how rumors go about a small town. I’d heard from several sources that Charmaine tried all the time to get him to ditch the thing, but he refused. I also heard that at least he takes it off in the house now.
    Do priests gossip like we do?
    My red hair was such a calling card and the women in the congregation seemed to like it. People think redheads are nice for some reason.
    You have to go out of your way to offend people.
    Harlan said, “So, Drew, we were talking about having you come on The Port of Peace Hour at least two or three times a month.
    We’re going to start taping segments on a living room-style set that we’ll insert between the preaching segments and Charmaine’s musical numbers. Just kind of informal, chatty stuff. We need to give our viewers something new. And we think you’re it.”
    Some of the locals call it The Port O Potty Hour.
    â€œI see. Well, sure. Glad to help.”
    â€œSee, Harlan? I told you he’d do it.” Charmaine leaned forward.
    â€œYou have that hungry look about you.”
    It felt like we stood in a tunnel together, just Charmaine and me, the air a chilly knife between us, the bricks glaring white in fluorescent lighting.
    Just as I was about to excuse myself, the door to the coffee shop swung open and two women entered to the clanging of Indian bells against the glass and the smell of fresh air and perfume.
    Charmaine stood to her feet. “Miss Mildred!”
    The older of the two women, both black and stately, turned her head in our direction. She smiled, lifted a hand, and slightly wiggled her fingers.
    â€œCharmaine Hopewell. And Reverend Hopewell. How’re you doing?”
    Harlan stood to his feet, a real gentleman. I stood to mine. “Mildred, this is Drew Parrish, pastor over at Elysian Heights.”
    â€œOh, my, yes! I heard good things about you, Reverend. Good things!”
    That day, Mildred gushed over my church and all that had been happening there. She praised the choir and the children’s ministries; she lauded our women’s Bible studies and our men’s groups.
    I drank it all in, the last thing I needed in a million years.
    But she couldn’t have known that. Miss Mildred just encourages people.

    Later that night I head over to the rectory. Father Brian answers. Recognition dawns as I step into the porch light. “Drew?”
    â€œGood memory.”
    â€œYou okay? Wanna come in?”
    â€œNo. I don’t know what I want. I was out walking, having a smoke, and I saw the rectory. I don’t know. It’s late. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
    â€œLet me get my jacket. I could use the exercise.”
    He appears a minute later in a green down jacket, a black skull-cap, and a pair of black knit gloves. He looks seventeen. The pressed grey slacks are the only giveaway he’s not entirely what he seems.
    We head south on Baltimore Avenue, past bars, music stores, and T-shirt shops.
    â€œSo what’s on your mind?”
    â€œI don’t know, just writing all this stuff down is like dragging up a bucketfull of slop, and I haven’t begun to reach the dregs.”
    â€œRepenting is never