The Runaway Pastor's Wife by Diane Moody, Hannah Schmitt Read Free Book Online Page B

Freshly ground coffees and homemade
pastries beckoned the clientele into the heart of the store. A pot of
complimentary coffee enticed regulars to pause for a moment of small town
gossip; the comforting fragrance of the logs burning in the fireplace, at times
intoxicating. Even an occasional whiff of moth balls or liniment only added to
the homespun ambience of this country store.
    Owners Bob and Mary Jean Williamson inherited
their family store from Bob’s dad, now deceased, who had passed it along before
retiring. None of the locals could remember Weber Creek without Williamson’s.
The colorful products stocked on the shelves may have changed through the
years, but the hospitality and courtesy remained the same.
    Mary Jean sliced a fresh pan of Scottish
shortbread into long perfect pieces. “Bob, I want you to run that kettle of
soup over to Emma before it gets cold. That way she can have a bowl of it with
her cornbread for supper.”
    “Supper?” Bob snapped. “It’s only 3:00 in the
afternoon. Nobody eats supper at 3:00 in the
afternoon.”
    “Stop being so ornery and just do as I ask.
That’s when she likes it and who are you to tell her any different?” Mary Jean
placed the sandy rectangles of shortbread on an antique platter.
    “Whoever heard of supper at 3:00 ,” Bob
grumbled. “Why, I’d have to have a whole ’nother meal by seven or eight or
listen to a growling stomach half the night.”
    The front door opened with its familiar squeak
as the verbal sparing continued. “Bob, just gather up the basket and get on
over to Emma’s. Stop all your jabbering! The good Lord knows I’ve endured
enough of your mindless arguments over the last fifty years, and I don’t want
to hear another word of it today. I’m just plum sick of it.”
    “Who’s sick? Is somebody sick? Should we call a
doctor?” a voice piped in from the front of the store. The kindly face of Dr.
George Wilkins lit up with a subtle twinkle in his eyes. “Are you two
pretending to fight again or is someone really sick?”
    “You bet I’m sick, George,” Bob answered. “I’m
sick of this cantankerous old woman snapping orders at me as if I were some
kind of hired help. Would you remind her that the name over the door was mine
long before she ever had the good sense to marry me?” Bob tried his best to
sound mad, but he was as always, totally unsuccessful.
    Mary Jean tipped her head back and forth,
humming a familiar tune. She walked the basket over to Bob, pecked him on his
cheek, and started back to her task. Bob gave her a swat on her ample back side
then quickly made his getaway.
    The doctor tracked his usual path over to the
coffee pot, filled the mug with “Doc” on the side, then shuffled toward one of
the rockers.
    “MJ, come sit a spell and take a rest. Doctor’s
orders. Let’s enjoy this nice fire for a few minutes, shall we?”
    And with those words began Doc’s daily visit as
he did each and every day of the year, weather permitting. It was one of Mary
Jean’s favorite times of the day. She and Doc Wilkins had grown up together not
far away in Remington. Though not related they had remained as close as a
brother and sister. Since the death of George’s wife some eight years ago, she
and Bob had become Doc’s family. The good doctor treasured their friendship
deeply. Mary Jean wiped her hands on her red bib apron, poured herself a cup of
coffee, and sighed heavily as she sat down in the rocker.
    “Mercy, George, I just can’t seem to help myself
when I start in on Bob. Anybody else would think we hated each other by the way
we carry on.” She paused, sipping the hot coffee, then continued. “Funny how
over the years you just grow into a pattern of playfully picking on each other
’til before you know it, it becomes a silly way of showing affection. I suppose
that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
    “Makes sense to me,” Doc said, rocking quietly.
“Ina and I had our own special ways of doing the same