A Misty Mourning by Rett MacPherson Page A

fancy recipes. Don’t be fooled by the devil. You gather up alcoholic evils, and you take them to the river. You take them to the river, and you dump them out! Pour them all into the river, and your sins will be washed away with the tide. You will feel better, and you will be a new person. Brother Hart, lead us in song.”
    Lafayette Hart stood and without hesitation began singing “Shall We Gather at the River?” The irony was not lost on me nor on half of the congregation as they snickered behind their hands at Lafayette’s choice in music. The pastor, however, never faltered and sang along with him.
    When the services were over there was a box social luncheon. Gert wanted to stay. I wanted to go home and call my family, but we stayed anyway.
    I stood at the end of a table, with a paper plate in hand, waiting for my turn at the potato salad. Gert was already seated and would be finished eating by the time I made it through the line. The pastor stood right behind me talking to Lafayette.
    â€œI am so sorry to hear about your mother,” the pastor said to Lafayette.
    â€œThank you,” Lafayette said. “We’d been expectin’ it for a time now.”
    The pastor unexpectedly turned and addressed me. “I’m Pastor Breedlove,” he said and stuck his hand out for me to shake.
    â€œTorie O’Shea,” I said. My little bundle of joy decided to give a good swift kick at that moment. I gasped because he or she wasupside down and kicked me in the ribs, which in turn made me feel as if all of the air had been shoved out of my lungs.
    â€œLooks like you’re due about the same time I am,” he said, laughing and rubbing his belly.
    â€œYou said that, not me,” I said. I piled the potato salad on my plate and moved down the line to the baked beans.
    â€œI hear you are the new owner of the boardinghouse,” he said, following behind me. “Does that mean you will be moving here?”
    â€œOh, no,” I said. “I could never leave New Kassel. And
will
never leave it.”
    Again, it did not surprise me that he already knew that I was the so-called heiress of Panther Run. Not one bit. It did seem as though he was fishing for information, however. What the heck, I’d make it easy on him.
    â€œI’ve not decided exactly what I’m going to do about this situation, Pastor Breedlove. Besides, I’m not entirely sure that the Harts won’t contest it,” I said and smiled as sweetly as I could at Lafayette. It did not go unnoticed that his potato salad fell into the plate of sliced tomatoes.
    â€œSo, tell me, Pastor. What do you know about a man named Norville Gross?” I asked.
    â€œBrother Hart was just asking me the same question not two minutes ago,” he said, genuinely. “I don’t know.”
    â€œIs there a library around here close?” I asked. “So that I don’t have to go all the way down to Charleston to the Cultural Center?”
    â€œYes,” he said. “There’s one over the hill in the next holler. Quentinton.”
    â€œAnd the county seat?” I asked. “Where is it?”
    â€œAlso Quentinton.”
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    â€œWhen is your baby due?” he asked.
    â€œNot soon enough has become my standard answer,” I said and smiled. “Seriously, it’s due in August.”
    â€œThat’s nice,” he said. “So . . . are you from West Virginia?”
    â€œNo,” I said. By this time I’d made it to the pork steaks. I chose two deviled eggs instead. “My mother was born and raised here. Moved to Missouri in the 1950s. My ancestors go way back in this state.”
    â€œHow far?”
    â€œBack to when it was Virginia. Back to before it was a state at all. My ancestors were some of the first to spill over the ridge. Did you know that even the Native Americans thought that this land was too hostile to live in