July Thunder by Rachel Lee Page A

his current vestry. For a long time he’doverlooked that subtle nuance, but for some reason, over the past few years, he’d been noticing it more and more. Hellfire and damnation preached from the pulpit were great things—unless they struck too close to home.
    Maybe it was something about the modern world, but “too close to home” seemed to be happening with greater frequency.
    â€œWell,” said Mrs. Beemis, “preachers’ kids do have a tendency to go a little wild.”
    For all his problems with Sam, Elijah took exception to that. “He’s not wild, Mrs. Beemis. He’s just following his own path.” Wrong path, but not wild.
    â€œYes, of course,” she said. “He is a policeman, after all.” With that, she finally drifted away. Apparently she felt she had enough to keep her phone line busy until midnight.
    No point in worrying about that now. When he grew fed up with her and her ilk, he would look for another position. It was ever the same: some people weren’t happy until they managed to convince themselves they were better than everyone else, even the preacher. So be it.
    It had been easier to endure when Belle was still alive, though. He hadn’t felt so alone.
    Too bad, he told himself. Too bad. Sam had been an embarrassment to him for years. He should have known better than to come to this town.
    But he’d come anyway, and that disturbed him. Maybe that was something he needed to pray about.Or maybe God had drawn him here for some reason. Well, of course he had. Elijah Canfield believed his entire life was guided by God. Even coming to Whisper Creek and seeing his son before he’d seen another soul in town.
    That didn’t mean he knew what this was about. It felt like wearing a hair shirt. But maybe he was here to call Sam back to the true path.
    Yes, that must be it. The boy had wandered too far, and the Lord wanted him back in the fold. It was about time.
    Before he had much time to think about how he might accomplish that impossible task, another one of his flock bearded him about what he was going to do about all “them gays in town.”
    â€œWhat gays?” Elijah asked.
    â€œThose two artists.” Silence Tippit, one of the vestry members, started the conversation in what Elijah had already come to realize was his usual abrupt way. Silence, a man of about sixty, was short and round, with enough white hair that he reminded Elijah of a polar bear. He was also one of the powers-to-be-reckoned-with.
    â€œThere’s more than them two artists,” said another man, whose name utterly escaped Elijah. The guy was about as nondescript as a man could be. “You got those women living together over on Eighth Street.”
    Silence shook his head. “Bill, it’s just two womenliving together. Roommates. There’s never been any sign of anything else.”
    â€œWell, that one has short hair and them funny round glasses.”
    Elijah felt compelled to say something. “One mustn’t judge simply by appearances, Bill. Have they done anything?”
    Bill scowled. “It’s the way they look. And living together. Why don’t they have husbands?”
    Silence apparently didn’t want to argue it any further. “We do have a problem with those artists, though,” he said, turning to Elijah. “They set a bad example for the youth. When they come to town, they hold hands.”
    â€œHmm.” Elijah didn’t like that. In fact his stomach turned over at the mere thought. “Well, I’ll certainly preach against sins of that kind. It’s an abomination.”
    Silence nodded. “Truly, truly an abomination.”
    Bill spoke again. “We don’t need that kind in town. We need to get rid of them.”
    There had been a time when Elijah would have agreed. But the years had taught him how such words could be interpreted and the kind of sin they could lead to.