Queen Bee Goes Home Again by Haywood Smith Page A

to build equity in our own places. The wife got half the proceeds, but that left me with my housing budget.”
    Must have been a really nice house. “You must have been at your last church for a long time, to pay off your mortgage.”
    â€œToo long, if you ask me.” He watched the houses go by. “Our ministry grew so huge, I felt like I was riding a brontosaurus every day. The next thing I knew, our kids were grown and on their own. My workload was more than my wife could take. So she decided to quit trying to win me back from the church and found someone else who wanted her.”
    He shook his head. “Talk about a wake-up call. After she left, I decided to make way for a younger pastor and look for a smaller congregation that didn’t need a big staff.”
    On the rebound?
    â€œFirst Baptist has a great core congregation,” I assured him. “And since the building boom crashed, they’ve stabilized at a reasonably intimate membership.”
    â€œSo Ed Lumpkin told me.”
    I grinned. “Ah, yes. Ed.” He’d been running the church for years, de facto. “It would be wise to make him your ally.”
    Connor Allen shot me a knowing look. “I appreciate the heads-up.”
    I really liked this man. But as usual, I jumped to rash conclusions immediately and assumed he was a teetotaling Bible-banger.
    Drat. Drat, drat, drat!
    I pulled into the driveway of the clapboard ranch house just a few blocks from the church. “Here we are.”
    The grass had been cut, but the house had no other plantings and looked neglected. Inside, it was bland and nondescript, clean but not redecorated since the sixties. “What’s your impression?” I asked Connor Allen.
    He didn’t even ask the price. “It’s a bit too … plain for my tastes. A traditional exterior is fine, but I’d really prefer something a bit more updated inside. With some character.”
    â€œThen I think you’ll really like one I have scheduled for later. But I wanted you to see the bottom of the market for your qualifications, first. This one’s only sixty-five thousand.”
    He shook his head with a smile. “As my history attests, being a minister doesn’t leave me time to do much else, so I’d rather not see anything that needs work.”
    I mentally deleted all the other olde-towne listings but the one next door to Miss Mamie’s. When we’d both gotten back in the van and buckled up, I decided to do something I’d never done before.
    I mean, heck, he was my last customer. Might as well, right?
    â€œWould you prefer to see more listings that don’t exactly fit your preferences,” I asked him, “to get a feel for what’s available? There are more I can show you a few blocks farther out. Or would you rather I take you to the one close by I think you’ll like best?”
    Connor Allen laughed. “Good for you. I like someone who’s honest and direct. I’m the same way.” He leaned back in his seat. “Take me to the one I’ll like.”
    I did, and when we passed First Baptist, then Miss Mamie’s, I pointed them out.
    â€œWow,” he said, scanning our house as we drove by. “You live in a mansion.” He didn’t even seem to notice the bathtub on our verandah, which was a definite plus.
    â€œAs you can see,” I told him when we turned onto the crushed-granite driveway next door, “it’s very convenient to the church. Just a few blocks’ walk on our fancy new sidewalks.”
    In the short time since Julia had alerted Jerry, he’d gotten the grass cut and edged, and had had someone touch up the subtle blue exterior and white trim. The mature plantings in the yard had been trimmed, and the giant oak behind the house shaded it from the morning sun.
    Connor Allen leaned forward and took it all in through the windshield as if he were looking at the original Ark