The Blessed by Ann H. Gabhart

preacher was?
    The motes of darkness were about to press down on Lacey and smother her before the preacher finally spoke the words she knew he’d stopped there to say. “Not forever, Lacey Bishop. Come summer you’ll have to act the proper wife. That will be nigh on a year since Mona passed on. More than enough time for both of us.”
    “You promised,” Lacey whispered again.
    He made a sound of disgust and didn’t bother trying to quiet his steps as he stomped down the stairs. He didn’t go to his bed but went out the front door. It was near dawn before she heard him come back in the house.
    That morning he looked at the fried eggs on the plate she set in front of him at breakfast. He poked them with a fork and said, “You got them too done.” Then he picked up the plate and threw it against the wall. The plate shattered all over the floor and the soft yolk of the egg ran down the wall.
    Rachel stared at him with eyes as big as saucers and let out a yowl like as how a piece of the plate had hit her.
    When Lacey started toward her to comfort her, Preacher Palmer grabbed Lacey’s arm. “Fix my eggs right first.”
    She wanted to shake loose of him, but his grip was hard on her and his eyes even harder. When she still hesitated, he said, “You’re my wife. Do as I say.”
    She went to the stove and broke more eggs in the skillet. She thought about catching him looking another way and spitting in them, but it did little good to answer meanness with meanness. She shut her ears to Rachel’s wails and cooked the eggs and put them on a new plate. There wasn’t an iota of difference in the eggs on the second plate and the first, but when she set it in front of him, he pushed his fork into them and ate.
    Lacey sat down beside Rachel and let the little girl climb up in her lap.
    “She’s too big for you to baby like that,” Preacher Palmer said.
    Lacey pretended he hadn’t spoken as she rubbed the child’s back and whispered, “Shh. Stop your crying.”
    The preacher stabbed a biscuit and smeared butter on it. He pointed his fork toward the egg splattered on the wall and the shards of glass on the floor. “Best clean that up.”
    Lacey kissed the top of Rachel’s head. Then she set her on her feet. “Get me the broom, Rachel.”
    She was still wiping the yellow yolk off the wall when Preacher Palmer pushed his chair back from the table. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn’t turn to look at him. She just kept rubbing the wall even after no spot of egg was left on it.
    “All this is your fault, Lacey. Every bit your fault.”
    Her spirit fired up at that. She turned to stare straight at him. “A man of God shouldn’t fool himself with lies.”
    She thought for a minute he might sling another plate straight at her head, but then he lowered his eyes and his shoulders drooped. “Our Father in heaven, what is to become of us?” he said softly before he turned and went toward the door.
    So it was no wonder that, with the clouds gathered around them so thick, no sign of spring had made its way through. That was why she hadn’t been out looking for the first spot of yellow spring the way she usually did. A heart had to be ready for spring, and hers was stuck in winter.
    But as she stared down at the crushed dandelion bloom, she felt Rachel’s little hand reaching into hers. It wasn’t right to keep the spring from her. Wasn’t Rachel the reason she’d agreed to this farce of a marriage? Spring came in spite of clouds. Dandelions bloomed and little girls needed to dance in the spring.
    That afternoon after Preacher Palmer went out with Deacon Crutcher to visit the sick, Lacey told Rachel to go looking for a dandelion in the backyard. A smile was spread all the way across the little girl’s face when a few minutes later she came running back to the porch with a round yellow dandelion bloom clutched in her hand.
    “Do we get to do the dance?” Rachel asked her.
    Lacey’s heart hurt as she stared down