Tides of Truth [03] Greater Love by Robert Whitlow

through the sermon, but she seems to enjoy the choir. It’s a hassle to fit into my schedule, but she’s nagged me about it so much that it’s easier to go along than try to get out of it. Something came up, and our friends had to cancel our planned trip to West Palm Beach this weekend, but she knows there won’t be any church for her next Sunday unless she can get someone else to take her. I have a trip planned to do some early Christmas shopping in Atlanta. A close friend and I have booked a couple of nights at a new hotel and spa in Buckhead. They’ve got a staff of Swedish masseuses”—Mrs. Bartlett paused—“is that how you say the plural of masseuse?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Will you be joining us?”
    “No, ma’am,” I said in shock. “I’ve got to go back to school.”
    “You’re leaving this morning? I thought you’d spend most of the day in Savannah. Mother would like having you with her in the pew.”
    I realized my mistake and laughed.
    “I’m going to a church I attended a few times when I was here last summer.”
    “The one with the woman minister located in the poorer section of town?”
    I was surprised Mrs. Bartlett remembered Sister Dabney and the Southside Church.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Are you driving Mother’s car?”
    “Yes, if it’s okay with you.”
    “All right, but make sure you lock it. It may be Sunday morning, but I don’t trust that neighborhood. Did you know they’ve had to hire private security guards to watch the parking lot at Mother’s church? And it’s not in the middle of a ghetto. Thieves have figured out that cars at churches will be unattended for at least an hour.”
    “Or longer, if the service doesn’t end at noon.”
    “That would be a nightmare. At least Reverend Harwell knows how to tell time. He ends the service on the dot. Where is Mother now? Has she come downstairs?”
    “Yes, ma’am. She’s drinking a cup of coffee in the den.”
    “Don’t let her dillydally or fall asleep in her chair. I want her dressed and ready to go when we get there.”
    Mrs. Bartlett ended the call. I went into the den. Mrs. Fairmont was sipping her coffee and watching a religious show on TV.
    “Mrs. Bartlett says she’s going to take you to church this morning.”
    “She has it backward,” the older woman answered, turning down the volume. “I’m the one who’s been taking Christine and Ken. He’s started listening to the sermons. Christine fidgets worse than she did when she was a little girl. I started back, thanks to you and the young man who came with you to the hospital to pray for me—”
    “Vince.”
    “That’s right. If you get a third boyfriend, I’m really going to get confused.”
    “Vince isn’t a boyfriend. It’s Zach and I that are courting.”
    Mrs. Fairmont smiled. “Isn’t it amazing how terms come back in fashion? I never would have guessed that one would recycle. Hemlines go up and down, only now when they go up I’m not sure they know when to stop. I guess it’s the same with words. Your clothes have a classic look.”
    My wardrobe had been called old-fashioned, dowdy, dull, and a lot of even less-complimentary terms. Classic was a new one.
    “Thank you. It’s about modesty and neatness.”
    “Two other words some people want taken out of the dictionary. What time is Christine going to be here?”
    “She wants you ready by ten thirty. I’ll have to leave before that to make it to Sister Dabney’s church.”
    “Who?”
    “The lady with the rocking chairs on her porch.”
    “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Fairmont nodded her head. “Those chairs reminded me of the ones in front of my aunt Abigail’s house in Vernonburg. Maybe we can all go to her church one Sunday.”
    “Mrs. Bartlett would find that more unique than a trip to a Swedish spa.” I laughed.
    I put on a loose-fitting dress. A light swipe of lipstick added a hint of color to my lips. Sister Dabney wore her hair in a bun, but her congregation was a polyglot group