A/N: I assume the characters are some Protestant denomination but I don't know which, so this just more or less looks like Catholic Mass. Anyway… I hope you like your fic sacrilegious! (And if you don't, do me a favor and just don't read it, k?)
Chapter 19 – April 1910 – One moment without awareness or thought
"Peter! Breakfast!"
Abigail cracked one more egg into the sizzling pan, beating it quickly into scrambles. Noah was roaming the kitchen, putting together his coffee and consistently appearing in front of wherever she needed to be.
"Noah, could you please just – " she trailed off, gesturing vaguely with her hands.
"Find me a spoon and I'll just," he answered sharply.
"Sit down, I will get it for you."
She assumed he was trying to be more involved, but while her mind was appreciative, her mood that morning was less receptive to the effort. She hadn't slept well for weeks, and getting ready for church today had caused its own swell of anxiety. Not only did it still remind her of her and Noah's argument, but she was also nervous for Henry. It was the new pastor's first service, and while he'd been introduced at that month's town council meeting and seemed a fine choice, the highly devout of Coal Valley were still circumspect. Beyond just the importance of who would lead the church, this appointment was the first big change the company had made since sending Henry, and the first Henry had overseen. She wanted it to go well for him.
And even that made her anxious. Where did her hope for his success cross the line between being a friend and investing too much? How was she supposed to know? Everything she did or thought seemed wrong, no matter if it was about Henry, Noah, or herself. She resented the constant battering of guilt and regret inside her head – the illusion of having made the wrong choice when she had never actually had any choices.
"Peter!" she shouted again, dropping a spoon in front of her husband.
"I'm here, sorry!"
He clambered down the stairs and into his seat, and Abigail took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for yelling."
She shut the stove and served them all in a hurry, the spatula scraping loudly across the pans. The bacon was still foaming, eggs steaming on the plates. They said a short grace, and afterward Noah and Abigail stayed quiet as they blew out slowly, cooling their food and their tempers. There was nothing else to say for now. They never fought in front of Peter.
"Is my shirt outside?"
Abigail blinked up from her plate. "What's that?"
"My shirt," Peter repeated. "For church."
Her fork clattered onto her plate. "Oh no," she said, pressing her fingers to her brows. "I forgot."
"Abigail, it's the new pastor…"
"I know it's the new pastor," she shot back, trying hard to keep calm at her husband's criticism. "I'll find one to press in his room. Or maybe he can wear one of yours."
"Mine are too big."
"You won't be able to tell under the jacket."
"Abigail – "
Peter cut in. "Mom, it's fine, I'm sure I have something."
She and Noah both sighed. They hadn't raised their voices, but were still upset with themselves for allowing it to escalate to the point Peter had to mediate at all.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'll help you look when you're finished."
Everything, she thought. Everything she did was wrong.
ooo
In spite of Abigail's own heavy heart, the day itself was beautiful. The pines and birches rustled along the horizon, framing the small white church building. The sun was just emerging from a wisp of cloud as they approached the entrance. Up ahead of them, families with brighter spirits streamed forward through the field. Just as Henry's first town council meeting had, Reverend Anderson's first service was drawing a larger crowd than usual. Single miners she rarely saw on Sundays had scrubbed their hands and slicked back their hair, offering their best selves up to God and whoever else might see. Even a few townspeople that had long been ill and housebound were being helped up the church steps.
At the top stood the new reverend, greeting each worshipper in turn. Long sandy brown hair hung from beneath his black preacher's hat, a friendly smile on his face as he cupped his palms warmly over each offered hand. He had been a good choice. Even Florence seemed more excited than wary as she disappeared into the building. Abigail puffed herself up in readiness, hopeful of making her own good impression. It was only when the crowd of well-wishers cleared that she saw the reverend was not alone.
So much of her time had been spent with imaginary versions of Henry that seeing him in the flesh right in front of her proved startling. She nearly breathed out his name in surprise, but caught herself just in time. Blinking, she turned. "Hello. Pastor. Welcome," she forced out.
Reverend Anderson gave her a slight bow. "Good morning. Mitch Anderson."
"Oh – Abigail. Abigail Stanton," she said, realizing she'd forgotten to give her hand earlier and taking his now. Peter and Noah had apparently greeted Henry, though she hadn't noticed the exchange, and they too now turned to offer their welcome to the preacher. From behind them, she gave her own little nod. "Mr. Gowen. Good morning."
"Mrs. Stanton."
The formality of it was unbearable. Both of them stood rigid and polite, as far apart as possible, following the rules of this public game they were forced to play but never acknowledge. The tragedy of it struck her sharply as Noah hustled her forward into the church, her eyes falling briefly shut inside the dim vestibule.
Once inside, she still felt momentarily lost. The issue of Peter's clothing had ultimately been resolved with a quick press to a shirt discovered in the back of his wardrobe, but they had been among the last to arrive to the service and the pews were now nearly packed full. Such a small thing, something she'd normally simply assess and manage, but today it was just another picture she couldn't figure out how to fit into.
Her look of despair elicited the pity of the Greens, who squeezed down the back row to allow them room. Martha waved off the apologetic thanks that Abigail mouthed while ushering her family in front of her. At Noah's questioning look for why she was shooing them ahead, she told him that Peter should sit next to Tommy, but selfishly she had also wanted to give herself space from other people. The two boys, as she had suspected they would, did immediately became absorbed in a whispered conversation, and Abigail took her place beside Noah, the two of them still mired in their own troubled thoughts.
The low buzz of anticipation and fellowship echoed into the apse until Mike Hickam sat down at the organ and began to play. The congregation stood, watching Reverend Anderson take his first ceremonial walk up the aisle to join them. Henry tiptoed in behind, pulling the tall white double doors closed and shutting out the bright spring sky. Blinking into the low light, he turned to find the same overflowing benches that Abigail had. And just as she had he began automatically to search the nearby pews for a vacant seat.
Abigail caught his eye, the two of them ascertaining quickly that hers was the nearest row in which any space still remained. She took a small step to the side, her gaze sweeping shyly across the floor. The creases in his forehead deepened, but he nevertheless moved in next to her, unwilling to cause further disruption while the service was starting. The shuffling attracted Noah's attention, but with the entrance hymn providing an excuse not to greet his boss again, he directed his singing back to the front of the church without pause.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," Reverend Anderson began.
"Amen," they answered back.
Henry stumbled, knowing some words of prayer but not the scripted responses. She drew no attention to his struggle but casually opened her missal, letting her fingers slide down the thin pages to highlight where they were. Catching on, he took his own book from the pew and bent his head close, checking his place against hers. A thread of electricity ran down her body, the familiar contentment of being near him warming her face.
Paul Blakeley approached to begin the first reading, and Abigail smoothed her dress underneath her, cuing Henry to take his seat along with the others. They shifted as they settled but the benches were tight and Henry's legs wanted naturally to take up space. Whenever he would forget himself, his knee would fall against hers, or his shoulder would press to her sleeve, their elbows bumping, a thin layer of perspiration forming underneath her clothes. He would move away then, or she would. Each time it seemed to take longer to notice.
Henry was too shy or too unpracticed in the rhythms to join in, remaining silent though he followed the lines with a deliberate tracing of his fingertips. But when she sang or spoke the psalms, he watched her. She could sense it, in the heightened awareness she had of him now, both of them looking only from the corners of their eyes, knowing the shapes of each other's expressions without needing to look at all. Her voice deepened at his attention, turning inwards as though she were speaking her faith directly into the space between them.
"And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, 'Receive the holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.'"
They shut their books as the pastor concluded the Gospel and delivered his homily. As hoped, it struck the desired balance of gentle guidance and well-placed emphasis. She wished she could give Henry her assurance now that he had done well – a soft squeeze of his arm, or a touch of her temple to his. But she could not offer even a soothing word, afraid that anything she might say would come out too soft, too intimate, too everything that might arouse suspicion.
Henry continued to follow the congregation's movements – Abigail's movements. Standing while the gifts were presented. Kneeling beside her while the reverend led the communion prayer. Her dress flowed forward over the kneeler, falling in front of the leg he had carefully separated from hers. In the quiet of the preparation, she could hear the unevenness of his breathing, the soft whistle as he tried to control the short inhales.
"This is my body, which shall be given up for you."
The pastor elevated the bread and wine in turn, and Henry lowered his head to his praying hands. A bead of sweat teased a line down the exposed tanned skin of his neck, sliding down to penetrate the crisp white collar of his shirt. Abigail's piously folded grip tightened, her knuckles turning pale with restraint. Her lips fell open slightly, unconsciously, drying in the stifling heat of the church. Body and Blood were offered up and Henry stood before she did, assuming the lead between them. She steadied herself on the seatback as she rose.
"Let us join hands with one another and pray the words our Saviour taught us."
She didn't realize what was about to happen until she turned out her palm and he reached for her. Thick, warm fingers slid and wrapped around the delicate edge of her hand, softly kissing the skin at the back. The rough pad of his thumb grazed the sensitive spots just above her knuckles as he found his place there, leaving them tingling even after he'd stopped. His palm came down in a gentle arch over hers, not fully touching, leaving room for anticipation.
Her heart pounded hard in her chest, ever more mindless of where she was. She had wanted this… had wanted it for months. To have him touch her again. To feel her body flush underneath him, his skin hot on hers. And all at once, for this one brief moment, it was allowed. She was allowed to be his.
"Thy will be done…"
In some remote part of her being, in some place she was no longer connected to, Noah grasped loosely at the fingers of her left hand, his thumb against her wedding ring. But all she could feel – the only thing that seemed to fully exist in that church – was Henry.
She curled her fingers up and pressed them lightly into his skin. Her eyes fell closed and she let herself relax under the weight of him, reveling in how completely he covered her. She traced the communion of their hands onto her memory, an etching of all the bends and lines that seemed to fit together. He was there with her, she was sure of it, in this borrowed fragment of time intended only for them. Their heads bowed, they asked to be forgiven for their trespasses… for every throbbing pulse they could feel in each other's fingertips as they pressed together.
"And lead us not into temptation…"
There was no more road left for her to be led, no more stops along the way. She had been walking this path since that very first dinner – the first time she held his hand. The stranger in her home was now the only thing that felt like home at all.
With a last exhale she slid her thumb down, letting it run gently over the length of his. It was the tender caress of a first time, whispering the promise of the rest of her.
"For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever."
"Amen," Noah chanted beside her.
