Page 99 of All I Need (Hearts of the South)
“Maybe a little.” He smiled, his palm resting at the small of her back. “Clark and I are here most Sundays.”
They were regulars enough that they had a spot, third-row pew to the left of the pulpit. One arm laid casually along the back of the pew, Clark studied the bulletin. He glanced up at their approach and, without comment, slid down to make room for Savannah. Moments later, he moved again as Landra entered the pew from the opposite end to sit between him and Emmett. She didn’t relax, her expression tense and unhappy, one palm curved over the slight swell of her stomach. Emmett linked their hands and squeezed. She caught his eye and smiled, some of her tension draining away.
The service unfolded in a more laid-back manner than Savannah expected, totally removed from the formal, structured services her father preferred. A handful of members took the stage to lead the congregation in a blend of contemporary worship music and traditional hymns. After, a young man took the mike to pray and welcome members and visitors alike before inviting the audience to greet one another.
Amused, Savannah eyed the dozen or so older women who flocked to Emmett and Clark. Both got their necks hugged multiple times, Emmett wincing a little at the strength in some of those hugs. When he bent to hug an elderly woman with impossibly white, fluffy curls, Savannah and Landra shared an indulgent smile behind his back.
He caught Savannah’s hand as the adoring flock clucked away. Savannah nudged his side. “Women love you wherever you go, don’t they?”
Smiling, he bent his head to murmur in her ear. “Yeah, but you’re the only one that matters.”
Her breath caught at the unspoken admission that he recognized her love for him. When he straightened, he tensed, fingers tightening about hers. Savannah frowned and glanced around. “What?”
“My parents.” He ground out the words, the skin about his mouth pale and taut.
“Emmett.” Affection colored his name, and the older woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Landra leaned over the pew to wrap her arms about his neck. She pulled back to gaze into his face, worry drawing her brows together. “Landra says you aren’t seriously hurt. Are you really all right?”
“Mama, I’m fine.” No way his jaw could get any tighter. He looked everywhere but at the older man who was nearly his height and had stamped him with his good looks.
“Son.” His father reached to embrace him, but Emmett stiffened, obviously doing no more than suffering through the awkward hug. He kept his gaze trained on the stained-glass window over the baptistery, but Savannah caught the flash of longing and loss in his father’s eyes, mingled with a hint of remorse.
Congregants drifted to their seats. From their left, Pantone rose from her pew and moved toward the stage. Emmett disentangled himself from his father’s easy hold and gestured at Clark. “We have to go.”
They let him go without protest and returned to their seats a few pews back. Clark sat at the piano as the other musicians took up their spots again, and Emmett and Pantone each removed a mike from its stand. Emmett toed out of his Reefs to stand barefoot on the stage. His lashes fell as Clark began to play. A teenager joined in, picking out the melody on a guitar.
Pantone lifted her mike and sang the first few bars alone, before Emmett joined her, their voices blending seamlessly in the song of prayer and worship. Clark crooned the chorus into the microphone at the piano. Quiet and peace spread through the sanctuary, and the music faded away.
Head bent, Emmett brought the mike to his mouth to offer a quiet prayer of thanksgiving. His voice cracked over the words, and Savannah blinked hard. Returning the mike to the stand, he slipped his feet into his Reefs and descended the steps with Clark, Pantone, and the musicians returning to their seats. Savannah stepped out of the pew to let him and Clark slide in, and Landra slipped over, so Clark sat next to Emmett.
The pastor took the stage. “I think, with it being homecoming Sunday for us, that focusing on a well-known homecoming in Scripture would be appropriate.”
He launched into a sermon focused on the parable of the prodigal son, painting a picture of love and forgiveness, of a father running to meet his remorseful son. Emmett dropped his head, elbows on his thighs. As the sermon progressed, he didn’t raise his head, and Clark rested a hand on his knee.
Drawing the message to a close, the pastor opened an invitation to the altar as the congregation rose for the closing song. Head still bent, Emmett pushed to his feet. With gentle hands, he edged Savannah to one side and stepped from the pew to approach the altar. Savannah hesitated a moment, her chest aching. She followed to kneel with him on the carpeted steps and laced her fingers with his. His low murmured prayer curled between them, the words indistinct except to him, and he tightened his hand around hers. Long moments later, he rose and swiped his wrist across damp eyes before they returned to the pew.
* * * * *
Emmett was raw, rawer than he’d ever been. His and Clark’s resident fan club, the older women who’d practically raised them from the church nursery on, wanted to feed him and meet Savannah, not necessarily in that order. In the fellowship hall, he ended up with a plate piled high with fried chicken, pear salad, macaroni, and other assorted homemade delicacies.
He couldn’t stomach any of it, not even Miss Maureen’s incredible blackberry cobbler.
The last thing he wanted was to engage with his father, to forgive him, but a small still voice whispered that there’d be no real peace until he did.
With his fork, he pushed a stray shred of cheddar around the edge of his plate, half-listening while Miss Ella asked Savannah about what it was like to work in the ER.
“Emmett.”
He stiffened at his father’s familiar voice. Under the table, Savannah’s hand fluttered over his knee, and he laid his fork down with extreme precision before he looked up to meet his father’s gaze. “Sir?”
“Can I talk to you a minute, son?”
He hated it when his father called himson, like it meant anything, and the old anger wanted to whisper a denial. He’d left his pride and arrogance back on that altar, though. With a nod, he pushed back his chair and rose. “Yes, sir.”
Aware of the attention focused on them from multiple tables, he followed his father from the fellowship hall, the skin on the back of his neck prickly and hot. The hallway connecting the multipurpose room to the main sanctuary held a small couch flanked by two tables, and his father indicated the sofa with a silent gesture.
Emmett took the seat next to his father and rested his elbows on his thighs, hands between his knees, and his gaze fixed on the blue-mauve patterned carpet. He was pretty sure they’d sat just like this when he was seventeen, that one time his mama hadn’t been the one who’d had to show up at school because he’d been suspended for fighting again.
His father cleared his throat. “I’ve not been the father or husband I should be, Emmett.”
