He walked toward the door and held it open, waiting for me to step out. “I’m not good at playing the tuba.”
What? What did that have to do with anything? “Um, okay…?”
He gestured for me to pass through and then turned off the lights behind me. “Do you know why I’m not good at the tuba?”
“No musical ability?” I turned toward the sanctuary to go back out the way I’d come in, but Ryan gestured toward a glass door at the other end of the hallway.
“Because I never practice it. You won’t be good at getting along with people if you never practice it.” He opened the door and stepped out, leaving me to stand in the hallway alone to contemplate the truth of his statement.
I didn’t want to be good at getting along with people. It required far too much emotional energy, and, in the end, I always ended up hurt. Ryan came back inside the church after having disposed of the trash. He wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped around me, leaving me to follow him down yet another gray carpeted hallway.
We passed several rooms with chairs set in circles obviously meant for Bible studies and Sunday school classes. “In my experience, people aren’t worth the effort.”
Ryan paused and glanced at me, his expression thoughtful and somewhat…concerned. “Jesus said the greatest commandment was to love the Lord your God with all of your heart, mind, soul, and strength. The second commandment was equal to that. To love your neighbor as yourself.”
I kept walking toward the door. After a few steps, he followed me. I didn’t need a lecture. In my experience, love was a one-way street. I’d pour out love to other people until they drained me like a bunch of leeches stuck to a blood sack, all while never gaining much from them in return. And once I was empty, I was just another bit of trash to throw away, no longer useful. “When other people start practicing that, maybe I will too.”
Ryan wisely refrained from commenting. Smart man. He quickened his pace and darted around me to hold the door open. I eyed him as I stepped out into the balmy afternoon already thick with Mississippi humidity. Birds sang their merriment, and the lingering voices of a few remaining churchgoers hung in the air. A car sputtered by, spewing out an acrid puff of smoke.
The parking lot stood mostly empty now, save for a few cars near the couples chatting while their children played tag on the asphalt. Looked like my stall tactic worked. Mira Ann must have given up on me. She’d think me horribly rude like Ryan had said, but I didn’t care.
Okay, maybe not. I did care. I didn’t mean to be obnoxious or anything. Either way, I was on my own for lunch and—I checked my watch—it was already close to one. I hadn’t eaten any of the kids’ pizza, and I was starving. I had a few tubs of leftovers in the fridge from the gathering after Ida’s funeral. They were still good. Probably.
A car horn blared, making me jump. A white SUV sat near an awning I hadn’t noticed when we came out of the side door of the church.
“That’s Mira Ann.” Ryan jogged in her direction, and she rolled down the window.
Maybe I should sprint back to my car and hightail it out of the lot. This uber-friendly act was getting under my skin. No way had that woman waited fifteen minutes on me without some kind of motive. I was already way out of my comfort zone, completely off my regular schedule, and now—
Ryan waved me toward the vehicle. I’d taken too long. Lost my chance. If I turned away now, it would be the epitome of rudeness, and not even I was that contentious. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and trudged toward them, casting one last glance at my Toyota.
Ryan bounded around the front of the shiny white SUV and popped open the passenger door. Did he plan on opening every door I came to? Odd…but kind of nice. I slipped onto a gray leather seat, and he shut the door. My heart fluttered. Did he plan to trap me in here with Miss America and make a run for it?
The back door behind me opened, and he jumped in. I ignored the surge of relief. I hardly knew this guy. He was still a stranger. Why should his presence make me feel more comfortable?
Mira Ann smiled. “Now, isn’t this nice?” She shifted into drive and bounced us out onto a potholed street.
I grabbed the handle in front of me. Mira Ann cranked up the air conditioning, flooding the pristine interior with artic air. We bumped through the middle of town, past the sweets shop, the bank, the school, and the gas station, before she turned the whale of a vehicle onto the main highway.
“So, where are we going?” I scanned the passing pines. I hadn’t seen a restaurant in Maryville. And I was fairly certain I hadn’t missed anything in the one-stoplight town.
“We’re going to The Magnolia. Their potato salad is divine. You simply have to try it.” Mira Ann sped up, passing farmhouses, one small neighborhood, and a large factory I’d had no idea rested outside town.
Mira Ann turned the knob on the radio, and country music filled her car with steel guitars played in minor keys. I’d never cared for country music. The old songs were sad, and the new ones were nothing more than an ode to half-dressed women riding in pickups. Or “good old boys” bragging about picking up short-skirted, boot-wearing girls at a bar. No thanks.
We came into the outskirts of the next town over. Ida’d bought her groceries here, since Forest Hill was big enough to have a Walmart. We pulled into the gravel parking lot at a big metal building. The front looked like something from an Old West town, but it had been decorated with swags and wreaths made from magnolia leaves. Inside, a massive twist of metal rods stretched to the ceiling, forming the shape of a tree in the center of the entryway.
Mira Ann bustled to the desk at the front of what appeared half gift shop, half restaurant, and a young girl with a big bow in her ponytail handed Mira Ann three menus. The left side of the establishment boasted typical gift shop fare: candles, home accessories, monogramed and overly fancy kids clothes, and gaudy jewelry. On the other side, small tables covered a black-and-white checkered floor. Stools lined a long bar with a mirror in the back. The owners must have been going for a 1950s soda shop. Mira Ann swayed past me, wiggling her fingers for me to follow.
We selected a booth against the far wall. Ryan scooted in first, and I chose to sit across from him. Mira Ann settled down next to Ryan. I busied myself with the menu while the two of them talked about the church service and people in town I didn’t know.
It was a good thing Ryan had come. He could carry the conversation so I didn’t have to. Come to think of it, that made total sense. Mira Ann seemed like the kind of woman who would realize I was socially awkward and had invited me knowing that Ryan, being the chivalrous sort, would offer to come along. Kudos, Miss America.
“So,” Mira Ann said, “tell me about how you knew Ida.”
The question pulled me from my perusal of a variety of sandwiches and salads. I glanced at Ryan, who seemed to have no interest in answering for me, and then addressed Mira Ann. “She was my grandmother.”
She unfolded her napkin and spread it across her lap. “Oh, that’s right. I remember now.”
Remember what? No doubt small-town gossip had already circulated. Still, the way she said it seemed weird.
“What a blessing you found her right before she passed.”
I hesitated. Did she accuse me of something with those sugary words? Or was I just being cynical?