Page 50 of In a Word, Yes

So whatif Wyatt Hayes has a great head of hair? Millions of people do. Another quick glance. How is it so glossy, though?

I close my eyes.

Lord, I don’t want my life to amount to nothing more than a handful of empty husks of wheat,blown away by the wind. More than anything, I want the good life as this psalm describes it. To taste the abundant life,yes. But even more, to offer it to others as you do.

As if to amplify theblown awayconcept, when I step foot outsidethe chapel doors, my hair whips across my face, a whirling dervish of golden leaves touches down in the parking lot ahead of me, and this morning’s overhead inversion layer is swept clear, leaving behind sapphire blue skies. It’s like a completely different day.

I’m well aware Chase’s request to stay behind with Paige and catch a ride home with Nina has more to do with cookies and lemonade than socializing. Still, it’s a win-win. Because as I clutch the lapels of my denim jacket, tuck my head, and aim for my car, I’m well on my way to savoring a delectable slice of quiet contemplation.

Strike that.

A sudden gust snatches the church bulletin out of my hand and sends it twirling in the direction of the fellowship hall, a space I bypassed quite deliberately today.

In attempting to chase down the bulletin—half-blindly, I might add, given the way my mane of grown-out bangs flaps chaotically across my face—I sprint, lunge, and twice fail to grab the paper before it’s again carried away. This time, I’m about to stomp on the dumb thing when somebody else does—somebody with a shoe of more considerable proportions.

And wouldn’t you know it, the someone attached to the shoe is none other than Lieutenant Wyatt Hayes. Amusement shines in his eyes as he returns the bulletin now gritty with parking lot dust.

“Ah,” I say, pulling strands of hair from my mouth. “I see you’ve been assigned to patrol the church parking lot today. So much for Sabbath rest.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he says, smiling ear to ear, his eyes dancing. “Sometimes you just end up in the right place at the right time.”

My tongue feels pasted to the roof of my mouth. Apparently I don’t get enough practice responding to guys who behave like gentlemen. “I didn’t realize you went to church here,” I say.

“It’s only my second time.”

He looks nice, dressed in a crisp moss-colored Carhartt jacket and blue jeans. Relaxed. Extremely un-sheriffy. I’m super curious how he ended up in church with Sunny, and I’m tempted to ask, except that he’d logically suspect me of surveilling him. Which isn’t a hundred percent untrue. Maybe it’s Wyatt’s clear, keen eyes, which in this light appear autumn gold, or the fact that he’s just so darn guileless and good-natured, that renders me utterly incapable of artifice. So I stick to “How are you enjoying it?”

“Hmm.” He scratches his jaw. “If I’m honest, I’m still getting used to the pastor’s style. Different from what I’m used to.”

I nod and smile. “I bet you could sense the whole congregation praying silently as one,Land the plane, Pastor David. Lord, help him land the plane.”

Wyatt’s eyes widen. “Yes! But then—”

“Then he hits you with a zinger? Knocks the wind right out of you—in the best sort of way?”

“Exactly.” Wyatt chuckles. “Okay, but I have to ask, does he ... does he always—”

“Cry? Yes, yes he does, Lieutenant. Every Sunday. And you know what? I kinda like it. He’s very softhearted.” What I don’t say is that watching my pastor get choked up forces me to do the same. It feels good to feel my feelings. I can use the help.

“When are you going to stop calling melieutenant?” he says, cocking a brow.

To which I shrug. I enjoy subtly taunting him. Maybe I enjoy it too much.

“Oh, hey,” he adds. “I never got a chance to tell you. Great job on the article. Thanks for making me look good. I meant to say something to you after writers group, but you were in a conversation.”

Making Wyatt Hayes look good takes no effort. But I don’t say this. “I’m glad you’re happy with it,” I say instead.

“Really. You’re a good writer, Lucy. Not sure why you downplay your talent.”

“At one time I did aspire to be a journalist, but...” I bite mylower lip and sigh. “I never finished my degree.” I’m not sure how I feel about this unplanned confession, but there it is. It’s out there now. What is it about this man that acts like truth serum?

“Sounds like a regret. Has it ever held you back? I mean, professionally?”

I don’t love this question, but it’s Wyatt, so I answer. “Honestly, no.” Even so, I’m not quite ready to admit thatI’mthe one holding me back.

“I’d love to hear you read sometime. Assuming you’re planning to keep coming to writers group.”

A hefty assumption for sure. I picture the evenings I’ve sat staring at Smitty. “I’m a little bit ... blocked at the moment.”