Page 123 of Charlotte

“Some men,” Preacher Sutton said, his voice calm enough to be dangerous, “bury their gifts and call the burying wisdom. They say, ‘I have kept this safe. I have risked nothing, harmed nothing, spent nothing.’ Yet our Lord did not praise the servant who hid his talent in the ground. The gift was not given to be protected from use. It was given to be ventured.”

The church had become silent.

“A heart can do the same,” he continued. “A man may bury tenderness and call it strength. A woman may bury hope and call it sense. A family may bury truth and call it peace. The Lord who made us knows the difference between peace and a locked door.”

Lottie swallowed. Delly’s hand found hers on the pew between them and squeezed once.

Preacher Sutton turned a page in his Bible. “The Apostle John tells us perfect love casteth out fear. Mark the mercy in that. It does not say we must first cast out all fear before love is permitted to enter. Many of us would wait forever if that were so. Love comes while fear is still shaking in our hands. Courage often follows only after we have stepped forward trembling.”

Lottie’s throat tightened until singing later would be a lost cause. She had stepped forward, trembling.

She had loved Cecil with her eyes open, and he had refused her. The loving itself had not been shameful. She had not buried her heart in the cold ground.

She had offered it, even if he did not know how to receive it.

“Freedom,” Preacher Sutton continued, “is not the right to stand alone and call ourselves untouched. Freedom in Christ is the courage to stand before God and one another as we are: unfinished, marked by sorrow, dearly loved, and called forward anyway.”

Lottie closed her eyes as the words pierced her heart but also healed it. When the sermon ended, she kept her eyes closed for a moment longer and prayed the smallest prayer she had offered all week.

Lord, help my beloved Cecil move forward. Then, after a breath, she added what was harder for her to admit. Help me stand if he does not come.

The final hymn rose around her.

Lottie sang the first verse badly, the second a little better, and by the third, her voice had found its place again.

When the service ended, the church released its people into the Fourth of July morning, and the town seemed to remember all at once there were cakes still to be eaten and a donation table to be supervised.

Children rushed ahead until mothers called them back. Men paused outside the doors to discuss lumber, lemonade, and whether the leftover platform on the beach ought to be taken down before or after dinner.

Lottie stepped into the sunlight with Delly beside her. Jeb joined them at once.

“Mrs. Simms,” he said.

Delly looked at him with a softness which made Lottie’s heart ache in a cleaner way than before. “Mr. Simms.”

“Are you ready for Mrs. Schulte’s donation table?”

“No.”

“Good. I mistrust overconfidence.”

Lottie smiled despite herself.

Jeb’s gaze shifted to her, kind but not prying. “Miss Charlotte.”

“Mr. Simms.”

He tilted his head toward the meeting hall. “Cornelia is looking for you. Something about books and ribbons.”

Delly touched Lottie’s arm. “I can come with you.”

“No.” Lottie glanced once toward the churchyard. “I will come along in a moment and meet you there.”

Delly followed her gaze. At the edge of the church steps, Cecil stood apart from the other loggers.

Waiting. Delly’s hand tightened briefly on Lottie’s sleeve, then let go.

Behind me, not in front.