The Charlemont Baptist Church was located in the West End, and the bright white of its clapboards stood out among the blocks and blocks of lower-income housing units that surrounded the place. Talk about pristine, though. From its carefully tended-to grounds to its freshly surfaced parking lot, from the flowering pots by the double front doors to the basketball courts out back, the place was as polished and cared for as something from a 1950s postcard.
And at twenty minutes of nine on a Sunday morning, it was teeming with people.
The instant Lane pulled in, the greetings came so fast and so many that he had to slow the car to a crawl. Putting both their windows down, he took hold of hands, called out names, returned challenges for pickup games. Parking in the back, he went around and helped Miss Aurora out; then he led her over to the sidewalk that ran down the side of the church’s flank.
Children were everywhere, dressed in flouncing gowns and little suits, the colors as bright as crayon boxes, their behavior better than that of a lot of the grown-ups who came to the parties at Easterly. Everyone, but everyone, paused and spoke to him and Miss Aurora, checking in, catching up—and in the process, he realized how much he had missed this community.
Funny, he wasn’t a churchgoer, but whenever he was home, he never failed to come here with Miss Aurora.
Inside, there were easily a thousand people, the rows of pews filled with the faithful, everyone talking, hugging, laughing. It was too early for the fans to get broken out, but they would come, usually in June. Down in front, there was a band with electric guitars, drums and basses, and next to them were the risers that would hold the gospel choir. And behind all that? The incredible organ pipes—the kind that could blow the doors and the windows and the very roof wide open—rose as if connecting the congregation directly to Heaven.
Max should be here, Lane thought. That brother of his had sung in the choir for years before he’d gone off to college.
But that was a tradition that was lost, seemingly forever now.
Two rows from the front there was space for them, a family of seven squeezing in to make room.
“Much obliged,” Lane said, as he shook the father’s hand. “Hey, aren’t you Thomas Blake’s brother?”
“Am, yes,” the man said. “I’m Stan, the older. And you’re Miss Aurora’s boy.”
“Yessir.”
“Where you been? We haven’t seen you here for a while.”
As Miss Aurora cocked a brow to him, Lane cleared his throat. “I’ve been up north.”
“My condolences,” Stan said. “But at least you’re back now.”
“There’s my nephews.” Miss Aurora pointed across the aisle. “D’Shawne is playing for the Indiana Colts now. Wide receiver. And Qwentin beside him is center for the Miami Heat.”
Lane lifted his hand as the two men caught Miss Aurora’s eye. “I remember when they were playing in college. Qwentin was one of the best centers the Eagles have ever had, and I was there when D’Shawne helped us win the Sugar Bowl.”
“They’re good boys.”
“All your family is.”
The organ cranked up, and the band started to play, and from the narthex, the bloodred robed choir strode in, fifty men and women walking together, singing the processional. Behind them, the Reverend Nyce followed with his Bible to his chest, the tall, distinguished man meeting the eyes of his flock, greeting them with honest warmth. When he saw Lane, he reached out and shook hands.
“Glad to have you back, son.”
When it was time for everyone to settle back in their seats, Lane had the strangest feeling come over him. Disturbed, he reached over and took Miss Aurora’s palm.
All he could think of was that tree limb falling the night before. The sight of Lizzie slumped in her car. The electric fear he’d felt as he’d dragged himself over those branches in the storm, screaming her name.
As the band struck up his favorite gospel song, he looked at the cross above the altar and just shook his head.
Of course it would be this one, he thought.
It was as if the church itself was welcoming him home, too.
Getting up to his feet with Miss Aurora, he started moving with the crowd, back and forth, back and forth.
He found himself singing along: “I want you to know that God is keeping me …”
An hour and a half later, the service ended and the Bubba hour started, the congregation going to the lower level for punch, cookies, and conversation.
“Let’s go down,” Lane said.
Miss Aurora shook her head. “I gotta go back. Work.”
He frowned. “But we always—”
He stopped himself. There was nothing that needed tending to at Easterly. So the only explanation was one that made him want to call 911.
“Don’t look at me like that, boy,” she muttered. “This is not a medical emergency—and even if it was, I’m not dying in my church. God wouldn’t do that to this congregation.”