Free Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen by Susan Gregg Gilmore Page B

that's all,” I stammered, trying to come up with some reasonable explanation for my recitation.
    “Well, it's my understanding that First Corinthians, chapter seven, verse eight, is your most favorite verse in the entire Bible,” he countered, knowing he had me cornered like a cat toying with a mouse.
    A moment or two of silence lingered between us while I tried to imagine myself any place but standing next to my daddy. Maybe, I hoped, this would be the end of this discussion if I could just keep my mouth shut. Maybe he just wanted to let me know that he knew. Maybe he figured I would feel so guilty about what I'd done that I would go to Miss Raines and apologize. He was probably right, but for now I wasn't saying another word. Nope, not one more word.
    “Catherine Grace, I loved your mother more than any other woman in the world, and nothing's going to change that. But that doesn't mean that I can't enjoy spending time with somebody else, with somebody like Miss Raines,” Daddy said. “And it doesn't mean there is any less room in my heart for you and Martha Ann. Do you understand all that?”
    Sure, I thought to myself. Gloria Jean had already explained this powerful need adults have for one another's company. All I needed to say at that moment was “Yes, Daddy.” Two simple words, that's it. But that's not what came out of my mouth.
    “Everybody at church wants you to marry her. I hear all the old ladies talking. They think I don't, but I do. So does Martha Ann,” I blurted, no more than sixty seconds after I'd sworn myself to silence. “Heck, even Ruthie Morgan thinks it's about time you two get married so I can get a mama who will teach me a thing or two about being a lady.”
    “Oh,” Daddy said, like he was actually surprised people at Cedar Grove Baptist Church were gossiping behind his back about his marital intentions. “Well, girls,” and he paused again, “I don't see us getting married. Well, at least not any time in the near future.”
    That was it. That was all he said. It was as if even my own daddy wasn't sure what to say next. And as we continued to walk toward the house, nobody dared to say another word. As soon as I opened the front door, I could smell the chuck roast simmering in the Crock-Pot, that wonderful, familiar aroma greeting me like a dear, concerned friend.
    All three of us sat at the kitchen table for a long time, enjoying what we understood to be only a brief return to a much-loved routine. I knew that next Sunday Miss Raines would be back in her chair, staring adoringly at my daddy with those beautiful, blue eyes. Like I said, just seems preachers have a way of getting what they want. But for today, thankfully, it was just the three of us.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Confessing My Sin with a Teacup in My Hand
    D addy once told me that if you asked somebody where he was when he heard the news that President Kennedy had been shot, he could tell you right where he was standing. Daddy said the human mind can call up all sorts of details from the very moment of hearing something traumatic. He was right.
    I was sitting in the third row, second seat from the left in home economics class when Mrs. Gulbenk announced that, with Mother's Day just around the corner, she wanted us girls to try something new this year. Instead of sewing the expected, ruffled gingham apron that everyone could give their mothers as a present, she wanted us to celebrate our mamas' steady love and devotion by honoring them with a special tea.
    I was halfway looking forward to making that silly-looking apron, having always admired all the frilly aprons Ruthie Morgan's mama had hanging on a hook in her kitchen. I thought I might wear it on Thursday nights when I made meat loaf, something I had been doing since my thirteenth birthday and Ida Belle had given me the
Better Homes and Garden Cookbook
—a must, she said, for every kitchen. But a tea, I wasn't so sure about that. And the more she talked about it, the more