Chapter 9 - The Lemon Bars Make It to Church
Saint Matthew’s Church sat at the crest of a low, rolling hill just outside the town limits, surrounded by ancient oak trees and a gravel parking lot crowded with pickup trucks and family sedans. The church picnic was in full swing: children running through the grass, smoke rising from a long charcoal grill where chicken was sizzling, and folding tables covered in red-and-white checkered tablecloths.
When the flashing blue and red lights appeared over the crest of the hill, the entire gathering came to a sudden halt.
Pastor Davis, an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and an apron over his clerical shirt, stopped flipping burgers and looked up in alarm. People set down their paper plates. Several older men walked toward the gravel drive, wondering what kind of emergency was arriving at the church pavilion.
Then, the convoy rolled smoothly into the church lot.
Sheriff Callahan’s Tahoe pulled in first, followed by Mom’s champagne Buick, with Deputy Miller’s cruiser bringing up the rear. The cruisers cut their emergency flashers the moment they stopped, leaving only the quiet tick-tick of cooling engines.
Sheriff Callahan hopped out of his rig, adjusted his Stetson, and immediately walked around to open the driver’s door for my mother.
“Welcome to your destination, Miss Shirley,” Callahan announced in a booming voice that carried across the entire lawn.
Pastor Davis jogged over, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. “Sheriff Callahan? Is everything all right? Shirley, Jeffrey, what in heaven's name happened?”
Mom stepped out onto the crushed gravel, smoothing her floral dress with her hands, looking as composed as if she had just returned from a leisurely stroll around the block.
“Everything is fine, Pastor,” Mom said with an easy smile. “Just a little minor delay on the highway. We had a brief mechanical inspection.”
Callahan scoffed softly under his breath, giving Mom an affectionate, exasperated look. “Don't let her downplay it, Pastor. We had a young deputy out on County Road 6 who needed some serious retraining on department history and basic human decency. Shirley was kind enough to provide the lesson.”
A ripple of knowing laughter spread through the crowd. Several older men in the congregation—retired firemen and town aldermen who had known Mom for fifty years—nodded their heads with grim satisfaction.
I stepped out of the passenger side, carrying the aluminum baking pan. The powdered sugar on the lemon bars had melted slightly around the edges, pooling into sweet, translucent syrup, but the center was still cool and firm.
“The lemon bars survived!” I called out, holding the pan up.
The crowd cheered.
Pastor Davis took the pan with both hands, shaking his head with a broad smile. “Shirley, we could have started without the chicken, but we never could have had a fellowship without your lemon bars. Come on over to the shade. We’ve got a pitcher of sweet tea with your name on it.”
Sheriff Callahan and Deputy Miller didn't leave immediately. They stayed for twenty minutes, accepting glasses of cold iced tea, shaking hands with the congregation, and making sure my mother was settled into a sturdy lawn chair beneath the sprawling shade of a hundred-year-old oak tree.
Before Callahan climbed back into his Tahoe to head back to the courthouse, he walked over to Mom’s chair, took off his hat, and bent down to kiss her wrinkled cheek.
May you like
“Take care of yourself, Shirley,” Callahan murmured. “And next time you decide to drive through my county with an expired tag, just call my personal cell first, will you?”
Mom chuckled, patting his rough cheek. “I will, Tommy. Thank you for the escort.”
