Chapter 6 - Front Row on Polished Oak
First Baptist Church of Oakridge sat at the highest point of town, an imposing structure of red brick, white limestone pillars, and stained-glass windows that had judged five generations of sinners. The parking lot was jammed with late-model Lexuses, Mercedes, and polished pickups by ten-thirty on Saturday morning.
This wasn't just a vow renewal; it was a desperate public relations campaign orchestrated by Diane Hollis to prove to the county that her son’s marriage was solid, wealthy, and thriving despite the glaring absence of an heir.
A hush fell over the church steps as Luke’s dark blue custom truck pulled into the visitor circle.
Luke stepped out first, looking devastatingly handsome in a tailored charcoal suit that emphasized his wide shoulders and easy, confident posture. He walked around to the passenger side, opened my door, and offered his hand.
I wore an emerald green silk dress that fell just below my knees, modest, impeccably cut, and sharp enough to cut diamond. My hair was swept up in soft curls, and on my finger sat the simple, heavy platinum band Luke had given me—not bought with family credit, but paid for with honest sweat.
Behind us, Luke opened the rear door.
Out came Elijah. Then Owen. Then Caleb.
Five years old, scrubbed clean, their dark curls neatly combed, wearing matching navy blazers, crisp white collared shirts, and polished leather loafers. They didn't run. Luke had spent two hours that morning teaching them “gentleman rules,” and each boy was taking his job with comical, military seriousness.
Elijah took my left hand. Caleb took my right. Owen held onto Luke’s forefinger.
We walked up the wide stone steps together.
The ushers at the double oak doors froze. Old Mr. Henderson, who had served as a deacon with Grant’s father for forty years, nearly dropped his stack of white programs. His jaw dropped so far his glasses slid down his nose.
“R-Renee?” he stammered, his eyes darting from my face to Luke, and then down to the three identical little boys standing straight and proud beside our knees.
“Good morning, Mr. Henderson,” I said, my voice smooth and sweet as clover honey. “We have a reservation.”
I pulled the cream-colored card from my purse and handed it to him.
The old man looked at Grant’s heavy, indented handwriting on the back: Front row reserved for Mrs. Renee Carter.
His face turned a mottled shade of plum. “Yes, ma’am. Right this way.”
The double doors opened, and the organ music was playing softly—Bach’s Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.
The sanctuary held nearly three hundred people. Every prominent family in the county was there: city council members, bank presidents, real estate brokers, and church committee leaders. When our little procession began walking down the long, red-carpeted center aisle, the music didn't stop, but the entire congregation seemed to hold its breath.
Heads turned. Whispers rippled across the polished mahogany pews like a sudden wind through dry grass.
“Is that Renee?”
“Look at Luke Mercer... Lord, he looks like a governor.”
“Are those... are those triplets?”
“Look at their faces! They look just like her!”
I didn't look left or right. I kept my chin high, my shoulders back, my hand resting gently on Elijah’s small shoulder. We walked all the way to the front, directly to the pew draped with a white satin ribbon marked RESERVED.
Sitting across the aisle, in the family section, was Diane Hollis.
She was wearing a pastel lavender suit with a wide-brimmed hat. When she turned her head and saw me standing there—radiant, prosperous, flanked by a magnificent husband and three beautiful, healthy sons—the color drained from her face so completely that her rouge looked like two streaks of clown paint on raw dough.
May you like
She gripped her pearl necklace so tightly the string threatened to snap.
Luke stepped into the pew first, lifted Caleb and Owen onto the cushioned bench, and then turned to help me sit. He leaned down, kissed me softly on the temple in full view of three hundred people, and whispered, “You own this room, sweetheart.”
