“Would it work for both of you to stay in Atlanta part of the time when Matt’s there?” he asked.

  “Are you planning on inviting Anne and the kids over for dinner?” Elena asked her husband.

  “I want to see the girls, but I’ll be super busy.”

  Elena turned to Connor. “What do you think about him having regular dinners with his ex-wife at the apartment where they lived when they were first married?” she asked. “He’s kept the lease for twelve years! I told him to let it and her go!”

  “She’s the mother of my children! We have to communicate.”

  “I only want you to be more passionate about us than you are about her.”

  “We’re wasting Connor’s time!” Matt replied in frustration. “I agreed to a civil conversation, not to listen to you repeat what we’ve been over and over and over. I’m looking for guidance, not a rehash of grievances.”

  “This is all new to me,” Connor said in a calm voice. “It’s helpful to learn about the practical and personal challenges you’re facing.”

  Connor stopped. Both Elena and Matt were staring at him, waiting for a pearl of wisdom to drop from his lips now that he was more informed. He cleared his throat.

  “Let me identify some resources that we can study together and use as a framework for moving forward. I’ll send the information to both of you by the end of the day.”

  “You mean a book?” Matt asked.

  “Or books,” Connor replied. “I’ve found that studying the words on a page enables people to consider perspectives about a problem that’s not possible in the emotion of verbal communication.”

  “I like that idea,” Elena said. “I think it’ll help me.”

  “I’d prefer audio,” Matt said doubtfully. “That’s how I best process and retain information.”

  “Okay, I’ll get something that’s available in both formats. Do you want to schedule a follow-up meeting now?”

  “Yes,” Elena quickly replied.

  “I guess.” Matt shrugged. “I want to give this my best shot.”

  “Let’s make it in a couple of weeks,” Connor suggested. “That will give you time to digest what I’ll send you.”

  “Two weeks?” Elena responded. “I’d like to see you before then.”

  “That can be arranged if you’re able to do the homework.”

  “Homework?” Matt grunted. “This is counseling, not school.”

  “It has a different meaning in this environment,” Connor replied. “If it helps, think about it as research.”

  After the couple left, Connor closed his eyes, not to pray but to block out the image of the two angry people who’d dumped the garbage of their lives in his lap and expected him to sort through it and find hidden treasure. He then gazed at the splendor of the nearby mountains. Taking a pair of binoculars from a drawer in his desk, he focused on Caldwell’s Knob, a prominent ridge. On a cloudless day, he could make out a massive poplar near the summit that grew from a base trunk, then divided and continued upward for over a hundred feet. The unique tree wasn’t on an established trail, but Connor had figured out a way to get there.

  He’d used a photo of the tree and projected it on a screen in the sanctuary as a sermon illustration when he spoke on marriage and told the congregation that a good marriage was like the tree. So long as each part stayed connected to the base trunk, it could survive and go higher and higher toward the heavens. He called it the “unity tree.”

  Because he’d never been married, Connor had lacked confidence when he stood behind the pulpit. He preferred expounding theological truth. Most of his sermons were drawn from seminary notes. Comparative analysis was his strong suit. But the marriage message birthed from his hikes to the overlook had become the most talked about sermon of his two-year ministry. People still mentioned the “tree sermon.” Raising the binoculars to his eyes, Connor brought the tree, with its few remaining yellow leaves, into focus. A piece of the thickly ridged bark from the tree that he’d used as a visual aid during the sermon rested on the corner of his desk.

  Turning to his computer, Connor spent forty-five minutes putting together resources to send to the Thompsons. He wondered what his mother, who was a PhD psychologist and professional counselor, would have suggested. Her death fifteen years earlier ended Connor’s access to her wisdom, and the books that lined the shelves of her office were given away by his father before he remarried.

  Because neither Elena nor Matt was present when Connor delivered the unity tree sermon, he included a link to the audio for them. After he pressed the send button, he swiveled in his chair so that he could again open his soul to the view of the mountains.

  Chapter 2

  Liz closed the door of her office before accepting the call from her boyfriend.

  “Is this a good time to talk?” Raphael asked. “I don’t want to drag you away from something important.”

  “No, it’s fine. I just finished signing up a new client. According to Mr. Pollard, it’s a good day when we settle a case, win a case, or take in a new case.”

  “Glad it’s been a good one,” Raphael said.

  “How are you?”

  “Okay, I guess. Mr. Garrison was in a terrible mood this morning. That puts everyone on edge.”

  Raphael sold residential real estate in Fort Lauderdale. Liz liked the Fort Lauderdale area and often scrolled through townhomes for sale and dreamed of finding the perfect one a short drive from the beach. She liked nothing better than the sand between her toes and the ocean breeze blowing against her face. Having unlimited options for dining and entertainment was a close second.

  “Sorry about that,” Liz said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you this weekend.”

  “About this weekend,” Raphael said, clearing his throat. “I won’t be coming. I canceled my flight.”

  Liz frowned. “Did something come up at work?”

  “No, it’s personal. I’ve met someone else.”

  “Who? When?” Liz asked in shock.

  “Six weeks ago,” Raphael replied and then began speaking rapidly. “Sophie and I ran into each other at a training event for the company. She works in the St. Petersburg office, and we really hit it off. I wasn’t looking for someone else, but we sat next to each other at a luncheon followed by a dinner and a round of golf the following afternoon and—”

  “I don’t want to hear this!” Liz interrupted.

  “I’m sorry,” Raphael said after a few seconds of silence. “But it didn’t seem right to fly to Atlanta just to end our relationship.”

  “Yeah, this phone call is much better.”

  “Liz, you’re a great girl, and I really like you a lot—”

  Liz slammed down the phone. The isolation she felt in Bryson suddenly tripled in size. Leaning forward, she buried her head in her hands.

  She tried to work but was unable to concentrate. She checked Raphael’s social media accounts. He’d already posted photos of himself and Sophie. Liz’s replacement was tall, with light brown hair and eyes that, in Liz’s opinion, were too widely spaced apart. Included was a picture of the couple on a putting green with Sophie posing next to the flagstick. Liz wasn’t a golfer, and Raphael rarely played. In text beneath the photo, he wrote that he was getting a lesson from a “real pro.” Her ex-boyfriend had certainly gone after someone different from her.

  It was a five-minute drive from the office to the duplex where Liz lived. She rented the two-bedroom, two-bath dwelling from an older couple who’d built six units on property next door to their home. Each of the brick apartments had a fireplace in the main living area, a feature Liz didn’t consider important when she moved in at the end of June but came to appreciate during the cool north Georgia winters. She enjoyed sitting in front of a crackling wood fire. It was something she’d liked doing with Raphael.

  She parked her small white car in front of her unit. The leaves on the maple trees Mr. and Mrs. Devon had planted on the property had turned red. Her landlady, a white-haired woman in her late sixties, had a love of plants and lots of energy. Today, she was using an electric hedge trimmer to cut back the bushes that lined the front of the building. When she saw Liz, she turned off the trimmer and removed her goggles.

  “You’re home early,” she said.

  “Yeah, I wasn’t getting much done.”

  Beverly Devon reached in the pocket of her jacket and put on her glasses. “Do you feel okay? There’s a nasty cold virus going around. Two women in my bridge club have it.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Liz continued toward her unit. Her landlady’s voice stopped her.

  “Oh, I wanted to ask you something. Do you remember how much I enjoyed the Cuban stew you made? What did you call it? New clothes?”

  “No, ropa vieja, which means ‘old clothes.’”

  “It was delicious. We’re having a covered-dish luncheon after church this Sunday, and I wondered if you’d be interested in coming with Sam and me and bringing some of your stew? I know it’s asking a lot, and if your young man is going to be in town, I don’t want to interfere with your plans.”

  Cooking was therapy for Liz. And the stew made from shredded flank steak was one of her best dishes.

  “He’s not coming,” she said, then paused. “And I need something to do on Sunday. What time?”

  Beverly’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s wonderful! I thought you’d say no. The church service starts at eleven, but we’d want to get there early to put our dishes in the fellowship hall. Would you like to ride with us? We’ll leave about ten forty.”

  “Sure, thanks for inviting me.”

  * * *

  One of the main reasons Connor went to seminary was to satisfy his love of learning. He was happiest when he could read, think, and reflect. Diploma in hand, he tried to find a teaching position at a small Southern college, but nothing opened up. A friend in Atlanta mentioned the opportunity to serve as pastor of a church in Bryson, and Connor decided to check it out. The location in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains ticked the box for another of his great loves—the outdoors.

  While in seminary, Connor took a semester off and served a six-month stint as an intern in a large metropolitan church in Atlanta. His father, a successful cardiologist at Emory Healthcare, encouraged him to accept a permanent position. Connor rejected that advice and traveled two hours north to Bryson for an interview. A modest-size church in the mountains presented a totally different lifestyle rhythm from that of a large congregation with a staff of twenty-five. Connor liked the area and the people he met. Even though he was young and inexperienced, the search committee was thrilled with a candidate who had his academic qualifications. No other church in Etowah County could boast a pastor with Ivy League credentials. After a series of follow-up interviews, they offered him the position, and he accepted.

  Following an initial burst of activity, Connor settled into a comfortable routine. When he told his office assistant not to disturb him, he could carve out a couple of hours without interruption. He would read. Or think. And make notes about what he read or thought. He studied a wide variety of topics: philosophy, human nature, history, science, political theory, the natural world, even sports.

  The first year and a half at Rock Community Church proved to be everything Connor had hoped for. But then things began to change. More and more people like Elena and Matt Thompson showed up with problems that sapped his time and diverted his attention. Connor’s sense of duty squelched open complaint, but in the privacy of his thoughts, he’d started wondering if it was time for him to consider moving on to something else. Since midsummer, he’d regularly checked on possible teaching positions at the college level, but nothing had come up. Today, he was reading an interesting article from a seminary in the Midwest when there was a knock on his door.

  “Time’s up,” announced Michelle.

  The church secretary, a sandy-haired woman in her forties, was a former high school English teacher. She worked part-time and did her best to protect Connor’s routine. The busier he became, the more he came to rely on her. Michelle had a notepad in her hand.

  “Elena Thompson called back less than ten minutes after you finished the session with her and her husband.”

  “What did she want?”

  “She thinks it would be helpful to talk with you one-on-one before another session. She suggested you come to their house while Matt is in Atlanta for a few days.”

  “No,” Connor said as he shook his head. “And you know why.”

  “Yes, I saw her grab your hand and pull you in for a tight hug as she was leaving church last Sunday. So far, I’ve not received any phone calls from anyone else who noticed.”

  “Good. No private meetings with Elena. I’m sending them homework.”

  “Do you want me to call her back?”

  “No, she’ll want to hear from me. I’ll send her an email. What else?”

  It took several minutes for Michelle to reach the bottom of her list. Connor sighed. One practical lesson he’d learned from his mentor at the large church in Atlanta was not to ignore emails and to promptly return phone calls, the same day if possible. Problems and questions didn’t go away. Kicking them down the road wasn’t an effective strategy. Connor received a lot of positive feedback from members of the congregation because he responded quickly. It made people feel important and valued.

  “Don’t forget to go by and see Lyle Hamilton on your way home,” Michelle said.

  “Right.”

  Connor didn’t mind checking on the man in his thirties who’d suffered a terrible workplace injury that caused paralysis in both his legs. Lyle deserved any aid and comfort Connor could provide.

  “And thanks for holding my calls earlier.”

  “I could tell you needed a break. Were you able to read something interesting?”

  “Yes, there’s so much written in the sixteenth century that makes as much sense now as it did then. And I’m not talking about the famous theologians. The way some of the Anabaptist writers describe their relationship with God really challenges me—”

  Michelle raised her right index finger. Connor stopped.

  “Be careful about coming across as anti-Baptist,” she said. “A lot of our members have friends and family in Baptist churches. Duke and I went to a Baptist church before we came here.”

  “Anabaptist, not anti-Baptist,” Connor replied with a smile. “And I wasn’t preparing a sermon. This was for me. I’m not planning on preaching against anyone.”

  “Okay. Just trying to do my part to keep any fires from breaking out.”

  “Which I appreciate.”

  “Oh, when does your dad leave on his trip?”

  Connor’s father was traveling to Nepal to volunteer at a medical clinic in a remote region for two months. Most of that time he was going to be off the grid. Even in normal times, they communicated infrequently.

  “Next week. We talked on the phone for a while last night.”

  * * *

  It was 5:30 p.m. when Connor locked the church door. He owned two vehicles, a hefty black four-wheel-drive Jeep with large knobby tires and a winch on the front bumper, and a small electric sedan that he drove around town. Gliding away from the church in his electric car, he drove across town to the Hamilton residence. Ten-year-old Josh Hamilton was in the front yard playing with a frisky brown puppy. The dog bounded over, and Connor lowered his hand for the animal to sniff.

  “Is he new?” Connor asked.

  “Yeah,” Josh answered. “My dad says he’s got some retriever in him so he should be good at chasing after a ball and bringing it back.”

  “Do you have a ball?”

  Josh ran over, picked up a yellow tennis ball, and held it in front of the dog’s nose. “Rascal, go get it!” he said, throwing the ball across the yard.

  Yapping, the dog ignored the ball and jumped around Josh’s feet and legs.

  “I’m not sure he’s going to learn how to fetch,” Josh said sadly.

  “He likes you more than the ball. Go inside the house and bring me a jar of peanut butter and a spoon.”

  Josh ran into the modest, ranch-style home. While he was gone, the front door opened, and Lyle rolled his wheelchair onto the front stoop and down a newly installed wooden ramp to the ground. Lyle was wearing a gray ball cap with the logo of a local industrial supply company on the front.

  “Hey, Preacher!” he called out.

  Connor raised his hand in greeting. He’d gotten used to being called “Preacher” by the locals. Eight months earlier, Lyle, a licensed electrician, fell from a roof at a manufacturing plant, rupturing a nerve in his back and rendering both legs useless. Before his injury, Lyle, a fix-it guy, had always been first on the scene for volunteer days at the church.

  Josh came out of the house and jumped off the stoop. With big pushes to the wheels, Lyle rolled over to them. Lyle’s arms were still muscular, but Connor had noticed worsening atrophy in the former electrician’s legs.

  “If you want a peanut butter sandwich, I’ll fix you one,” Lyle said to his son.

  “This is bait,” Connor replied.

  Connor took the spoon from Josh and scooped out some peanut butter. He raised it to his lips for a taste.

  “What kind of peanut butter is this?” he asked Josh.

  “My mom buys the kind you have to stir,” the boy said.

  “She’s into the natural, organic stuff,” Lyle added. “Not that I’m complaining. I think it’s better too.”

  “This is perfect,” Connor said. “It has a strong smell.”

  Connor used his finger to smear peanut butter on the tennis ball, then held it down so Rascal could sniff it but didn’t allow him to lick it. Connor gently tossed the ball about ten feet away.

  “Fetch,” he said.

  The dog trotted over to the ball and began to chew it. Connor walked over with the spoon and waved it in front of the dog’s nose. Rascal left the ball and became interested in the spoon. Connor picked up the ball and placed it on the spoon as he backed up. He repeated the process. By the fifth time, the dog was returning with the tennis ball.