“Thank you, Your Honor,” Harold said.

  Stancill quickly exited the courtroom. Liz, Harold, and the client, a man named Lamar Braxton, followed a couple of minutes later.

  Once in the hallway, they stopped. Braxton spoke. “Good job, Harold. By putting the brakes on the deal, we’ll be able to negotiate a solution I can live with.”

  “I hope so.”

  Braxton eyed Liz for a moment.

  “Sorry, I should have introduced you to Ms. Acosta,” Harold said.

  Liz shook the client’s hand.

  “I’ve noticed your name on my bills from the firm,” Braxton said. “Your hourly rate is a lot less than what Harold charges me. Are you the one who speaks Spanish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you be available to help me obtain dispossessory warrants for tenants who don’t pay their rent?”

  “It’s up to Mr. Pollard to oversee my caseload,” she said, glancing at her boss.

  “We’ll discuss it and let you know,” Harold replied.

  The client left.

  “Why didn’t you jump in sooner about the new work?” Liz asked. “Mr. Braxton should have asked you that question, not me.”

  “Because soon you’ll be making those choices on your own,” Harold said. “In fact, that’s what we’re going to do with this request. Talk it over with Lamar and let me know your decision about representing him.”

  * * *

  Early Saturday morning Liz went to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for ropa vieja. The influx of residents to north Georgia from Latin America had motivated the local grocery stores to expand their inventories, and she didn’t have a problem locating the spices needed. Like many stews, ropa vieja tasted better the second day, after the ingredients had an opportunity to meld, and would be at peak flavor by noon on Sunday. The combination of cooking and music got Liz’s feet moving in the small kitchen. She was an excellent dancer. One of her ex-boyfriend’s failings was clumsiness on the dance floor. When the stew was done, she sampled some for supper. It was tasty.

  * * *

  Liz woke up regretting that she’d accepted Beverly Devon’s invitation. Sunday was a day to relax or clean house, and unless she had someplace to go, Liz liked to stay in her pajamas. But she’d promised, and there was way too much ropa vieja prepared for her to eat alone. Around 10:15 a.m. there was a knock on her door. It was her landlady, who was wearing a nice dress and low-heeled shoes.

  “I don’t want to bother you, but I wanted to make sure you’re still coming to the church,” Beverly said.

  “Yes. I just need to pack up my food. If it’s okay, I’d like to bring it in a slow cooker to keep it warm.”

  “Wonderful! You’re still welcome to ride with us.”

  Liz had agreed to come to the church but decided she didn’t want to take a chance of getting trapped there.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”

  “We’ll save a place for you. We always sit in the fifth row from the front on the right-hand side of the church.”

  Liz nodded. “I’ll look for you.”

  One of the first things Liz had noticed about Bryson was the large number of Christian congregations for such a small town. There were more varieties of churches than selections at a candy store. It was clear how the Bible Belt earned its name.

  She was familiar with Rock Community Church, whose stone-and-glass exterior made it one of the more beautiful sanctuaries in the area. She turned off the main highway and drove a short distance up a hill. She saw Becky Carrington, the law firm receptionist, get out of her car with a baking dish in her hands.

  “Becky!” Liz called out.

  The young woman turned around and looked at her in surprise. Liz told her about the invitation from Bev Devon.

  “Follow me to the fellowship hall,” Becky said. “That’s where we leave the food.”

  Becky eyed the cooking pot. “What did you bring?”

  Liz told her about the dish.

  “I want some of that,” Becky replied. “It sounds way more exciting than my broccoli chicken casserole.”

  * * *

  Connor knew there would be a big crowd for the homecoming service and the meal to follow. He stayed in his office until right before the service started. Even after two years of experience and with extensive preparation each week, he still got butterflies in his stomach when he was about to speak in public. He entered the sanctuary and stood behind the pulpit with the twenty-member choir arrayed behind him. There were quite a few unfamiliar faces present.

  At precisely 11:28 a.m., Connor began to speak. As he talked, he was pleased with the visible reactions from the people in the pews to “A Place Called Home.” Except for the tragedy of his mother’s illness and death, most of his childhood memories of home were positive. His estrangement from his father came later. Even in the midst of her sickness, Connor’s mother maintained an inspiring grace. Someday, he’d talk about her publicly. But not yet.

  Because so many people didn’t come from a positive family environment, Connor was sensitive in the way he addressed the “places we came from.” Contrary to her usual rapt attention, Elena avoided eye contact with him as he spoke.

  Twenty-two minutes passed before he reached the closing section of the sermon about the Christian’s “future home.” In seminary, theological debates and controversies about the reality and nature of heaven left him with a tangled web of unsatisfying thoughts. What energized his thinking about heaven was his love of nature and the realization that the Garden of Eden was a picture of how God intended people to live in his presence.

  “So don’t think about having to spend eternity practicing a harp while sitting on a cloud. Look forward to enjoying a place of incredible beauty and fruitfulness where we will once again walk with God in the cool of the evening.”

  It was quiet when Connor finished. More quiet than normal. Connor wasn’t sure why. He cleared his throat. “The benediction will also serve as a blessing for the wonderful meal we’re going to enjoy in the fellowship hall. Even if you didn’t bring anything, please come. There will be plenty for all.”

  As soon as he stepped down from the pulpit, Connor was surrounded by people asking questions about the last portion of the message. Was the Garden of Eden a real place? Do animals go to heaven? Why did he talk about heaven but didn’t mention hell? What language is spoken in heaven? Do people only wear white robes or is there an option for colorful clothes? What happens to people in parts of the world who die without ever hearing about Jesus?

  No topic had ever elicited such a vigorous and varied response. Connor was more used to people shaking his hand on their way out the door than being mobbed. He was stunned. Giving brief answers or promising to think about the question, he made his way to the fellowship hall. Reg Bullock came up to him. The lean man in his early sixties with thinning gray hair and slightly red cheeks had been one of Connor’s strongest supporters at the church and a surrogate father figure. He gave Connor a big thumbs-up.

  “Way to go,” he said.

  “I had no idea that last point was going to cause such a reaction.”

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For people to listen and care about what you say?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not ready for all the questions.”

  “Don’t send anyone to me.” Reg smiled. “I’m trying to figure out how to navigate this life before I focus on the one to come.”

  “That’s what I emphasize too.”

  Reg patted him on the shoulder. “And my immediate goal is not to be stuck at the end of the food line.”

  After Reg left, Elena approached Connor and brushed against his right arm. “I’ll save a place for you,” she said.

  “Thanks, but go ahead and eat. I need to greet some of the visitors who came this morning.”

  “That’s sad,” Elena said with a pout. “But I understand.”

  Instead of joining Reg in the queue for food, Connor sought out unfamiliar faces. He saw Beverly Devon standing beside a petite young woman with long dark hair. He headed their way.

  “This is Elizabeth Acosta,” Beverly said when Connor joined them. “She’s a lawyer who lives in one of my duplexes and brought the most amazing stew dish you’ve ever eaten. I’m going to grab a bowl and get some so you can taste it. We’re going to sit together and would love for you to join us.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Bev hurriedly left on her mission. Connor extended his hand to the young woman.

  “I’m Connor Grantham,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Elizabeth Acosta.”

  “How long have you lived in Bryson?”

  “Around eighteen months. I’m an associate at the Pollard firm.”

  Debating whether to accept Bev’s invitation, Connor hesitated. Out the corner of his eye he saw Elena placing her purse on an open seat beside her.

  “Please tell Bev that I’ll join your table,” he said.

  By the time Connor was ready to enter the food line it had shrunk considerably. So, too, had the offerings. Quite a few casserole dishes were empty, as were multiple vegetable containers. Veteran churchgoers knew the best items and abandoned any effort at Christian charity in the scramble for the most popular selections. Connor collected a hodgepodge and joined the group at a table for eight.

  “That’s an interesting plate,” Bev observed when he sat down. “Two different kinds of congealed salad, a roll, corn bread, and nothing green.”

  “I’m just grateful for God’s provision,” Connor replied wryly.

  Liz smiled.

  “But you have this,” Bev said as she slid a bowl of stew over to him. “I saved it from the ravenous horde.”

  “What is it?” Connor asked, picking up a spoon.

  “Ropa vieja,” Liz answered.

  Connor took a bite. It was hearty with a rich flavor. “This is delicious,” he said.

  “Tell him what it means in Spanish,” Beverly said.

  Before Liz could answer, Connor spoke. “‘Old clothes,’ because the meat is shredded like torn fabric and the peppers and tomato are like multicolored garments. Just like Joseph’s coat of many colors.”

  “Whose coat?” Liz asked with a puzzled expression on her face.

  “A man in the Bible,” Connor said. “I’ve heard of this dish. It’s from Cuba, right?”

  “Yes. My paternal grandmother immigrated to the US from Cuba in the 1960s. I grew up in south Florida.”

  Connor took another bite of the stew. He pushed his other plate to the side.

  “I hope neither one of you brought the congealed salad,” he said to Bev and another woman at the table. “Ropa vieja is all I’m going to eat.”

  * * *

  The church was different than Liz expected. Except for Easter Sunday and Christmas Eve, she rarely attended any type of religious service. And she’d never read the Bible. There wasn’t any kneeling or reading from religious books. And the minister’s sermon reminded her of a college lecture. The parts about family she found interesting. Liz didn’t have any settled beliefs about life after death.

  “You mentioned spending time in the woods,” she said to Connor as he ate. “What do you like to do?”

  “Hike and climb, usually by myself early in the morning. Every so often, I’ll camp overnight if it’s too far to travel in and out in one day.”

  The only time Liz had ventured into the woods since moving to Georgia was an afternoon drive with Raphael to a parking lot followed by an easy ten-minute hike to an overlook. Going for walks anywhere had never been part of their relationship. She exercised while watching videos at home.

  “Like Thoreau?” she asked. “Or Wendell Berry?”

  Connor stopped and smiled. “Maybe a little. I certainly don’t mind the comparisons. Do you like the outdoors?”

  “It’s the beach for me,” Liz replied. “I’ve not explored the mountains since I moved here.”

  “Connor, you should show her around,” Bev suggested. “Our daughter and son-in-law really like the hike to Cloudland Canyon Falls. It’s not too strenuous. That’s where he proposed to Mary.”

  “That’s okay.” Liz squelched her landlady’s matchmaking efforts. “I’ll hold out for the ocean.”

  An elderly man came up and began asking Connor about the sermon. The man had been married and widowed three times and was concerned about his marital status in eternity. To Liz, it sounded like a law-school exam question.

  “There’s no marriage in heaven,” Connor said. “Jesus was clear about that in the gospel of Matthew. You and your former wives will be friends but nothing more.”

  “That’s hard to imagine,” the man began as he shook his head. “My first wife and second wife were really close. My first wife even told me to marry Gladys if she died before I did. But my third wife didn’t like either one of them.”

  “Whatever bad feelings there were among them won’t survive the trip to the other side,” Connor replied.

  “But who will I live with?” the man persisted. “I guess I could spend a week with each one followed by a week by myself.”

  “The sorts of problems we have here won’t exist in our heavenly home. There are going to be many mansions. Visits will be optional. Try not to worry about it.”

  Bev sighed after the man left. “I really liked Gladys. She was a sweetheart. Ronald was only married to his third wife for about a year.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments before Bev spoke again. “Pastor, I’ve read the verse you just mentioned in Matthew, but why wouldn’t there be marriage in heaven? I mean, if two people really love each other, they should have the option to continue the relationship. Sam and I feel that way, right?”

  Sam Devon was one of the quietest men Liz knew. The short, slightly overweight man with wispy white hair had retired as the manager of a local home improvement store. He enjoyed working in his vegetable garden, riding his mower, and doing minor improvements on the couple’s rental properties. He would raise his hand in greeting when he saw Liz but rarely spoke.

  “Yes,” Sam replied and took a drink of sweet tea.

  “That’s what he has to say.” Another woman at the table chuckled. “I wouldn’t put Donny on the spot by asking him that question in front of the preacher and a bunch of other people.”

  “Tell her why,” Bev prompted her husband.

  “So you can wash and fold my clothes,” Sam replied matter-of-factly.

  Liz burst out laughing, then, not sure if her landlord was joking, clamped her hand over her mouth. Connor chuckled. Bev stared open-mouthed at her husband.

  “You’re the only one who could get my robe as white as it ought to be,” Sam continued with a grin.

  “Quit it,” Bev replied, giving her husband a playful tap on the arm.

  Sam leaned over and gave his wife a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Preacher, I don’t know how it all works in the hereafter,” Sam said, looking at Connor, “but forty-eight years isn’t near long enough for me to learn all the ways I love and appreciate Bev.”

  Bev beamed. Liz got up and went to the dessert table. Connor appeared at her elbow.

  “I’ve never seen that side of Sam,” she said.

  “He keeps quiet, but Sam has a dry wit. He’s both a comic and a romantic. And Bev is a saint who does a lot of good without seeking recognition or thanks. We should all be more like her.”

  “They’ve been nice to me,” Liz said, eyeing the dessert table offerings. “What do you recommend?”

  “This is picked over. The really good stuff—peach cobbler, chocolate pecan pie, and Prissy Henry’s banana pudding—is all gone. The safest bet is a fudge brownie.”

  “I only want half of one.”

  “Me too. We can share.”

  As she nibbled her brownie, Liz enjoyed the friendly atmosphere in the room. She walked out of the fellowship hall with Sam and Bev.

  “What did you think?” her landlady asked as soon as they were in the parking lot.

  “I enjoyed all of it,” Liz replied.

  “That makes me so happy. Which part was your favorite?”

  “The luncheon.”

  “I knew you’d like Connor. He had a chance to go to law school but turned it down and graduated from Princeton Seminary. He’s very smart.”

  “I could tell.”

  “And I promise not to try to pair you two up.”

  “It’s too late to promise that,” Liz teased.

  “Oh, that was nothing.”

  “When I was at the dessert table with Connor, he told me you were a saint who does a lot of good and all of us should be more like you.”

  “He did?” Bev replied in surprise.

  “Those were his exact words.”

  Chapter 5

  Connor wasn’t energized by being around a lot of people. Once he got through the intense social interaction required of a minister on Sunday mornings, he went home, propped up his feet, and read. He’d just started reading a new book when his phone vibrated. It was Matt Thompson. The technology entrepreneur was mastering the art of interruption. Connor answered the call on the last ring before it went to voice mail.

  “Matt, here. Do you have a few minutes to talk? I’m at the apartment, and Anne is in the other room.”

  Connor glanced up at the ceiling for a moment. There was no escape hatch in the cream-colored drywall.

  “Okay, I’m listening,” he said, swinging his feet off an ottoman and onto the floor.

  “Anne is on board with letting you help navigate the situation with Elena. We believe it would be best for you to bring it up. Like I said, Elena will be much more open to a suggestion coming from you rather than me.”

  “Even if I mention it, she’s going to know it was your idea.”

  “Trust me, it will make a difference. You and I could say the exact same sentence and get two totally different responses.”

  “What do you suggest I say?”

  “Including Anne in the mix is a way to comprehensively address our problems. Anne is willing to work with your schedule and come to Bryson. It might not be good to start out with all three of us in the same room, but that’s where I hope we end up.”