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couldn’t he have been like every other preacher I’d ever known and tossed me out on my ear?
    â€œBeulah, supper!”
    I sat at the piano, my hands levitating above the keys. I had forgotten all about supper. I padded into the kitchen to see two boxes of pizza. Apparently, I had missed the doorbell ringing, too. “I like the way you cook, Ginger Belmont.”
    â€œI learned from the best,” she said with a grin.
    â€œHey, that’s my line!” I went to give her a playful slug on the arm, but my fist stopped short. Ginger was so fragile, I was afraid even the smallest touch might bruise her.
    We took a seat at the metal-and-Formica table. Air whooshed from my chair.
    â€œBeulah!” Ginger said as she waved one hand in front of her nose. I had to grin because she had to be feeling better to crack a crude joke like that. She passed me a paper plate, then the two-liter soda. “So, are you ready for tomorrow?”
    â€œNot really,” I said between bites of pizza. “That man has no sense of an invitation—that’s where he put that crazy three-two song.”
    â€œOh ho, and I suppose you’re the invitational expert, considering you haven’t been to church in”—Ginger put down her piece of pizza to count fingers—“nine years.”
    â€œMy daddy was a Baptist preacher.” I took a huge bite of pepperoni pizza, savoring sauce underneath melted cheese. “I almost starved to death on more than one occasion waiting for him to wrap things up.”
    â€œI know that’s right.” Ginger smiled. “Granny Reynolds was a Missionary Baptist, and sometimes I would go to church with her. They would always keep singing the invitation until someone came down the aisle. If they sang all five verses and no one had been moved by the spirit, they started repeating them. A couple of times I rededicated my life to Jesus just to get to the fried chicken.”
    â€œGinger!”
    â€œThat righteous indignation is rich coming from you! Nothing wrong with trying to be a better person, and being nicer was going to be a whole lot easier with a full stomach. Besides, you gotta admire people who are dedicated enough to sing all of the verses. Nothing lonelier than the third verse of a Methodist hymn.”
    I nodded my head. “You know, maybe I should put to use all those Sundays spent on the first pew in black patent shoes and frilly anklets. Maybe Mr. Daniels needs to get a little Baptist in his invitation.”
    â€œBeulah Land, I didn’t get you to play the piano so you could cause trouble.”
    â€œI’m not causing trouble,” I said as I stood up from the table and started putting leftover pizza in an oversize freezer bag. “I’m just helping him along. You know as well as I do that the whole congregation is going to balk at singing a bunch of new songs. You told me they can’t even handle sitting in a different seat.”
    â€œTrue,” Ginger said with a nod. “But you don’t need to take your vendetta out on that man. He’s not the one you have a beef with.”
    She had a point. Luke couldn’t be held personally responsible for all the things that had happened to me. He hadn’t been the one to point and stare at me when I was a preacher’s pregnant daughter or, worse yet, blatantly ignore me. He hadn’t been the one to patronize me or make me feel like a second-class citizen in my own hometown.
    But he had condescended that night at The Fountain. And he had forbidden jazz in his church, so I wasn’t the only one with a vendetta.
    Shrugging away any thoughts of the preacher man, I got a trash bag for the pizza boxes. Ginger preferred they leave the premises immediately because older houses harbor nooks and crannies that invite bugs, rodents, and other unsavory guests. “Hey, I’m headed to The Fountain. Do you need anything?”
    â€œFor you to behave