Taylor‘s Creek, by Julie Ann Davis
―Okay, okay, I give. Truce?‖ He looked so contrite that Lily‘s anger wilted. ―Truce.‖ They turned up Turner Street, towards the Baptist Church. In spite of the heat, the church grounds swirled with energy and motion. It seemed as if half the town was headed for the white tent pitched on the vacant lot next to the church. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best – women in flowered dresses, many of them in hats and gloves, men in freshly pressed pants, their starched shirts wilting in the heat. Lily searched the crowd for Becky. Through the open tent flap, she glimpsed a string of light bulbs, lit up like Christmas, and more people milling about like fish in a net. ―Here she comes,‖ Red chuckled. ―You can see her halo all the way from here.‖ ―Shh!‖ Lily hissed, as a girl hurried towards them, arriving out of breath. Becky had a pleasant, plump figure and dark brown eyes that reminded Lily of a puppy. She wore a white seersucker dress with a lace collar; it was store-bought, Lily could tell, feeling suddenly gawky in her own homemade frock. ―Hello, Lily.‖ Becky kissed her friend and turned to Red, dimpling and blushing. ―Hello, Red. Will you be joining us this evening?‖ Red grinned. ―No ma‘am. I‘ve got a date with Patsy Turner.‖ ―Oh.‖ Becky bit her lip. ―Well, perhaps you could come tomorrow. With Lily and me, I mean. The revival will be going on all weekend.‖ ―I‘d like to, Miss Becky, but I‘ve got to work. There‘s a full moon tonight, and that means good fishing tomorrow.‖ ―Fishing? On Sunday?‖ Becky looked as shocked as if Red had taken the Lord‘s name in vain. ―Some folks are fishers of men, Miss Becky, but the Good Lord made us McIntyres to be fishers of fish.‖ Red winked at Becky. ―Send your cook down to Bogue‘s fish house on Monday, and I‘ll have a nice piece of bluefish saved for you. Y‘all have a good time tonight.‖ Giving them his best smile, Red strolled down the street, singing, Halleluiah, I’m a bum Halleluiah amen! Halleluiah, give us a handout And revive us again. Lily groaned inwardly, but Becky just sighed. ―I wish he‘d come with us. I hear Patsy Turner is fast. Can‘t you talk to him, Lily?‖ ―Of course,‖ Lily promised, although convincing her cousin to do anything he didn‘t want to was like rowing against the incoming tide. All McIntyre men were stubborn like that. Daddy was the same way; he refused to set foot inside St. Paul‘s, saying Episcopalians didn‘t know how to sing, and the sermons were so boring they put him to sleep. Lily secretly agreed with him, but she dutifully attended every week because Nan needed her to sing in the choir. Becky continued to gaze after Red. ―That poor boy needs to be saved! I hear he plays pool and drinks beer over at Vic‘s.‖ Lily had heard all of this from Nan, many times, so she simply said, ―Then we‘ll have to pray extra hard for him.‖ ―We will!‖ Becky took her friend‘s arm. ―Come on, we‘ll be late.‖ Lily sighed. The last thing she wanted to do on a Saturday evening was sit in a sweltering hot tent and listen to some boring preacher. It would be much more pleasant to sit on the porch with Nan and Daddy, the electric fan whirring, listening to the radio, or reading Jane Eyre. Lily had just gotten to the point where Mr. Rochester had been attacked by the crazy lady in the tower, and it just about killed her not to find out what happened next. But Becky had invited her, and Lily had accepted. That‘s what friends did. And Becky was about the only real friend she had. Ever since they‘d moved to Beaufort, she‘d felt like a stranger in a strange land at the local high school, where some girls snickered at her behind her back, calling her ―beanpole,‖ or ―loon eater,‖ which was how high-and-mighty Beaufort folk referred to anyone from Harkers Island. Daddy just said they were afraid of her because Nan was the new principal. ―They‘ll get over that soon enough.‖ But even after two years, things hadn‘t improved.