The Unlikely Yarn of the Dragon Lady: A Novel

CHAPTER 1

ON THE FATEFUL WEDNESDAY MORNING the final battle was engaged, Pete McIlhaney, rector of Hope of Glory Community Church, dressed himself with a sense of adventure and derring-do. He donned a black clerical shirt and white collar as though it were any other day. But then he pulled a black T-shirt with the words Father Knows Best in white lettering over his head—like a surplice over chain mail, he thought.

Saint George had his dragon, he encouraged himself as he thrust his arms through the sleeves. And I have Margaret Benson!

Are you sure you want to wear that shirt? his wife, Linda, asked him over breakfast a few minutes later. She might take it as a challenge.

Pete flashed her the boyish, lopsided grin he’d deployed to capture her heart nearly three decades earlier. Bring it on! He recklessly slathered an English muffin with far more jam than usual. "These are desperate times, my dear, and I’ve played it safe way too long. I know you think my idea is crazy, but it’s so crazy it just might work. He’d delivered the movie quote with raised eyebrows and an Italian accent. Besides, he continued, suddenly serious and determined, it’s time somebody stood up to Mrs. I-Run-Everything Benson before she runs this church right into oblivion!"

As the self-appointed head of the Heavenly Hugs Prayer Shawl Ministry, Margaret Benson arrived fifteen minutes early for the group’s weekly meeting in Hope of Glory’s Prayer Chapel—as usual. The blustery November day was cold enough to wear the fur coat Jim had given her for their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and she laid it carefully across a back pew. Then she strode to the front, where a vase with withered flowers sat on the intricately carved table that served as an altar. Sunlight filtered softly through the windows, highlighting the rich colors of the stained-glass depiction of the nativity. It also highlighted the motes floating languidly in the air. She ran her finger across the tabletop, then frowned at the trail it left in the dust. Really, how many times did she have to point out that the janitor was simply not doing his job when it came to the Prayer Chapel?

Margaret pulled a tissue from her pocket and fastidiously wiped the offending dust from her finger. Then, vase in hand, she pushed through the double doors of the chapel and made her way to the kitchen off the parish hall, where she dumped the flowers into the trash can. She scrubbed out the vase in the sink, taking care not to splash water on her new wool suit. Then she placed the vase dry and spotless in the cabinet labeled Prayer Chapel and headed for the church office to tackle the problem of the dust in the chapel.

Lucille Brewster, church administrator and general Girl Friday for the rector, sighed as she heard the sharp approach of footsteps crossing the foyer. Incoming, she muttered under her breath. She made sure, however, that no trace of chagrin remained on her face by the time Margaret Benson, tall and regal and impeccably dressed in a royal-blue power suit and heels, appeared in the doorway of the church office. Lucille, in her workday slacks and sweater, felt hopelessly dowdy by comparison.

Hello, Mrs. Benson. How are you this fine morning? Lucille hoped the answer would be Fine, thank you, but she wasn’t counting on it.

"Practically choking on the dust in the chapel. It’s disgraceful the way Bill neglects it. Would you please speak to him—again?"

I’d be happy to. Lucille resisted the urge to reply through gritted teeth. She could feel Mrs. Benson’s eyes on her as she jotted a brief note—Please dust Prayer Chapel—and then tucked it into the janitor’s internal mail slot.

"I could do that, Margaret told her. In fact, I have. Repeatedly, for all the good it’s done. He needs to be spoken to. Firmly."

I’ll mention it to Father Pete when he comes in.

"Never mind. I’ll mention it to him after Prayer Shawl."

Honestly, Lucille thought as Margaret Benson turned on her heel and headed toward the foyer, Father Pete has more than dust in the Prayer Chapel to deal with these days. If things don’t improve soon, there won’t be a Hope of Glory anymore, let alone a Prayer Chapel.

She reflected on the current situation. In January, the bishop had given them a new pastor and a year of grace. If the congregation continued to dwindle, however, the church was slated to close. The deadline loomed not much more than a month away. Lucille permitted herself a rueful smile and shake of the head, glad she wasn’t in Father Pete’s shoes today. His newest plan to try to resurrect Hope of Glory was bound to send Margaret Benson into a snit of epic proportions.

Margaret reached the foyer just as two of the other three members of the prayer shawl ministry arrived. Rose Harker’s cane preceded her, reaching for a firm purchase on the stone floor before Rose herself came into view, white-haired and slightly stooped, her blue eyes bright and her smile wide. Jane Crenshaw, who gave Rose a ride from Fair Meadows Retirement Community every week, emerged from behind the door she’d held open for Rose. That left Fran McMillan, their newest member—late as usual.

Whew! Jane said as the door banged behind her. "It sure is November out there. And would my daughters wear hats today? Of course not, because red ears and head colds are all the rage for teenagers these days. I stuffed hats into their backpacks when they weren’t looking so they can cover their heads when it’s their idea." She pulled off her own hat, a pale-blue beret, and unzipped her down jacket. Underneath, she wore a thick sweater and jeans.

When I told my children to wear hats, they wore hats, Margaret said.

Rose chuckled as she removed her own head covering, a red silk scarf. And they probably took them off as soon as they were out of your sight. I think I like Jane’s method better.

Thank you, Rose. It’s nice to think my girls’ stubborn little ears might not be getting frostbitten as we speak.

Margaret shook her head and scanned the foyer. Now, where is Fran? She can never seem to get here on time. And she doesn’t have children at home anymore to slow her down. Or a husband either.

Give her some leeway, Rose said. It hasn’t been all that long.

It’s been long enough, Margaret retorted. You won’t catch me still walking around in a fog a year and a half after Jim’s gone.

At that moment, Fran tumbled through the door like a windblown leaf, a potted amaryllis in her arms and her hair in her face. I almost forgot this, she said, panting as she set the plant on a bench and then ran her fingers through brown hair muddied with gray.

I had to turn around and go back for it, Fran added as she shrugged out of her coat.

You really are forgetful, Margaret said.

It’s all right, dear. Rose placed her hand on Fran’s arm. The important thing is that you remembered it. It will bloom at the right time, from the looks of it.

I hope so. Fran hurried off to the Prayer Chapel with the amaryllis, carelessly leaving the plastic grocery sack that served as her knitting bag on the bench.

Margaret shook her head. If she wasn’t mistaken, Fran had worn the same sweatshirt and faded jeans to the prayer shawl meeting last week. And the week before that.

A young man in a paint-spattered ball cap stuck his head around the church door, letting in another gust of wind. Excuse me, ladies, but could one of you give me a hand and hold the door for me?

Jane did so while he hauled a ladder up the church steps and across the foyer. Then Fran, returning to retrieve her forgotten knitting, held one of the doors to the nave open for him. With a nod of thanks, he disappeared down the left-hand side aisle whistling a slightly off-key version of When the Saints Go Marching In.

The front door had barely banged shut when it opened again, letting in yet another gust—and Father Pete. It’s a wonder the wind didn’t fling him across the foyer, Margaret thought as the slender man came toward them. Though well into his forties, his waistline belied his enthusiasm for the dessert table at church suppers.

Great! You’re all here. I have something exciting to tell you. He shed his coat, revealing a T-shirt that declared Father Knows Best.

Margaret gave a disapproving sniff, then took charge. "Now that you’re here, I can talk to you about the Prayer Chapel."

That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. But you go first.

What now? she thought. But she had to pounce on this while she had the chance. "Bill is still neglecting the chapel. I could write my name in the dust on the altar if I wanted to. You have to speak to him. Firmly. In fact, you need to threaten to fire him if he doesn’t shape up."

The rector folded his coat over his arm and then looked up at her. I appreciate your concern for the chapel, Margaret. But we’ll have some dust in there for a while yet, all in aid of making it an even more beautiful and inviting place. That’s what—

The young man in the ball cap walked back into the foyer. Hi, Father! Mind if I prop these doors open for a few minutes? I have at least two more trips to bring everything in from the truck.

Not at all.

Margaret shivered in the cold blast that swept through the foyer as soon as the young man propped open the outer doors with a couple of paint cans. Paint cans?

Let’s adjourn to my office, where it’s warm, Father Pete said.

Rose and Jane took off their coats and left them on the bench with Fran’s knitting bag.

Soon they were all settled in the rector’s book-lined office, their hands wrapped around steaming cups of coffee, compliments of Lucille.

I hope this won’t take long. Margaret glanced pointedly at her watch.

I’ll get right to it, then. Father Pete clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. Ladies, I have an exciting opportunity for you.

Margaret narrowed her eyes. In her experience, what pastors called opportunities usually involved a great deal of work, primarily for the women of the church. They’d say they just needed a luncheon for a diocesan meeting or the bishop’s visit, as though the ladies could snap their fingers and a tasty, elegant meal would appear on beautifully set tables in the parish hall. Come to think of it, that was what usually happened when she was in charge.

The clergy conference last week was truly inspiring, Father Pete went on.

Margaret relaxed a bit. They’d been down this road before. Her pastor had been inspired about a number of projects since his arrival at Hope of Glory last January, but his enthusiasm for each one had fizzled after a few weeks of inertia from the congregation. And his innovations had never even come close to affecting the quiet little group that knit and prayed silently in the Prayer Chapel every week.

Father Pete took a quick sip of his coffee. The bishop told us the days of waiting for people to find the church on their own are gone. He said that, to reach others for God, we need to take the church out into everyday life. He’s right, of course. I see the need right here in our own parish. Fewer of us attend every year, and we rarely see new faces. That’s where you come in.

What do you mean, that’s where we come in? Margaret narrowed her eyes again.

Father Pete smiled. Don’t some of you take your knitting with you when you have to sit and wait somewhere—at the doctor’s office, the dentist, the airport?

The women all nodded.

Do people talk to you, ask you what you’re making?

Jane nodded again. They tell me about their mother, or their grandmother, or their aunt who knitted or crocheted. Seeing someone knitting seems to bring back good memories for people.

Since I’m usually working on a prayer shawl, Rose put in, I tell them about prayer shawls, why we make them, how they affect people. Most everyone says they think it’s a nice idea.

Exactly. People are drawn to knitting and knitters. And what could possibly be cozier than a group of women companionably knitting together? Father Pete leaned toward them across the desk, his eyes bright and eager. I want the Heavenly Hugs Prayer Shawl Ministry to go out into the world and knit—together. Talk to the people who stop to comment on your knitting. Answer their questions. Tell them about Hope of Glory.

Margaret’s stomach clenched. "You mean knit together in public? You mean talk to strangers about church?"

Yes!

No. Margaret set her coffee cup firmly on top of a folder labeled Sermon Notes and stood. Then she drew herself up to her full height, just shy of six feet in heels, and loomed over Father Pete. "Absolutely not. We couldn’t possibly. You don’t understand our ministry at all if you think we should be knitting in a crowd somewhere. This is, after all, a prayer ministry, Father."

Father Pete didn’t quail like people usually did when she towered over them to make a point. He remained seated, gazed up at her with his steady gray eyes, and raised his right eyebrow.

We need peace and quiet to pray, Margaret continued, undeterred. "And since we’re making prayer shawls, it’s important that we knit them in a peaceful and quiet place, like the Prayer Chapel, so we can pray while we knit." She folded her arms across her chest to indicate the discussion was over.

I agree that the chapel is a lovely, peaceful place, Father Pete replied. And I’m sure the prayers of the Heavenly Hugs have enhanced its beauty and serenity. But the world outside these walls is a frenzied place, Margaret. It could use some of that peace. It could use a lot of it, truth be told.

Then people should come to the church to get it, she snapped.

Margaret!

Rose again. Margaret ignored her rebuke and fixed Father Pete with a challenging stare.

But that’s the problem. His voice was disconcertingly steady, just like his eyes. "People aren’t coming. They don’t know they can find peace and love and hope here. They want those things, but many of them think there’s mostly judgment and hypocrisy inside church walls. Sadly, in some cases, they’re right. The point is they’re not coming to us. We have to go to them."

"No. You have to go to them. That’s your job. Our job is to knit prayer shawls in the chapel."

Father Pete stood and faced her across the desk. I’m afraid that’s not possible. That space will be unavailable for at least the next month. You’re not the only one who’s been concerned about the state of the Prayer Chapel.

And just what do you mean by that? Margaret shot back.

The young man you ladies so kindly held the doors for is here to paint the chapel. In the meantime, we can try out the idea of the prayer shawl ministry meeting in public.

"We? We? She fumed. There’s no we about it! You’d be here, where we’re supposed to be, and we’d be out there, where you’re supposed to be. And besides, I don’t recall funds being approved to paint the chapel. Jim would have told me, and I would have remembered because I know there’s no money in the budget for it. We spent the rest of this year’s contingency fund on the paint you just had to have for the foyer this summer. Margaret turned to Rose, Fran, and Jane. We have to put a stop to this."

She turned her back on Father Pete and swept out of the office, leading the charge across the foyer and into the nave. Arriving at the double doors of the Prayer Chapel, she grasped the handles and heaved them wide open.

Margaret and her fellow knitters all crowded into the doorway to see that transformation was already well underway. Drop cloths covered the altar and pews. Fran’s amaryllis sat on the floor at one end of a row of paint cans like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence. The young man in the ball cap looked down at them from the third rung of a ladder set up to the left of the doorway.

And just what do you think you’re doing, young man? Margaret put her hands on her hips and fixed him with her most challenging, meant-to-intimidate stare. He stopped wielding his putty knife and looked down at her, eyes wide.

Uh, mudding out this settling crack, ma’am.

Father Pete elbowed his way through the crowd. I should have made introductions earlier. Ladies, this is Travis. Travis, these are the ladies of the Heavenly Hugs Prayer Shawl Ministry.

We meet here in the chapel on Wednesday mornings, Margaret told him.

Oh, I see. He laid the putty knife on the top step of the ladder and swept off his ball cap. I’m truly sorry to inconvenience you ladies. But it’ll be worth it. See these settling cracks? He picked up the putty knife and waved it around to indicate the lines that snaked diagonally from the corners of the windows and the doorway up to the ceiling. They’re nothing to worry about—this building has settled about as much as it’s going to. But it would look so much better if they were mudded out and all the walls painted over. I might do the ceiling too. His eyes glowed as though he could already see the chapel in all its newly painted glory.

Travis is doing this as a gift to the church, Father Pete hastened to add.

It’s the least I can do. I used to come in here on my break when we were painting the foyer this summer. He turned his head to gaze at the window to the left of the one with the nativity, a depiction of the angel appearing to Mary. I was going through a real rough patch back then. It was so peaceful in here that I could think instead of worry. While I was thinking, I got an idea about what to do, and the idea worked.

He shook his head as if in wonder. "It really worked. I wanted to do something to say thank you. All I know how to do is paint, so I told the reverend here I’d paint the chapel for free as soon as my schedule allowed it. My Wednesday mornings just opened up, and here I am!"

And we’re glad you are, Rose told him.

Margaret glared at her, then turned back to Travis. So you’ll be here only on Wednesdays? He nodded. Then we’ll come a different day of the week. She gave a decisive nod, problem solved.

Travis shifted on the ladder, looking uncomfortable and making it wobble. He glanced at Father Pete as though seeking support. I, uh, really don’t think that’s a good idea. There’ll be stuff all over, and paint and plaster needing to dry, and—

And we’ve been through this before. Jane turned to look at her. You know Wednesday is the best day for all of us.

We’ll let you get back to work, Travis. Father Pete left them with no other option but to follow him. Once they were in the foyer, he turned and backed toward his office. I’ll leave you ladies to decide where you’ll meet while the chapel is being painted. I need to get back to work myself.

Margaret wasn’t finished with her protest. But—

I’m sure it will be wonderful. And I’m looking forward to hearing about all your adventures.

"Father Knows Best indeed! Margaret spewed the words before their rector was even out of earshot, but she didn’t care. She was fuming again. Of all the nerve. Imagine not even telling us about this ahead of time."

Imagine getting the Prayer Chapel painted for free. Rose was not helping.

"Free is the operative word, Jane said. I get an earful every time my husband comes home from a church budget meeting. Things are looking grim. I wonder why Father Pete is letting him do it with the future of the church so … up in the air."

"You don’t really think Hope of Glory will close, do you? Margaret scoffed at the idea. We’ll be here long after Father Pete gives up trying to change us and goes back to wherever he came from. This church is so old it’s practically a historic monument. And don’t forget the Tiffany windows in the Prayer Chapel."

I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. My husband said Father Pete said the bishop said—

"That’s a lot of saids. Whatever it is, the bishop hasn’t said it to me, so I know nothing of the kind."

Jane opened her mouth, but Rose spoke first. When you think about it, the chapel situation is kind of our fault.

"What do you mean, our fault?" Margaret stared at her.

"All the knitting and praying we’ve done in the chapel these past seven years probably has made it a more peaceful place, like Father Pete said. And Travis is painting it now because of that peace."

No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose, Margaret muttered.

Rose had more to say. I, for one, like the idea of knitting in public. I enjoy chatting with the people who ask me about my knitting.

But we’re supposed to be praying while we make the shawls. How can we do that if we’re talking to people? I think we should meet at my house until the chapel is finished.

Jane shook her head. I don’t think that would be right. Father Pete asked us to knit in public.

It’s bad enough he’s kicking us out of the chapel. He shouldn’t be able to tell us where to go instead.

Margaret, I’m as dismayed as you are about this. Jane sighed. I look forward to the peace and quiet of knitting in the chapel every week. Lord knows I needed it this morning after that ridiculous argument with Anna and Emily over their hats. But Father Pete does have the right to tell us where to meet. The Heavenly Hugs Prayer Shawl Ministry operates under the auspices of this church. As our pastor, Father Pete is supposed to guide and inspire us, and here we are arguing with him when he does it.

"That’s because he’s wrong. Just like he’s been wrong about all the other changes he’s tried to make around here. Sprucing up the foyer didn’t bring in more people the way he thought it would when he talked his way into that paint job. I could have told him it wouldn’t, but he didn’t ask me. We don’t need to expand the children’s ministry. It’s not as though we have many children here now anyway. The shepherds will have to double as wise men again this year at the Christmas Eve family service. And we don’t want a contemporary service or small groups, whatever those are supposed to be. We’re fine the way we are."

Maybe, maybe not. Jane raised her arms, palms up. But I say we try it and see what happens. It’s only for a month.

Hear! Hear! Rose cheered. Margaret shot her a quelling look.

What do you think, Fran? Jane asked.

Fran started. Me? Um, well, I-I’d rather knit here. I’m a beginner. I’m not ready for people to watch me knit.

See? Fran agrees with me, Margaret said.

Fran swallowed hard before continuing. "But since we have to, I think