Read Online Miss Julia Paints the Town by Ann B. Ross - Free Book Online

I’d had no doubt as to Wesley Lloyd’s whereabouts—which was the Good Shepherd Funeral Home—while Mildred didn’t know whether Horace was among the living or the dead.
    I could imagine the turmoil in her mind, swinging back and forth from being a widow grieving over a dead husband to a wife angered over a missing one. But Mildred handled her inner conflict well, dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes and accepting the plates of food offered to her. She had chosen to wear a deep purple crepe in which to receive her guests. I thought it a felicitous choice, given the fact that it was close to black, but not quite, reflecting what was known of Horace’s location and condition.
    I hurried into the house after parking Hazel Marie’s car and told Lillian that Emma Sue was on her way.
    â€œThey found Mr. Horace yet?” she asked.
    â€œNot yet. I declare, Lillian, it’s a mystery to everybody, including Mildred. I hated to leave until we’d heard something definite, but Emma Sue insisted on speaking to me privately. I don’t know what could be so important on a day like this.”
    As the front doorbell sounded and I started out of the kitchen, I asked, “Has Sam called?”
    â€œNo’m, but I ’spect he be in for supper here in a minute.”
    I hurried out to answer the door, telling Lillian as I left the kitchen that I wouldn’t be long.
    â€œDon’t worry about serving anything,” I said. “Emma Sue’s not in the mood to be entertained. But if that carrot cake’s ready when she leaves, I’ll take it back to Mildred’s.”
    I let Emma Sue in, noting the anxiety that lined her face and the wad of Kleenex clutched in her hand. She’d been crying on her way over, which was no surprise since Emma Sue’s tears flowed at the least concern she had, and she had a lot of them.
    â€œHave a seat, Emma Sue,” I said, trying to ignore her red eyes and streaked face. I’d hear soon enough what her immediate problem was and hoped to put off hearing about it as long as I could. “What in the world do you think has happened to Horace?”
    â€œOh, Julia, I know we’re supposed to comfort the grieving and feed the hungry and clothe the naked, and I try, you know I try. But today, I am just so nerve-racked I can’t put my heart into it.”
    â€œWhat is it, Emma Sue?” I switched on the lamp next to my Duncan Phyfe sofa and sat down beside her.
    Clasping my hand, she blinked back tears. “It’s Larry. I don’t know what I’ll do if he does it, and I know that a wife has to submit to her husband, but, Julia, I just don’t want to. And, and,” she said, a sob catching in her throat, “and Larry says that’s what submission means.”
    â€œWhat does that mean, ‘that’s what submission means’?”
    â€œHe says it can only be submission when you do something you don’t want to because your husband wants you to. It doesn’t count when you do something you want to do.”
    â€œAll right,” I said, frowning. “I’m not sure I agree with that, but okay.”
    â€œWell, we don’t have to agree with it,” she said, somewhat forcefully. Emma Sue thought of herself as a student of the Bible and a teacher thereof to anybody who would listen and to some who wouldn’t. “We just have to follow it, but, oh, it’s so hard.”
    â€œWhat are we talking about, Emma Sue? What does he want you to submit to?”
    â€œWell, see,” she said, as she blew her nose into a Kleenex that could hardly take any more. “There’s this group of people over in Raleigh? And they’ve pulled out of their church. I hate to call it a split, but that’s what it is.” She looked up at me to be sure I was following. “You know how bad some of our Presbyterian churches have gotten—so liberal and all, so I don’t