Special Angel: Based on a True Story

1

THE HAMMER AND THE HYMN

Joann Hollingsworth wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, careful not to smudge sawdust across her face though it already covered her cotton dress like a second skin. The summer sun beat down on the half-built church, turning the fresh-cut lumber into fragrant prayer rising to heaven. She squinted through the golden haze, balancing a tray of mason jars filled with lemonade so cold the glass sweated in her palms.

Y'all gonna die of thirst before the Lord's house gets built, she called out, her voice carrying across the skeleton of the church where her brothers perched on beams and scaffolding like industrious birds.

The tallest of them—two years her senior with their daddy's build—slid down a ladder and reached for a jar. Bless you, Jo. Thought my tongue was gonna turn to leather. He drained half the jar in one gulp, adam's apple bobbing beneath sweat-slicked skin.

She smiled and passed jars to the others as they gathered around, a flock of Hollingsworths with the same dark hair and work-worn hands. The family resemblance was strong, though Jo carried something extra in the high planes of her cheekbones—a gift from her Cherokee great-grandmother that made her face catch the light differently than her siblings'.

Careful not to waste a drop, she cautioned as one brother nearly spilled his. Mama squeezed those lemons by hand.

The church rose around them like a promise kept. Three months ago, it had been nothing but cleared land and a reverend's prayer. Now the frame stood tall against the Tennessee sky, a testament to community and conviction. Jo felt a flutter of pride knowing her family's hands were helping to build this sacred space. Sunday sermons would echo off these walls for generations.

She set the empty tray aside and moved to where the toolboxes lay scattered. One of her younger brothers was searching frantically through a jumble of nails.

Lost something? she asked.

Those three-inch nails, he muttered. Can't finish the support beam without 'em.

Jo knelt beside him, her dress pooling around her knees. With efficient movements, she sorted through the box, unearthing a small paper sack. These what you're looking for?

He grinned. Don't know how you do that, Jo.

Same way I find your socks when you swear the house ate 'em. She handed him the bag, then stood to survey the construction site.

For the next hour, she moved between her brothers, fetching tools before they were asked for, holding boards steady while nails were driven home, and sweeping up the worst of the sawdust that seemed to multiply like rabbits. Her movements were practiced, born from years of helping to hold together a household of fourteen children. She hummed hymns under her breath, the rhythm matching the steady percussion of hammers.

Jo! Need that level over here, called one brother from where he was setting a window frame.

She wiped her hands on her already dusty dress and located the tool, weaving between lumber piles and toolboxes. The level was warm from sitting in the sun, and she blew sawdust from its surface before crossing to the half-finished wall.

Hold it right there, her brother instructed, adjusting the frame minutely. Perfect.

A fine mist of sawdust floated down, catching in her dark hair as she tilted her head back to watch him work. She didn't mind. There was something pure about building a church—as if the dust and sweat were offerings themselves.

You're better than any boy at this, Jo, her brother commented as he drove in another nail. Shame you weren't born with trousers instead of skirts.

She laughed. And miss out on making all the pies? No thank you.

The sun climbed higher, baking the construction site. Jo's blue eyes narrowed against the glare as she looked out across the surrounding fields. The Hollingsworth family wasn't rich by any measure, but they were wealthy in land, in faith, and in each other. Their daddy had donated this corner of their property for the new church after the old one had been damaged beyond repair in last year's storm.

As Jo handed a hammer to another brother, she noticed how the tool fit her palm with familiar weight. She'd helped build additions to their own home as the family grew, learned to mend fences and repair roof tiles. Practical skills were currency in a household where money was scarce but needs were plentiful.

She was reaching for a nail when a cloud of dust on the horizon caught her eye. A vehicle approached along the dirt road, shimmering in the heat like a mirage. Jo straightened, shielding her eyes with one hand.

Somebody's coming, she announced, just loud enough for her brothers to hear.

The truck that emerged from the dust cloud was forest green with patches of rust blooming along the fenders—a working man's vehicle that had seen better days but still held its dignity. It rolled to a stop near the construction site, engine coughing twice before settling into silence.

Jo watched, curious, as the driver's door swung open. A work boot appeared, then long legs in worn denim, and finally the full figure of a young man unfolded from the cab. He was tall—taller than even her eldest brother—with shoulders that strained against the fabric of his plaid shirt. But what struck Jo most was his hair, vivid red and catching the sunlight like a struck match.

He reached back into the truck, and Jo glimpsed the neck of a guitar protruding from the back seat before he shut the door and turned toward the construction site.

That must be Bobby Lee, said her eldest brother, climbing down from his perch. Pastor mentioned he was coming to help.

Jo stood frozen, hammer still in hand, as the stranger approached with easy, languid strides. There was something in his walk that spoke of confidence without arrogance—a man who knew his place in the world and was comfortable in it.

When he smiled, the effect was immediate and disarming. His face, lightly freckled from the sun, creased in a way that suggested smiling was its natural state.

Bobby Lee Lowe, he introduced himself, extending a hand to her brother. Heard y'all were building the Lord a new home and thought I might lend a hammer.

His voice had a musical quality, warm and rich like honey poured over cornbread. Jo found herself gripping the hammer tighter, suddenly aware of the sawdust in her hair and on her dress.

The brothers converged, hands outstretched in welcome. Names tumbled over each other as introductions were made. Bobby shook each hand firmly, repeating names with genuine interest. When the circle of men opened slightly, his gaze landed on Jo, standing slightly apart with her hammer and her dust.

And who might this be? he asked, his blue eyes—startlingly bright against his red hair—fixed on her face.

That's our Jo, one brother answered. Keeps us from hitting our thumbs more than we do the nails.

Bobby's smile widened as he stepped toward her. You build churches often, Miss Hollingsworth?

Jo found her voice, though it came out softer than intended. First one. But I've had practice with barns and houses.

A woman of many talents, he said, and there was no condescension in his tone, only genuine admiration.

He extended his hand, and Jo hesitated only a moment before placing her own in it. His palm was rough with calluses that spoke of a lifetime of work, warm despite the cool blue of his eyes.

Their fingers brushed, and she felt a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolted her nonetheless. Bobby seemed to feel it too; his eyebrows lifted slightly, and his smile shifted from polite to something more personal.

Pleased to meet you, Jo, he said, holding her gaze a moment longer than necessary before releasing her hand.

Joann, she corrected, uncertain why she felt the need to give him her full name when everyone called her Jo. Joann Hollingsworth.

Joann, he repeated, as if testing the taste of it. Beautiful name for a— He stopped himself, a hint of color rising beneath his freckles. For a church builder.

One of her brothers snorted, breaking the moment. If you're done making eyes at our sister, Lowe, there's work to be done.

Bobby's laugh burst out, full and unrestrained. Yes sir, right away sir. He offered Jo a wink before turning to follow her brother toward a pile of lumber. I'll just get my tools from the truck.

As he walked away, Jo noticed the easy swing of his shoulders, the way his red hair caught the sunlight. When he reached into the truck bed for his toolbox, she saw him glance back at her, that grin still playing across his lips.

It was ridiculous to feel so flustered by a stranger. Jo had grown up surrounded by boys and men; she knew how to hold her own, how to be seen as capable rather than decorative. Yet something about Bobby Lee Lowe's direct gaze made her feel both exposed and enveloped at once.

She shook herself mentally and returned to work, moving with purpose between her brothers, passing tools and holding boards. But she found her eyes straying to where Bobby had joined the men working on the roof trusses. His movements were confident and precise, his laughter floating down whenever one of her brothers made a joke.

The afternoon passed in a blur of sunshine and sawdust. Bobby integrated seamlessly into their work rhythm, as if he'd been building alongside the Hollingsworths all his life. Jo noticed how he listened carefully to instructions, offered suggestions without overstepping, and shared the credit when a difficult section came together successfully.

As the sun began to lower, casting long shadows across the half-built church, Jo's mama appeared with baskets of food for the workers. Bobby joined the brothers as they washed up at the pump, water splashing over dusty skin and hair.

When he approached the food table, Jo was serving slices of her mama's blackberry pie. She felt his presence before she saw him, a warmth at her elbow that had nothing to do with the summer evening.

I hear you helped make this pie, he said, accepting a plate from her hands.

Jo nodded. Mama taught us all to cook as soon as we could reach the counter.

Lucky family, Bobby replied, then took a bite. His eyes closed briefly in appreciation. Lord have mercy, that's good.

She couldn't help but smile at his expression. Wait till you try her peach cobbler.

If I'd known building churches came with rewards like this, I'd have become a carpenter instead of— He paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

Instead of? Jo prompted.

That grin again, slightly lopsided, revealing a chipped front tooth that somehow made him more handsome rather than less. Instead of a guitar-playing drifter who picks up odd jobs wherever the good Lord leads him.

I saw your guitar, she admitted. Do you play well?

Well enough to make the angels smile, he said, then laughed at his own boast. Or at least well enough that folks don't ask me to stop. Maybe you'll hear me sometime.

The way he said it—not quite a question, not quite a promise—made something flutter in Jo's chest. She was saved from having to respond by her mama calling her to help pack up the food as twilight deepened around them.

As the workers dispersed for the evening, Bobby loaded his tools back into his truck. Jo watched from the corner of her eye as he carefully placed his guitar case on the passenger seat.

See you tomorrow, Joann Hollingsworth, he called to her, that easy smile still in place as he climbed into his truck.

Jo nodded, suddenly shy again. Tomorrow, she echoed.

As the truck pulled away, dust billowing behind it like departed spirits, Jo stood with her family watching it disappear down the road. The church loomed behind them, its unfinished beams reaching toward heaven like hopeful prayers.

He seems nice, her mama commented, standing beside Jo with an empty pie tin.

He's just passing through, Jo replied, not sure why she felt the need to say it.

Her mama's knowing smile said more than words could. Maybe so. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn't He?

Jo turned back toward the church, the taste of sawdust and sunshine still on her tongue. Tomorrow, they would build more of the Lord's house. Tomorrow, Bobby Lee Lowe would return with his callused hands and his chipped-tooth smile.

And maybe, just maybe, something else would be built alongside the church walls.

2

A CUT-UP WITH A PURPOSE

The Hollingsworth porch sagged slightly in the middle, worn down by years of children racing across its boards and adults rocking away summer evenings. In the golden light of dusk, it transformed into a stage, the peeling white paint softened to cream, the scattered chairs and steps becoming seats for an audience of family. Jo sat on the top stair, knees pulled to her chest, watching her brothers arrange themselves like planets around the sun that was Bobby Lee Lowe and his battered guitar case.

She hadn't expected to see him outside of the church construction site. Yet here he was, guided to their doorstep by her enthusiastic brothers, who'd insisted he join them for the evening after a full day of raising beams and hammering joints. Her mama had welcomed him with extra helpings of chicken and dumplings, and her daddy had given him the firm handshake reserved for men he deemed worthy of respect.

The farmhouse behind them was like a living thing, breathing the scents of supper and family through open windows. Crickets had begun their evening sermon in the tall grass beyond the yard, and fireflies blinked like earthbound stars. The Hollingsworth land stretched out around them, not vast but solid—fields that had fed the family for generations, trees that had shaded children who now had children of their own.

Now, Mr. Lowe, Jo's mama said from her rocking chair, her hands never still as they worked a piece of mending, the boys tell me you've been all over. That true?

Bobby's smile flashed in the twilight. His red hair had been dampened and combed for dinner, but a rebellious lock had already sprung free over his forehead. Yes ma'am, Mrs. Hollingsworth. Though I'd appreciate if you'd call me Bobby. Mr. Lowe makes me look over my shoulder for my daddy.

Bobby, then, she conceded with a smile. Where's the furthest you've been?

Well now, he drawled, settling more comfortably into the porch swing. I once went so far north, I had to wear two pairs of socks just to keep my toes attached to my feet.

The youngest Hollingsworth children giggled, and Jo found herself smiling despite her determination to remain aloof. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, still damp from the hasty washing she'd given it after Bobby's arrival was announced. She hadn't wanted to seem like she cared, but neither had she wanted to greet him with sawdust still clinging to her dark locks.

I don't believe that for a minute, said one of Jo's older sisters, though her tone suggested she'd believe anything Bobby chose to tell her.

Cross my heart, Bobby insisted, making the gesture. Up in Minnesota, winter's so cold they don't measure temperature in degrees—they measure it by how many words you can say before your lips freeze shut.

Even Jo's daddy chuckled at that, his weathered face creasing around eyes that had seen both hardship and joy in equal measure.

Bobby launched into a story about ice fishing that grew more outlandish with each sentence, until the entire porch rang with laughter. Jo watched his hands as he talked, the way they shaped the air into images, how his long fingers emphasized each