Anchored in Integrity

CH. 2: THE PASTOR’S SMILE

Joel Montgomery stepped aboard with the ease of a man accustomed to being awaited.

The sun caught the silver threads in his blazer just as the gangway met the lower deck—an entrance crafted by chance but embraced as design. He extended one hand to the steward waiting at the rail, the other already lifting in genial salute to the captain above.

“Morning, Travis. You didn’t let her drift off without me, did you?”

The captain smiled. “Barely held her back, sir.”

Joel laughed—deep, unhurried, perfectly pitched to suggest old friendship and zero hierarchy. “You know I’d never miss the maiden lap. She looks magnificent.” He turned, sweeping a practiced gaze over the deck. “You’ve all outdone yourselves.”

The staff straightened almost imperceptibly. Names were remembered. Hands were shaken. Compliments were given with specificity—bravo on the lighting rig, well-placed floral symmetry, ice kept exactly at opalescent, not frosted.

A young crew member flushed when Joel addressed him directly.

“Elias, right? You did the ceremony tables last Easter—those palm frond arcs?” He nodded. “Still some of the best spatial theology I’ve seen on short notice.”

Joel clapped him lightly on the shoulder before moving on, a motion of blessing disguised as casual praise.

He carried himself like scripture—familiar, selective, and rarely questioned.

Clarissa watched from the upper stairwell, half-shadowed.

This was always how it began. The soft ignition of charisma, the invisible reach of presence that settled over a room before anyone knew they were under it.

Joel didn’t occupy space. He inducted it.

Her gaze followed him as he moved across the deck with the same ease he commanded pulpits, boardrooms, and donor galas. Nothing overstepped. Everything opened.

One of the crew handled him a chilled cloth, which he accepted with a nod of mock gravitas. “Now that,” he said, dabbing his temples, “is divine hospitality.”

Laughter rippled. Even the ones who knew the joke’s exact proportions—who had heard versions of it at leadership retreats, on building sites, in First Class lounges—laughed anyway. He made people feel remembered.

Clarissa stepped forward.

His eyes found her instantly.

There it was—the smile.

It began in his eyes, deep brown and gently framed with lines of earned trust. Then his mouth followed, symmetrical, slow, calibrated. Not wide enough to appear hungry, not so soft as to seem insincere. A smile that knew its audience.

She felt the familiar flicker beneath her ribs—not love, not pride. Something quieter. Like remembering a line of scripture you no longer believe but still mouth from habit.

Clarissa descended the final step.

“Mrs. Montgomery,” he said, offering his arm with theatrical gallantry. “May I escort you to the sanctum?”

She slid her arm through his, cool fingers resting just above his wrist.

“You are the sanctum,” she said. The line was practiced—like most things, once.

He chuckled, low and knowing, and together they walked the length of the deck, a picture of grace and concord framed by the morning light. The staff parted without being told.

From below, the yacht’s engine gave a low mechanical sigh—like something just beginning to wake.

Steam curled from the spout of the porcelain teapot as Joel poured with unhurried precision.

The master suite, bathed in soft morning light, echoed quiet opulence. Cream-colored upholstery, polished mahogany trim, scripture verses etched subtly into the molding—Psalm 1:3 above the bookshelf, Proverbs 31 embroidered into a cushion. Spirituality, curated.

He set the teacup on Clarissa’s side of the table, then resumed flipping through the guest list, his thumb pausing at familiar names like a blessing being passed from person to person.

“Did you know the Crawfords almost backed out?” he said, scanning without looking up. “Something about the optics of the new expansion fund. Marcus smoothed it over. He’s good at pressure when he knows which pressure to apply.”

Clarissa took the teacup but didn’t lift it.

Joel turned a page. “This cruise matters. More than most. It’s not just about showing strength—it’s about anchoring the narrative before next quarter’s audit. If the right people are seen enjoying themselves, they stop asking why.”

He smiled to himself, as if he’d just quoted a psalm. “Perception is theology now.”

Clarissa shifted slightly in her seat. “The new audit team asked for direct access to the discretionary logs.”

Joel looked up at that—just briefly. “That’s standard language.”

“They sent a second request.”

He leaned back, folding the list in half with gentle finality. “Darling, do you remember when we launched the Honduras well project? They wanted itemized receipts for every gallon.” He chuckled. “They called it stewardship. We called it delay.”

Clarissa didn’t smile.

Joel stood and crossed to the window, hands tucked into his pockets. The yacht rocked faintly beneath them, rhythmic as breath.

He spoke as if to the sea. “You know the story of Gideon, don’t you? Too many soldiers at first. The Lord had him trim the ranks, down to the few who drank with vigilance. That’s how divine strategy works. You don’t show strength through volume. You show it through vision.”

He turned back to her. “We’re trimming the ranks,” he said, as if firing people—or burying discrepancies—was holy work.

Clarissa looked down at her tea. Still untouched. The surface shimmered faintly, a mirror of something she wasn’t ready to see.

“And the funds?” she asked, softly. “There’ve been reallocations.”

Joel returned to her side and rested a hand gently on the table. “Resource alignment,” he said, voice warm. “Nothing happens without prayer. Nothing lands without obedience. We’re stewarding opportunity in faith. That’s how the Kingdom moves.”

She nodded, slowly. But not in agreement.

Joel watched her a moment longer, then leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“My steadfast north,” he said.

The phrase landed like a blessing—or a brand. She felt its weight just beneath her skin.

And then he was gone, footsteps absorbed by carpet, door clicking shut behind him with a softened finality.

Clarissa sat alone.

The teacup, full. The chair across from her, empty. She picked up the folded guest list and opened it flat, smoothing the crease as if it were something that could be undone.

Her reflection in the window—faint, off-center—watched her watching.

Clarissa adjusted her bracelet with her left hand, careful not to smudge the gloss freshly set on her lips. A final sweep of her fingers along her hairline, a minor alignment of posture—shoulders back, chin poised, expression neutral but luminous.

Beside her, Joel extended his arm.

She took it.

The doors to the grand salon parted soundlessly, revealing the receiving space—vaulted ceiling, crystal light refracted against glass and marble, music whispering just beneath the edge of perception. The scent of freesia and citrus had settled into the air like intent.

They stepped forward together.

Hosting was not performance. It was ritual. Movement, cadence, precision.

Clarissa felt her body slip into the familiar rhythm: step forward, soften expression, right hand for shaking, left at her side. Maintain eye contact for three beats, then release. Smile just wide enough to suggest warmth, not need.

“Welcome aboard. We’re so glad you could make it.”

“Of course, yes—how is your mother?”

“You look radiant in that color. Truly.”

Names surfaced on cue. Faces attached. Conversations snapped into place like preset crystal—polished, measured, fragile.

Joel beside her worked the room like breath. Easy, expensive, magnetic.

He moved through introductions with practiced improvisation, quoting scripture with a grin, offering compliments that felt spontaneous, though Clarissa knew half had been rehearsed. He clasped shoulders, bowed slightly in jest, accepted thanks for things he hadn’t done and gracefully deflected credit for what he had.

The guests, mostly early donors and core board members, beamed under the attention. One older woman handed Joel a sealed envelope—Clarissa watched his smile hold steady, but his eyes flickered. A microsecond, barely visible.

He tucked the envelope into his inner jacket pocket. “Your generosity is as quiet as it is profound,” he said.

Clarissa’s fingers tightened fractionally around his arm before letting go.

She knew that flicker. Not fear—calculation. A brief mental ledger update. A weighing.

The salon buzzed with pleasantries. Laughter bounced like light. Glasses chimed. A photographer circled discreetly, capturing sincerity in high resolution. Behind the bar, staff moved with the silence of trained orchestration.

Clarissa’s heels clicked on marble as she pivoted to greet another couple—faces she recognized from last year’s “Grace Through Giving” gala. The woman’s bracelet was the same, though the dress was new. Clarissa noted the brand instinctively, then filed it away.

The evening would unfold in phases: arrival, blessing, speech, cocktail hour, soft pitch. Each beat had been rehearsed. Every transition choreographed.

Joel leaned close, whispering a line from Proverbs and earning an appreciative laugh. The laughter became applause. The applause faded into murmured prayer.

She watched him deliver the verse with conviction—the same voice that had said “Resource alignment” that morning, with a smile and a blessing.

Clarissa smiled.

She turned slightly and whispered to a staff member about switched the drink trays to the citrus spritzers instead of rosé. He nodded and vanished.

The cameras swept past her then—an easy capture: wife, hostess, steward of abundance.

Her smile held.

But something underneath it all tugged.

It wasn’t the music. Or the temperature. Or the flowers, though they were starting to wilt earlier than expected.

Even the prayer felt too smooth—like a stone skimmed instead of dropped.

Something was wrong. Deeply.

But Clarissa inhaled, tucked her shoulder into his as he reached for her hand, and became again what she had been forged to be:

A portrait of poise in a gilded cathedral of illusion.