The Story Beginnings...

One Fine Season - Excerpt of Chapter 1

2009-11-03T22:31:00.001-05:00

One Fine Season
AuthorHouse (November 25, 2008)

Chapter 1

Pete O’Brien’s piercing blue eyes peered over the top edge of the newspaper he held, closely watching the slender, young woman move toward him. Sitting in the Saint Claire College library, the six-foot-two inch tall senior had grabbed the sports section after finishing a math assignment, but now focused his attention on a much more attractive figure. “She really is the most athletic, stunning girl I’ve ever seen,” Pete thought to himself. As Haven Jensen approached, she brushed back her long, brunette hair and smiled widely. “Hey handsome,” she said in a soft voice, leaning down to give Pete a gentle kiss. “Ready for the big game today?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I’m waiting for Danny to finish class so we can head over to the locker room and get into uniform. How about you? You’re certainly looking inspirational.”

Haven grinned. “I hope so, since I plan to watch my two favorite baseball players in the world win a championship. It seems the entire school is buzzing with excitement, and I wanted to wish you good luck.”

Pete stood up, took his girlfriend of seven years in his powerful arms, and kissed her. “I already am lucky,” he whispered.

“Mmmmm. Now what is it again that you have to do this afternoon?” Haven laughed, and ran her fingers through Pete’s sandy blond hair. “Now be good and hit the girl of your dreams a home run today.”

“Are you giving me orders again?” Pete asked with a wink. “You know if you keep kissing me this way in public, people will think you actually like me — imagine what that will do to your reputation.”

“Let the masses think what they want,” Haven replied, pretending defiance. “Only this girl knows the real man beneath that goofy exterior.” She kissed him one more time, and with a wave of her hand, was off.

“By the way, I’ll be the one rooting loudest for Danny and you, so try not to forget about me in the next few hours,” she said over her shoulder. “With soooo many adoring fans, I know it’s difficult at times to keep track of us all.”

Pete blew his love a kiss, packed up his books, and headed out. Danny Grace met him just as he reached the double glass door entry to the library.

“Hey, Smooth,” Pete said. “Good timing, as always. Think we can take the league title?”
“Definitely. I just hope everyone is focused, and the guys wear their hitting shoes today.”
“Good idea. But with two sweet-swinging stars like us on the team, I think it’s a lock,” Pete said behind a knowing smirk. “Hey, seriously, you and me, Danny. Let’s get it done. I want to make today extra special.”

A few hours later, Haven sat on the warm, lush grass, shading her eyes from the bright sun with one hand as she watched the game unfold before her. Pete often described Haven as the ultimate dream girl, a rare jewel that men and women alike could not take their eyes off of when they first saw the 22-year-old co-ed. Standing five feet ten inches tall, she looked like a magazine cover waiting to happen. Even strangers would offer how much she reminded them of a young Elizabeth Taylor, with her mesmerizing eyes and flawless complexion. Haven seemed to take it all in stride, certainly with far less vanity than most girls blessed with exceptional good looks. Even though she often told Pete and Danny that outer beauty was common ¬— and finding someone who was worth knowing and spending time with because of their inner beauty was what really made them special — Haven made it no secret she was grateful for her eye-catching exterior.

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate beautiful packaging as much as the next girl,” she once told them. “But I also understand I was dealt a lucky hand, at least for the most part. My mom made it clear that I only have her, my dad, and God to thank for good genetics, and that anyone who depends on their looks to get them through life is heading for a rude awakening.”

Both boys couldn’t help but admire such a poised, levelheaded approach to life despite the gifts heaven had bestowed upon Haven, one of the many reasons they thought the world of her. A superb all-around athlete, Haven decided at age 14 to focus her efforts on volleyball. It paid off with a full college scholarship. But she also possessed a keen mind and wanted to become a veterinarian with an understanding of natural medicine. As a child, she had witnessed her two beloved dogs, Sparky and Mickey, both die at relatively young ages from blood and lung conditions. The heartbroken young girl vowed to one day make a difference in finding ways to prevent fatal animal diseases and save their owners the profound grief she had felt. In fact, volunteer work at a local humane society while in high school made her even more certain of her future career path.

“Hey, quit making Danny and me look bad with all this volunteering,” Pete had teased during their junior year in high school. “Now I suppose we’ll be expected to follow your example by working at summer youth baseball camps.”

“But you get paid for helping out at those camps.”

“I know, sweetie. Ain’t it great? Live and learn.”

Haven gave Pete one of those looks, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey, you know if you ever need help with one of your animal projects, I’m here for you. Your wish is my command. With you at the shelter, the phrase ‘lucky dog’ now has a whole new meaning.”

True to her word, Haven had been accepted by several schools of veterinary medicine, and now waited to see which pro baseball team drafted Pete before choosing where to begin the September term. No one could argue that a successful medical career did not hold great appeal for the talented young woman. But Haven valued family, marriage, and the blessings of one day becoming a loving, caring mother above all, and kept the dream of a happy life with Pete close to her heart.

At the moment, however, the game was foremost on her mind. A well-pitched Division I contest, the Saint Claire College Mavericks led 2¬–1 in the top of the ninth inning, courtesy of Pete’s solo home run blast in the second and Danny’s RBI double three frames later. But with one out, rival Portland mounted a last gasp rally, hitting back-to-back singles to place runners on first and third. Murmurs of doubt spread through the partisan crowd. Haven focused her gaze on Pete’s tall, lean figure in center field, watching as he set himself for the next pitch. He always looked so confident to her, so prepared, so ready for anything. She smiled, happy at the thought that such a magnificent man was all hers.

Both runners crept cautiously off their respective bases as the Saint Claire pitcher stared in for the sign, intent on protecting the single-run cushion. Calm and deliberate, he moved into the stretch, checked the runners, and fired a high fastball to home plate. The hitter swung and made solid contact with the pitch, lining a shot toward the left-center field alley. Many of the estimated two thousand spectators jumped to their feet, thinking the ball would be good for at least a double to drive in two runs and erase the Saint Claire lead.

With the crack of the bat, Pete broke to his right, striding with the grace and effortless speed of a gazelle across the manicured grass. At the last moment, he leapt high, snagged the ball in the webbing of his glove, and landed hard on his left leg. The crowd gasped in disbelief, then screamed its approval — Pete had made an impossible catch look almost routine. He took another two steps to regain his balance, planted his right foot, and gunned a long throw to the plate in one fluid motion. Urged by the frantic shouts of the base coach, the Portland runner at third tagged up and sprinted down the line with all the intensity he could muster. The ball arrived on the fly a half second before the sliding player, and the Mavericks catcher made a nice sweeping tag to record the final out.

Students, professors, parents, and other fans cheered wildly, while some poured onto the field to congratulate the players and coaches. Saint Claire had won the game and league championship on a sensational double play executed by its star center fielder. The host of scouts who witnessed the game knew well that only a handful of professional players could have made that throw. With the major league baseball draft fast approaching in June, Pete’s outstanding performance guaranteed he would remain a hot prospect among a number of big league clubs.

As soon as the game ended, Danny had tossed his glove high in the air at shortstop and rushed to Pete, yelling war whoops as he ran. They hugged, and Danny screamed, “Shahhht-gun — what a throw! Cooperstown might as well open a new wing right now. That was incredible.”

“Me? What about you? If it hadn’t been for your winning RBI, this game might never have ended! We did it, Smooth, we’re the champs.”

Both players long ago had decided reaching the major leagues defined their ultimate career goal. Measuring six feet tall with a slender yet muscular build, clear green eyes, and wavy, dark blond hair, Danny was a solid, hardworking player, a combination of dependable defense, skill, desire, and dedication. Scouts projected him as a decent major league middle infielder or utility player, perhaps even a .300 hitter with the right coaching in “The Show.” But Pete possessed greatness. Teams coveted his ability. Talent evaluators regarded him as a highly gifted, five-tool player who hit for a high average with power, ran extremely well, sported an exceptional throwing arm, and was next to flawless in the field — the type of commodity who would fill stadium seats. In fact, Pete reminded nearly everyone who saw him play of Joe DiMaggio, the fluid way he moved while tracking down fly balls and running the bases. He seemed to glide across the field, like a fast sailboat streaming atop the wave crests.

Pete had been drafted at the end of his junior year at Saint Claire. He decided to finish his education — and stay with Haven and Danny ¬— instead of signing for a $200,000 bonus. Determined to prove he’d made the right choice, Pete compiled a sensational senior year that made teams even hungrier to ink a deal. By comparison, while Danny might have a nice career as a pro, Pete was considered “can’t-miss.”

That evening, scores of students gathered at an off-campus fraternity house to celebrate the victory. During the party, Pete motioned to Danny and they walked outside to the back yard.

“Danny, I’ve got some important news. I’m asking Haven to marry me next weekend, and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Danny’s face lit up as he grabbed Pete and gave him a big hug. “I’m happy for both of you — I was wondering what was taking you so long.”

“I suppose we both always wished she had been born twins, huh?” Pete said wistfully.

Danny rolled his eyes in mock disgust. “Oh sure, and I’d get the good looking, but mean and bossy one — you know, like the time on ‘Star Trek’ when Captain Kirk was separated into good and evil,” he laughed. “No, I think one Haven is enough for people to catch a glimpse of true perfection.”

Pete pulled Danny close and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Thank you, Smooth. I love you buddy. You’re the best. Which, of course, goes without saying that I want you as my best man for the wedding.”

“Hmmm, let me check my calendar to see if I’m free,” Danny said with a mischievous smile. “Hey, I’d be honored. This is amazing — now we have two incredible events to celebrate. You were right — this really is an extra special night!”

***

Pete and Danny first met in second grade. What started out as best pals grew over the years into a brotherhood marked by fierce loyalty and respect for one another. An only child, Danny considered Pete an unquestioned family member and closest ally, someone he could always rely on no matter what. With four older sisters, Pete told his dad early on he believed God had sent Danny to rescue him from the crush of dolls, smelly perfumes, teen magazines, and other “girl stuff” that inundated the O’Briens’s Catholic household.

Having a constant, rock-solid companion also helped fill the huge vacuum in Danny’s life created when his father, a marine captain, died fighting overseas. The young boy was only 6-years old at the time.

Danny held warm memories of his dad. Strong, proud, and a true family man who lived his Christian values, the bold, distinguished officer with the strong jaw and quick smile spent as much time with his young son as possible. A huge baseball fan, Tom Grace would toss a little blue ball back and forth with Danny for as long as the boy’s attention would allow. But Danny’s favorite activity centered on riding his father’s shoulders, then being tossed into the air, only to land softly in his dad’s waiting arms. He also relished sitting in his father’s lap, listening to magical stories of courage and honor that always had happy endings.

Danny loved learning from his dad. He would always remember the day this bigger-than-life hero showed him the Grace family crest of arms. Descended from a Norman knight, the Irish clan ventured to the shores of North America decades before the Great Potato Famine of the 1840s.

Like so many of their countrymen and women, they found opportunity and freedom in this new home, and Captain Grace captivated Danny with a long-ago tale of adventure and bravery. At the end of the story, he translated the French-language motto on the coat of arms placed above a red and gold lion rearing on its back legs.

“It says, ‘On Grace, Depend.’ I hope you’ll always remember those words and try to live by them, son. Be someone your family can depend on to do the right thing, and be a true friend to the end. And remember, receiving grace means being in God’s favor and love, something you can also depend on. If you have faith in yourself and God, and never give up even when it’s hard not to, you’ll always make your mother and me proud. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Yes, I think so,” the little boy replied. “I’ll be a hero like you.”

Tom Grace laughed. “Good boy, son. Now let’s go see what wonderful magic your mom is performing in the kitchen. You know, Danny, we’re both very lucky to have her.”
“I know, Dad. Mommy tells me the same thing about you all the time. I like being so lucky.”

But those untroubled times ended on a gray morning in late winter. Danny recalled with vivid starkness how his mother collapsed on the floor, sobbing, the day the dark news breached their door. His father had been killed in action while serving the country he loved, the victim of a cowardly enemy who used women and children as human shields. While doing his best to avoid harming the noncombatants, Captain Grace had been betrayed by his own compassion. As he braved a barrage of bullets to rescue a little boy about Danny’s age who lay bleeding in the street, an explosive device attached to the child by one of the fleeing fighters detonated. The medics could do nothing to save the brave solider. Though he didn’t understand the events thousands of miles from his safe, secure home, Danny knew his world had changed for all time.

Through Little League baseball games and high school playoffs, Danny missed the opportunity to have his dad’s support, offering encouragement or some little reminder only a caring coach could provide. But life never granted the elder Grace the chance to teach his son the skills and finer nuances of the game. Even on Danny’s most successful days, the hurt lingered of not being able to share his triumphs with the man who loved him most in the world.

On his high school graduation day from St. John’s Academy, Danny’s mother handed him one final gift she had wrapped with care in red, white, and blue paper the night before.

“This is from someone who loved you very, very much,” she said.

Danny read the words on the card. It was from his dad. He looked at his mom’s face and saw her eyes were moist. Danny tore away the wrapping to find a beautiful hand-carved wooden box. He lifted the lid. It contained the Silver Star awarded to his father for bravery in combat, a special, gold-plated pin of the family crest, a small, framed photo of Captain Grace in full dress uniform, and a handwritten note. Danny unfolded the paper and read the words his father had penned in blue ink years before:

To my beloved boy,
Always remember that I am with you and part of you, no matter
how many miles separate us. All my love, Dad

From that day forward, Danny wore the little pin under the bill of his baseball cap each time he took the field, never wanting to go into battle without his dad beside him.

A Slow Burn - Chapter 1

2009-11-01T23:14:00.001-05:00

A Slow Burn
Zondervan (October 1, 2009)

Chapter 1

Defiance, Texas, 1977

Worry had its way with Emory, enticing her to stay up late after her night shift, hoping against hope that her missing daughter, Daisy, would walk through the front door laughing
and shouting and singing all at once. It made for groggy, sleep- sloppy mornings, where the only promise of coherence was a cup of joe followed by a tepid shower. Under the spray Emory shook hands with her tears, let them slip down her face, run down her chin and mingle with lukewarm creeks of shower water, racing in lines down her skin into the rusty drain circled by soap suds at her feet. Even then she listened. Turned off the nozzle three times when she thought she heard a noise.

But Daisy hadn’t barged through the front door for two months now. Her unmade bed stayed that way, waiting for Daisy’s warm thirteen-year old body, bronzed from too much Texas sun, to collapse into it. Emory, dripping wet, stood in Daisy’s doorway this morning — haunted it, really — and memorized the wrinkle of the sheets. Towel clutched around her as if the day gave a chill, she took five barefooted steps into her daughter’s room, dropped the towel, and curled naked on Daisy’s bed.

She didn’t weep; that was for the shower. She didn’t even pray. Preachers handled that. Every Defiance preacher prayed up a storm, she’d heard, but even their multitudes of prayers did
nothing to undo Daisy’s disappearance. Prayer didn’t amount to much. No leads discovered. No kidnapper nabbed. No one but Daisy’s dad under suspicion, and he was nowhere to be found. Pray? No, she moaned instead, a guttural anguish she pushed through her lungs, vibrating Daisy’s bed. Two months without her only child, and all she could do was groan, hug her knees, and smell Daisy on the sheets, hoping this whole ordeal was a cruel nightmare and when she woke up, Daisy’d be standing over her, a sharp-witted look in her eyes and a sassy, “Mama, you’re naked. Get yourself some clothes.”

Daisy’d only found her near naked once. Or was it more? On the day Daisy went missing, Emory lay on the living-room floor half-nude and strung out. Emory remembered the shame, how it felt hot, simmering her face. She had noticed her attire: just a bra and panties, no real clothes in sight to cover herself, her body displayed like abstract art on the canvas of a hardwood floor.

“Mama,” Daisy said, “I’m tired of taking care of you, you hear me?” Though Daisy’s voice scolded, she grabbed a favorite quilt, the one she camouflaged their old couch with because she hated that ugly thing, and pulled it over cold toes, knees, belly, shoulders, and neck. “There, Mama. There. You sleep. I’m going to see Jed, okay? I’ll be back for dinner.”

Emory murmured a hung-over okay. She pulled the quilt around herself, closed her eyes, and slept away the afternoon, while Daisy played with her friend Jed Pepper, then disappeared into the Defiance dust under his neglectful care.

She stood, thirty years old but feeling arthritic all the same. She wrapped the towel around her and headed to her room, where a floor full of dirty clothes made up her wardrobe.

A knock startled her. Three stark raps against an aging door. “Just a minute,” she hollered. She pulled on a ripped pair of Levis and a gauzy shirt. Emory caught her gaze in the full-length mirror; gaunt eyes stared back, the eyes of a bitter old woman.

Three more raps.

Halfway between her room and the front door, she knew.

She knew.

Emory stood in front of the door, the passageway Daisy was supposed to skip through, and tried to settle herself, but her heart hammered her ribcage. She took a deep breath, letting out a whisper of a moan. She opened the door. It creaked on its hinges as it opened onto her covered front porch.

Officer Spellman stood at her door, patrol hat in hands.

“Ma’am.” He cocked his head, his eyes moist.

“No.” She backed away two steps. Then again, “No.”

“We found Daisy.” He hesitated. “Actually, it was Jed Pepper who found her — in a clearing.”

“No.” Emory’s gut wrenched sideways; her cold hands began to sweat.

“We’ve taken the body to Tyler. I need you to come with me to identify her.”

Emory wilted into the doorframe, not caring a bit if it held her up or gave way and let her crash to the floor. Daisy. Her Daisy. Laughing, singing, skipping Daisy.

A body.

Nothing more.

T he journey to Tyler in the back of a police car took ten years, or maybe ten minutes. She couldn’t be sure. But she felt her body aging in the seat, the wrinkles forming around her frown, her eyes deteriorating in the light of this terrible day. She’d be an old woman by the time she reached Tyler. An old, childless woman.

“We’re here,” Officer Spellman said. He opened the car door for her. Opened the door to the hospital too.

A gentleman even in the face of death, she thought.

They wound through the hospital’s underbelly, down stark cor-
ridors. Heels — hers and his — clicked a cadence she’d never forget, one that would accompany her nightmares from here on out.

Another door opened.

Then another.

She filled out forms. In triplicate. Answered questions no mama should ever have to answer. Officer Spellman sat in an antiseptic chair, hat in hands, eyes to the floor.

A man in a white coat said, “Right this way, Mrs. Chance.”

“It’s Ms.” Emory didn’t look up.

“My mistake,” he said. “We won’t know her exact time of death until the autopsy’s done. I’d wait on ordering the grave- stone just yet, until we pinpoint it.”

“Gravestone,” she croaked to the sterile air.

“She’s right in here.” The nameless man opened another door.

Emory felt her heartbeat in her neck; put her hand there, as if to calm it back down to its proper rhythm. In front of a pale green wall was a gurney with a white sheet stretched over a body. Her little girl.

The last time Daisy’d had a sheet over her head, Halloween did its haunting. Though past trick-or-treating age, she’d in- sisted on being a ghost, taking young Sissy Pepper around their Defiance neighborhood. “To protect her,” she said.

“And what kind of ghost can protect a little girl?” Emory had asked.

“My kind.” She tugged at the sheet pulled taut over her head. Two phantom eyes darkened with black-tinted Crisco looked through two crudely cut holes in the nearly white sheet. Around Daisy’s neck Emory tied a ratty string, giving her head a jack-o- lantern look — just like the picture in Family Circle’s Halloween issue. Daisy flapped her arms, sheet billowing in stark contrast to the porch’s night. “I can even scare away the boogie man.”

The man pulled back the sheet to the body’s chest, but Emory wouldn’t look. Not yet. She turned away, pretending interest in the wall color. She inhaled. Swallowed bile. Shook her head as if that would keep the tears away somehow. She turned. Grabbed her stomach. Smelled death. Then saw her, open eyes to sunken eyes.

Daisy.

Her blonde hair browned by clods of dirt. Emory wanted to comb them away, give her hair a good brushing, though she’d never bothered when Daisy was alive. Daisy’s eyes, closed lids
over caved-in sockets, emanated death. Her mouth turned un- characteristically down, a frown etched into Daisy’s face for eternity.

“Ma’am? Is this your daughter?”

She looked at the man. “She was.”

“I’ll slip out. Give you a few moments.”

Emory watched Daisy. But Daisy didn’t move. Didn’t sing. Didn’t holler. Didn’t run. Didn’t scat. Didn’t pick the dirt out of her hair. She lay there. That was all.

Emory stepped closer.

Dark marks circled Daisy’s neck — the same place that cord circled her ghost costume. Was she choked? Were her last breaths stolen from her by hands too strong?

“Daisy, it’s Mama. Your mama.” She suspended her hand inches above Daisy’s pale shoulder, afraid to touch it. “Who did this to you, baby?”

Daisy didn’t tell.

Emory knew who bore part of the blame, felt it way down inside. If Daisy’s eyes were open, they’d look right into Emory’s soul, spotlighting guilt, the guilt she kept pushing down with the same ferocity she tamed her nausea.

She touched Daisy’s shoulder. So cold. So hard. So unlike Daisy.

Yet so much like herself it made Emory shudder.

eye of the god - Prologue & Chapter 1

2009-10-27T22:08:00.002-04:00

eye of the god
Abingdon Press (October 1, 2009)

Prologue

Golconda, India, 1653
Jean-Baptiste Tavernier winced as the soldier chopped off the man’s hand. The thief shrieked and dropped to the ground, clutching the bloodied stump to his chest.

Tavernier turned aside with a grimace and ordered the litter bearers beneath him to move faster. Four slaves, dark from the sun, jostled between the crowded stalls of Golconda’s hectic bazaar and away from the public spectacle. The agonized screams faded as they pressed farther into the crowd. Dense heat settled over the marketplace, and Tavernier wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Pungent smells assaulted his senses: sweat and urine, spiced curry and sweet chutney, burning incense and rotting vegetables. His litter bumped and rocked through the hustle and bustle of shoppers and merchants haggling over prices. Red and gold bridal wear and precious gold glittered in the stalls. Elephants carried the elite through the narrow streets while dirty children chased each other with sticks.

Tavernier looked across the sea of dark-skinned faces toward an embroidered tent in the midst of the bazaar guarded by two soldiers wearing the white turban and golden sash of the sultan’s army. At his approach the guards stepped aside and pulled back the elaborate flaps.

Tavernier glanced at the heavy wooden chest near his feet and stepped from the litter. “Guard that with your life,” he ordered the soldiers as he entered the tent.

Large, colorful cushions and intricately woven Oriental rugs covered the dirt floor. Mir Jumla, Golconda’s prime minister, lounged on an orange and peacock-blue silk pillow. The heavy brow, black eyes, and prominent nose of the Persian-born general contradicted his Oriental adornment.

Mir stood and greeted Tavernier in the traditional Indian way, with palms together, hands raised in front of his face, and head bowed. “Vanakkam,” he said.

Tavernier lowered his head and returned the greeting.

Mir motioned for him to sit, and they settled onto the cushions.

“Good to see you, Prime Minister,” Tavernier said.

Mir grinned, “Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. Punctual as always.”

“You said it was important?”

Around Mir’s neck hung a buckskin pouch, which he untied and placed in Tavernier’s hand, “I could lose my head for this.”

“Come, come Mir, we both know the sultan would much prefer to chop off your hands and leave you to beg for food like a common slave.”

“My hands it will be then if the sultan ever learns that escaped his grasp.”

Tavernier opened the pouch and emptied the contents into his hand. His eyes widened and the corners of his mouth twitched as he suppressed a grin. In his palm rested the largest blue diamond he had ever seen. He turned it over, running his fingers along the irregular surface.

“This is a great deal more than ten carats. It was my understanding that any diamond over ten carats found in the Kollur mines went directly to the sultan.”

Mir Jumla nodded and pushed back into the cushions. In one hand he fingered a gold coin with his long fingers. “That is the edict. But I never said this stone came from the mines.”

“Since when did you start dealing in stolen gems?”

Mir Jumla thrust out his lower jaw. “You don’t want it then?”

“Of course I do. I am just curious why a man so loyal to the sultan is selling diamonds right out from under his nose.”

“Loyalty, like most things, has a price.” Mir grinned.

Tavernier smiled. “Indeed.” He held up the diamond, letting the light filter through. “Net et d’un beau violet,” he whispered in his native French.

Mir tilted his head to one side.

Tavernier repeated in Indian, “A clear and beautiful violet.”

“Yes. It is flawless.”

Tavernier balanced the stone in his hand for a moment. “One hundred carats, or close to it, I would wager.”

“One hundred twelve.”

“Excellent. And the price?”

“Two-hundred twenty-thousand livres.”

“A little steep.”

“We both know you will not find another such diamond for sale in Golconda. They all sit in the sultan’s treasury.”

“Fair enough.” Tavernier shrugged. “But you still have not told me how you came by this stone.”

Mir hesitated a moment as he studied the coin in his hand. “I would not give that much concern. The last person to own this was made of stone and sat in a Hindu temple on the banks of the Godavari River. A slave named Raj, starving and half-mad, brought it to me three weeks ago, claiming he had chiseled it from the forehead of an idol named Rama Sita.” Mir cast a sideways glance at Tavernier. “Cursed, Raj said. The idol cursed the diamond and all who would come to own it.”

“And where is this Raj now?”

“In the bazaar. I believe my soldiers just relieved him of a hand.”

“That was your doing?”

“I paid him a fair price for the stone three weeks ago, but he came back this morning for more. When I refused, he tried to steal this.” Mir held up the coin.

Tavernier laughed. “A convenient story, my friend.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Weaving a tale of theft and vengeance is an old jeweler’s trick to induce interest in the buyer. One I have used myself, as a matter of fact.”

Mir gave a curt nod. “May it be on your head. I am glad to sell it and be done.”

“At such a price, I am sure you are. But as far as my head goes, I intend for it to stay in place.”

“The curse does not bother you?”

“I don’t believe in curses, Mir. Besides, we both know they increase the value of trinkets such as this.”

“Then we have only the matter of payment to attend.” Tavernier rose and fetched his treasure chest from the litter. Returning, he set it on the rug before Mir and opened the lock with a small golden key. When he pulled back the lid, hundreds of gold coins spilled onto the carpet before them. Tavernier counted the purchase price before the prime minister, who eyed the gold with hunger. Only a few dozen coins remained in the chest when he was done.

Tavernier slid the great blue diamond back inside the buckskin pouch and tied it around his neck. “Should you stumble across the other eye you will, of course, let me know?”

“Of course,” said Mir with great satisfaction. “And thank you once again for your business.”

The men gave each other a polite nod, and Tavernier stepped from the tent. Within seconds his litter disappeared amidst the writhing mass of vendors, peasants, and hanging goods.

Chapter 1

Carnival, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil—Present Day
Abb y Mitchell stared through the window at the feverish display of dancing outside. She placed her palm on the warm plaster wall of the Chacara do Ceu Museum and felt the pounding Samba music pulse against her fingers. She observed the frenzied celebration from within the safety of the museum’s main gallery. An old mansion, turned resting place for some of the world’s most renowned art, the museum was a pleasant combination of low ceilings, cream-colored walls, and quiet elegance.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she took a deep breath before answering. “Good morning , Director Heaton.”

“It’s not all that good, Dr. Mitchell. We have a bit of an issue.” His voice was raspy, the ravages of age and cigarettes.

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“The Collectors. They’ve taken two Van Goghs.”

Abby closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the window. “Where?”

“Amsterdam.”

“How?”

“We’re not exactly sure. Investigators are baffled. The paintings just disappeared in the middle of the night.”

“Prints?”

“None.”

“Of course not. In ten years they’ve never left a print. Or a clue for that matter.”

“Abby,” his voice prodded on the other line. “You know what this means.”

She nodded, staring at her reflection in the window. “They can’t get their hands on the Dali. And we know they want it.”

“You know what you have to do.”

A weak smile spread across her face. “Let’s just hope I can.”

“Call me when you’re done,” he said, and then hung up the phone.

A handful of tourists wandered the gallery, trying to study the timeless wonders on its plaster walls, but distracted by Carnival just a few feet away.

Lost in her thoughts, Abby paid no attention to the approaching footsteps until she felt a polite tap on her shoulder. She turned to find a woman, in her late fifties, wearing a white linen suit and a gracious smile.

“Dr. Mitchell, I presume?” she said with a distinct Brazilian accent.

Abby held out her hand. “Indeed. And you must be Director Santos?”

“Please, call me Ana.” Though aging quite gracefully, it was obvious Ana Santos had been a sight to behold in her prime.

“Sorry to keep you,” she smiled. “With all the tourists in town, I have been running behind all week. But things should calm down now that Carnival is almost underway.”

“No trouble at all. I’ve been enjoying your remarkable collection.”

Ana stretched out an arm and motioned Abby to follow. They turned their backs to the window and made their way through the gallery toward a series of priceless surrealist paintings. One in particular caught Abby’s attention, and she leaned forward, appreciation evident on her face.

“Now, Dr. Mitchell, you said there was an urgent matter we needed to discuss. I assume more than Carnival brings you to Brazil?”

“I’m afraid so.” She ran a finger over the nameplate which read Two Balconies, Salvador Dali.
Ana beamed. “Fantastic, isn’t it?”

Abby nodded.

“Two Balconies is the only Salvador Dali painting on display in Latin America. It is one of the Chacara do Ceu’s most prized exhibits.”

Abby tapped her lips in contemplation. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Beautiful ring,” Ana said, glancing at Abby’s finger.

“Thank you. It was a gift.”

She grinned mischievously. “He must love you very much.”

“You would think so.”

Ana smiled sadly and changed the subject. “So what is your concern?”

“I’m worried about this painting.”

“Two Balconies? What do you mean? I thought you felt it would be a spectacular addition to your exhibit next year.”

“I do,” Abby assured her. “My concern is not with the painting itself, but with its safety. I have reason to believe it may be in danger of theft.”

Ana relaxed a little and laughed. “I can assure you, meu caro, we have strict security measures in place. All of our paintings are bolted to the wall and connected to hairtrigger alarms. If a painting is moved even a fraction of an inch, the alarm sets off our security system. In addition we have state-of-the-art video surveillance and round-the clock armed guards.”

“I wasn’t suggesting your security system is sub par, merely that we have gotten word there may be parties interested in this particular Salvador Dali painting.”

Ana flashed a charming smile. “Do you mind me asking your source?”

“I’ve received notice from the art theft division at Interpol. There are rumblings of an illicit interest in Dali and this painting in particular. I thought it prudent to warn you, considering your partnership with the Smithsonian.”

“Why is the International Criminal Police Organization interested in Two Balconies?”

“There has been a rash of thefts recently, and Interpol contacted me with a warning.”

“I appreciate your concern, Dr. Mitchell, but I feel confident we have taken the appropriate measures to protect our facility.”

Abby sighed. “All right. But know you have our full resources at your disposal should you need them.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. I will certainly take that into consideration.” Ana glanced back at the painting and asked, “I assume the Smithsonian is still planning to include Two Balconies in next year’s exhibit?”

“Absolutely. Preliminary preparations are underway for its transport and security.”

Ana beamed. “We would be delighted to accommodate you in any way. I will, of course, have to accompany the painting to Washington.”

“Of course.”

Both women turned back to the window as a loud burst of cheering and music erupted from the throng outside. Viktor Leite, the mayor, was barely audible over the din. Flanked on both sides by voluptuous women dressed in revealing Carnival garb, he screamed into the microphone so he could be heard over the pounding drums.

“Let the festivities begin!”

At his command the massive parade, seventy-thousand people strong, erupted in applause and began to snake through the streets.

“You will be staying for Carnival?” Ana asked.

“I’m afraid not. Duty calls me back to Washington.”

“I thought this was a working vacation?”

“More work than vacation, I’m afraid.”

“Surely the Smithsonian wouldn’t object to you staying an extra day or two?”

Abby sighed. “My flight leaves at noon tomorrow.” Ana opened her mouth to argue her case but was jolted into stunned silence by the thunderous sound of a gunshot. Abby and Ana spun around to find two armed men standing at the museum entrance.

A Little Help from My Friends - Chapter 1

2009-10-25T22:19:00.001-04:00

A Little Help from My Friends
FaithWords (October 15, 2009)

The Fence My Father Built - Chapter 1

2009-10-20T22:29:00.002-04:00

The Fence My Father Built
Abingdon Press (October 2009)

Joseph’s Journal
June 1977

Sprawled across the bed, you slept facedown, wearing that red cowgirl shirt and the velvet skirt you love. I stood by and watched your breathing. Your hair, so straight and black, reminded me of my people, our people, and I wondered what you dreamed. Years ago, the Nez Perce surrendered to broken treaties, broken dreams. I’m sorry, daughter, but I’m surrendering too.

You’re only five, Muri, but you learn fast. In this Oregon desert, the sun beats down hot, and today our tan faces shone with sweat. We walked across the sagebrush and you held the corn snake we found. You held it gently, without fear. I felt as proud as I ever have.

After sunset, we sat on the hill and looked up at the stars. When you got cold I draped my old coat around you and told you all about angels. On the way home, you didn’t ask for your mother, not once. It’s wrong, I know, but I was pleased.

I had big plans to be your daddy. I was going to read to you every day, teach you the names of all the Civil War battles. I’d teach you how to fish. You’d learn how to listen to the wind and how to skip a stone. Most of all, I’d teach you how to pray. None of that will happen now.

After your mom called, I broke down and cried, and I couldn’t stop. I’ve lost. Your mother doesn’t know our ways but she has the white man’s courts on her side. They call it full custody. I cry because I won’t see you on your first day of school or when you get your driver’s license. My ears won’t hear your laughter. You’ll learn to climb trees and hold snakes without me. I won’t even be able to tell you why I wasn’t there.

Maybe when you’re grown you’ll understand. Or maybe you won’t care about the secrets we could have shared, secrets of land and water, secrets of fixing refrigerators. I pray that God, who made all of this for us, will reach your heart in time.

Tonight, I hugged you close, but you held your nose and said, “Daddy, I hate smoking!” I can’t seem to get that cigarette smell out of my clothes. All I smelled right then was the pain of your mother’s victory.

Her car pulled into the driveway, and she leaned on the horn. I waved out the window. She could wait. I shrugged into my suede jacket.

Before I handed you over, I picked up the framed picture I like: the one where you’re standing on that wicker chair, holding your ragged blanket. I took the photo out of its frame, careful to hold it by the edges and slipped it into my wallet. When you got sleepy we hunted all over for that grimy blanket.

Your old man has the magic touch with broken appliances too. Just this week I fixed the neighbor lady’s old stove. The bottle? Now that’s a different story that I’ve tried to change a hundred times. If you only knew.

Standing by the bed, I watched you sleeping. I stroked your flushed cheek and whispered your name. I carried you to your mother’s car, and you opened your eyes and smiled. I saved my tears for later when I opened my wallet. I looked at your photo and weakness ambushed me.

There are days when I feel strong. Those times, nothing can stand between you and me. Most times, though, I’m broken. I’m nothing but an old sinner praying for another chance.

Someday, Muri, come looking for your old dad, will you? Maybe God will light a fire in you and our ancestors will fan the flames. I’ll put up a beacon so you’ll know where to look.

Chapter 1

My father left my mother and me when I was five, but back then I didn’t hate him for it. He was an angel because he showed me things, told me things, made me see things for the very first time. How to hold a flat stone in order to skip it. The feel of water slipping through my fingers. How to tell the moon’s phase.

The last night I saw him alive he took me to the top of a hill to look at the stars. Out where we lived, in Oregon’s high desert, there were more stars than black sky. He draped his worn suede coat over my shoulders, and I kept tripping on the bottom, that’s how little I was. We walked and walked, and once I fell over a sagebush. When I cried he said, “Sh, angels are watching.” Dad pointed to the Milky Way, which took my breath away, and then we shouted out with joy, singing right along with the whole heavenly host. That’s how I thought of my father then—as an angel—alive and real and always with a flask of whiskey inside that suede jacket.

Before Mother died she always said he was just an old holy roller. His idea of religion was speaking in tongues while reaching for the bottle. When I was young she mocked him every day.

“Why don’t you just take your baby girl on down to the bar with you?” Mother would say. Her words dripped with her special brand of sarcasm. In those days her bitterness only made me feel closer to this father who prayed and this God who loved a sorry man like Joseph Pond.

But by the time I grew up I had come to hate him. Mom did a good job of encouraging my disgust, but I admit that most of my bile came of my own free will. I carefully tended doubts about God the Father, too, and I routinely blamed my troubles on one or both of them. The day I drove to Murkee, where Joseph Pond had lived and died, I believed that angels didn’t exist, at least not on desert highways like this one. My ex-husband Chaz said he and I had simply “grown apart.” I tried to make it work for the kids’ sake, but after I caught him with that Victoria woman one time too many, I decided enough was enough. Anyway, Chaz admitted he wasn’t the daddy type. When he left, I let him go.

The kids and I were alone now, bound for the middle of nowhere. I wondered if angels took assignments out here on Mars.

Mars must be a lot like central Oregon, I decided. I didn’t see a drop of water anywhere, and the wind blew hard and constant. Gusts pressed down the grass, leaning it over like a wino who had fallen asleep. Sagebrush, the ugliest plant I’ve ever seen, was probably the only thing holding down the red dirt. With the way my life was headed, if I didn’t find something to hold onto soon, I might blow away too.

At times the kids dozed against the windows, their relaxed mouths jerking shut each time I hit a pothole. They must have been so tired to sleep through all the jouncing. We’d been on the road at least six hours, thanks to my lousy sense of direction and countless sibling quarrels. Nova started complaining as soon as we crossed the Cascade Mountains.

“We’re doomed,” Nova moaned. Then she argued with Truman over our bottled water supply and how many Milky Ways were left.

“What are you looking at?” I heard Tru yell at his sister. She was probably drilling him with the ultimate weapon—her famous stare. I could see her smoldering gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Everything looks dead.” Nova pointed out the window. “Water’s probably poison. Acid rain or something.” She snapped her gum then, knowing I’d thrown many a student out of the high school library for that very infraction.

“Maybe that’s why Grandpa died,” Truman volunteered. At nine, Tru, named after my favorite president, was still cheerful most of the time. His sister just groaned and made a face at Tru, then put her earbuds back in place.

I swear she didn’t hate everything and everyone last week. Her dyed orange hair, only two inches long on top this week, had been stiffened with Elmer’s glue and stood in small peaks.

“Woolly worms,” I told her. “Your hair reminds me of fuzzy caterpillars.” She attributed her dark mood to my observations and said it was my fault that everything, including the landscape, had died. Sometimes she could be a stereotype of herself.

Maybe stereotypes were all anyone was, including my father. After years of thinking about how I could connect with my roots, Tru had found him on the Internet. He was doing a report for school about Oregon ranchers and accidentally bumped into his own grandfather’s name in an article about ongoing feuds over water rights in the desert lands. An address popped up almost instantly, and decades of searching condensed into a few lines on a computer screen.

I’d written to the address that same day, only to learn that Joseph Pond had recently died. His sister, Lutie Pearl, wrote back, “Your daddy was only fifty-five, but liver disease doesn’t care who it kills off.” He owned a piece of property that was now mine, she said, and coincidentally, the neighbor was threatening to sue their socks off. “Muri,” she wrote, “it would bless me if you could come here to clear things up.”

Bless her? I wasn’t sure I could balance my checkbook, much less clear up a lawsuit. But I wanted more than anything to know my roots, and truth be told, we were temporarily homeless.

As we chugged closer to my father’s land, the dust hid deep ruts in the road that could have rolled our VW bus over on its back like a turtle. The kids had named it Homer because it was a camper inside, complete with a miniature stove and a roll of paper towels that came unwound unless held together with rubber bands. Tru kept saying we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies.

That might have been funny if I hadn’t piled all our belongings on the roof rack, including a couple of twin mattresses that anchored an assortment of mismatched luggage and cardboard boxes, mostly containing kitchen appliances and old books.

The thought of driving to nowhere looking like characters from The Grapes of Wrath made my eye twitch. As if that wasn’t enough, Nova was so embarrassed she threatened to bail out of the van and walk all the way back to Portland. My daughter, who was sixteen and therefore knew everything, added, “Your dad’s already dead, so what’s the point?”

Tru stared at her, with that serious expression he gets. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again and went back to playing his handheld video game.

I’d told them we were here to settle my father’s affairs, but that was only half true and they knew it. Once the school district eliminated my library position, Chaz knew he could pressure me to unload the house. I couldn’t stand to live under the neighbors’ stares, so I went along with the sale. As soon as the house sold, my ex-husband took his half of the money and ran straight to Victoria. He left his children unable to understand why he wasn’t interested in them.

They didn’t completely grasp the fact that we had nowhere else to go, and that’s why we were driving into the Oregon desert. It was as simple as that. My half of the home proceeds would go for living expenses until I could land another job. I tried to explain that I saw this trip as a means to get my act together and figure out what we should do next. They didn’t get it, and I confess, half the time I didn’t either. My arms felt numb from gripping the steering wheel; I was a blob of weariness that began behind my eyes and permeated to my fingertips.

“Turn around and find a hotel,” my daughter moaned above the chatter of the engine.

“There’s not even a Motel 6 out here, Nova,” I said.

She sarcastically reminded me that at least motels have swimming pools. I was thinking of letting her test her desert survival skills when we pulled into Murkee and parked in front of the Mucky-Muck Café. The place was as dried up as the rest of the landscape except for a scrub lilac bush straining for shade next to the building.

If we thought this looked like Mars, out here we were the strange ones. At least that’s the way the waitress in the café acted. She took one look at Nova’s pierced eyebrow (the one I’d forbidden), shook her head slowly, and asked for our order. “Today’s special is the double cheeseburger basket,” the waitress said, pointing her pencil at a hand-lettered sign that leaned against a water glass full of cut lilacs, no doubt from the bush outside. She was dressed in one of those oldfashioned uniforms with a Peter Pan collar and a suffocating polyester bodice. A printed name tag said, Dove, and underneath, Welcome to the Mucky-Muck Café. The sign on the front door read, Mucky-Muck is Chinook for Good Food.

“You have GardenBurgers?” Nova wanted to know. She’d declared herself a vegetarian last week. “And a double-skinny hazelnut latte.” My daughter had forgotten that we were now on a different planet, one without a Starbucks.

Dove looked at me to translate.

“Pick something,” I growled, handing Nova one of those menus where someone had typed in the selections and slipped them inside a thick plastic sleeve.

When lunch arrived, Nova picked at hers and stared, catatonic, out the window. In the light I noticed again that my daughter had Chaz’s eyes, a light intense blue that could turn the color of the stormy Pacific when she was angry.

Although most of the time he was mature for his age, Tru made a touchdown by flicking his straw paper between the salt and pepper shakers. I had a sudden urge to hide beneath the table.

Instead, I asked Dove if she knew about the place out on Winchester Road, the estate of the late Joseph Pond.

“Sure, everybody knows the Ponds,” Dove said, but I wondered why she was whispering. She gathered up the little wads of paper where Tru missed the field goal. “So sad about his passing. His sister and her husband still live out there, though. Tiny comes in here and hauls off anything we don’t want.”

“We’ve been on the road since this morning,” I said. “I’ve gotten lost more times than I can count.” I fidgeted with my straw and tried to ignore Nova’s grimaces.

One guy at the counter turned around. He was about fifty, his cheeks creased and tanned with the marks of sun and wind. His clothes were standard rancher’s attire: plaid western shirt tucked into dark blue jeans and boots with pointed toes and a thick layer of dirt clinging to the heels. A real cowboy instead of the phony environmentalist types I’d put up with in the city. This cowboy sat hunched over the remains of a greasy lunch platter and hadn’t eaten the pickle garnish. He stood it straight up in the middle of a half-eaten sandwich and chuckled. He had sharp, deep-set eyes; I couldn’t see if they were brown or green. I looked away, hoping he hadn’t noticed me staring. Being a librarian, I also hoped he wasn’t the type who breaks the spine on a book.

The man stood up and strode over to our booth. “Welcome to Murkee,” he said and extended his hand. “Just passing through?”

“No, not exactly,” I said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Muri.” I shook his hand but felt myself recoil. “And these are my children, Nova and Truman.”

“Since the new highway went through we don’t get that many tourists,” he said. “You got to get off the beaten path to find us, right Dove?”

The waitress nodded. “Way off the path. You got that right, Linc. Unless you’re out hunting fossils, that is.”

He laughed. “Where are my manners? I meant to say I’m Lincoln Jackson. I know just about everything that goes on around here.”

Nova’s head popped up from her sulking. “Tell us how to get back to Portland.”

I gasped. “Nova! I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson. We’ve gotten lost a number of times today, and we’re a little road weary.” I hoped my eyes weren’t puffy.

He waved his hand. “Call me Linc, please. And I don’t blame—Nova, is it—for being wary of our little town. The sidewalks do roll up pretty early. Not much action here, I’m afraid.”

“Linc, then.” I nudged Nova under the table.

“Sorry,” she said.

Dove broke in. “It’s even worse when there’s a rodeo over in Prineville. Then we’re lucky to serve lunch to the rattlers and jackrabbits.” She chuckled at her small joke, and her uniform swished when she moved her arms.

Tru perked up. “Rattlers? Are there rattlesnakes out here?” He pushed up his glasses. Nova rolled her eyes.

Linc patted Tru’s arm. “Sure there’s snakes, little guy. You ever hold a snake?”

“No, but I want to.” Tru sat up taller.

Linc leaned on the back of our booth. “How about roping? You ever roped a steer?”

Tru shook his head. “Like a cowboy?”

Linc laughed. “Shore, pardner. I can teach you all you need to know.” Linc brought over his black Stetson and handed it to Tru. “Go ahead, son, try it on.”

Tru looked at me for approval, then plunked on the hat. It nearly swallowed his head. “How do I look?”

“Like a doofus,” Nova said. “Like this town. Who’d name a town Murkee, anyway?”

I sighed. “Nova, please.”

Tru returned the hat, and Linc smoothed the brim. “No offense taken, ma’am,” Linc said. “I don’t rightly understand it myself, young lady. But my Great-grandmother Ida had the idea. And she insisted on Murkee. She said it sounded like some Indian word.”

“So this whole area was settled by your family?” I didn’t want to sound nosy, but I was intrigued. I smiled, relieved that these rural folks were so friendly.

Apparently, Dove had been eavesdropping. She came over with our check and said, “Linc here owns just about everything in these parts. Everything but the church and a couple of parcels next to his place.”

Tru’s eyes got bigger again. “You mean you own the whole town?” He dribbled ketchup down the front of his t-shirt, but I resisted the urge to wipe it off.

Linc seemed to consider Tru’s question. “Well, son, I guess so. And when I get access to that creek I’ll be a lot happier.” Dove shot him a look and resumed scrubbing down tables.

“Why do you need a creek?” Tru looked puzzled. “Does it have lots of fish or something?” He stuffed the last of his french fries into his mouth.

“Tru, use your napkin,” I said. I grabbed my purse and dug out money for our lunch, plus a nice tip. “And don’t ask so many questions.” This was getting embarrassing.

“No problem, ma’am,” Linc said. “Let’s just say one of my neighbors has been difficult.” He sighed. “Then he up and died before we could see eye to eye.”

Tru practically shouted, “My grandpa died too! Last week! But I never met him. I just heard about him.”

“Sorry to hear that, son.” Linc’s expression changed, and suddenly, he seemed guarded.

The wind picked up outside, rattling the windows and door. Clouds sped past the restaurant like a stampede, as if they knew there was something wrong here. I shuddered at the thought of getting lost again before the sun set. Now I was anxious to get on with it. Even in death Joseph Pond would complicate my life.

“Mr. Jackson, we’re not in Murkee to stay,” I said. “But my father, Joseph Pond, passed away recently. We’ll be here long enough to set his affairs in order. Maybe you could direct me to his property?” I smoothed a stray hair.

Linc’s pleasant demeanor had vanished. His jaw now worked from side to side, and the light in his eyes had turned to sparks.

“Chief Joseph’s place isn’t hard to find,” Linc said. “First eyesore you come to, that’s the one.” He laughed, but it was a hard laugh. He went back to the counter and straddled the stool.

“Eyesore?” I said aloud. I wondered why he had called my father Chief.

Dove shook her head and gazed up at the ceiling. “Lord, here we go again,” she said. “There’s a lot of stuff in the yard: bicycle parts, old cars, and that ridiculous fence.”

Nova jabbed me with her elbow. “Mom,” she hissed. “Let’s just go.”

“No, I want to hear more,” I said. “What did you say about a fence?”

Linc interrupted. “She’s talking about that idiotic fence out there. It’s, well, you’ll have to see for yourself.”

The bells on the café door jingled, and another man walked in. He was the opposite of Linc in terms of first impressions. Instead of western attire, he wore a flannel shirt and baggy, worn jeans. A short graying ponytail trailed out the back of his ball cap. He sat at the counter, and I wondered what he was doing in the middle of nowhere.

“Hey Good-looking,” he said to Dove.

“Good-looking my foot, Doc. The usual?” Dove grinned when he nodded. She slid behind the counter, poured coffee, and set the cup and saucer in front of him. “It’ll be a few minutes for your order.”

The man called Doc smiled. “No problem.” He was Linc’s opposite. His tanned face was easy and relaxed. I liked that, but I quickly reminded myself how foolish I could be about men: giving in, saying yes, and stumbling in, when I ought to be running for my life.

Dove came over to the booth, slapped the check in front of me, and I snapped to attention with a small gasp. She was careful to keep her back to Linc.

“Honey,” she whispered to me. “Linc’s your next-door neighbor. And he can be a bear, if you get my drift.”

I stared at Linc, looking for bear-like signs. Doc wasn’t overly friendly with Linc, either, but he did nod his head. Doc’s cell phone rang, and he spoke into it in hushed tones, which I appreciated. I was trying to teach Nova a cell phone wasn’t the most important accessory on earth.

“Hold the sandwich,” Doc said. “Gotta run, Dove. Sorry.” He dug around in his jeans pocket.

Dove waved him off. “Get going, Doc. No charge for a measly cup of coffee.”

“Thanks, Good-looking.” He winked at Dove and rushed outside.

Dove went to the counter, removed Doc’s cup, and then turned back to me. “Head straight out to the first gravel road,” she said, tossing the dirty dishes into a rubber dishpan, “till you get to the yellow gas company sign.”

Linc nursed his coffee. “If you go past the creek, you’ve gone too far,” he called across the room, and Dove nodded. His gaze locked on me. I felt more and more uncomfortable, but I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me.

“So we’re neighbors.” I stood up and approached him. “I’m Joseph Pond’s biological daughter. I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding.”

Linc looked surprised, but then his eyes narrowed. “Biological, eh? What’s that supposed to mean?” He stood up. “You must be the big city girl Lutie’s been carrying on about, come to show the country bumpkins a thing or two.”

Dove clattered a stack of dishes into the plastic tub.

I stood up taller and cleared my throat. “I’m a librarian, not an attorney.”

He rose and reached into his jeans pocket, plunked down a dollar bill, and shook a toothpick from the container. “Well, Miss Librarian, if Lutie thinks I’ll back down all because some smart girl from Portland steps in, she’s got another think coming.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” I said. “I only want to get things straightened out for my aunt and uncle. That’s what my father wanted.”

Linc paused and turned to face me. “You think you know your old man?” His neck muscles were beginning to bulge, and he pointed at me with his index finger. “I reckon you’re about to find out more than you ever wanted to know.”

I couldn’t find an answer to that one. Nova and Tru kept giving me anxious looks. “We’ll talk soon, Mr. Jackson,” I said finally. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Yeah.” Linc threw another bill on the stack. “Here’s a little something extra, Dove.” He tossed the toothpick into the trash can and picked up his western hat.

Nova muttered, “Hick.” I elbowed her in the back.

“I’ll look for the sign then,” I said as cheerfully as I could. Linc Jackson yanked open the door of the café, and the cluster of little brass bells jingled frantically on the doorknob.

He threw his next remark over one shoulder. “Have a nice day.” The door whooshed shut, and a pungent sorrow swept me along with the aroma of lilacs and french fries.

On our way out the bells sounded again, whispering something I couldn’t quite hear.

Watch Over Me - Chapter 1

2009-10-18T22:52:00.002-04:00

Watch Over Me
(Bethany House October 1, 2009)

Watch Over Me

Leaving Yesterday - Chapter 1

2009-10-13T22:20:00.001-04:00

Leaving Yesterday
Bethany House (October 1, 2009)

Leaving Yesterday

Things Worth Remembering - Chapter 1

2009-10-11T22:25:00.000-04:00

Things Worth Remembering
Bethany House (October 1, 2009)

Things Worth Remembering

A Measure Of Mercy - Chapter 1

2009-10-06T22:57:00.001-04:00

A Measure of Mercy
Bethany House (October 1, 2009)

A Measure of Mercy

Though Waters Roar - Chapter 1

2009-10-04T23:01:00.004-04:00

Though Waters Roar
· Bethany House (October 1, 2009)

Chapter 1

Though Waters Roar

Intervention - Chapter 1

2009-10-01T22:46:00.002-04:00

Intervention
Zondervan (September 22, 2009)

Chapter 1

The interventionist stood on the sidewalk at baggage claim, smoking a cigarette and chugging a Red Bull. What irony. The woman who’d promised to help rid Barbara’s daughter of her addictions clearly had a few of her own. Barbara considered driving past her, leaving her to get back on the plane and return to the rehab she ran. She could work this out herself — lock Emily in her room and take away her car keys, force her to stay sober. But hadn’t she already tried that? Despite Barbara’s best efforts to turn their home into a lockdown, Emily still managed to sneak out and get high.

How had this happened?

That familiar knot burned in Barbara’s stomach as she pulled to the curb and waved at the woman. It had to be her — the long red skirt, the white peasant blouse, just as she’d said. The outfit made her look more like a college student than someone who could escort a determined addict across the country. What if Emily put up a fight? How would this petite thing handle her?

Barbara stopped along the curb and pulled the lever under the dashboard, popping her trunk. Forcing a welcoming smile, she got out of the car. “Hi, are you Trish?”

“Sure am.” The woman dropped her cigarette on the concrete and stomped it out with a sandaled foot, then thrust a hand out to Barbara. “Trish Massey.”

“I’m Barbara Covington.”

Barbara glanced at the small bag at the woman’s feet. “Is this all you have?”

“Yeah, I won’t be here long.”

She picked up Trish’s bag and set it on the backseat as Trish got into the car. Barbara slipped back into the driver’s seat. The car that she’d freshened with Febreze suddenly smelled of smoke. “How was your trip?”

“Uneventful, which is always a good thing.” Trish was all smiles. “So where did you tell Emily you were going?”

“To an Al-Anon meeting.”

“And that’s okay with her?”

Barbara breathed a laugh. “Oh, yeah. She likes it when I’m working on her problem. She would love it if everybody she knew were going to meetings and wringing their hands. She loves to keep us playing the What-To-Do-About-Emily game.”

There she went again, letting her bitterness spill out to a stranger.

“Meetings are good,” Trish said. “Have you really been to any?”

Barbara slipped the car into Drive and pulled away from baggage claim, heading to the loop that would take them out of the airport and into Jefferson City. “Plenty. I’ve done the workbooks and gone through the twelve steps, like I’m the one with the problem. I’ve done everything they’ve told me to do. But she’s still using.”

“Al-Anon meetings are to help you cope, not to give you some secret code to sober up your loved one.”

Barbara knew that now. She’d gone to a few meetings, hoping to learn what would work with Emily. When she didn’t get those answers, she’d lost interest. Her own sanity would return when her daughter was sane.

Strange, that a woman who couldn’t be more than thirty would be counseling Barbara now. And who was Trish to counsel an eighteen-year-old? Emily would take one look at her and declare her dominance.

What was she doing? Maybe this was all wrong.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Trish said, as though she’d read Barbara’s mind.

Barbara didn’t want to cry in front of the stranger. For a moment she drove silently, staring at the taillights of the car in front of her. Finally, she spoke again. “When Emily was going into preschool, I personally visited fourteen schools. I interviewed teachers. I even spent a day with her at the one I liked, to see how she fit in.”

“I don’t blame you. I’d probably do the same thing if I had children.”

“It’s no easy thing, sending her to a place like this, halfway across the country. But I had to act quickly. There wasn’t time for a careful, deliberate search. I should have been more prepared when things escalated.”

“You mentioned on the phone that she’d stolen money?”

“Yes. Not the first time, but this was the most she’d taken. Four hundred dollars, right out of my account. She got my debit card out of my purse. Spent every penny on drugs.”

“How do you know?”

Barbara’s fingers tightened over the steering wheel. “Because she didn’t come home for three days. I found her strung out at a friend’s house. I got her to come home, and while she was sleeping, I searched her things. Found some credit cards she’d taken out in her dad’s name. John, my husband, died four years ago.”

Barbara paused, expecting a gasp, but it didn’t come. She supposed Trish had heard it all before. “You had to intervene,” Trish said. “It sounds like her life has spun out of control.”

Barbara’s own life had spun out of control. First, John’s cancer had disrupted their idyllic lives. When he died, she swam through grief so deep it almost drowned her. Being a forty-year-old widow with two children was the next mire she slogged through. But now, Emily’s drug abuse was more than she could take.

“You won’t be disappointed in our program,” Trish said.

Barbara glanced at Trish. “She’ll be locked in, right? Because if she isn’t, she’ll leave. I’ve tried treatment two other times — one time, she ran away after only a week. The second time, she smuggled drugs in and got kicked out.”

“We don’t lock them in, but she’ll be monitored at all times. Don’t worry, we do this all the time. She’ll be very comfortable.”

Comfort wasn’t Barbara’s main concern, though she didn’t want Emily to be miserable. Barbara bit the inside of her cheek as she pulled onto the interstate, headed for the hotel she’d reserved for Trish. She was sinking thirty thousand dollars into Road Back Recovery Center, money that had come from a second mortgage on her house. But being expensive didn’t guarantee that it was good. Even the best rehabs had underwhelming success rates.

She wished Trish inspired more confidence. “You seem very young. How did you come to own Road Back?”

Trish flicked her hair behind her ear. “I’m a recovering addict myself. I got clean at Road Back, and when I graduated, I stayed and worked there. I’ve been doing interventions for them for five years. A -couple of years ago, the directors wanted to retire, so I decided to buy it. I couldn’t stand the thought of it not being there anymore. That’s how much I believe in the program.”

That made Barbara feel somewhat better. She wished she could go to the facility herself to make sure it was all they advertised. But once she’d made up her mind to do the intervention, there hadn’t been time to take a trip to check it out in person. Waiting could have resulted in Emily’s arrest.

And Barbara knew she couldn’t take Emily there herself. No, it would take a professional to convince Emily to go, and Trish had to be the one to escort her. Barbara was sending her daughter off to some unknown place with this woman she didn’t know. Emily would pass this new threshold all alone . . . and be there for ninety days.

Emily had once been a fan of Hello Kitty and Amelia Bedelia. Now she collected pictures of her hero, Amy Winehouse, the famous addict with the hit song about avoiding rehab. Barbara still loved Emily with a love so painful that it ached through her at night, keeping her from sleep, but she didn’t like this person who’d replaced her daughter. If only this rehab could exorcise the addiction within her, and return Emily home in her former condition . . .

It would be a miracle.

But what if this failed too? What if turmoil and madness were all the potential Emily would ever fulfill?

Blinking back tears, she took the exit near her home. The Hampton Inn sign loomed ahead. “I hope the room is okay. I went ahead and checked you in.” Barbara handed Trish the key card.

“It’ll be fine. You should see some of the places I’ve had to stay.” As Barbara pulled into the parking lot, Trish shifted in her seat to look at her. “So, did you write the letters?”

“Yes.” She parked and got the envelopes from her purse. “Here they are.”

Trish took them and turned on the overhead light. “And who is Lance?”

“My son. He’s fourteen. It’s just us.”

“Did Emily’s problems start when her father died?”

“Not right away. But losing John was hard on all of us. Over the next year she got in with the wrong crowd.” She paused and settled her gaze on Trish. “I want you to know, we’re not like this. There was never even alcohol in our home. I’ve taken her to church every Sunday of her life . . .” Her voice faded. Trish had probably heard this same song and dance from every parent she dealt with.

“It’s not your fault.”

Then whose fault is it? Pursing her lips, Barbara let Trish read.

Finally, Trish looked up. “Will anyone else be at the intervention? Grandparents?”

“They’re too far away, and not in good health. I’ve kept them in the dark about all this. It would kill them.”

“Friends? A boss? Teachers?”

“Emily dropped out of school several months ago. Her senior year, six months before graduating, so there aren’t teachers. Her friends are like her. They don’t want her sober. And she lost her job three weeks ago. Hasn’t been sober enough to get another one, so there’s not a boss who can get through to her.” Barbara glanced at Trish in the shadows of the car. “Is it a problem that it’s only my son and me?”

“No, we can work with that.” Trish handed the letters back. “You both did a good job with the letters. You told her what her addiction is doing to the family, how you see her destroying herself, and what you’re asking her to do. The main thing is that you stick to your guns about what will happen if she refuses to go. To bring about change in her, you have to be willing to throw her out with no resources.”

Barbara said nothing. She had grappled with that issue for months now, and lain awake for the past three nights, begging God to give her a way out. Why couldn’t he sweep down and deliver Emily, before Barbara had to send her away for help or throw her out on the street?

“Are you ready for that? Putting her out if she refuses to go?”

Barbara swallowed. “I don’t know. I know it’s what I should do, but it’s like giving up. She’ll die for sure.”

“Or she might hit bottom and decide to get help.”

Barbara wondered what hitting bottom really meant. The picture that always came to mind was of a body lying broken and bloody on the street after falling from a twenty-story building.

“I’ve tried tough love. The third time she got arrested for a DUI, they sentenced her to three weeks in the juvenile detention center. I didn’t bail her out. It was the hardest three weeks of my life.”

“But it still didn’t scare her straight.”

“No. She went back to drugs a week after she got out.”

“Did you really think it would change her?”

“I’d hoped. What good was all that suffering while she sat in jail, if she didn’t change?”

“Your suffering, or hers?”

Barbara looked at Trish. “Both.”

“Again, you’re doing the hard things because you expect them to change her. You need to shift your thinking. Tomorrow, if she refuses to go and you have to put her out, do it because you and your son refuse to keep participating in her destruction. Do it for the mental and emotional protection of you and Lance. And you have to convey that to her. Make her understand you’ve come to the end of your rope.”

Barbara leaned her head back on the seat. “She has to go with you. That’s all there is to it.”

Trish reached over the backseat and got her bag. “Sometimes they want treatment,” she said. “Sometimes they’re more fed up than you know with the endless cycle they’re caught in. Constantly trying to get enough money to score another hit, thinking about it every waking moment, and never able to get that high they’re looking for. Running on that horrible treadmill just to feel normal — or their version of normal. Do you think she’s there yet?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I was hoping you were here to convince her, even if she doesn’t want help.”

“I can only do so much.”

So what had this extra thirty-five-hundred-dollar fee paid for? A free vacation for this woman? “She has to go with you. If she doesn’t, she’ll wind up in jail.”

“Or dead.”

Dead. No, Barbara couldn’t survive burying anyone else. “I can’t let that happen. This has to work.”

“I’ll give it everything I’ve got. Maybe she’s sick of her disease.”

Barbara fought the urge to argue semantics. She hated the AA words like disease and relapse, like it was a virus Emily had caught somewhere. Yet she couldn’t deny that Emily was sick.

Trish opened her car door. “What time will you pick me up?”

Barbara tried to think. The flight she’d booked for Trish and Emily was at three p.m. tomorrow, and this thing could take hours. They had to start early. “Eight a.m. I’ll get her up while you’re there.”

“Tonight, you need to take her car to a friend’s house. Park it there and hide the keys. If it’s not in the driveway, she can’t talk you into giving her the keys. If she leaves, it’ll have to be without the car.”

That wouldn’t be hard. Emily could have one of her drug buddies there in minutes.

“Hopefully, her connection with you and her brother will be enough to make her go. And I’ll do my part to make her see the possibilities.” She got out her cigarettes, pulled one out. “It’ll be okay. Most of the interventions I do are successful.”

“But there’s no guarantee.”

“I’m afraid not.”

She’d have to pay her whether Emily agreed to go or not. It had to work. Her resources were running out.

It's Not About Him - Prologue and Chapter 1

2009-09-29T21:58:00.002-04:00

It's Not About Him
Sheaf House (September 1, 2009)

Prologue

Ever have a decision to make that was so awful you wished it would go away? I did. But I couldn’t ignore the problem. It had a time limit. So not making a decision was still making one.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. But I learned some things from my experience. For one, I found out there are plenty of people willing to give advice, most of which is not at all helpful.

The thing is not many people understand how hard it is to make a decision when no matter how you choose someone gets hurt. I’m not talking about easy stuff like what you want to order at a restaurant. I’m talking about dishing up someone’s future. Deciding who will take care of the most precious gift you have ever received.

Honestly, I was so out of it I don’t remember much about the night my life was forever changed. Yet I still had the consequences to deal with. And I had to grow up fast.

Jeff, God bless him, tried to help me. But he made it harder for me, because it’s not about him, or my dad, or what anyone else thinks is best. It’s my child’s future that had to be considered, not just what I wanted.

The pain caused by making this decision was excruciating. But it taught me that my pain doesn’t have to define me, nor does a mistake. I am not what I did.

In the end, what matters most is love, because only love will get you through the most impossible situations. And while that doesn’t make everything better, it does make sense of something that makes no sense.

In the end, all I had was God. But He was enough.

Chapter 1

Susie Ziglar groaned and she leaned against her grocery cart until the nagging pain eased. She exhaled and then sipped from her cup. The ache in her back seemed to be getting worse. She needed to hurry up and finish her grocery shopping so she could sit and rest a minute. Pressing her hand into her lower spine, she set her drink down and straightened, then arched her back.

“My back is killing me.”

Jeff Rhodes, her constant companion and best friend for the past six months, eyed her with brows raised. “You think it’s time?”

Susie grimaced. “How should I know? I’ve never been through this before.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Oh, man. What if it is?”

“I doubt it. I’m not due for two more weeks. Anyway, my back has been aching like this for days. I can hardly sleep!” She sighed as the ache eased even more. A kick told her the baby didn’t like the squeezing sensation any more than she did.

They resumed shopping and Jeff steered her down another aisle. She was suddenly surrounded by baby products—with pictures of babies on boxes and diapers. Before she could take her next breath, her eyes flooded with tears. Her muscles tensed as she turned and pushed her cart down the aisle, her head bowed.

“I didn’t realize . . . ” Jeff sounded contrite as he tried to keep up.

She sped around the corner and marched away from him so he wouldn’t see her cry.

What she had to go through was hard enough, but did she need to be reminded of it everywhere she went? What did women do when they had miscarriages? She couldn’t imagine.

Her chest tightened and a tear slid down her cheek. Angrily she brushed it away. Pregnancy hadn’t been so bad. She never even got sick, at least not after the first few months. Oh, how she would miss the little person who’d been inside her for so long.

“I’m sorry, Snooze. I should’ve paid better attention.”

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, I can’t stop it once it—Ooof!” Her shirt suddenly jumped, as if someone punched from the inside, then floated down like a mini-parachute.

Jeff’s gaze fixed on her belly, and his mouth pulled into a sly grin. He spoke to her tummy in a funny voice. “Is my little girl doing jumping jacks again?” He patted her stomach as if expecting a response.

She moved his hand away. “Don’t.”

How she wished Jeff wouldn’t refer to the baby as if he knew it was a girl. When she had the ultrasound, she’d told the doctor she didn’t want to know the sex of the baby as the Passels wanted it to be a surprise.

The more Jeff talked about her child with such delight, the more she questioned her decision. But she couldn’t go back no matter what he said to try to change her mind.

Jeff rubbed his hand across his lips, and a faraway look appeared in his eyes.

She stopped pushing the cart. “What?”

He shook his head as if he was trying to snap out of whatever had pulled his thoughts away from her. “Nothing. Let’s get this done. What else do you need? Cheese? Bread?”

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Susie insisted. “Don’t give me that. You look worried again. I’m not stupid.”

Jeff’s attention settled on her eyes, and his voice lowered. “I know. I just can’t help wondering . . . Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

She squinted at him, ignoring the stabbing pain his question caused. “Of course I’m sure. I want this couple to adopt my baby. I can’t see myself raising a child alone.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times. You don’t have to—”

“That’s not reality, Jeff,” she snapped. “I don’t have any way to care for this baby. The last thing this innocent child needs is a struggling single mother when there are two wonderful people who can raise my baby in the love and security of a Christian home.”

A flash of memory from the night of the party zipped through her mind. But as usual, she didn’t see any faces. Everything was one huge blur.

She closed her eyes and sighed, hating the painful reality of her situation. “I can’t even collect child support since I’ll never know who the baby’s father is.”

“I know. But won’t you at least consider my offer?”

Susie chewed her lip and avoided looking into his hazel eyes. “I love you…as a friend. But we can never be more than that. It would ruin everything.”

His hand touched her shoulder, and he gently squeezed. “But, I still think—”

She tossed a box of cookies in the cart and shrugged him off. “I refuse to be a charity case. I won’t marry you just so you can help me raise another man’s child. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. Marriage is forever. Why can’t you see that?”

“I know what you’re saying, but it doesn’t seem right. I’m glad I wasn’t aborted, but I still wonder if my real parents are out there somewhere wishing they could find me.”

“Which is why I’m doing an open adoption. I’ll know who they are, and my child will know me.” She grimaced as another ache started in her lower back.

He pushed back her long bangs and tucked them behind her ear. “But Susie—”

“No! We’ve discussed this—” She cast her gaze down, trying to ignore the warm sensation his touch had created. Tears threatened to unleash, but she shook them off. He couldn’t see her weakness, because then he would try even harder to wear her down.

“I can’t help wondering if my real parents would have done a better job, you know? Especially since my dad never seemed to like me.”

She peered up and caught the wistful look on his face, then darted her gaze away. Raising this child would not heal his pain. “But this isn’t about you. I can’t fix what your parents did wrong. Neither can you.”

“Just think about it. Please.”

Something in his rough tone made her glance up. Tears stung her eyes as she glimpsed the intense pain in his. How she wished she could heal his heart, his past.

“Please, Susie.” His voice was so quiet she almost didn’t hear him.

She had to be strong. “Listen. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m signing my baby over to them, and you can’t change my mind. My child will always know who I am. It won’t be anything like your experience—I’m sure of it.”

“Suz.” He tipped up her chin and brushed her cheek with his thumb.

She stepped back, swallowing hard. The gesture was too intimate for mere friendship. And he’d been touching her a lot lately. His tenderness stirred feelings she was determined to snub. She couldn’t be attracted to him. That would ruin everything.

“But nothing.” Pressing her lips with determination, she added, “Because I care I won’t let you throw your life away.”

“Who says I’ll be throwing it away? I’m a big boy. I can make my own decisions.”

She turned her face away, pained by what she was about to say. “You know you don’t love me like that.”

“I could…” His voice was soft, gentle.

Frustration made her want to scream. Didn’t he realize how hard he was making it for her? How could she convince him to stop?

“Look at me!” she shouted, pointing at her stomach, and earning them a glare from another shopper. Anger…she needed to feel anger to stay in control. “I’m a beached whale.”

“No, you’re not.” His gaze softened, and he offered a tender smile.

She could feel her chin quivering. A knot lodged in her throat. Why did he have to be so sweet, so wonderful now that she’d made up her mind?

“Cut it out. And stop looking at me that way. We’re just friends, and that’s all we’re ever going to be.” If only her heart would listen…

“I don’t know why we—”

She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to shove the cart away and flee. “Because I don’t want that kind of relationship with anybody! I just want to get through this pregnancy and get on with my life. Please stop trying to change my mind.”

Before she could stop him, he cupped her face, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Just think about it.”

Here stomach fluttered in response to his touch. She glanced at his lips and jerked her chin away. Her insistence was not working, so she heaved a loud sigh. She did not want to talk about this kind of stuff in the middle of the grocery store.

“I love you.” Peeking up for a moment, she added, “just not that way.”

Closing her eyes, she pondered the irony of her statement. It wasn’t that long ago that Dan kept telling her the same thing, and she refused to listen. She’d been so angry with Annie, but that was in the past. How much her life had changed in such a short time. There was no going back to the way things had been, and for that she was thankful.

A former boyfriend from the tenth grade in high school entered the aisle where they’d huddled in the corner. She wished she could shrink and hide behind Jeff, but Mark had already seen her and headed in their direction. Once, she’d had a major crush on Mark, and they’d dated until he’d dumped her for a new girl who shared his faith.

“Hey, Susie. I didn’t know you got hitched. Congrats, girl!” He turned and offered his hand to Jeff. “Do I know you?”

Jeff received his hand and quickly let go. His neck reddened to his ears, and he directed a quick glance at Susie. “I’m Jeff . . . um, Susie’s . . . ah . . . friend.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mark.” Her former boyfriend’s gaze strayed to her hand. “Then who’d you marry?”

Susie’s throat squeezed and she had trouble forming a response. It wasn’t the first time someone assumed she was married because she was due to give birth. Closing her eyes for a moment, she forced the words out. “I’m not.”

Mark’s gaze strayed to her protruding belly and returned to her face. “Oh. Sorry.”

She tried to sound upbeat. “Jeff and I are good friends. We go to the same church.”

Cocking his head to the side, Mark asked Jeff, “Yeah? So where do you attend?”

“First Christian. You?”

Mark straightened. “My family goes to the Ward on Fourth Ave.”

An awkward silence ensued. Susie recalled going to church a few times with Mark when they’d dated, but she’d never felt comfortable around his family. There were too many kids, and she’d been an only child. His house felt more like a circus with the constant activity and people coming and going all the time.

“Well, it’s good seeing you, Mark,” Susie said hastily. “I’ll catch you around.”

“I doubt it. I moved to Washington State. I’m just visiting my family for the week. Well, bye.” Flicking his wrist, Mark turned the corner without looking back.

Susie exhaled. She’d almost forgotten Jeff was standing next to her.

“Hmmm….”

“Wow,” she said without enthusiasm. “He still looks the same.”

“Well, of course he does. It hasn’t been that long since you graduated.” His smile faded. “You like him?”

“We dated in high school.” Susie gasped. She bent over, clutching her stomach as a strong squeeze radiated through her abdomen.

Jeff stood behind her and put his arms around her waist to hold her up. “You okay?”

She felt a strange sensation, then a spike of pain. Without warning, her water broke, spilling the clear fluid all over the floor. “Oh no!”

His eyes widened. “No way. Not here—”

Heat suffused her cheeks. Of all the places to have her water break, why the grocery store? She tucked the folds of her long skirt between her knees to contain some of the amniotic fluid. How would she get to the car without making a bigger mess?

“Jeff, can you get the manager? See if he has a towel or something.”

“Sure.” Jeff darted around the corner and returned moments later with a towel. The store manager trailed behind. Jeff gave the concerned-looking man a quick wave and thanked him, then took her arm and guided her toward the door.

“Hang in there, babe. We’ll go straight to the hospital. You wait right here, and I’ll go get the car.”

“Like I’m going to take off,” she muttered.

She hardly got the words out before another pain reverberated through her. She wrapped her left arm around her abdomen and dug the fingers of her other hand into Jeff’s arm, making it impossible for him to leave. What felt like a long menstrual cramp—only more severe—stole her breath until her eyes filled with tears.

Why didn’t I sign up for those Lamaze classes? Then I’d know what to do.

“Hurry!” she grunted when the pain eased, and pushed him toward the door.

Giving her a terrified look, Jeff squeezed her hand, then darted out the door and sprinted for his car.

Susie watched him run, and a wave of loneliness washed over her. Jeff had been so good to her over the course of her pregnancy. At first, she knew it had been out of guilt because she’d been raped while passed out during one of his many parties. But the more time they spent together, the more things improved between them. Now they really enjoyed hanging out with each other. And things had been great until today.

But once she placed her baby with the Passels, she didn’t know where that would leave their relationship. She could only pray he’d still want to be friends. And that he wouldn’t be angry with her for giving her baby up for adoption. She’d promised her child to the Passels months ago, and she refused to back out on their agreement, especially when they were so hopeful and longed to adopt another child. She couldn’t break their hearts.

This life-changing decision was hard enough, but if she lost her best friend in the process, she didn’t know how she’d make it through. While loathe to admit it, deep down inside she knew she needed him. And that terrified her.

Sweat formed on Jeff’s brow. He swiped his forehead, wishing he could calm down but knowing he wouldn’t. Not until it was over. His heart pounded like a basketball dribbled against his ribs, the force of it pushing so hard it took his breath away.

With a shaky hand, he reached for Susie. She grabbed his fingers in a death grip and squeezed as she hunched over. After the pain eased, she straightened, peering up at him with frightened eyes. She looked so young and innocent. It broke his heart to think about what she must be going through emotionally.

He smiled to assure her as he gazed into her gorgeous, light brown eyes. Warmth filled his chest, covering his heart like a cozy blanket. Maybe if she wouldn’t listen to him or believe him when he tried to tell her he cared about—no, that he loved her, then he would have to show her through his actions.

One of these days she might actually believe him, and maybe, just maybe, she’d let him into her heart. Until then, he’d work to penetrate the shell surrounding it, and melt the protective ice barrier with the heat of his unconditional love.

When Jeff set his mind to something, he didn’t give up easily. Like the day he quit drinking. Once he realized his behavior didn’t honor God, and it made Susie uncomfortable, he’d stopped cold turkey. He’d never linked his drinking with Susie’s father’s alcoholism. Not until she brought it up one night during a heated argument.

He still remembered the pain from that night five months ago, the night he thought he’d lost her friendship because he’d finally gotten up the courage and admitted his true feelings to her. She hadn’t believed him then either. She’d just rolled her eyes and told him she refused to love a man who drank booze.

That night he swore off drinking. Since then, his life had not been the same.

It’d been so much better.

“Come on, Snooze. Get in.” He opened the car door and gestured toward the seat. She poked his ribs and he jumped. “Ah!”

With a lop-sided smirk she crooned, “You know I can’t stand that nickname. Until you stop teasing me, Jiffy pop, I’m not—Ahhhhh.”

She clutched her stomach and sucked in her breath.

Jeff’s pulse pounded at the sight of pain etched on her face. Blood whooshed in his ears, and dizziness filled his head now that her contractions were closer together.

God, let her be okay. I couldn’t take it if anything happened to her.

He watched in mute fascination until her face slackened and he knew the pain had eased. Childbirth was such a mystery to him.

Susie lowered herself and tried to slide onto the seat. Covering her hair with his hand, Jeff guided her so she wouldn’t bump her head.

His heart squeezed as he gazed at her beautiful face no longer contorted with pain. He longed to touch her creamy skin with his fingers, to kiss her full pink lips and nuzzle her dimpled cheeks. If only she would agree to marry him. Then she could keep her baby, and they would be a family. Why did she have to be so stubborn?

With a defeated sigh, he shut the door and climbed into the driver’s side. He turned the key, praying silently as he drove to the hospital. Lord, bless Susie and be with her as she goes through this difficult time. Give her peace, God, whatever she decides, and help me to show her I love her even if I don’t agree with her decision.

The whimpers and moans coming from her lips as the headed to the hospital made his lungs constrict. He would do anything to help ease her pain. He reached for her hand and offered a reassuring squeeze, knowing it was inadequate. But it was all he could do given the circumstances.

Another contraction overtook her. She squeezed his hand so hard his knuckles crushed into each other. “We’re almost there, Snooze. Hang on.”

With a flick of her wrist, she slapped his bicep and grunted through the pain. “Cut it out, Jiffy pop. I mean it.”

“Ow, man, you’re good with those stingers.” He rubbed his arm. “Remind me to avoid teasing you when you’re hurting.”

He glanced over to gage her response to his teasing and he noticed tears filling her eyes. She bit her lower lip, and her shoulders shook as if she was trying to contain her grief. He felt like such a jerk. Why did he have to mention pain at a time like this!

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

After several seconds of silence, Susie sniffed. “No, it’s okay. It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?” His gaze darted between her and the road as he closed in on the hospital and prayed no cops were lingering in hopes of catching a speeding car. He couldn’t afford another ticket. Though only twenty four, he’d already gotten his share of moving violations, and the insurance costs were getting ridiculous.

“It’s just…I miss my baby and I haven’t even done it yet.” She choked on a sob, wiping her wet eyes with the back of her hand. “Oh, Jeff… This is so hard.”

His vision blurred briefly as he blinked back tears. The sound of her grief shook him. He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice low and deep. “It’s not too late to change your mind. You don’t have to sign the papers. My offer still stands.”

She shook her head vigorously and sniffed hard. “No. I’m doing this.”

Part of him admired her tenacity, and the other part wanted to shake some sense into her.

Her body tensed with another contraction. “Ahhhh! This hurts way more than I ever thought.”

Jeff pulled into a parking space near the entrance to the ER and slammed on his brakes. He leaned in front of her stomach to grasp the door handle.

She stopped him by grabbing his arm. “Wait! Please. Just be my friend. I don’t want to be mad at God for letting this happen to me. I have to see this as His way of using me to bless someone else. Otherwise, I’ll go mad from thinking about it.”

Susie looked up with tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t make me feel worse.”

His eyes burned and he willed himself not to cry. Her grief deepened his pain and made him feel weak when she needed his strength right now. Quashing his unresolved emotions for her sake, he covered the side of her head with his palm and stroked her silky hair, resolving to be the strength she needed. “I’ll do whatever you need. I promise.”

“Good.” She offered a weak, tremulous smile, before inhaling deeply.

He smiled and tried to show his support through his response to her.

“Can you call Dave and Diane before we go inside? I don’t want them to miss this.”

“Sure. No problem.” He resisted the urge to grasp her head and gently kiss her hair. Instead, he removed his cell phone from the clip on his belt. He flipped it open and scrolled until he found Dave’s number.

“Dave’s Corporate Consulting. How may I help you?”

“Dave? It’s me, Jeff. Listen. Susie’s in labor. She wants you guys to meet her at the hospital as soon as you can. Her contractions are pretty close together.”

“Praise God!” Dave shouted in his ear. “Honey, Susie is in labor and wants us to meet her right away.”

Jeff heard Diane’s voice in the background. “Oh…” Diane squealed. “Tell Susie we love her… and…and… we’re on our way.”

Dave chuckled into the phone. “Did you hear that? My wife is bawling her eyes out. I’m a bit choked up myself. Tell her we’ll be there as quick as we can.”

His heart pitter-pattered at the sound of their joy. Maybe Susie was right. Maybe she was doing what was best for her child and he was the one being selfish. “Will do.”

Flipping his phone closed, he returned it to his belt.

Susie clutched her stomach, taking short breaths like he’d seen a woman in a movie do when she was in labor. “I can’t wait much longer. Jeff, oh Jeff. Help me up. This hurts so bad. I feel like someone is stabbing me and squeezing my whole body! She moaned as she reached for the door handle, now sobbing.

Jeff hopped out and ran around the car to help her up. “Here.”

She grabbed on to his arm. Yanking her purse from the floor with her other hand, she slung it over her shoulder and winced.

She put one foot in front of the other, holding her stomach as she shuffled along. “What did they say? I couldn’t hear them.”

“They cried and said they loved you and they’re on their way.”

“They said that?”

“Yeah. Why does that surprise you? Lots of people love you, Susie. You’ve changed so much; it’s like you’re a different person now that you’re a Christian.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Why do you think I started listening more in church? Your change of heart touched a lot of people. No offense, but it was like you were really mean before, and now you’re just…sweet, and loveable, and gorgeous.”

Her adorable dimples appeared in her cheeks and her wistful smile made his heart flutter. “Thanks, Jeff. You’re so kind. I just wish my dad would talk to me. Ahhhh!”

“That’s enough reminiscing, hon. We’ve gotta get you checked in. You ready?”

She bit her lower lip and nodded. A minute later she sighed as the contraction eased. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Her gaze locked onto his and she grew serious. “Pray for me, Jeff. This is gonna be so hard. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

Jeff pulled her into his arms and rubbed her trembling back. His throat knotted when the baby shifted in her belly and pressed against him. The movement reminded him of what was to come. It tore at his heart when he thought about how it would be over soon. He whispered into her hair, “Of course you are, Susie. You’re the strongest girl I know. You can do this.”

Pushing away from him, she exhaled a shuddering breath. “I can do this. I can. Please, Jesus, help me do this.”

She continued praying, uttering just loud enough for Jeff to hear even through her sobbing. “I know You’ll get me through this, Jesus.”

Silently agreeing with her, Jeff added. Lord, help us both.

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow - Chapter 1

2009-09-27T22:57:00.001-04:00

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow
Abingdon Press (September 2009)

Chapter 1

Even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while. —Ruth Knickerbocker

If you get off the Pennsylvania Turnpike at the Jack Frost Ski Resort exit, turn left, and travel twenty-two and one quarter miles, you’ll see a sign that reads: Bright’s Pond, Home of the World’s Largest Blueberry Pie.

While it is true that in 1961 Mabel Sewicky and the Society of Angelic Philanthropy, which did secret charitable acts, baked the biggest blueberry pie ever in Pennsylvania, most folks will tell you that the sign should read: Bright’s Pond, Home of Agnes Sparrow.

October 12, 1965. That was the day my sister, Agnes Sparrow, made an incredible decision that changed history in our otherwise sleepy little mountain town and made her sign-worthy.

“I just can’t do it anymore, Griselda. I just can’t.” That’s what Agnes said to me right before she flopped down on our red, velvet sofa. “It ain’t worth it to go outside anymore. It’s just too much trouble for you—” she took a deep breath and sighed it out “—and heartache for me.”

Agnes’s weight had tipped a half pound over six hundred, and she decided that getting around was too painful and too much of a town spectacle. After all, it generally took two strong men to help me get Agnes from our porch to my truck and then about fifteen minutes to get her as comfy as possible in the back with pillows and blankets. People often gathered to watch like the circus had come to town, including children who snickered and called her names like “pig” or “lard butt.” Some taunted that if Agnes fell into the Grand Canyon she’d get stuck. It was devastating, although when I look back on it, I think the insults bothered me more than they did Agnes.

Her hips, which were wider than a refrigerator, spread out over the sofa leaving only enough room for Arthur, our marmalade cat, to snuggle next to her. “I think I’ll stay right here inside for the remainder of the days God has set aside for me.” She slumped back, closed her eyes, and then took a hard breath. It wiggled like Jell-O through her body. I held my breath for a second, afraid that Agnes’s heart had given out since she looked so pale and sweaty.

But it didn’t.

Agnes was always fat and always the subject of ridicule. But I never saw her get angry over it and I only saw her cry once—in church during Holy Communion.

She was fourteen. I was eleven. We always sat together, not because I wanted to sit with her, but because our father made us. He was usually somewhere else in the church fulfilling his elder’s responsibilities while our mother helped in the nursery. She always volunteered for nursery duty. I think it was because my mother never really had a deep conviction about Jesus one way or the other. Sitting in the pews made her nervous and she hated the way Pastor Spahr would yell at us about our sins, which, if you asked me, my mother never committed and so she felt unduly criticized.

Getting saddled with “fat Agnes” every Sunday wasn’t easy because it made me as much a target of ridicule as her. Ridicule by proximity. Agnes had to sit on a folding lawn chair in the aisle because she was too big to slip into the pew. And since she blocked the aisle we had to sit in the last row.

Our father served Communion, a duty he took much too seriously. The poor man looked like a walking cadaver in his dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie as he moved stiffly down the aisle passing the trays back and forth with the other serious men. But the look fit him, what with Daddy being the town’s only funeral director and owner of the Sparrow Funeral Home where we lived.

On that day, the day Agnes cried, Daddy passed us the tray with his customary deadpan look. I took my piece of cracker and held it in my palm. Agnes took hers and we waited for the signal to eat, supposedly mulling over the joy of our salvation and our absolute unworthiness. Once the entire congregation, which wasn’t large, had been served, Pastor Spahr took an unbroken cracker, held it out toward the congregation, and said, “Take. Eat, for this is my body broken for you.” Then he snapped the cracker. I always winced at that part because it made me think about broken Jesus bones getting passed around on a silver platter.

I swallowed and glanced at Agnes. She was crying as she chewed the cracker—her fat, round face with the tiny mouth chewing and chewing while tears streamed down her heavy, pink cheeks, her eyes squinted shut as though she was trying to swallow a Ping-Pong ball. Even while the elders served the juice, she couldn’t swallow the cracker for the tears. It was such an overwhelmingly sad sight that I couldn’t finish the ritual myself and left my tiny cup of purple juice, full, on the pew. I ran out of the church and crouched behind a large boulder at the edge of the parking lot, jammed my finger down my throat and threw up the cracker I had just swallowed. I swore to Jesus right then and there that I would never let him or anyone hurt my sister again.

Which is probably why I took the whole Agnes Sparrow sign issue to heart. I knew if the town went through with their plan it would bring nothing but embarrassment to Agnes. I imagined multitudes pulling off the turnpike aimed for Jack Frost and winding up in Bright’s Pond looking for her. They’d surely think it was her tremendous girth that made her a tourist attraction.

But it wasn’t. It was the miracles.

At least that’s what folks called them. All manner of amazements happened when Agnes took to her bed and started praying. It made everyone think Agnes had somehow opened a pipeline to heaven and because of that she deserved a sign— a sign that would only give people the wrong idea.

You see, when my sister prayed, things happened; but Agnes never counted any answer to prayer, yes or no, a miracle. “I just do what I do,” she said, “and then it’s up to the Almighty’s discretion.”

The so-called Bright’s Pond miracles included three healings— an ulcer and two incidents of cancer—four incidents of lost objects being located miles from where they should have been, an occurrence of glass shattering, and one exorcism, although no one called it that because no one really believed Jack Cooper was possessed—simply crazy. Agnes prayed and he stopped running around town all naked and chasing dogs. Pastor Spahr hired him the next day as the church janitor. He did a good job keeping the church clean, except every once in a while someone reported seeing him howling at the moon. When questioned about it, Pastor Spahr said, “Yeah, but the toilets are clean.”

Pastor Rankin Spahr was a solid preacher man. Strong, firm. He never wavered from his beliefs no matter how rotten he made you feel. He retired on August 1, 1968, at the ripe old age of eighty-eight and young Milton Speedwell took his place.

Milton and his wife, Darcy, were fresh from the big city, if you can call Scranton a big city. I suppose he was all of twenty-nine when he came to us. Darcy was a mite younger. She claimed to be twenty-five but if you saw her back then, you’d agree she was barely eighteen.

Milton eventually became enamored with Agnes just like the rest of the town and often sent people to her for prayer and counsel.

But it wasn’t until 1972 when Studebaker Kowalski, the recipient of miracle number two—the cancer healing—that Agnes’s notoriety took front seat to practically everything in town. Studebaker had a petition drawn up, citing all the miracles along with a dozen or more miscellaneous wonders that had occurred throughout the years.

“Heck, the Vatican only requires three miracles to make a saint,” he said. “Agnes did seven. Count ’em, seven.”

Just about everyone in town—except Agnes, Milton Speedwell, a cranky old curmudgeon named Eugene Shrapnel, and me—added their signatures to the petition making it the most-signed document ever in Bright’s Pond. Studebaker planned to present it to Boris Lender, First Selectman, at the January town meeting.

Town meetings started at around 7:15 once Dot Handy arrived with her steno pad. She took the minutes in shorthand, typed them up at home on her IBM Selectric, punched three holes in the sheet of paper, and secured it in a large blue binder that she kept under lock and key like she was safekeeping the secret formula for Pepsi Cola.

That evening I settled Agnes in for the night and made sure she had her TV remote, prayer book, and pens. You see, Agnes began writing down all of the town’s requests when it became so overwhelming she started mixing up the prayers.

“It’s all become prayer stew,” she said. “I can’t keep nothing straight. I was praying for Stella Hughes’s gallbladder when all the time it was Nate Kincaid’s gallbladder I should have asked a favor for.”

Nate ended up with Stella’s prize-winning pumpkin and had to have his gallbladder removed anyway. Stella had apparently entered the same contest as Nate and asked Agnes for God’s blessing on her pumpkin. Stella forgave Agnes for the oversight, and Nate agreed to share the blue ribbon with her. But, as Agnes said, God blessed her blunder because Nate and Stella got married six months later. They’ve been raising prize-winning pumpkins ever since.

After the pumpkin debacle, Agnes wrote down all the requests in spiral notebooks. She color-coded the names and petitions, reserving black ink for the most severe cases, red for less dire but still serious needs (marriage troubles and minor illnesses like warts and bunions) and blue ink for the folks with smaller troubles like broken fuel pumps and ornery kids—that sort of thing.

“I got to get going now, Agnes,” I told her a few minutes before seven. “The meeting’s about to start and I don’t want to be late.”

“Could you fetch me a drink of juice and maybe a couple tuna sandwiches before you go? And how about a couple of those cherry Danishes left over from last Sunday?”

“I’ll be late, Agnes, and you already had your dinner.”

“It won’t take but a minute, Griselda, please.”

I spread tuna salad onto white bread and poured a glass of golden apple juice into a tall tumbler with strawberry vines. I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing my fingers when I heard rain start—hesitant at first. It was the kind of rain that started with large, heavy drops and only a hint of ice in them but would soon turn to all snow. Most of the time foul weather meant a smaller crowd for town meetings, but with the Agnes Sparrow sign debate on the agenda I doubted the weather could keep folks away.

“I better go,” I said. “I want a seat in front on account of the sign situation.”

“Phooey,” Agnes said. “I told you I don’t want a sign with my name on it. I don’t want the glory.”

“I know.” I took a deep breath and blew it out. “I told you I’d take care of it.”

Agnes took another bite of her sandwich and turned on the TV while I buttoned my coat and slipped into yellow galoshes. I was just about to step outside when Agnes spoke up. Her high voice made her sound like a little girl.

“The Lord just gave me an idea,” she said, swallowing. “Tell that town council of ours that the sign should read, Bright’s Pond. Soli Deo Gloria. That’s Latin. It means—”

“I know what it means. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” That was when all the trouble started. And I don’t just mean over the silly sign. I thought the town’s enthusiasm to advertise Agnes’s prayers got something loosed in the heavens and trouble came to Bright’s Pond after that—trouble no one could have ever imagined.

Fields of Grace - Chapter 1

2009-09-22T22:32:00.002-04:00

Fields Of Grace
Bethany House (October 2009)

Fields of Grace

One Imperfect Christmas - Chapter 1

2009-09-20T22:20:00.002-04:00

One Imperfect Christmas
Abingdon Press (September 2009)

Chapter 1

Natalie Pearce padded into the kitchen in her new velour robe and fuzzy orange-and-white slippers that looked like little foxes. They were a Christmas present from her husband, Daniel, just three weeks ago. The gift tag had read: “To one foxy lady!”

First thing in the morning, straw-blonde hair still tangled from sleep, she felt anything but foxy. Still, her cheeks warmed as she considered inviting Daniel back to the bedroom for a few more minutes of snuggling. Then she remembered this was Saturday—her day to play “coach’s widow.” After nearly fifteen years of marriage she still hated her husband’s erratic schedule. On Christmas Eve her parents had celebrated their forty-eighth wedding anniversary, a legacy of love Natalie hoped she and Daniel could emulate. But was such a dream even possible when the two of them seemed to operate in different time zones?

She paused at the breakfast table and set her hands on her hips. As usual, he’d left the newspaper in shambles, the comics pulled from one section and the sports page decimated after he’d clipped all the articles covering Putnam Middle School’s athletic teams.

Daniel breezed into the kitchen, sneakers squeaking on the ceramic tile floor. “Hey, hon, sorry about the paper.” He planted a toothpaste-flavored kiss on her parted lips. “I’d sort it out for you, but I’m already running late. I’m meeting Carl at Casey’s Diner to carpool to the tournament.”

Natalie fought to keep her smile in place as she gave him a playful punch in the stomach. “What’s new? Get out of here before I decide not to let you go at all.”

“Promises, promises.” He wiggled his dark eyebrows. “Seriously, before you go . . . ,” she said in her sexiest voice. She clutched the lapels of his red Putnam Panthers jacket and pulled him toward her.

With a seductive grin, Daniel drew her into his arms. “Sweetheart, I told you, I’m already running late.”

She chuckled and bit his ear. “Sorry, Coach, I just wanted to ask you again what time your parents will be here.”

“Woman, you break my heart!” He slammed a hand to his chest as if he’d been shot. “Ah, now I get it. You want to know exactly how much time you have to clean the house.”

So she wasn’t the world’s greatest housekeeper—one trait she didn’t inherit from her mother. Who cared about a little clutter on the kitchen counters, or last night’s pizza pan still soaking in the sink? So what if she hadn’t dusted since Thanksgiving? Hard to do with Christmas decorations covering every flat, dusty surface in the house.

Daniel seemed to read her thoughts. He tilted her chin until she reluctantly met his gaze. “Next weekend. Promise me, okay? The Christmas decorations need to come down.” She pushed out her lower lip. “Only if you stay home and help. It’s depressing to do it all by myself.”

“I’ll check my schedule.” He gathered up his car keys and canvas briefcase and then slicked a hand through ash-brown hair still damp from his shower. “Mom and Dad won’t get here before three at the earliest, so you’ve got plenty of time to enjoy your coffee.” He glanced at his watch. “And I don’t. I’m out of here, sweetie. With any luck, I’ll be home in time for dinner.”

“That’ll be the day.”

The door to the garage banged shut behind him, sending a puff of wintry air into the kitchen. Moments later Natalie heard the ancient green Bronco grumble a couple of times before starting up. The poor thing must have nearly 200,000 miles on it. How Daniel kept it running, she hadn’t a clue, but what with paying the mortgage on their dream home and keeping their thirteen-year-old fashionista daughter in designer jeans, replacing a vehicle wasn’t in the budget. She sent up a quick prayer for Daniel’s safety on the road and hoped the weather held. The last she’d heard, the predicted snow wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow morning.

Her chest caved. Much as she enjoyed the visits with Daniel’s parents, Alice Pearce was an even more meticulous housekeeper than Natalie’s mother. No way around it—the cleaning had to get done. Maybe Natalie could bribe her daughter into helping. After all, half the mess was Lissa’s school books, art supplies, and discarded shoes dropped haphazardly between the kitchen door and her bedroom upstairs.

So much for getting back to the watercolor landscape Natalie had begun last weekend. At least her freelance graphic design assignments had tapered off now that the holidays had passed. The extra income supplemented Daniel’s small-town coaching salary, but Natalie dreamed of making her living as a fine artist—thanks to her mother’s teaching and inspiration. She’d much rather pursue her own creative visions than those of her finicky clients.

She poured a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee and then dropped an English muffin into the toaster. She’d barely sat down to spread the muffin with her mother’s homemade apricot jam when Lissa flounced into the kitchen, her long blonde hair pinned up with mismatched butterfly clips. Natalie suppressed a laugh and lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Is this the part where you say, ‘Take me to your leader’?”

“Oh, Mom, how juvenile!” Lissa swiped her finger through the jam jar and licked off a sticky, amber glob. “Have you seen my pink sweater—the one with the gray stripe across the front?”

Natalie sipped her coffee. “Did you check the laundry hamper?”

“Yes, twice.”

“The floor of your room?”

“Mother!”

“How about the closet? Any chance you actually hung it up?”

Lissa clenched her fists. “Mom, I need some help here. Jody and her mom are picking me up in twenty minutes.”

Natalie gave her daughter a blank stare.

“Earth to Mo-ther.” Lissa rolled her eyes.

“Oh, rats, the youth group skating party.” No help cleaning from Lissa today. With a sigh, Natalie bit into her English muffin. “Sorry, honey, but I have no idea where your sweater is. Can’t you find something else to wear?”

The ringing telephone halted whatever sarcastic retort Lissa was about to spit out. She squinted at the caller ID on the kitchen extension and grabbed the receiver. “Jody! Did I leave my sweater over there when I spent the night last weekend? Great! Bring it with you. I’ll put it on in the car.” She hung up and dashed through the den, yanking clips out of her hair and tossing them on the sofa.

“Lissa!”

“Sorry, Mom. I’ll get them later, I promise!” Lissa’s bedroom door slammed with finality.

Right, when pigs fly. Sure, Natalie could insist Lissa pick up after herself before leaving for the party, but a battle of wills with a headstrong preteen? No-brainer—it was guaranteed to ruin the entire day for both of them. She made a promise to herself, though, that one day very soon she and Daniel would sit down with Lissa and lay out some ground rules— before Lissa’s adolescent self-centeredness got completely out of hand.

Natalie refilled her coffee mug and carried the remains of the newspaper to the den. Fifteen more minutes and she’d have the house to herself and maybe a little time to work on that watercolor before she got serious about cleaning.

Lissa had been gone barely five minutes when the phone rang again. Natalie, settled in the recliner under a snuggly fleece throw, was tempted not to answer it—probably another of Lissa’s perky seventh-grade friends calling to ask what she planned to wear to the party.

Then the answering machine picked up, and after Natalie’s recorded greeting and the beep, she heard her mother’s voice. “Hi, Natalie, just me. Guess you’re out running errands. I’ll call later—”

Natalie shook off her annoyance and jumped up to grab the kitchen extension. “Hey, Mom, I’m here.”

“Oh, good, glad I caught you.” Her mother’s cheery voice turned cajoling. “It’s that time again, sweetheart. Can I twist your arm to help?”

Apprehension propelled Natalie into the nearest chair. Her mother didn’t even have to speak the words. “Oh, Mom, does it have to be today? Taking down Christmas decorations is my least favorite chore in the world. Daniel’s already on my case about ours.” She gave a weak laugh. “You know me. I’d leave them up year-round if I could.” Someday she’d do just that and hire someone to come in and dust them off once a month.

“I know, and I’m sorry to even ask.” Mom sounded genuinely sympathetic. “But your dad went to that horse auction, and it’s my turn to host the church ladies’ book club tomorrow afternoon.”

“Did you try Hart and Celia?” Natalie’s brother and sisterin- law lived just a few miles from the farm.

“Hart went with your dad to the auction, and Celia’s taking Kurt and Kevin to their basketball game.” Mom paused. “I’ll make apple dumplings and hot cider.”

“Bribery—that is so not fair.” Natalie patted her stomach. “I already need to sweat off at least five pounds of Christmas goodies.”

“Lifting Christmas boxes is good exercise.”

Obviously, Mom wasn’t going to give up. Natalie stared out the bay window. She needed to come up with some logical reason why Mom should postpone this depressing annual chore. Her gaze settled on the bank of gray snow clouds looming on the horizon. She shivered just thinking about venturing out on this frosty January day.

She offered an idea. “Think of how much the ladies would enjoy the decorations. It wouldn’t hurt to leave them up a little longer, would it?”

“Natalie, the tree is completely dry and dropping needles all over the carpet. It really must come down today.” A note of apology tinged her mother’s voice. “I should have asked your father to help me earlier in the week, but the time got away from us.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Mom, and if it were any other weekend—” Yes, come to think of it, she had a ready-made excuse. She tried not to let the rush of gratitude creep into her tone. “Remember I told you Daniel’s parents are driving over this afternoon? Daniel’s at a tournament in Fielding to scout basketball teams, and Lissa’s at a skating party. I need to clean house and shop for groceries before they get here.”

Not that she actually intended to do all that much. If her mother had asked her help for anything else—rearranging furniture, washing windows, even shoveling snow off the front walk—she’d have driven out to the farm on a moment’s notice.

But taking down Christmas decorations?

Her mother gave a wry laugh. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, I’ll manage by myself.”

Mom’s disappointment tarnished Natalie’s brief glow of triumph and raised a moment of concern. Her stubborn mother would “manage” all right. She’d take on the whole project by herself, arthritis and all. Natalie pressed the phone against her ear. “Now, Mom, don’t you try to carry all those boxes out to the barn. You’ll aggravate your bad wrist again, and you won’t be able to paint for a week.”

“Natalie—”

“I mean it, Mom. Stack the decorations out of sight in the downstairs guestroom, and I’ll come by one day next week to help you pack everything away.”

After eliciting her mother’s assurance she wouldn’t take on too much, Natalie said good-bye. Just a few more days to psych herself up for the end of the holidays, that’s all she asked. Shrugging off the last twinges of guilt, Natalie snuggled into the recliner to finish her coffee.

Around ten, she finally talked herself into exchanging her comfy robe and those adorable slippers for paint-stained sweats and grungy sneakers. Like it or not, she needed to do a cursory cleaning before her in-laws arrived. She’d just finished loading the dishwasher and returned from the garage with the sponge mop when the phone rang again.

This time it was Daniel’s father, calling to say the winter frontal system had already hit their part of the state. With two inches of snow on the ground and more expected, they’d decided not to chance the drive.

A crazy mix of relief and disappointment flooded Natalie. Daniel didn’t get to see his folks that often, and Lissa had been planning an after-Christmas shopping trip with her grandmother ever since they’d first mentioned coming. But an excuse to postpone housecleaning? Definitely cause for celebration. Natalie loaded the stereo with her favorite Christmas CDs, set up her easel and paints in front of the bay window, and settled in for her version of the perfect Saturday.

Hours later, she was adding the finishing touches to a winter landscape when the phone startled her. The paintbrush skittered across the canvas, marring a stately pine with aquamarine streaks. Natalie mumbled a few choice words and glanced at the mantle clock as she wiped her hands on a paint rag. Five already? Where had the day gone? Daniel and Lissa would be home soon. She needed to wrap things up and figure out something for supper. Mentally sorting through the freezer contents for a quick and simple meal, she picked up the kitchen extension.

“Natalie?” her dad’s voice sounded ragged—choked with panic. “Come to the hospital right away. It’s your mother.”

Her stomach plummeted. She pictured her mother at the bottom of a ladder amidst a pile of Christmas decorations. “What happened? Is she okay?”

Sprained ankle? Broken hip? Oh, Mom, why couldn’t you wait?
“Just . . . get here.” Her father clicked off before she could press him for details.

Dread coiled around her heart. She threw a parka over her sweats and grabbed her purse and keys off the counter. When she gunned the engine to back out of the garage, her trusty silver Saturn screeched in protest. The side mirror nicked the doorframe, and she barely missed taking out the mailbox and the neighbor’s trash can. She drove like a maniac to Putnam General, all the while berating herself for ignoring Mom’s request for help. After everything her mother had sacrificed for her, she could only pray these new injuries wouldn’t cripple her mother for life.

Natalie burst through the ER entrance and scanned the faces in the congested waiting area. A mother holding an ice pack against her son’s forehead. An ashen-faced woman dozing against an elderly man’s shoulder. Whimpering babies. Frightened children. Anxious parents.

She spotted her father’s silver-gray head across the room, where he paced in front of a set of double doors. Her brother, Hart, stood close by with his hands tucked into his blue-jeans pockets, rocking on his heels.

Natalie rushed over and touched her father’s arm. “Dad, how’s Mom? Tell me it’s not serious.”

Her father turned and looked at her—looked through her. “They think it’s a stroke.” His face crumpled as his thin veneer of strength collapsed. He pressed a fist to his mouth and pulled her to him, squeezing her so tightly, she could hardly breathe.

Natalie struggled away and stared at him, not comprehending. A stroke? Ice-cold terror crackled through her veins. She spun to face her brother and seized his wrist. “Hart?”

“It’s bad, Nat. Real bad.” He drew her into his arms, and she felt her brother’s fear in every tense muscle of his body.

A tall, bearded man in hospital greens pushed through the double doors. “Mr. Morgan? I’m Dr. Wyatt.” He indicated a frayed blue sofa, the only empty seat in the waiting area. “Why don’t we sit down.”

Natalie blocked his way. “Just tell us, how is my mother? She’ll be okay, right?”

“I wish I had better news.” The doctor glanced at the chart he held.

“But there’s stuff you can do for a stroke these days. I saw it on TV.”

“It isn’t that simple. Please try to understand.” Dr. Wyatt attempted to explain her mother’s condition, tossing out phrases about blood clots and clot-dissolving medications and something about a three-hour time window before irreversible brain damage set in.

A sob tore from Natalie’s throat. “Are you saying she got here too late? That there’s nothing you can do?”

“We’ll continue to do all we can to minimize the damage, but under the circumstances . . . ” The doctor gave a oneshoulder shrug. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Dawn's Prelude - Chapter 1

2009-09-15T22:38:00.002-04:00

Dawn's Prelude
(Bethany House - October 2009)

Chapter 1

Kansas City, Missouri

Early April 1870

I have no intention of Lydia inheriting any of Father's money," Mitchell Gray announced. "She's nothing to this family—an outsider imposed upon us after the death of our mother. She's entitled to nothing."

"Hush," his younger sister, Evie, replied. "She's just in the next room."

Sitting alone in the formal parlor that had displayed her husband's closed coffin only hours earlier, Lydia Gray rocked quietly. She allowed the hatred of his grown children to wash over her and numb any concerns or fears she might have otherwise given credence. With exception to Evie, they had hated her from the first moment she'd entered their home—not that Lydia could blame them. She'd hated nearly everything about her twelve years of marriage to Floyd Gray. Nothing would change their feelings now.

And so she rocked.

I'm only twenty-eight, she reasoned. Twenty-eight years old, and nearly half of those years had been spent in an abusive marriage to a man who treated his horses better than he'd treated his wife. His second wife.

Lydia glanced up at the portrait of the children's mother. The oil painting had been commissioned at Charlotte Gray's request for her husband's Christmas gift in 1858. After presenting it to him in the morning, Charlotte promptly excused herself from her family's revelry and leaped to her death from the widow's walk. She had been thirty-seven years old and had left behind two grown sons, a twelve-year-old daughter, Jeannette, and four-year-old Eve.

The sorrowful gaze of the blond-haired Charlotte stared down from the wall. Her lonely expression had haunted Lydia since she'd first come to this house—it bore a look of pain that Lydia understood firsthand. It was almost as if the two shared a bond that crossed between the living and the dead. Many had been the time Lydia had come to this room just to rock and stare at the painting.

"The will can be read immediately, and once we see what that has to say," Marston, Mitchell's twin, announced, "we can be rid of her. I can't imagine that Father would have left her anything. I believe we should give her until the end of the month to settle her affairs and leave. It's not like she has much to concern herself with. Father never gave her anything of her own. It all belonged to Mother. The jewelry, furnishings, and servants will stay here."

"Then why give her until the end of the month?" Jeannette Gray Stone questioned. Jeannette had resented the intrusion of her father's second marriage. It wasn't that she missed her mother all that much, but she didn't like her position as lady of the house being usurped by a stepmother—especially one only a few years older than Jeannette herself.

Lydia listened to them argue about how long they should give her to be gone from their lives. They had already established she should have nothing that had belonged to their father. No reward for enduring twelve painful years of marriage to a cruel and vicious man. No sympathy for all she had suffered.

She glanced up again. Charlotte's gaze seemed sympathetic, almost soothing. She seemed to silently suggest that only death would ease Lydia's miseries.

And so she rocked.

Shadows danced across the elegantly flowered wallpaper. The diffused light of early evening gave them a specter-like appearance. Perhaps Floyd Gray had come back to torment her. It would be just like him.

"Less than a month hardly seems reasonable, and her father was killed in the same carriage accident that took our father," Eve told her siblings. "You don't want society saying we were heartless."

"She never loved our father, and she certainly isn't mourning the loss of him now," Mitchell declared.

"But what of her own father?" Eve asked. "She has lost him, as well."

Marston quickly countered, "They were never close."

"That's right," Jeannette agreed. "Not only that, but she made Father's life miserable. He told me so on more than one occasion. She was cold and indifferent to his needs."

Frowning, Lydia folded her gloved hands and sighed. She had tried to be the perfect wife to Floyd, despite being married against her will at the tender age of sixteen. The arrangement had been her father's idea, and his alone. He had betrothed her to Floyd Gray as a business arrangement; Lydia's mother had been appalled to see her only child wedded to a man who had been widower for two short months. She died the following winter after a bout of pneumonia weakened her heart.

"Perhaps we should wait to decide until after the reading of Father's will on Monday," Eve suggested.

Lydia didn't know why the young woman even bothered. At seventeen, Genevieve Gray Gadston had only been married six weeks herself. Her older siblings gave this no bearing, however. She was still a child in their eyes and would always remain so. Her comments were given little credence.

"I suppose a day or two can't possibly matter," Jeannette replied.

"Very well," Mitchell declared, thoroughly surprising Lydia. "We will wait to decide, but as soon as the reading is finished, we will dictate our wishes with the lawyer as our witness."

This was agreed upon in hushed murmurs before the foursome entered the parlor to address Lydia. She didn't bother to glance up from where she sat; she had no desire to see their hard, hateful expressions. She was unwanted and unloved by this family, but very soon, she would be free of them.

"We have decided," Mitchell announced as the family spokesman, "that you will remain here until the reading of the will is complete. We are to meet with the lawyer on Monday."

Lydia picked lint from her black gown. "Very well."

"It would be prudent, however," Jeannette said, "to have the maids begin packing your clothes."

"Except for the furs," Mitchell interrupted. "Those will remain here to be given to our sisters and my wife. They were much too costly, and I'm certain Father never intended for them to leave the family."

Still Lydia rocked and refused to meet their eyes. "Very well."

"It would also be in your best interest," Marston added, "to inquire as to what options are available to you for your living arrangements. No sense waiting until the last minute to decide where you will move."

This was his way of informing her she would not be allowed to remain there. None of the Grays had ever been hard-pressed to deliver orders or unpleasant news, but for some reason, Mitchell and Marston seemed uncomfortable with actually commanding her to leave. Who could know their reasoning? Perhaps they did worry about what Kansas City society might say. Maybe they feared the newspapers would pick up the story and capitalize on their scandalous behavior.

"I need to leave for home," Jeannette finally announced. "I must see the children before Nanny puts them to bed for the night." She left the room without another word.

"Come, Marston, I'll drop you to your house on my way home," Mitchell said. "We can discuss how best to split up the business."

Only Eve remained as the men's voices echoed down the hallway until at last they exited the house. When Lydia finally looked up, Eve was watching her.

"I should be going, as well. Thomas sent the carriage for me some time ago. He'll wonder why I haven't returned."

"I understand," Lydia said. Only then did she still the chair's movement.

Eve seemed reluctant to go. She started to leave, then turned back. "What will you do?"

Lydia shrugged. "I don't really know. I've not had much chance to think about it. I'm still in a state of shock over the accident."

"It's hard to believe he's really gone," Eve admitted.

All of Floyd's children had known his harsh demands and heavy hand. Eve was certainly no exception to that. Many had been the time Lydia had watched helplessly as Floyd had backhanded his youngest child for the slightest infraction of his rules.

Rising from the chair, Lydia drew a deep breath. "But he is. He's gone, and he cannot hurt us anymore."

Eve's frown deepened as if she didn't believe her stepmother, but she made no attempt to correct the comment. "Good-bye, Lydia. I suppose I shall see you on Monday."

* * *

"I know it is rather soon to bother you with this," Dwight Robinson announced in greeting on Saturday morning, "but it was necessary that you see this before the reading of the will."

Lydia looked at her father's lawyer and then to the letter he extended. "Very well. Please come in."

Thunder rumbled outside and rain began to pour in earnest as the butler secured the door against the wind. Lydia led the way to a smaller, informal sitting room. She suppressed a yawn. All through the night she had tossed and turned, listening for Floyd's footsteps in the hallway. Then she remembered he was dead and could no longer hurt her. She had fallen asleep sometime around four in the morning, only to be awakened some four hours later to start her day.

"Please be seated. Should I ring for refreshments?" Lydia asked. "It's rather chilly in here; perhaps you'd like some coffee?"

"No. I'm fine." He gave her a sympathetic smile. "I suppose this has been very hard on you."

Lydia shrugged. "No more so than anything else." She took a seat on the richly upholstered silk sofa while Mr. Robinson settled himself on an ornate Baroque-styled chair. The piece had been one of Mr. Gray's favorites.

Again Robinson extended the letter. This time Lydia took it. "What is this?" she asked, turning over the folded pages in her hand.

"It's from your father. He left it with me some months ago, with instructions that should anything happen to him, you were to be given this missive."

Lydia frowned. Her father had barely spoken two words to her since forcing her into marriage. She tried to imagine what he could possibly have to say to her now.

"I think you will be ... well, perhaps comforted by the words," Robinson said, giving his thick mustache a stroke. The rather portly old man studied her for a moment, then added, "He had me read the letter."

"And what does it say?"

"Why don't you simply read it, and then we can discuss any questions you might have. It isn't all that long."

She had thought to read it later in the privacy of her bedchamber, but seeing that Mr. Robinson had no intention of leaving until they were able to converse about it, Lydia nodded. Unfolding the pages, she drew a deep breath at the sight of her father's large script.

My dearest daughter,

For so long, my heart has been burdened with the mistakes I have made. I caused you great misery in forcing your hand in marriage to a man I knew to be ill-tempered and harsh, and all for the sake of financial security.

I pray you find a way to forgive me. So many times I desired only to come to you and plead my case, but deep in my heart, I knew there was no excuse for what I had done. I was a greedy man, whose only purpose was to build a vast fortune. That it came at the expense of those I loved was not something I considered. I believed that in time, my choices would not only be understood but applauded. Now I see the truth of the matter and know that I have done you a grave injustice.

If you are reading this letter, then I have passed from this life into eternity. The purpose of leaving this missive behind is twofold. First, the terms of my will are complicated and were never intended to cause you grief, although they most certainly are destined to do so. Second, I have left money in trust with Mr. Robinson that no one else knows about. This money is for you. It is enough to help you get a divorce or whatever other living arrangements you might desire.

The rest of the letter repeated the request for forgiveness, but Lydia was too stunned to read further. She looked up at the lawyer and shook her head.

"I don't understand."

"Your father wanted to give you a way out of your marriage. He spoke to me about it on more than one occasion. We knew it would be most difficult to help you obtain a divorce; however, that is no longer an issue."

She silently refolded the pages. "I suppose I should be happy that he came to realize his mistake." It seemed too little, too late, but Lydia didn't wish to sound as lacking in feeling as her late husband.

The older man once again shifted his bulky frame. "Your father grieved his decision to see you married to Gray. He hoped that something—anything—could be done to change it. Of course, you know that your husband was a powerful man. Most were too intimidated by his ruthlessness to do anything but yield to his will. Your father found himself in that position."

Lydia wasn't ready to feel sorry for her father. She felt the boning of her corset dig into her waist and straightened. "He mentioned that the terms of his will were complicated. Might you enlighten me in this area?"

Just then, there was the unmistakable sound of someone in the foyer. No one had bothered to knock, so Lydia knew it must be one of the children.

"It would seem we have company," Lydia said, loud enough to draw the attention of whomever had entered.

Marston Gray looked into the front room as he doffed his black hat. "Robinson? What brings you here?" he questioned, ignoring Lydia.

Lydia watched him cross the room to shake the older man's hand. Robinson had gotten to his feet and was clearly uncomfortable with Marston's appearance.

"I had business with Mrs. Gray."

"Truly?" Marston looked at Lydia in disbelief. "And what caused my stepmother to summon you?"

Robinson cleared his throat rather nervously and focused on the floor. Lydia hated to see the man take this stance. Marston loved to see people intimidated. He fed upon it, just as he did now. His expression turned almost cruel as he sneered at the older man.

"Surely in her state of ... mourning ... it would be appropriate to have the guidance of a family member in any legal matter."

"Mr. Robinson was just leaving," Lydia interrupted. She came to the man's side and motioned toward the foyer. "Allow me to show you out."

Marston wasn't going to stand for this. He blocked the doorway. "I'm only looking out for you, Lydia. Was there some question you had about your future?"

Lydia met his pale blue eyes. "If there were, I certainly wouldn't be asking you."

She saw the anger course through her stepson. If her father's letter was true, and she had no reason to think it wasn't, then she was free of this man and his siblings. She had no reason to fear him anymore.

Standing her ground, Lydia squared her shoulders. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Robinson has other important meetings, and I have a headache and intend to lie down."

Marston said nothing more. He pulled back, much to Lydia's surprise, and allowed them to pass. Lydia could feel the man tremble slightly beneath her touch. She felt sorry for him, knowing that he was embarrassed by the entire encounter.

"Oh, there is one other thing," Robinson stated as they reached the front door. The butler arrived with his hat in hand, then turned to open the door.

Lydia glared at the man until he took his leave. The servants were always trying to overhear her conversations. Seeing that she no longer required his service, the butler bowed stiffly and left them. "You said there was something else, Mr. Robinson?"

"I wish to accompany you to the reading of the will on Monday. As your father's lawyer, I have made arrangements with Mr. Gray's lawyer. We will both need to be present for the reading, due to those complications of which your father spoke."

"I see." Lydia glanced over her shoulder to find Marston watching her. She lifted her chin and spoke loudly enough for him to hear her. "I would be very glad for you to accompany me. What time shall I expect you?"

"I will arrive for you at nine-thirty. The reading is set for ten."

Lydia nodded. "Very well. I shall await your arrival."

As soon as Robinson had departed, Lydia hurried upstairs before Marston could stop her. She nearly ran for the sanctuary of her bedroom and locked the door behind her before allowing herself another glance at her father's letter.

If he had provided enough money, then Lydia knew exactly what she wanted to do. Her only living relative, Aunt Zerelda, lived in far-off Alaska in a tiny island town called Sitka. It had long been Lydia's desire to join her there.

Perhaps now I can do exactly that. After all, it would resolve all of her problems. Moving to such a remote place would put her well beyond the reach of her vindictive stepchildren. It would also allow her a fresh new start.

She went to her desk and took out pen and paper. It would take considerable time for a letter to reach her aunt. It would be best to get started and allow Zerelda knowledge of what had happened. She didn't yet know of her brother's death.

For the first time in years, Lydia felt a spark of hope. She glanced across the room to where her violin awaited her. Forgoing the letter momentarily, Lydia crossed to the instrument and lovingly took it in hand. She tested the strings and tuned it before drawing the bow.

Music filled the air and sent soothing waves across the stormy seas of Lydia's heart. Throughout her life, she had known no comfort like that of her music. For a moment she lost herself in the haunting melody of Bach's Mass in B Minor.

She had once thought of having this music played at her funeral. Now, however, her death seemed far away. A new future awaited her.

Tidings of Great Boys - Chapters 1 thru 3

2009-09-13T21:35:00.003-04:00

Tidings of Great Boys
FaithWords (September 8, 2009)

Danger At The Door - Prologue & Chapter 1

2009-09-11T22:35:00.002-04:00

Danger At The Door
(Desert Breeze September, 2009)

Prologue

The door slammed behind him as lightning flashed across the summer sky. A boom echoed as thunder struck the ground. Moist summer air filled his lungs and electricity raised the hair on the back of his neck. He savored the scent and held it in like smoke from a cigarette. With a grunt, he exhaled, wishing he had something more powerful than tobacco to inhale.

The unpredictability of monsoon season shot bolts of excitement through him. It gave him energy. Made him want to go on the hunt for someone weak.

A slow grin tugged at his mouth. It had been a long time — nearly a year — since he could do as he pleased. How he hated being restricted like a child, and jail felt like one big time-out. Idiot guards thought they could control him. But he made sure to wish them dead whenever he was forced to comply.

After all, it had worked on his Momma.

If only she’d used time-out with him instead of her wicked ways.

He clenched his fists and blocked the memory, resisting the urge to smash his knuckles on the brick wall. Sporadic drops of rain pelted his head, cooling him off.

His cottony mouth made him long for a strong drink. Something with kick, like whiskey.
Resisting the urge to open his mouth and let the raindrops quench his thirst, he pressed his lips together.

Childhood had abandoned him long ago.

He imagined going to Jeepers Creepers pub and finding an easy woman to keep him company tonight. But this time he’d watch himself and make sure she didn’t have a jealous husband waiting in the wings. Yeah, tonight he’d pick a gal that he could crash with until he got his life together.

There was only one woman he really wanted. She just didn’t know it yet. Their reunion would be sweet, or she’d regret it. He’d make sure of that.

Soon the tangy taste of adrenaline would flood his veins. He missed the tingling sensation, the warmth coursing through him when a woman begged him for mercy. There had been many cries echoing in his head over the past few years. But none of them satisfied his craving. He imagined his first night with her. Yeah, he’d make their time together memorable.

He leaned against the rough brick wall of the decrepit jail building. Grumbling, he popped his knuckles as he waited for his ride. What was taking him so long to get there?

He better not back out just because he found himself a woman with a kid.

First, he had to collect what his narc friend owed him. And if he felt generous, he might let him go without pounding his face in. Depending on how useful he’d be.

Just a running vehicle and some cash. That’s all he needed to get back on his feet. And a decent job. Something low-key to avoid having his background checked. But it had to be legit. Work that would make his probation officer content. Then, when he got himself set up in a place, he’d find that brunette who taunted him in his dreams.

Sam’s girl.

This time he’d get the right house.

Chapter One

Laney Cooper released a shuddering sigh.

She set the table for two one last time and ordered their favorite meal — spinach pizza and antipasto salad -- to celebrate Sam’s life.

Tonight marked the anniversary of her fiancé’s death. She wanted the farewell dinner to propel her into a new year of hope, to help her move on. Blinking back tears, she lit tapered candles and dimmed the lights.

Her shoulders slumped. They had planned the perfect wedding. Images of her dress, the lace veil, and the three-tiered cake flashed through her mind. The perfect honeymoon, a two-week trip to Cancun.

Finding something to look forward to without him was proving more difficult than she’d
imagined. But she’d try. He would have wanted her to.

She approached the window and moved the blinds so she could check the road. Total darkness covered the Huachuca Mountain range in Sierra Vista, Arizona. The inky blackness smothered the sky as the last bit of sunlight faded on the horizon.

No headlights snaked up the mountain. Her shoulders sagged further as she backed away from the window. Dinner should have arrived half an hour ago. She ordered the same thing every week, but tonight she’d added cannoli — Sam’s favorite dessert — to her order. She wanted to end the commemorative meal with something sweet.

Flipping open her cell phone, she quickly bypassed a digital photo of Sam with his arm draped over her shoulder. The evidence of joy on their faces seared her heart if she lingered on the image too long. She’d delete the picture soon. Maybe after she ate.

It’d be hard, but she’d do it.

After dialing to check on her order, she squeezed her eyes shut. The phone rang numerous times before someone finally answered.

"Little Italy. May I take your order?"

She pushed the words past the lump in her throat. They didn’t know how much their lateness hurt. "I don’t need you to take my order. I need you to deliver it."

"Ma’am, I need your name."

She released an exasperated sigh as she ran her fingers through her bangs. "It’s Cooper. My food should have been here by now. You guys know me. I order the same thing every—"

"Please hold." The bored-sounding voice cut her off. She wondered if the man had even heard her complaint. As she waited, a local radio announcer introduced a country western song. Friday nights were always busy at Little Italy, but never so bad that they’d had to put her on hold and force her to listen to music about love gone sour.

A sob crawled up her throat.

"Oh, Sam. Why did you have to leave me? What am I going to do without you?"

Silence echoed in the dimly lit room.

As usual, nothing. Even God had clamped His lips shut.

Sudden longing to visit Sam’s grave one last time tugged at her need to remain cocooned in the safety of her home. When had she last visited the site? Three months ago? Six?

Yet the idea of driving anywhere sent shivers of fear skittering up her spine. The thought of getting behind the wheel of a death trap made her stomach lurch. Driving was simply too dangerous.

Even riding in a cab made her nervous these days.

Baby, her longhaired black Chihuahua, yipped.

Someone must be coming. Thankfully Baby paid attention and alerted her when anyone
approached her house. She didn’t like surprises.

The sound of crunching gravel captured her attention and her stomach knotted. At first she thought she heard people arguing, but when she listened closer she recognized the blood-chilling sound of coyotes attacking some poor creature again. Probably someone’s unfortunate pet. She rubbed her silk sleeves and tiptoed to the door, thankful Baby wasn’t the cornered animal.
Silence permeated the air for several long moments. Even the coyotes had ceased their frenzied howling. Her stomach suddenly growled, making her squeal and jump. She gasped and laughed at her overreaction. No way could such a hyper vigilant nervous system be healthy.

She paused and inhaled several deep breaths. Though eager for her dinner to arrive, caution still made her pause and peer through the blinds. If only she had a sense of security like her pet. Instead, she felt cornered like the hapless animal outside her door.

The past few nights she’d had strange dreams about being pursued by something sinister — like a band of coyotes — but she couldn’t recall the details after she woke up. Worse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had been watching her the past few days.

She shuddered and glanced over her shoulder, and then peeked through the blinds a second time.

Maybe she was just being paranoid. Wouldn’t be the first time she overreacted only to discover her imagination had been running wild again.

Most of the time her anxiety came from a credible source. Like the morning she found a snake dozing on her front patio. Thankfully she’d had the good sense to shut the door before it had a chance to react to being startled. Animal control sure came in handy in those situations. She had their number on speed dial… just in case.

It was bad enough she’d found scorpions in her home when she first moved in. The pest control man had searched for them with a black light to make sure he caught them all. She shuddered at the memory and recalled the hairy tarantula in the sink last month. There were enough creepy critters in the desert to make even the bravest woman swoon.

She shuddered again. Fortunately, her exterminator came every other month and killed the pests before they could sting her or her sweet dog. Without Baby as her companion, she would become even more of a recluse — if that were possible.

Hating her weakness, her fear of leaving the house, Laney rubbed her forehead and groaned. Maybe if she had a friend to talk to — someone other than her pet — she could get her life back to normal. But fear followed her everywhere these days, cutting her off from normal relationships. From love and friendship. It even smothered her faith.

You’re not alone…

She sucked in her breath. Had God finally spoken to her heart after all this time?

The doorbell chimed. Her heart jolted even though she’d anticipated the sound. She swallowed hard, fighting to calm her breathing. It seemed ridiculous that she’d expected the delivery, and yet the abrupt noise still made her pulse race.

Baby whined and wriggled in her arms, trying to break free. She stroked her dog’s fur, heedless of her pet’s pungent need for a bath. She sighed and kissed Baby’s head. It must be a new delivery boy, for her pet couldn’t be soothed this time.

"Shhh… It’s okay, sweetie."

But Baby wouldn’t relax and struggled even more.

Laney shouted, "Just a minute!" After jogging to the other side of the house, she placed her dog in her traveling cage so Baby wouldn’t scare the delivery guy. Though small, Baby sounded downright vicious when she growled, especially when an unfamiliar visitor entered her territory.

With a forced smile, Laney wiped her eyes and returned to the foyer. She peered through the peephole to make sure the person was safe before opening the door to them.

A little over a year ago a woman had been attacked in her home, which looked a lot like Laney’s house. The woman had lived less than a mile away. They never caught the man, and the frightened woman soon moved away.

Occasionally border patrol would stop by and check on her because she lived on the foothills. Year round, illegals would hike over the mountain to avoid detection. She appreciated the border patrol looking out for her, but at the same time they had her scared to death, filling her mind with visions of being attacked or robbed. She would rather not know about those situations in her area.

Yep. A person could never be too cautious. She scanned the man’s clothing and recognized his uniform —especially the Little Italy t-shirt. She opened the door and motioned with a wave to usher the deliveryman inside.

The olive-skinned Adonis stared at her, unmoving on her front patio. His gorgeous, light brown eyes fixated on hers. He had a distinct Mediterranean look, mixed with Russian or Greek descent. She stared back, mesmerized for a moment by the slow grin forming on his face. He stood several inches taller, forcing her to look up.

At least the delivery guys were getting better looking. So much so, she found herself gaping when he removed his baseball cap to reveal a thick head of hair and nodded.
The man’s smile grew wider. No doubt her staring flattered him. She couldn’t help admiring the gleam of his straight, white teeth, and the tiny dimple in his left cheek.

Flustered that he’d noticed her gawking, Laney combed her bangs with her fingers. Her cheeks heated as she glanced away and tried to collect her thoughts.

The man shifted his feet and tucked his ball cap under his arm. His grin faded and his brow furrowed. Maybe he’d never made a delivery before and didn’t know what to say.
He grew serious as he scanned her face, settling on her mouth for a fraction of a second, before returning to her eyes.

"Where’s Tom?" Her voice trembled, betraying her still-fragile emotions, her fear.

"Sick. He has bad cold." The corner of his mouth curved upward, and he held out the boxes containing her order. "Your food?"

"Please, come in?" she asked again and licked her lips, a nervous habit that used to drive her sister crazy. What she wouldn’t do to have her sister back, even if it meant getting nagged about her quirks all the time.

The man nodded and averted his eyes as he stepped inside, then captured her gaze again. A deep, tender expression teased his suntanned face.

Warmth melted her insides. It should be illegal to heat a woman’s heart with an intimate glance within minutes of meeting her.

Though the same intense look in the past — before Sam — would’ve made her desire an
invitation to dinner, this man’s attention made her melt on the spot. If only dating didn’t require leaving the safety of her house.

After hesitating a moment, she turned and muttered, "Just set the box over there, and I’ll be right back with a check."

The man nodded as he strolled to the table and set down the boxes. For a moment she watched him, fascinated by his graceful movement. So smooth, and yet so thoroughly masculine. She swallowed hard.

Admiring the chocolate color of his wavy brown hair for a moment, she quickly averted her attention. The fresh scent of his woodsy pine after shave wafted in the air, reminding her of Sam. She sped from the room before tears formed.

Looking at any man with appreciation seemed like betrayal of the worst kind. Especially today, since she’d intended to devote every minute to Sam’s memory. The attraction she felt toward the deliveryman was wrong.

She couldn’t be so lonely that she’d long to spend time with a complete stranger, no matter how nice looking he happened to be.

Just Between You And Me - Excerpt

2009-09-08T21:43:00.004-04:00

Just Between You And Me
Thomas Nelson (September 1, 2009)


Buy		Read

The Blue Enchantress - Chapter 1

2009-09-06T21:36:00.002-04:00

The Blue Enchantress
Barbour Books (August 1, 2009)

Chapter 1

St. Kitts, September 1718

“Gentlemen, what will ye offer for this rare treasure of a lady?” The words crashed over Hope Westcott like bilge water. “Why, she’ll make any of ye a fine wife, a cook, a housemaid”—the man gave a lascivious chuckle—“whate’er ye desire.”

“How ’bout someone to warm me bed at night,” one man bellowed, and a cacophony of chortles gurgled through the air.

Hope slammed her eyes shut against the mob of men who pressed on three sides of the tall wooden platform, shoving one another to get a better peek at her. Something crawled over her foot, and she pried her eyes open, keeping her face lowered. A black spider skittered away. Red scrapes and bruises marred her bare feet. When had she lost her satin shoes—the gold braided ones she’d worn to impress Lord Falkland? She couldn’t recall.

“What d’ye say? How much for this fine young lady?” The man grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. Pain, like a dozen claws, pierced her skull. “She’s a handsome one, to be sure. And these golden locks.” He attempted to slide his fingers through her matted strands, but before becoming hopelessly entangled in them, he jerked his hand free, wrenching out a clump of her hair. Hope winced. “Have ye seen the likes of them?”

Ribald whistles and groans of agreement spewed over her.

“Two shillings,” one man yelled.

Hope dared to glance across the throng amassing before the auction block. A wild sea of lustful eyes sprayed over her. A band of men dressed in garments stained with dirt and sweat bunched toward the front, yelling out bids. Behind them, other men in velvet waistcoats leaned their heads together, no doubt to discuss the value of this recent offering, while studying her as if she were a breeding mare. Slaves knelt in the dirt along the outskirts of the mob, waiting for their masters. Beyond them, a row of wooden buildings stretched in either direction. Brazen women emerged from a tavern and draped themselves over the railings, watching Hope’s predicament with interest. On the street, ladies in modish gowns averted their eyes as they tugged the men on their arms from the sordid scene.

Hope lowered her head. This can’t be happening. I’m dreaming. I am still on the ship. Just a nightmare. Only a nightmare. Humiliation swept over her with an ever-rising dread as the reality of her situation blasted its way through her mind.

She swallowed hard and tried to drown out the grunts and salacious insults tossed her way by the bartering rabble. Perhaps if she couldn’t hear them, if she couldn’t see them, they would disappear and she would wake up back home, safe in Charles Towne, safe in her bedchamber, safe with her sisters, just like she was before she’d put her trust in a man who betrayed her.

“Egad, man. Two shillings, is it? For this beauty?” The auctioneer spit off to the side. The yellowish glob landed on Hope’s skirt. Her heart felt as though it had liquefied into an equally offensive blob and oozed down beside it.

How did I get here? In her terror, she could not remember. She raised her gaze to the auctioneer. Cold eyes, hard like marbles, met hers, and a sinister grin twisted his lips. He adjusted his tricorn to further shade his chubby face from the burning sun.

“She looks too feeble for any real work,” another man yelled.

The sounds of the crowd dimmed. The men’s fists forged into the air as if pushing through mud. Garbled laughter drained from their yellow-toothed mouths like molasses. Hope’s heart beat slower, and she wished for death.

The gentle lap of waves caressed her ears, their peaceful cadence drawing her away. Tearing her gaze from the nightmarish spectacle, she glanced over her shoulder, past the muscled henchmen who’d escorted her here. Two docks jutted out into a small bay brimming with sparkling turquoise water where several ships rocked back and forth as if shaking their heads at her in pity. Salt and papaya and sun combined in a pleasant aroma that lured her mind away from her present horror.

Her eyes locked upon the glimmering red and gold figurine of Ares at the bow of Lord Falkland’s ship. She blinked back the burning behind her eyes. When she’d boarded it nigh a week past—or was it two weeks—all her hopes and dreams had boarded with her. Somewhere along the way, they had been cast into the depths of the sea. She only wished she had joined them. Although the ship gleamed majestically in the bay, all she had seen of it for weeks had been the four walls of a small cabin below deck.

The roar of the crowd wrenched her mind back to the present and turned her face forward.

“Five shillings.”

“’Tis robbery, and ye know it,” the auctioneer barked. “Where are any of ye clods goin’ t’ find a real lady like this?”

A stream of perspiration raced down Hope’s back as if seeking escape. But there was no escape. She was about to be sold as a slave, a harlot to one of these cruel and prurient taskmasters. A fate worse than death. A fate her sister had fought hard to keep her from. A fate Hope had brought upon herself. Numbness crept over her even as her eyes filled with tears. Oh God. This can’t be happening.

She gazed upward at the blue sky dusted with thick clouds, hoping for some deliverance, some sign that God had not abandoned her.

The men continued to haggle, their voices booming louder and louder, grating over her like the howls of demons.

Her head felt like it had detached from her body and was floating up to join the clouds. Palm trees danced in the light breeze coming off the bay. Their tall trunks and fronds formed an oscillating blur of green and brown. The buildings, the mob, and the whole heinous scene joined the growing mass and began twirling around Hope. Her legs turned to jelly, and she toppled to the platform.

“Get up!” A sharp crack stung her cheek. Two hands like rough rope clamped over her arms and dragged her to her feet. Pain lanced through her right foot where a splinter had found a home. Holding a hand to her stinging face, Hope sobbed.

The henchman released her with a grunt of disgust.

“I told ye she won’t last a week,” one burly man shouted.

“She ain’t good for nothing but to look at.”

Planting a strained grin upon his lips, the auctioneer swatted her rear end. “Aye, but she’s much more stout than she appears, gentlemen.”

Horrified and no longer caring about the repercussions, Hope slapped the man’s face. He raised his fist, and she cowered. The crowd roared its mirth.

“One pound, then,” a tall man sporting a white wig called out. “I could use me a pretty wench.” Withdrawing a handkerchief, he dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.

Wench. Slave. Hope shook her head, trying to force herself to accept what her mind kept trying to deny. A sudden surge of courage, based on naught but her instinct to survive, stiffened her spine. She thrust out her chin and faced the auctioneer. “I beg your pardon, sir. There’s been a mistake. I am no slave.”

“Indeed?” He cocked one brow and gave her a patronizing smirk.

Hope searched the horde for a sympathetic face—just one. “My name is Miss Hope Westcott,” she shouted. “My father is Admiral Henry Westcott. I live in Charles Towne with my two sisters.”

“And I’m King George,” a farmer howled, slapping his knee.

“My father will pay handsomely for my safe return.” Hope scanned the leering faces. Not one. Not one look of sympathy or belief or kindness. Fear crawled up her throat. She stomped her foot, sending a shard of pain up her leg. “You must believe me,” she sobbed. “I don’t belong here.”

Ignoring the laughter, Hope spotted a purple plume fluttering in the breeze atop a gold-trimmed hat in the distance. “Arthur!” She darted for the stairs but two hands grabbed her from behind and held her in place. “Don’t leave me! Lord Falkland!” She struggled in her captor’s grasp. His grip tightened, sending a throbbing ache across her back.

Swerving about, Lord Falkland tapped his cane into the dirt and tipped the brim of his hat up, but the distance between them forbade Hope a vision of his expression.

“Tell them who I am, Arthur. Please save me!”

He leaned toward the woman beside him and said something, then coughed into his hand. What is he doing? The man who once professed an undying love for Hope, the man who promised to marry her, to love her forever, the man who bore the responsibility for her being here in the first place. How could he stand there and do nothing while she met such a hideous fate?

The elegant lady beside him turned her nose up at Hope, then, threading her arm through Lord Falkland’s, she wheeled him around and pulled him down the road.

Hope watched him leave, and with each step of his cordovan boots, her heart and her very soul sank deeper into the wood of the auction block beneath her feet.

Nothing made any sense. Had the world gone completely mad?

“Two pounds,” a corpulent man in the back roared.

A memory flashed through Hope’s mind as she gazed across the band of men. A vision of African slaves, women and children, being auctioned off in Charles Towne. How many times had she passed by, ignoring them, uncaring, unconcerned by the proceedings?

Was this God’s way of repaying her for her selfishness, her lack of charity?

“Five pounds.”

Disappointed curses rumbled among the men at the front, who had obviously reached their limit of coin.

The auctioneer’s mouth spread wide, greed dripping from its corners. “Five pounds, gentlemen. Do I hear six for this lovely lady?”

A blast of hot air rolled over Hope, stealing her breath. Human sweat, fish, and horse manure filled her nose and saturated her skin. The unforgiving sun beat a hot hammer atop her head until she felt she would ignite into a burning torch at any moment. Indeed, she prayed she would. Better to be reduced to a pile of ashes than endure what the future held for her.

“Six pounds,” a short man with a round belly and stiff brown wig yelled from the back of the mob in a tone that indicated he knew what he was doing and had no intention of losing his prize. Decked in the a fine damask waistcoat, silk breeches, and a gold-chained pocket watch, which he kept snapping open and shut, he exuded wealth and power from his pores.

Hope’s stomach twisted into a vicious knot, and she clutched her throat to keep from heaving whatever shred of moisture remained in her empty stomach.

The auctioneer gaped at her, obviously shocked she could command such a price. Rumblings overtook the crowd as the short man pushed his way through to claim his prize. The closer he came, the faster Hope’s chest heaved and the lighter her head became. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the groans of the mob. No, God. No.

“Do I hear seven?” the auctioneer bellowed. “She’s young and will breed you some fine sons.”

“Just what I’ll be needing.” The man halted at the platform, glanced over the crowd for any possible competitors, then took the stairs to Hope’s right. He halted beside her too close for propriety’s sake and assailed her with the stench of lard and tobacco. A long purple scar crossed his bloated, red face as his eyes grazed over her like a stallion on a breeding mare. Hope shuddered and gasped for a breath of air. Her palms broke out in a sweat, and she rubbed them on her already moist gown.

The auctioneer threw a hand to his hip and gazed over the crowd.

The man squeezed her arms, and Hope snapped from his grasp and took a step back, abhorred at his audacity. He chuckled. “Not much muscle on her, but she’s got pluck.”

He belched, placed his watch back into the fob pocket of his breeches, and removed a leather pouch from his belt. “Six pounds it is.”

The silver tip of a sword hung at his side. If Hope were quick about it, perhaps she could grab it and, with some luck, fight her way out of here. She clenched her teeth. Who was she trying to fool? Where was her pirate sister when she needed her? Surely Faith would know exactly what to do. Yet what did it matter? Hope would rather die trying to escape than become this loathsome man’s slave.

As the man counted out the coins into the auctioneer’s greedy hands, Hope reached for the sword.

The Call of Zulina - Chapter 1

2009-09-01T22:49:00.002-04:00

Call Of Zulina
Abingdon Press (August 2009)

Chapter 1

West Africa, 1787

Hot, dry harmattan winds swept across the African savanna and awakened the yellow-brown sand, whipping it up with wild gusts that swirled and soared high into the air. The sandy clouds that blew in with the first shards of daybreak to shroud the dawn in grit refused to release their grip, and by late afternoon a thick layer of dust coated the entire landscape. Irritated goats paused in their search for edible blades of grass to stomp and shake themselves, and the children who herded them scratched at the itchy grit in their own eyes and hair. On the road, donkeys turned their heads away from the sandy wind and refused to pull their loads. Impatient masters swiped at their own faces as they whipped at the donkeys’ flanks, but all that accomplished was to send still more billows of dust into the air.

Sand whistled through banana leaves thatched atop clusters of mud huts in villages, and it settled over the decks of ships as they rocked idly at anchor in the harbor. Even at what was mockingly called “the London house,” with its ostentatious glass windows locked tight and European bolts securing its imported doors, gritty wind found a way under and between and beneath and into.

Twenty-year-old Grace Winslow, who had claimed the plumpest of the upholstered parlor chairs for herself, shifted from one uncomfortable position to another and sighed deeply. She reached out slender fingers and brushed a newly settled layer of sand from the intricate lace trim on her new silk taffeta dress and resigned herself to the day.

“The ancestors are angry,” proclaimed Lingongo, Grace’s mother, from her imposing position beside the rattling window shutters. Silky soft kente cloth flowed over her in a kaleidoscope of handwoven color, framing her fierce beauty. Lingongo made a proud point of her refusal to sit on her husband’s English furniture—except when it was to her advantage to do so.

“Ancestors! Sech foolishness!” Joseph Winslow snorted . . . but only under his breath. “Wind jist be wind and nothin’ but wind.”

“Maybe the ancestors don’t want me to marry a snake,” Grace ventured.

No one could argue that the first harmattan of the season had roared through on the very day Jasper Hathaway first came to court her. He had swept through the front door and into the parlor in a blustering whirlwind of sand, his fleshy face streaked with sweat and his starched collar askew. He stayed on and on for the entire afternoon. Only when it became obvious that no one intended to invite him to eat supper with the family did he finally heft himself out of Joseph’s favorite chair and bid a reluctant farewell. When the door finally shut behind him and Grace’s father had thrown the bolt into place, Lingongo had turned to her daughter and warned, “Snake at your feet, a stick at your hand. So the wise men say. Keep a stick in your hand, Grace. You will need it with that snake at your feet.”

Surely, Grace had thought, that will be that. Never again will I have to endure such an agonizing afternoon. And yet, at her parents’ insistence, here she sat.

“Perhaps it angers the ancestors that white men insist on settling in a country where they do not belong,” Lingongo said, her black eyes fixed hard on her husband.

But Joseph was in no mood for arguments. Not this day. So, turning to his daughter, he said, “Ye looks good, darlin’.” And he meant it too. He fairly beamed at Grace, bedecked as she was in the new dress he had personally obtained for just this occasion. The latest fashion from the shops of London, Captain Bass assured him when the captain unwrapped the package and then carefully unfolded and laid out the frock he had secured in London on Winslow’s behalf. Captain Bass said it again when he presented the shop’s bill of goods, with the price marked out and double the amount scribbled in (“To account fer all me trouble,” Bass explained).

In the end, Joseph had been forced to turn over two of his prize breeding slaves to pay for the dress. But, Joseph consoled himself, it would be well worth his investment to get a son-inlaw with extensive landholdings, not to mention endless access to slaves. A son-in-law with enough wealth to flash about, to impress the entire Gold Coast of Africa and no doubt dazzle the company officers in London, too . . . well, such a bloke merited the calculated investment he had made in his daughter.

“Ye looks almost like a true English lass, me darlin’,” Joseph exuded. “Yes, ye very nearly does.”

Grace sighed. In her entire life, she had met only one true English lass. Charlotte Stevens was her name. And if Grace Winslow knew anything, she knew she looked nothing like Charlotte Stevens. Small and dainty, with skin so pale one could almost see through it—that was Charlotte. The she-ghost, the slaves called her. Charlotte’s hair was almost white, like an old woman’s—very thin and straight. In every way, she was the opposite of Grace. Tall and willowy, with black eyes and thick dark hair that glinted auburn in the sunlight, Grace was a silky mocha blend of her African mother and her English father.

Charlotte’s father ran a slave-trading business down the coast. Grace had never been there, although she had seen Mr. Stevens on a number of occasions when he came to see her father on business matters. Charlotte never accompanied him, though. She and her mother mostly lived in England and visited Africa only two months every other year. The few times Grace and Charlotte had occasion to be in each other’s company, Charlotte had treated Grace as though she were one of her father’s slaves. Never once had she even called Grace by her given name.

“Mr. ’Athaway—now there’s as fine an Englishman as ye could ’ope to find, Daughter,” Joseph Winslow continued. “English ’ouse ’e ’as too. Even finer’n ours, if ye kin believe it. An’ ’e ’as ’oldin’s all up and down the coast, ’e ’as—”

“I don’t like Mr. Hathaway,” Grace interrupted.

“You do not have to like him. You only have to marry him,” Lingongo replied. “You are a woman, Grace. Tonight, you will tell the Englishman what he wants to hear. After you are married, take what he has to give and then make your life what you want it to be.”

Grace stole a look at her father. A deep flush scorched his mottled cheeks and burned all the way up to his thinning shock of red hair. Embarrassed for him, she quickly looked away.

Outside, the wind grabbed up the aroma of Mama Muco’s cooking and swept it into the parlor. It was not the usual vegetable porridge, or even frying fish and plantains. No, this was the rich, deep fragrance of roasting meat. Forgetting his humiliation, Joseph blissfully closed his eyes and sucked in the tantalizing fragrance. A smile touched the edges of his thin, pale lips, and he murmured, “Mmmmm . . . good English food. That’s wot it be!”

Lingongo’s flawless cocoa face glistened with impatience and her dark eyes flashed. “Where is Mr. Hathaway?” she demanded. “He keeps us waiting on purpose!”

Grace and her parents had endured one another’s company for almost an hour by the time Jasper Hathaway finally blustered in, full of complaints and self-importance and, of course, a tremendous appetite. He talked all through dinner, not even bothering to pause as he stuffed his mouth with roasted meat, steamed sweet potatoes, and thick slices of mango.

“. . . so I sent detailed instructions by the next ship to London inquiring about my various and sundry holdings,” Hathaway said. Little pieces of sweet potato fell from his mouth and settled onto his blue satin waistcoat. “I should have gone myself. It is the only way to get things done right. But I do so hate the long sea journey. I am not of your kind, Joseph.”

Here he stopped his fork long enough to cast his host a look of pity.

“Aye,” Joseph said. “Sea air. ’Tis wot keeps me lungs clean and me ’ide tough!”

“No, no!” Hathaway said with a dismissive wave of his fork. “That isn’t it at all. I mean, you can be away for a year at a time and no one misses you. That is, your work in Africa does not suffer in the least in your absence. Not so with a true businessman such as myself. Why, if I were to be away so long—”

Grace stopped listening. The truth was, she had absolutely no interest in anything Mr. Hathaway had to say. And as for his demeanor, she found that absolutely disgusting. So she allowed her mind to move her away from the table and nestle her down in the mango grove, to settle her in her favorite spot where the wind rippled through the branches above her and she could lose herself in books. There, Grace could leave Africa and travel to wonderful places around the world. One day, she promised herself, she would see all those places for real—London and Paris and Lisbon and Alicante . . . the mysterious cities of the Orient . . . yes, even the New World. Oh, just to be outside her parents’ walled-in compound!

“. . . a business agreement, of course,” Mr. Hathaway was saying. “And as a husband . . . well, as I am quite sure you know, I have a good deal to offer your daughter. A very good deal, indeed!”

Mr. Hathaway glanced at Grace and flashed a leering smirk. With a start and a shudder, Grace jerked her attention back to the table.

“Now once again I have come to your house—and under miserable conditions, I might add—for the sole purpose of seeing and of permitting myself to be seen,” Mr. Hathaway continued, his voice tinged with pompous irritation. “If there is to be a marriage, as I have been led to believe, I insist that we talk terms immediately. Of course, the business of Zulina will be a necessary part of those terms.”

Outside, the trees groaned in the howling wind. Suddenly, a great jackfruit, scorched hard by the sun, smashed through the shuttered window and crashed onto the table. It shattered the hand-painted English platter and sent roasted meat juices spewing across the linen tablecloth. Grace screamed and jumped to her feet and then stared in horror as a dark stain spread down the front of her new dress.

“This is not the time to discuss such things,” Lingongo pronounced. “The ancestors are much too displeased. We will talk another time.”

“Now see here—” Mr. Hathaway blustered.

“Another time!” Lingongo repeated. Her tone made it clear the discussion was over.

Jasper Hathaway judiciously turned his attention to his waistcoat. The close-fitting satin garment might be the latest fashion in Europe, but Hathaway’s fleshy body proved too much for it, dangerously straining the seams. Sighing deeply, he tossed fashion to the wind. He undid the buttons and freed his ample stomach.

“The ancestors are invisible, Lingongo,” Jasper Hathaway stated as if to a not-too-bright child. “They have already collected what was due them in their own lifetime. Now they have nothing more to say. You need not fear the ancestors.” Shifting his gaze to Joseph, he added, “Fear the living, present threats to your well-being, my dear lady, not powerless shadows from the past.”

Joseph Winslow flinched and paled.

At long last, Mr. Hathaway, jovial and flushed in his flapping waistcoat, and far too familiar toward Grace, sent for his carriage and bid his farewells. Yet even as his carriage clattered down the cobblestone lane toward the front gate, he leaned out the window and called back, “I will not be patient for long, Winslow. Time is running out. And as for Zulina—” The rest of his words swirled away in the harmattan winds.

As soon as the door was closed and bolted, Grace announced, “I refuse to marry Mr. Hathaway!”

Joseph Winslow stopped still. Never in his twenty-one years with Lingongo had he dared speak to her in such a way. Oh, he had wanted to. How many times he had wanted to! But the most he had risked was a mumbled opinion under his breath. Nor had Grace openly contradicted her mother before. But the harmattan winds blew harder than ever. They rattled the shutters and sent jackfruit clattering down onto the roof. And when such a wind blows, anything can happen.

“And just who are you to tell me what you will and will not do?” Lingongo challenged.

“It’s my life, Mother, and I . . . I—”

I will what? Grace thought with a sudden jolt of despair. Undoubtedly, the same question occurred to her mother because a mocking sneer curved Lingongo’s mouth into a twisted grin, and all Grace’s bravery failed her.

“Do you really think I will allow you to stay here forever, playing the part of a useless idler?” Lingongo demanded. “Why should you live like a princess when you bring absolutely nothing to my house? Even a princess must do her part, Grace. Especially a princess.”

Grace opened her mouth to answer, but Lingongo wasn’t finished. Her voice dripped with bitterness as she said, “You, with your washed-out skin and the color of rust in your hair! You, with your English clothes and English ways and English talk. Oh, yes, Grace, you will marry Mr. Hathaway. You will marry the snake. You will because I command it of you!”

Gone To Green - Chapter 1

2009-08-30T21:05:00.004-04:00

Gone To GreenAbingdon Press (August 2009)
Chapter 1
Post Media Company announced yesterday that its multimedia division will offer newspaper readers information around the clock, relying on the latest technology and innovation. For more information, see our Web site.

—The Dayton Post

I glanced down at the floorboard and noticed it was Thursday.

Somewhere in the last dozen years or so, I had gotten into the habit of figuring out what day of the week it was by checking the number of coffee mugs rolling around. At least I don’t keep tuna sandwiches and an ancient typewriter in the backseat, the way a guy in sports does.

Hurrying into the building, I flashed my security badge at the guard, who reluctantly lifted his head from his Word Jumble puzzle to glance and nod. Let it never be said he didn’t get his money’s worth out of the daily paper—especially since free papers are one of the perks of working at The Dayton Post. He saw me every day, several times a day, but still made me show my badge.

When I hit the front door of the newsroom, I dashed to my desk. I spend a lot of time dashing, especially in the morning when I slide into my cubicle just in time to make eye contact with my staff before the news-planning meeting.

As city editor, I’m in the middle of things, right where I like to be—most of the time. If it weren’t for night meetings and procrastinating reporters, this job wouldn’t be half bad.

I learned long ago to shape my personal life around my work. That means only occasionally grumbling about the nights and weekends. I’m still a little annoyed about Christmas—I always get stuck working because I’m the one without kids. The schedule’s already posted for five months from now, and there I sit: Lois Barker, holiday editor.

“How’s it shaping up, Scoop?”

Ed stood in the same spot he stands each morning when I hit the door, waiting to ask what we have for tomorrow’s paper. He’s the managing editor and has been for a decade. His old-fashioned nickname helps make up for all the annoying jokes I get about my name being Lois and working on the city desk: “How’s Clark Kent?” “Feeling mild-mannered today?” “Seen any speeding bullets?”

Ed probably should be the editor by now, but corporate sent in Zach about eighteen months ago—a young, suit kind of bean-counter editor who spends most of his time in accounting meetings.

Zach’s a nice enough guy, but he and Ed don’t exactly mesh. Ed thinks Zach is all stick and no carrot. “Looking good, Ed. Anything special you want us to chase?”

“Just make sure you scrape something up with a little juice to it. And, hey, are you up for some lunch today . . . maybe that sandwich shop down by the library?”

My inner radar spiked into the Red Zone. First of all, it was pork chop day at Buddy’s, our favorite spot, just around the corner. Next, Ed and I and a handful of other editors ate lunch together on a regular basis but never made it this formal. Usually we casually gathered at the back door of the newsroom and walked downtown after the noon news on TV.

To set something up in advance was close to an engraved invitation. To choose the mediocre sandwich shop meant he wanted to talk in private.

I frowned. “Sure, I’m good for lunch, but what’s up?”

Ed glanced around. In a newsroom someone always lurked with a question, a joke, or to eavesdrop. “I’ve got some news, but it’ll have to wait.”

During the news meeting, I watched Ed closely and wondered what he had on his mind. He had been antsy lately— not happy with changes in the paper.

“I don’t have anything against corporations owning newspapers,” he told me recently, “but I don’t like it when they start running newspapers.” He was particularly unsettled about the new focus on the Internet and technology. “I didn’t get into this business to do podcasts.”

Ed threw in a couple of good story ideas during the planning discussion to make sure Zach knew he was paying attention. My best friend Marti, the features editor, tried to keep her top reporter from getting pulled off onto a daily story, and Diane, the business editor, talked in riddles, as though that would somehow impress Zach.

Diane desperately wants to move up and knows Zach can help her get a plum assignment. Thankfully, she hasn’t realized it’s actually me Zach plans to move up and out. He’s supposedly grooming me to be a top editor, not only because he likes me, but because he gets some sort of company points for his promotable employees.

“He gets management stars,” Marti said when I told her about my career conversation with Zach a while back. “Or he gets to order a prize out of a catalog with lots of corporate merchandise in it. Maybe you can talk him out of a baseball cap to show off that ponytail of yours.”

Admittedly, I’m intrigued by Zach’s plans for me. At age thirty-six and still single, it’s probably time for me to consider a change.

After we finished the news meeting, Ed herded me out of the conference room. “Let’s beat the lunch crowd.” It wasn’t even 11:30 yet.

“Give me a minute,” I said. “Let me get a couple of reporters going on their assignments.”

“Hurry up,” he said and looked at his watch.

It’s a professional habit, but I try to figure things out before people tell me. Ed’s secret was killing me. As soon as we hit the door, I tossed my ideas at him. “It’s the ad director, isn’t it? He really did get fired from his last paper.” “Tony’s applying for that sports desk position in Atlanta, right?” “Zach’s mad at me about that drowning story we missed, isn’t he?” Ed wouldn’t even look at me. “I can’t take this any more! What’s up?”

“I’ve got something to tell you, something big.”

“You’re scaring me. Tell me.”

“I’m going to tell you all of it, but first you have to promise you won’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone—not Marti, not your next-door neighbor, not your aunt in Cleveland. This has to stay between us.”

Torn between irritation that he seemed to think I’d put this on the Associated Press wire and worry about the bomb he was about to drop, I stopped on the sidewalk. For once, I did not say anything.

He looked at me and smiled big. “I did it.”

“Did what?”

“Scoop, I did it! I bought my own newspaper.”

“Ed!” I squealed and gave him a quick hug. “Where? When? How? What will I do without you?” I peppered him with the standard journalistic questions and felt that sad, jealous thrill you get when something exciting happens to a good friend.

“Let’s get moving, so I can tell you everything without a bunch of ears around.”

We started walking, and I tried to smile. “Where? Details, details!”

“The Green News-Item. Green, Louisiana—great little town, about seven thousand people. Lots of potential—a big, beautiful lake, a courthouse square downtown, major highway on the drawing board.”

“Louisiana? You’re kidding me. You said you’d go to Oregon or Florida or somewhere like that. Have you ever even been to Louisiana? I mean other than that editors’ convention we went to in New Orleans that time?”

“Have now, and I like the feel of the place, Scoop. I realized I didn’t want one of those cute places we talked about. This place definitely isn’t cute. Besides, if it were, I probably wouldn’t be able to afford the paper.”

He sort of laughed and groaned at the same time. “This is a family sale. They want to keep Grandpa’s paper out of the hands of the government and Wall Street. It’s a twiceweekly: a twice-weekly—bigger than a puny weekly—but an honest-to-goodness newspaper, circulation 4,930, distributed throughout the county … I mean, parish. You know, they have parishes in Louisiana. Green, Louisiana. Bouef Parish. Spelled B-o-u-e-f and pronounced Beff, like Jeff. Weird.”

He laughed again.

I had never seen Ed so excited. “They like the looks of me, and I like the looks of them. Most of the family’s out of state, too, so I won’t have them breathing down my neck. It’ll be my paper to do whatever I want with.”

As he talked, I thought about what this meant in my life. What would I do without Ed? Whose shoulder would I cry on about being thirty-six and single? Ed is my mentor, friend, and confidante for every piece of good gossip I’ve picked up in the past decade and a half. The newsroom without him would be like the horrible Thanksgiving when I covered that tornado in Preble County and ate my holiday lunch at a gas station—lousy, just plain lousy.

We turned onto Calhoun Boulevard and headed into the Sandwich Express. I felt a twinge of shame at my selfishness. Ed had wanted to buy his own paper for years now, saving, always reading Editor & Publisher to see what was on the market, scouting, working the grapevine. He wanted to put miles between himself and his ex, and he was unhappy with the new corporate policies and his thousand extra duties.

“A twice-weekly,” I said. “Busy enough to be a challenge but not the hard work of a daily. In a nice little town. Green, did you say? Sounds like some tree-hugger kind of place.” I babbled, collecting my thoughts.

“Very un-tree-huggerish,” Ed said. He smiled and shook his head. “But plenty of nice trees.”

“Wow. I’m shocked. You actually did it, Ed.”

Then I asked the hardest question. “When?”

“I plan to tell Zach this afternoon that I’ll stay till after prep football season—give us time to wrap up the projects we’ve got going. I don’t know if he’ll want me around that long, though. Lame duck and all. I need to get down there before the end of the year. There’s a lot of paperwork and stuff to be done, plus I need to find a place to live.”

“Till after prep football season? That’s less than two months. Ed, what am I going to do without you?”

“You’ll do great, Lois. You’ll be out of here within a year anyway. Zach’s got you pegged to move onward and upward. I’ll be sitting in my dusty office reading about your successes on some corporate PR website. And you can come visit. I may ask you to train my staff—all twelve of them, and that’s twelve in the whole building, including the maintenance guy.”

My roast beef sandwich sat heavy in my gut, a reminder I need to eat healthier if I’m going to keep the trim figure I’m so proud of. I asked Ed for one of his antacids. He gobbled them by the truckload and complained about losing his appetite in his old age. Between the coffee and the cigarettes, his heartburn was legendary.

“Ed, you know I’m happy for you . . . I really am. I’m going to miss you, though.”

We headed back to the newsroom and the official news of the day. Suddenly, my cubicle seemed a little too small and a little too cluttered. The stack of special projects I was most proud of looked yellow and smelled musty. The ivy had more brown leaves than green. My office coffee cup had grown a new layer of mold.

Two fresh memos from Zach were in my mailbox. “Please tell your reporters to quit parking in the visitor lot,” and “The city desk needs to increase the number of stories geared to younger readers.” As I studied the second note, it pained me to realize I was no longer in the coveted younger reader category.

Ed took the next week off to handle details. “Gone fishing,” he wrote on a note posted on his office door. “Back soon.”

I moped while he was gone. “Must be a stomach bug,” I told Marti, who couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I hated to mislead her, but there’s always a bug going around the newsroom, so it was a fail-safe excuse.

When Ed returned, he hit the highlights of his week over a cup of coffee in the break room. “I made a quick trip to Green and sealed the deal with the owners. The sale remains confidential until I officially take ownership in ninety days. Then the current owners—McCuller is their name—will make some sort of official announcement.”

That would be one of those announcements that newspapers hate when other people make, but love it when they do. I rolled my eyes, oddly annoyed.

“I used some investment money and that little inheritance from my folks,” he said, “to get things going. And then I took out a whopping line of credit at the local bank. I have a year to start paying for this baby or bail out. Kind of scary.”

“Sounds exciting,” I said, trying to encourage him, even though it sounded very scary to me.

“There’s tons of paperwork. I met with my lawyer here in Dayton and my CPA and got all the particulars taken care of and filed for my retirement pay. I hope Zach will cut me loose—with pay, of course.” He laughed. “I’m ready to let my new life begin.”

Those were the last words Ed spoke before he passed out right there in the break room.

Within two months, he had left the newsroom all right. My gruff, sloppy, smart, hand-holding friend had died of leukemia. Not one of us had seen it coming.

The weeks of his illness were excruciating for all of us, filled with sadness for our friend and fear for ourselves at how quickly life could turn. I stopped by his house to see him as often as I could, but was ashamed that my visits were mostly hit-and-run efforts.

“Hey, how are things down in Green?” I asked one day, but he changed the subject. I didn’t have the heart to try again and ignored the copies of the paper by his couch. Somebody down there must have put him on the mail circulation list; he was too weak to travel.

I was among a handful of people, including Zach, who spoke at the funeral. Somehow I felt Zach had earned that privilege, even though Marti and a few others grumbled about a corporate newcomer charging into our private time. When it mattered most, Zach had treated Ed right.

My comments seemed a bit lightweight—corny stories like the time Ed put a banana on my telephone and called me, so I would pick the fruit up, thinking it was the receiver. I kept my comments short.

“No cry fest and no superhero stuff,” Ed told me in one of my final visits with him.

At the service, I surprised myself and several other people by saying a short prayer. “Thank you, God, for the impact of Ed’s life. Have mercy on all of us in the days ahead that we might be the people we were meant to be. Amen.”

My colleagues and I awkwardly walked away from the grave. We were good at writing about emotion, but we didn’t quite know how to handle it in this first-person version.

I cried all the way back to the newsroom, having designated myself the editor to make sure the Sunday paper got out. Sadness washed over me. Ed had never gotten the chance to live his new adventure, to try out his newspaper, to get out of Dayton and into Green, Louisiana.

His obit had missed the lead. Instead of going on and on about his distinguished career in journalism and how he was nearing retirement and loved to fish, it should have highlighted the new life he had planned. Ed wasn’t wrapping up a career. He was about to embark on a Louisiana journey.

As I hit “send” on a story, I saw Zach strolling toward me. Since he usually only phoned in on Saturdays, his appearance surprised me. Sitting on the corner of my desk, he chitchatted about the next day’s edition and picked up a paper clip, moving it back and forth between his fingers.

“I appreciated what you said at the funeral, Lois,” he said, laying down the paper clip. “I really wish I’d known Ed better, like you did. You did a great job capturing his personality—made me wish I’d taken more time to know what made him tick.”

Zach absently rummaged through my candy jar. “Moving around like I have these past few years,” he said, “I just haven’t gotten to know people deeply the way you knew Ed.”

Embarrassed and feeling like I might cry again, I concentrated on my computer screen and deleted old e-mails to avoid eye contact.

“You know, Ed thought the world of you,” Zach said. “Told me often how talented you are and how you’d be running your own paper one day. You know that, right?”

I sort of laughed, self-conscious and a little proud. “Oh, Ed liked me because we had worked together forever. He taught me so much.”

“Well, I agree with Ed. I want to offer you his job—the managing editor’s job.” My eyes widened. I closed my computer screen and slowly rolled my chair back. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like you to be the next M.E. I’ve already run it by corporate and gotten their okay.”

Rumors had swirled in the newsroom about who would take Ed’s place, but this had been one game I’d not let myself get drawn into, mostly because I knew it would mean Ed was truly gone.

Part of me was excited at the idea of a promotion. The other part was annoyed that Zach’s plans had been put into motion before he talked to me and that corporate had already signed off on my life.

“Well?” Zach said. “Is that a yes?”

I realized I hadn’t given him an answer. I picked up my pencil and doodled on my ever-present reporter’s notebook. The ambition in me fought with the fatigue and uncertainty these past weeks had unleashed. Ambition won.

“Thanks, Zach. That sounds great. Thanks. Sure. I’d love to be the M.E.” I tried to sound enthusiastic.

“Fantastic!” He leaned over my desk to shake my hand. “I look forward to working more closely with you. I’ll iron out the details with HR, and we’ll tell the staff within the next week or so.”

“Sounds good to me. Thanks again. I guess I’ll head on home. I’m pretty tired.” A great need to escape engulfed me.

My neat little condo with one puny pink geranium on the patio was about all I could handle at that moment. I walked straight to the bedroom and flopped down on my dark green comforter. I was too beat to think about how my life was about to change.

I briefly considered setting my alarm for church the next day, a habit I had long ago given up. I needed the inspiration, but I could not bring myself to do it.

The Frontiersman’s Daughter - Chapter 1

2009-08-25T22:56:00.002-04:00

The Frontiersman’s Daughter
Revell (September 1, 2009)

Kentucke, Indian Territory, 1777

In the fading lavender twilight, at the edge of a clearing, stood half a dozen Shawnee warriors. They looked to the small log cabin nestled in the bosom of the greening ridge, as earthy and unassuming as the ground it sat upon. If not for the cabin’s breathtaking view of the river and rolling hills, arguably the finest in the territory, most passersby would easily dismiss such a place, provided they found it at all. The Indians regarded it with studied intent, taking in the sagging front porch, the willow baskets and butter churn to one side, and the vacant rocking chair still astir from the hurry of a moment before. Six brown bodies gleamed with bear grease, each perfectly still, their only movement that of sharp, dark eyes.

Inside the cabin, Ezekial Click handed a rifle to his son, Ransom, before opening the door and stepping onto the porch. His wife, Sara, took up a second gun just inside. A sudden breath of wind sent the spent blossoms of a lone dogwood tree scurrying across the clearing. From the porch, Click began speaking in the Shawnee tongue. Slowly. Respectfully. A smattering of Shawnee followed—forceful yet oddly, even hauntingly, melodic.

Sara and Ransom darted a glance out the door, troubled by every word, yet the unintelligible banter continued. At last, silence came. And then, in plain English, one brave shouted, “Click, show us your pretty daughter!”

Within the cabin, all eyes fastened on the girl hovering on the loft steps. At thirteen, Lael Click was just a slip of a thing, but her oval face showed a woman’s composure. Her pale green eyes fastened on her father’s back just beyond the yawning door frame.

She put one cautious foot to the floor, then tread the worn pine boards until she stood in her father’s shadow. She dared not look at her mother. Without further prompting she stepped forward into a dying shaft of sunlight. A sudden breeze caught the hem of her thin indigo shift and it ballooned, exposing two bare brown feet.

The same brave shouted, “Let down your hair!” She hesitated, hearing her mother’s sharp intake of breath. With trembling hands she reached for the horn combs that held back the weight of fair hair. Her mane tumbled nearly to her feet, as tangled and luxuriant as wild honeysuckle vine.

Woven in with the evening shadows was a chorus of tree frogs and katydids and the scent of soil and spring, but Lael noticed none of these things. Beside her, her father stood stoically and she fought to do the same, remembering his oft-repeated words of warning: Never give way to fear in an Indian’s sight.

Softly she expelled a ragged breath, watching as each warrior turned away. Only the tallest tarried, his eyes lingering on her as she swept up her hair with unsteady hands and subdued it with the combs.

At last they were gone, slipping away into the wall of woods. Invisible but ever present. Silent. Perhaps deadly.

*****

Evening was a somber affair, as if the Shawnee themselves had stayed for supper. To Lael, the cold cornbread and buttermilk that filled their wooden bowls seemed as tasteless as the cabin’s chinking. Somehow she managed a sip of cider and a half-hearted bite now and then. Across from her, her mother managed neither. Only her younger brother Ransom ate, taking his portion and her own, as if oblivious to all the trouble.

Looking up, she saw a hint of a smile on her father’s face. Was he trying to put her at ease? Not possible. He sat facing the cabin door, his loaded rifle lounging against the table like an uninvited guest. Despite his defensive stance, he seemed not at all anxious like her ma but so calm she could almost believe the Indians had simply paid them a social call and they could go on about their business as if nothing had happened.

He took out his hunting knife, sliced a second sliver of cornbread, then stood. Lael watched his long shadow fall across the table and caught his quick wink as he turned away. Swallowing a smile, she concentrated on the cabin’s rafters and the ropes strung like spider webs above their heads. The sight of her favorite coverlet brought some comfort, its pattern made bright with dogwood blossoms and running vines. Here and there hung linsey dresses, a pair of winter boots, some woolen leggins, strings of dried apples and leather-britches beans, bunches of tobacco, and other sundry articles. Opposite was the loft where she and Ransom slept.

The cabin door creaked then closed as Pa disappeared onto the porch, leaving her to gather up the dirty dishes while her mother made mountain tea. Lael watched her add sassafras roots to the kettle, her bony hands shaking.

“Ma, I don’t care for any tea tonight,” she said.

“Very well. Cover the coals, then.”

Lael took a small shovel and buried the red embers with a small mountain of ash to better start a fire come morning. When she turned around, her ma had disappeared behind the tattered quilt that divided the main cabin from their corner bedroom. Ransom soon followed suit, climbing the loft ladder to play quietly with a small army of wooden soldiers garrisoned under the trundle bed.

Left alone, she couldn’t stay still, so taut in mind and body she felt she might snap. Soon every last dish and remaining crumb were cleaned up and put away. With Ma looking as though she might fall to pieces, Lael’s resolve to stay grounded only strengthened. Yet she found herself doing foolish things like snuffing out the candles before their time and pouring the dirty dishwater through a crack in the floor rather than risk setting foot outside.

The clock on the mantle sounded overloud in the strained silence, reminding her the day was done. Soon she’d have to settle in for the night. But where was Pa? She took in the open door, dangerously ajar, and the fireflies dancing in the mounting gloom. She sighed, pushed back a wisp of hair, and took a timid step toward the porch.

How far could an Indian arrow fly?

Peering around the door frame she found Pa sitting in the same place she’d found him years ago that raw November morning after his escape from the Shawnee. They had long thought him dead, and indeed all remnants of his life as a white man seemed to have been stamped out of him. His caped hunting shirt was smeared with bear grease, his deerskin leggins soiled beyond redemption. Except for an eagle-feathered scalp lock, his head was plucked completely clean of the hair that had been as fair as her own. Savage as he was, she’d hardly recognized him. Only his eyes reminded her of the man she once knew, their depths a wild, unsurrendered blue.

Tonight he was watching the woods, his gun across his knees, and his demeanor told her he shouldn’t be disturbed. Without a word she turned and climbed to the loft where she found Ransom asleep. There, in the lonesome light of a tallow candle, she shook her hair free of the horn combs a second time.

The shears she’d kept hidden since the Shawnee departed seemed cold and heavy in her hand, but her unbound hair was warm and soft as melted butter. She brought the two together, then hesitated. Looking down, she imagined the strands lying like discarded ribbon at her feet.

A sudden noise below made her jerk the scissors out of sight. Pa had come in to collect his pipe. Her sudden movement seemed to catch his eye.

“You’d best be abed, Daughter,” he called over his shoulder, his tone a trifle scolding.

She sank down on the corn-husk tick, losing the last of her resolve, and tucked the scissors away. If she changed her mind come morning, they’d be near. Catlike, she climbed over the slumbering body in the trundle bed beneath her, surprised that a seven-year-old boy could snore so loud.

The night was black as the inside of an iron skillet and nearly as hot. She lay atop the rustling tick, eyes open, craving sleep. The night sounds outside the loft window were reassuringly familiar, as was her brother’s rhythmic breathing. All was the same as it had ever been but different. The coming of the Indians had changed everything.

In just a few moments’ time the Shawnee had thrown open the door to Pa’s past, and now there would be no shutting it. She, for one, didn’t like looking back.

Surrender The Wind - Prologue

2009-08-23T22:23:00.002-04:00

Surrender The Wind
Abingdon Press (August 2009)

Prologue

On a cool autumn twilight, Seth Braxton rode his horse through a grove of dark-green hemlocks in a primeval Virginia forest, distressed that he might not make it to Yorktown in time. He ran his hand down his horse’s broad neck to calm him, slid from the saddle, and led his mount under the deep umbra of an enormous evergreen. Golden-brown pine needles shimmered in the feeble light and fell. In response to his master’s touch, the horse lifted its head, shook a dusty mane, and snorted.

“Steady, Saber. I’ll be back to get you.” Seth spoke softly and stroked the velvet muzzle. “Soon, you’ll have plenty of oats to eat and green meadows to run in.”

He threw a cautious glance at the hillside ahead of him, drew his musket from a leather holster attached to the saddle, and pulled the strap over his left shoulder. Out of the shadows and into bars of sunlight, he stepped away to join his troop of ragtag patriots. Through the dense woodland, they climbed the hill to the summit.

Sweat broke over Seth’s face and trickled down his neck and into his coarse linen hunting shirt. He wiped his slick palms along the sides of his dusty buckskin breeches and pulled his slouch hat closer to his eyes to block the glare of sun that peeked through the trees. A lock of dark hair, which had a hint of bronze within its blackness, fell over his brow, and he flicked it back with a jerk of his head. Tense, he flexed his hand, closed it tight around the barrel of his musket, and listened for the slightest noise—the soft creak of a saddle or the neigh of a horse. His keen blue eyes scanned the breaks in the trees, and his strong jaw tightened.

Shadows quivered along the ground, lengthened against tree trunks, then crept over ancient rocks. Within the forest, blue jays squawked. Splashes of blood-red uniforms interspersed amid muted green grew out of earthy hues.

A column of British infantry, led by an officer on horseback, moved around the bend. His scarlet coat, decked with ivory lapels and silver buttons, gleamed in the sunlight, his powdered wig snow white. An entourage of other lower-ranking officers accompanied him alongside the rank and file.

Without hesitation, Seth cocked the hammer of his musket to the second notch and pressed the stock into his shoulder. “Wait.” Daniel Whitmann, a young Presbyterian minister, pulled out his handkerchief, mopped the sweat off his face, and shoved the rag back into his pocket. “Wait until more are on the road. Wait for the signal to fire.”

Seth acknowledged the preacher with a glance. “Pray for us, Reverend, and for them as well. Some of us are about to face our Maker.”

Whitmann moved his weapon forward. “God shall not leave us, Seth. May the Almighty’s will be done this day.”

Seth fixed his eye on the target that moved below. He aimed his long barrel at the heart of the first redcoat in line. No fervor for battle rose within him, only a heartsick repulsion that he would take a boy’s life, a lad who should be at home tending his father’s business or at school with his mind in books. The boy lifted a weary hand and rubbed his eyes. The officer nudged his horse back and rode alongside the boy. “Stay alert, there!” The boy flinched, stiffened, and riveted his eyes ahead.

A muscle in Seth’s face twitched. He did not like the way the officer cruelly ordered the boy. With a steady arm, he narrowed one eye and made his mark with the other. He moved his tongue over his lower lip and tried to control a heated rush of nerves. He glanced to the right, his breath held tight in his chest, and waited for the signal to fire. His captain raised his hand, hesitated, then let it fall.

Flints snapped. Ochre flashed. Hissing reports sliced the air. The British surged to the roadside in disorder. Their leader threatened and harangued his men with drawn sword. He ordered them to advance, kicked laggards, and shoved his horse against his men, while bullets pelted from the patriots’ muskets.

Seth squeezed the trigger. His musket ball struck the officer’s chest. Blood gushed over the white waistcoat and spurted from the corner of the Englishman’s mouth. He slid down in the saddle and tumbled off his horse, dead.

“Fall back!” Redcoats scattered at the order, surged to the roadside, slammed backward by the force of the attack. The fallen, but not yet dead, squirmed in the dust and cried out. A redcoat climbed the embankment, slipped, and hauled back up. His bayonet caught the sunlight and Seth’s attention. The soldier headed straight for Whitmann.

His hands fumbled with his musket, and Whitmann managed to fire. The musket ball struck the redcoat through the chest. A dazed look flooded the preacher’s face.

Seth grabbed Whitmann by the shoulder and jerked him away. “Don’t think on it, Reverend.”

He shoved the heartsick minister behind him. A troop of grenadiers hurried around the bend in the road, their bayonets rigid on the tips of their long rifles. They faced about, poured a volley into the hilltop, and killed several patriots.

A musket ball whizzed past Seth’s head and smacked into the tree behind him. Bark splintered, and countless wooden needles launched into the air. His breath caught in his throat, and he pitched backward. Blood trickled from his temple, hot against his skin. He rolled onto his side, scrambled to a crouched position, and slipped behind a tree. Beside him, Whitmann lay dead, his bloody hand pressed against the wound, the other clutched around the shaft of his rifle, with his eyes opened toward heaven.

“Retreat! Retreat!” The command from a patriot leader reached Seth above the clamor of musket fire. With the other colonials, he ran into the woods. His heart pounded against his ribs. His breathing was hurried.

He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that he must run for his life. Redcoats stampeded after him through the misty Virginia wilds. His fellow patriots scurried up the hill ahead of him and slipped over the peak. With unaffected energy, he mounted the slope to follow them and ran as fast as his legs could carry him over the sleek covering of dead leaves. He had to catch up. Exhausted, he forced his body to move, crested the hill, and hastened over it, down into the holler of evergreens.

Without a moment to lose, Seth leapt into the saddle of his horse, dug in his heels, and urged Saber forward. The crack of a pistol echoed, and a redcoat’s bullet struck. Against the pull of the reins, the terrified horse twisted and fell sideways. Flung from the saddle, Seth hit the ground hard, and his breath was knocked from his body. For a tense moment, he struggled to fill his lungs and crawl back to his fallen horse. His heart sank when he saw the mortal wound that had ripped into Saber’s hide. Desperate for revenge, Seth grabbed his weapon and scrambled to his feet. But the click of a flintlock’s hammer stopped him short.

“Drop your weapon, rebel.” A redcoat stood a stone’s throw away, his long rifle poised against his shoulder.

Seth opened his hand and let his musket fall into the leaves. Soldiers hurried forward and confiscated his knife and musket, shot and powder horn. Saber moaned, and from the corner of Seth’s eye, he saw his faithful mount struggle to rise.

The redcoat that held him at gunpoint glanced at the suffering horse, and a cruel light spread across his face. Helpless, Seth watched the redcoat take the musket from a soldier and aim. The forest grew silent, and Seth’s quickened heartbeat pulsed in his jugular. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. Then his musket ended his horse’s misery.

At the blast, Seth jerked. He stepped back from the putrid smell of rum and sweat, from the pocked face that glistened with grime, and from the eyes that blazed with sordid pleasure. A firm voice gave orders to make way as an officer on horseback cantered toward him. The Englishman dismounted, took Seth’s musket from the rum-smelling buffoon, and turned it within his hands.

“Iron. Smoothbore barrel. Maker’s mark.” The officer examined the craftsmanship of the wood and forged brass. “Walnut full stock. Board of Ordnance Crown acceptance mark on the tang. Regulation Longland, I’d say. A quality piece by American standards.”

Seth bit his lower lip and clenched his fists. “I cannot kill any of your men. It’s not loaded. You have my shot and powder. Return them to me.”

The officer handed the musket over to an Iroquois scout. “A gift. Show it to your people. Tell them the king of England wished you to have it.”

“We captured a rebel.” The redcoat who shot Seth’s horse threw his shoulders back.

Colonel Robert Hawkings stood nose-to-nose with the soldier. “You think yourself worthy of some reward? One prisoner is something to boast about?”

Corporal John Perkins nodded. “Better than none at all, sir.”

“Out of my sight, you foul-smelling oaf.”

Perkins shrank back, red-faced. Hawkings planted himself in front of Seth and met his eyes. “Your colonials killed several of my men, including our major. Not only are you a rebel, but a murderer as well. You’ll hang for it.”

Seth stared straight into his enemy’s eyes. “It would be better to suffer the noose than be under the bootheels of tyrants.”

Blue veins on Hawkings’s neck swelled and he struck Seth across the face. Seth’s head jerked from the force of the blow. Slowly, he turned back and spat out the blood that flooded his mouth.

Nearby a younger officer watched. His expression burned with arrogant pride. Seth noticed the tear in the man’s jacket and saw a stream of blood had stained the white linen beneath it.

To the rear, another man stepped forward.

“Colonel Hawkings, trade this prisoner for one of our own.” He spoke in a quiet, controlled tone.

Hawkings’s brows arched, and he spun halfway on his heels. “Captain Bray, you have no satisfaction in seeing a traitor hang?”

“Hanging is for those who have been tried and sentenced. This man has not had that afforded him.”

“He deserves nothing in that regard.”

“Our government has given prisoners of war the rights of belligerents, sir. They’re not to be executed.”

“You doubt my authority in this matter?” Hawkings said.

Bray’s frown deepened. “No, sir, only your better judg-ment.”

“Stand back. I’ll shoot this rebel myself.”

Hawkings drew his pistol, pointed it at Seth’s head and cocked the hammer. Stunned, Seth’s breath caught in his throat. His body stiffened in a cold sweat.

Bray lunged and cuffed Hawkings’s wrist. “He’s unarmed.”

Hawkings shoved Bray back. “Take your hands off me. You dare defy me?”

“We are Englishmen and Christians. Let us abide by the rules of just conduct.”

Hawkings grabbed Bray’s coat and yanked his face close. “I am the officer in charge. I can do anything I wish.”

“Shooting an unarmed man is murder,” Bray said.

Hawkings paused. His expression grew grave as though he considered the word murder with great care. A moment later, he lowered his pistol. “Murder, you say? Well, I’ve had enough blood this day. I know my officers shall agree this man is guilty and that hanging is a more just and merciful punishment. Perkins, secure this rebel under that tree, the one I mean for him to swing from at dawn. Let him listen to its branches creak all night. Perhaps that will humble his rebellious heart.”

Hawkings strode off. Perkins grabbed hold of Seth and tied his wrists together. Seth lowered his eyes, stared at the ground, and refused to give Bray any sign he was grateful he had stood up for him.

“If I were you, I’d mind my place, Bray.”

Seth lifted his eyes to see Bray turn to the man who taunted him.

“Have you no honor, Captain Darden?” Bray said. “A man must speak up for justice.”

Darden pulled away from the tree he leaned against. “If you do not take care to show respect to Colonel Hawkings, you’ll regret your interference. You should know what meddling could do, after what happened at Ten Width.”

Seth let out a breath and frowned. What did these men know of Ten Width, his grandfather’s estate in England? Yanked forward, he caught Darden’s stare. Within the depths of his palegray eyes burned hatred. A corner of Darden’s mouth curled and twitched. To stay silent, Seth bit down hard on the tip of his tongue.

They led him to the oak, where he struggled with the understanding he’d die young at twenty-six. Under the shadow of the tree’s colossal branches, he cried inwardly, Let the sighing of the prisoner come before thee; according to the greatness of thy power preserve thou those that are appointed to die.

Seth’s burdened heart hoped heaven heard him, but his weakened flesh doubted.

***

The sky hung inky-black, burdened with stars. The moon, umber and maize, cast its light over twisting leaves. With a heavy heart, Seth gazed at the vaulted heavens and made out the constellation Lyra. “Where is God my maker, who giveth songs in the night?” he murmured, his eyes gathering together the stars that made its shape. What lay beyond those heavenly places? Was he prepared to meet his end?

He had lived in the Virginia wilderness, fighting alongside a handful of patriots from the Potomac Militia after a gutwrenching farewell to his father, Colonel Nathan Braxton, and his younger sister, Caroline. Caroline was but a child then, and the war-torn colonies were no place for a motherless girl. He thought of her, with brotherly longing, far away in England, glad she was at least safe, fed, and clothed, living in their grandfather’s house.

A frown quivered at the corners of his mouth. She had no idea her brother was a prisoner of the British army, assigned a traitor’s death.

When the soldiers settled down before the fire and stretched out on the ground to sleep, Seth laid his head against the rough bark of the oak. A thread of blood that had seeped from the wound on his temple felt cold against his skin. Though his death was promised on the morrow, something stronger rallied his courage. He refused to accept such a fate and opened his eyes to study his surroundings. The campfire was low and gave little light. Behind him, the forest brooded in darkness.

He thought of ways he might escape and, with much tenacity, he loosened the ropes that dug at his wrists. That’s all there was to it—break the bindings and with care and caution vanish into the dark.

He twisted and turned his hands and strained hard against the cords. A slight change happened, but not enough to free him. He repeated the process again with added determination. Through the gloom, he saw Bray walk toward him. He relaxed his struggle, so as not to give away his plan.

“I’m sorry you are to die tomorrow.” Bray crouched in front of him. “I did what I could to prevent it.”

Seth pressed his mouth hard, and turned his head the other way. “What is one rebel more or less to you?”

“A human life is precious.”

“Not in war.”

“Are you thirsty?” Bray yanked the stopper free on his canteen.

Seth nodded. Bray put the opening to Seth’s mouth. The water tasted cold and sweet, and he was grateful for it.

“I’d give you something to eat, but we have nothing. Well, nothing you would want. Our men were starving, and your horse . . . I’m sorry.”

Seth pushed down his rage and swallowed hard.

Bray pinched his brows together. “Tell me your name.”

Seth hesitated, then replied in a short breath. “Braxton.”

“Braxton? An English name.”

“It was once.”

“Have you family in England?”

“My grandfather and sister live in Devonshire in some ruin of a place, where he eats his beef and subjects her to his politics.”

Bray made no sign of offense at Seth’s bitter remarks. “Is Caroline Braxton your sister?”

A jolt gripped Seth at his sister’s name. “You know her?”

“I do. She told me she had family in Virginia.”

“Is she well?”

“The last I knew, she was well.”

“At least I’ve been afforded some comfort before I die.”

“You’ll not hang,” Bray whispered. “I owe it to Caroline to help you.”

Bray drew his knife and slipped the blade between the cords and Seth’s flesh. Seth strained to pull the ropes open to give Bray room to slice. Soon the bindings broke and he rubbed his bruised skin.

“They’ll hang you instead of me,” he said.

“Trust me, I’m safe.” Bray glanced back at the sentry and set the knife back in its sheath. “There is more to tell, but we have no time. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.”

With the cloak of darkness to cover him, Seth slipped away. Moonlight marked his path. He went heel-to-toe and stepped through the tangled maze of leaf and root. He traveled several miles before the faint rim of the land leveled off into green fields. To the east, toward the bay and river, seams of fog wove through the bottomlands. Through the trampled battlefield, Seth trudged and paused to glance at the outworks the British had abandoned—the empty trenches and redoubts.

When he reached the heart of the encampment, he moved on toward a farmhouse. He entered through the front door into a sparsely lit room, where lay row upon row of injured patriots. He made inquiries among the men and learned from a wounded solider that his father had fallen in the early hours before Cornwallis surrendered.

With bleary eyes, and his head wrapped in a bloody bandage, the lieutenant smiled up at Seth. “I know Major Braxton. I saw him fall not five yards from where I stood. He fought bravely. I cannot say, lad, whether he is living or dead.”

At these words, Seth’s hopes sank and he leaned down. “Do you know where I might find him?”

“Could be among us wounded.”

Seth thanked him and went on to look for his father. After a desperate search, he found Nathan’s body, battered and bloody from battle. He lifted the blanket that covered him. Blood stained the linen shirt, waistcoat, and navy-blue jacket. In his father’s hand, he saw the glimmer of a gold locket. He knew it kept safe his mother’s portrait. He took it and shoved it into his pocket.

He curled his hands into fists and dug his fingers into his palms to steel himself against the pain. Grief broke through, clawed at his heart, and pummeled him. He silently wept and lifted his father’s body into his arms.

“Grandfather will never understand the man you were,” he whispered against his father’s cold cheek.

He laid him back. His hand trembled, along with his heart, when he touched his father’s eyes and closed them.

Kathryn's Fountain - Prologue

2009-08-18T22:50:00.002-04:00

Kathryn's Fountain
Cladach Publishing (November 8, 2008)

DO YOU BELIEVE in miracles?”

Kathryn’s intense blue eyes were locked on mine. Without taking her gaze from me, she reached for the handkerchief that was always stashed beside her in the wheelchair and wiped her wet, arthritic hands. She replaced the handkerchief and waited for my reply.

When I had arrived moments earlier for one of my regular visits to Victorian Manor, I’d found her as usual in the garden by the fountain. She had just returned the day before from an extended hospitalization; she’d been treated for pneumonia and other pulmonary complications. It didn’t surprise me that she looked weak and frail as she leaned over the side of the fountain, a little lady almost lost in her large wheelchair. Her white hair seemed to glow; her face, etched with wrinkles, was lightly dusted with makeup.

I paused to consider. She wasn’t looking for a theological answer. She had been building up the courage to ask the question; I’d seen that as she swished her hand around and around in the fountain. Her question wasn’t really a question. She was probing, getting a sense of whether it was safe to say what she wanted to say. Could she trust me?

I leaned forward in the wrought iron chair, put my elbows on my knees, and folded my hands. “Yes, I believe in miracles.”

She shook her head. “Not just the miracles of the Bible; I know a preacher should believe in those. I mean . . .” She paused, nervously stuffing the handkerchief more deeply into the space between her hip and the chair. “Do you believe that miracles happen today?”

“Yes,” I said.

She gripped both armrests and leaned forward; her blue eyes sparkled with intensity. In a voice not much louder than a whisper, she said, “Then I have a story to tell you.”

And so began the unfolding of a tale that took several visits to be told. It is one of the most amazing accounts I have ever heard, in years of ministry, before or since.

At that time, I was new at the church, and was eager to extend pastoral care to anyone who needed it. I had been told about Kathryn Williams by various members of the congregation in the first weeks after my arrival. She had been at the church “forever,” as one parishioner had put it. No one could remember when she hadn’t been there, and no one could think of a position in the church she hadn’t held. If Protestants had saints, Kathryn would have been on the fast track to sainthood.

The church was the only family Kathryn had. Her husband had been killed in a car accident twenty-four years earlier, and they had no children. Now she was in her eighties and unable to live on her own.

Victorian Manor was a pleasant enough place, with ivy climbing on the brickwork, tall windows, and a slate roof edged with ornate white trim. Originally the stately home of a wealthy financier, it had been refashioned by its current owners into a cozy, assisted-living facility. The husband, Jake, from what I could observe, bought into his wife Ruth’s dream of having such a home for the elderly and filled the role of slightly reluctant custodian.

Each of the ten residents had a private room. An elevator, added tastefully to the exterior of the building, made the three-story home handicapped-accessible. Those residents who were able shared meals around a large table set with fresh linens, delicate china, and real silverware from Ruth’s grandmother. African violets brightened the dining room windowsills. Antiques, many brought in by the residents as childhood memorabilia, occupied walls, shelves, and corners.

My favorite spot, though, was the small garden. Ivy covered most of the wrought iron fence that enclosed it, muting the city noises and obscuring the view of the sidewalk and street. The ivy was kept trimmed back at the gate to allow a glimpse of people and cars racing by, in sharp contrast to the unhurried calm that pervaded the garden. A maple tree dominated the garden, large with sprawling branches and probably as old as Victorian Manor itself. Tucked around its trunk and spreading out two or three feet like a Christmas tree skirt were red and white impatiens. An equally large oak tree near the fence lended half its branches to providing shade to the passersby on the sidewalk outside the garden. A crimson Japanese maple no more than four feet high gave a splash of color to the far back corner of the garden. A rhododendron, with its dried remnants of spring’s blossoms, occupied the other back corner. Lily of the valley lined the fence opposite the gate while hostas of various sizes, some with variegated leaves, lined the back fence. Red bricks formed a small patio tucked up against the house. A brick path meandered through the garden. The plants and bricks left little room for grass.

A large, three-tiered fountain near the gate was the centerpiece of the miniature paradise. Next to the fountain stood a small wrought-iron, round table with four matching chairs, all painted white. Here Kathryn and I had our conversations during that unusually hot, muggy summer when I assured her that I believed in miracles.

As I listened to Kathryn’s story, a hummingbird flitted about a feeder filled with sugar water, then moved in for a drink, ignoring the little perch, apparently preferring to stay airborne as it sipped. The coo of a mourning dove wafted through the garden. A cricket sang from somewhere near the base of the fountain, likely hiding in a dark crack between bricks in the patio. A robin sang from a branch in the maple tree.

Kathryn’s story tested my faith. During subsequent visits beside the fountain I had opportunities to ask questions. She filled in details and fleshed out portions of the story that didn’t come to her at the first telling.

I’ll share Kathryn’s story with you now, as best I can. My hope is that it will have a lasting impact on your life, as it has had on mine.