by Lisa Kleypas
“Do I look okay?” I asked.
Jack nodded, his gaze unblinking.
I bit back a grin, realizing he had never seen me dressed up before. And the suit was flattering, cut to show my curves to advantage. “I thought this was more appropriate for church than jeans and Birkenstocks.”
I wasn’t certain Jack heard me. It looked like his mind was working on another track altogether. My suspicion was confirmed when he said fervently, “You have amazing legs.”
“Thanks.” I gave a modest shrug. “Yoga.”
That appeared to set off another round of thoughts. I thought Jack’s color seemed a little high, although it was difficult to tell with that rosewood tan. His voice sounded strained as he asked, “I guess you’re pretty flexible?”
“I wasn’t the most flexible in class by any means,” I said, pausing before adding demurely, “but I can put my ankles behind my head.” I repressed a grin when I heard a hitch in his breathing. Seeing that his SUV was out in front, I walked past him. He was at my heels immediately.
The Eternal Truth campus was only five miles away. Even though I had done research and had seen pictures of the facilities, I felt my eyes widen in amazement as we pulled through the front gate. The main building was the size of a sports arena.
“My God,” I said, “how many parking spaces are there?”
“Looks like at least two thousand,” Jack replied, driving through the lot.
“Welcome to church in the twenty-first century,” I muttered, preparing to dislike everything about Eternal Truth.
When we went in, I was stunned by the grandeur of the place. The lobby was dominated by a gigantic LED screen showing film clips of happy families having picnics, walking through sunny neighborhoods, parents pushing children on swings, washing the dog, going to church together.
Towering fifteen-foot-high statues of Jesus and the disciples stood near entrances to a food court and an atrium space lined with emerald glass. Panels of green malachite and warm cherry wood lined the walls, and acres of immaculate patterned carpeting covered the floor. The bookstore on the other side of the lobby was filled with people. Everyone seemed upbeat, people pausing to talk and laugh, while feel-good music wafted through the air.
I had read that Eternal Truth was both admired and criticized for its health-and-wealth gospel. Pastor Cardiff emphasized often that God wanted his congregation to enjoy material prosperity as well as spiritual advancement. In fact, he insisted that the two went hand-in-hand. If one of the church members was having financial difficulty, he needed to pray harder for success. Money, it seemed, was a reward for faith.
I didn’t know nearly enough about theology to engage in a competent discussion. But I instinctively distrusted anything that was this slickly packaged and marketed. On the other hand . . . the people here seemed happy. If the doctrine worked for them, if it satisfied their needs, did I have any right to object? Perplexed, I stopped with Jack as a smiling greeter came to us.
After a brief murmured consultation, the greeter serenely directed us beyond a set of massive marble columns to an escalator, and we went upward into an airy space of sunlight and emerald glass, and a limestone cornice engraved with scripture: I CAME THAT THEY MAY HAVE LIFE AND HAVE IT ABUNDANTLY. JOHN 10:10
A secretary was already waiting for us at the top of the escalator. She led us to an executive suite with a spacious conference room. There was a twenty-foot-long keystone table made of exotic woods, with a strip of colored printed glass running along the center.
“Wow,” I said, surveying the leather executive chairs, the large mounted flat-screen TV, the data ports and individual monitors set up for video conferencing. “Quite a setup.”
The secretary smiled. “I’ll tell Pastor Gottler you’re here.”
I glanced at Jack, who half-sat, half-leaned on the edge of the table. “You think Jesus would have hung out here?” I asked as soon as the secretary left.
He gave me a warning glance. “Don’t start.”
“According to what I’ve read, Eternal Truth’s message is that God wants all of us to be rich and successful. So I guess you’re a little closer to heaven than the rest of us, Jack.”
“If you want to blaspheme, Ella, I’m all for it. After we leave.”
“I can’t help it. Something about this place bothers me. You were right—it is like Disneyland. And in my opinion they’re feeding their flock spiritual junk food.”
“A little junk food never hurt anyone,” Jack said.
The door opened, and a tall blond man entered the room.
Mark Gottler was good-looking and swathed in an air of gentility. He was stocky and full-cheeked, well fed, well groomed. Gottler had an air of being above the flock, calmly accepting their reverence. You couldn’t imagine him being at the mercy of normal bodily functions.
This was the man my sister had slept with?
Gottler’s eyes were the color of melted Kraft caramels. He looked at Jack and went straight for him with an outstretched hand. “Good to see you again, Jack.” With his free hand, he briefly covered their clasped ones, making it a two-handed shake. One could take that either as a controlling gesture, or one of exceptional warmth. Jack’s pleasant expression didn’t change.
“I see you’ve brought a friend,” Gottler continued with a smile, reaching for me next. I shook his hand and was accorded the same two-handed grip.
I pulled back irritably. “My name is Ella Varner,” I said before Jack could introduce us. “I think you know my sister, Tara.”
Gottler let go of me, staring. The glaze of politeness remained intact, but the air became cold enough to freeze vodka. “Yes, I’m acquainted with Tara,” he said, summoning a faint smile. “She did some work in our administrative offices. I’ve heard a little about you, Ella. You’re a gossip columnist, right?”
“Close enough,” I said.
Gottler looked at Jack, his eyes opaque. “I was led to believe you were coming to me for counsel.”
“I am,” Jack said easily, pulling out a chair from the table and gesturing for me to sit. “There is a problem I want to talk to you about. It just doesn’t happen to be mine.”
“How do you and Miss Varner know each other?”
“Ella’s a good friend of mine.”
Gottler looked directly at me. “Does your sister know you’re here?”
I shook my head, wondering how often he talked with her. Why would a married man in his profession take the risks that he had, having an affair with an unstable young woman and getting her pregnant? It frightened me to comprehend that tens of millions of dollars—more—were at risk because of this situation. A sex scandal would be a huge blow to the church, not to mention the ruin of Mark Gottler’s career.
“I told Ella,” Jack said, “that I thought you might have some ideas about how we could help Tara.” A deliberate pause. “And the baby.” Taking the chair beside mine, he leaned back comfortably. “Have you seen him yet?”
“I’m afraid not.” Gottler went to the opposite side of the conference table. He took his time about settling into a chair. “The church does what it can for our brothers and sisters in need, Jack. It may be that in the future I’ll have a chance to speak with Tara herself about what assistance we can provide for her. But that’s a private matter. I think Tara would rather keep it her own business.”
I didn’t like Mark Gottler at all. I didn’t like his smoothness, his smug self-assurance, his perfect hair. I didn’t like the way he had fathered a child and hadn’t even bothered to see him. There were too many men in the world who had gotten away with abandoning responsibility for the children they had fathered. My own father had been one of them.
“As you know, Mr. Gottler,” I said evenly, “my sister isn’t in a position to handle her own business. She’s vulnerable. Easy to take advantage of. That’s why I wanted to talk to you myself.”
The pastor smiled at me. “Before we get into this any further, let’s take a moment to pray.”
>
“I don’t see why—” I began.
“Sure,” Jack interrupted, nudging my leg under the table. He sent me a warning glance. Take it easy, Ella.
I scowled and subsided, lowering my head.
Gottler began. “Dear Heavenly Father, Lord of our hearts, Giver of all good things, we pray for Your peace today. We ask You to help us turn any moments of negativity into opportunities to find Your way and resolve our differences . . .”
The prayer went on and on, until I came to the conclusion that Gottler was either stalling or trying to impress us with his elocution. Either way, I was impatient. I wanted to talk about Tara. I wanted decisions to be made. As I lifted my head to steal a glance at Gottler, I found that he was doing the same with me, sizing up the situation, assessing me as an adversary. And still he kept talking. “. . . since You created the universe, Lord, You can surely make things happen for our sister Tara, and—”
“She’s my sister, not yours,” I snapped. Both men glanced up at me in surprise. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t stand it any longer. My nerves were as tight as the teeth on a pocket comb.
“Let the man pray, Ella,” Jack murmured. His hand settled high on my shoulders, his thumb rubbing the nape of my neck. I stiffened but fell silent.
I understood. Rituals had to be observed. We wouldn’t get anything by going mano a mano with the pastor. I dropped my head and waited while he continued. I occupied myself with taking a few yoga breaths from deep down, continuous and easy. I felt Jack’s thumb at the back of my neck, circling with agreeable pressure.
Finally, Gottler finished with, “May You grant us wisdom and profiting ears, almighty and merciful Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” Jack and I both murmured, and we looked up. Jack’s hand slid away from me.
“Mind if I talk first?” Jack asked Gottler, who nodded.
Jack slid a questioning glance at me.
“Sure,” I muttered acidly. “You guys just talk things over while I listen.”
Relaxed and soft-voiced, Jack said to Gottler, “Don’t see the need to spell out the particulars of the situation, Mark. I think we all know what’s under the porch. And we want to keep things private as much as you do.”
“Good to hear,” Gottler said with unmistakable sincerity.
“I figure we’re all after the same thing,” Jack continued. “For Tara and Luke to get situated, and everyone to go on with business as usual.”
“The church helps a lot of people in need, Jack,” Gottler said reasonably. “I’m sorry to say there are many young women in Tara’s situation. And we do what we can. But if we help out Tara more than we do others, I’m afraid it’s going to draw some unwanted attention to her situation.”
“What about a court-ordered paternity test?” I asked tautly. “That would draw some attention, too, wouldn’t it? What about—”
“Easy, honey,” Jack murmured. “Mark’s working around to something. Give him a chance.”
“I hope he is,” I retorted, “because paying for Tara’s stay at the clinic is only the beginning. I want a trust fund for the baby, and I want—”
“Miss Varner,” Gottler said, “I had already decided to offer Tara an employment contract.” Faced with my ill-concealed scorn, he added meaningfully, “With benefits.”
“Sounds interesting,” Jack commented, gripping my thigh beneath the table and pushing me fully into my seat. “Let’s hear the man out. Go on, Mark . . . what kind of benefits? Are we talking some kind of housing deal?”
“That is definitely on the table,” the pastor allowed. “Federal tax law allows ministries to provide parsonages for their employees, so . . . if Tara works for us, it wouldn’t violate any prohibitions against personal benefit.” Gottler paused thoughtfully. “The church has a ranch in Colleyville that includes a private gated community with about ten houses on it. Each one is fenced with a pool, on an acre lot. Tara and the baby could live there.”
“By themselves?” I asked. “With things like utilities, landscaping, maintenance all taken care of?”
“That might be possible,” he allowed.
“For how long?” I persisted.
Gottler was silent. Clearly there were limits to what Eternal Truth was willing to do for Tara Varner, no matter that one of its chief clergy had knocked her up. Why did I have to be here prying something out of Mark Gottler that he should have already offered?
My thoughts must have shown on my face, because Jack interceded quickly.
“We’re not interested in temporary solutions, Mark, since the baby is now a permanent part of Tara’s life. I think we’re going to have to work out some kind of promissory contract with assurances for both sides. We can offer a guarantee that there’ll never be any talking to the media, the child won’t be submitted to genetic testing to determine parentage . . . whatever you need to feel comfortable. But in return Tara will need a car, a monthly expense account, health insurance, maybe a 529 for the baby . . .” Jack made a gesture to indicate the list was longer than he cared to enumerate.
Gottler made a comment about having to get clearance from his board of directors, and then Jack smiled and said he couldn’t picture Gottler having a problem there, and for the next few minutes I listened, half-impressed and half-disgusted. They finished with the acknowledgment that both sides were going to let their lawyers hash out the details.
“. . . have to let me work on this,” Gottler was telling Jack. “You did spring it on me with no advance notice.”
“We sprang it on you?” I repeated, incredulous and surly. “You had nine months to consider all this. It hasn’t occurred to you until now that you might be obligated to do something for Luke?”
“Luke,” Gottler said, looking strangely preoccupied. “Is that his name?” He blinked a couple of times. “Of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?” I demanded, but he only responded with a humorless smile and a shake of his head.
Jack urged me to stand with him. “We’ll let you get on with your business now, Mark. Let’s keep that timetable in mind. And I’d like an update as soon as you talk to the board members you mentioned.”
“Sure thing, Jack.”
Gottler ushered us out of the conference room, past sets of double doors and columns and portraits and plaques. I read the plaques as we walked by, my attention caught by a huge arch of limestone over black walnut doors with stained-glass insets. The stone was engraved : FOR WITH GOD NOTHING SHALL BE IMPOSSIBLE. LUKE 1:37
“Where does that door lead?” I asked.
“To my offices, actually.” A man had approached the door from another direction. He paused and turned to face us, smiling.
“Pastor Cardiff,” Gottler said quickly. “This is Jack Travis, and Miss Ella Varner.”
Noah Cardiff shook Jack’s hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Travis. I had the chance to meet your father recently.”
Jack grinned. “Hope you didn’t catch him on an ornery day.”
“Not at all. He’s a fascinating gentleman. Old-school. I tried to talk him into attending one of my services, but he said he wasn’t finished sinning yet, and he’d let me know when he was.” Laughing quietly, Cardiff turned to me.
He was dazzling. A big man, though not quite so tall as Jack, and built on a more slender scale. Whereas Jack looked and moved like an athlete, Noah Cardiff had the grace of a dancer. It was striking to see the two side by side, Jack with his sexy, earthy appeal, and Cardiff, refined and austerely beautiful.
The pastor’s complexion was fair, the kind that blushed easily, and his nose was narrow and high-bridged. The smile was angelic and slightly rueful, the smile of a mortal man who was all too aware of human frailty. And the eyes were those of a saint, benevolent light blue, his gaze making you feel annointed in some way.
As he stepped close enough to shake my hand, I caught the scents of lavender and amber spice. “Miss Varner. Welcome to our worship facility. I hope your appointment with Pastor Gottler went well?
” Pausing, he sent a quizzical smile to Gottler. “Varner . . . didn’t we have a secretary . . .?”
“Yes, her sister, Tara, helped us out from time to time.”
“I hope she’s well,” Cardiff told me. “Please give her my regards.”
I nodded uncertainly.
Cardiff held my gaze for a moment, seeming to read my thoughts. “We’ll pray for her,” he murmured. With a graceful hand, he gestured to the plaque over his doors. “My favorite verse, from my favorite of the disciples. It’s true, you know. Nothing is impossible in the Lord.”
“Why is Luke your favorite?” I asked.
“Among other reasons, Luke is the only disciple who relates the parables of the Good Samaritan and the prodigal son.” Cardiff smiled at me. “And he’s a strong supporter of women’s roles in the life of Christ. Why don’t you come to one of our services, Miss Varner? And bring your friend Jack with you.”
FOURTEEN
AS JACK AND I WENT OUTSIDE, I WENT OVER THE meeting in my mind. I rubbed my temples, feeling as if rubber bands had been wrapped tight around my skull.
Jack opened the SUV door for me and went to the other side. We both stood with the doors open, letting the heat pour out before we got into the vehicle.
“I can’t stand Mark Gottler,” I said.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
“While he was talking, I was overwhelmed by the realization that here is this hypocritical asshole who took advantage of my sister, and I’d like to . . . well, I don’t know, shoot him or something . . . but instead there we were, negotiating.”
“I know. But he’s stepping up to the plate. Let’s give him points for that.”
“He’s only doing it because we’re forcing him to.” I frowned. “You’re not on his side, are you?”
“Ella, I just spent the last hour and fifteen minutes with my boot up his ass. No, I’m not on his side. All I’m saying is, the situation isn’t all his fault. Okay, we can get in now.” Jack turned on the car. The air-conditioning huffed ineffectually in the scorching heat.