Opening Moves

by Phil Lollar

  Newfound faith. So much had changed in the year and a half since she and her mom moved to Odyssey. Back then she didn’t want to have anything to do with Christianity. All she really wanted was to get back to California. Now she felt God’s presence in her life every day. How had that happened? She still marveled when she thought about it.

  The little bell over the entrance to Whit’s End tinkled as several kids opened the door and left. She smiled. She must have heard that bell a thousand times by now, but she’d never forget the first time she heard it.

  Chapter Five

  Eighteen months earlier . . .

  Front Street. Where in the world was Front Street? For such a small town, Odyssey sure was easy to get lost in. Connie thought she was heading to the town center, but now she was in a park. There were kids everywhere—more than she had ever seen at any park back in Los Angeles. Not that she spent much time in parks; she preferred the beach.

  Funny thing about these kids: they didn’t seem to be playing in the park as much as walking through it. She passed a small grove of trees and saw why. Most of the kids were headed toward a large, colorfully painted, Victorian-style mansion in the center of a grassy field. The mansion had an inviting covered porch along its front, a turret tower on one side, and a huge, glass-paned arboretum greenhouse in the back. A large sign, also colorfully painted, next to the porch’s front steps said “Whit’s End.” Obviously the owner liked puns. Maybe someone in there could tell her where Front Street was.

  She climbed the steps leading up to the front door, peeked through the large window next to it, and instantly knew why so many kids were going inside: a big part of the bottom floor was an ice-cream shop and soda fountain. Kids and adults alike were enjoying a variety of sundaes, cones, and ice-cream sodas.

  Connie tucked under her arm the want ads she had been carrying, went back to the front door, and opened it.

  Ding-ding-ding!

  A very pleasant tinkling bell greeted her—along with three people staring at her expectantly: a young girl, a young boy, and between them, a stocky older man with longish silver-white hair; large, round, wire-rimmed glasses; and a bushy, white mustache. He wore a herringbone jacket over a red sweater-shirt, and brown corduroy pants.

  She didn’t know why they were all staring at her, but they seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so she did. “Uh, excuse me—”

  The three of them leaned forward with wide-eyed anticipation and asked in unison, “Yes?”

  This is getting weird, she thought but said aloud, “Could you tell me how to get to Front Street?”

  “Aw.” The two kids’ excited expressions dropped, and their shoulders drooped. Even weirder.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  The older gentleman stepped forward, smiling. “Oh, no, no! In fact, you had perfect timing! I was just explaining how a lot of times a sense of adventure is hard to hold on to. But sometimes it’s just a matter of how you look at things. You never really know where your next discovery will happen. Excitement could be waiting right on the other side of that door—and then you came in.”

  Weirder and weirder. “I’m sorry to be such a disappointment.”

  The man chuckled. “You’re not. By the way, this is Bobby and Amanda, and my name’s John Avery Whittaker. But most folks call me Whit.”

  “I’m Connie Kendall.”

  The two kids muttered a shy hello and then wandered off deeper into the building. The older man held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Connie!” They shook hands, and he added, “Now, what did you need again?”

  “Front Street.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right. Did you want North Front Street or South Front Street?”

  She blinked, then took the newspaper want ads from under her arm and unfolded them. “Uh, I don’t know. Wait—I’ve got it right here.” She scanned the paper, found the ad, and read it aloud quickly. “Wanted. Part-time clerk. Apply at Fashion Center, 1539 North Front Street. Sorry. Guess I should’ve read it a little closer.”

  “No worries. You’re looking for a job, eh?”

  “Yeah, but just until I can get enough money for bus fare. I have to get back to Los Angeles.”

  “You have family out in LA?” asked Whit.

  “Just my dad. But I don’t see him much anymore since he and my mom—well, you get the idea.” For some reason, she didn’t want to say the word divorced. “Then Mom got this brilliant idea that we ought to get out of the big city.” Why was she telling all of this to a complete stranger? “So . . . about North Front Street?”

  Whit nodded. “Oh yes. Fashion Center. Have experience in the clothing business, do you?”

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve had a lot of experience buying clothes. That ought to count for something.”

  He chuckled again. “Of course. So is this your first job?”

  “No way. Last summer I was a waitress.”

  A gleam came into Whit’s eyes, and his brows arched slightly. “Really? A waitress. Interesting.”

  She frowned. “Why is that interesting?”

  “Oh, just because of some of the other want ads in the paper.” He reached for it. “May I?” She handed it over, and he adjusted his glasses and scanned the page. “Like this one. Wanted: responsible student with pleasant personality to help run busy soda fountain.”

  This was getting frustrating. “Yeah, interesting. Listen, is it far from here?”

  “What?”

  “North Front Street!”

  “Oh! No, no, not far.”

  This guy was clueless! “Great. So if you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’ll find it on my own.”

  Whit folded the newspaper and handed it back to her. “Well, I suppose you could do that. Or if you wanted to, you could walk downtown to Miller’s Department Store, pick up an apron and a Whit’s End T-shirt, and then head back here.”

  Her expression must have conveyed her complete confusion, because Whit smiled and pointed at the paper. “That last ad I read—the one for the soda fountain—was mine.”

  Connie felt her jaw drop open and quickly closed it again with a brief headshake. “Wait. You’re offering me a job? I haven’t even filled out an application.”

  Whit shrugged. “I don’t know what else I’d ask you. I already know where you’re from, a little about your family, what kind of work you’ve done, what experience you’ve had. Is there something I missed?”

  She suddenly realized she was the clueless one and chortled. “No, I guess not. And I get the feeling there isn’t much of anything you do miss.”

  He smiled again. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  A loud crash turned their heads. At the counter she saw a man about the same age as Whit—only balding, wearing spectacles, and dressed in overalls and a blue work shirt. He was holding an empty tray off of which three ice-cream sundaes had just slid and splattered onto the countertop. The man quickly set down the tray and attempted to fix the mess.

  “Oops!” he drawled. “Sorry ’bout that! Those sundae dishes are slipperier than, well, somethin’ really slippery! Here, let me scoop that back into your cup. You all don’t mind mixin’ your ice cream together, do you?”

  Connie looked back at Whit, who smiled sheepishly. “That’s Tom Riley. He’s, uh, helping. So, do you think you could start right away?”

  She stifled a smile. “Can I at least ask how much the job pays?”

  Whit scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Pay? Well, let’s see. Tell you what. Why don’t I call Marla down at the Fashion Center and ask her how much she plans to pay her part-time clerk. Whatever sounds fair to her sounds fair to me. Does that work for you?”

  From the counter Tom shouted, “It works for me! Take the job!”

  Whit chuckled. “Well?”

  She was still hesitant, unsure. What was she getting herself into? She really didn’t know this guy. On the other hand, she wouldn’t know Marla at the Fashion Center either. Whit seemed fri
endly and likable enough, and the building was cool and filled with kids, so she wasn’t worried about her safety. But she had already told him more about herself in the few minutes since they’d met than she’d told most of her friends back in Los Angeles before she left. He seemed like one of those people who wanted to build relationships. She didn’t want or need a relationship. Yet she did want and need a job. And she had a sure one here that was likely to pay as much as any other job she’d be able to find in this town. All she had to do was say yes.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I guess I could try it.”

  Whit grinned broadly. “Good!” He turned and addressed the soda shop. “Hey, everybody. Listen up!” The bustling room quieted down. “Say hi to Connie Kendall. She’ll be helping me out here in the ice-cream department.”

  The room erupted in a cheer, which was cut short by a blender squealing, churning, and then erupting the contents of a chocolate shake all over the counter, the floor, and Tom Riley. He blinked several times. “Whoooo-wee!” he exclaimed, with liquefied chocolate ice cream dripping off the end of his nose. “This blender’s got a mind of its own!”

  Whit sighed. “And not a moment too soon.”

  Connie burst out laughing, and Whit, Tom, and the whole room joined her.

  Chapter Six

  The present . . .

  That was the beginning, Connie thought, the start of a fantastic journey. She had no inkling then just how fantastic it would be. A shiver went down her spine when she thought of how close she came to taking a job at the Fashion Center, which had since closed down.

  The soda fountain was really emptying out now—just a couple of lingerers left. She flipped a towel over her shoulder, grabbed a plastic tub, and made her way around the counter to bus the tables. The room took on that weirdly wonderful stillness and golden hue created by the setting sun.

  Connie wondered if it would be another late night for Whit, or whether his asking Eugene up to his office meant that whatever project he was working on was finally finished. She set the tub on a table and looked over at the stairs again. The way the sunlight hit them, they seemed to shimmer and glow. She frowned. What was taking them so long up there? What was the big secret? And why did Whit trust Eugene with it more than her? She had half a mind to tromp up there, burst into the office, and demand—

  No. She turned back to her work. She wouldn’t let herself think that way. She had to trust that Whit had good reasons for what he was doing. He always did, even if he didn’t let her in on the reason at first—or ever. She had seen it happen dozens of times with the kids at Whit’s End. Somehow, with Whit, things always seemed to turn out all right—and mostly because he planned it that way. It was weird. She didn’t know how he did it.

  She stopped wiping off a table midswipe. Or maybe she did know how he did it, a little bit, because of what happened last December—the best, most wonderful, awesome thing that ever could have happened to her, or to anyone, for that matter. Not that Whit caused it exactly, but he certainly played a big part in it—or, as he would say, he was allowed to play a big part in it. And that was it—that was how he did all of the amazing things he did with the kids, with the town, and with her, she realized. He allowed his talents, his abilities, his smarts, and his very self to be used for good.

  It seemed weird to think that allowing yourself to be used was not only the correct course of action; it was also the very best course of action. Yet what she had just realized was that it all depended on who was doing the using. That was Whit’s secret. That was why he could take an old, run-down building and turn it into one of the most popular places around. And why he always seemed to have just the right words or advice at just the right time. And why he was so loving and kind and forgiving.

  She also realized it was what had made her tell Whit so much about herself on their first meeting. Up until she met him, she had never known a true Christian. Oh, she had met people who called themselves “believers,” and she had even been to church with some of them on Sundays. Then she’d see them during the rest of the week behaving worse than nonbelievers did, and she dismissed their so-called belief as nothing more than posturing and posing.

  But Whit not only believed it; he lived it all day, every day. And so did Tom Riley, who turned out to be not nearly as inept and bumbling as he first seemed—far from it, in fact. She had no way then of understanding what she now knew fully: that in them she was seeing two true knights of faith that God had used to slowly make her a knight of faith as well. Or, at least, a knight in waiting. What were they called? Squires? She chuckled and shook her head. Knights and squires—even her vocabulary had changed since she’d come to town.

  She stacked several dirty sundae dishes in the bin and wiped down the table. As she moved to the next one, a new thought struck her: Whit’s faith also explained why he seemed to know what would happen when she finally went back to California six months ago. She smiled as she remembered how much she had wanted to go back—or thought she did. From the moment she set foot in Whit’s End, her only thought—obsession, really—was to get back to Los Angeles. Get away from the kids, the noise, the town, and especially all of the Christianity stuff. She’d be back where she belonged: on the beach with her group, soaking up the sun during the day and partying at night. She couldn’t wait to get on the bus!

  But almost as soon as she did, weird things started happening. First, Whit had given her a Christmas present and told her not to open it until she left town. When she did, it was—surprise—a Bible. When the girl who sat next to her saw it, she obviously thought Connie was a religious nut and actually got up and moved. Then Connie fell asleep and awoke to find an elderly lady, Mrs. Nelson, sitting next to her. She quickly discovered that Mrs. Nelson was a Christian.

  She thought she’d finally get back in California mode when she was on the beach with her friends. But when she got there and hung out with them, all she could think of or talk about was Odyssey, Whit, and Tom—a fact her friend Marcy pointed out with more than a little sarcasm. Then Connie learned that Pamela, the hardest-partying friend in her California group, had become a Christian. Pamela herself confirmed it when she visited Connie at her dad’s place. Connie couldn’t believe it. Not Pamela!

  The topper came that night at a bonfire party on the beach that Pamela invited her to. Sitting by the fire, as pleasant as you please, was Mrs. Nelson, the Christian lady from the bus. Connie remembered thinking it had to be a conspiracy—Whit was tag-teaming all of his Christian forces to stalk her.

  But as Pamela and Mrs. Nelson pointed out, it wasn’t Whit. It was a much greater force—a force Connie had been fighting against fiercely, until she could fight no longer. So she came back—to Odyssey, to Whit’s End, to the kids and the noise and the Christianity stuff.

  And back to her boss.

  Last December . . .

  “Hi, Whit.”

  He was seated at his desk, but he instantly jumped up, mouth open in surprise, eyes wide. “Connie!” He rounded the desk and gave her a huge hug. “But . . . what are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be back for another two weeks!”

  “I needed to come back early. Can we talk? Privately?”

  He nodded. “Let’s go to the Bible Room. It’s been empty since Eugene set up the Spanish Inquisition display. The kids have been too scared to go in.”

  Eugene shrugged. “I thought some church history would be appropriate.”

  She didn’t know what any of that meant, and at that moment, she didn’t care. Her mind was still swimming. She thanked Eugene, who went back downstairs (how could he see through all that hair?), and then she followed Whit to the Bible Room. Appropriate.

  Whit turned to her, seeming apprehensive. “Connie, I have to be honest. My heart is racing like a dozen horses. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  She took a deep breath and looked right into his eyes, those piercing eyes. “I-I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Whit. About Odyssey, Whit’s End, going to Califor
nia—lots of things.” She wanted to pace, but she forced herself not to. She kept looking at Whit. “I think you know I’ve been feeling very confused over the past few months, and, well, I thought by going to California, everything would become clear for me. I could be myself, and I wouldn’t be confused anymore. And you know what? That’s exactly what happened. I’ve got it all figured out, and now I know what I want to do.”

  Whit wet his lips nervously and gave a tentative nod. “Okay. What would you like to do?”

  Could she say it? She didn’t want to. But she knew she had to. “I want . . . I want to pray with you.”

  She sucked in a quick breath, astonished. Now that she’d finally said it, she wondered why it had taken her so long and was so hard to say. Pray! Of course she wanted to pray. It was the most natural thing in the world.

  Whit was thunderstruck. “Pray?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I’m not sure of all the right words. You know: forgive me for my sins, and, well . . . Whit, I want to ask Jesus Christ to come live in my heart.”

  He lowered his head for a moment, and when he looked up again, she got her biggest surprise of the past year’s incredible journey—and yet when she thought about it, it wasn’t a surprise at all. Her boss, her mentor, her teacher, her friend John Avery Whittaker was crying.

  “Oh, Connie. Connie, you don’t know how I’ve prayed to hear you say those words.”

  She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Yes, I do. I think your prayers made it all the way to California.”

  He chuckled through his tears, and she loved him for it.

  “This may sound kind of hokey, Whit, but can we get on our knees?”

  “That doesn’t sound hokey at all.”

  They sank to their knees. She was excited, almost giddy, but not a silly kind of giddy. As odd as it seemed, she realized her giddiness came out of a sense of overwhelming peace. Her mind was still swimming, but instead of things being muddled and confused, everything was so clear, as though she had finally, at long last, come into herself—her real self. She didn’t understand it, but she also knew she didn’t have to. That it was happening was enough.