Out of the Blue Bouquet (Crossroads Collection)

by Amanda Tru

  “This is Fairbury. Who’s going to steal anything? I mean, c’mon. Someone put something in there. And also, this is me. I don’t have anything anyone could want. I don’t have anything valuable, and I leave my money in the bank where we hope it’s safe.” Reid considered the wisdom of asking and decided he needed to. “How’d you know it was there, anyway? Seems like a weird place to search for drugs?”

  “Well…”

  Then it hit him. “Oh. Wait. You heard there was a packet in town, and who else has a record for dealing?”

  “Nope.” Crane eyed him for a moment, consulted a file, and leaned back in her chair, dropping the pen as she did. “We nailed a guy with another packet. He cooperated for a reduced charge.”

  “And he said I had some?”

  She flipped open the file, searched for a moment, and found the line she wanted. “His words were, ‘the guy at The Coventry—average height, brown hair, curly.’ So, we go to The Coventry, get permission to search, open your locker, you fit that description…”

  “Yeah, and so does the manager, Mike, and one of the bus boys.”

  Granger leaned forward and locked eyes with him. “But they don’t have all that meth in their lockers.”

  Each quarter hour that passed increased her panic by a factor of ten. She’d listened to his news with, what she hoped, was dispassionate objectivity. Well, she hoped it looked like it. But as he’d disappeared from view, her nerves calmed a little. In his locker, Lord. He’s not that stupid, right?

  But an hour passed. Two. And during that time, Kelsey’s confidence wavered. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her guitar, tuned it, and began to pray. Line after non-or-half-rhyming lines that made little sense wobbled out into the room. A woman came in to pray. Kelsey stopped her futile attempts to sing and just played with quiet, soft notes until the woman left again. An hour and a half.

  She composed a text. Just checking in on you. Everything okay? Need a lawyer? A second read prompted a bit more confidence. There. That’s supportive, isn’t it?

  She zipped another one to Uncle Mel. Reid needs prayer. Law trouble.

  Half an hour after the first text, she called. It went to voicemail. “Getting concerned. Okay, I’m worried. Praying. Do I need to send a lawyer? Uncle Mel might know someone…”

  Another half hour. Half an hour of switching from slow to even slower, and back to slow again as her fingers tried to pray for him. But as the silence from him and from Uncle Mel grew longer, stronger, her mind began to doubt, to question. Maybe he’s guilty. Maybe they arrested him. Maybe…

  Prayer failed. She tried, but her fingers wouldn’t move, her heart couldn’t sing. So, with a vacuum cleaner in one hand, a trash bag in the other, and a dust cloth dangling from her scrub pocket, she worked from the left of the door, counterclockwise around the room, picking up crumpled sticky notes, candy wrappers, and tissues. She dusted, vacuumed, and made the room shine.

  Still no word from Reid.

  Uncle Mel called first. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You said Reid’s in trouble with the law? What’d he do?”

  “They found something in his locker at work—the police. Drugs, obviously. How did the police know there was anything there?”

  And with his characteristic calm, Uncle Mel flung out half a dozen scenarios where an innocent person with a prior record would be the first choice for questioning. “But Kels, listen. He has to be innocent. No one would hide drugs in a work locker. You have no true privacy. Your employer holds that power.”

  “I know. In my head, I know. But it’s been almost three—no, over three hours. Why would they keep him that long?”

  “They have to be thorough, Kelsey.” Uncle Mel started to say something else and stopped mid-sentence. “No, no. Backup.” A huff of a sigh filled the phone. “Lord, we have a situation. Reid is in trouble, and Kelsey needs a reminder of how You change people from the inside out. Please help them both and help us all know what we need to do to support them. This we ask you, Jesus. Amen.”

  It took a second… five. But Kelsey managed to add, “Amen.”

  She promised to call when she heard. But as she disconnected, the fears that had taken root during their prayer grew into an image—that of her brother lying, dying in the hospital bed, begging her never to take drugs. “It was so stupid. Don’t do it, Kels.”

  That image held her captive until she couldn’t breathe. Scribbling a prayer request for Reid, she slapped it on the wall of the prayer closet, stowed away her guitar, and locked the building. She dashed to her car, a sob in her heart as she realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to load up her guitar herself.

  I can’t do it, Lord. Not now. A silent whisper in her heart added, Maybe not ever.

  The Prayer Room—locked again. For the third day in a row, he’d shown up just past two-thirty, and the previous watchman had given up, locked the door, and left. Without evidence of a more substantial nature, the police hadn’t charged him. No fingerprints, although they claimed he could have used the plastic kitchen gloves, no witnesses who saw him putting the drugs in there, and only the vague description from a man who now refused to identify Reid as the one who had purchased the drugs.

  As Reid unlocked the door, Wayne drove past. He lifted a half-hearted wave and slipped inside. The silence tore at his heart. Remind me what the minister said, Lord. About how pain makes it hard to trust. This isn’t her fault, but it still hurts.

  The silence tore a deeper hole. In seconds, with the help of the sound system and a tablet, Anthem Lights filled the room with soft, harmonious strains of “In Christ Alone.” Reid stood there, allowing the words to soothe and comfort before heading to the closet.

  He read each sticky note, each heartfelt plea to the Lord. Read and prayed. Sometimes, asking the Lord to answer each one seemed an exercise in futility. Why did God need us to agree with one another in our requests? But since the interrogation, since the police still hadn’t found the owner of the drugs, a need—a craving—for the prayers of his brothers and sisters consumed him.

  And then he saw it. Surrounded by half a dozen other yellow sticky notes, familiar writing. Large, bubbly letters—a request for him. She cared enough to try. I guess I just need to keep waiting.

  A teen came in—discouraged and uncertain. Reid just sat there, waiting. “Aren’t you going to tell me how God makes everything great and stuff?”

  “I think He does, yes. I just think we expect great now instead of later.”

  “Later?” If Reid hadn’t seen the boy’s lip quiver, he might not have heard the fear in the bitten-out words. “Like we have to wait until we die for it to get better?”

  How to explain the confused jumbles of his thoughts? Reid didn’t know. But he had to try. “Well, yeah. We do have to die for it to get better. That’s what being a Christian is, isn’t it? The stuff that isn’t right and pure dies, and Jesus makes us alive again?”

  “You bought the whole package, didn’t you? Just say a prayer, sing some I-love-Jesus songs, and everything’ll work out right.”

  Again, Reid heard pain behind the derision. “I wish that were true, but it doesn’t seem to be the way things worked for the guys who wrote the Bible. I mean, they prayed. Sure. They sang some I-love-Jesus songs in prison, once. Yeah, that worked out all right. But later, not so much. They all suffered from what I hear.”

  “So, suffer here, die, and then it gets better?” The kid jumped up as if to go. “No wonder some churches teach that suicide is a ticket to hell. Otherwise, their members would just off themselves to get it over with.”

  A clenching in his gut told Reid to keep trying. “I’m Reid, by the way.”

  The kid whipped his head around and pierced Reid with his gaze. “The guy with the drugs? We heard about how you got arrested.”

  “Yeah… but that was eight years ago and before I cared what God thinks about things.”

  “You think God cares—wait.” The boy’s eyes shifted to suspicion. “Ei
ght years ago? I thought Friday…”

  The one problem with Fairbury—no privacy or even any hope of it. So, knowing anything he said would likely be repeated with embellishment and enough censure that it probably wouldn’t even resemble the original statement, Reid tried for a simple explanation. “Drugs were found in my unlocked locker at The Coventry—a big haul of it. The police did not arrest or charge me with anything because there’s no evidence that I am connected to them. And I’m not.”

  “But they questioned you?”

  “They’d have been lousy cops if they didn’t. Just because it was in my locker, doesn’t mean it’s mine. Any fool knows better than to do something like that. But not even to question me? Crazy stupid.” He tried again to make a friend of the kid. “Hey… oh. Didn’t get your name. Sorry.”

  “Dylan.”

  “Well, Dylan. I’d be a jerk if I didn’t throw this out there just once.” Reid waited for Dylan to show some sign of attentiveness before he continued. “Drugs aren’t worth it. Even if they weren’t illegal, they’re not worth it. And I made a lot of money—still not worth it. If you’d seen the things I have, you’d know what I mean. Just trust me.”

  Despite the boy’s reassurances that he had no interest in drugs for any reason, Reid wasn’t confident that he’d really made an impact. But as he walked to The Diner after his now double shift at The Prayer Room, he overheard Dylan talking with a couple of girls. “—said he didn’t do it. The police didn’t arrest him or anything. And c’mon. What fool puts a ton of drugs in a locker and leaves it unlocked?! Not an ex-con!”

  Well, maybe they do listen. Wish I would have had someone just be real with me.

  Ten days. Ten days of a paid vacation he didn’t want—couldn’t enjoy if he wanted to. Ten days of fear, wondering, waiting. Ten days of only seeing Kelsey in passing.

  A text on Thanksgiving Day. A prayer that all would be well. Gratitude for having met him. It shredded a corner of his heart. If she is so glad she met me, why’s she avoiding me? Why can’t we work this out?

  But another text came—a number he didn’t recognize. The name flashed. Mel Jackson. Uncle Mel?

  The text had been brief but encouraging. Happy Thanksgiving. So Thankful for you in Kelsey’s life. Give her time. She loves you.

  But while the world shopped for deals on Cyber Monday, Reid got a call from Ramon. A minute later, he tore down the stairs and burst into Wayne’s workroom. “I’m back on the job! Ramon says he can’t afford to keep paying a good chef to do nothing. The police have cleared me!”

  Wayne stabbed a rose into a mini Christmas tree and turned to him, a smile splitting his face. “Knew you would be. What’d Kelsey say?”

  “Haven’t told her yet.”

  Picking up a white rose, Wayne turned back to the little tree and found a place to insert it. “I think you should. She’s scared, but she’s not unfair.”

  “I will.” A floral pick with a red and gold wrapped present at the top appeared on the tree, but Wayne removed it almost immediately. Reid chose to change the subject with a joke. “So, you’re not going to deliver this to the Ephron family for Hanukkah, are you?”

  The answer came swift—too swift, actually. “Brooke didn’t do that as far as I know.”

  And something in that statement struck home. Reid watched as Wayne positioned a white flower he didn’t recognize next to a small red rose. “Hey, Wayne? What is that?”

  “Amaryllis.”

  “And you gave Kelsey Mom’s flowers on purpose, didn’t you?”

  Wayne’s hand froze on another amaryllis in the bucket before him. “What?”

  “Why, Wayne? How could you do that to me—to us?” Reid skirted the table to face him. “Wayne?”

  As anger welled up in him, Reid fought back the frustration that comes with interference—especially when that interference now included a certain measure of estrangement. But Wayne didn’t look sorry at all when he finally looked up and faced Reid’s growing anger.

  “Why? Because you were hurting. I watched it every week. You didn’t see it. Maybe you didn’t even feel it, but when I found out it wasn’t shyness or even that you weren’t sure, but it was someone playing Holy Spirit in your life, I couldn’t stand it.” The man wiped at… were they tears?

  “I—”

  “No, Reid. You listen. When I heard what Brooke did, my first thought was, “I wish she’d have messed up your flowers—sent them to Kelsey instead. And the more I thought about it, the better idea it became.”

  “Because it’s right to lie about something like that.”

  Defensiveness. Wayne’s face became a mask of pure defensiveness. “I never lied, Reid. I deceived, you, sure. I always meant to confess—like at your wedding or something. But I never said what wasn’t true.” Here, he had the decency to look away. “If you thought it was Brooke, well, I wasn’t going to correct you until the little mix-up had a chance to work some magic.”

  Where the words came from, Reid could only imagine. He heard himself make an argument he couldn’t have planned if he tried. “So instead of playing Holy Spirit in our lives, you did what? Played Santa Claus? Cupid? That’s somehow better? At least Mrs. Oberton really tried to help me grow spiritually. You just forced something. Now look where we are!”

  And with that, Reid stormed from the building. He’d made it to the back of The Coventry when a guy called out. “Hey! Been waiting for you. I need a point—bad.”

  Reid turned around and stared a guy in obvious need of a fix. “Sorry. Got nothing—”

  “Oh! I thought…” He leaned closer to get a better look, putrid breath nearly knocking Reid over. “You’re not—thought…”

  A car pulled into the lot—Mike’s. The guy took one look at it and moved forward, but when Mike got out, scowling, he bolted in the other direction. “Hey! Good to see you back, Reid.” As he neared, Mike jerked his head in the direction of the guy’s retreating back. “Who’s that?”

  “Someone who thought I was someone else—and that I had meth, I suspect.”

  “I was glad to hear you were cleared. The temp we got…” A low whistle filled the back room as Mike let them in. “Man, it’s good to have you back. Right now, I’d take you with a load of drugs as long as it didn’t affect your work.” At Reid’s stunned silence, Mike clapped him on the back. “It’s a joke, man. Just my way of saying welcome back.”

  “Thanks.” As Reid rounded the corner and saw the kitchen gleaming, everything laid out for him, ready for the new day, he sighed with satisfaction. “Yeah. Thanks, Mike. It’s good to be here.”

  Reid’s text came at ten o’clock. Back at work. Cops cleared me. Would you take your shift today?

  Another one came on its heels. Miss you.

  On her lunch break, sitting in the clinic breakroom with a wilted salad on the institutional table before her, Kelsey called Uncle Mel. “The police cleared Reid.”

  “Why don’t you sound as ecstatic as I think you should.”

  “What if they’re wrong? What if all he learned was how to work this better?”

  Rarely did her uncle even hint at displeasure, but his silence screamed his for all the world to hear—if they could have seen him, that is.

  “Uncle Mel…”

  “Why would you say that about someone you claim to love?”

  She’d asked herself the same question for almost two weeks. Kelsey just didn’t like the answer. Still, he’d never let her get out of admitting it. “I’m afraid.”

  “Aaah… now that we can work with.” Uncle Mel began his Socratic approach to correcting unBiblical thinking. “So, Who is Love?”

  “God.”

  Again, he asked, “And what kind of love is God?”

  It took a good minute to figure out where he’d gone with his questions. “Oh…” Kelsey stared down at that unappetizing salad, promptly recovered it, and lobbed it at the trashcan. A perfect shot. “Perfect Love.”

  “That’s right. So… what does the Bible
say about Perfect Love?”

  “Thanks, Uncle Mel. I’ll go.”

  “Go where?”

  And at that moment, she realized what she’d done. Desperate for an excuse to get off quickly, she cleaned up her space at the table and left the break room. “The Prayer Room. I’ve been AWOL since this whole thing. I just wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. I was afraid I’d let my emotions cloud my judgment.”

  Quiet, calm, firm—truth spoken but with no condemnation—Uncle Mel’s reply tore at her heart as the door to the clinic opened and a whoosh of air signaled the arrival of their next emergency. “I’d say you already have.”

  The curtain to the workroom flung open with the dramatic flair that only Señora Rojas could wield. “What is wrong with you? You snap at me for not getting the orders fast enough. You snap at me for bringing them too fast. You want quiet. Where’s the music?” She stepped close and swept him with the experienced eye of a woman who knows how to read a man. “Are you—no. No, you are not. So, what is it? What gives?”

  Wayne fumbled with a rose and nearly took off the tip of his finger at the same time. And with that question, I can tell what decade you learned English in.

  “Wayne! Do not make the fun of me. What is wrong with you?”

  And the use of “the” where no native speaker would have, told him just how upset she was—and that he’d spoken aloud. The only person who had ever made him dread confessing more had been his second-grade teacher. Mr. Ellison. Wayne shuddered at the memory. But when Señora Rojas threatened to slap him, he decided he must have zoned out more than he realized.

  “Sorry. Reid’s mad at me.”

  “Why should he be mad at you? You help him with his girl. He forgives you. It isn’t your fault this drugs were found.”

  I’d better not correct that one. A quick look in her direction showed eyes flashing, red lips pursed as if waiting for her next biting comment, but she didn’t seem upset at him at present. “Yeah. About those flowers.” Deep breath. A deeper one. Exhale. Wayne tried for a jocular approach, fumbled, and blurted out, “I just… sent them, but Reid thought it was part of Brooke’s mix-up.”