“Who is he?” Nick asked her.
Issie took a deep breath. “Lee Barnett. The one they’re saying is involved with Celia.”
Nick’s face seemed to drain of color, then quickly redden again. The flashing neon sign in front of Joe’s Place seemed to punctuate his surprise.
“Look, you just go on home,” Nick told the man, “and I’ll make sure Issie gets home all right.”
“Yeah.” Barnett still seemed confused. “I’d appreciate that.” He tapped his pockets, presumably for his keys, and began to wobble away.
The ease with which he dismissed her stung Issie, and biting back the feeling of rejection, she got into the car and closed the door. She turned the key to start it, but Nick knocked on the window and motioned for her to wait. Time for the sermon, she thought, cutting the car back off as Nick came around to the passenger side.
Nick got into the car and sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. Should he be a preacher now, or just a man? Or was there really any difference in the two?
Issie seemed self-conscious when she met his eyes. “I really appreciate your coming along, Nick. I always think I can handle things. I’m not exactly a wimp, but he was coming on a little strong.”
Nick stared at her. Her face was lit only by the red neon lights on the front wall of Joe’s Place. “What are you doing, Issie?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what do you want? What would make a beautiful woman who has everything going for her come here every night alone, drinking and picking up strange guys?”
He could see her visibly wilt beneath the words. He hated it. He’d much rather use words that built her up, but he couldn’t find any at the moment.
“Nick, just because I don’t have the same values and beliefs that you have, doesn’t mean that I’m some kind of terrible person. There’s a thing called tolerance, you know.”
Nick shook his head. “Some things shouldn’t be tolerated.”
“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “Like what?”
“Like promiscuity. Drunkenness. Explaining away your sin as if it was something that happens to you instead of something you choose.”
He could see that she didn’t take that well.
Her mouth fell open, and she tried to speak but failed. After a moment, she rallied. “Come on, Nick. If I wanted a sermon, I’d go to church.”
“I’m sorry,” Nick told her. “I didn’t mean to preach.”
“I guess you can’t help yourself.”
He sat there for a moment, wondering if he could. Was his preaching really a calling, or was it something he had just wanted to do in his zeal for Christ? Maybe it was one of those plans he had made, then asked Christ to come along, instead of waiting for the calling itself. He had been so sure at first, but now he wasn’t sure.
“Don’t you ever feel like letting your hair down?” Issie asked. “Just kicking your shoes off and drinking a little and dancing until the cows come home? Haven’t you ever just wanted to spit out a couple of cuss words and follow your feelings?”
Nick thought back over his youth, when he had done all of those things. It had been an empty youth, and he hadn’t really felt alive until the day he’d found Christ. “I have temptations,” he said, “because I’m human. It goes with the territory. And sometimes I follow those temptations, and I sin. But you know what happens to me when I do?”
Issie rolled her eyes. “You get struck by lightning.”
“No,” he said. “Worse. I feel horrible about myself. I can’t rest until I’ve repented.”
“Oh, of course.” Issie seemed amused. “That guilt thing that you right-wing extremists have. You love guilt.”
He was saddened by the label she used like a weapon, as if she hoped it would wound him.
“It’s like you think guilt will absolve you of everything.”
“Oh, no,” Nick said. “You’ve got us all wrong. Guilt doesn’t absolve us of anything. And if we feel guilt, it’s because we’re guilty.”
“Guilty? Just because you stumble now and then? Nick, give yourself a break. If nobody’s hurt—”
“Nobody’s hurt?” he asked with disbelief. “A man died because I stumble, Issie. He gave his life so I wouldn’t have to drown in guilt.”
Issie seemed lost for a moment, but then he saw the understanding dawn in her eyes. “I thought Jesus said he came to save the world, not condemn it.”
“That’s exactly what he said. And that’s what he did, when he died for me. He saved me. See, I was already condemned, when I was going to bars every night, when I was promiscuous…”
Those big eyes widened again. “You?”
“Me. I was condemned then. Without Christ, everybody’s condemned.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said sarcastically. “Right straight into hell.”
Nick shook his head. “I wish you believed it.”
“Why?” she asked angrily. “Why do you care?”
His eyes drove deep into her, and she shifted with discomfort. “I care because I can see your potential, Issie.”
“Potential? For what?”
“I see you in emergencies,” he said. “I see you when you save people’s lives. I see the way you throw yourself into your work as if every case was your only case, as if every person you’re called to help is a life-or-death situation. I see goodness inside of you, Issie.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “And what else?”
“I also see self-destruction, and I don’t know where that comes from.”
“And sin?” she mocked.
He thought about that for a moment. “You remind me of myself.”
“Yourself?” she asked. “Oh, please.”
“That’s right. Ten years ago, before I knew Christ, I was just like you.”
She stared at him for a moment, her expression heavy with a million thoughts. “I think it’s nice, Nick, that you were able to turn your life around and find a purpose for it. I think it’s great that you don’t have to feel that guilt anymore. And I’m glad that you have the discipline not to fall back into the lifestyle you had. But I’m not like you.”
“Thank goodness,” Nick said.
A moment of smothering silence followed, but finally, she smiled slightly. “Actually, I would think that if I could be like you, it would be a nice thing to be.” She sighed and averted her eyes. “A lot of ladies in town are vying for you, Nick. You and Dan Nichols.”
He laughed, embarrassed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? I think you know better than that.”
“But you don’t agree with them?”
Her smile was too pretty for his own good. “It’s not that I don’t agree with them. It’s a question of type.”
“Yeah, I guess the preacher’s the last person in the world you’d ever be interested in.”
“And I guess a party girl like me couldn’t be farther from your dream of the perfect woman.”
Their smiles faded, but neither of them refuted what the other had said.
“Want me to follow you home?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Better not.”
“What if that Barnett fellow shows up tonight?”
“I didn’t tell him where I live.”
“Be careful of him,” he said. “We don’t know his part in Stan’s poisoning. He could be the killer.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then what were you doing with him?”
Her expression fell. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know,” she said.
He could see the darkness in her soul, the despair, the loneliness, and he wondered what had caused it, where it had come from. Part of him understood what it was in her life that drove her to the bar every night. He had experienced it himself, working as a firefighter. They had thankless, dangerous jobs, with fierce stresses and little pay. They saw things others didn’t have to see, and went home with the nightmares. It was tough when you had to go home alone. He knew.
&nb
sp; He wished she had something more than Joe’s Place to sustain her.
“Well, guess I better go,” he said.
“Yeah.” She started her car. “Hey, listen. Thanks for the rescue. And thanks for the sermon, too.”
He smiled. “Anytime. But I’m best on Sunday mornings.”
She breathed a laugh. “Well, maybe some day I’ll get around to coming.”
“If you have absolutely nothing else to do?”
“Something like that.”
He opened the door and got out. “Lock up, okay?”
“Will do.”
He backed up from the car and waited until she did it, and slowly ambled back across the street to where his car was parked. Why was it that Issie Mattreaux kept popping up in front of him? There were dozens of women in town who frequented bars and nurtured their promiscuity as if it were a religion that would bring some meaning to their lives. Why was it that she had such an effect on him? He didn’t know, but he decided that it was wrong. She was not for him, and he needed to get her out of his mind.
He got into his car and watched as she pulled out of the parking lot and headed home. Before he cranked his car he said a prayer for her protection, a prayer for her rescue. The rescue of her soul.
Chapter Forty-Three
Shortly after the lights in the Newpointe jail went off, Aunt Aggie fell asleep. Sleep was a luxury not available to Celia, however, for as much as she would have liked to drift into a never-never-land of rest and dreams, she was unable to turn off the thoughts that kept her awake. If what Stan’s mother had said was true, Stan had turned against her. He had decided to believe the lies.
Crushing despair almost smothered Celia as she lay curled up on her cot. A memory came back to her, vividly clear and precise, of another cell and how she had longed for an extra blanket and wished for an escape. It was almost too similar to be true. Her husband had been murdered, her family had turned against her, and someone was trying to frame her for something she had not done.
The difference was that, the first time, she’d had nowhere to turn. Through grace, God had shown her where to turn this time. But it was so hard doing what she knew she should. It was difficult to put her life in God’s hands, when she had no idea why he’d allowed such a travesty of justice again, what good he could make come of it, and how he could ever use her for his kingdom again with this stigma attached to her.
The door to the hallway opened, spilling in some light from the stairwell, and she glanced over at Aggie, thinking that probably David had convinced the judge to set bail. Thank goodness the old woman would not have to stay. The overhead light flicked on.
She sat up as Sid Ford paused at her cell instead of going to Aunt Aggie’s.
“I got somethin’ for you,” he said in a quiet, though grudging, voice.
Celia stood up, feeling weak. “What?”
“A Bible,” he said. “Nick Foster came by and wanted to see you, but it was past visitin’ time. I told him I’d bring you this Bible anyway.”
She looked at the Bible in Sid’s hand and slowly walked toward him to take it through the bars. “Thank you, Sid,” she said.
He couldn’t look her in the eye. “No problem.” He glanced over at Aunt Aggie. “She all right? She ain’t dead or nothin’, is she?”
“No, she’s just sleeping. She’s very tired.”
“Ain’t we all?”
He started away from her, and she stepped to the bars, wrapping her hand around one of them. “Sid?”
He stopped but didn’t look back at her. “Yeah?”
“I really appreciate the Bible. I needed it more than anything tonight. Would you mind leaving the light on so I can read it? It’s just us here, and Aunt Aggie’s sleeping soundly. I’d really like to read, if it’s not too much trouble.”
He didn’t say anything, just walked through the door and closed it behind him. But the light didn’t go back off.
Celia went back to her bed and looked down at the Bible in her hands. It was a godsend, she thought. An answered prayer. She was so thankful for it, but she didn’t know where to begin to find the sustenance and comfort she knew waited for her there. She wished she’d spent more time studying God’s Word.
She pressed the Bible against her heart, pulled her knees up, and pressed her forehead against them. “Oh, Father,” she whispered. “You and Aunt Aggie are the only ones who aren’t doubting me right now.” She squeezed her eyes shut from the onslaught of tears. “Lord, you know what’s going on,” she whispered. “You know I didn’t poison Stan. You know I love him. You know I’m innocent. Father, show me what to do. Show me how to fight this battle. Show me how to find peace and trust that you will deliver me from this evil.” She wept as she prayed, her very heart uttering the words that her mouth could not say, and she felt God listening. His comfort embraced her like loving arms, and she wept, without words, without question, without answers.
Suddenly, the word Jehosaphat came to her mind. She opened her eyes and leaned her head back on the wall. “Jehosaphat,” she whispered. “I don’t even remember who he is.” He was in the Old Testament. A king or something, but what had he to do with her?
She drew in a cleansing breath and decided that maybe God was speaking to her in his soft, still voice. Maybe she needed to read the story of Jehosaphat again. She looked into the concordance, found him listed, and turned to 2 Chronicles. She read how faithful Jehosaphat was as king of Judah, how he sought the God of his father, how he followed his commandments. She read how God had blessed him, raised him up, made him prosperous, how he had great riches and honor. How he established a God-fearing government and brought his people back to the Lord.
Still not certain how this applied to her, if at all, she kept reading, hungrily searching the Word, burying herself in the sustenance of it, the goodness of the story, the love inherent in the plot. She read how the sons of Moab and the sons of Ammon, and the Meunites, came to make war against Jehosaphat. And how he was afraid, because of their numbers. Suddenly, her heart began to pound harder. God was showing her another man who’d had a battle to fight, a battle that seemed impossible. He hadn’t known how to fight, either. She read further and saw that Jehosaphat turned to God, and not to the counsel of men, and how he trusted in God. Then she came to chapter 20, verse 15, and she read the words that the Lord gave to the king, the words that sealed his strategy and gave his nation peace.
“Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.”
Her heart jolted, and her eyes filled with tears again. She sat staring at the words, soaking them in, breathing them, letting them seep into the pores and the chambers of her heart.
“Do not be afraid or discouraged…the battle is not yours, but God’s.”
She looked up at the ceiling as if she could see the Lord through the beams. The battle wasn’t hers. She hadn’t invited it. Had done nothing to deserve it. She had not entered into it willingly. She had been thrust into it. And now God was telling her that she didn’t have to claw and fight her way out. It was the Lord’s battle.
A tremendous peace fell over her, and she began to weep, this time not of despair but of joy and the comfort that only the Lord could provide.
The battle is not yours, but God’s. What wonderful words. What a bountiful provision. If the battle was not hers, then she need only wait. The Lord would provide somehow. He would reveal the truth.
She read on and saw how God had delivered Judah from the hands of their enemies, how Jehosaphat praised God and said, “Give thanks to the LORD, for his love endures forever.”
That was what she would do tonight.
The lights flickered and went out, and Celia sat in the darkness for a moment, letting her eyes adjust, but no fear came upon her as she had expected. Aunt Aggie still slept in her cell, and Celia stayed on her bed, her Bible in her lap. Though she could no longer read it, she touched the pages as if life emanated from them. “The word of God
is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” The verse Stan had taught her years ago played over and over in her mind. He could judge her intentions, her thoughts, and he knew she had no murderous intent. He could also judge others’ hearts. He knew who the killer was. He knew who had doubted her wrongfully. He knew how this would turn out. He knew what she would endure. But there would be a purpose, because she belonged to him.
She didn’t intend it, didn’t plan it, but suddenly a soft chorus came from her mouth, and she began to sing and praise God. Softly, but with all her heart.
In the darkness, Celia could see Aunt Aggie beginning to stir, and she sat partially up and looked at her niece through the bars. “Celia, you okay, sha?”
“I’m just fine, Aunt Aggie. Just fine.”
“What you singin’ about?”
“I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You singin’ about Jesus?” Aunt Aggie asked.
“Yes.”
She couldn’t see her in the darkness, but she could imagine Aunt Aggie rolling her eyes and shaking her head with what she considered the futility of it all. Poor Aunt Aggie.
“Oh, Aunt Aggie, something wonderful happened.”
“What is it?”
“Sid Ford brought me a Bible. Nick Foster sent it. And I was praying and asking God for a sign, and he led me to a passage that told me the battle is not ours, but God’s. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Aunt Aggie’s silence indicated how perplexed she was. She wouldn’t see why this was wonderful at all. Celia almost laughed.
“Don’t you see, Aunt Aggie? It means I don’t have to fight. God knows I’m innocent. He’s gonna take care of me and my baby. So I was just sitting here singing a praise song to God.”
Aunt Aggie, once again, was at a loss for words. The darkness punctuated the silence between them. Finally the old woman said, “I’m glad your religion is givin’ you some comfort.”
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