by Kate Davis
I feel so bad I think I might be on the verge of fainting. Poor old Pastor Rick. The way I attacked him, he must really have feared for my sanity and the state of my soul. I make a mental note to give him another call. Maybe even grab a cup of coffee so I can explain myself.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “The noise was you doing—” I break off to let him fill the blanks.
“The dining table. The floors. The wall paneling. New kitchen counters.” He grins at me. “You thought I was—”
“Wrestling.” I leave out the bedroom part. “And the black screens? What were those?”
“Stacy set them up so we could scan the darknet for news on me. Apparently, that’s where the beginners go to search for people to eliminate a target.”
“Ah.” I nod knowingly even though I don’t even know what a darknet is.
“That’s how we found out about your friend’s social media photo. You know, the one where he called me a stalker.”
“You found out about it?” I turn away to hide the flames of shame probably showing in my face. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” He inches forward and places a hand on my arm. “You didn’t know me. I was being weird. Me turning up at the same place as you, twice within a few weeks, was bound to raise your suspicion. It was a coincidence actually. I was meeting with the pastor involved in the project. He was anxious to affirm his trust in me and secure my future involvement.”
I peer at his hand, at the way he strokes my arm with more understanding than I would probably have shown. “You’re not angry about the photo?”
“Of course not. The people I exposed had enough money to hire a professional. He must have been scanning the net and CCTV using facial recognition because I think he found me before the photo was even posted. Thanks to that photo, however, Stacy decided that it was time for me to move into a safe house while she took turns with a few other marshals watching my place. They just didn’t realize you had become a target and that people would try to get to me through you. Who knows what would have happened if Stacy hadn’t switched on the phone.”
I shiver at the thought and whisper, “It’s a miracle.”
“It’s a miracle,” he agrees, his eyes two dark pools, shimmering with something I can’t grasp. “Stacy wanted to get rid of it but forgot. A few hours before you called, she had this uneasy feeling and switched on the phone—the first time in days.” His tone softens as he regards me for a moment. “I’m glad she did. They would have killed you to get their message across and keep me from testifying against them. The Lord works in mysterious ways. He takes care of his own.”
“He does.” I meet his gaze, unsure how to react to his sudden revelation of his evident Christian faith. Then again, maybe it’s not so sudden. Maybe there were subtle signs I failed to notice. He seems like a good person. He never seemed fazed by my mother’s open dedication to Jesus Christ. While my own faith has been more than shaky recently, I always admired her for it. Seeing Shane being so comfortable with his own belief feels encouraging, particularly after last night when my own brief spell of prayer turned weakness into power.
“You’re glowing,” Shane says.
“Am I?” I smile at him. “It’s just—” I shake my head. My heart is bursting with something that I can’t explain.
The hope of a new beginning.
Assurance that everything will turn out okay.
The knowledge that I’ve finally found my way.
Joy that I finally feel close to God and Jesus.
Peace in the knowledge that I’m not alone.
Whether it was my prayer or the intercession, I realize my inner demons are gone. I’m free from their bondage. I’m no longer a slave of my past experiences.
“I didn’t believe for a long time,” I admit to him, eager to open up to someone. To finally speak out what has been torturing me for a long time.
“I know. Trish told me,” Shane says softly. His fingers squeeze softly, encouragingly.
“I had been struggling with my faith for years. Always bouncing between guilt and indifference. I wanted to be faithful, devoted, joyful in the Lord’s promises, and yet I couldn’t. My own guilt kept me back. I became a prisoner of it. I wasn’t particularly popular in school. When everyone was dating, Mom kept going on and on about sexual immorality and repentance, telling me that fornicators, idolaters and so on will not inherit the Kingdom of God, and—”
I laugh, shaking my head with fondness. It took me until last night to realize what she was doing. She was protecting me the way every parent should protect their child. The way God, the Father, protects us.
She wasn’t just trying to keep me out of harm’s way. She was warning me of the eternal consequences of sin to my soul and so was instilling a sense of right and wrong in me.
“Anyway, there was this guy I liked. He asked me out. I sneaked out to meet him. A few minutes into the date, he started to get a little too close. I rejected him, told him about my faith, about wanting to remain pure until my Lord sent the right person for me. He seemed understanding, supportive even. The next day the entire school knew and the bullying began.” I raise my gaze to meet Shane’s, eager to read his thoughts. Would he pretend to understand and then turn it all into ridicule?
Would his eyes betray pity because of my lack of experience?
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he says. “Teens can be cruel.”
“Yeah, well, I thought my faith was standing in the way, and so I turned from it in the hope that I would finally belong. It didn’t happen. I went to college, found new friends, but the feeling that I was the odd one out prevailed…until last night. I don’t know what it is but something happened. I was fearing for my life when I had this strong urge to pray. And then the fear was gone, replaced by something I’ve never felt before. A peace so deep and loving, I felt as though I had finally found my way back home.”
“You’re familiar with the bible?”
I nod.
“Then you know you’re the proverbial son returning home.”
I laugh. “The proverbial son?”
“Make it daughter.” He smirks. “But yes, the one who leaves his home to venture out into the world while the father is eagerly awaiting his return. The son spends all he has until he’s poor, hungry and too ashamed to call himself a son. When he finally plucks up the courage to return home, his father has already forgiven him. He’s happy to have his son back. He says, ‘my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost, and is found’.”
I remember the story only faintly. It’s one of Jesus’s parables, describing God as the loving father who eagerly awaits his children’s return. Whatever they’ve done, he’s quick to forgive.
“I guess I am. I had wanted to turn back for a while, I just didn’t know how to do it. I thought there was some sort of elaborate ritual that I had to perform, fast for a month, cry over my sins, drown myself in the guilt over the fact that I had turned away. All it took was a bit of prayer to God and letting Jesus into my heart.”
I let the meaning of my own words sink in for a while, wondering whether I’ve done the right thing to tell this stranger more than I’ve ever told anyone in my entire life.
“You’re back on the right path. Make sure to stay on it,” Shane says.
“I’ll definitely try. I don’t plan on losing my faith again.” I smile at him and he smiles back. In that instant, I realize he isn’t just the person who’s had a glimpse of the inner me. He’s also the person I’ll have to let go. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”
He seems taken aback by my question, but I can tell he’ll continue to tell the truth. “Yes. The police have gathered all the evidence they needed. The trial’s starting on Monday, in which I’m a key witness. I’m leaving today. I should be packing right now.”
Like on cue, there’s a knock at the door and Stacy’s voice calls out, “Shane, get moving. We’ll miss the flight.”
I avert my gaze so he won’t see the s
udden tears in my eyes. I’ve barely skimmed the surface of knowing him so this makes no sense. It should be easier after the last time we said goodbye, only this time it feels scarily real.
“Thanks for telling me everything.” I get up and walk over to the door, keeping my back turned to him. “I wouldn’t want you to miss your flight.”
The bed creaks as he stands. The sound of his footsteps are muffled by the thick rug beneath his feet, but I can feel his presence behind me, his hand lingering inches from my shoulder, hesitating.
“Anything you want to tell me, Sam?”
Yes, there are a million things I want to tell him. I want to come clean about the manuscript and Madeleine Albright. I want to beg him not to leave. To stay just a few more days. To take me out to dinner like he said he would. To tell him that I’ve never met anyone like him.
But instead, I shake my head and clear my throat to get rid of the lump that’s been making breathing so difficult.
“Have a good flight,” I mumble and turn to face him.
His eyes are like a dark storm that passes through the world and leaves only havoc behind. It will take me a long time to recover from it. “Take care of yourself,” he says.
And then he’s gone. Again. Only this time I know it’s going to be forever.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The email arrives in my inbox on Wednesday morning, while I’m sitting at the breakfast table, waiting for my best friend, who has decided to stay over for a few days, to join me. Dad’s reading the sports section of the newspaper while my mother’s busy showing Carly her vegetable patch.
No, I don’t know who Carly is either, but she’s the third “neighbor” to pop over for a quick chat, and it’s barely 9 a.m.
Sammy’s lying at my feet where she’s been for the last half an hour, chewing her way through the considerable amount of snacks my parents seem to be feeding her on a daily basis. With Shane gone, her long walks have turned into brief sprints around the backyard before she plops down at Dad’s feet and lets him scratch her tummy into a stupor. We’ll have to leave soon, preferably before she completely turns into a statue.
“Okay.” I let out a long breath as I stare at my inbox.
I haven’t heard from Madeleine since that phone call, and I didn’t bother to chase her up because I’ve known the outcome of the whole thing anyway.
The email’s subject line reads “Your submission” which doesn’t bode well for its contents. With a sigh, I click on it and begin to read.
* * *
Dear Samantha,
* * *
After careful consideration we’ve decided that your manuscript is not a right fit for us. We don’t feel that your character Shane Logan is “real” enough.
* * *
Madeleine Albright goes on to make a list of all the things as to why my male protagonist lacks in the “realistic” department and why the entire story seems too far-fetched. I laugh all the way through reading it and can barely refrain from typing up a biting response in which I apologize for failing to realize my previous next-door neighbor cannot keep up with, let’s say, a billionaire or Prince Charming, the heir of a fictional kingdom. I mean, let’s be honest, they do not grow on trees, no matter what romance novels tell you.
I knew my book wasn’t your typical romance novel. I knew the chance that Madeleine wouldn’t like it was high. I just would have expected her to use nicer wording rather than make me feel as though I had wasted her precious time.
“No wonder your mom calls her ‘that horrible woman’.” I turn around and find Amanda standing behind me. “I would call her worse but Trish wouldn’t approve of the language,” she says, cradling her cup of coffee like a precious newborn as she’s skimming over the contents of the email over my shoulder.
I didn’t agree that she could do that, but that’s Amanda for you.
Your business is her business every day of the week. I don’t know how I could miss it before, but she reminds me a bit of Mom minus the onesies, shoulder pads and British accent.
I’m staying with my parents for a few days, or until the police have finished combing my place for “evidence” at the pace of a snail. Amanda, the good friend she is, popped over right after I had the lapse in judgment and told her about the hostage situation. Unlike me, she doesn’t need much persuasion from my parents to stay as long as she’ll get off work. She feels right at home, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say Mom and she are best friends while I’m the one tagging along.
Anyway, she’s made it her prerogative to “take care” of me, which involves lots of sleeping in late, shopping and entertaining the endless string of visitors Mom seems to have over on a regular basis. The fact that I don’t know half of them doesn’t faze my parents. My mother’s blank expression, which she tries to hide behind an awkward hug, tells me she doesn’t know half of them either. For all I know, they might just be strangers walking down the street who’ve spied an open door, thought it was a burglary and came in to offer their assistance, then spotted Mom’s brandy-spiked food, and decided to stay for the open bar.
Mystery solved.
“I don’t blame her. It’s the market,” I say and duck at Amanda’s murderous look. She is rather protective, this one, even if that involves protecting me against my own judgment.
“Nonsense. Every trend can be broken and replaced with a new one. It’s a matter of creating demand for a product. You only have to believe in it.”
Believe in it.
Madeleine has made it clear she doesn’t.
“If you say so,” I mutter, unwilling to go down the debate route with her.
“I don’t understand how the woman—”
I tune out of Amanda’s monologue and focus on my mother’s plump figure laughing with Carly outside the glass doors. I’ve no idea what they could possibly be laughing about while inspecting the vegetable patch. Maybe the leek has a weird color this year? Or the tomatoes are particularly rippled?
“Did you read the rest?” Amanda’s hand is shaking my shoulder. Apparently, she’s made it her prerogative to rip it out of its socket.
“What?”
“Did you read the rest?”
“Stop trying to crush my shoulder and I will.” I pull my arm away and look up at her. She shrugs and points at the email. An apology is obviously too much to ask for so I scroll right to the bottom of Madeleine’s very informative analysis of my manuscript.
* * *
Considering our previous arrangement, I took the liberty of forwarding your manuscript to our London office. One of the editors loved your attempt and would like to get in touch at your convenience.
* * *
Her word choice, and particularly “attempt”, doesn’t go unnoticed, but I swallow my pride and focus on the one part I didn’t expect would happen.
One of the editors loved it and wants to get in touch.
That’s a yes. The first step on the stony path of hard work, but a yes nonetheless.
Amanda wraps her arms around me and shouts in my ear, “See, I told you!”
That in turn has Sammy looking up from her long, brown string that smells like it’s been stuck inside a cow’s intestines for a few weeks.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I mutter, but my heart’s fluttering nervously and the tiny seed of hope has taken root inside me.
“Of course it does. Hey, Trish, Sam’s getting published,” Amanda yells the moment my mother’s opened the door.
“Shush,” I urge her, but it’s too late.
“I knew it!” Mom jumps up and down. In her onesie, she looks like one of those dancers in an eighties music video, just not as lithe. Or young. Or good at it.
“I appreciate the attempt at Flash dance, but don’t get your hopes raised,” I mumble. “Let’s wait and see how the phone call turns out. Maybe we won’t click. Maybe she’ll want to turn the manuscript into something completely different. Maybe the terms won’t appeal to me.”
“Sto
p worrying. Everything will turn out as it should because Pastor Rick and I have been praying about it,” Mom says and turns to the woman behind her. “Carly, you won’t believe it. My daughter’s getting published.”
“Really? That’s wonderful. My neighbor’s sister’s niece owns a bookstore. She’d love to have a famous author over. You could sign autographs, talk with us normal folks.”
“She’d love that, won’t you, Sam?” My mother throws me a warning look, which basically tells me that she’ll disown me if I don’t agree to Carly’s neighbor’s sister’s niece’s offer of doing a book signing at her book store, which the poor woman doesn’t even know anything about.
“How could I say no to such a generous offer?” I beam at them while in my fantasy I’m rolling my eyes so badly they might get stuck inside their socket. “If you don’t mind I’ll—” I point behind me, in the direction of my room, my brain struggling to come up with a good excuse for my exit, preferably something that isn’t a lie because lying is a sin and there is no true repentance unless you really do your best to stay away from those. Besides, I made a resolution I intend to stick with.
But there’s no need because my mother’s wrapped her arm around Carly and they’re already planning this huge party where they’ll announce me to be the next John Grisham. Dad’s already been pulled into the orbit too. I can tell from the way he’s taking out his barbecue set, setting off to polish it to perfection for the big day.
Because everyone knows spare ribs taste better when they’ve been turned with a sparkling meat fork. It gives tenderness a shiny new meaning.
“Are you coming?” I ask Amanda.
“One second.” She holds up a manicured finger for a brief second before returning to typing away on my laptop.
I dare a glance and realize she’s researching the British editor’s publishing credentials, frowning as she’s checking sales numbers and weeks spent on the bestseller lists.