by Diane Moody
“See?” He nodded toward Tracey. “Do I know my meatloaf or what? Your mother didn’t have a clue how to make a meatloaf. I hope Mr. Movie Mogul likes dining out because he’ll starve if he’s living off Regina’s cooking.”
Alex rolled her eyes. “Dad, let’s not—”
“I’m just saying, it’s a good thing he’s got money. He probably hired a chef after the first time she cooked dinner for him.”
“How’s Mom doing?” Tracey asked her sister. “Have you heard from her lately?”
“She actually called last week.”
Buddy’s head snapped up as he stopped chewing.
“Really?” Tracey asked.
Alex smirked. “She wanted to let me know she was about to have a tummy tuck.”
Buddy guffawed, falling back in his chair.
“You’re kidding, right?” Tracey asked.
Alex took her time sipping her coffee. “Apparently Jared likes her thin, and she’s put on a little weight.”
Buddy continued laughing, wiping his eyes with his napkin. “Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up. Your mother never weighed more than a hundred pounds her whole life. Jared must go for the anorexic look.” He tossed an exaggerated shudder.
Tracey ignored him. “Didn’t she just have some cosmetic work done last year?”
“Just a brow lift and a lip plump. Nothing major.”
Buddy composed himself though a smile still lit his handsome face. “Girls, you have no idea how often I thank God that He sent your mother away from us.”
Tracey flinched. “Daddy, don’t say that.”
“But it’s true, Tracey Jo. I know God doesn’t ever like to see a marriage end in divorce. But the truth is, just because two people get married doesn’t mean God ordained that marriage. I knew when I married your mother that she had little use for the Lord. When I gave my heart to Christ a couple years later, she didn’t seem to mind. But when I felt God calling me into the ministry, she let me know she sure didn’t hear God calling her to be a pastor’s wife.”
“But she stayed with you,” Tracey said. “All those years, she stayed.”
“Well, you girls had come along by then. I think somewhere in that selfish heart of hers, she knew you girls needed her to stay. I’ll give her that much. You were both well on your own before she took off.”
When he grew silent, Tracey and Alex shared a silent glance. They both knew that despite all the bravado, he still had a soft spot in his heart for their mother. It had come as a complete shock to both of them. She’d called each of them, explaining the whole sordid story of reconnecting with her childhood sweetheart. Jared Blakely had searched her out on Facebook, of all places. He said he’d never forgotten her and had to see her again. An A-list agent in Hollywood, he wasted no time sending his private jet for her.
At the time, Buddy was overseas in Thailand on a month-long mission trip. He knew nothing about it until he got home. By then, Blakely had wined and dined Regina, lavishing her with expensive gifts and introducing her to some of the biggest names in Hollywood. It was the perfect escape she’d been looking for. She filed for divorce immediately, and didn’t even bother coming home to pack her things. Apparently, she had all she needed in Beverly Hills.
Alex and Tracey had taken the news hard, stunned by their mother’s brash disregard for their father’s feelings and the implications it would have for him. She’d minced no words, saying she’d paid her dues and was glad to finally be rid of Jacobs Mill, the church, and yes, even Buddy. “He bored me to tears,” she liked to say.
Tracey flew home to be with her father even though her sister still lived in town. Alex had taught at the elementary school in Jacobs Mill for twelve years, a respected and cherished member of the community. Though she’d never married, she’d bought a cottage a few miles south of town where she lived happily in a home cluttered with books and travel guides to places she’d visited and dreamed of visiting.
But when Buddy Collins came back to find his wife gone and his deacons murmuring for his dismissal, he lost it. He’d slipped into such a deep depression, the girls quietly had him admitted to Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville. Several weeks later, they’d brought him home, and Alex moved back into Walnut Ridge.
Now, as Tracey passed her father another biscuit, she tried to move the conversation back to safer ground. “Well, all I have to say is, thank God for Alex and Uncle Rob.”
Buddy blinked away the moisture in his eyes, his smile slow but sincere. “And I do thank God for them. And for you too, sweetheart. Every day.”
Alex lifted the bowl. “Who wants more mashed potatoes?”
Tracey reached for it. “I do, Sis. I can’t remember the last time I had mashed potatoes.”
“Did you tell her your news?”
Tracey and Alex turned simultaneously toward their father. When Tracey realized he was addressing her sister, she slowly caught her breath, thankful the question wasn’t aimed at her. “What news?” she asked.
“I assume you’re referring to my early retirement?”
“You retired? But Alex, you’re only thirty-four!”
Alex glared at her over her glasses. “And thank you so much, little sister, for reminding me. But this has nothing to do with my age.”
Buddy wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Tell her how you let ol’ Deacon Stone have it.”
“Alex? What did you do?”
Her sister toyed with a green bean. “Oh, nothing really. I just refused to bow at the altar of the almighty ruler baron of Jacobs Mill.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Buddy answered, “that among other things, your sister threatened to rat him out for swindling all these old folks around here out of their property.”
“Dad, you know that’s not what hap—”
“How on earth did you get involved in that?” Tracey stared at her.
Alex placed her silverware on her dinner plate. “That’s a long story for another day.”
“Go on, Alex. Tell her,” Buddy pressed.
She stood, gathering their dishes. “No, Dad, I really don’t want to talk about all that tonight.”
“But what will you do?” Tracey asked. “Are you looking for another teaching position?”
Her sister scoffed. “No point in that, not as long as Deacon’s still on the School Board.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Don’t be sorry. Besides, I think I’ve decided to make a new start. Do something different for a while. Someday I may go back to teaching, but in the meantime, take a look under the tablecloth.”
Buddy looked at her then at Tracey then back at Alex. “What are you talking about?”
“Here, let me show you.” She set the dishes back down and reached down to pull the cloth back.
“Is this a new table?” Tracey asked.
“No. Look closer.”
Buddy moved his tea glass out of the way and pulled the cloth back on his side. “Well, I’ll be. That’s our old table, isn’t it? What’d you do to it?”
Alex cocked her head to one side. “Gee, Dad, thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Tracey studied the finish on the surface of the large oblong table, then leaned over to look beneath at its elaborate legs. The old cherry finish had been painted over with a creamy ivory paint of some kind then distressed in all the right places to show some of the dark cherry. “This is beautiful, Sis. Isn’t this what they call shabby chic? Who did it for you?”
“Nobody. I did it myself.”
Tracey sat back up. “You did it yourself? When did you—did you take a class or something?”
“No, I learned how to do it from one of those HGTV shows. I’d been wanting to do something with this old table for a long time. It was all scuffed up and scratched and desperately needed refinishing. But I wanted something different, so I got some paint and voila! New table.”
“She’s right, Alex,” Buddy said. “This looks great. How c
ome I never noticed it before?”
Alex picked up the dishes again. “Oh, I don’t know, Dad. Could it be you’re a bit décor-challenged? Which would explain why you’ve probably never noticed the hutch over there and the armoire back in the den.”
Tracey and her father got up to check out the other pieces of furniture. “This is amazing, Alex!” Tracey said, admiring the hutch. Its broad counter, doors, and open cabinets all finished to match the dining table. “Seriously, when did you do all this?”
“Couple of weeks ago, I think,” Alex answered, following them into the den. “It was when you were on that trip to New Orleans, Dad.”
“No kidding? These are fantastic, Alex.”
“Oh, and check out the armoire,” Tracey added. “It’s gorgeous! How’d you get this look? Paint it black then sand it?”
“Actually it’s a color called Typewriter. That’s pine under there, so I use a milk paint that gives it a natural chippy look. I love this paint because basically, it distresses itself. It’s really fun because every piece responds differently.”
Tracey looked more closely, running her finger along the inset panels of the armoire’s door. “So, is this what you meant when you said you wanted to do something different?”
“Actually, it’s exactly what I meant. I’m thinking of opening a little shop, then try my hand at buying and refinishing furniture. I’ve been going to yard sales and estate sales, picking up pieces here and there, then working on them in my spare time. Believe it or not, I’ve had some interest in them from friends of mine, parents of my school kids, a few others. So, Dad . . . I was thinking about remodeling the big smokehouse for my shop. It’s right on the road and big enough for a workshop in back and a showroom up front. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea!” Buddy wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Oh!” he said, snapping his fingers. “And I know just who to help us turn that old shack into a cozy little place for your business—my Elders!”
“Who are these elders you keep talking about?” Tracey asked. “Do you mean the deacons from church?”
“Good heavens, no!” Buddy laughed. “My Elders. That’s what I call the guys I work with. Haven’t I told you about them?”
“No one ever tells me anything, apparently,” Tracey said.
Buddy sat down on the hearth. “My biker buddies. But they’re more than that. We do things for people. Help ‘em out when they need help. Odd jobs, big jobs, you name it.”
Tracey dropped into the wingback chair beside the fireplace. “What, like a business?”
“Not at all. It’s a ministry. After Rob brought me back from that first road trip, I knew I needed to find a new ministry for my life. I’d met all these guys who like to ride, but a lot of them, like me, had way too much time on their hands. Some are retired, some are all but homeless. Some have problems they’re dealing with—some have done time, some are battling addictions and what not. Some of them . . . well, like me, some of them just needed a reason to get up in the morning.
“And one morning, I was out there on the back porch having my coffee and reading my Bible, and it came to me—almost like God just spoke it into my mind. I knew these guys all had talents of one kind or another. And right there, as if the whole idea just rolled out before me like a great big panoramic vision, I could see us putting our heads and hands together to help those in need.”
He scratched the beard under his chin. “It’s a strange phenomenon. I never felt more alive than when I was over in Thailand on that mission trip. And it wasn’t just when we told folks about Jesus. It was more about being Jesus to those people who had no idea who He was. We built homes for them. We dug wells so they could have fresh water. We had a medical team that taught them about health and hygiene.
“See, it would’ve been a wasted trip if we just dropped in on those folks, told them about a Man who lived thousands of years ago and died on a cross so they could live, then took off again. Sure, that’s the message we wanted to tell them. But we did it by getting to know them, by investing with our time and resources in them. We didn’t just tell them, we demonstrated the love of Christ through our actions.”
Tracey could hear the passion in his voice as he talked and see it in his blue eyes that danced on a face warmed with compassion. She’d always thought his ready smile and kind, gentle eyes comprised the most compassionate face on earth. But it had been a long, long time since she’d seen him so engaged and excited. “So you and these guys—your Elders—you just look for things to do? Do you advertise online or in the paper?”
“We haven’t had to. As soon as we finish one job, another one comes along. Sometimes lots of ‘em. It’s the craziest thing. Course, I know where all these jobs come from.” He nodded toward the ceiling. “‘I know from whence my help comes,’ so to speak.”
Alex took a seat on the arm of the sofa. “Dad, I’d love the help, and I know the guys would do a great job, but you said it yourself—what you all do is ministry. I’m not exactly an old widow needing her grass mowed.”
“Obviously not, but who’s to say which task is a job and which job is a ministry? As I recall, you didn’t bat an eye when I came back from the hospital. You moved back in here, took care of me, made sure I didn’t off myself—”
“Dad! Don’t say—”
“I’m just sayin’, sweetheart, that sometimes we do things because we simply feel led by God to do them. Besides, I’ve been wanting to do something with that old smokehouse for years. I can’t think of a better project. I’m excited about this!”
“Yeah?”
“What’s not to like? The way I see it, we’re both on similar journeys. I give these guys fresh starts, you give your furniture a new life. Looks like we’re all about second chances, y’know?”
“Dad! That’s the perfect name for my shop—Second Chances.”
“It’s perfect, Alex,” Tracey added. “Just perfect.”
Buddy jumped up. “I can’t wait to get my guys on this. Do you have time to take a walk-through in the smokehouse tomorrow? Maybe sketch out some ideas?”
“Well, sure,” Alex said, her face beaming as she glanced over at Tracey. Her smile fell. “But maybe we should wait—”
“Don’t wait on my account,” Tracey argued. “Besides, it sounds like fun. Why not let me help too? And maybe you could teach me some of your magic. Show me how you transform your little beasts into beauties.”
“I’d love to, Trace. We can work on a piece or two, but I don’t want to tie up your whole vacation on all this.”
Tracey felt her face warm. “Well, now that you mention it,” she began, then cleared her throat. She stopped and looked back toward the kitchen. “How about we put on a fresh pot of coffee and dish up some of that cobbler? There’s something I need to tell you both.”
Chapter 4
“I can tell you one thing right here and now,” Buddy snapped, angrily stirring his coffee. “I’ve got a mind to hop on Stella, drive up to Washington, and tell Senator Whistlebritches just what he can do with those ‘family values’ of his.”
“Dad, that kind of talk doesn’t help,” Alex said.
“Maybe not, but it would sure feel good to smack that pretty boy’s face into the next county.” He punched his fist into his open hand.
“Dad, please. Alex is right. And you and I both know you’d never do any such thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Tracey Jo, does his wife know anything about all this?”
“No, at least I don’t think so.” The thought hadn’t occurred to her. Could Amanda have picked up on anything? Morgan hadn’t been very discreet lately. Then again, he’d never been out of line when the three of them were together. “No, I seriously doubt it. We’re—” Tracey glanced down, watching her finger crush a piece of the cobbler’s crust. She quickly dusted the crumbs off her hands. “The thing is, I love Amanda. I don’t ever want her to know about this. It w
ould break her heart.”
“Yes, it would,” Buddy said quietly. “Take that from one who’s been there.”
Alex patted her father’s hand then turned to her sister. “So he doesn’t know yet that you’re not coming back?”
“I wrote him an email on the plane giving my two-week notice.”
“Good for you,” Buddy said.
“The problem is, it’s more difficult than that. There are procedures for leaving jobs like mine. There are exit reviews and debriefings and confidential information that has to be—”
“Something tells me Dick Nixon didn’t have an ‘exit review’,” Buddy grumbled.
Alex peered over her readers. “Not helping, Dad. Okay?”
“Fine. But all I’m saying is, don’t make this so hard on yourself, Tracey Jo. You’ve got enough to deal with on an emotional level. Deal with the rest of it later.”
“What about your things?” Alex asked.
“I could probably just send for them. Ask my landlord to have them boxed up and shipped to me.”
Buddy slapped his hand on the table. “No need. I’ll grab a couple of my Elders, and we’ll take care of it. All we’ll need are your keys.”
“You and your Elders,” Tracey teased. “What am I gonna do with you guys?”
“Oh, you’ll love us. I guarantee it. You won’t be able to help yourself.”
Tracey walked over to hug him. “Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”
“Right backatcha, sweetheart.”
Back in her old bedroom, Tracey slept like a rock. There’s something intrinsically soothing about having the same sheets and blankets and quilts piled over you that you slept under when you were a child, she mused. She smiled at the thought and rolled over on her back, yawning as she gazed at the clock which read 9:45.
I haven’t slept this late in years. This is heaven . . .
She reached for her cell phone on the bedside table and unplugged it from the charger. The face lit up showing twelve more missed calls since she went to bed. She flopped her head back on the pillow, debating whether she should look at the list of names. She gave in and scrolled down the list. Just as I thought. Morgan, Morgan, Morgan . . . after ten calls, could you not get the hint?