by Tim LaHaye
Much as his mother accepted and, yes, loved her only daughter-in-law, she had never hidden that she did not appreciate Sharon's take on religion. Sharon was too critical, too judgmental, couldn't leave well enough alone. Cameron's mother had always contended that one's religion was as private as one's politics and that it was impolite to probe either.
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That had never stopped Sharon. She had invited her in-laws to her own church, and they had gone more than once--mostly to the grandkids' programs. But Sharon couldn't just leave it at that. She would quiz them later, ask them if their church believed the same way hers did. Could a person become born again at their church? What did they think about the pastor's invitation to "give your life to the Lord"?
Jeff had been at first bemused and would regale Cameron with stories of how their father would jump through any hoop to avoid commitment or confrontation. He would answer all such questions with, "Yes, that was nice. Very impressive."
But Cameron's mother? No. Honest to a fault, as his father always said. "That rubbed me the wrong way," she would say. "Implying that I'm not as good a person or a Christian if I haven't been saved just the way the preacher says."
"You thought he was talking to you, Mom?" Sharon said.
"He was talking to all the outsiders and making us feel more that way. It was rude. Get us in there to take pictures of our precious grandbabies and then hit us over the head with the Bible, implying we don't stack up."
Sharon had not given up. She raised the subject again and again until finally her mother-in-law had told her enough was enough. "I get it, all right? I get it. Is this not my own decision?"
Jeff reported that his wife had said yes, of course it was.
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"All right, I'll tell you, Sharon," their mother said. "I think it's fine for you, and I'll take my chances staying with what makes me comfortable." When Sharon got into making sure "you're not comfortable now but burning in hell later," that was nearly the end of the relationship. They barely spoke for more than six months.
And yet when Cameron's mother was struggling with cancer, who was the first person she wanted to see? Who was the one who spent hours at her bedside, attending to her every--and Jeff emphasized every--need? Sharon, of course. The women developed a bond breakable only by death, but there was no indication that Mrs. Williams had ever received Christ.
Perhaps that's why Sharon was so distraught now. She missed her friend, but maybe she feared the woman was in hell. Sharon's agony carried to the gravesite and to yet one more reception at the house. She did her duty, serving and playing hostess, but tears streamed and her face was crimson. The more people embraced her and tried to console her, the more she seemed to suffer.
Cameron's dad was the enigma. The man seemed to have run out of energy. He appeared so tired at the house later that people on every side urged him to get a nap. He refused. It wasn't like him to abandon a houseful of guests, regardless of the circumstance. But by the end of the afternoon, he sat, clearly trying to keep his eyes open as dozens came by to express their condolences once more and say their good-byes.
Cameron's own emotions were complicated. He was flooded with memories of his childhood relationship
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with his mother, when he had idolized her and she had been the object of his make-believe games. How many times had he rescued her from the enemy, saved her from a burning building, pulled her off railroad tracks with the locomotive bearing down?
It was not lost on him that he had somehow pushed from his mind memories of deceiving her when he was a teenager. Had she ever been the wiser? It didn't seem so. Her love and devotion to him never seemed to abate. That left Cameron feeling sleazy, and part of him wished he could have confessed it all to her so they could share a laugh and he would feel forgiven.
Why did preadolescents have to be so maddeningly unpredictable? Irene would have bet Chloe had a million complaints for the ride home from church and would start her case about how she was giving this test a fair shot but it wasn't going to turn out the way her mother wanted.
Raymie was quiet and nodding off, and Chloe was largely silent. If there was anything as bad as arguing with an unreasonable daughter, it was dragging opinions out of her one syllable at a time. Irene refused to do it.
It wasn't that Chloe was wholly silent. In fact, she said things Irene was tempted to latch on to. Irene knew better than to yield, of course, because just about the time she concluded she had won over her daughter, Chloe would disappoint her with a unilateral decision.
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Chloe sat in the passenger seat, pleasant enough, but hardly forthcoming. Irene glanced at her a few times, resisting the urge to say, "So ...?"
As Irene pulled into the drive-through chicken place, Chloe said, "At least these kids are more real than the ones at our church."
"More real?"
"Well, they're nerdier and a little out of it, but they seem--I don't know--sorta genuine about it. Know what I mean?"
"Not really."
"Maybe they're faking it, like we all do at our church, but--"
"Not all of us fake it, Chloe."
"I was talking about the kids, Mom. Except for a couple, we've even given up pretending anymore. But there the kids sure seemed to know a lot about the lesson and all that. And you know when the teacher prayed out loud, she asked kids to pray too, if they wanted to."
"Did you?"
"Are you kidding? I wouldn't do that with people I know, let alone a bunch of strangers. But some kids did. And they sounded like they pray a lot."
"That impressed you?"
"I guess. Not sure I want to be that into it, you know, but I don't think they're faking it. Far as I can tell anyway."
"What was the lesson about?"
"Same as the sermon, which was kind of an interesting idea. I don't know if I get it all, but it makes sense to do
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it that way, don't you think? Like they did it on purpose. They ever do anything in our church on purpose?"
Irene stopped herself from saying anything disparaging about her church. Just when it seemed Chloe was about to concede that the new place wasn't so bad, she asked her mother to remind her how long this experiment was supposed to last and wasn't her father expected to have to go too.
"I'm not your father's mother," Irene said. "I'm asking you to give it a fair shot, and then I'm going to ask you to keep going, even if you would rather not."
"I knew it!" Chloe said, waking Raymie just in time for him to smell the chicken and want some. "You're not going to respect my decision at all!"
"The fact is, Chloe, I'm scared. I want you to know that I love you and I do respect you, but I want the best for you. I would never forgive myself if I let you badger me out of having you in church every Sunday. What kind of a mother would I be?"
"One who treats her daughter like a human being and not a possession."
"That's not fair."
"Don't talk to me about fair, Mom. You're not being fair at all. I'll do my part, uphold my end of the bargain, but you have to uphold yours too. This was supposed to be my decision."
"I was hoping yours would be a decision I could support."
"So it's my choice as long as I choose the way you want me to."
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"You make me sound pretty unbending, Chloe."
"Am I wrong?"
"Please withhold judgment for a few weeks."
"That's not going to be easy, Mom."
"I know, but do it for me."
"Everything I do is for you. I wish you'd do something for me once."
Someday, Irene knew, Chloe would have a child of her own and--hopefully--she would come to her senses and regret that remark. In the meantime, Irene would do all she knew how to do for her beloved daughter. She would pray for her with all her being, hoping God would change her mind and eventually her heart.
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TWENTY-FIVE
"I am worried about the women, Nic
olae," Viv Ivins said. "And I am not the only one."
Carpathia folded his hands and leaned back in his office chair. "The women? I have told you: they are mere dalliances. I seriously have no interest in any of them."
"That's my point, beloved. I don't care what you do for recreation, but you must be discreet. The election is close. And others are nervous--"
"That is another thing!" Nicolae said, letting his chair return upright. "Do not talk to me about others or about your not being the only one concerned! If someone has an issue with me, he should say so to my face. Now who are we talking about?"
"I don't know if I should speak for--"
"Aunt Viv! You raised the issue. You said you were not the only one. Now who?"
"They have your best interests at heart, Nicolae. They
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should not be in trouble for caring about you and your future."
"I appreciate that, Viv, but what does it say about their concern for me and their loyalty to me if they are running around behind my back, talking to you and who knows who else about my--?"
"I have no evidence of that."
"Then what? What are they saying? And who are they so I can put their minds at ease?"
Viv studied her shoes, and Nicolae could tell she would cave if he just waited her out. "Tristan," she said softly.
"My night-shift driver? Tell me you are not serious! Get him in here."
"He is, of course, sleeping right now, Nicolae. I can ask him to come to work a few minutes early this evening. But, please, you must know he is among your most loyal staff and a great admirer of--"
"He will get a chance to affirm that soon. And explain himself, of course."
It became clear to Irene that Rayford and Chloe had once again conspired against her. They wouldn't admit it, of course, and she didn't have hard evidence. But suddenly Chloe decided that despite whatever was good or interesting or unique about New Hope, she would stay with their old church, as long as Irene was insisting that she continue to attend.
"That's where I'm going too," Rayford said, and Irene
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realized she was caught. What was it about New Hope that so threatened Rayford? He was essentially saying that he would back her insistence that Chloe stay in church a few more years--against her will--and that he would even attend more frequently, as long as they stayed at their regular church.
"We'd like it if you went with us," Rayford said.
"Oh, we would, would we?" Irene didn't want to sound so shrewish, and if she could just count a beat or two before responding, maybe she could be more civil. But if Rayford's comment wasn't evidence of collusion, Irene didn't know what was. Well, she wasn't about to split up her family over which church they attended, desperate as she was to move to New Hope. Maddeningly, she had succeeded on some level. Rayford might attend more, and Chloe would reluctantly go every Sunday--at least for a while--as long as it was at this non-threatening country club of a church. Well, Irene would just have to continue using Jackie as her lifeline to real spiritual growth. She would recommit herself to daily Bible reading and prayer, and she would throw herself into the weekly sessions with Jackie like never before. If she couldn't personally sit under the teaching of Vernon Billings, getting his input secondhand would have to do.
But what abut Raymie? Soon he would be old enough to understand that he, too, needed Jesus. It would be up to her--which she assumed was the way it should be anyway--to lead him to faith. He certainly wasn't going to be guided toward a real experience with Christ in a church that never emphasized that.
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One thing was sure: though Irene had no idea how long it would be before Chloe dropped out altogether-- and while Irene would fight that to the end--that would signal her time to switch churches. She was not about to wither and die on the vine when she knew she belonged somewhere like New Hope.
Cameron Williams was finding it hard to concentrate on finishing at Princeton. He knew he could coast to graduation with a great grade point average and lots of attention, but his enthusiasm was fading for campus activities, the school paper, his class work, all that. The job at the Globe loomed, and he could hardly wait.
That news had gotten around in his circles, and he was suddenly the celebrated young journalist on campus. His very personal piece about attending his mother's funeral and how he felt about missing seeing her alive became the piece the Globe used to introduce their soon-coming new reporter.
Cameron had not been aware that he was an emotional writer, and he didn't try to affect a certain tone just for effect. But even Dizzy Rowland told him he was impressed by how Cameron had used simple, straightforward language to tell a story with universal impact. "You didn't manufacture emotion, son. You elicited it from the reader."
"You know, sir," Cameron had said, "I hardly think about that--when I'm writing I mean."
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"What do you think about?"
Cameron shook his head and squinted, trying to conjure the feelings and emotions that went into his craft. For a man who planned to make his living with words, he was having a hard time articulating his own thoughts.
"I guess I'd have to say I'm consumed with curiosity," he said. "I have so many questions, and I assume the reader does too. I'm his agent, asking what he would ask, trying to find out every detail he would want to know--and maybe a few he hasn't thought of. When I'm focused on putting a piece together, I'm desperate to include every cogent detail and leave out anything that slows it down or detracts."
"You're not thinking about avoiding clichés or forcing the emotion?"
Cameron shook his head. "Comes naturally, I guess."
"Intuitive."
"I hope so."
"It's a gift, Cameron."
The Globe also assigned Cameron to interview a Boston native who had accepted a department chairmanship at Princeton, and Cameron somehow managed to turn it into more than a simple news story. And he had covered the story of a Massachusetts family who had seen their three adopted Asian children graduate from Ivy League schools, marry, start successful businesses, and move to New Jersey.
All Cameron wanted was to get out of school and get to Boston so he could do this every day.
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Nicolae liked Tristan and had almost since the day he hired him nearly two years before. The young man was quiet and industrious, and when he did speak, he was complimentary of his boss. Carpathia knew he himself was above being impressed by flattery, but anyone, he concluded, liked to be respected.
He decided to host Tristan in the living room rather than the office, which might have been more intimidating. Nicolae wanted to coax as much information as he could from the young driver. But when Tristan entered, wearing his black chauffeur's uniform and carrying his cap, he looked wan and wary.
"Sit there, please," Nicolae said, pointing to an easy chair across from the divan where he sat. "Ms. Ivins tells me you have a concern you would like to share with me."
"Oh yes, sir. I feel bad that I confided in her and did not come directly to you."
"By all means, be assured I prefer the latter."
"Yes, sir. And I assure you I have not shared my concerns with anyone else."
"Then there is no need for you to be speriat . I would be most concerned and would not mind your being nervous if you were spreading things about me among the staff and especially anyone outside."
"Oh no, of course not."
"So, what is on your mind, Tristan?"
"Ms. Ivins did not tell you?"
"As a matter of fact, she did. And she shares your
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worries, as you probably know. But I want to hear from you. In your own words."
Tristan worked his cap in both hands and looked past Nicolae. "First off, I realize it is none of my business."
"I am none of your business, Tristan? That is ridicol , absurd! Not only am I your business, I want to be your business. How many times have I told the staff that to be successful y
ou all must take a certain degree of ownership in me and in the company?"
Tristan nodded. "Many times, yes, I understand."
"So, out with it. What?"
"I don't begrudge you your guests."
"The women who visit me nearly every night."
"Yes. I wish I had them lining up at my door."
"I am sure you have little problem in that regard, Tristan."
"Well, let's just say my home is not as busy as yours is."
"It is merely recreation, my friend. No one is compelled to visit me."
"Oh, I understand. And I doubt most people would personally have any trouble with it. But there is a reason you send me to pick up these women and return them, and that it is always after dark."
"Of course. Discretion."
"Which means it is important I keep this confidential. From your enemies particularly."
"Of course."
"That is what I worry about, Mr. Carpathia. I can only imagine what Mr. Tismaneanu might do with such information."
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"A point well-taken and one of the reasons I use someone as trusted as you to carry out this duty. Do you have any suspicion that he or his people might be aware of this?"
"Actually, I do."
That Nicolae had not expected. He leaned forward expectantly, his stare begging for details.
"I know a man who works for Tismaneanu," Tristan said. "Well, knowing him is probably overstating it. He is an acquaintance. A friend of a friend."
"Yes, and what does this man do for Emil?"
"I don't even know that. I know he is not educated and is a bit of a delinquent, so I--"