“Let me know when he shows up.”
“Sure. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.”
“I thought she might recover,” Mike said to Peg when he hung up the phone. “I’ve never had a hospital visit like the one Friday night.”
“Tell me about it.”
Mike gave her the details. Peg listened without comment until the end.
“How old was she?”
“I’m guessing in her mid-fifties, but she looked older.”
“Did they have children?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t come up.”
Judge bounded past them and around to the backyard when they opened the garage door.
“With me out of commission, how is he going to get his exercise?” Peg asked. “He needs a good run every day.”
“That will fall on me.”
The next morning, Mike rolled out of the smaller bed he shared with Peg in the downstairs bedroom and stumbled into a jogging suit. He disdained skintight cycling gear and forbade Peg from buying him formfitting black shorts or aerodynamic nylon shirts for Christmas. “Don’t be too hard on him,” Peg mumbled as Mike tied his shoelaces.
“Are you talking to me or Judge?”
Peg rolled over and snuggled deeper into her pillow.
It was still dark when Mike and Judge went down the street to the entrance of a nature trail that skirted their neighborhood. The trail ran along the back of the subdivision and descended to the bottom of the hill not far from traffic light eight. It was a quick five minutes to reach the bottom and a strenuous ten-minute climb to the top of the ridge beyond Mike and Peg’s house. Mike listened with satisfaction as Judge panted when they strained toward the crest of the hill and turned around for another descent. Two circuits were enough to give both man and dog a vigorous morning workout. When Mike returned to the house, Peg was in the kitchen with the coffee dripping into the pot.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he asked sharply.
“Making a slight detour from the bathroom to fix your coffee.”
“Don’t make me handcuff you to the bedpost.”
Peg poured a cup of coffee and started toward the downstairs bedroom. “Surveillance cameras would be more humane. Or you could ask Judge to keep a log of my activities.”
“Judge would be cheaper. We’ll give him a try first, but I’m warning you in advance that I might make a surprise visit home to check on you.”
“Visit any time.”
Mike sat on the edge of the bed. “Are we okay with each other?”
“Yes.”
Mike took a breath and exhaled. “Good.”
After Mike cleaned up in the master bathroom and dressed for work, he went to the downstairs bedroom. Peg was sitting up in bed with her Bible open.
“Did you know Sam and Muriel pray together every morning at the kitchen table?” she asked.
“She also fixes homemade biscuits and gravy.”
“Which explains the size of Sam’s belly. We don’t have to do everything like the Millers; however, praying together would be a low-fat thing to do before you leave for work.” Peg stretched out her hands. “They hold hands.”
Mike joined his hands with hers. “Anything else?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Does Muriel pray?”
“I’m not sure, but since she prayed for me the other night, I haven’t felt any pain. That’s another reason I wanted to argue with Dr. Crawford about the need for bed rest, but I guess that wouldn’t have made any difference in her recommendations.”
“No, but we can still pray.”
Mike closed his eyes. He started to speak, but the same inner nudge that had prompted him to pray at the hospital now restrained him. Other than blessing a meal, he and Peg hadn’t prayed together more than a handful of times in their marriage. Finally, Peg spoke.
“Jesus,” she said in a soft voice, “we love You this morning.”
Mike pressed his lips together. The Name, spoken by his wife, touched a tender spot in his heart. Peg continued, and Mike listened in amazement as she talked to God with a familiarity that made him slightly jealous. His wife, who for years had been resistant to his brand of faith, had leaped over him into the arms of Jesus.
“Thank you for being close to us today,” she said. “Amen.”
Mike looked within his heart for something to add, but everything that came to mind seemed petty. He squeezed her hand.
“Amen,” he said.
Peg opened her eyes.
“Why didn’t you pray?” she asked.
Mike stood, came over, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Because there wasn’t anything to add.”
He kissed her again.
“Call me if you need anything. I’ll be home before the session meeting to check on you.”
“I’ll be good. I promise.”
WHEN MIKE ARRIVED AT THE CHURCH, DELORES WAS TYPING the weekly report of church statistics. Mike documented every change in attendance at church meetings, Sunday school classes, and the size of offerings. Having the data at his fingertips had been handy at session meetings, and so far, all the important numbers since his arrival at the church had been up.
“Giving has been down the past three weeks,” Delores quipped as he came by her desk. “I don’t recall that happening in quite a while.”
“But attendance has been up. Don’t fret the weekly numbers. Monthly totals are more significant.”
“Then why do you want me to keep a weekly record?”
“Because it helps me stay more current,” Mike responded patiently.
Delores sniffed. “I just don’t want to be doing busywork.”
“It’s helpful. You know there are elders who love to see the latest data. Any calls this morning?”
“No complaints, if that’s what you mean.”
MIKE WENT INTO HIS OFFICE. THE FIRST ITEM ON HIS TO-DO list was to locate a handwriting expert. In normal circumstances, he would have called Bobby Lambert for a referral. He tapped a finger against his desk and considered his options. An Internet search would yield results but no guarantee of competency. Experts for hire could be nothing more than pretenders with bogus diplomas and spurious pedigrees. He dialed Greg Freeman. This time a secretary answered the phone and put him through.
“Good morning,” Mike said. “Is this the number to call for free legal advice?”
Freeman laughed. “A lot of people believe so. What can I do for you?”
“I need a handwriting expert. Any recommendations?”
Freeman was silent for a moment. “About a year ago, I deposed a handwriting expert in a will contest case. He testified against my client’s position, so I tried to discredit him. The more questions I asked, the more convincing he became. I couldn’t shake his research and opinion.”
“Sounds like my man. Can you locate his contact info?”
“Just a minute.”
Mike waited. Freeman came back on the line.
“Darius York. He doesn’t have a PhD, but that’s not how they learn the craft. York is a former FBI agent who retired to the mountains near Blowing Rock. He supplements his income by providing handwriting analysis. The first ten minutes of the deposition were a recitation of his qualifications and experience. I thought he would never stop talking about how much he knew.”
“Is he expensive?”
“Yes, but he’s close by.”
Mike frowned. “I need something fast. West has put the Miller case on a fast track.”
“Why?”
“I suspect it’s political, but that doesn’t do me any good. I’ve got to get ready.”
“Here’s the number for York, and you can mention me as a referral. It will flatter his ego.”
“Is he arrogant?”
“A little, but he can back it up.”
Mike jotted down the number.
“Thanks.”
“Sure. If you need anything else, let me know.”
Mike made copies of the checks, Sam’s written statement, and the estimate for cutting the grass at the church. He hoped the documents would provide enough comparison samples of Sam’s handwriting for York to render an opinion.
MID-AFTERNOON, MIKE WENT HOME TO CHECK ON PEG AND found her napping on the couch in the great room with an open notebook turned upside down on the floor beside her. She woke up, stretched up her arms, and held him tightly around the neck when he leaned over to kiss her. “How are you surviving?” he asked.
“Wishing I really was on the deck of a cruise ship. One day of inactivity is not too bad, but when I think about months with nothing to do except travel between the bed and the couch, it gets depressing. Both Judge and I started getting restless when it was time for our run.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes, but it would have been nice if you’d come home for lunch.”
“I worked on the Miller case part of the morning and spent lunch in a counseling session. I’ve been putting people off who want to come see me, but there was a husband and wife who really needed emergency help.”
“Did you help them?”
“I don’t know. The husband is hardheaded and resistant to my suggestions. Sometimes I think my opinion carried more weight as a lawyer than it does as a minister. If he files for divorce, he’ll find out that no one gets his way one hundred percent of the time.”
Peg scooted away from the edge of the couch and patted it with her hand. Mike sat down.
“I’m glad we didn’t go that route.”
“Me, too.”
“Are you ready for the session meeting?”
“Mostly. I have to print copies of the agenda and get the room ready.”
“Can’t Delores do it?”
Mike put his hand on Peg’s forehead. “Do you have a fever? You sound delusional. I made the mistake the other day of asking her to do something new, and she went into a funk.”
“Can I ask you to do something?” Peg asked.
Mike withdrew his hand. “I’m open to reasonable negotiation.”
“Where’s the trust?”
Mike saluted. “I’m wearing my waiter’s uniform, and your every wish is my command.”
“Pick up my notebook.”
Mike leaned over and retrieved the notebook.
“Go into the office, find a blank page, and write me a short letter. Make it something you’d like me to read while you’re gone tonight.”
“What kind of letter?”
“A friendly one,” Peg answered.
“That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Okay.”
“And when you finish, put a load of white clothes in the washer, pick up and vacuum the upstairs bedroom, and clean the master bathroom.”
“Dr. Crawford told you to stay off the steps,” Mike responded sharply. “Have you been upstairs?”
“No, but you have, and I have a mental image of our bedroom and bath that needs to be erased. After you finish, we’ll plan an early supper so you can get back to the church.”
Mike took the notebook into the office and sat at the desk. Handwritten personal notes had never been a big part of his relationship with Peg, but he was smart enough to realize she wanted to include them in their future. He started to write something sentimental, but his ideas, though nice, didn’t feel right. He leaned back in the chair.
And remembered the letter Sam wrote Peg.
That letter needed a bookend, a written resolution for any doubts lingering in Peg’s mind that he was ready to forgive the past and go on. Turning to a blank page in the notebook, he began to write.
He intended to fill, at most, a single page, but it quickly stretched to four sheets. Thoughts and emotions he hadn’t expressed in person flowed out. And he also discovered his need to ask Peg’s forgiveness. She was his wife, but he’d been selfish, too—hiding behind a few Bible verses in Galatians as justification for unilateral action that fundamentally altered their lives. In part, he’d used the Bible as an excuse to impose his will, not as guidance for a future to be shared with the one God joined to walk with him.
Having acknowledged his failings and asked for forgiveness, he concluded with words of hope for what lay ahead. At the bottom of the page, he wrote in large letters “All my love, Mike.”
“I’m done!” he called out from the office when he finished.
“Was it that hard finding something nice to write?” Peg responded from the couch. “You’ve been in there forever!”
Mike returned to the great room and handed her the folded letter.
“No, I just wanted to put off starting my chores.”
Twenty
MIKE FINISHED HIS PREPARATIONS FOR THE SESSION MEETING with plenty of time to spare. He’d put on a fresh shirt and tie before returning to the church. He wanted to look his best for the meeting.
After every agenda was neatly in place and the decaf coffee was dripping into the pot, he walked around the room, praying silently as he placed his hand on each chair. While making his second circuit, a voice interrupted him.
“What are you doing?” Bobby asked.
Mike turned quickly toward the door. His former partner’s shirt might have been starched twelve hours before, but it was thoroughly wrinkled now. His yellow tie was loosened.
“Waiting for you,” Mike said. “How’s it going?”
Bobby plopped down in the nearest chair. “Have you ever felt like you have too many irons in the fire?”
“A thousand times.”
“That’s the way I feel, and I’m worried that a couple of them are about to be taken out to brand me.”
“Avoid that if possible.”
“How’s Peg?”
“On bed rest.”
“I wish the doctor would tell me to lie around the house and do nothing except press the remote control for a few weeks. Park cleaned out his office and left yesterday. At least eighty percent of his remaining caseload has landed in my office.”
Mike poured Bobby a cup of coffee.
“I’ll try not to keep you here too late tonight,” he said. “We have a light agenda.”
Bobby took a sip of coffee. “How’s business?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your caseload. Since I haven’t heard from you, I assume you’re still handling the Miller case.”
“Yes, but it’s moving along at a fast clip. Ken West is bumping it up on the trial calendar.”
Mike studied Bobby’s face for any response, but his former partner stared past him across the room. Bobby picked up the agenda and took a sip of coffee.
“I’m glad to see you have the Miller case on the agenda for discussion. If the case is jumping up the calendar, I look forward to hearing about your exit strategy.”
Mike glanced down at the packet in front of him. “That’s not about the criminal case. Miller cut the grass this week. If you come out in the daytime, you can see what a neat job he did.”
Before Bobby responded, Libby Gorman and Barbara Harcourt came in together and were immediately followed by Milton Chesterfield, along with the other four members of the session.
“Did you ride together?” Mike asked in surprise.
“Everyone but Libby and Bobby had supper with Barbara,” Milton responded.
“Did you show them any new photos of the Florida grandkids?” Mike asked Barbara.
“Only a few,” the older woman responded crisply.
“Let’s get started,” Mike said to the group. “I’ve promised Bobby that I’ll get him home at a decent hour.”
When everyone was seated, Mike continued. “The first item on the agenda is the quarterly report of the finance committee.”
Rick Weston, the credit manager at a local car dealership, served as the chairperson of the committee. A quiet man, Rick rarely expressed an
opinion. He read the report in a monotone voice. Mike was relieved when no one pointed out the slight downturn in giving.
“On the other side of Rick’s report are the attendance figures,” Mike said. “We continue to attract new visitors almost every Sunday.”
They plodded through the remaining committee reports. It had all the marks of a lethargic meeting. Mike had placed Sam’s bid to cut the grass as the last item and labeled it “Grounds Maintenance Bid from Miller Lawn Care.” As the elders moved through the agenda with no more than minor discussion, Mike inwardly debated whether to present Sam’s bid or table it until another meeting. Bobby had yawned several times, but they were ahead of schedule.
“The last item is a bid from a new company to cut the grass and maintain the shrubs and flower beds. Does anyone have an opinion about our current service?”
“It’s not good,” Libby responded immediately. “A few weeks ago, I noticed that the grass on one side of the church had been cut, but the other side looked ragged. It reminded me of my grandson’s hair after his older sister gave him a haircut.”
Milton coughed. “Is this a bid from Sam Miller, the man you’re representing in the criminal case?”
“Yes, but this doesn’t have anything to do with that,” Mike answered. “Miller’s bid is fifteen percent cheaper than our current service, and I believe he’ll do a better job.”
“Does he need the money to pay your fee?” Milton asked.
“No, I’m handling the case pro bono. I thought I made that clear when I asked permission to help him.”
“And it doesn’t concern you that he’s charged with stealing money from a church?” Milton persisted.
“Yes, but he won’t have access to our bank accounts or records.”
“The church would pay him with a check,” Rick said softly. “Then he would have our account information.”
At Rick’s comment, Mike quickly examined the faces around the table. Everyone except Libby Gorman looked grim. Libby appeared perplexed.
“You haven’t found another attorney to represent Miller?” Milton asked.
“No, he wants me to help him, and I’m willing to see it through. The case will come up for trial in a couple of weeks. After that, my involvement will end.”
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