Love In a Distant Land: Rachel Marie Series Book One

by David B. Smith

  As slowly and carefully as if it were the replay of a Dodger close play on the big screen far below them, he reached out and tilted her face until it was facing up to his. Rachel Marie closed her eyes, literally trembling with the raw poignancy of this terrible and glorious moment. She felt Nigel’s lips on hers, his breath sweet and his clean fragrance invading her head and her mind. And she couldn’t help it. Knowing it was Eden’s deadly path away from all that she truly trusted and believed in, she returned his kisses, savoring them, breathing in the risky magic, clutching at his arm, then with her own both passionately flung around his neck.

  As the kisses continued, a muted part of her brain protested feebly, then seemed to surrender. Rachel Marie’s childhood baptism and her biblical convictions bathed in adolescent fervor were drowning in the pure electricity of this high-rise moment. Nigel Blaine was uncut chemistry; she could be both happy and exhilarated as his soulmate. The very idea that a man with his glittering accomplishments would seek out and woo her was breathtaking.

  Nigel Blaine drew her closer and their kisses escalated in passion. Another few seconds of collapsing morals, she could tell, and he would commence drawing her toward the elevator. Already there was a physical urgency washing over both of them. If she pushed aside her retreating guilt pangs and followed this man to his bedroom lair, what followed would take them both higher than anything in her fantasies.

  Right on cue, Nigel pulled back and peered into her eyes. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “this is turning into a delicious surprise. Are we both ready for what’s about to happen?”

  Her heart pounding in her chest, Rachel Marie hardly trusted herself to speak. “I think you’re sweeping me off my feet, Mr. Blaine.”

  “I hope so, dear thing.”

  They were halfway to the elevators when it seemed a lone sentry appeared on the distant horizon of this war zone. Perhaps with a flashlight to peer through the fading traces of gunpowder in search of a surviving hero.

  We recruited you to be our superstar. Our ambassador.

  Sue Baines, speaking on behalf of the allied forces, the entire body of Christ, had pleaded with her to come to Bangkok and be truly special, an inspired teacher bathed in born-again charm. To live up to a high, holy mission on the front lines.

  She, Rachel Marie Stone, had embraced the calling. Now a penthouse door was about to close behind her and this strange, handsome man with his jokes and debonair looks and fountainous bits of stored-away trivia. Was she really about to surrender her entire mission–this make-a-difference school term, plus a possible relationship with Khemkaeng–for the fleeting pleasures of this next half hour? Could she be about to trade away the quest of a lifetime . . . for an orgasm?

  But I want to do this. Her footsteps, now mushy in this maze of her moral confusion, kept plodding toward the elevator. You’re so beautiful; he wants you; everything’s all right. Digital lights would glow; the chariot would float them to a heady rendezvous; Nigel’s lovemaking would carry her away.

  And then what? What would Friday morning feel like as Pastor Mike cashed in their shared investment of hard work, proclaiming Jesus while Khemkaeng translated, and she sat there with her 6C kids, knowing the next seven months of this quest would be an empty charade? How would she joyfully carry on, knowing that yet again, she had distracted herself from her heart’s highest priorities, covering her eyes to shield her view of Calvary?

  “Oh my God.” All at once she blurted out not a flippant aside but a desperate plea. Lord, I believe! Help Thou mine unbelief! “Nigel, stop. Just . . . right now. I’m not going upstairs with you. Oh, dear God, what was I thinking?”

  He still had his arm around her shoulders, but she drew away, aching and breathing hard. “No! I can’t!” She said it almost in a gasp. “This is all wonderful, and you’re . . . awesome in many ways, yes. We have chemistry that drives me crazy. But . . . no.”

  “But Rachel . . . sweetheart . . .”

  “No,” she said again, her soul alert and on guard now as if awakening from a deep slumber. “I can’t be with a person who doesn’t love the Lord Jesus the way I do. That’s just . . . it. It was so wrong for me to come here.”

  Nigel drew back a few inches, his face frozen with her edict. “Shhhh . . . please . . .” He tried to kiss her again but this time she was ready and held up her hand.

  “Just stop.” She said it softly but gestured back toward the intimate restaurant and their unattended table. “Come on back and I’ll tell you.”

  Even now, he came around and pulled her chair out for her, a sweetly wistful gesture, resting a hand on her shoulder for a bare moment. She sat, her insides scorched and aching over what she knew she had to say.

  “Mr. Blaine,” she murmured softly. “Nigel, despite how foolish I was just now–and I’m so sorry for that–there are certain things that have to be. Because of their importance. And to me, the Christian faith I’ve chosen is that thing. It’s my number one thing. It’s not just a part of this . . . personality that you find appealing. It’s everything. I am a Christian more than I’m any other thing.”

  He was troubled but trying to recover. “What do you mean, love?”

  The magical beauty of the evening, and the intoxication of his kisses and his scent upon her were still overpowering, and she breathed a prayer. “Jesus is my Savior and my Lord.” It was said simply but with all the power in her awakened being. “Lord. And you just have no clue what that means. It doesn’t mean what it means over in London, where somebody is ‘Lord . . . Beaverton’ or whatever because they have a big country house or a coat of arms. It means that I’m obedient to every single thing that Jesus asks me to do.”

  Nigel reflected, his dancing eyes now sober and still pleading. “All right then. But why is that so awful for me if I’m with you?” On the street far below them a motorcycle gunned its engine, and the throaty roar faded into inky silence as the driver sped away.

  It was something she could never have said to a gentle man like Khemkaeng, but Nigel was a man of the world who needed to hear frank truth. “Okay,” she managed. “May I tell you something?”

  “Of course, dearie.”

  She wet her lips, gathering her way of saying this. “The first time I . . . go to bed with a man,” Rachel Marie told him, “is going to be on my wedding night. I’ll have a ring on my finger and it’ll be from a man who has promised me he will love me and take care of me forever. And . . . worship with me forever. And when he fulfills that promise”–her voice was low but filled with feminine conviction–“when he keeps his word to God and to me, then that man will have me. And it will be awesome beyond compare.” She looked into Nigel’s eyes and saw mystified fascination written there. “Do you know why that’s the rule?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Because that’s what my Lord wants . . . and so it’s what I want too.”

  Nigel sat in the quiet shadows, deep in reflection. He seemed to endeavor to draw on some reserve of charm, some perfect quip or compliment which would mitigate this hastily recovered barrier of spiritual conviction. “Dear God.” He blurted it out softly, not irreverently. “So this is the real Missie Stone.”

  “Yes.”

  “And a man who goes the whole Christian route and is willing to wait until all the ‘I do’s’ . . . that’s the fellow?”

  Rachel Marie nodded, at peace now with this decision, which she prayed would be her lasting protection.

  Very slowly, with the purposeful poise of a man who recovers once he understands the rules of the game, Nigel pulled his chair back and stood up. He took a step toward her and bent down, kissing the top of her head. A moment later he sat back down. “Tell me this, Rachel.”

  She waited.

  “Could I be that man if I did what you said?”

  Rachel Marie eyed him, with curiosity and a trace of lingering desire plain in her eyes. “Could you choose to do that? Do you want to?”

  “Not really.” For the first time, a ghost of his usual tw
inkle reappeared. “But I would think about it.” The pinnacle moment passed and slowly ebbed away into the soft Bangkok atmosphere breathing all around them. He winked and picked up his drink, taking a defiant little sip and smiling at her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The steady hum of the AC in her tiny apartment provided a backdrop to her reflections as Rachel Marie huddled on her couch. Dear Lord, what just happened to me?

  It was long after midnight now and yet her mind was alive with wonder that God had forgiven her for her reckless and foolhardy taxi ride to the edge of betrayal. It had been a close thing with Nigel on the balcony, a temptation both compelling and clear. But somehow the pillar of Christian obedience, the Sequoia of her faith, had emerged in the nick of time.

  Thank you, Jesus. I’m so sorry . . . but thank you.

  Rachel Marie’s mind strained to replay the evening, and she blushed with the female reality that Nigel’s kisses would now be forever in the strongbox of her memory bank. But then there was also that elusive phrase, that cautious but eminently reasonable offer. I can coexist with your faith.

  She glanced out the kitchen window and saw a blink of neon from a nearby nightclub where people drank beer and bought vulgar songs out of the jukebox and dickered for lecherous half-hour liaisons. Bangkok was part of a lost, broken world where wars were fought, where people casually lied, where ten-year-old village girls were forced into prostitution. Billions of unsaved people were criminals, or atheists, or Buddhists, or C & E Christians who cynically made a twice-yearly church appearance every Christmas and Easter because their political party expected it.

  So what was really wrong about loving a good man who could coexist with her radical agenda of worshiping Jesus Christ of Nazareth? Along with millions of others, Mom had done it for thirty-five years. She, Rachel Marie, could do it too, and live in a nice house–pampered and adored either way–as Mrs. Adrian Morris or Mrs. Nigel Blaine. She could do a whole lot worse.

  With an abrupt clap of recollection, a heaven-sent impulse reminded Rachel Marie that she had recently heard that same line before. I can coexist with your faith. I can live by your rules. I think I’ve proved it. On that bleak night where she said goodbye to her friend Jisoo, a desperate Adrian had made his best offer. Should she backtrack and accept it? Like mother, like daughter? Be a Christian and I won’t stand in your way. When you want to go to church, know that I will have gassed up the car for your commute and will perfunctorily inquire about the choir music when you get home after potluck.

  As the sacred minutes stole away, a granite settling of conviction came upon her, finally bringing peace and a flood of thankfulness. She was done. Her Lord had rescued her this evening. In response, she, Rachel Marie, would offer herself and her chosen mate to him forever.

  I will NOT coexist. Her marriage would not be a negotiated détente between godliness and polite accommodation. The man she married would, for a wondrous lifetime of forever, worship her Lord and Savior with her. That . . . or nothing.

  In the core of her soul, where her resurrected conscience was blooming in the predawn awakening, she realized with bittersweet finality that Nigel Blaine was not a candidate. And never would be.

  Jesus, I will wait! I pray it’s going to be Khemkaeng! Or . . . I don’t know what.

  Finally she slept.

  * * *

  Despite the short night, Rachel Marie determined to walk to Bangkok Christian School in the morning. The nine humid blocks were a kind of penance for last night’s folly. The twenty minutes on foot would give her a last chance to pray for Pastor Mike and also renew her passion for the people of this beautiful city. Small shops and merchant carts lined the route, where a careful triangle stack of Coca-Cola bottles and a display of coconuts for sale were a family’s sole means of support. She eagerly absorbed each visual image, nodding and trying to bless these anonymous souls with her smile and Christian presence. A small boy peering out from behind his mother’s skirt grinned impishly before ducking away and running to the dark rear of the narrow store.

  It was a slightly cooler morning, and she paused with the other middle school teachers for a quick flurry of announcements before classes. Since they would be attending the assembly meeting later, her own classroom worship was a simple Bible verse and prayer.

  Rachel Marie’s kids were laboring good-humoredly over a writing lesson–one underline for subjects, two for predicates–when she felt a shudder of conviction press upon her. In seven minutes Pastor Mike and Khemkaeng would be inviting the high school boys and girls to accept Jesus as their Savior. The plan of salvation would be explained. The great rock of God’s promise which had rescued her last night was now to be offered to them all. This morning was a time of destiny.

  I want to go. Especially for Khemkaeng, she wanted to be in the auditorium, surrounding him with her reborn love and her prayers.

  “You guys, I’m running down to the office for a couple of minutes,” she announced, startled at her own words. “Pranom, you’re in charge until I get back.”

  “Yes, okay, Missie Stone.”

  The boys grumbled under their breath, and she managed a grin. “You behave, gents.”

  It took a minute to cross the courtyard and enter the ad building, and she peeked over her shoulder to the second-story window, making sure Form 6C was still intact. Yothin and Mallika, the two front-office assistants, were hovered over the copy machine, muttering in Thai. The younger of the two turned to see what she wanted.

  “I hate to ask,” she implored, “but is there any chance you could babysit–sorry, supervise–my kids for a little while? They’re working on an assignment.”

  Yothin hesitated. “Yes, if you wish.”

  “Sorry. But I really . . . need to be in the high school assembly.” She hoped no further explanation would be necessary.

  Yothin turned and said a few words to the girl still punching buttons on the copier. She nodded assent.

  “Okay. You are 6C, correct?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I go right now.”

  She impulsively squeezed his hand and pointed in the general direction of her classroom. “You sure?”

  “Yes. Is okay.”

  Rachel Marie made her way toward the assembly hall, slipping in through a side door just as the program was beginning. The large meeting room was a blaze of white and maroon as high school students, grouped according to the four secondary grades, filled nearly every seat. Not seeing an available chair, she found a niche by a pillar along the left-hand side and simply stood.

  There were guitar amps and microphone cords running all across the stage, and Rachel Marie watched as a beautiful Thai girl stepped forward. Young men, grinning self-consciously as their classmates murmured teasing compliments from the front row, picked up guitars and checked levels. Another turned on a synthesizer, the speakers popping as he did so, while a short boy with spiked hair seated himself at the drum set, checking his high hat cymbals and tapping twice on the bass pedal.

  John Garvey, sitting with Pastor Mike on the front row, half-rose in his seat and faced the students. A cooperative hush settled over the high school assembly as the two guitarists began to quietly strum.

  Rachel Marie’s throat tightened as the girl, her face pure and innocent, began to sing with a voice that would make the angels back away with envy. I’m forgiven because you were forsaken. I’m accepted–you were condemned.

  It was a song she had sung often at New Hope Church, and to hear the haunting melody now in Bangkok, in this faraway world where the transaction of Calvary was an untold saga, brought a thrill of longing to her heart. The forgiveness she had experienced just a few hours before was a keen memory still, a warm blanket after the icy chill of her moment of near-treachery. I’m forgiven . . . her Savior’s embrace was still tender to the touch.

  The beautiful singer did the verse twice, and then stepped closer to her peers as two of the senior guys also moved to microphones for the chorus. Amazing love, how can
it be? That you my King should die for me?

  A gasp tore itself from Rachel Marie’s throat and suddenly tears were coursing down her cheeks. She swallowed hard, a sweet ache in her heart, and pressed close to the pillar, away from the view of the students. Amazing love; I know it’s true. And it’s my joy to honor you.

  The guitar began a slow, haunting solo as the Buddhist students listened, enraptured. But the young teacher by the pillar couldn’t stop the tears. The testimony rang in her ears. Amazing love. I know it’s true. God had brought her to this place because of her faith. Because the amazing love of a king surrendering up his life on a cross for others was a true story that had to be proclaimed in as many winsome ways as she and other fortunate superstars could possibly tell it.

  The scarlet failure of last evening faded now into a twilight of her Lord’s forgiveness. And yet she realized that the taxi ride into temptation was a failure of a greater sort. Right or wrong, safe or dangerous, her flirtation with the world would have undercut her telling of this amazing love. A coexistence with a man like Nigel would cut her testimony in half . . . in fact, it would dissect and likely destroy it.

  And yet there was forgiveness from her King. Amazing love, how can it be?

  Rachel Marie dabbed at her eyes as the song ended and breathed a prayer for Pastor Mike and her beloved Khemkaeng. Please, Jesus. Come here right now and bless them. Touch them. Use them. Descend to us, we pray.

  Pastor Mike looked with genuine fondness at the adolescent members of the praise team. “Ratana, that was absolutely amazing. It touched me right here.” He gestured toward his own heart. “All you guys–thanks so much. That was beautiful.”

  Khemkaeng, nodding in agreement, translated the compliment, then waited.

  There was a long pause as the American pastor gathered his thoughts. Rachel Marie, her soul still wonderfully aching from the song, mopped at her eyes, hoping no one noticed.