Rebecca stocked only literature, wholesome contemporary fiction, and lots of nonfiction, as well as the used books that the coffee club loved. She put her foot down at romances, murder mysteries or books about worldly religions. The Shepherds might raise an eyebrow over a woman in such a public career, but Rebecca had been the instrument of salvation to so many people that the Shepherd had to admit that perhaps God used the bookstore as part of His mysterious plan. Her benevolent influence was probably the only reason Julia had been allowed to work here instead of at something more womanly, such as Linda Bell’s day care.
Julia sometimes wondered if God would ever get around to using her. Here she was, sister to the Elder’s wife, daughter of an Elder and practically engaged to the next Deacon, and no matter how hard she tried to keep her example shining, no one had ever come to God through her. What kind of a Deacon’s wife would she make?
Without actually taking the plunge and marrying Derrick, she had no way to know. Books, products of the world though they might be, were easier to deal with all the way around, she thought ruefully, and that in itself smacked of sin. She had reached the lower shelves containing the classics and was down on her knees when she became aware she was no longer alone. A customer stood in the doorway. Gathering the books that lay on the floor, she looked up with a “can I help you?” smile.
The biker smiled back.
Julia’s heart gave a panicked kick and she froze, clutching the paperbacks to her chest as though they would protect her. She had a sudden vision of herself and Rebecca being attacked by this Hell’s Angel. Things like that happened in the world all the time.
The blood drained out of Julia’s face and she scrambled to her feet. The spines of someone’s unwanted books dug into her back.
He wore a black leather jacket with the finish rubbed off one shoulder, as if it had scraped over the road. Faded jeans hugged long legs, and the toes of his boots were coated in dust. His hair was mussed and tamped down from the black helmet he held under his arm. A reddish brown lock fell over his right eyebrow. Pale gray eyes regarded her steadily—a killer’s eyes, ruthless and devoid of emotion.
His lips parted, and Julia tensed, her eyes going wide with fear.
“Sorry if I startled you,” the biker said in a soft bass voice that penetrated the roaring in her ears. “The owner said you’d be able to help me.”
“The owner?” Julia whispered. The one who could be lying unconscious in the other room at this very moment?
“I told him you’d know where it was, Julia,” Rebecca called from the front. “It’s that young man you saw a moment ago.”
Rebecca wasn’t unconscious. She was alive and well, and so, for the moment, was Julia. “Where what was?” she asked. Her mouth was dry.
“Are you all right?” the biker queried, looking at her strangely. “You look a little green.”
She took a deep breath. He wanted a book. That was all.
“I’m fine,” she said. Her arms relaxed around the stack of books and began to tremble. Gently, she placed the pile on the chair and gripped her hands to hide their shaking. “Sorry. What is it you’re looking for?” She tried to arrange her face in a polite, businesslike expression.
“Do you have anything by Donne?”
“Dunne. As in Dominick? I’m afraid we—”
“No. Donne. As in John.”
John Donne? This filthy biker had come in here looking for poetry? Julia wished she hadn’t put the books on the chair. She needed to sit down.
He was still standing there, waiting for an answer. “I th-think we have a used copy of the complete works,” she stammered finally. “If it’s still here, it would be under Poetry and Essays.”
She got her feet moving and brushed past him. He was taller than either Owen or Derrick, although the boots were probably good for an inch of it. He was also big. Julia was used to standing next to people like Madeleine and her best friend, Claire, and feeling like a haystack. Now she felt small and feminine and vulnerable. It must be the jacket. It added to his bulk and made him threatening.
Poetry and Essays comprised half a shelf. “He’s not very fashionable these days,” Julia offered hesitantly, pulling Donne out of his place next to Boswell and a beat-up college edition of The Norton Anthology. “Here.”
He leafed through the compact volume, holding it reverently. His hands were clean, she noted. Nicely shaped. Long, supple fingers turned the pages. The cuffs of his jacket pulled back briefly, revealing a dusting of dark hair on the backs of his wrists. “Maybe not. But he lost his wife, too,” he said softly, almost absently.
Julia smiled weakly in the direction of his collar in lieu of a reply, and withdrew to the other side of the room. He stood quietly, stopping to read a page here and there, as she collected the abandoned books and began to shelve them.
“So where did you see me?” he asked, disturbing the silence. Her hands were still shaking, and she fumbled. A paperback fell to the floor with a slap.
“You—you just drove past, didn’t you?”
“I did. Anywhere else?”
“At the hospital,” she said reluctantly. She must be crazy, making small talk with a biker. Drat Rebecca anyway, for giving him the opportunity.
“Oh yeah? Were you visiting a friend?”
How nosy and callous could he get? But he was still a customer. Ingrained politeness and years of strictures against causing offense overcame her distaste. “My nephew.” Maybe if she kept it brief he’d drop it. Ryan’s life was far too important for small talk.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a tone that was both soft and compelling. His boots made hollow thuds on the oak planks of the floor.
She concentrated fiercely on fitting the books precisely in their places, her back to him. When he spoke again, his voice came from directly above her. Instinctively, she tensed.
“I hope he’ll be all right.”
She didn’t want to accept anything from him, polite hopes included. Now he was so close she could smell dust and sun-baked cotton. She stood up and moved away, putting the chair between them. “Are you looking for anything else this afternoon?” she asked in her most impersonal sales voice.
He cocked an eyebrow at her, and one corner of his mouth quirked up in a half grin. A dimple dented his left cheek. How about you? She heard the unspoken words as clearly as if he’d said them.
Her skin prickled with discomfort, and the walls of the back room suddenly seemed too close together, squeezing the air out. Women of the Elect did not strike up casual conversations with worldly men, and certainly not men like this. By seventh grade she’d learned that talking to worldly boys at school only brought shame and ridicule. Being the sister of Madeleine McNeill Blanchard had made her shy and diffident anyway, uncertain of what others expected of her in comparison with her dazzling sibling. Julia had become used to losing even a godly man’s attention the minute Madeleine walked into the room.
But Madeleine was at the hospital, hovering over her son, and this man’s attention was total. His eyes held hers with a magnetic intensity that narrowed her consciousness to an intimate circle that contained only him.
The street door bumped closed and, startled, she broke eye contact. “Miss Quinn can ring you up out front,” she said breathlessly, and bolted into the sun-bright, welcoming safety of the front of the shop.
She made sure she was nowhere within speaking distance as Rebecca slid Donne into a green paper bag. She was well within hearing range, however, blocked from the biker’s view by the shelves.
“‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls,’” quoted Rebecca whimsically. She had years of practice in small talk with customers, walking the fine line between keeping her business successful and keeping herself separate. The Shepherds were firm about where that line was, and Julia was thankful for it. Beauty and safety lay inside the line. Chaos and sin prowled outside it.
“‘It tolls for thee,’” the biker responded. “Beautiful words. He wrote a lot of
them.”
“That he did,” Rebecca agreed, handing him the parcel. “And some straightforward ones. ‘Hold your tongue, and let me love.’ One of my favorites.” Rebecca gracefully omitted the first words of the sonnet to avoid taking the Lord’s name in vain.
The biker didn’t seem to notice. “Your assistant’s pretty good at holding her tongue,” he said, neatly changing the subject and freezing Julia where she stood. “Not much on small talk.”
“Julia? Oh, I’ve never noticed that. But you need to understand, her family is under a lot of strain at the moment.”
Rebecca, for heaven’s sake. Stop giving out personal details. Julia stepped out from behind the shelving. “Miss Quinn, could you give me a hand in the back when it’s convenient?” she asked.
“Certainly, dear. I’ll be right there. Have a pleasant afternoon,” she said to the biker with a smile.
“Same to you,” he answered, the dimple appearing in his cheek. To hurry Rebecca along, Julia strode back to the used books, her sensible shoes unnecessarily loud on the wood floor. “And to you as well, Julia,” he added loudly as he pushed open the door.
Chapter Four
By nine o’clock, the day had softened into the lavender-edged twilight of a northern summer. Julia closed the front door of the bookshop and paused to turn the key in the lock. She liked working Friday evenings after Rebecca went home. The tourists were in a holiday mood, and the warm, welcoming light of the bookshop and its open door often tempted restaurant goers in after dinner. People killed time there while waiting for the movie to start down the street. Sometimes the young people of the Elect dropped in to gossip about one another, and once in a great while one of them even bought a book. The only time late shift bothered her was when there was a young people’s meeting or a hymn sing scheduled on a Friday night. Often she could talk Rebecca into calling on Jeremy Black, their part-time help, but sometimes she would just have to miss out and arrive late, after the singing was over and the hungry crowd had demolished most of the food.
The air currents moving down off the mountains cooled her skin after the warmth inside. The modestly long skirt of her dress—black, to signify the death of one’s wicked human nature—brushed her calves as she walked toward the lot where she’d left her car. Black stockings covered her legs, a symbol of a godly woman’s sacrifice of her vanity on the altar of obedience.
God’s peaceful spirit might lie in the quiet of the evening as she passed under the striped awning of the ice-cream shop, but Julia’s mind was full of worry and noise.
Ryan had been in her thoughts all day. Ryan and that biker. No, she thought hastily, just Ryan, lying weak and inert in the sterile hospital bed, his sock monkey the only spot of color beside him. It was no wonder she’d left the hospital crying on Wednesday. She’d dashed into the tiny waiting room a few steps down from the nurses’ station, after an urgent call had summoned her away from work.
She’d found her parents and Owen waiting anxiously on the uncomfortable vinyl couches. They weren’t the only ones keeping vigil for their loved ones. Madeleine had been sitting beside a young woman, her arm around the woman’s shoulder, saying something soft and low to her.
Owen got up and touched Julia on the wrist. “You made record time,” he said.
“I was scared. The message was that Ryan was in surgery. What happened? Who’s that?” Julia asked him, indicating Madeleine and the stranger with a lift of her chin. “What’s going on?”
“Her strength amazes me,” Owen said, looking at his wife. “There’s nothing any of us can do right now for Ryan while he’s in the operating room, but instead of going to pieces, what does she do? She heard that woman’s little boy was admitted with a growth on his neck, and she’s over there giving her crisis counseling.” Owen’s face was illuminated with love for Madeleine, rising like a warm tide behind his grief and apprehension.
“Do we know anything?” Julia whispered, her voice colorless. “What happened to Ryan?” If only she could do something besides stand here asking useless questions!
Owen sat, pulling Julia down next to him. “He had a relapse. Lina went to get a cup of coffee and the nurse called her back. He was passing blood.”
“What did they do? What—?” The fear was like a smothering blanket, cutting off her ability to put a coherent sentence together. “Is he—?”
“We knew they would have to operate eventually to find out what’s going on.” Owen’s gaze was locked on his wife, as if he could draw strength from her the way the young mother did. “But they’re doing it right now instead of waiting. The poor little guy. I’m never going to forget his scared little face as long as I live.”
Madeleine gave the woman across the room a hug and came over to her husband. Julia expected fear, the traces of tears on her face, but she was wrong. Madeleine was never so beautiful as she was in a crisis.
“The poor thing is deathly afraid of hospitals,” she said softly, winding her husband’s fingers in her own. “She can’t be there for her son until she gets past that. I hope I helped a little.”
“If experience is the best teacher, she couldn’t have a better one,” Owen replied, touching her cheek. “But what about you?”
“I’m all right. I just wish we knew something. I’m tempted to go find that sweet R.N. and get her to tell me if they found what caused the bleeding in his G.I. tract.”
Elizabeth squeezed her. “Now, now, dear. Have faith that he’ll be all right. God knows best.”
Some time later the swinging doors leading to the operating rooms had opened wide enough to let Michael Archer through. His scrubs were wrinkled and stained. Owen straightened, alert as an animal scenting danger, and dislodged Madeleine, who was dozing, exhausted, on his shoulder. She murmured, and as her husband’s alarm communicated itself to her, came fully awake.
“Michael!” Madeleine whispered. She got up and took a step toward him. Her shoe caught in the edge of the pastel carpet and she stumbled. Owen reached for her, but she pushed his arms away as though they were branches blocking her path. “Michael, what have you found? What caused the bleeding? Is Ryan all right?”
Dr. Archer had the kind of spirit and gentle demeanor that had made Julia trust him even as a little girl, coming to him for colds and bumps. His face, usually grave with a twinkle of humor behind it, was still and drawn as he looked into the white cameo of Madeleine’s. His eyes seemed to have sunk a little way into his skull, as though withdrawing from the pain he was going to have to inflict on her.
Apprehension tingled through Julia’s stomach. She gripped the rolled edges of the couch, her blunt, unpolished fingernails sinking into the worn vinyl.
Dr. Archer took both Madeleine’s hands and looked into her eyes. Owen hovered at her shoulder. “Madeleine, Owen,” the doctor said softly, “you need to be strong. We might not understand God’s will, but we know it’s always right in the end.”
“No,” she said.
“I’m so sorry I—”
“No,” Madeleine said, louder, as though he were arguing with her. Her eyes were bright with challenge, her head thrown back.
“—have no good news to tell you, but—”
“I don’t believe you! It was a simple investigative procedure. I never meant—it’s impossible!” She covered her ears with both hands. Owen pulled them away, holding his wife’s wrists, staring at the doctor in horror.
“Madeleine! No, it’s not that. He’s alive…barely. Alain Duboce can pull him through if anyone can. He’s just completed the surgery. If he makes it through the night, the prognosis is good. But I wanted to prepare you. He’s not out of the woods yet.”
Julia’s nails pierced the vinyl once, twice. Help me, Lord, she had begged an unseen spirit. I’ll do anything You ask me to. Just save Ryan’s life.
With a sigh, Julia drew the cool, moist night air into her lungs and shook away the vivid memory. Ryan had made it through the night, but no one seemed able to tell them when he’d be well enough
to come home. What she needed to do was pray more. That was her problem. Worrying constantly about Ryan was selfish—as if God paid any attention to worrywarts. Prayer was a different thing. Prayer could—
Twenty feet away, a man slowed his approach, the sound of his booted feet carrying in the sweet, heavy air. “‘Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you as yet but knock,’” he said.
Julia froze. That voice. A smooth bass with music in it. The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she wished she’d been paying more attention to where she was walking. How far away was the car?
“Pretty violent for a preacher, wasn’t he?” he said. He stopped just inside the shadow of the shop’s awning, a slim-hipped, broad-shouldered silhouette. “I’ve always thought they should make a movie of his life.”
Donne had been a preacher? She’d have to tell Rebecca, who had a real thing about selling the literature of worldly religions. “I don’t go to movies,” she said in a tone devoid of expression. She pivoted and moved into the cold radiance of the streetlights, balancing on the edge of the curb. Out in the open, she realized how deserted the downtown area was. There were people in the coffee bar, but would they hear her if she cried out for help?
“Don’t go to movies? Even one about the Dean of St. Paul’s?”
“He was a worldly man. Leave me alone, please.” She was almost past him now, walking fast, heading for the parking lot and the safety of her car. Her heart bumped inside her chest, almost making her sick. This was more than shyness. This was the fear of a small animal locked in a predator’s gaze.
He followed her, his boots heavy on the asphalt. “Julia, please? I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
“I don’t even know you. Go away!” She didn’t like him using her name. It was personal. Presumptuous. Her cheeks burned, but the area between her shoulder blades felt cold.
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