by Susan Rohrer
SUSAN ROHRER
WHAT LAUREL SEES: a love story
A Redeeming Romance Mystery
Written by Susan Rohrer, adapted from her original screenplay
Kindly direct inquiries about novel or screenplay to:
[email protected]
Readers may contact author at:
shelfari.com/susanrohrer
Excepting brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the author.
All Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation, used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)
This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are drawn from the public record and used in a wholly harmless and fictitious way. Any resemblance of this fictional work to actual locations, events, organizations, or persons living or dead is coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.
Foreground Cover Image: by Scott Liddell
Author Photograph: by Jean-Louis Darville
ISBN 13: 978-1507768938
ISBN 10: 1507768931
Novel: Copyright ©2014, 2015, Susan Rohrer, all rights reserved. Underlying material: “What Laurel Sees” screenplay ©2003, Susan Rohrer, all rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America
Second Edition 2015
advisory
This inspirational novel explores mature subject matter in a frank yet discreet manner. It is a wholly fictional book that deals with a tragic reality: the aftermath of child abuse by a fallen priest.
Although the referenced abuse is a peripheral element occurring long prior to the onset of this story, collateral damage reverberates decades later, into the characters’ present-day adult lives. While this book’s content is neither graphic nor profane, and there is no intent to disparage any actual person, group, or entity, some readers may be sensitive to certain fictional depictions.
This book was written with great respect to the genuinely devout, with profound compassion for those who have suffered and survived abuse, and with personal empathy for every prodigal in need of redemption and grace.
contents
advisory
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
about the author
“...even all who wage war against her and
her stronghold, and who distress her, shall be
like a dream, a vision of the night.”
Isaiah 29:7
one
Laurel Fischer woke with a start, her breath shallow. How could she be so groggy, yet wide-awake at the same time? She pushed her hair back from her forehead and checked the bedside clock: 1:09 a.m. Somehow, she managed to prop herself up on an elbow.
Gradually, the rapid rise and fall of her chest slowed. A whisper parted her lips. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
There wasn’t a soul in her apartment to hear her. Frank had made sure of that. Still, Laurel waited and listened. Would there be a response?
Nothing.
Despite what most seemed to think, waiting and listening in the dark didn’t come more easily to Laurel than it did to any other person. Especially in the middle of the night, when every joint in her frame ached from that double shift she’d just pulled at the Grille.
A wave of weakness struck. Her sugars must be low. It was a thorn that never stopped piercing Laurel’s flesh, a hunger she couldn’t satisfy. Still, what she craved most was sleep. But sleep—that was far too much to expect. Not with her heart racing the way it was.
Laurel reviewed the dream that had jolted her from slumber. The scene played back in vivid detail. It had been brief this time, but there was little doubt of its source. This had been no ordinary dream. It was no random jumble of subconscious ramblings. This was a night vision, infused with divine purpose. There was that indelible signature on it, that arresting quality she had come to recognize over the years.
Had it been like this for Joseph, Daniel, Mary, and other ancients before her? They’d known what it was to hear from the Almighty, to see with spiritual eyes. Many confined such experiences to biblical times, but for Laurel, they continued. It was just like the prophet, Joel, foretold. No matter what anyone might say to the contrary, Laurel was convinced in her spirit. The dream she’d just been given was a warning. And there was no escaping the dire nature of what it confided.
There was nothing Laurel had done to deserve this. That, she knew. For her, each message was purely a gift. Though it had been quite a while since Frank had seen it that way. Truth be told, she’d begged to be freed of the responsibility. People were so fickle about spiritual gifts, like those she’d experienced.
Of course, most found some fascination at the prospect of hearing from heaven, as long as the message bore some sort of personal appeal. People ate up glimmers of what the future would hold. They appreciated encouraging insights. They also loved words that brought comfort. But the warnings—well—warnings were an entirely different matter.
Frank had believed Laurel when she’d seen that they’d have a daughter. He’d welcomed her vision that he would one day take a seat on their city council. He’d set aside his legal practice and had staked his campaign on that one. But when a dream alerted her that Frank had fallen into the arms of another woman?
That had been the beginning of the end.
Laurel’s eyes pooled at the memory. How many times had she pleaded with God for solace from the ravages of that devastating marriage? She’d done her best to forgive Frank and move on with her life. That in and of itself hadn’t been easy—especially the forgiveness part. It was tough to stay current when the offenses kept right on coming. Let alone living with the custody orders he’d won. That had been the most penetrating wound of all.
Laurel coaxed herself to forgive Frank yet again. With Frank, forgiveness had to be an ongoing thing. If she let it, a root of bitterness could spring up overnight. It could wrap its sprawling shoots around her spirit and choke the life right out of her.
To be sure, forgiving Frank forced her to set aside every right of her own, even her rights as a mother. Then, wouldn’t you know it? Just when she thought she’d wiped the slate clean, Frank would scrawl on that board all over again. He’d send her right back to her barely healing knees.
Frank was her nemesis. It was so hard to think of the man she had married in that blistering light. But then again, he’d completely discredited her sanity. He’d labeled her an unfit wife and mother, all because of her gifts. Knowing him, he must have thought he had to play that card. No way the court would have granted him sole custody of Grace without it.
Understanding why, that was one thing. But that did little to soften the blow of losing her only daughter. Already, Grace was seven years old. So much time had passed since they’d been forced apart. How much longer would it be, before they were reunited? It was ironic, really. The same gift that had been used against them was the one that also gave her hope. That still, small voice kept whispering:
Wait. Soon,
my Love.
The how, what, and when of that, Laurel didn’t know. Doubt crept in as she weighed those questions. It sidled up to her, echoing through the lonely recesses of her mind. Resolutely, Laurel wrestled it away. She knew what she believed. And there was no denying the visions. She’d seen what she had seen.
Still, life was such a bewildering enigma. The stigma of divorce didn’t make it any easier. Why hadn’t she seen that coming before she married Frank? Why hadn’t she been warned? Or maybe she had been. Maybe she’d been too captivated by Frank to listen. She’d fallen for him so fast, so deep, so hard.
Frank may have stopped loving her, but as icily as he’d turned on her, somehow she still loved him. Of course, she’d had to stop calling it love after Frank remarried. But love was still what it was. It had just taken on a more brotherly form.
Laurel had bent God’s ear plenty about that one. Did she dare to intercede any more? Not without risking the tenuous bit of closure her heart had managed to find. It didn’t help that, as public figures now, Frank and Shana—the new Mrs. Fischer—were such media darlings. At 39, Shana was an heiress, the epitome of couture and elegance, standing at Frank’s side. Laurel could hardly turn on the news anymore without another reminder.
Beautiful, articulate, and poised, Shana had so smoothly taken Laurel’s place in Frank’s life. Shana had also taken it upon herself to protect little Grace from Laurel. What must Frank have told her? And what had Shana said to Grace?
After all Frank had put Laurel through, why that bond still existed between them was beyond her understanding. All she knew was that it pierced her, body and soul, to think of him—much less to see him—especially in such a disturbing dream.
Wearily, Laurel reached for the pad and pen on her nightstand. Maybe she should write it all down. That’s why she kept the pad there, after all. No. There was no need. This dream was not the kind that would drift away from her. The picture was engrained on her memory in detail. It was as chilling a night vision as she’d ever received.
What to do?
She couldn’t call Frank. Not at this hour. He rarely picked up her calls anyway. Ever since the divorce proceeding, he usually forced her to leave a message. When they’d finally gotten to court, she realized why. His attorney, Howard Berg, entered a string of her emails, texts, and phone messages, all as evidence against her sanity, highlighting the ones that referred to her prophetic gift.
It had always been so puzzling. Lots of perfectly sane people talked to God. That seemed acceptable as long as it was a monologue. But if anyone claimed God was talking back—let alone sending visions—now, that was an entirely different matter. Most called that crazy.
Once more, the picture flickered across her memory. She murmured aloud. “Did you just want me to talk to you about this?”
Laurel paused, listening for a response.
“You know how demented Frank already thinks I am. And Shana. He’ll tell her and...it could make things even worse than they already are.”
Again, the heavens were silent.
Laurel’s heart ached. Oh, Grace. Precious Grace. Her future was still on the line. No matter what the court had said, Grace would always be her daughter. But what could delivering this message do to the visitation arrangements the judge had allowed? They were conditional at best.
She scrunched her pillow absently. Finally, she settled back under the covers. It wasn’t often that she put the Almighty on hold. But then again, He knew even better than she did just how very much was at stake.
Laurel rolled over to her side and closed her eyes. What was that tapping outside? Nothing. Go to sleep, she told herself.
She startled. That was her phone ringing. No one called her at night, not unless something was terribly wrong. Had something happened to Grace? Laurel checked her caller ID.
Incredibly, it was Frank.
Joe Hardisty stroked the stubble along his jaw. In a way, the growth felt good, prickling against his thumb in defiance to the convention of regular shaving. Keeping his jaw smooth—that was just something a guy did to please a woman. And these days, Joe had no woman to please.
Back when Joe wrote for the Times he’d submitted to a routine razor. But those were the days of more respectable reporting. Would he get up early enough to shave come morning? Doubtful. Not with what he was staring down on tomorrow’s docket.
He released a heavy breath. To call it a night required prying himself from the well-hollowed cushion of his easy chair. It would also make the dreaded dawn seem to come that much sooner. Joe checked his watch, then redialed his phone. He rolled his eyes as it rang unanswered. Typical.
His brother, Clay, could be tough to take. A responsible person would’ve paid his cell bill or at least cleared the voice mail on his landline so callers could leave a message. For that matter, any decent human being would be home to pick up the phone by quarter past one on a Tuesday night.
Fair enough, there were legitimate reasons some stayed out all hours. They lived in a city that never really slept. Sure, some had to work those awful graveyard shifts. There were legitimate extenuating circumstances. But for the most part, what time a man settled in during the workweek said something to Joe.
When it came to Clay, it spoke volumes.
Absently, Joe punched redial yet again. As usual, he was alone except for his cat, Stella. Stella arched her hind parts. Alternately, she stretched out her front paws, splaying her claws.
“Come on, Girl. Come on.” Joe clicked his tongue against his cheek. Stella skulked across the oak plank floor of Joe’s apartment. She seized the opportunity to make herself comfortable in his lap. Joe hung up and laid the phone aside, muttering. “Nine a.m., Clay.” Stella purred contentedly as Joe massaged around her ears. At least he could please her.
It wasn’t like he was some stick in the mud. In fact, he was anything but that. Joe had spent plenty a night on the town himself, especially when he’d been involved with his rag’s editor, Debra. Debra sure liked the club scene a lot more than Joe ever had. The one perk of clubbing with Debra had been that the pulsating music had filled in the conversational blanks between them. Mercifully, that dalliance was over—at least from a romantic standpoint.
Joe had gotten used to the quietness that came with being unattached again. Debra never called anymore, except when it came to business. It was better that way. No, it wasn’t the silence that gnawed at him. It wasn’t the distance Joe felt from virtually everyone he knew. It was just that, this particular night, those unanswered calls to Clay left Joe’s mind supposing—and supposing wasn’t something Joe liked being left to suffer—particularly since the worst of his imaginings about his brother had already come true.
So, suppose is what Joe did. His mind rambled unchecked. He allowed it to stumble through the dark corners of possibility. Involuntarily, his brow furrowed. He imagined just where his brother, Clay, was at that hour and exactly what he might be doing. He supposed how unimportant their plans for the morning must be to Clay, if Clay would bother to show at all.
What they never talked about ate at the lining of Joe’s stomach. Wincing, he shifted in his chair, then kneaded his left side.
He had no reason to feel guilty.
None whatsoever.
In all likelihood, Clay was across town at some seedy excuse for a nightspot, working a dusty stage as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator. Seriously. It was a far cry from their altar boys days, but Joe was over being shocked at Clay’s livelihood. If you could call an irregular string of freelance gigs a living at all.
Clay had practiced his Marilyn act ad nauseam during their growing up years. Only, these days, Clay had stepped up his game. Now, there was authentic hair, makeup, and wardrobe. The look was only approximate, but the voice—that was dead on eerie. As unsettling as the whole thing was to Joe, he had to admit it. There was no denying the way Clay resurrected the icon.
Though Joe’s brother had mastered other celebrity voices, there had always been this obsession
with Marilyn for Clay. Perhaps it was her allure, her mystique, or her pop culture stature. Joe didn’t get it entirely. It could’ve been that Clay related to that damaged, drifting soul of hers, the heavy-lidded wistfulness she embodied.
Joe had hoped Clay would eventually outgrow the fixation, but no. Gig after scrounged up gig, Clay would trot out that get-up. He’d stay out half the night, playing to a handful of lushes, few of whom would remember they were even there come morning.
Numbly, Joe stared. It was not as if Clay didn’t have his reasons for being the way he was. Joe knew those reasons all too well. Not that he could do anything about it now. Joe had been his brother’s keeper in so many ways, ever since being orphaned as children, and then well into their adult years. Borderline enabling was what it was.
A pang of remorse twisted through Joe. Almost always, he’d been there for Clay. Just not when Clay had needed him most.
two
Joe drew his collar close around his neck. The state correctional facility for sexual offenders certainly was imposing against the gray morning sky. How many hundreds of convicted predators were confined within those walls? The sign identified the prison as a treatment center, suggesting that a person could be cured of those proclivities. Joe had his doubts.
As usual, he was early. Normally, he liked it that way. Just not today. Joe bit at his lower lip as he neared the security gate. Alternately, he checked the time, then the street. No sign of his brother, Clay.