by Judy Duarte
“The maid of honor in the upcoming wedding?” he asked.
“Yes.” Cassandra reached for her fork. “Lorraine suffered a debilitating stroke about six or seven years ago, followed by several others. Now she’s confined to bed, which is a real shame. She used to be very active in the church. She was also an artist. In fact, she painted the portrait of Shana in our living room.”
That was nice to know. Craig could use that information as an icebreaker. “I’ll have to compliment her on her work when I meet her this evening.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate that. She took up painting relatively late in life, and when my husband and I were looking for someone to commission for our daughter’s portrait, Shana insisted we have Lorraine do it. I must admit, I wanted a professional with references, but Daniel gave in to Shana.” Cassandra speared a carrot with her fork. “He always does.”
“I’m not an expert,” Craig admitted, “and I haven’t met Shana yet, so I can’t tell if it’s a good likeness or not, but that’s a great portrait.”
“Yes, it is. And in retrospect, I doubt that we could have found anyone else who would have done our daughter better justice.”
They continued to eat, the only sounds an occasional clink of silver upon china, yet Craig found himself curious about the Smiths and finally broke the silence. “Does Kristy live with her grandmother?”
“Yes, ever since she was twelve.”
“Where’s her mother?”
“I have no idea. As far as I know, neither Lorraine nor Kristy have heard from her in years.”
“What happened to her?”
“From what Lorraine told me, Susan was always wild and rebellious, which I thought was surprising, under the circumstances. Lorraine and her husband had tried for years to have a baby, but they’d been unable to conceive. So they were thrilled when the opportunity to adopt Susan came up. But instead of appreciating her new parents and loving home, the girl rebelled and was constantly in trouble.” Cassandra lifted her crystal water goblet and took a sip. “You know, drinking, smoking. Drugs, too.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yes, it was. Stan, Lorraine’s husband, died of an aneurysm when Susan was in high school, leaving Lorraine to deal with the girl on her own. From what I heard, Susan often ran away for days at a time.”
“That must have been tough on her.” Craig appreciated having some background information on Mrs. Smith, although it didn’t make him feel much better about the visit. He suspected it was going to be awkward either way.
“Lorraine was beside herself with worry and frustration.” Cassandra picked up her knife to cut her meat. “Not long after Susan turned eighteen and moved out for good, she told Lorraine she’d gotten married and was pregnant. You’d think Lorraine would have been worried sick about that, but she actually thought motherhood would change her daughter and make her settle down for good.”
“I assume it didn’t.”
“No, I’m afraid not. Somewhere along the way, Susan’s husband died of a drug overdose, and as a result, little Kristy spent her elementary years in and out of homeless shelters.”
Craig couldn’t help feeling sorry for the elderly woman who’d been dubbed a pistol by the church secretary. But he sympathized with Kristy, too. It sounded as though her early years were rough.
“Did the state step in and take Kristy away from Susan?” he asked, suspecting that had probably been the case.
“They didn’t for the longest time, which I never understood. But one night, Susan left her alone in a shelter and never returned. No one knows what happened to her. It’s possible that she got tired of being a mother and ran away.”
“Did anyone consider that she might have met with foul play?” Craig asked.
“It’s possible, I suppose. Shana always insisted that, in spite of the substance abuse, Susan adored Kristy and never would have abandoned her, which I’m sure is what Kristy had told her. Shana also said that Susan had quit using drugs after she got pregnant with Kristy, but that’s impossible.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she couldn’t seem to stay out of homeless shelters.”
Craig wasn’t sure if he could buy it, either. But he suspected there were a lot of reasons some people were homeless, and they didn’t all have to be drug-or alcohol-related.
“Either way,” Cassandra said, “Kristy was abandoned as a child. And she’ll have to deal with that issue for the rest of her life.”
“A lot of people are able to overcome dysfunctional homes and families,” Craig said.
“I suppose, in your business, you need to be optimistic. And I hope you’re right.” Cassandra lifted her napkin and dabbed her lips. “It’s just that I hate to see Shana get caught up in all of that. She’s very softhearted and always believes the best about people.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“No,” Cassandra said, “but since her father and I have tried our best to shelter her, I worry that someone could take advantage of her innocence and good nature.”
“College has probably been good for her. I doubt that she’s as naïve as she used to be.”
Cassandra placed her napkin on her plate, covering the traces of food she apparently wasn’t going to eat. “I hope you’re right, Pastor, but I wouldn’t know. Shana and I aren’t as close as we once were.”
Craig wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, so he opted to remain quiet until he finished his meal.
“I made apple pie for dessert,” Cassandra said as she stood and began gathering their plates.
“That sounds wonderful, but I’d better pass.”
“It’s homemade,” she said, her expression sober, her tone hopeful.
“It’s not that. I really ought to head over to the Smiths’ house before it gets any later.”
Cassandra managed a smile. “I understand.”
“You know,” Craig said, “I wouldn’t mind having a big slice of pie when I get back. Would that be okay?”
“Yes, of course. I have vanilla ice cream to go with it.”
“Great.” Craig placed his own napkin on the plate, then scooted his chair back. “I won’t be long.”
As he headed for the door, he had the urge to turn around and check on Cassandra.
For some reason, he got the feeling she was more fragile than she appeared.
He let himself out the front, closed the door, and headed for his car. He hadn’t gotten two steps when Jesse’s words settled over him.
Things aren’t always what they seem.
Craig looked over his shoulder at the house, and the light peeking through the cracks in the shutters.
Chapter 6
After changing into her street clothes, Kristy exited the pub through the back door, then headed for the bus stop. It had been a long, grueling shift, and she’d been especially glad to clock out.
Too bad she couldn’t just get in her car and go home, but the transmission was going out on the twelve-year-old Chevrolet Impala that had once belonged to Gram, and Kristy didn’t have the money to pay a repairman before Friday, which was payday. So now, like she’d done for almost a week, she was taking the bus home.
A dog howled in the distance, and the streetlight nearest Paddy’s Pub flickered. For a moment, she felt uneasy.
The new owners might have renovated the bar and added a dining room in hopes of making Paddy’s a more family-friendly place, but they hadn’t been able to do anything about the crummy neighborhood in which it was located.
She could have hung out a little longer in the pub, but she’d grown tired of the rowdy crowd, the noise, and the smell of booze. So she strode along the sidewalk, watching the cars go by. It seemed that each one was heading home, and she envied the fact that they’d get there way before she would.
When she reached the bus stop, which was little more than a bench on the corner of First and Canyon Drive, she took a seat. She’d only waited a moment or two when a man in a dar
k jacket approached, the soles of his shoes scraping along the grit-littered sidewalk.
She’d gotten more than the usual tips today, so she placed her purse on her lap, wrapped her arms around it, and drew it close. But then she noticed the telltale shuffle in his walk, the life’s-a-drag slump in his shoulders.
His hair was shaggy, his beard, too. It was easy to surmise he was homeless.
A lot of people might have blown him off, but Kristy wouldn’t. She’d been in a similar situation for too long to be as callous as others could be. And while some of the homeless had addiction problems or mental health issues, she knew many had just been the victims of rotten luck.
“Excuse me,” he said, his voice much softer and gentler than his appearance. “I don’t suppose you can spare a dollar or two for a man in need of bus fare. I’m not sure when I can pay you back, but I will.”
She would have given him ten or twenty dollars, if she had it to spare, but, thanks to Jason’s last bout of strep throat, which had required two visits to the pediatrician and an expensive antibiotic, she’d been alternating utility bills this month, paying one and letting the others ride. And if she didn’t come up with a hundred and twenty-six dollars by Monday, the city water department would be shutting off the meter.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m pretty stretched right now.”
His eyes were an intense shade of blue, something that didn’t escape notice, even in the muted light from the streetlamp, and he slipped her a wistful smile. “I understand.”
As he turned to walk away, she grabbed his forearm, pulling him back. “That’s not what I meant. I’d like to do more, but I can certainly spot you bus fare.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the only cash she could spare, which was four dollars. “I’m sorry it’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.”
“I hate to leave you with nothing,” he said.
“I’ll be all right.”
His smile had a way of reaching something deep inside of her, and she wondered what his story was. How he’d come to lose it all.
“Thanks,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I meant what I said about paying you back.”
“I know you will.” She smiled, playing the game, even though she didn’t expect to ever see him again.
She hoped he didn’t use the money to buy drugs or booze, but she’d always been a sucker for the downtrodden, in part because she and her mom had often found themselves in a similar state.
Even though it had been years since they’d had to beg on street corners, she would never forget what it felt like to be seen as only an apparition instead of a real person.
But we’re here, she’d wanted to shout. And we’re hungry. Don’t pretend you can’t see us.
Something inside told her to keep to herself, to let him be. But she knew what it was like to feel like a second-class citizen.
“My name’s Kristy,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“Jesse.” He took a seat next to her, keeping a respectful distance.
See? she told herself, some people might be forced to beg and to sleep outdoors, but there was always a bit of pride and humanity left—if one was willing to look for it.
She glanced down the street to see if the bus was coming and, convinced that it wasn’t, she turned back to the homeless guy. “Do you live around here?”
“Temporarily. I’m just passing through.”
The conversation lulled, which was to be expected. He probably wasn’t comfortable sharing too many details with a stranger, and she could understand that. She had a few things in her past she’d like to keep under mental lock and key, even though it seemed that the whole world already knew.
“Tough day at work?” he asked.
“Not any worse than most.” She tossed him a weary smile. No need to complain about her job, when she at least had one.
“It’ll get better,” he told her.
What would? Her job? Her life? Her prospects for the future?
Assuming he was just making small talk, she played along by broadening her smile and nodding her agreement. “Yeah, I know. It always does.”
“Life’s a journey, Kristy. And yours has been an especially difficult trek so far. There’ve been twists and turns and potholes, most of which haven’t been of your own making.”
Why was it that so many of the homeless she’d known seemed to think that they had cornered the market on wisdom and common sense and became roadside philosophers?
“Things are going to start looking up,” he added.
She wanted to chuff and say, “A lot you know.” Instead, she said, “I’m sure they will.”
“You’ve been toting a heavy load, but it’s about to get easier.”
The roar of a diesel engine sounded, and she pointed to the south, glad to have an interruption. “Here comes the bus.”
He stood, and she followed suit.
As the city bus slowed to a stop, he placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Your mother didn’t abandon you.”
Her gaze slammed into his. “How do you …?”
He shrugged. “I can’t explain how I know, but she didn’t leave that night because she didn’t love you. You were right about that.”
“What are you?” she asked. “A psychic?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then did you know my mom?”
Before he could respond, the bus driver opened the door.
Jesse swept his arm toward the waiting vehicle, indicating that she should get on first. She couldn’t very well dawdle, so she took a step, then stalled, half in and half out. “I asked how you knew my mom.”
He blessed her with a gentle smile. “Let’s just say that I have … a gift.”
“Hey!” the driver called out. “I’ve got a schedule to keep. Are you getting on or not?”
Kristy climbed onto the bus with Jesse on her heels. She took the first empty seat, and he took the one across from her.
As the transmission ground and the engine roared, the bus lumbered back onto the road.
Kristy tried to make sense of what Jesse had said. He hadn’t mentioned her mom by name. And he hadn’t admitted to having ever met her.
So how could he have known that her mother had left one night without leaving word of where she was going or when she’d be back?
He could have picked up on rumors and gossip easily enough, she supposed—if he’d asked around town.
As the bus approached the next stop, which was on Applewood Drive, Jesse stood to leave.
Unable to help herself, Kristy tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. When he glanced down, she asked again, “How did you know that?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Are you psychic?” she asked again, this time shedding all signs of sarcasm.
“Not a garden-variety kind, if that’s what you mean.” He left her with a smile and a parting word. “Your mother had a lot of problems, Kristy, but she loved you as much as she possibly could.”
Then he shuffled down the aisle and disembarked.
As the bus roared off down the street, Kristy sat back in her seat. She hoped that Jesse had some kind of psychic gift and that what he’d said about her mom was true.
But she was afraid he was just a garden-variety nutcase.
Craig had gotten the directions to Lorraine Smith’s house on MapQuest, so it had been easy enough to find. He turned left onto Sugar Plum Lane, a street of old Victorian houses, each one quaint in its own right, and drove slowly, scanning the numbers until he found 162.
There were two cars in the driveway, which made him think Mrs. Smith already had company. If so, he’d just say hello and come back another time.
He parked his car at the curb, closer to the neighbor’s house, then strode up the walk and knocked at the door.
Moments later, a forty-something brunette answered. She cocked her head slightly and eyed him closely. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m Craig Houston, the new associate minist
er at Parkside Community Church. I stopped by to see Lorraine Smith. Is she home?”
“Yes, she is.” The woman introduced herself as Barbara Crenshaw, then stepped aside and allowed him in.
As he entered the living room, the woman suggested he take a seat while she told Lorraine that he was here.
“Thank you.” He checked out his options, a brown tweed sofa with an autumn-colored afghan draped over the back and one of two green vinyl recliners. He chose the sofa, but before he could settle into his seat, a barefoot kid wearing Spider-Man pajamas padded into the room.
The brown-haired little boy looked him up and down. “Who are you?”
“I’m Pastor Craig.”
“How come Pastor George didn’t come?”
The truth? Because George had passed this chore on to Craig. But he wouldn’t tell the kid that. “Pastor George is at home, I believe. This time, it’s my turn to visit your grandmother.” Then, on second thought, he asked, “She is your grandmother, isn’t she?”
The boy nodded.
“What’s your name?” Craig asked.
“Jason.”
The boy was a bit young—first grade, maybe—but since Craig was going to be in charge of the youth ministry at Parkside Community, he thought it might be a good idea to get a child’s opinion of the classes and programs currently in place.
“Say, Jason. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” The boy drew closer to the sofa.
“How do you like Sunday School?”
“I don’t know. I never go.”
Some kids preferred to sit in the service with their parents. And there were different reasons for that. Craig wondered if Jason’s had anything to do with the teacher, the structure, or the curriculum. “Don’t you like Sunday School?”
He shrugged, and his face scrunched up in a cute, Leave It to Beaver way. “It’s okay, I guess. I only went there once, when I stayed all night at Danny’s house and his mom made us go.”
“Your mother doesn’t take you?”
“No, because she works.”
“On Sundays?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
Apparently, even though Mrs. Smith had once been a church regular, Kristy wasn’t anywhere near as devout.