I take it slow, my steps intentional. I work it out in my head. Tim and I have talked about this—it isn't new information—but I'm just getting it. Really getting it. I suck in my breath and then give the desire of my heart to God.
Father, I want with Tess what I share with Jenna. I want my soul to be knit to the soul of my wife in the way that only happens when Your Spirit is present in both people. I want . . . man, I long for . . . spiritual intimacy with my wife. I want to share the desires of my heart, my life, with her.
I'm drawn to Jenna, the same way I was drawn to Lightseeker, I'm drawn to Lightseeker, because I'm drawn to You. You in her. It's You I see in her eyes. It's You I see in those dazzler smiles of hers. It's Your heart I hear in her words.
It's You.
It's all about You.
I stop on a corner and bend at the waist, hands on my knees. I swallow the lump in my throat and then wipe my arm across my eyes—drying my eyes with my sleeve. I stand straight again. "Dude." I shake my head.
I get it. Lord, I get it. Tess is Yours. You love her more than I do. I give her to You. I surrender. She's Yours.
A cab careens around the corner and water splashes from the gutter and sprays the legs of my pants with specks of gray water and dirt. "Not cool." I look down at my pants and shake my head again.
Yeah, Lord, even if it doesn't go my way. I trust You. I trust You with Tess. And I trust You with my desires. I trust You.
I nod. "Yeah, I trust You."
BY THE TIME I reach the lab, I need a few minutes to regroup, and I'm glad to see Jenna hasn't arrived yet.
I take my place on the rock wall, the same spot where I sat with her the day we met, and I confess to God, who already knows, that I'm in a vulnerable spot. The air is clean, the day a beauty, but my heart is feeling bruised—tender—like I could use a manifestation of Jesus in the flesh.
A friend to lean on.
I remind myself, as I see Jenna come across the plaza, that she can't be that friend. Today, she's a client. I'm the director—she's the directee. Lord, I'm Your broken vessel—Your cracked pot—and I need Your strength through my weakness today. This is about You, not me.
I watch as Jenna approaches and notice her gait is slower than usual. I stand up and put my arm around her shoulders and give her a squeeze. "Hey, you feeling okay?"
She nods. "Better than I was." She smiles. "I had a bout of something. I thought the infection was back. Or . . . maybe it is." She runs her finger along the scar on her jaw. "But I'm hoping it was just a virus or something. It makes sense that my immunities would be down."
"Yeah, makes sense."
"I slept all day yesterday then was wide awake last night. But I think I was supposed to be—to pray, though, I'm not sure why." She shrugs. "Anyway, I'm relieved to feel better today."
I put my hand in the air for a high five.
She gives me five and then grabs hold of my hand and hangs onto it. "I'm still a little tired, but I'll get my strength back." She squeezes my hand and then lets it go. "How are you?"
"Only minor complaints." This is her time. "Have a seat." I motion to the wall. She sits at an angle, and I do the same, so we're facing one another. There are a few people wandering around the cathedral plaza, but for the most part, we're alone.
"Well, we don't have a candle so we'll let the sky speak of God's presence. Cool?"
"That's why I wanted to meet here."
She looks up and her face mirrors His glory, the deep blue of the sky reflected in her eyes. And man, in this moment, I know I'm gazing at one of His most beautiful creations. And I'm awed.
Not by her.
By Him.
And in His presence, my desires wane. I know that He is enough. All I need. This is her time, but He's spoken to me, as He so often does, through her. And today, not through her words, just through her being. I clear my throat. "So how about a few minutes of silence?"
She nods and we both bow our heads, and as we do, our foreheads bump together. "Whoa, sorry."
She laughs. And we both scoot back an inch or so and try again. After a few minutes, I feel her hand on my arm.
"I'm ready."
I lift my head and wait while she gathers her thoughts. Her face grows serious and I see that look of pain in her eyes. She looks away—across the plaza—and then back at me and takes the plunge.
"I received an e-mail from a reader on Monday. Or, I should say, Lightseeker received an e-mail." She smiles that shy smile of hers, the one that surfaces when she's feeling vulnerable.
"Good ol' Lightseeker."
She nods and goes on. "She, the reader, asked my identity. She said she needed to know who I am so she could trust me. But . . . I couldn't tell her. I feel . . . dishonest."
"What's God saying to you about it?"
"He's still not speaking. Although . . . it's not like it was. I sense Him again. It's like He's sitting with me, but just quiet."
"How's that feel?"
"Better. I wonder if"—she stops and looks at the sky again—"He's teaching me something?"
I smile at her. "You're a willing student."
"I am?"
I nudge her shin with my foot. "Really?"
She shrugs. "I don't know. I hope so. But for so long, I've heard from God. But now, I'm wondering if I haven't interpreted much of what He's said through my own understanding. You know? I wonder if His silence is an . . . opportunity? A time to stand back . . ." She looks at me, eyes wide.
I nod. I get it—the phrase she heard so often but didn't understand. "Stand back from . . . ?"
"My understanding. Maybe He's asking me to just trust, without understanding. Without trying to make sense of things. Without hearing from Him."
Man, do I get that. "How does that feel?"
"Terrifying . . . and liberating." She smiles. "Sort of a paradox, I guess."
I think back to where she began the conversation. "So, God hasn't weighed in on whether or not He wants you to reveal your identity—at least to this reader?"
"Not really. But I can't. It's too complicated. She's someone I know, someone who works with Brigitte. And you've read my blog. I can't ever reveal myself—I can't risk Brigitte knowing . . ."
"Ahh . . . Madame B." I raise my eyebrows as I say it. "Sounds like maybe you're leaning on your own understanding of the situation."
She leans back—away from me. Her body language tells me she's not ready to consider that possibility with this situation.
"You don't understand . . ."
"Hey, that wasn't a judgment, just an observation."
She's silent for a long time, and I give her the space for the silence. I don't press forward. I wait and watch. And I see a storm brewing in her eyes. Jesus, calm the storm . . .
"So, maybe I think I understand what would happen if Brigitte were ever to find out, but maybe I don't. Maybe it would turn out differently than I think?"
"Maybe . . . Let me ask you something." I lean forward. "Do you trust Brigitte?"
"No." The word is as firm as the shake of her head. "Not at all."
"Do you trust God?"
The question stops her. I see the shift in her thinking. She nods and I watch as tears fill her baby blues.
"I'm acting on my lack of trust in Brigitte rather than my trust in God." She twists the ring on her left ring finger. "My lack of trust is bigger than my trust."
"I believe . . . Help my unbelief." I quote the father in the Gospels who asked Jesus if he could save his son.
She nods and wipes a tear from her cheek.
"But . . . how could I ever . . ." Then she shakes her head. "I'm trying to figure it out again based on my own understanding."
I don't say anything.
"Instead, He's asking me to let go . .
."
"What does letting go look like in this circumstance?"
"I . . . I don't know. I guess I just wait?"
"Waiting on God while walking with God."
"What if . . ." Her eyes, so easy to read, reveal the fear she feels. "What if . . . He's asking me to take up my cross and follow Him? What if . . ." She shakes her head. "I can't. I . . . can't."
"Jenna, do you trust Him?"
"I'm . . . I'm trying."
"Keep your eyes on Him."
AFTER MY TIME WITH Jenna, I walk back to my office. But it's a slow walk. A listening walk this time. It isn't my turn to ask questions. It isn't my turn to talk. It is a walk of reflection and revelation. The storm I saw brewing in Jenna is just the beginning. A hurricane is coming—gathering force, swirling, strengthening. I don't know what that means, but I sense something life-changing on the horizon.
For Jenna.
And for me.
And He's speaking to me, telling me to prepare myself:
Pray.
Fast.
Focus.
By the time I reach the office, there's a chill in the air. Before I step inside, I look up at the sky and see a bank of angry, dark clouds gathering above the bay.
Get ready, Matthew. I'm taking her into the eye of the storm. And you're going with her. But I am there.
I stand for a long time looking at the coming clouds and thinking about what I've heard. Then I nod my head in agreement with God. "Okay. Game on."
I turn from the clouds, walk into my office, and close my door against the brewing storm.
At least for now.
Superficial relationships weaken the spirit. . . . Instead of the sweetness of mutual edification, there is only the clashing of broken gears grinding against each other.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Brigitte
SHE GETS INTO her Bentley, sinks into the cream-colored leather driver's seat, and pulls the seatbelt over her shoulder. She leans her head out the open window. "Marcus, make sure those weeds along the fence line are taken care of today." She points to the rock wall separating the driveway from the vineyard.
Marcus squints, trying to find the weeds she speaks of. "Yes, Madame. Drive safely."
She rolls up her window and heads down the long drive. She's aware of the smooth asphalt under her tires. So much more pleasing than the annoying crunch of gravel as it was before she had it paved.
Her time in the valley was productive. She considers her accomplishments: She interviewed and retained an attorney, who will act as a representative in the Azul deal should she choose to demand payment of the note. He will work as a private contractor and therefore, Domaine de la Bouvier will remain the anonymous note holder for as long as she chooses. She was pleased with Max's recommendation.
Yesterday, Max drove to the valley and they spent the afternoon going through Gerard's trust one more time. She is now prepared to meet with Jenna. All is in place. She will offer Jenna a generous settlement. There will be, of course, a few stipulations, but if Jenna is wise, she'll concede.
Concede? She laughs. No concession should be necessary. If Jenna's wise, she'll see the offer for what it is—a lifetime of provision and affluence. Should she act like a fool, well then there is the demand note. Her insurance policy.
There are still issues to consider, however. Troubling issues.
Who was the man Hannah reported Jenna was with Saturday evening? Was it Matthew MacGregor? They share an intimacy that was evident both at Gerard's service and in the e-mails they exchange. He is, she is certain, the one influencing Jenna's behavior. Which means, the relationship must end.
A spiritual director? Such nonsense anyway.
She will continue to watch the e-mails between them.
Her thin lips stretch into a smile. Yes, now that she has access to Jenna's e-mail accounts, nothing will get past her. She tested her access on Monday evening by sending Jenna that ridiculous e-mail, then signing into her account.
She thinks of the e-mail she read late last night. Another from Matthew. It's left her baffled. Her grip tightens on the steering wheel, making the prominent blue veins in her hands bulge.
She glances at the clock on the dash—Jenna is with Matthew now.
At a lab?
Why?
Hannah reported that Jenna was feeling better. There was no fever—therefore, no infection. At least that is the assumption. She makes a mental note to see that Jenna gets in to see Dr. Bernard anyway. If the infection is indeed gone, then it is time to have that scar taken care of. It is such an embarrassment.
So, if Jenna is well, why is she at a lab and why has Matthew gone with her?
What is she hiding?
Well, she will figure it out soon enough.
Then there is the other issue revealed in Jenna's e-mails: Andee Bell.
Andee asked for Lightseeker's identity. Lightseeker. She shakes her head. Such foolishness. Jenna seemed firm in her desire to remain anonymous. Good thing, chérie, or you'll find yourself in an indelicate situation. There will be no revealing yourself. Ever! Her anger seethes as it has so many times since reading Jenna's ridiculous posts.
But anger won't serve her well. No, she must remain calm and clear. There is no truth in the gibberish Jenna writes. It's obvious her perspective is skewed. In fact, the posts have her concerned about Jenna's mental stability.
Back to Andee . . . Can she be trusted? The e-mail exchanges between Jenna and Andee are revealing a weakness in Andee, one she hadn't seen before. Knowing another's weakness is always advantageous. She smiles. But she will have to monitor their relationship.
And it will also have to come to an end.
Perhaps it has already taken care of itself. There has been no response to Jenna since Andee's request for her identity. If she's smart, she won't choose to trust Lightseeker.
Know who you're dealing with—in business and in life. A simple rule.
As she winds her way through Sonoma and then across the marshes before Vallejo, she considers Jenna again. By the time she married Gerard, she was certain of Jenna. She was pliable. Teachable. And she saw to it that few others influenced her. There was her father, of course, but he was consumed with his own grief and his business. Which left Jenna, of course, receptive to her attentions.
But in recent years, she's loosened the reins a bit. Let up. Grown complacent where Jenna was concerned. She can see that now. An oversight on her part. But one she must rectify. She's made the necessary adjustments now. Jenna will follow along, as she always has.
They will return to the relationship they had—mutually beneficial and satisfying. She lets out a small, tight sigh. Is it perfect? No. Gerard should still be alive. There should be grandchildren. Jenna should no longer be necessary.
But she is all that's left.
And one must never look back. Instead, one moves on. Looks forward. Makes the best of all circumstances.
Life is simple for those who understand how to work together.
Oui, Jenna is off course.
But she can change that.
There is no greater revelation than realizing that you can do nothing of yourself.
JEANNE GUYON
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Andee
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, while Cass is calling new brokers, I pour myself a cup of decaf. I had my one allotted espresso after getting up this morning. I lift the cup to my nose, sniff, and then take a sip. A definite improvement on the green tea.
I walk back into the office, where Cass sits at my desk talking to a broker. I motion for her to take it into the kitchen, and she gets up and takes the cordless phone and her notes with her.
"This is ridiculous," I say to Sam. "We need space." His disintere
st is evidenced by his lack of response. "Yeah, what do you care?" I sit at the desk, reach for my cell phone, and then think better of it. The call I need to make is private. I lean back in my chair and look at Cass through the door leading to the kitchen. I pick up my phone and head for my bedroom, where I can make the call behind a closed door.
I sit on the end of my bed and first dial the Domaine de la Bouvier San Francisco office. I'm told Brigitte is returning from the valley today and won't be in the office until tomorrow. I leave a message with the receptionist, then glance at my watch—maybe she's already home. I dial her home office number and reach her voicemail. I leave a message there too. Then I dial her cell phone, which she answers.
"Andee, I was just thinking about you."
I hear a slight echo and know she's in her car. "I just spoke with your receptionist who said you're on your way in from the valley."
"Yes. I just crossed over the Marin County line. I always feel better once I'm back in civilization."
Her laugh agitates me. "Brigitte, listen, I'd like to set a meeting as soon as you're free."
"Regarding?"
"A proposition that's come up—I think you'll find it interesting. I'll share the details when we meet."
"Fine. I'll be back in the office tomorrow morning. What time works for you?"
"How about 10:00?"
"Very good. I'll look forward to seeing you, Andee."
I hang up the phone and lie back on the bed and look at the ceiling. I spent all day Tuesday, the day I told Cass I was taking off, thinking through the offer I'll make Brigitte.
It will cost me.
A lot.
I ignore the knot in my stomach that forms each time I think of the amount I'll offer her. But I'm determined to right my wrong. So it has to be an offer she can't refuse.
I close my eyes and put my hand on my pounding forehead. Caffeine withdrawal. Great. How will I ever get through a meeting with Brigitte without the benefit of caffeine? "C'mon Andee, you've pushed through more than this to get to where you are. You can push through this." Maybe.
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