Million Dollar Dilemma

by Judy Baer

  “So? What happened? Grandma tells me Ken’s been around a lot since you came back for a visit. A lot.” She waggled her eyebrows. Her short bobbed hair swung just at her jawline and her porcelain skin glowed. With the differences in our height, coloring and personalities, never in a hundred years would anyone believe we were sisters.

  “I thought you didn’t like Ken.”

  “Maybe he’s not so bad, just a little annoying,” Jane said with a shrug. “He’s never done to you what that hunk-a-hunk of burning skunk in your building did. The familiar is looking better all the time.”

  Never let it be said that my sister isn’t practical. When she married her own husband, Jane compiled a “pros” and “cons” list as long as her arm. Fortunately for Dave, his “pro” list was considerably longer than his “con.” Dave is as laid-back as the day is long and not intimidated an iota by my calculating, meddlesome but lovable sister.

  Jane reached for a slice of my grandmother’s famous death-by-chocolate cake. “I thought you told me on the phone last week that you were dieting,” I said.

  “I snapped out of it. Thankfully this is a new day.”

  I pulled the plate away from her. “You can’t have any cake. You said you felt chubby.”

  “And what business is that of yours?”

  “You meddle in my love life. Therefore, I can meddle in your diet.”

  It was a tough choice between her two favorite hobbies, snooping and eating. Jane looked at the cake plate as if it were a dear, departed friend. “I guess I could stand to lose a few pounds.”

  “So you do prefer meddling over eating!”

  “It’s too juicy—you and Ken, I mean—to quit prying now. I just hope I can squeeze the details out of you before I fade away to nothing.”

  “You’re a long way from nothing, sis.” I eyed her snug jeans and T-shirt. “A little more exercise wouldn’t hurt either.”

  She looked at me with a wounded expression. “Whaddayamean, more exercise? I shop! I did three laps at the Mall of America just yesterday.”

  “Were two of them around the food court level?”

  Jane reddened.

  “I declare,” Mattie interrupted, “you two haven’t changed since high school.” She stood up. “Now I’m going to go next door and have a cup of tea with my old neighbor. Then at four o’clock I’m going to break my own rule and go to Estrogen Hour at Fannie’s. And I’m stopping at the store to buy three TV dinners for tonight.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you put fun before work, Grandma,” I said, ignoring Jane. “What’s happening?”

  Mattie grinned and her face creased into a thousand beloved wrinkles. “I’m getting smart in my old age. Even the Lord didn’t create the earth in one day. What makes me think I have to?

  “While I’m gone, why don’t you two get busy weeding the flower beds and mowing the lawn? That young boy who is supposed to be helping out doesn’t know one end of a lawn mower from the other.”

  We were sipping iced tea and speculating how stiff we’d be tomorrow when Mattie returned home with our wildly extravagant TV dinners. When we were kids, the very idea of buying food out of someone else’s freezer, pan and all, was an anathema to our grandparents, so tonight was a very big night indeed.

  While our gourmet extravaganza was cooking, Mattie joined us on the porch. She sat down by Winslow and eyed me with compassion and a knowing glint in her eye. “Is it easier to think here?”

  “A little. When we were raking the yard I forgot for a few minutes that I’m a millionaire and a bad judge of men.”

  We sat rocking in our chairs as the supper-hour silence descended on Simms.

  “Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned,” Mattie said softly, “it’s that you can’t ignore the facts. You’re still a millionaire and you’re still grieving over being betrayed. There’s no use pretending otherwise.”

  “Am I so obvious?”

  “Not to others, maybe, but to family you are.” Grandma scratched Winslow’s neck as we talked. His fondest dream is to have someone doing it as a full-time job.

  The next day, Sunday, I decided I should give the church enough money to pay for a secretary who can type.

  Jane elbowed me every few seconds to point out another typo in the bulletin.

  “They’ve used twelve different fonts.” Jane snorted. “I feel like I’m reading something in those distorted mirrors in a circus fun house.”

  The fonts were disconcerting, but nothing compared to the information conveyed within. “Our youth baseball team plays on Wednesday. Come watch our boys slaughter Our Savior’s.’ Lunch to follow.”

  The bulletin did make the homily sound more exciting than usual. “Our sermon today, ‘How Jesus Walked on the Water,’ will be followed by the lovely spiritual ‘Keep Me from Sinking Down.’”

  Ken sat at the end of the pew next to Grandma. She likes Ken. She’d seen the best side of him long before I’d given him a chance. What was I missing now? Who or what else had I ignored?

  Lord, when the time is right, show me exactly what You want me to do. Make sure I can’t ignore it or rationalize it away. Make it perfectly obvious and don’t give me any wiggle room, either.

  I glanced at Ken, who was studying a pew Bible intently.

  And let me know the “who” as well as the what.

  “What are you thinking about so intently?” Jane asked as she came onto the porch and handed me a cup of steaming tea. The night was dusky velvet, the stars twinkling more and more brightly.

  “Stars. I’d forgotten how beautiful they are. You don’t see stars properly in the city.”

  “You don’t see a lot of things properly in the city,” Jane agreed.

  “Ever since I won the lottery, I’ve been trying to get my life back to normal, yet I no longer know what normal is. My old life is over. I’m reinventing myself as I go. There must be something simple about this. I want answers that are simple and straightforward….”

  Feed my sheep.

  “What did you say?” I turned to Jane.

  She looked puzzled. “About what?”

  “What did you say just now? Something about sheep…”

  “Cassia, I didn’t say a word. Certainly nothing about sheep.”

  “Did I think it, then?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. I think that something is finally right. An idea just came to me. It was a thought so clear that I thought you’d spoken.”

  “About sheep?” Jane looked genuinely concerned—for my sanity.

  “Feed my sheep.” I slid forward on my chair and looked intently at her. “Don’t you see? ‘Feed my sheep.’ That’s it!”

  “That’s what?”

  “What I’m supposed to do! I’m not supposed to do anything hard or complicated with the money. It’s something simple and straightforward—feed His sheep! His children, the lambs of the Shepherd, don’t you see?”

  Clearly she didn’t. Her eyebrow arched. “That’s it?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Well…you have the means to feed a lot of people, Cassia.”

  “Feed them both physically and spiritually, I think. John 6:51.”

  I could see realization dawning on her face. “Of course. John 6:51.”

  I am that living bread that came down out of heaven.

  Anyone eating this bread shall live forever; this bread is My flesh given to redeem humanity.

  I knew with absolute certainty that whatever charities or petitions or proposals came my way, I could consider only those that were truly committed, both literally and figuratively, to feeding God’s children. And I knew something else, as well: God wants more than my money— He wants me. For whatever reason, He’s enmeshed His plan for the money with His plan for the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER 33

  “You’re going to keep in touch now, right?”

  Ken’s face was close to mine as he peered through the car window. I could smell his af
tershave and the crisp, clean fragrance of soap. His eyes were serious.

  It was Monday morning, and Mattie and I were in one car and Jane in another to caravan back to Minneapolis. Mattie’s trunk was full of canned goods and things the neighbors had insisted sending along—Estelle’s brownies, Helen’s twelve-grain bread and three jars of Tulip’s own watermelon pickles. She’d collected quite a bounty for only a week in Simms. Mattie had packed another blanket and her sewing machine, as well. Winslow, of course, filled the backseat.

  “I will.” I gave him a peck on the cheek. “I promise.”

  “And you’ll think about our ride the other day?”

  “All the time.”

  I felt warmed and encouraged by the shift in our relationship. Ken was showing the side of himself that I liked very much.

  “I love you, babe.”

  I reached up and put my palm to his cheek. “I know you do. I can feel it.”

  A smile settled across his face. “And you just keep on feeling it when you get back to that congested mess you live in. There’s a wide open prairie and a wide open heart waiting for you here.”

  Time passed quickly on the trip back to Minneapolis. It always does with my grandmother in the passenger seat. Her favorite pastime is singing, so we belted out all the oldies but goodies—“The Old Rugged Cross,” “How Great Thou Art,” “Jesus Loves Me” and, just for the fun of it, a few Christmas carols.

  We were about an hour from her place when Grandma turned an eagle eye on me. “So what are you going to do about those men in your life? They’re circling like vultures, dear.”

  “That conjures up a pretty picture. What am I, roadkill?”

  “You know what I mean. Ken is besotted with you and, if my instincts serve me, you’re softening toward him, as well. Randy sounds like a lovely boy—so sweet and shy.”

  “He’s a thirty-five-year-old CPA,” I chided. “Not a teenager.”

  She shifted in her seat and negotiated her seat belt a bit so that she could look at me. “And of course there’s the one you’re in love with.”

  “You mean the black-hearted scoundrel and lying traitor that I may have had a tiny bit of interest in at one time before he lied to me, used me and dumped me for a magazine article?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “He’s not for me, Grandma. You should know that as well as anyone.”

  “Then say it like you mean it, dear.”

  I hate it when Mattie does that—cuts to the quick, turns my own words on me and makes me listen to how they sound. It had been a pitiful protest, to say the least. I felt my eyes begin to fill.

  “It’s not about Adam. It’s about why one person would do that to another, to think that the ends justify the means. It’s not right! If he’d been a Christian, none of this would have happened.” I felt an infusion of righteous anger just thinking about it. He lied to, used, betrayed and manipulated me and my lottery-winning friends. I resent being taken advantage of and, even more, having him stomp all over my feelings.

  What I could hang on to now, however, was the fact that the focus was narrowing. My own plans and ideas were falling away.

  Feed My sheep.

  That was what I was to pay attention to now. Anything else, including men—Adam in particular—would have to wait.

  It was nearly nine o’clock by the time I returned Mattie to her apartment, filled up with gas and purchased a quart of milk. Winslow was looking out the window and whining, eager to be what he now considered “home.”

  “Maybe we could move closer to Mattie or Jane,” I said to Winslow. He cocked his head to the side and looked faintly interested. “And it’s time to get serious about finding a new job.”

  I’ve considered going to school in the fall, to finish my master’s degree. Now I have no excuses—except, of course, that I don’t want to spend money.

  So here I am, a jobless student millionaire early-childhood specialist, who has uprooted herself from home and doesn’t trust anyone she meets. I never dreamed I’d have a résumé like this.

  The people in Simms are right. Moving to the city isn’t always what a person dreams it will be.

  CHAPTER 34

  It was a shock to see Adam’s door wide open as I passed.

  My heart did a traitorous thump before I noticed a pair of women’s shoes just inside the front door.

  I stopped and knocked.

  “Cassia!” Whitney looked delighted to see me. Her skin and eyes glowed and she looked, if possible, lovelier than before. “I was afraid we wouldn’t get to say goodbye to you before we left. Have you been out of town?”

  “I went to South Dakota for a few days.”

  “And how is the town of Simms?” Chase came up behind his wife and put his hands on her shoulders. “Do you have time to come in?”

  I glanced at Winslow, who was pulling on his leash, nose to the ground, investigating his absent feline neighbor. His whole rear end was wriggling with delight. I unclipped him from his leash and followed him into the apartment.

  “Do you mind?” I asked. “He’s very gentle.”

  “That’s more than anyone can say for Pepto. That animal has issues.” Whitney eyed me. “I think he misses you. Sometimes in the evening he comes and sits on my lap and purrs.”

  That, about any other cat, might be considered standard activity. From Pepto it is aberrant behavior.

  “So,” I said casually, “what’s up with you two?”

  “We’ve been here since six, waiting for Frankie Wachter to stop by and pick up some photographs. His editor requested them, and he’d given them to Adam, negatives and all. He needs them back right away. Whitney and I came over to let him into the apartment. I don’t know where the photos are, but apparently Frankie does.”

  Chase looked at his watch and frowned. “I hope he gets here soon. I expected him a couple hours ago.”

  “Chase is on call,” Whitney explained. “He usually doesn’t have too many uninterrupted hours in a row.”

  “I’ll bet.” I looked around the room, my head whirling. How did I ask about Adam without sounding too snoopy? If he’d wanted me to know where he’d gone, he would have told me, right? Still, I couldn’t stand the curiosity. “Where exactly is Adam?”

  Whitney shrugged and held her hands palms up, as if she was at a loss. “He left an itinerary with us, but it’s sketchy. Apparently he didn’t want us to know much about his agenda.” She looked at her husband. “Do you remember what he was up to?”

  “Not really.”

  Chase smiled at my puzzled expression. “Our family is accustomed to not knowing where Adam is. He keeps a wicked schedule when he’s away.”

  “How long has he been a journalist?” I ventured.

  “Since he was about five and started using a zucchini from the garden to do a play-by-play of the game of tag going on in our backyard.” Chase grinned. “We were all sure he’d be a broadcast journalist, but then he fell in love with the written word. He was smitten by it, started writing and never stopped. Believe it or not, Adam has a degree in journalism and one in advertising. He worked a couple years writing copy and marketing. Then he got tired of ‘selling toothpaste,’ became a journalist and never looked back.”

  “He has a lot of passion for what he does,” Whitney said, picking up where Chase left off. “If Adam thinks something is right, he’ll go to the mat for it, fight to the finish.”

  I wonder how he defines “right.” He had these people bamboozled into thinking he’s a great guy. If they knew what a creep he’d been to me…

  The sound of a cell phone filled the room. Chase grabbed for it on the second ring.

  “Chase, here. Uh-huh, okay, get him prepped for surgery. I’ll be right there.”

  He snapped the phone shut and stood. “Sorry, but I have to break this up. Things have turned for a patient of mine. Whitney, honey, sorry to leave you here, but you can just let Frankie look for what it is he wants when he gets here and then take a taxi h
ome.”

  “If you’d like, I can wait for this Frankie,” I offered. “Whether I sit and read the paper here or in my own apartment doesn’t matter. Would that help?”

  An expression of relief flooded Chase’s face. “Well, we don’t live far from the hospital. It would save a trip….”

  “Say no more. Winslow and I will stay until he gets here.”

  “Great.” Chase was already hurrying his wife out of the apartment. “Frankie is a tall, skinny guy with a scraggly beard—or maybe it’s been shaved off by now. He knows where to look. Just lock up after he goes. And listen.” Chase smiled in a way that made the family resemblance between him and Adam very apparent. “Thanks.”

  “Go. Leave. Go. You’ve got a patient waiting.” Even if it meant sitting in Adam’s apartment, memories flooding down upon me like a torrent of rain, at least I could do something to help someone.

  And that, I realized, was part of what was wrong with me. I had been so stymied by the money that I hadn’t made myself useful.

  The buzzer rang and I jumped to my feet, startled. I’d been half-asleep in the chair, the paper on my lap. I glanced at the clock. It was after eleven.

  I punched the intercom button. “Who is it?”

  “Hey, Whitney, it’s me, Frankie. Can you let me in? Sorry I’m so late.”

  I buzzed him in without explaining and waited for him at the door.

  “Hi, Whit. I didn’t mean to stand you up, but something came up….” He frowned. “You aren’t Whitney.”

  “Sorry. Chase had to go to the hospital, and I said I’d wait for you so Whitney could go home. I’m Cassia Carr. I live in the apartment above this one.”

  Frankie is a tall, thin man, the kind who is likely gifted with a metabolism that just doesn’t stop, who can eat as much and often as he wants and still not be able to keep his jeans on his hips without a belt tightly strapped around his middle.

  He wore faded jeans with a rip above the knee, a pale gray sweater and a jacket with so many pockets, pouches and compartments sewn into it that he could have housed a week’s worth of groceries in there. They were all, of course, sprouting with things like lenses, film and light meters and whatever else photojournalists need on a moment’s notice.