Is there anyone in the neighborhood who can't hear it?
Anger flared to life, dissipating the remnants of peace and joy she'd felt upon leaving the Sunday evening service. She grabbed her Bible and purse off the seat, then got out of the car and marched toward the house.
"Luke!" she shouted the instant she was inside. "Luke, stop that racket this instant!"
Another shrill twang was his only reply. The noise set her teeth on edge. She dropped everything onto the entry table, shed her coat and draped it over a chair, then hurried up the staircase.
"Lucas Delaney Tucker!" she cried as she burst into his room.
Sitting in the middle of the bed, sliding his left hand along the neck of the guitar while creating an earthshaking cacophony with the pick held between right finger and thumb, Luke opened his eyes and gave her a blank stare.
Miriam strode to the electrical outlet and yanked the plug from the wall.
The silence was deafening.
She turned toward the bed. "What on earth were you thinking? It's a Sunday evening. It's a wonder the neighbors didn't call the police."
"I've got a right to make music in my own house, don't I?"
"That was not music."
Color rose from his neck into his cheeks. "Chill out, Mom."
Who is he?
The boy on the bed was supposed to be her son, but Miriam didn't recognize him. Not anymore. This seventeen-year-old male was sullen and moody. His hair needed a good washing, not to mention a trim. His clothes looked as if he'd lived in them for the past week.
Keeping her voice as level as possible, she said, "Don't you speak to me like that, Luke. You're under eighteen and you live in my home. As long as that's true, you'll show respect for your mother the way you were taught."
"So you're gonna keep hassling me 'til I'm outta here, right?"
Anger surged again, and Miriam feared she would say something she shouldn't. Retreat seemed a better option. "Get to bed. Tomorrow's a school day." She dropped the guitar's electrical cord and walked toward the door. "Good night," she added before passing into the hallway.
Luke didn't reply.
O Lord, help me. I'm at my wit's end.
She stepped into her bedroom and closed the door. Crossing to her bed, she fell onto it, burying her face in a pillow while fighting tears.
I feel eighty-nine instead of forty-nine. I need Your strength to see me through. I'm so . . . so alone.
Miriam felt guilty for admitting it. The Lord had been her best friend, her provider, her ever-present help. Above all, He'd been the husband He'd promised He would be. But right now she wished she could curl up in someone's arms and cry. She wanted arms around her that she could feel.
I'm sorry, Lord, but it's true. Luke's driving me crazy. I don't know what to say to him. Where's the boy who liked going to church? Where's the boy who liked helping me in the house and yard? I knew things would change when he became a teen. I didn't expect to keep him tied to my apron strings. I was prepared to let him grow up and away. But this isn't what I expected. Sometimes I think he hates me.
Miriam rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
How do I reach him, Jesus? If it were only long hair and dreadful music, I could deal with it, but I'm afraid it's something more. I'm frightened.
TRUST ME, BELOVED.
I'm trying.
The bedside clock ticked away the seconds. A winter's wind brushed tree branches against the side of the house.
Miriam closed her eyes and listened.
DO NOT FEAR, FOR I HAVE REDEEMED YOU; I HAVE CALLED YOU BY NAME; YOU ARE MINE!
"Yes, Lord."
I WILL BRING YOUR OFFSPRING FROM THE EAST, AND GATHER YOU FROM THE WEST.
She sat up and reached for her Bible on the nightstand. She flipped the pages until she reached Isaiah, the forty-third chapter. She read the fifth verse aloud: "'Do not fear, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and gather you from the west.'"
GIVE LUKE TO ME, BELOVED.
Miriam hesitated a heartbeat before responding. Okay, Lord. I gave him to You when he was born. Now I'll give him to You again.
Miriam awakened at four o'clock in the morning. She tossed and turned for a while, but when it was obvious she wasn't going back to sleep, she arose. She grabbed her bathrobe, put on her slippers, then went downstairs. After brewing coffee and pouring herself a cup, she entered her studio, settling into her favorite chair.
Not long after she'd stopped seeing Bert back in '63, Miriam had taken an art class. She'd thought it would fill some of the empty hours. She hadn't guessed how much she would love working with oils and watercolors. Certainly she hadn't expected she would have any talent for it. But she did.
At first she'd painted only for her own pleasure. Then she'd given in to the badgering of her friends and allowed Rose Ireland to hang one of her landscapes in the Irelands' gift shop.
And it sold!
Five years after that first sale, Miriam had a small but loyal following of collectors. She'd recently completed a portrait of the governor that was now prominently displayed in the capitol building. What a lot of hoopla her friends had made about that!
As she sipped coffee, Miriam's gaze drifted around the room until it reached her latest endeavor. A portrait of Del.
How different life might have been if he hadn't died so young.
She rose from her chair and crossed the studio to study the canvas. It seemed impossible that Del had been gone eighteen years. He would have been nearly sixty years old. But the man she'd painted wasn't yet forty.
"What would he think of this world we find ourselves in today?"
Not much, she'd wager. Certainly he'd be saddened to learn that America was once again embroiled in war, and his heart would be broken by the civil unrest that reigned in the streets. But he would remind her that God reigned, even when it felt as if everything was careening out of control.
She trailed her fingertips along the top of the canvas, whispering, "And what would he think of his son?"
She smiled ruefully, knowing exactly how her husband would have answered that question. Del would remind her what she'd been like at Luke's age. Wild and headed for trouble. She'd run away from home, for pity's sake, when she was only fifteen. She'd been arrested and hauled back to River Bluff in disgrace. At least Luke hadn't done anything like that.
"God, please keep it that way. Bring him to You soon and save him unnecessary heartache."
She turned from the unfinished portrait, her gaze moving to the north wall of the studio, the only wall without windows. Here hung framed photographs that Luke had taken.
He had an innate talent with the camera, a talent that she'd encouraged him to develop. She'd allowed him to turn one of the downstairs rooms into a darkroom. But during the last year, the only photos he took revealed the disturbance in his spirit. His latest efforts were dark, ugly, depressing. Miriam hadn't included any of them on this wall.
She stared at one of her favorite black-and-white photographs. Luke had taken it the summer he was ten, only a month after receiving his first camera for his birthday. It was a family portrait of Miriam, her father and his wife, and Luke. Her son had directed them to sit in the living room on the sofa near the window. The morning light had filtered through the sheer drapes, creating a halo effect around the small group. They were all smiling, the image of the perfect American family.
Miriam shook her head. The perfect family, American or otherwise, was a myth. All families faced hardship or heartbreak of one kind or another.
Certainly that was true of her own. Her stepmother, Allison, had fallen the previous year and injured her knee. Surgery had failed to improve her condition, and she was now confined to a wheelchair. The strain of caring for his wife was beginning to show on Frank Gresham, now in his mid-seventies.
Miriam hated to admit it, but she had a few aches and pains of her own as she approached her fiftieth birthday. What she hated even more was
that her vision had taken a nosedive this year, requiring reading glasses for any close-up work.
And then there was Luke. Troubled, rebellious, unhappy Luke.
"However does anyone make it through without You, Lord?"
Miriam returned to her chair, took another sip of coffee that had grown tepid, then settled in for a time of intimate communion with her Maker.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
"SANCTUARY!" JACOB CRIED, GIVING A FAIR IMITATION OF CHARLES Laughton as Quasimodo.
Miriam laughed as she waved her friend inside.
"Go ahead. Mock me. You don't have to put up with all this wedding nonsense." He headed for the kitchen without waiting for an invitation.
"It isn't nonsense," Miriam said, following him.
He looked upward. "Why, God? Why did You bless me, of all men, with twin daughters?"
"Oh, Jacob, shame on you."
"Well, maybe. But did they have to fall in love at the same time, get engaged at the same time, get married at the same time? Tell me. Did they have to?"
"Sit down while I pour you some coffee."
"Thanks." He sank onto a chair. "Sorry about barging in so early on a Saturday morning, but I was in the way at home. A man underfoot is a pitiful sight."
"You're welcome anytime, Jacob. One more week, and this will all be behind you." Miriam handed him a mug filled with black coffee, steam rising from its rim. She had to admit that he did look frazzled. "Would you like some breakfast? I haven't eaten yet and was about to scramble some eggs."
"Luke not up?"
"He spent the night with a friend." She turned toward the stove, hiding her frown.
The past two weeks had gone rather smoothly in the Tucker home, all things considered, but last night she and Luke had had a horrible fight. She didn't like this new friend of his. Sean Lewis was his name. She couldn't put her finger on the reason for her distrust, but there was something about Sean . . .
"Hey, look at that!" Jacob said, breaking into her thoughts.
She turned to find him standing in the studio doorway.
"That's your finest portrait yet, Miriam."
"Thanks. I finished it yesterday."
"It looks just the way I remember Del." Jacob glanced in her direction. "Was it hard for you?"
She shook her head. "No. It was actually a pleasure. I recalled so many wonderful moments as I worked. Things he used to say and do." She shrugged. "I'd forgotten a lot of them, but they came back, one by one."
"What made you decide to paint it?"
"Luke."
Jacob raised an eyebrow.
Miriam walked toward him, stopping when the portrait came into view. "I wanted Luke to know the kind of man his father was. I was hoping, if I could show it in a painting, maybe—" She stopped herself abruptly.
Jacob placed his hand on her shoulder. "Do you want me to talk to him?"
"I don't know. I don't know what I should do. It seems like he keeps getting more and more angry and slips further and further away from me."
"Seventeen's a tough age for boys."
She nodded, then returned to the stove. "I give him to the Lord, and then I take him back, worrying and wondering what I should do. I'm trying to trust God with Luke's life, and yet I fear all the things that can go wrong."
"Parenthood."
"I suppose."
"You raised him right, Miriam."
"I wonder."
"Hey." He appeared at her side again. "If you've messed up in some way, God's able to rescue and restore."
Miriam gave him a wan smile. "Thank you, friend."
"My pleasure." He returned her smile. "That's what I'm here for. To be your friend, like you've always been mine." He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
She felt herself tearing up. "Thank you, Jacob," she whispered hoarsely.
"Here. You sit down and drink coffee while I scramble the eggs."
Miriam was glad to oblige.
Later that morning, Jacob drove to his insurance office. His intention was to look up some information his CPA had requested, but he found himself ruminating about his life instead. He didn't know if his thoughts turned toward the past because Valerie and Victoria were getting married or if the portrait of Del was the impetus.
Jacob's eldest daughters had turned twenty-four this month. Funny, he'd once feared they would never get married. Now he feared their dual ceremonies would bankrupt him. Well, not really. God had blessed the McAllister family beyond anything a poor kid from River Bluff, Idaho, had any right to expect.
When he thought how close he'd come to throwing it all away . . .
He whispered a quick prayer of thanks. Not for the material things, pleasant though they were. No, his gratitude was for the love he and his wife shared and for the special bond he had with each of his children.
Jacob reached for the framed photograph on his desk. Luke had taken it last summer at the annual McAllister Insurance Company picnic in Ann Morrison Park. There they were, the McAllisters and the Tuckers, all the people he loved most in the world.
Jacob's gaze moved lovingly over each familiar face.
Elaine didn't look a day over thirty, although she was now in her mid-forties. True, she colored her hair to cover the gray, but her face was virtually unlined, and she was as trim as the day he married her, despite being the mother of five.
Valerie and Victoria had been blessed with their mother's good looks. Sweet and good-natured, they had strawberry blond hair, green-blue eyes, cute little button noses. Jacob had spent the better share of the sixties threatening to skin their boyfriends alive if they made any inappropriate moves on his daughters.
Mac, now eighteen, was the spitting image of his dad—tall and lean, outrageous carrot red hair, and those blasted eyebrows that had cursed more than one of his ancestors.
Poor kid.
But Mac was also one of the most genuine, caring people Jacob knew. An excellent student, the eldest McAllister son was in his first year of college, studying the law.
Ten-year-old Rachel and Bobby were in the fourth grade, and the true mischief makers in the clan. They had angelic faces, the better to deceive their innocent victims. God love 'em, they reminded Jacob more than a little of himself and Miriam when they were that age.
Speaking of Miriam . . .
Her image smiled at him from the photograph. Like Elaine, Miriam looked much younger than her true age. She'd filled out a little but hadn't gone to fat. What he liked best, however, was the joy that sparkled in her eyes of blue.
He remembered his boyhood love for her, how much he'd wanted her for his own. He'd been crazy with jealousy when she had married Del. But God had known what was best for both of them. He and Miriam were better as friends than they would have been as man and wife.
Lord, if there's something I can do to help Miriam with Luke, please show me what it is.
In the photograph, Luke stood on the fringe of the gathering, looking as if he didn't belong with the others. Everyone else was smiling broadly. But not Luke. He stared into the camera lens with a sullen expression that said, "I only set up this group photo because they made me. I want to be elsewhere."
Miriam had devoted her life to raising that kid and raising him right. She'd brought him up in the admonition of the Lord. From the cradle, Luke had seen by his mother's example that God should be the central focus of every day, every moment.
"Why Luke, God?" Jacob said aloud as he set the photograph on the desk. "My kids didn't have Christian parents when they were little or even a happy home life. Elaine and I were fighting all the time, and they took the brunt of it. But they've turned out well despite us, and they love You. Why is Luke turning such a hard heart toward You and his mom? And how can I help?"
If he was hoping for a flash of inspiration, it didn't come.
Miriam had given Luke strict instructions to be home by one o'clock in the afternoon. When he hadn't returned by five, she called the Lewis home. There wasn't any a
nswer. She waited another hour, then tried again. Still no answer. She considered driving to Sean's, but then realized it wouldn't do any good if no one was home. All she could do was wait.
It was nearly ten o'clock before Luke straggled in the back door. Miriam was waiting for him, her arms folded across her chest, her emotions ping-ponging between relief that he was home and anger at his disobedience.
Before she could say a word, he looked up, saw her, and stopped. One look in his blurry eyes and she knew he wasn't sober.
"Lucas Delaney, what on earth have you been doing?"
"Nothing." He wobbled slightly before leaning a shoulder against the wall. "I was with my friends. Is that a crime?"
"You were supposed to be home hours ago."
"What for?"
"Because I told you to, young man." She narrowly held her temper. "You've been drinking, haven't you?"
He smiled, a twisted, mocking expression. "I'm stoned out of my gourd. So what?"
She covered her mouth with the flat of her fingers.
"You know what your problem is, Mom? You're uptight. You need to live a little." He pushed off the wall and walked unsteadily toward her. "Maybe you oughta try smokin' a joint yourself." He brushed past her. "I'm goin' to bed."
Miriam whirled around, no longer containing her anger. "You won't talk to me that way."
He muttered something about not talking to her at all and kept walking.
"Luke!"
He answered with an ugly curse before disappearing through the doorway.
Too stunned to move or speak, Miriam let him go.
Frank Gresham knew something was wrong.
Miriam hadn't been in church this morning, and she hadn't called him either. She always called him if she wouldn't be there.
He pulled to the curb, his automobile creaking and groaning as if it were as old as he was. Cutting off the engine, he stared at the front of Miriam's home while whispering a prayer. Then he opened the car door and got out.
Reaching the front door, he rang the bell and waited. After what seemed a long time with still no answer, he tried the door. It was unlocked.
"Miriam?" He poked his head inside. "Are you home?"
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