by Gayle Roper
"Give me something for the pain!" he yelled. "You can't cuff me to this thing! Police brutality! I want something for the pain!" He saw Kelli and Dane standing off to the side. "They pushed me, you know. The cops. It's all their fault!"
Greg, Dane's police buddy, followed the gurney, pulling up short when he saw Dane and Kelli. "I thought I told you to get lost."
Dane stuck his index finger up to Greg's nose. "You should have made a move sooner. He had his hands on her!"
Kelli blinked. Where did all that anger come from? Was it really in her behalf?
Greg held up a hand. "We had to make sure he had the drugs."
"By putting her in danger?"
"There was no case until he had them in his possession." Greg looked Kelli over. "She looks fine to me. You're okay, right?" He smiled at her.
Kelli laid a hand on Dane's arm. "It's okay. I'm okay."
"No thanks to him," Dane muttered, but his anger had blown itself out.
"We've been watching the house for two days," Greg said, "waiting for the package we knew was coming, thanks to a confidential informant in Philadelphia. I missed Thanksgiving dinner with my family over this guy. So did most of the others." He flicked a hand toward the house. "But we got him. And nobody was hurt except him. Unmarked car nabbed his partner down the street."
They watched as the EMTs slammed the ambulance doors on their charge. Two uniformed officers climbed in a car, ready to follow.
"What happened to him?" Kelli asked.
Greg gave a short laugh. "He tried to escape by jumping from the porch. He landed where the cement path around the house meets the ground, right on the edge. Turned his ankle and broke it. He broke his wrist when he put his hand out to stop from smashing his face into the dirt. He's either very brittle or very unlucky. Probably both."
"Who is he?" Dane asked.
"Ben Bennington."
"Bennington?" Dane gave a short laugh. "Annalise's brother? Husband?"
"There is no Annalise. Bennington's an only child and he's not married."
Kelli watched the ambulance pull away. "So why Annalise in the address?"
Greg crossed his arms over his chest. "Remember the return address on the package?"
Kelli nodded. "Some law firm in Philadelphia."
"Viola, Davis, and Keating." Dane rattled it off.
"How to Get Away with Murder." Greg shook his head as if bemused. "Viola Davis is the actress, and her character's last name is Keating."
"And her first name is Annalise." Kelli looked over her shoulder at Dane. "Remember? I mentioned it last night."
"Yes, you did." Dane looked chagrined. "And I missed that clue staring me right in the face. I was concentrating too hard on the Annalise, not the sender."
"Whoever sent the package was trying too hard to be clever," Greg said.
Kelli agreed. "But clever as he was, he messed up the address."
"Which Kelli figured out." Dane gave her a squeeze, and her stupid heart fluttered.
"Inverted numbers." Greg shrugged. "Who'd have thought?"
"Maybe he has dyscalculia." Kelli let out Charlie's leash now that there was no one but Greg close. Charlie headed for the big bush and watered it.
"Maybe he has what?" Greg pulled out a tablet and pen.
"Dyscalculia, the number equivalent to dyslexia. People with dyscalculia transpose numbers frequently and have trouble with math because the numbers move around on them. They also have trouble memorizing numerical sequences."
Greg noted the information. "It will be interesting to check that theory out when we pick up the sender."
"You know who it is?" Dane asked.
"Not yet, but Bennington will talk. He'll spill all he knows trying to bargain for a lesser sentence. Whoever the sender is, he was smart enough to send the stuff UPS instead of USPS." Greg looked over his shoulder as someone called his name. He held up a be-right-there finger. "The sender kept himself and Bennington from committing a federal crime by not using the U.S. postal service."
Dane looked thoughtful. "It'll be interesting to see if it was purpose or luck because he didn't trust the mail."
Greg started for the house. "I gotta go, and you might as well go home. The unexciting part starts now."
"We just might stay and watch." Dane's face was alive with curiosity.
Greg shook his head. "It wasn't a suggestion."
"Oh." Dane's face fell.
Kelli laughed. "Come on. Let's go. This Alabama girl is freezing."
She started walking toward her house, Charlie at her side. Dane fell in beside her.
They walked in silence, but Kelli could practically hear Dane's gray matter vibrating.
"What?" She stopped and faced him. "What?"
He blinked at her. "What what?"
"Something's got you keyed up. Something besides busting a drug ring."
"We fixed my problem." He grinned. "You fixed my problem."
"I did?" She squinted at him. "And what problem is that?"
"Writer's block."
"You had writer's block?"
"I did. That's why I came to see you last night. I thought finding Annalise might help me. I thought you might help me. And you did! It's gone. I've got so many ideas I can't keep track of them. I need my laptop."
She started to walk, analyzing his comment. "So I'm merely a means to an end? And I can be replaced by a laptop?" She couldn't decide if she should be insulted.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. "Not what I meant."
She studied him, her heart aching with a strange combination of fear and hope. "What did you mean?"
"I meant I have lots of ideas I don't want to lose."
"Uh-huh."
"And I owe it all to you."
"Ah."
"And much as I need my laptop, I need you more."
They stared at each other, equally shocked.
"What did you say?" she managed to whisper.
He looked over her head, brow furrowed. "I said I need you."
"What does that mean? I'm like your muse who gives you ideas?" She hoped not. She wanted to be more, much more.
"Yeah, my muse, sort of."
Her heart shriveled.
"But more."
Hope soared, a bright balloon floating, rising, lifting her heart and making her bite back the smile that might yet be premature.
"When I saw that guy in the hoodie grab you, my heart stopped. And I knew." He spoke the words with what sounded like amazement.
"You knew?" Oh, dear Lord, please!
He nodded, expression serious. "I knew it wasn't nothing there. It was something there, something fine and lovely and full of potential."
Fine and lovely and full of potential? Yowzah!
He ran the back of his hand down her cheek. "Want to explore that potential with me?"
She couldn't stop smiling even as one worry nibbled at her. "But I'm not perfect."
He looked confused. "Right. Neither am I."
"But I'm really not perfect."
He studied her. "Are you trying to discourage me? Is this your way of saying there's no potential?"
"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
His eyebrows rose. "In you?"
She looked into those beautiful blue eyes. "Yes."
He glanced down at Charlie. "Has she ever disappointed you, boy?"
Charlie leaned into her, his weight forcing her to take a step to keep her balance. She found herself in Dane's arms.
His arms tightened around her. "I'm not nor have I ever been looking for perfection. I've been looking for you."
She rested her head on his chest, hearing his heart beat strong in her ear. One day soon she suspected she'd tell him she had been looking for him too, praying for him, even loving him—or the idea of him—for a long time. Tonight she'd settle for today being the best Thanksgiving ever.
#
What are your dreams? Do you, like Kelli, dream of a loving, faith-filled family? Or do yo
ur dreams revolve around a career you aspire to or a position you want? Maybe a healthy body? A deep friendship? A wonderful, Christ-honoring guy?
Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart (Psalm 37:4).
It's easy to read this verse and assume God will fulfill our dreams. If we delight in Him, He's obligated to give us what we want.
Two issues here, at least for me. 1. God is not obligated to do anything. He is God, and He calls the shots. He has been gracious to us in so many ways, especially in providing salvation through Christ. He blesses us with common grace, things we all experience like sunshine and rain, breath and life. He also blesses us with things specific to each of our lives—friends, family, answers to our prayers. But these things are gifts He gives us, grace-gifts. He's not obligated in any way.
Issue #2. How do we explain the many believers who never realize their dreams, whatever they are? Are they all weak of faith? Do they all not delight themselves in the Lord? What about believers who live in the hard places on this earth, places where being a Christian is incredibly dangerous? They have dreams for themselves and for their children, and the chances of them being fulfilled are slight. Is this verse not for them?
Perhaps we look at this verse backwards. It's not A = B. It's A causes B. Perhaps it means that when we delight in the Lord, our hearts become tuned to Him and we come to desire what He chooses for us, and that might be unfulfilled dreams. Perhaps it's these unfulfilled dreams that God uses to cause us to trust more deeply, to desire Him more.
Maybe you, like Kelli, will realize your dream. But remember that while she delights in Dane's family, she still has her birth family to deal with, pray for, and love. Even fulfilled dreams aren't perfect.
-Gayle
Seaside Gifts sample
If you enjoyed Special Delivery, check out Gayle's Seaside novel Seaside Gifts. Here's a short sample.
#
Every time Nan Patterson surveyed the aisles of Present Perfect, she stared potential failure in the face. Depending on the moment, she was either terrified or energized by her gift shop on the boardwalk in Seaside, a barrier island off the coast of New Jersey. Some days, she was both.
At the moment, one thirty on a June Monday afternoon, she felt good about how things were going. Two women were walking around the store with don't-bother-me-I'm-shopping expressions on their faces, a delight for a store owner to see. A third had just bought five sparkly rings with different colored stones.
"One for each of my four grand-girls," she'd said. "And one for me." With a satisfied smile she walked toward the door that exited to the boardwalk.
A cop entered and moved toward the rear of the store, approaching Nan. His hands rested on his belt, which had all the cop paraphernalia hanging from it, as if holding on would prevent him from bumping into anything as he passed through the aisles.
Men were frequently uncomfortable in the shop. Large bodies and breakable items were a bad match. Add the cop's belt, and it was a disaster waiting to happen. At least the cop seemed to think so.
He was good looking, tall, and broad shouldered with a careful smile he directed at her as she stood behind the cash register. If she could have chosen someone to respond to her call about the crime, she couldn't have done better.
He stepped aside to make room for the woman who was admiring one of the five new sparkly rings shining on her right hand. Her shopping bag with the remaining rings wasn't large, but she was, and the cop visibly inhaled to try and make himself thinner as she passed.
It was a very tight squeeze.
When the woman had moved successfully down the aisle, he exhaled and looked around, taking in Present Perfect's eclectic stock. He eyed the colorful cards, placemats and napkins in sherbet shades, nice though inexpensive jewelry, small ceramic and wooden figurines, framed and unframed prints and photographs of landscapes and seascapes, wooden signs that read SEASIDE in different scripts and colors, clever little lighthouses, pretty plates bearing beach scenes, and her favorite part of the shop, the Christmas corner.
Nan could easily interpret his expression: Who wants all this stuff? And when he scowled at the Christmas tree, he was clearly wondering who buys Christmas stuff in June. Poor guy. He'd be so much happier at The Home Depot with its wide aisles and power tools.
He finally reached the counter and almost sighed with relief.
"I'm looking for your boss."
Nan liked the deep voice that went with the deep brown eyes. "You're talking to her." Being a mere wisp over five feet and slim as a boy always made people look around for the boss.
He raised an eyebrow. "Nan Patterson?"
"That's me." She held out her hand. "Thanks for coming so quickly."
He swallowed his surprise and gave a brief, professional shake. "Well, theft is a serious thing."
She frowned. "What theft?"
He looked disconcerted and pulled a small notebook from his pocket. He flipped a few pages until he came to what he wanted. He pointed as if she could see what was written there. "Didn't you call about thievery?"
"Oh!" She gave him her best grin. "Not thievery. Leavery."
It was his turn to look blank.
"Leavery," Nan repeated. "Someone keeps leaving things here."
She could see—she squinted at his chest and read his name tag—Officer Eastman lose interest. It was as obvious as a balloon deflating as it lost its air.
"I'm sure whoever left whatever will return for it." He gave a polite smile while clearly communicating that the Seaside PD wasn't in the lost and found business. His hands went to his belt as he prepared to turn and face the gauntlet of narrow aisles once again.
"No, no," Nan said hastily. "It's not like someone leaving a purchase or an umbrella or something. Someone is leaving valuable items."
"Then all the more reason they'll come for them."
There might as well have been a blinking neon sign over his head. False alarm. Waste of time.
She leaned toward him as if proximity would make him understand. "Not purchased items. Abandoned items. Valuable abandoned items."
He frowned. "Abandoned items." He clearly didn't get it.
"Like a Limoges cup and saucer or a Royal Doulton figurine or an antique doll."
Nan chose to see his frown as an improvement over the disinterest of a moment ago. She reached under the counter and carefully pulled out a white china pitcher with gold vines all over it, clusters of raised golden grapes nestled amid the vines. "Unique Wedgwood."
"Uh-huh." He continued to look unimpressed.
Nan reminded herself that they didn't study fine china at the Police Academy. She tried again. "This isn't part of the stock of Present Perfect. I don't carry things of this quality. The boardwalk is hardly the venue for really good stuff."
Food, sunglasses, beach towels, and Seaside Tshirts and sweatshirts were the staples of most shops, except for Present Perfect, which attracted its customers by offering an alternative. Still, it was the boardwalk, and pricey was out.
He glanced around the store again and seemed to understand that while everything she had was lovely in its own way, it was also far from expensive.
"This pitcher appeared this morning." She held it up for him to see. "It's like poof! There it was."
He looked at it, then at her, and blinked.
She bit back a sigh at his lack of comprehension. "I opened the store, walked next door to grab a coffee, and when I got back, there it was, sitting on a counter beside some pretty plastic luncheon plates with matching glasses." She ran a gentle finger over a grape cluster. "This baby is worth about $50 if eBay is any indication. Not a great sum, but still, it's totally different from my stock."
She put it back beneath the counter. "Someone just left it, and I have no idea who. Or why. The Royal Doulton Balloon Man and Balloon Woman appeared yesterday. A Limoges cup and saucer appeared two days ago, as did a small original watercolor of a Ferris wheel. Left with no explanation. The first thing
appeared about a week ago, a doll with a bisque head. She was left propped against the cash register."
Officer Eastman's face lit up. "Leavery."
Finally! "That's why I called the police. I don't know what to do about it."
"Say thank you?" Officer Eastman suggested.
Nan narrowed her eyes. "Cute."
He grinned, which made her glare harder. "I want to give the stuff back, but I don't know who to give it to or how to go about finding who to give it to. You guys solve mysteries."
A customer came to the counter, eyeing Officer Eastman uncertainly. Nan immediately abandoned him and smiled at her customer, who held a small silver picture frame with pressed flowers under its glass.
"Lovely, isn't it?" Nan said as she took the frame. "The woman who does this work is a Seaside resident."
"Really?" The customer opened her large multi-colored beach bag, rummaged for a while, and finally pulled out a credit card. "That makes it an even better memento of our vacation."
Nan swathed the picture in tissue and used a piece of tape to hold the wrappings in place. She pulled out one of the distinctive royal blue bags with Present Perfect written in gold across it, the lettering a miniature version of the sign Aunt Char had hung out front thirty years ago when she opened the place.
The customer pointed vaguely to one corner of the shop. "You have a wonderful antique bugle over there. I'd love to get it for my husband. He belonged to a bugle corps in high school, but there's no price on it."
Nan didn't think her manner faltered, but Officer Eastman narrowed his eyes and looked where the woman indicated.
"I'm sorry," Nan said with the warmest smile she could manage. "If there's no price tag, the item isn't for sale. It's just for atmosphere. Interest. Amusement."
The woman was not amused.
Nan kept her smile in place as she ran the card for the dried flower picture and collected the customer's signature. She even managed to stay behind the counter until the woman left the store. Then she bolted for the corner.
Sure enough, an old brass bugle, tarnished and dinged, sat on the counter between a display of lovely floral notepaper—some of her older customers still wrote letters—and a trio of ornate picture frames holding the beautiful faces of models looking delighted with life.