“No, not really. But just so you know where I stand—if the two of you do get married, that’s okay, even if there will be no living with Gertie.”
“Aunt Adel, please stop talking nonsense.”
“Gertie’s convinced that your relationship with Cynthia . . . .”
“I have no relationship with Cynthia. Not the kind you mean.”
“Gertie’s convinced that this is all her doing, getting you and Cynthia together, since it was, according to Gertie, her prayers that turned you around. All week she’s been telling everyone she’s sure you’ll announce your wedding soon. And she wants you to know she expects an invitation.”
“Aunt Adel!”
“And if you do, marry Cynthia that is, then there’ll be no end of hearing her say, “I told you so.”
“Aunt Adel that’s not going to happen because . . . .”
“Anyway, I just wanted you to know that if you did marry Cynthia, I could live with all that. I could live with Gertie’s remarks.”
Cynthia couldn’t sleep and wandering around the apartment. Everything was spotless. She ran one hand over the back of the sofa, then strolled to her desk. She glanced at her reflection in the polished top. The past week was a blur, like a merry-go-round whizzing out of control and going in one endless circle. But it had stopped.
Finally.
And her life was coming back together. No more looking over her shoulder, worrying if Skinner or someone else was there.
So why couldn’t she sleep?
She headed for the kitchen. Maybe warm milk would help. She filled a mug, then put it in the microwave. While it heated, she scanned the pile of papers next to the phone. She saw a note with the name, Jonathan, scribbled across it, then another one and another one. She sighed. How could she have gone so long without returning his calls? She remembered the merry-go-round. It could happen. But would he understand?
The microwave beeped and as she removed the mug, she glanced at the clock. It was too late to call him, now. She sipped the milk, nearly burning her tongue. If the milk didn’t work, maybe she’d finish her project. She glanced at the mirror propped in the corner. There were still areas that needed to be enhanced with black paint. She walked in the opposite direction. The thought of working on the mirror left her cold.
She paced the kitchen, then pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. Why did she feel so antsy, so wired as though she had eaten a dozen candy bars?
Why couldn’t she sleep?
She should be as happy as a clam, back in her safe nest, her life under control, again. And things couldn’t be better at the paper. She had never seen Bernie so delirious—talking of Pulitzers and raises. He’d give her carte blanche, now, at least for the next few months.
The milk steamed in the mug and Cynthia raised it to her lips. This feeling of being out of sorts, this depression, didn’t make sense. She took a few sips, then put it down. On the other hand, maybe it did. Because unlike most people, Cynthia didn’t like to see the giant land on his tail. She preferred to see him tall and strong and bearing up the weak, strengthening all those around him with his power and goodness. The truth was, the fall of Charles Angus had saddened her. A lot.
She tried putting him out of her mind, but couldn’t. As a reporter, she didn’t like unanswered questions, and the one that kept popping in her mind was why? Why had a man like Charles Angus, a man who had everything, do what he did?
Jonathan had often talked about fallen man; how we were all sinners. No shock there. No bursting of a bubble. In her line of work she had seen plenty of corruption—sinful men living sinful lives. And she well knew the cornucopia of her own sins. But if that was what all mankind was, where was the hope? But there was hope. She had seen that, too. Stubby, Effie, Miss Emily all testified to it.
Stubby had tried to tell her about it, had tried to tell her about Jesus, but she had been too afraid of rejection. Or . . . was she too afraid of what it would cost?
Cynthia swirled her milk and watched it pitch from side to side. When it settled, she brought it to her lips then stopped. A cup of hot milk wasn’t going to cut it. After a brief hesitation, she put it down, picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hi, Jonathan.”
“Cynthia? Is everything alright? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just wanted to talk.”
“Now?”
Cynthia squinted at the clock. “I know, it’s indecent to call at this hour.”
“I called three times last week. You never returned one of them. I was worried. I haven’t talked to you or heard from you since the night I told you about what I found in the mission basement.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are.”
“Well, friends don’t treat each other like that.”
“I know. I know. But it’s been crazy. Really crazy. Between all the paperwork at the police station and their questions, then working to get my story out . . . then the sequel . . . .”
“I’ve been reading them. You did a great job.”
“Yeah, that’s what Bernie said, but Jonathan, in my heart I know the story isn’t finished.” She heard him groan.
“With you, it’s always the story, isn’t it?”
“A good reporter digs until she gets the whole story. And there’s so much I still need to find out . . . to understand. Like Stubby’s changed life. Like Effie and Daisy and Miss Emily. I really need to understand.”
“Cynthia, you can’t come back to the mission. It’s too disruptive.”
“To whom?”
“To me.”
Silence.
“This isn’t about you and me—although I’d like it to be . . . want it to be. But first I’ve got to get this settled.”
“Get what settled?”
“Once, you did a sermon about someone who was on a journey and stops at his friend’s house because he was hurt or in trouble or was searching for answers. And even though it wasn’t convenient, the friend didn’t turn him away.
“What is it you want, Cynthia?”
“Some answers . . . some hope . . . some faith. Some . . . mercy.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I so enjoyed writing Mercy at Midnight because I love stories of redemption. I’m constantly taken back by the great love of our God and how He desires none to perish. There is no life too damaged, too broken, too lowly to escape His attention or love. That should be a comfort to us all, for that means no one is disqualified.
If you are one who has yet to experience the love and acceptance of God now is a good time to change that. Jesus said in John 14:6, “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.” That’s the starting point and there’s no getting around it. And it’s simple, too. Just ask Jesus, our sin bearer, to forgive you for all your sins. Tell Him you want Him to come into your life, leading it, directing it, in short, to take control. Then be prepared to be blessed and changed, and to come into a vibrant new life with Him.
I can think of no greater wish for you than this.
Love and blessings,
Sylvia Bambola
http://www.sylviabambola.com
[email protected]
Mercy at Midnight Page 35