Pinpoint (Point #4)

by Olivia Luck

  Pinpoint

  Copyright © 2016 by Olivia Luck

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1532909559

  ISBN-10: 1532909551

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Jenny Sims

  Interior Design & Formatting by Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  Pinpoint

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  To HP. You’ll probably never read this, but I’ll tell you about it.

  A piercing cry echoed through the delivery room as the baby came into the world.

  “It’s a girl,” a nurse cried exuberantly.

  Exhausted, the child’s mother collapsed onto the stiff white sheets of the hospital mattress while the father watched on in dismay.

  Despite the joyous occasion, the father’s mood was remarkably dour. Another one? he thought grimly. Neither of his daughters would be able to take his place at the head of his Baptist congregation.

  There was nothing to it.

  They would have to have another child. The plan began forming in his mind even as he went through the motions of drumming up a pleased expression. Father had his attention wrapped so tightly around how to get a male heir to carry on his lineage that he almost didn’t notice the flurry of activity teeming around his wife.

  Something was terribly wrong. His eyes darted to where a nurse placed his daughter in a clear-sided case as activity swarmed around him. Another nurse hooked her arm around his elbow to lead him out of the delivery room and into the hallway. Dimly, he acknowledged her words—bleeding, emergency, infection, surgery.

  In the waiting area, his escort gently deposited him in a hard plastic chair and then scurried off, promising to return with news. Closing in on two in the morning, he realized the room was nearly empty. His other daughter was at home with one of the parishioners from his church, unbeknownst to the struggle her mother faced. Slumping forward, Father rested his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his outstretched palms, and waited, silently praying for the life of his wife.

  Later—he wasn’t sure how much time had passed—the grim-face doctor strode into the waiting room and called his name.

  “My wife?” he choked to the man clad in dark blue surgical scrubs.

  “She’s resting comfortably in the recovery room.”

  “What happened?” Father wasn’t one to tremble, but at this moment, his voice shook. He couldn’t lose her. No other woman was worthy to fulfill the role of his wife.

  The doctor began a lengthy medical discussion of what had occurred. Most of the terminology passed outside his understanding of medicine, but he was too proud to ask the doctor to explain.

  He understood one word.

  “Unfortunately, we had to perform a hysterectomy,” the doctor said gently. “She will never be able to have children again.”

  A silent fury crept through him at the injustice of the situation. But he could not reveal the full depth of his emotion. He was a respected member of the community; as the pastor, the community called upon him for weddings, funerals, counseling . . . No, he could not scream at the doctor for butchering his wife’s body. He could not wail because he would never have the son that he’d dreamed of his entire adult life.

  “Come back and see your wife. We’ll bring your daughter in. She’s doing beautifully. Do you have a name picked out?” the doctor said, reading the pastor’s silence as shock.

  The pastor cleared his throat. His lips pressed into a taut line. “My wife selects the names for the girls.” He kept his voice to a murmur; afraid any inflection would betray his disbelief and disdain for another girl. Was it so much for a man of faith to want a son to carry on his family name and heritage? He was a pastor, his father was a pastor, his father’s father was a pastor, and so forth. The only way to control who would take over his congregation would be by selecting a husband for one of his daughters. He wasn’t opposed to the notion, but he would prefer to have a son to mold into the ideal successor.

  Fighting a sigh, the pastor dutifully entered the hospital room where his fatigued wife lay with a bundle of pink blanket on her breast. He moved to her side, making the appropriate cooing noises, and stroked his hand over the child’s wispy blond strands of hair. It wasn’t as if he had no feelings at all for the baby girl. She evoked a sense of pride and a corner of softness in his heart, but she wasn’t what he truly wanted.

  “What would you like to call her?” His voice sounded rough like sandpaper when he spoke. Thankfully, none of the nurses in the room or his wife took notice, likely assuming his wife’s near-death experience had left him tired and shaken.

  “Iris,” his wife said resolutely. “My baby girls are my flowers. I already have a Violet and now an Iris.” She gazed at the child with such love and affection, the pastor momentarily wondered if he was looking at this scenario backward. His wife survived the traumatic birth and held their healthy daughter in their arms. What more could he ask for?

  A son.

  Seventeen years later

  The pastor stalked through the kitchen, a frown doing nothing to soften his already stark features. His youngest daughter kneaded dough at the kitchen countertop, oblivious to her scowling father.

  “Why aren’t you at youth group?” he asked sharply.

  Though she lifted her head, her eyes remained downcast. Iris learned early she was to show respect to her father and mother at all times. That meant, on occasions when her father glowed with displeasure, it was safer to avoid eye contact.

  “I thought my time would be better spent preparing for the bake sale,” she said softly, though clearly. As much as she didn’t want to argue with him, she refused to relent on the simplest joy of her young life. The kitchen brought her pleasure she found nowhere else, and she didn’t intend to scamper off to the youth group just because he demanded it.

  “How many times do I need to explain this? There were enough negative repercussions when your sister cast off from this family and the church. It is more important than ever that we maintain our position as a pillar of our community and the church. That means you need to be at the youth group meeting and the bake sale and whatever other activities the church asks of you. I don’t care if you are up all hours of the night, Iris; you will not disobey me on this matter,” Father growled.

>   Then and only then did she lift her gaze to meet his scowl. Iris’ spine went rigid, and her lips tightened at the corners. She didn’t just match her father in her fair coloring and deep blue eyes; she also took on his trait of being unable to mask her emotions.

  One day you’ll leave this place, she promised herself.

  At that moment, Iris’ mother bustled into the kitchen, arms loaded with grocery bags.

  “Iris, what are you doing here? I thought there was youth group today,” she said in surprise, oblivious to the tension between her husband and daughter.

  “I–” Iris opened her mouth to protest but knew it would do no good. Her mother always took her father’s side. At times, Iris saw dissidence in her mother’s features, but the woman always squashed it—especially when it came to her children. Because neither Iris nor her mother had spoken up, Father banished her sister, Violet, from the family. Violet’s absence was a daily ache throbbing in Iris’ chest.

  “I thought it would be best if I worked on my pies for the bake sale,” she finally repeated.

  “You know you shouldn’t skip youth group. They were counting on your attendance. Besides, John Tyler is there.” Her mother didn’t try to hide the gleam in her eyes while Iris could hardly suppress a shudder. For years, her parents had been hinting she should date the pious young man who made it no secret he wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps.

  Be stuck in this life forever? Iris simply couldn’t fathom the idea. After seventeen years of living in a home devoid of love, Iris wanted that one thing most in her life. John Tyler didn’t make her heart race or her breath catch. He was a scrawny guy who spent more time with his nose stuck in a Bible than anything else in his adolescent life.

  “I don’t want my dough to spoil,” she said in a lame attempt to dissuade her parents from forcing her to the youth group event in the church basement.

  “Next time, you will be there,” her father gritted. He was a waste not, want not type and wouldn’t want to ruin the perfectly good dough.

  “Yes, sir,” Iris responded, eyes drifting back to the table.

  Someday, you’ll be free to do whatever you want, whenever you want, she promised herself.

  Purple and white frosting swirl together to make delicate peaks on top of the vanilla cupcakes. Crinkled white paper cups the bottom of each mini cake where they sit in the clear plastic carrying case. Studying the cupcakes focuses me. As always, when I get nervous, the physical symptoms start at my fingertips. Tiny pinpricks of anxiety dot across my finger pads until they consume my entire hand.

  “Iris—they’re ready for you.”

  Clutching the case in one palm and my purse in the other, I thank the receptionist as she leads me to a small conference room. The dread building inside me would be appropriate for a job interview or maybe a blind date. Glancing at the posters decorating the cream-colored hallway, I remind myself what brought me to the midrise office building in the Loop—Mentoring Chicago. The prestigious volunteer organization is one of the largest and well-known community service programs in the city. Notoriety means Mentoring Chicago can be picky when selecting its mentors. That’s why I brought the cupcakes; I am hoping a sugar surge will sway the decision-making committee because I have no formal training in baking. A spatula and a prayer got me here.

  Two youngish men are laughing in the conference room when I enter. One has a full golden beard and mustache and the other wears black-framed glasses. Hipsters. I didn’t know what the term meant when I moved to the city from Winter, Illinois a few months ago, and I still don’t quite get it, but my sister says they’re an independent thinking and dressing subculture. Well, I’m still getting a handle on the culture-culture.

  I propel myself to the men emanating a protective shield of assurance. Underneath the layer of placidity, I’m trembling. Darn it. I want them to accept me into the program. If Mentoring Chicago picks me, I’ll teach a weekly baking class to underprivileged youth. I’m eager to have an independent hobby all on my own and not the making of my older sister, Violet.

  “Iris, welcome to Mentoring Chicago,” the one with glasses says as they both rise.

  Unceremoniously, I place the cupcake carrier and my bag on the cherry wood conference table. We share the obligatory handshake, and as I knew from the little avatars next to their email addresses during our correspondence, they are Andy (glasses) and Bruce (beard).

  The plastic lid opens with a click when I unlatch the locks to reveal my contribution to the meeting. With care not to disturb the carefully frosted cupcakes, I gently remove two treats from their case and hand each man one. “It’s never too early for a cupcake.” The waver in my tone betrays the nerves still coursing through me. Steadily, I ignore the anxiety.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Andy says. His straight white teeth sink into my creation, and a low moan slips from his lips. “Holy shit, this is good.”

  “Did you put crack in these?” Bruce asks through a bite. “Let’s be upfront about the rules—crack in any form is against protocol.”

  At their playful compliments, my lips curl up and my fear begins to dissipate. “No illegal substances of any kind. This is a recipe of my own: cinnamon-vanilla cupcakes with buttercream frosting.”

  “As you can tell, we’re pretty informal here,” Andy says after polishing off his cupcake. “Before we get to you, I’ll give you some background on our organization.”

  Nodding in agreement, I settle into my seat.

  “Mentoring Chicago was started twenty-five years ago by a group of students at Northwestern. In the beginning, one hundred teens came to four classes: woodworking, creative writing, pottery, and computer skills. Now, we serve three thousand teenagers and run two hundred programs.”

  “Wow.” I can’t help but marvel in appreciation.

  “Boiled down, our mission is to give Chicago public high school teens the chance to explore and develop their talents. We want these teenagers to learn real-world skills to use when they’re out of high school—whether it’s for college or a job. There are internships, classes, and apprenticeships.” Bruce glances down to a sheet of paper lying on the tabletop. “You’re applying for a classroom; we cap it at fifteen students with one teacher. If we decide to move forward, you’ll be on your own in the room with the kids. The idea of having two hours alone with no backup can be intimidating to some of our instructors. That’s why we require a syllabus.

  “We’ll chat with you a little bit, answer any questions you have. If all goes well with our conversation, we will conduct a background check. As long as you pass that, we’ll ask you to develop and submit a syllabus to promote the course to our students,” Andy explains.

  The not-so-subtle ‘we’re judging you’ undertones are not lost on me. Coming into this meeting, I knew it was an audition. That’s why I spent two hours this morning baking cupcakes. I sit up a little straighter and maintain a placid outward appearance. Inside, I’m quivering. I need this job.

  Volunteer position, I amend.

  “Why do you want to work with our students?” Andy asks.

  Inhaling a discreet breath through my nose, I mentally will my voice to remain even. “One of my first memories in the kitchen was making pies with my mother for the church bake sale. Contributing to the sale was one of her least favorite duties of being a pastor’s wife, so she enlisted my sister and me to help. Even though I was only seven or eight, I fell in love with the feel of dough forming between my hands. On the other hand, my sister was like my mother and quickly found a reason to escape the chore.” My lips curl involuntarily. “At first, I didn’t realize baking was a science of proportions. In the beginning, there were plenty of ruined cookies and, eventually, flat soufflés, but the time I spent learning in the kitchen were the best memories of my childhood.” Holy cow, I’m on a roll. “When I was old enough, I ran cooking lessons for kids at the summer church camp. It didn’t take long for me to realize that teaching others how to bake is my second favorite thing to creat
ing on my own. A few months ago, I moved here from a small town a couple of hours west. I want to get involved in my community, meet new people, and share my love of baking. Not necessarily in that order.” When I finish, I’m sitting a little straighter. There. I said everything I rehearsed.

  “Oh, yeah? Where are you from? I’m a rural transplant, too,” Bruce says.

  “Winter.” An apt name for the bitingly chilly place I called home at one time.

  “Been there a few times. I’m from Galena.”

  “Galena is a beautiful town.” Suddenly, shyness creeps in, and I focus my attention on the cupcake tin.

  Andy clears his throat. Apparently realizing how we veered off topic, Bruce’s cheeks go red, and he shakes his head. He strokes a hand across his beard, seemingly gathering himself.

  “Do you have any professional or educational experience in the kitchen?” Andy asks.

  Tingling erupts across my fingertips. “Nothing formal, no. My experience comes for twenty years in a kitchen.” I pluck a plastic-covered, spiral-bound notebook from my oversized purse and place it on the table before them. Then I retrieve a small wooden box. “These are photographs of cakes, cookies, breads, pies, scones, muffins—you name it—that I’ve prepared over the years. I also brought my original recipes, and some that I’ve modified. They’re in the box.”

  “If you’re this passionate about being in the kitchen, why aren’t you working in a bakery?” Bruce asks when he glances up from a picture of a donut platter I made for the annual village of Winter autumnal celebration.

  Do you have an extra hour to let me explain? There’s the sister reason, the father reason, the lack confidence reason. Though I doubt Bruce and Andy want my life story. “The first job I found when I moved to Chicago was in event planning. I don’t want to leave my employer–” in this case, my sister “–suddenly. And I like my job working events. I’m learning my way around the city. One day, I’ll pursue baking full time.”