“Looks like it’s just you and me, boy. As always.” Chris plodded to the front door then held it open for the arthritic dog.
Massaging the back of his neck, he surveyed the living room. “So, what should I conquer first, unpacking this mound of junk that I really don’t need, or turning that college hangout café of mine into a believers’ retreat?” He flipped open a box of high school football trophies tucked beneath his old letterman jacket. “This can go in the basement.” Hoisting the box into his arms, he wove his way through the cluttered living room. His couch sat parallel to his mother’s, The smooth, tan leather a sharp contrast to the faded floral print dotted with decades worth of coffee stains. His heart warmed as an image of his mother standing face-to-face with his father, hands on her hips, flashed through his mind.
“But that thing’s a piece of junk, Irene. Why you insist on keeping it is beyond me. It’s not like we don’t have the money for new furniture.”
“Do you know how many Bible stories the children and I read on that couch? How many tears those pillows have caught as your children snuggled into my arms, sharing their tragedies of the day.” A playful smile tugged at her lips as she cupped Dad’s face in her hands. “Surely age is not a disqualifier, my dear. Because I say things go softer with age, once all the rough edges have been smoothed away.”
“Don’t think I’m oblivious to your not-so-hidden message, Mrs. Langley.” Chris’s father grabbed her by the waist and pulled her near, tickling her ribs until her cheeks turned rosy.
He turned to Rusty who sat a few feet away, watching him with droopy eyes. “The couch stays, old boy. At least, for the time being.”
Rusty lifted an ear and cocked his head.
“Oh, you don’t fool me. I’ve been talking to you for way too long to believe you don’t understand what I say.” He walked toward a narrow flight of stairs and paused at the bottom step. “Besides, if I needed anything other than a yes-man, I would’ve found a cat a long time ago.”
Ten boxes later, he relaxed on the front porch nursing a cup of decaf.
The purr of an engine and a flash of lights caught his attention. He turned toward the street as his sister, Matilda, pulled to the curb. The car barely stopped before she stepped out.
“Hey, sis. Nice . . .” He really needed to think before speaking. Or pray for a heart transformation so he could actually say what every brother ought to say to his sister. Even if she resembled a scouring pad.
Matilda, frumpish, with her wooden heels clicking on the walk, clutched a manila envelope in one hand and a black purse in the other.
Stopping a foot from the porch, she crossed her arms. Wine-colored lipstick seeped into the tiny lines around her lips, deepened by her scowl—which had become a permanent fixture following their father’s death.
He moved aside and swept his arm toward the front door.
Her frown deepened as she marched up the steps and into the house. She paused in the box-filled living room, eyebrows pinched together.
A perfect end to a tiring day. “Pull up a box.” Chris stifled a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching.
She wasn’t amused.
“How about we go in the kitchen. I’ll make coffee.” He maneuvered around a grandfather clock, two matching end tables, and a box of coffee mugs. Footsteps shuffled behind him.
“This is not a social call.”
But of course not, Matilda. I would hate to sully your day with the inconvenience of family and emotions. Oops, already have.
Face puckered, she clutched and released her hands as she surveyed the cluttered table. A brochure for Lily of the Valley lay on top.
Pulling out a chair, he motioned for her to sit down. She perched on the edge of her seat and rested her elbows on top of a lopsided pile of junk mail. Dropping her hands to her lap, she huffed.
“I spoke with my attorney. You and I know it will be much more economical and time-effective if we settle this among ourselves.”
Lord, if You want to give me a golden nugget to say here, I’d sure appreciate it.
He handed her the brochure for Lily of the Valley. “I agree. Have you had more time to look at the brochure?”
“I have, in detail and with much thought. I suggest you do the same.”
“I understand you’re concerned with the price. I’m prepared to cover that.” He glanced at a recent and unimpressive bank statement lying on the table.
Matilda followed his gaze and frowned. “And when reality catches up with this midlife-crisis dream chasing? Who will cover the expenses then? I’m sure you noticed the two-year contract required.”
“I did, and I am not concerned. God will take care of that.”
She sighed. “I have no problem with your . . . radical faith as you like to call it. So long as it doesn’t cause harm to anyone else. But when it encroaches on the well-being of others—”
“Let’s cut to the chase. I’m being served, is that it?”
Check it, buddy. Don’t say something you’ll regret.
She lifted her chin and stared down the long shaft of her nose. “If you insist on being so difficult . . .”
He stood. “Then it’s good I have a law degree. Thank you for stopping by.”
She remained glued to her chair. He walked over to her, placed his hand under her arm, and gently yet firmly pulled her to her feet.
“Well, I never!”
“You have now.” He nudged her to the door, her breath heaving in and out like an overdramatic teenager.
“Enjoy the rest of your day.” He grabbed a business card from his back pocket and handed it to her. “Your lawyer can call me at this number.”
With a gentle push, he eased her across the threshold, offered his best attempt at a smile, and softly closed the door. Laughter bubbled as an image of his sister standing on the other side, face scrunched tighter than a prune, emerged.
Chapter 9
ichard eased into his parents’ circular drive and cut the engine. He drew his cell phone from his front pocket. No missed calls, not from Ainsley or his publicist.
Frowning, he returned it to his pocket and stepped out. A gust of wind swept over him as he made his way to the mahogany double door. A familiar uneasiness settled in his stomach as he raised his hand to the bell. The first six notes of Beethoven’s Fifth chimed and a moment later, the door eased open.
“Richard, how nice to see you.” His mother’s silver hair glistened beneath the light of a crystal chandelier. She scanned his wardrobe before meeting his gaze.
“You look lovely as ever.” He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “I told Father I would be stopping by. Is he home?”
She moved aside to let him in. “He’s in the basement. I’ll let him know you’re here.” She pressed the intercom button to her right, initiating another melodious chime.
His father’s deep voice drifted through the speakers moments later. “Yes, Cheryl?”
Richard straightened and smoothed the front of his shirt. The knots in his stomach tightened like they had when, as a child, he’d awaited his father’s chastising hand.
“Richard is here.”
“Send him down.”
She offered Richard a tight smile. “I do hope you plan to stay for dinner.”
He made a deliberate move to check his watch. “I don’t have much time.”
“Then I suppose we shall eat quickly.”
Lowering his gaze, he walked through the foyer, past the formal sitting area to the descending stairs. His feet sank into the plush carpet, and the dim glow of recessed lighting overhead elongated his shadow. He paused at the bottom step. Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his chin and crossed the room. His father sat in a leather recliner, one leg draped over his knee, thick book in hand. He waited until Richard stood directly in front of him before looking up.
“Have a seat.” His father closed his book and set it on the glass-topped table in front of him. “I would say it is a pleasure to see you, but I presume y
ou are not here for pleasure’s sake.”
Richard sat in an adjacent love seat. “I read your article in Neuropsychology Today. I found it quite interesting.”
“So you came to discuss the benefits of structural magnetic resonance imaging of the adolescent brain?”
Richard shifted and resisted the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his pant legs. “A fascinating topic, to be sure. But no, that’s not why I came.” Although his father preferred the direct approach, Richard longed for a slight buffer period, if only until his muscles uncoiled. And yet, his father hadn’t risen to the top of his field by making small talk. “I came to seek your endorsement for my book.”
“Really, now, surely you are not asking me to pave your way for you. A man who cannot stand on his own is not ready to stand at all.
“I’m not asking you to pull strings on my behalf. I’m merely seeking—”
“To reap the benefits of my hard work. You’re wishing to build your reputation upon mine instead of making a name for yourself. Although as your father nothing would please me more than to see you succeed, it would not benefit you in the slightest if I secured your success for you.” He stood. “You’re staying for dinner, I presume?”
Richard fought against a frown. Although the idea further knotted his stomach, his father left little room for withdrawal. Besides, one last attempt remained untried. If his mother made the suggestion, through conversation, maybe his father would change his mind. Unlikely, perhaps, but not impossible.
He forced a smile. “Of course.” He followed his father across the room and up the stairs. The rich aroma of Salisbury steak and roasted garlic drifted from the kitchen, making his mouth water.
In the dining room, red wine filled three crystal glasses on the dining room table, and a large salad bowl centered the gold-and-maroon striped tablecloth.
His father sat at the head of the table. Locking his gaze on Richard’s, he lifted his glass, swirled it, then brought it to his nose. Richard sat beside him and arranged his already straight silverware.
The grandfather clock in the adjacent room chimed.
Moments later, Richard’s mother broke the awkward silence when she emerged from the kitchen carrying a platter of steaming meat covered in caramelized onions.
“How unfortunate Ainsley couldn’t join us.” She set the platter next to the salad. “You did invite her, didn’t you?”
Richard forked a slice of meat. “I didn’t think of it until just now.” A moment after he decided to stay himself. “Perhaps next week sometime.”
“Yes, a lovely idea. How is she doing? Did you give her the number of the florist I recommended? They did such a wonderful job with the Doriani wedding. You remember, don’t you? Those lilies filled the entire sanctuary with such a sweet fragrance. And not one of them revealed wilting or browning of any kind.”
Richard pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep from laughing as an image of his mother inspecting bouquets as she passed each pew resurfaced. The entire event remained fresh in his memory. Nearly half the women in the cathedral had followed a similar pattern, until each flower and silken ribbon underwent thorough inspections. And as his guest list closely mirrored that of the Doriani’s, the flowers at his wedding would likely receive similar scrutiny. Not that it mattered, except to his mother. Which meant it mattered to him as well, unless he wanted to endure her endless lamentations.
“I’ll give it to her the next time I see her.” He sliced his steak into small squares and stabbed a chunk with his fork.
His mother sipped her wine. “Please do, and mention my plans to schedule a time to meet with Mercedes from Le Veritable Amour Bridal.”
“I will ask her, but she may have chosen her dress already.”
“On her own? Is that what she said?”
“Quite honestly, we haven’t discussed her gown.”
“Of course she didn’t. She would have told you. Surely she knows how important it is that I be there. It’s not every day my only son gets married. Besides, she will need a woman’s perspective, and we know how ill-equipped her mother is.” She grabbed her wine glass and swirled its contents before taking a slow sip. “How Ainsley managed to mature so nicely is beyond me.”
Richard’s father dabbed the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. “It demonstrates the resolve of children, and the benefits of education.”
“Yes, well.” His mom set her glass down. “Let us not forget, she still has areas in need of growth. Don’t you agree, Richard?”
He gave the proper nod and tuned out the rest of the conversation, his thoughts stuck on one question. How much had Ainsley changed? True, she no longer resembled the rather immature, timid, and at times uncouth woman he’d met five years ago. But how deep did those changes penetrate? How much of her mother’s flirtatious behavior did she share, and what might awaken that part of her she fought so hard against? Once again, an image of Mr. Langley resurfaced, souring Richard’s stomach and causing his pulse to quicken.
Was the security Richard offered enough to keep her?
He finished his wine then pushed back from the table. “I hate to eat and run, but I still have work to finish.”
His mother started to stand, but Richard raised a hand. “I’ll see myself out.”
When he reached his car, he dialed Ainsley’s number. It rang four times before her voice mail picked up
“This is Ainsley Meadows. I am unavailable—” A loud, extended beep sounded, followed by a breathless, “Hello?”
“Are you OK?”
“After a mad dash in search of the phone, yes.” She laughed. “What’s up?”
“I . . . was just checking in.”
“Oh.” Her voice sounded flat, almost as if he’d annoyed her.
“How did you spend your evening?”
“Reading through Voltex material.” She paused. “Is everything all right, because you sound tense?”
“Do I? I’m sorry. Preoccupied, I suppose. You get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Ainsley poured herself a cup of coffee, added a healthy dose of vanilla creamer, and meandered to the living room. Kicking her slippers under the coffee table, she grabbed her Bible. Feet tucked beneath her, she curled into the corner of the couch. She glanced at the manila file lying on the coffee table, partially read—as much as she could stomach, anyway, without turning her throbbing headache into a full-blown migraine. But there was always tomorrow, after church.
It was already 7:30 p.m. Where had the day gone?
Resting her Bible in her lap, she ran her hands across the smooth leather. No matter how hectic her day, no matter how imminent her failure, God’s Word remained a beacon of truth to which she could always turn, a shelter of love beneath which she could always hide. As a child, the promise and assurance of God’s presence carried her through many tear-filled nights. In those moments when everyone else failed her, God alone remained.
Did the young boy at Whispering Hills know this? That God loved him, was watching over him, and longed to be known by him? If only Richard shared her passion for helping hurting children. Imagine the lives they could impact. Imagine the souls God could save through them. Tears pricked her eyes as she held her Bible close, too many thoughts warring in her brain. Help me focus on You, Lord. Draw me into the divine romance tonight.
Eyes closed, she waited until the tension eased from her neck and shoulders. Then, she flipped through the thin pages before landing on Jeremiah chapter 9. Lovely, the weeping prophet. Not exactly the dash of peace she needed. You have sinned. You’re going to die. Repent. Repent.
No disrespect intended. She started to flip the page again, moving to the New Testament, when her eyes landed on a phrase that gave her pause. How can light live with darkness? It was from 2 Corinthians 6. She’d underlined the entire passage, from verse 14 to 17 years ago during a purity class at church.
Don’t team up with those who are unbelievers. How can righteousness be a partner with wickedness
? How can light live with darkness? What harmony can there be between Christ and the devil? How can a believer be a partner with an unbeliever? And what union can there be between God’s temple and idols? For we are the temple of the living God. As God said:
“I will live in them
and walk among them.
I will be their God,
and they will be my people.
Therefore, come out from among unbelievers,
and separate yourselves from them, says the Lord.
Don’t touch their filthy things,
and I will welcome you.”
She’d written a date in the margin, along with the note: Christians must not marry non-Christians.
Her heart pricked as an image emerged. It was of Richard standing amidst his social crowd, chin lifted, a politically correct smile in place. But that didn’t make sense, not considering the complete lack of peace the image brought. It was as if God was warning her of something, but why? Richard was a Christian . . . wasn’t he?
Chapter 10
ote bag draped over her shoulder, Bible, journal, and favorite pens tucked inside, Ainsley exited her car. Standing in front of the thick cluster of trees encasing Smoke and Davey’s bike trails, she inhaled the sweet, earthy air. Puffs of clouds clung to the tops of the trees, beams of golden sun piercing through them.
Inching down a sloped dirt pathway, she left the parking lot behind and entered one of her favorite places in Missouri. A place where, as a teen, she’d spent many long summer afternoons when she’d needed a place to escape. To pray. Like she did now.
She followed the path to the left. Winding up a hill, she crunched leaves and twigs under her feet. She reached her favorite childhood hiding spot, a fallen tree resting on a stump, and nestled among bushes and branches. It had experienced more decay, and was covered in red, flower-like mushrooms and thick moss. But that only made it more beautiful, more enchanting.
She cleared some wood dust and sat, pulling a leg to her chest. She grabbed her Bible and laid it open before her. Oh Lord, why does it feel like everything is falling apart? My engagement, my job. I know You have a plan in all this. A plan for me.
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