Her mouth was dry, and she had to work to push out even a few words. "What's your name?"
The man drove faster than the other cars heading through the city. He didn't look at her. "Clayton Billings." He gave a sideways nod of his head. "You can call me Clayton."
Mary loosened her grip on the armrests. Clayton Billings? As in Billings Savings, the banks set up around the city? She'd seen the name on some of the papers she'd filed. Her emotions fought for position in her mind and heart. One of the richest, most powerful men in the city wanted to give her a job. This was the greatest day of her life, the day when everything would turn around.
Grandma Peggy would be so proud of her.
A quiet gasp slipped from her mouth, and she covered her lips. Her grandma! She looked quickly over her shoulder. The mission was nowhere in sight. Not the mission or her little room or Nigel Townsend, no doubt still talking about the love of Christ. But she needed Clayton to turn around and go back. She'd forgotten the little red purse.
"Wait!" She turned to Clayton. Her face felt cold, and her hands shook. "Go back! Please!"
He slowed, but he didn't stop. "Don't be afraid. Everything will be fine. Better than fine. You'll see."
"No!" She grabbed the door handle and jerked it, but it was locked. "I forgot something—something special."
Clayton pulled her back into her seat and kept his arm in front of her, blocking her way. "We'll go back for it. Let's get you situated first."
Mary felt herself getting farther from the mission, farther from the strange teaching about death to self that Nigel wanted her to understand. She had no choice but to trust Clayton Billings, trust him that one day soon—as soon as she had the job and a place to live—she could go back and get her little purse.
No matter where life had taken her, regardless of the prison she found herself in, the purse represented hope. A hope that somewhere, somehow, she would find Grandma Peggy again. And if not her grandma, then at least she would find love. All of it was wrapped up in that one small red-beaded purse.
And now—in a matter of minutes, along with everything about her old life—it was gone.
* * *
Chapter 17
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There was more. Mary stood up from the sofa and stretched. For a long while she looked out the window at the street. Why had she ever gone with Clayton? She could've gone back and ducked into Nigel's classroom. Even if she wasn't ready to hear about dying to self, she knew one thing.- Nigel wanted the best for her.
Behind her, she heard Emma get up and come toward her. She touched Mary's shoulder briefly. "Clayton wasn't a good guy?"
Mary shook her head slowly. She turned and leaned against the windowsill. "He was rich and powerful." She sighed and looked out at the street again. "But he wasn't good."
"I understand."
That much Mary was sure of. Emma had spent the past four years with a man like Clayton Billings. "Strange how the lines between pain and love blur when you're with a man who hurts you."
Emma took a step back. Clearly she didn't want to talk about that kind of man or how well she could relate. Not in detail anyway. She motioned toward the door. "I need to check on my girls." Emma hesitated. "But I'd like to hear more." Mary looked at her watch. "Ten minutes, okay?"
"Ten minutes."
When Emma was gone, Mary made them each a glass of iced tea and returned to her place on the sofa. Always at this part of the story her heart bled for Nigel. He'd been so certain that she would see the light, but then . . . before he could stop her, she was gone.
Mary put her thoughts on hold. She needed to save them for Emma, and in the meantime she would pray. When Emma heard about Clayton, it was bound to make her think of the situation she'd just left, her relationship with Charlie.
Then a point would come where Emma would have to choose.
Not with a hasty decision the way Emma had chosen when she fled from her home with Charlie. That time she'd run for her life. But almost all abused women find ways to justify the actions of the man they love, and most of them at least consider going back. Emma would be no different. Her next decision would be a forever one. Go back to Charlie and her old way of life—or take hold of the rescue Jesus Christ wanted to give her.
She heard Emma coming, and in a few seconds her office door opened and Emma returned to her seat. "The girls are fine.'' She smiled, but there was anxiety in her eyes. 'They like it here."
"Good." Mary nodded to the table. "I made us iced tea."
"Thanks." Emma caught her breath. "Did Nigel . . . did he come after you?"
"He would have." Mary let the memories fill her mind once more. "He was crazy with worry for me, praying for me all the time. But he had no way of finding me—no leads, nothing." She took a sip of her tea. "Truthfully, I wasn't thinking about Nigel at first. Clayton made me feel like I'd stumbled into a fairy tale."
***
Clayton took Mary to a penthouse with high ceilings, marble countertops and tiled floors, and a bedroom with piles of pillows and sheets that felt like silk. In all her life she'd only dreamed of such a home. It was like something she'd seen on television.
"This is where you'll stay." Clayton showed her around. When they reached the kitchen, he opened a few cupboards. "Eat anything here. I'll have fresh food delivered tomorrow morning."
Mary could hardly believe her good fortune.
When Clayton was finished explaining where everything was, he looked at the clock on the wall. "It's late, Mary."
Was this the part where he was going to take her to the bedroom, same as Jimbo and his friends back in the basement? But instead Clayton took a few steps back and gave her a pleasant smile. "Enjoy yourself. I'll come by tomorrow so we can talk about your job."
"Okay. Thank you." Mary was baffled, breathless. What sort of man would offer her the world on a platter and ask for nothing in return? Even Nigel had wanted something from her—her faith in Christ. But not Clayton. The man seemed completely genuine.
Still, that first night, she barely slept, afraid Clayton would sneak back inside the penthouse and chain her to the bed. When she woke the next morning, she found bagels and fruit and coffee in the kitchen—courtesy of Clayton, obviously. Sometime before lunch, a deliveryman came to the door with bags of groceries, and another one followed behind him with a bouquet of roses.
At three o'clock that afternoon, Clayton returned. "Hi, Mary." He grinned at her. "How're you feeling?"
She giggled. "Like I've died and gone to heaven."
"Fitting." He wandered over to the flowers and smelled them. "Someone who looks like an angel should feel like she's in heaven."
She and Clayton sat at the table and shared the most wonderful coffee. After that, he stood to leave. "One of my assistants will be here in the morning. Her name's Betty." He patted her hand, but he withdrew it immediately. "Betty will take you shopping." He winked at her. "By tomorrow at this time you'll have a whole new wardrobe."
Again Clayton left without asking anything of her. He made good on his promise. Betty arrived after breakfast and took Mary to the finest stores in the city. The woman was older and not overly talkative. But she did not seem alarmed by the idea that her boss had taken Mary in. "He likes being around beautiful women," Betty told her. "Clayton usually gets what he wants."
But that was just it. Clayton didn't seem to want anything.
By the end of the week, Mary had new clothes and shoes and perfumes and cosmetics—the very best of everything. Clayton saw that she had wonderful shampoos and soaps and lotions and bubble bath. On Friday, Betty took her to a salon in a high-end part of town.
The woman working on her hair trimmed the ends and then stood back and raised her brow. "Your hair's gorgeous, miss. I wouldn't do much else to it."
Mary didn't.
Now it was Saturday afternoon, and Clayton had told her he was coming over. He'd be here any minute. She wandered around the spacious penthouse and stopped at a bank of
windows. She wasn't far from the mission, maybe five miles or so. Looking out toward the setting sun, the view from the fourteenth floor must've included the New Life Center somewhere.
She let her forehead fall against the glass. What was Nigel doing right now? Maybe he'd put aside her things for her, in case she ever returned.
She stood straight, shoulders back, proud and tall. At this point, why would she go back? She thought about Nigel a little less every day, and in the past twenty-four hours she had felt herself falling for Clayton Billings. The man had given no indication that he had feelings for her. Maybe he only wanted to give her a chance in the world, a chance she'd never had before. That's what he told her every time she asked.
But what if someone like Clayton Billings actually had romantic feelings for her? She'd be set for life. He could fall for her and marry her, and she'd have everything she ever imagined. Without ever dying to Christ even a little bit.
If she didn't go back to the New Life Center ever again, then she'd never find her little red purse. So she'd have to go back someday. But maybe the purse didn't matter anyway. Her mama had left her alone with drug dealers, and the drug dealers had used her for five years. Where was her mama all that time? And what about Grandma Peggy? How come neither of them came looking for her? Were they both dead? Yes, the red-beaded purse represented the sort of love Mary had clung to all her life.
But no one had ever loved her the way Clayton was loving her. Even if that love was only platonic so far. If Clayton was willing to take care of her like this, then she didn't need her mama or her grandma or even Nigel Townsend. Because this was love enough. One of these days she'd find her way back to the mission and collect her little purse. But for now, she would ride the wave of good fortune as long as it was rolling.
There was a knock at the door, and Mary jumped. She took a last look in the mirror. She wore black pants and a white fitted blouse, her hair tied up loosely with a black ribbon. In that moment her past didn't matter at all. She had never looked more beautiful. She picked up her pace and opened the door, slightly breathless. "Hello."
Clayton was tall, but not in a way that intimidated her. Beyond that he wasn't much to look at. Long face, strong jaw, bald. His eyes were every bit as blue as her grandma's. But there was a power about him, a charisma that tightened her throat and made it hard to draw a breath.
He stepped inside. "Hi, Mary." He didn't look below her neck. "I've been thinking about your job."
Mary felt a rush of disappointment. Did he even notice how she looked? Was he another man like Nigel, unwilling or uninterested in seeing her as more than a project? someone to give a hand to? Mary led him to the table, the one where they had shared coffee a few times already. She tried not to sound upset. "I guess we should talk about that."
When Mary had made coffee for both of them, Clayton cleared his throat. "I think maybe it's better to have you work from here, from the penthouse—" he paused—"at least for now."
A curious feeling stirred in Mary's stomach. What sort of work did he have in mind? Was this where the handcuffs would come in? She steadied herself. "Why?"
Sympathy filled Clayton's eyes. "People still remember you, Mary." He pointed to himself. "I recognized you after only a few minutes." He folded his hands around his coffee mug. "I think you'd feel better if you worked from here."
"On the computer, you mean?"
"Yes." He motioned to the den, where a desk and a computer were already set up. "I'll give you files to work on, and you can do the work in there."
Relief soothed the wrinkles in Mary's soul. Clayton was talking about honest work, not the sort of thing Jimbo had had for her. But still . . . why wasn't he interested in her? even a little interested? "When do I start?"
"Monday. I'll have a stack of work delivered. The files will be easy to figure out." Clayton took a long swig of his coffee. "You mentioned wanting to get to New York. Tell me about what's there."
Mary told him the bare details, how Grandma Peggy had loved her and how she had had a pink room at her grandmother's flat. "I'm not sure exactly where she lives, but if she's still alive, she's looking for me."
"I'm sorry, Mary." His eyes were sympathetic, but even here—relaxing with coffee—the power that came from him was electrifying. "One day I'll take you there, and together we'll find her, okay?"
Was he serious? All this and help finding her grandma too? She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Whatever happened next, whatever life Clayton Billings had in mind for her, it would be the thing she was born to do. Because no one outside her mama and her grandma had ever cared this much for her.
Not even Nigel Townsend.
The days blurred, and Mary began doing the file work Clayton had brought her. When he visited her later that week he complimented her. "You're a good worker. Maybe we can get you into the office sooner than I thought."
Every compliment he gave her, every hour he spent with her, Mary fell more in love with him. Never mind Nigel and the kindness in his eyes and voice. Clayton had a different sort of kindness and a power that was unmatched by anyone she'd ever known. Spending time with him was like realizing her purpose in life. When he visited she would hang on every word he said and secretly hope he'd never leave.
At the end of the next week, Clayton came earlier than usual. He sat her down at the table and took her hand. Excitement was in his eyes and at the corners of his lips. "I thought of another job for you."
Mary's heart wasn't sure which direction to go. She was happy, of course. If Clayton had thought of another job, then that meant he trusted her. Trust could lead to love, couldn't it? And love might mean she would spend the rest of her life with Clayton Billings.
He touched her cheek, her chin. "I want you to be my friend, Mary." He waved his hand at the rest of the penthouse. "I'll come by more often—maybe every day—and you can have coffee with me and listen to me. Make me feel special." He smiled and wet his lips with his tongue. "How does that sound?"
It sounded wonderful, especially if it meant Clayton would visit her more often. "Would I. . . would I still work on the files?"
"Yes, in the mornings." He let his hand rest on hers. "But the afternoons would be more relaxing. Spending time with me."
"But... I need to make money." She looked around her new home. "I can't expect you to keep paying for everything."
"You know what I think?" He brought his hand back to his side. "I think you've worked enough. For now you can be my special girl, someone I can talk to and visit, someone I can take care of." He smiled, and the sincerity in his face lit the room. "The other people in my life don't listen like you do, so that can be your job. What do you think?"
Mary brought her hands together, and her heart jumped at the possibility. "Really?" How amazing was Clayton Billings? For every horrible turn her life had taken, this was the break she'd been waiting for. Clayton wasn't talking about having his needs met—though she wouldn't have minded. In some ways she wanted to meet those needs so she could show him a sort of love in return for all the love he was showing her. But at least he wasn't demanding that of her. He only wanted to take care of her, talk to her, visit her, and know that she was safe.
The fairy tale was showing no signs of ending.
Then, like the sudden change of music in a scary movie, Clayton's eyes grew dark. "One thing, though." He leaned forward. "My wife must never, ever know about you. She can't know, or I could lose everything."
What? Wife? Mary felt the blood leave her face. Clayton was married? The room tilted wildly to one side, and she gripped the table to keep from falling. "You're . . . you're married?"
He chuckled. "Of course I'm married. I've been happily married for almost twenty years."
"But... I thought. . ." She felt like a fool. All this time she let herself believe that Clayton would fall for her eventually. Sometime very soon. She tried to catch her breath. "I didn't know, Clayton."
His eyes grew still darker. "You staying here, this job—it
has to be our secret." He shook his head. "Betty would never say a word." He stopped, his eyes locked on hers. "And you can't either." He chuckled. "My wife would divorce me and take half of everything I've worked for if she found out about you."
Mary felt sick, and she wasn't sure she could stay at the table. Nothing he was saying made sense. Okay, so he had a wife. He hadn't crossed any lines with her, hadn't shown any interest that could pass as more than helpfulness and generosity. So why would his wife care? "I don't. . . understand."
He slid closer to her. His hand came over hers again. "You're mine now, Mary." He smiled. "If I want you to file, you'll file. If I need a friend, you'll listen." He raised his brow. "You want that, right?"
"Yes." Her answer was quick. "I want everything you've given me."
"Okay, then." He looked calmer. "I need you to promise you'll keep what we have a secret. And that you'll never, ever leave this building without calling me first."
Mary stared at him. "I can't leave without calling you?"
"No." A hint of anger flashed in his eyes. "I'll give you my cell-phone number and—" he took his wallet from his pocket and peeled off a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her—"I'll make sure you have money whenever you need it." He tucked his wallet back in his pants. "If you need anything at all, just call me." A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's not like you're my prisoner. I just want to know where you are."
Mary counted the cash in her hands. She felt her eyes grow wide. Five hundred dollars? She'd never seen that much money in all her life. Don't look too excited, she scolded herself. Of course he has money. He owns half the city. Something else ... he trusted her. Jimbo had never let her out of the house without standing at her side. But Clayton was giving her money and the chance to venture out and spend it as she chose. All she had to do was call him first.
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