Seasons Under Heaven

by Beverly LaHaye

  She took that as a ringing endorsement. “Did you really?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Brad Lovell. He’s pretty cool.”

  “And he goes to church,” she said. “Imagine that. So you’ll want to come back?”

  “No,” he said. “Not unless I have to.”

  She looked over her shoulder at Annie. “Did you know anybody?”

  “Yes.” She looked out the window, uninterested in this conversation.

  “Who?”

  “Sharon Greer. I can’t stand her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s after Allen Spreway. She used to date him, and she thinks he’s still hers. And she’s not a nice girl, Mom, but she sits up there in Sunday school answering all the questions with those hypocritical church answers that the teachers are looking for, and they’re like, so out of it, that they don’t know she’s a fraud.”

  Cathy’s hopes wilted. “Anyone else?” she asked weakly.

  “No, that was plenty.”

  Cathy sighed and thought that maybe they were right. Maybe she needed to attend church on weekends when they were with their dad. She wasn’t sure all this pain was worth it.

  CHAPTER

  Sixteen

  Monday morning story hour at the local library was a blessing for Tory, and she never missed a session. Brittany and Spencer loved sitting at the feet of the grandma-like librarian in the children’s section and hearing picture books. Tory loved it because it allowed her time to linger alone in her favorite sections. For months, she had spent this time researching her book, reading countless articles on France, World War II, and the nurses and doctors who served in the war. Her head was a smorgasbord of little-known facts, enough to fill a dozen-novel saga.

  Deciding that it was not research but motivation she needed today, she floated through the self-help section, searching for the perfect book to inspire greater progress toward her goals. She lingered over a book on personal organization—then realized that if someone could return to her all the hours she’d spent reading books on organizing, she would have written three novels by now.

  She moved to the self-esteem section, with books running the gamut from knowing thyself to discovering past lives. When nothing there appealed to her, she moved to the fiction section and scanned the spines for the names of her favorite authors. Someday, her name would be up here, she promised herself. Someday she would have a book that people would ask for in libraries and go into stores intending to buy. She pulled out a book, scanned the blurb on the back, decided against it, then pulled another one. When she had put that one back too, she looked up and noticed a display of brand-new novels. The name of one of her favorite authors caught her eye, so she crossed the room.

  On the cover was a woman in a nurse’s uniform, and behind her were flames as if something had just been bombed. Frowning, Tory grabbed the book off the shelf and turned it over to read the blurb. “World War II…Annabelle Hopkins serving as a nurse. France…”

  Tory heard a chuckle and looked up—a woman down the aisle was grinning at her. With a touch of embarrassment, Tory realized she’d been reading aloud. She looked at the woman with annoyance, then turned back to the book, whispering the words with a rush of dread. “Will Annabelle’s heart be forever buried with the soldier she loves—”

  Her stomach plunged and her heart began to race. Her hands trembled as she bit out the rest: “—or will she find love again in the arms of Dr. Frank James?”

  She thrust the book back onto the shelf and backed away as if it had burned her.

  How could it be? How could this novel have the same plot she was trying to write—only this one was finished and published, and already a best-seller?

  Her chest constricted into a tight fist, and a scream of rage rose up in her, though she knew she would never let it out. She grabbed the book again and began flipping through the pages. Yes, the story was similar to hers—but so much better. She turned page after page, searching for something to reassure her that she wasn’t wasting her time, that no one would even suspect the similarities between the two stories. Instead, as she skimmed the pages, she became more and more convinced that this book would make hers seem like a rip-off.

  Returning the book to the shelf, she backed against the bookshelf opposite it, closed her eyes, and began to cry. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t had time to write her book, and now someone else had done it, someone with a famous name and a following of millions of devoted readers.

  The door to the children’s room swung open and a dozen kids burst out, chattering with excitement. Her kids’ homing devices zeroed in on her immediately. Brittany looked up at her tears. “Whatsa matter, Mommy?” she asked loudly, and three mothers turned around to look.

  “Nothing, honey,” Tory said, still shaking. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “But can I get a book? Please?” Spencer was holding two huge hardback books that he’d grabbed off a table. One was a coffee-table book on antique cars. The other was a picture book about merry-go-rounds.

  “No, honey, put them back.”

  “But you said—”

  “I didn’t say.”

  “But we always—”

  “Please, I’ve got to get out of here!” She wiped her eyes, and Brittany kept staring at her. She hated to cry in front of them. It wasn’t fair.

  She put the books back, then escorted them to the car. They marched like little soldiers beside her, wondering what they had done to upset their mother now. There were no computers or horses close by, no Kool-Aid disasters, no cats in the tree…

  She got them into the car, hooked their seat belts, slid behind the wheel, and peeled out of the parking lot.

  “What is it, Mommy?” Brittany asked again in a small voice.

  “Just something stupid,” she said.

  “I like stupid things,” Spencer spouted, leaning up on her seat back.

  “Spencer, hook your seat belt!”

  “It is hooked. See?”

  “Spencer, if you can sit on the edge of your seat, it’s not tight enough. And if you keep this up, I’m going to make you use the car seat again.”

  Spencer moaned and sat back, and she heard him pulling it tighter.

  “Mommy’s okay,” she said finally. “I just had a little surprise. See, the book I’m trying to write? Somebody’s already written it.”

  In the rearview mirror, she saw that both children stared at her as if trying to figure that one out. What were they picturing? A balloon floating around in the air with a book’s worth of words in it, and the first one to let the air out got to publish it? She wished that was the case.

  “It just makes me feel like my work is a waste of time,” she told them. “All the research I’ve done, and all the ways I’ve developed the characters. Finally, I’ve got three whole chapters, and what do you know? Somebody else has done it! So I guess I should just give up and get real. What do you think of that?”

  The children seemed to consider it for a moment. Finally, Brittany spoke. “Can we go to McDonald’s?”

  Tory shoved her sunglasses on, hoping to hide the tears. She thought about Brittany’s innocent, selfish request. Did she really want to go home, fix them tuna sandwiches, and look at that mocking computer screen with her three pathetic little chapters? “Yes,” she said. “We’ll go to McDonald’s.”

  The children cheered.

  They went to the McDonald’s with the playground in the front. And as the children bounced around on the balls and in the tunnels, Tory sat on a bench wondering why she’d ever thought she could be a writer in the first place.

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  Because Joseph wasn’t feeling up to it, Brenda didn’t take him to church Sunday. They celebrated the Lord’s Day at home, singing hymns and reading Scripture, while David worked out in his shop. That afternoon, as the children scattered around the house, engaged in their own activities, Brenda closed herself in h
er bedroom and began to read the book of James again. She found the passage she was looking for, and read it again. “Is any one of you sick? He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well.”

  She closed her eyes and recalled her argument with David. Was it better to submit to her husband on this, or follow the instructions in Scripture? She began to pray, deeply, earnestly, that the Lord would show her direction.

  Finally, she told herself that David didn’t have to know. She could take Joseph to the elders, and they could pray over him. She had never defied David before, and she wouldn’t do it now if her son’s life wasn’t at stake.

  But as she saw it, she really had no choice.

  The next day, she convinced David not to go with her to Joseph’s doctor’s appointment. It might be a long wait, she told him, and he had too much work to do. Then she called her pastor and asked him to get the elders of the church together on their lunch hour.

  She was torn and tearful as she pulled into the church parking lot, and Joseph frowned and looked up at her. “Why are we at church?”

  “I just wanted to stop by for a minute before we go to the doctor. Pastor Mike and some of the men want to pray for you.” Her eyes misted over as she reached for her son’s hand. “Is that okay with you, Joseph?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  She just sat there in the car for a moment, staring across at him. “The thing is, your dad can’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  She swallowed. “He had some bad experiences with church people praying over him when he was a little boy.”

  “Daddy went to church?”

  “Yes. But it wasn’t like our church, and he doesn’t understand.” She gazed at him for a long moment. “I’ve never asked you to lie to Daddy, Joseph. And I’m not asking you now. If it comes up, you can tell him. But if it doesn’t, then just don’t bring it up, okay?”

  His eyes were wide as he considered that. “Okay.”

  “Okay.” She got out of the car and went around to help Joseph out. The doors to the church opened, and the pastor rushed out to help her. Several of the elders came out behind him, fussing over Joseph like doting grandfathers.

  Brenda knew that she had done the right thing…even if it meant defying David.

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  Cathy waited three weeks before agreeing to go to a church social with Bill, the man she’d met in the parking lot at Sylvia’s church. He had called a couple times a week since she’d met him, and had piqued her interest with talk of the fellowship they had as a singles group. He had offered to take her to Thursday night volleyball, but to avoid having Annie remind her of her reason for taking them to church, she decided to wait for a weekend when the children would be at their father’s.

  She agreed to go to a Saturday night ice-cream social sponsored by the singles department, and she looked forward to making some new friends.

  Bill’s Porsche had only two seats, and she felt as if she was crawling into Spencer Sullivan’s Flintstone-mobile as she folded into it. He drove like a Nascar driver with a death wish, and she wondered if her fingernails were cutting holes into his armrest whenever he slammed on the brakes. She checked to see if he had air bags. Thankfully, he did. But she worried that if they hit anything she would shoot through the bag like a torpedo.

  “So…where do you stand on the perseverance of the saints issue?” he asked as they curved down Survey Mountain.

  “The what?”

  “You know. Once saved, always saved, or predestination, or foreknowledge. I’d like to hear your take on free will versus God’s sovereignty.”

  Was this his idea of an icebreaker? “I don’t think I have a take on it,” she said. “Uh…could you slow down just a little?”

  “Sure.” He glanced over at her, grinning. “I attended seminary for two years. Was going to be a preacher.”

  She wondered if churches looked at people’s driving records before hiring pastors. If so, it was clear why he wasn’t preaching now. “I didn’t know that,” she said, trying to appear interested.

  “That’s right. But they were so narrow-minded there. I was obviously at the wrong school, so I dropped out and got a job in computers. But I still study. And I consider myself in ministry—priesthood of believers and all that. I help with the soup kitchen every Thanksgiving, before I have my family over. I invite a few friends, too. An occasional vagrant.”

  She wondered if he wanted applause. “That’s very nice of you.”

  “You ever do anything like that? ‘Cause it’s real rewarding. They always need extra hands. And if you can cook, it’s even better…”

  He seemed like a nice guy, she told herself. If it wasn’t for his driving, maybe she could even like him. Wasn’t a man of faith, a man of principle, what she needed? Someone strong who could be a helpmeet to her? Annie would hate him instantly, but Mark and Rick would be impressed with the car.

  “So have you ever been married, Bill?” she asked, half expecting him to say that he had been widowed when his wife was thrown through the windshield.

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly, a short answer? Suspicious, she tried again.

  “Divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any kids?”

  “Nope.”

  She couldn’t decide if that was a plus or minus. If he had no children, then she didn’t have to worry about them liking her. On the other hand, his tolerance level for teenagers was bound to be low.

  “How about you?” he asked. “Divorced or widowed?”

  “Divorced,” she said.

  “How many times?”

  The question insulted her, and she looked over at him, frowning. “Just once.”

  “Oh.” ’

  She hadn’t thought of it before, but now she was curious. “How about you?”

  He shrugged, suddenly shy.

  “Bill?”

  “Three,” he said. “I was married and divorced three times. Three mistakes. I have bad taste in women, I guess.”

  “I see.” He picked up his speed again, and she clung, whiteknuckled, to the armrest. “I got the impression you’d been in the singles department a long time. How long since your last divorce?”

  “Six months.”

  She gaped at him. “Months? Then how—”

  “I met all three women in the singles department,” he said proudly. “We have a real high success rate there.”

  “Success?” she asked. “You call three divorces success?”

  He shot her a look. “What are you saying?”

  “Just that…well, it sounds like the marriage ceremony is the standard by which you judge success or failure. I mean, if you get married, you’ve succeeded. Never mind whether it works out or not.”

  “Look, those divorces were not my fault. Everybody knows that.”

  “Well, of course. I didn’t mean…” She didn’t know what she did mean, but suddenly she wished she’d never met Bill Blackburn.

  “I had biblical divorces, you know. That makes a difference.”

  She didn’t know much about the Bible, but she thought she understood what he meant. “Oh, so they cheated on you?”

  “No. They were unbelievers and they left. I thought they were believers, but obviously they weren’t, or they would have been better wives. Paul said that we aren’t accountable if unbelieving spouses leave us, so that lets me off the hook. It’s almost like the marriages didn’t exist.”

  As unschooled as she was in theology, she felt sure that was a misinterpretation. Maybe he could make that explanation work once, but three times?

  “What about yours?” he asked. “Was yours a biblical divorce?”

  She looked at him, wondering how to politely tell him it was none of his business. As if he read her mind, he said, “It’s pertinent, you know. I don’t want to date anyone with unconfessed sin.”


  She almost laughed, but with great effort managed to keep a straight face. “Rest easy. I’m off the hook, too.”

  He seemed happy with that. So happy, that he picked his speed up from eighty to ninety.

  She was worn out by the time they reached the farm where the social was to be held. “You sure are quiet,” he said as they screeched into the driveway. She considered telling him it was difficult to talk when your jaw was clenched in terror.

  “I hope my driving didn’t scare you,” he said as if reading the fear on her face.

  “‘Scared’ isn’t the word I would use,” she said.

  He chuckled. “I bought this car after my last divorce, and I go a little crazy when I drive it. It just handles so well.”

  She tried to look impressed. “Boy, it sure does.”

  He opened the door and got out, and she found herself struggling with her own door. Her hands were still shaking. He came around and opened it, and she unfolded from the car.

  As they approached the crowd, Cathy saw the heads of all the women turn. Were they asking themselves if she knew about his marital history? Or were they his ex-wives?

  Bill wasted no time greeting everyone like a politician the morning of an election, ignoring her completely.

  Not one to play the shrinking violet, and desperately glad to be safely on her own again, she introduced herself to those on the fringes of the group who looked as if they were as new as she was. Before long, she had joined a circle of men and women basking in the shade of a huge tree, exchanging homemade ice-cream recipes.

  As it grew dark and the party died down and the bug zappers began to pop with their prey, Bill made his way toward her. “Ready to hit the road?”

  The relaxation that had fallen over her suddenly fled as she realized she’d have to get back in the car with him. She racked her brain for a way out. Another ride home, perhaps, or a taxi…

  Then it came to her.

  “Bill, let me drive. I’ve always wanted to drive a Porsche.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t usually let other people drive her. She’s delicate…”