Worried that the car would hydroplane on the saturated road, Jarret gripped the steering wheel and tried to stay focused. The darkness and hard rain kept him from getting a good look at the neighborhood. The Chrysler’s high beams revealed houses set back at random distances from the road. Jarret caught an occasional address on the closer houses. This area must’ve been a pizza delivery guy’s nightmare. Jarret’s nightmare too, tonight. Rickety fence here, abandoned car there—
“Stop! Stop!” Roland turned in his seat and stared out a side window.
Oh, so the abandoned car must’ve been Peter’s Durango. Anyway, the entire street seemed old and uncivilized.
Foot to the brake pedal, Jarret eased to a stop and then threw the car in reverse. He grabbed Chantelle’s seatback and peered over his shoulder through streams of rain rushing down a blurry back window. He backed onto the wide muddy berm of the road, getting as close to Peter’s car as he dared. His taillights shined on the Durango, showing no one inside.
“So where are they?” Jarret glanced about for the nearest house.
Roland dug his phone from a jacket pocket. “I’ll find out.”
Chantelle dropped the visor and inspected her face in the lighted mirror, tilting her head left and right. After wiping under one eye, she flipped it back up and turned to Jarret. “Pretty tense trip.”
He nodded, giving a wide-eyed look to show that he seriously agreed. “Ain’t over yet. As soon as we drop off the battery, we have to do it all again.”
“Maybe we can stop for coffee and wait for the rain to pass.”
“Maybe.” He liked her attitude. Since picking up Roland, she hadn’t complained once. He’d enjoyed talking to her. And she seemed willing and able to turn a hacked-up night into something kind of fun. Maybe he shouldn’t break up with her.
“Are we dropping him off?” Chantelle indicated Roland with a glance as she rubbed a hand over Jarret’s thigh.
Irritation shooting through him, Jarret flung her hand off his leg. “No, we’re not dropping him off. In this mess? We’re gonna drop the battery off.”
Phone to his ear, Roland scooted from the middle of the backseat to the seat behind Jarret. He peered out the window. “No, I don’t see it. But we’ll find it. See you in a minute.”
Jarret turned around in his seat to face him. “So where is he?”
Roland pointed out his window, over a patch of condensation. “First house up that street.”
“Okay. We’ll drop his tools and battery off and head home.” Glad to have reached their destination in one piece, Jarret straightened and shifted into drive.
“No, you can drop me off too.” Roland faced his window as he spoke.
A truck passed by, blinding Jarret as it drew near. Jarret stepped up the speed of the windshield wipers, though he hated the sound of it thumping so quickly, and he pulled onto the road. “No way am I leaving you out here.”
“Peter can take me home.”
Jarret turned the Chrysler onto the dark street Roland had indicated and watched for the first driveway. “I’m not that confident in Peter’s skills. What if he doesn’t get his car working?”
“He just needs a new battery.”
The road turned, a guardrail on one side and a slope on the other. Then the road straightened and old wooden fencing and a dirt driveway came into view. Trees and bushes shrouded any house that lay behind them.
“Here?” Jarret slowed and turned onto the driveway, the headlamps giving the only light.
“I think so.”
Raindrops glistening in the headlights, Jarret followed the driveway to the attached garage of a dark ranch house with a covered stoop and overgrown landscaping. A cement path led from the driveway to the front door in the middle of the house. The front door looked especially dark. A closer look told Jarret that the front door was open with only the storm door closed.
“If they’re in the house, why is it so dark?” Chantelle said.
“I don’t know, but this is where they are.” Roland zipped up his jacket, lifted the hood, and took a deep breath. “Thanks for the ride, Jarret. I know you didn’t want to do this, but I really appreciate your help. And sorry for messing up your date.”
Peeved, Jarret shifted into park and turned to face Roland. “Oh no you don’t. I am not leaving you here. We’re an hour from home. It’s pouring rain, and I don’t trust Peter behind the wheel of a car. Or anywhere else.”
Roland rolled his eyes. “Jarret, don’t worry. I told Papa what I was doing. He doesn’t have a problem with it. And Peter can’t change the battery until the rain stops, so we won’t be driving in the rain.”
“No.” Jarret turned around again, shifted into drive, and turfed the front yard. He jerked to a stop by the front door and tapped the button to pop open the trunk.
“What are you doing?” Chantelle held onto the front dash.
“Get Peter’s crap out of the trunk and get back in the car.” Meaning business, Jarret glared at Roland through the rearview mirror.
“No, I’m staying with him.”
Gritting his teeth, Jarret sucked in a breath. He couldn’t control Roland. He couldn’t even control himself. “All right. Fine. We’ll all stay. Chantelle, you can run into the house and I’ll park in the driveway.”
“What? No.” Chantelle opened her mouth and her brows crinkled with a look of horror. “I’m not going in there. We’re just going to hang out in a dark house? No way. Let’s drop Roland off and go home.”
“I’m not leaving Roland here.”
“I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, I’ll call.” Roland tugged the door handle and the interior lights flicked on.
Squeezing the steering wheel, Jarret continued to peer through the mirror. “Oh, and I’m supposed to turn around and come get you then?”
“Forget it. I’ll find a taxi. Maybe that’s what I should’ve done.” Expression neutral, Roland swung open the car door and jumped out.
“You, little—” Jarret cut off the last word, regretting what had come out of his mouth. Then he flung his hands up in resignation. “All right. Have it your way.”
Roland slammed the car door and raced to the trunk.
Harsh words and remorse bounced around Jarret’s head as he watched Roland through the rain. Two seconds later, Roland slammed the trunk and raced for the front door. The door opened as he drew near, Peter holding it for him. Peter waved.
Resisting the urge to make a rude gesture, Jarret shifted into gear. Before he stepped on the gas, he glimpsed movement by the door.
One hand to his hood, Roland jogged to the driver-side window.
Jarret lowered his window, rain sprinkling his face. “What is it now?”
“Sorry I said that. I totally appreciate this.”
Repentance overcoming him, hating the control freak he’d become, Jarret gave a nod. “Me too.”
Roland gave the hint of a smile. “I’ll call you when we get on the road.” He took off, Peter welcoming him into the pitch-black house.
“Can we go home now?” Chantelle asked with a sigh.
“Yeah.” Jarret turfed the yard again, circling around to the dirt driveway. “We’re going home.”
NUMB FROM ALL THAT he’d experienced in one night, Jarret clutched the steering wheel in stiff hands and drove down Forest Road toward Chantelle’s neighborhood. He stared at the section of road illuminated by the headlights. A sprinkle of raindrops fell diagonally in the light. The night hadn’t turned out as expected. At all.
Jarret’s gaze drifted to Chantelle, who lay curled up in the front passenger seat. He’d been flip-flopping all night over whether to continue seeing her or break up. But the ride home had given him time to think. He would need to talk to her tonight and say a few things he really didn’t want to say. He’d probably damage his image from this. But his conscience told him that he had no choice.
Jarret flicked the wipers on and off. As soon as they’d headed for home, the storm had grown in intensity. Half
an hour later, it subsided. Not long after that, Roland called to say that they were on the road. And Jarret had finally relaxed.
He’d had to reject Chantelle’s advances once again. “Trying to drive,” he’d said, removing her hand from his chest. She sulked and then curled up and closed her eyes.
Jarret pulled into Chantelle’s driveway, shifted into park, and shut off the wipers. The light over the garage and the porch light shone. But no light showed through any windows. Was anyone home? He’d expected to see Tyrone in the window or on the porch.
He rubbed his chest to ease the tension that had been building since turning onto her street. Tiny drops of rain gathered on the windshield.
“Hey, Chantelle, you’re home.”
“Hmm?” Sleepily, she uncurled her legs and arms and stretched in a way that emphasized her feminine figure.
Jarret turned away and breathed. “Hey, before you go, I need to tell you something.”
“Hmm, what?” She leaned on his shoulder and moved her hand toward his chest.
Part of him wanted her touch and wanted to kiss her goodnight. He could even see himself doing it and not going through with his new intention. An instant before she made contact, Jarret grabbed her hand and eased her back, getting a few inches of space between them.
“Hey, listen.” He waited until she turned her eyes to him, dark eyes with enormous pupils. “I don’t want to go out anymore. Okay?” It wasn’t the smoothest breakup, but he couldn’t think of a nicer way to put it. He didn’t want to make excuses or lead up to it with a bunch of explanations.
She froze. Shock and then anger flashed in her aqua blue eyes. Fury transforming her posture and face, she tensed and jerked back. “You’re breaking up with me?”
He wanted to remind her that this was their first actual date and that they hadn’t been “seeing” each other for more than a week. Okay, so they’d messaged each other a week before that, but still.
“Sorry. I like you, but this isn’t what I want right now.”
She huffed. “You just don’t want to be committed to one girl. I see how you flirt. You want every girl.”
“What?” No other response came to mind. Why would she say that? He hadn’t even tried to mess with her.
She wrestled with her purse strap and flung the car door open. “You’re not going to get what you want.” She slammed the door to his Chrysler 300, making him wince, and stomped to the front porch.
Dumbstruck, he watched her climb the steps and unlock the front door to her house.
Once she stepped inside, relief washed over him and he exhaled. Then he threw the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway.
CHAPTER 31
Keefe drove down a dark residential street for the third time, peering at house numbers. Tidy little houses lined both sides of the road, a street lamp here or there. As he tried to make out the numbers on a bungalow, a big drop of water landed on the windshield, coming from soggy leaves overhead. The rain had stopped some time ago.
Flipping the wipers on and off, Keefe peered again. Not the address he wanted.
Did the Franciscans live in a house? He’d passed a church with a brick building next door. Could’ve been a school, but maybe it wasn’t. Did the Franciscans live there?
The excitement that had raced through him at the start of his trip had gone, a queasy uncertainty replacing it. Did he dare knock on their door so late? He still wasn’t sure if this was God’s will for him.
Keefe took a deep breath and released it. Whatever else God wanted, He must’ve wanted Keefe to come to Piper’s aid. Without Keefe’s help, would she have continued her journey toward reconciliation with her father? Or would she have gone home? She’d taken the flat tire as a sign to give up, Keefe’s help as a sign to follow through. Maybe God had only wanted him to be an instrument in Piper’s journey.
And maybe God had wanted him to learn to let his light shine, instead of hiding it. What kind of Christian was he if he felt too uncomfortable to pray in public or tell another of his desire to join the Franciscans? No matter his vocation, he should never be ashamed of the Gospel or scandalized in Jesus Christ.
Keefe turned the wheel with sweaty, jittery hands, pulling into an empty driveway. He backed up and headed in the opposite direction. The brick building must’ve been the friary. He’d give it a try.
Still scanning the dark houses on either side, he crept down the road.
And what about Roland’s call for help? If Keefe had been home, he could’ve driven Roland himself. Or he could’ve talked Jarret into helping him. Keefe wished he could’ve called Jarret back, but his phone had died after the call. And of course he only brought a charger that plugs into an outlet. Had Jarret decided to help Roland anyway? And what about Chantelle? Had he taken her home first or would they be out late together? She wouldn’t be his downfall, would she?
The church and the brick building came into view. Keefe found an empty spot behind a compact car and parallel parked. A cross on the side of the building and a Blessed Mother statue in the yard gave him the feeling that he’d found the place. Soft yellow light illuminated a few second story windows, but the first-floor windows were all dark.
Keefe slumped back in the seat and took a deep breath, willing his body to relax. Should he be here at all? Was 8:42 p.m. too late to bother them? If his phone hadn’t died, he at least could have called.
Heart rate kicking up and palms getting even sweatier, Keefe shut off the engine and opened the door. He reached behind the seat and pulled out his overnight bag. Of course the friars would let him in. He could explain why he was late. No problem.
Keefe exited the truck and cut through wet grass to a sidewalk. Another sidewalk led to the door. Standing under an overhang, a yellow light glowing above the door to the friary, he curled his fingers into a fist and knocked.
To avoid appearing anxious, he turned and glanced back at the street. The evening air cooled his sweaty neck and face. The long drive had thoroughly drained him, threw him off kilter and made all his muscles stiff. A minute passed. He knocked again, then stretched the arm that didn’t hold his bag.
His heart rate slowed as the minutes ticked by. They weren’t expecting guests at this hour. They’d likely given up on him. He should find a hotel room and come back in the morning. He could always sleep in the truck. Or he could rest a while and head back home, maybe stop at a diner to charge his phone. Or stop at a store and pick up a phone charger for the truck. He could call and see what Jarret had decided to do. Maybe Jarret needed him tonight.
Five, six, seven minutes... Keefe knocked one last time, counted to thirty, and turned to go. He’d been asking for signs and getting them left and right. He hoped God found his thick head more amusing than annoying.
“Sorry, Lord.” Keefe slung the strap of his canvas travel bag over his shoulder and strode back toward the truck. He found a hint of peace in accepting defeat. He’d have to reevaluate a few things and start over. “I know you tried to tell me. I guess I misread your signs.”
A soft sound came from behind—a door creaking open—followed by a voice. “Hello, there.”
Keefe stopped and turned around.
“Were you knocking at the door?” A chubby man in a dark robe with a white cord for a belt shuffled down the sidewalk. “We were at Night Prayer when I thought I heard a noise. Our house makes all kind of noise so I wasn’t sure.”
“Uh, yeah.” Keefe met him halfway, hope shooting through him. He still had a chance. “That was me.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be Keefe West, would you?” The brother’s smile lit up his entire face.
“Yeah. I... I’m sorry I’m late.”
“We were worried about you, called your house. Your father said you’d be late.”
“You spoke with my father? How’d he know?” Keefe realized he hadn’t called anyone to tell them of his delays.
“I guess he spoke with your brother.” He motioned toward the friary. “Come on in. I bet y
ou’re tired. Were you knocking long?”
A pairs of sandals lay on a throw rug to one side of the door. As Keefe crossed the threshold, an unfamiliar feeling zipped through him, a juxtaposition of peace and excitement, of comfort and apprehension. It started now.
“I’ll show you to your room.” The brother shuffled down a clean and simple hallway with hardwood flooring, white walls, and a single picture of Saint Pope John Paul II in the arms of the Blessed Mother. “Our chapel is that-a-way.” He pointed one way and turned another, leading Keefe through a living room with bookshelves and simple chairs. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” Keefe’s hand shot to his stomach, which growled at the question, and his thoughts turned to the snacks he’d left in the truck.
“After you’re settled in your room, I’ll get you something to eat. We have plenty of leftovers, unless Brother Damien got to them.” He chuckled. Then he twisted around, walking sideways a few steps to look at Keefe. Concern showed in small but jovial eyes behind his wire-framed glasses. A strip of white hair circled around the back of his balding head. His nose, like an arrow, seemed to point out his smiling mouth. “And then we’ll talk more tomorrow, okay? We observe the spirit of silence after nine, but if you have any questions, let me know. Oh, maybe I didn’t tell you. I got your name and never gave mine. I’m Brother Simon.” He offered his hand.
Holding the strap of his bag in place over his shoulder, Keefe wiped his other hand on his jeans and then shook the friar’s hand.
Brother Simon turned face forward as he led Keefe up a hardwood staircase. “Glad you made it in one piece. We were worried about you. Maybe that’s not the right word. Pray, hope, and don’t worry.” At the top of the stairs he looked back. “You know who said that?”
Keefe shook his head. The conflicting feelings still raced inside him, leaving him too confused to really speak.
“Padre Pio. He’s a wonderful saint. If you don’t know him yet, you will— Oh, which reminds me.” He paused in the middle of a long hallway with doors on either side and patted the sides of his robe, as if searching for something in a pocket. “No, I don’t have it. But I don’t need it. I remember.”
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