by DiAnn Mills
Relieved, she limped to her nightstand to gather up her Bible. Miles’s truck spit gravel in the driveway, and her heart longed to see him, and yet she feared what she might learn. She loved a man who could be betraying her, as though she’d been tricked into a covert operation in which she was the only one on the team.
* * *
“Good sermon today.” Miles opened the truck door for Paige and helped her climb in before she denied needing any assistance.
Finally the heat that had beaten down on them all summer had diminished. To him, it seemed like the birds sang a little sweeter this morning, too. Or could it be the worship service shared with Paige had made his Sunday a little more special?
“I like the way your pastor applies the Bible to everyday life.” Miles leaned against the open truck door.
“And today he used football as an object lesson.”
“Did he? I hadn’t noticed.” Miles drank in the beauty of the woman who had stolen his heart.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
“Okay, so I noticed the mention of the game. And you don’t think I paid attention? Well, lady, he said that just how we love the Bobcats whether they win or lose is how God feels about us. The point was relationships.”
“Very good. I’ll put a gold star by your name.” Paige grinned and tilted her head. “What made you stop attending the Methodist church?”
“The truth is I was saved in a Baptist church, but my parents are Methodists.”
“But why switch now?”
He rubbed his chin. How forthcoming should he be when he and God were still discussing the move? “I’d been considering a change for quite a while. It wasn’t about denominational differences. The decision had to do with where I believed God wanted me to serve. And I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit seeing you on Sunday mornings was a bonus.”
“Not sure if the latter is a theological argument.”
“Ouch. My relationship with God is the most important part of my life. Having you there is an added perk.” He dwelled a moment on his caring for her and his hope for her one day to feel the same about him.
“Good. Now I feel better.” She yawned.
“What? Am I boring you?”
“I woke up early this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Hey, I have an idea. Instead of eating out today, let’s stop at the Piggly Wiggly and cook at my place.”
“What about your foot?”
“Cooking is done with the hands and the brain, not the feet.”
“Sold. One day I’d like for you to see my place.”
“Is it a bachelor’s domain?”
Miles squinted, thinking through each room. “Parts of it.”
“Maybe next time.” Her lack of enthusiasm threatened his hopes, but that was Paige.
Once inside his truck, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Give me your best smile.”
Paige held her fancy phone, the one with all the bells and whistles, and aimed it at him. She clicked his photo and then showed him the result.
“What made you snap my picture?”
“Darts for charity. Or I could use it as blackmail. Can we do it again? This time stick out your tongue. You can flash it when the guys on the team aren’t listening.”
He shook his head. “Better go after what pitiful amount of money I have now before I get fired.”
“Forget that craziness. You’re the best coach Split Creek could ever have. The school board is being bullied.”
“Thanks for building up my ego.”
“Anytime.” She flashed him a magazine-cover smile.
He turned the corner for the Piggly Wiggly. What a great day. Good worship. Good woman. And soon, a good lunch.
* * *
At one time, Paige had used whatever means she deemed necessary to persuade others to talk, including her feminine wiles in a predominantly male-dominated world. But inviting Miles for lunch made her feel like scum. However, he wouldn’t be the first man who appeared to be Mr. Nice Guy while trading U.S. secrets for a fortune. Besides, the cozy atmosphere of her bungalow offered the opportunity to take pictures with her digital camera and send them to Palmer. What a sick joke if she discovered Keary had planted Miles in Split Creek to spy on her. She’d rather think he was honest . . . sincere . . . her knight on a shining Harley.
Her heart wasn’t supposed to get involved. What a combination: a CIA operative who had a background of alleged mental instability and a secret child, and a high school football coach who longed to take his team to state. But were they so different? In many ways, Miles reminded her of how she felt about her country and the determination to preserve freedom. Sometimes she thought about being Miles’s wife and living barefoot and pregnant with him and Nathan in Split Creek. The high school football coach and the librarian. She wondered what it would be like to pay her parents a visit with a bunch of kids and a doting husband. Impossible, but oh so alluring.
Miles dropped the paring knife into the sink. Not once had he complained about peeling potatoes. What a trouper. Each time her conscience scolded her about lunch preparations, she shoved away the guilt.
“You sure are quiet.” Miles proceeded to hack away another perfectly good potato.
She cringed at the amount of potato flesh that was whittled off into the sink. “I’m observing your expertise in the kitchen.” She picked up her camera. “In fact, here is one more shot.”
Miles moaned. “The last one posing beside your pink mixer nearly did me in. And if my team sees any of these, I’m toast.”
“The one I like the best is your scowl at the sink full of potatoes.”
“I’ve counted eight of those babies. We’ll have enough left for me to feed my entire team.”
“Oh, I plan to send them home with you as part of a care package.”
“More like ‘I really care you had to peel all of them.’”
He laughed, and she joined him. Even though loving Miles was forbidden, even though she’d allowed it to happen, even though she’d end up breaking his heart and the whole mess would end up breaking hers, she still cherished every minute with him.
I can pretend I’m normal for a little while. “How are your parents doing?”
“Good. I talk to them at least once a week.”
“You’re a good son.”
“Not always.” His tone plummeted.
Paige prodded for more information. “I can’t imagine your being anything but a model of perfection.”
“I played games until I found the Lord.”
“That makes two of us.” She crossed her arms and leaned back against the table, facing him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I might slip off my pedestal.”
“I don’t think so.”
He rinsed the potato—several times. “The possibility of losing my job isn’t a pleasant topic either. Both are harsh.”
“I’m really sorry about what’s happening at school.”
“Oh, that’s life. Can’t run a play unless you’re prepared to get tackled.” He hesitated as though he questioned telling her what burdened his mind. “Did you ever read Voltaire’s Candide?”
She startled. “I live in a library. I read everything.”
“Then you know what I mean about this not being a perfect world. One fewer evil act does make the world a little better, and hopefully, one more good act makes life a little better for someone.” He picked up another potato. “My trials right now are insignificant compared to the atrocities going on in the world.”
“You certainly are philosophical this afternoon.” She snatched up a dirty dish towel and pulled a clean one from the drawer.
“Ah, I bet you thought the only things football coaches think about are the next plays.” He sliced away a generous hunk of peel and potato. “And most times I fit right there, with about as much intellect as the contents of a pigskin.” He paused and lifted his hand. “Or potato skins, as the case may be.”
“I think you have
more depth than most people give you credit for. I don’t think you’ve ever told me how you came to be a coach,” she said.
He seemed to reconsider his offer to tell the story. “I came to Split Creek four years ago from Knoxville, ready to make a difference in kids’ lives. Before then, I worked in the corporate world with a big addiction to football.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“Owned my own computer security company.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.” She hoped her internal alarm system didn’t skyrocket with the new tidbit of information. “What kind of clients did you have?”
“Mostly government contracts.”
Alarm sounded louder than a tornado siren. “What swayed your decision to enter the world of education and be a coach?”
“My brother overdosed. Died. And I needed a change.” He continued to peel a potato. “There’s more to the story. His death was my fault. He watched me in my younger days drink myself into oblivion and use every drug out there. Eventually God grabbed hold of me, and I cleaned myself up. But my little brother modeled his behavior after what he’d seen me do. All the talking, pleading, and following him around to keep him away from substance abuse did nothing to convince him of changing his path.” Turmoil twisted on Miles’s face. And Paige understood how the ugliness of life could stain everything a person attempted to do.
“In time, his drug of choice, cocaine, isolated him from his family, and he flunked out of college. Then one night after his girlfriend broke up with him, he snorted too much and killed himself.”
Paige took his hand—wet and gritty. Oh, how she wanted her suspicions about him to be wrong. “I can’t think of anything more painful than taking the blame for someone’s death. But, Miles, your brother made his own choices, including not to accept the help you offered. I’m sure you did all you could do.”
“It’s easy for me to counsel someone with the same problem and give the same advice. But forgiving myself was another matter.”
“God wants you to live in freedom.” Her own words echoed in her mind. Like Miles, she could give advice but not believe it applied to her. She wanted so much more for Nathan. She and Miles had more in common than she had realized.
“I know. He and I have had a few lengthy talks about it. Time will tell. But now you know what motivates me to help kids.”
She squeezed the hand resting in hers. “Where would we be without God to help us over the rocks?”
“Lost and miserable, sweet lady. And probably bleeding.”
“I remember what life was like without Him, and I don’t want to ever live without my faith again.”
“I agree. I simply need to live my life as a man of integrity. Truth and honesty mean more to me than being a people pleaser or collecting a steady paycheck.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “Enough of this serious stuff. If I lose my job, do you suppose I can work at the library shelving books?”
“People might talk.”
“They already do.”
“Then by all means. I could use the help.”
His arm brushed against hers as she bent to check on a chocolate pecan pie. Despite the heat from the 350-degree oven, she shivered. Surely Miles didn’t work for Keary. Truth yanked her into reality. Computer security, government contracts . . . and Keary liked kids, too.
Chapter 25
I can’t stop staring at the picture of the little boy and the woman. Her name is Bobbie Landerson, a missionary who works with displaced people in Kibera. She is suffering through the last days of cancer. Her son’s name is Nathan, but she’s never been married. Myriad questions pour from my brain. Why was he with Mikaela? Could the woman be a link to Rosa Ngoimgo?
And yet, it is the picture of the boy that haunts me. My sources indicate he was born while Mikaela lived in Nairobi. If Mikaela knows his mother, she may have been there at the birth.
My heart hammers against my chest. My mouth goes dry. . . . He looks like my childhood photos . . . but his eyes are Mikaela’s. Is it possible? Could the boy be mine?
I must find out. If Nathan is my son, no one will keep him from me. No one.
Chapter 26
Until today, Mondays had never been Miles’s favorite day of the week. “Attitude” said it all. If he could skip over Monday and slide into Tuesday, he’d be one happy man. However, he’d never confessed his aversion, because a Christian man was supposed to find joy in the Lord and not in his circumstances. Hogwash. The whole town probably stayed clear of their grumpy coach on Mondays. When he focused on the spiritual side of it, he bet there were plenty of days when the apostle Peter wanted to lay a fist alongside one of the other disciples’ jaws. And Paul had gotten frustrated with John Mark’s immaturity about running back to his mama when the missionary journey got rough.
So continued Miles’s justification to feel perfectly righteous and somewhat of a bear on Mondays. But today the edge had tipped to the well-behaved side, downright jovial, all because of Friday’s game. Congratulations and greetings from teachers and students made the day a little easier to wade through. His body didn’t ache with the overwhelming load of teaching and coaching, and he didn’t feel one bit guilty about the seconds and thirds of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, Caesar salad, cornbread, and green beans with a touch of dill he’d eaten after church yesterday with Paige. Once the food was cooked, they’d filled their plates and enjoyed the cooler temps outside. Admittedly so, being in her presence felt like a jolt of electricity.
In truth, the chicken, combined with Paige’s chocolate pecan pie, had lain a little heavy on his stomach, so this morning he worked out hard to turn all that fat and sugar into muscle. Today he planned to start eating healthier. Oops. Not today. Paige had sent home a ton of leftovers.
Miles sucked in his gut and continued down the hall and out the side door to the field house. Being around all of these teenage boys was raising his testosterone level and making him more aware of the male competition.
Every time he allowed his mind to wander, it slipped back to yesterday with his favorite lady. She did appear a little preoccupied, though. He sighed. If only he could break through the barriers surrounding her heart. It hadn’t happened yet. Whoever had hurt her had done a devastating job.
At one point he thought she might open up, but as quickly as he’d seen the light of hope, she’d slammed the door again. He’d told her about his brother. But all his story did was garner sympathy, not an outpouring of who and what comprised the town’s librarian.
Several months ago, Paige had told him she’d been reared by an aunt who had died when Paige was in high school. She had no one left. The folks of Split Creek were her family. At the time, Miles believed she hadn’t told him the whole story, but he didn’t want to bombard her with questions. Now the temptation to quiz her surfaced again.
Once inside his office, he closed the door and dropped into his chair. With a deep breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, where a slip of wrinkled paper held Paige’s Social Security number. She’d given it to the nurse in the ER the night she’d broken her ankle, and he’d memorized it until he’d gotten home and jotted it down. Bafflement was getting the best of him. Whenever he considered one of her peculiar mannerisms or her reluctance to talk about her past, he thought about researching the numbers. Other times he chided himself for thinking about invading her privacy. He’d been watching too many movies.
But his former position as owner of a computer security company allowed him access into unique files. Maybe it was a sixth sense. Maybe it was God’s revelation. Or maybe it was a driving curiosity. Miles had no logical reason to doubt anything she’d ever said, but the notion that something wasn’t quite right persisted like a mosquito bite on his big toe.
He pulled his personal laptop from his briefcase and glanced around, as though someone stood outside his glass wall watching his every move. The last time he’d used his computer technology expertise, it had been in the confines of the sixth floor of an off
ice building. This time he ventured into an area that rode the fence of legality. Rubbing his hands, he reminded himself of the vast amount of information about everyone floating in cyberspace. One simply needed to know how to retrieve it.
After logging on to the school’s Internet system, he tapped into a secured site and keyed in his password where he could obtain a wagonload of information—or trouble. His fingers refused to type in the nine numbers. He wanted to be wrong. He wanted to spend the rest of the day berating himself for being a jerk, for ever considering that the woman he loved had concealed secrets about her past. For several seconds he daydreamed about her and the life he one day hoped they would share. But if he didn’t follow through with this search, he’d spend another sleepless night. Miles typed in Paige’s Social Security number, clicked Enter, and then stuffed the slip of paper back into his wallet.
While he waited for the intel to download, he nearly opted out of the program. I don’t need to do this, checking up on Paige as though she’s involved in something illegal or immoral.
A moment later, information about Paige Rogers lit up the screen like the scoreboard of a losing game. Miles stared at the report while his emotions spun nearly out of control. Her Social Security number was a fake. Her name was a fake. Paige Rogers didn’t exist except on the forms she’d given to the nurse in ER.
He snatched his cell phone from the desk, ready to confront her with his findings. What would he say? “Excuse me, but I decided to do a security check on you. Can you tell me why you’ve lied to everyone in Split Creek?” Taking a deep breath, Miles relaxed his fingers around his phone and placed it back on his desk. With what he’d told her about his background in government security, she had to know it was only a matter of time before he learned the truth.
If a credit card company or her employer or any of a hundred other sources had done the research, they’d find her a solid taxpaying citizen. But this secured site told it all. Miles slammed his fist into his palm. The truth stared back at him as though mocking his feelings for her. He’d rather have been in the dark. Time—he needed time to think this through.
