The Carpenter's Wife

by G. H. Holmes

  The Carpenter’s Wife

  by

  G.H. Holmes

  A Novel

  Smashwords Edition

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This story is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance to actual locales, incidents or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2012 by G.H. Holmes

  All rights reserved!

  Prologue

  The summer of 2003 found Western Europe coping with inferno when its usually benign sun suddenly turned cruel and torched the lands. Quivering sheets of air began to smother the continent with temperatures of 100 degrees Fahrenheit and more.

  The ordeal lasted for weeks.

  Britain and Switzerland each reported their most blistering days in history, and people there don’t have air-conditioning. The heat swallowed their dwellings whole, from the eaves to the cellar. In France alone more than 11,000 people, mostly the elderly, died from related causes, and in the fertile fields of Germany crops withered on the stalk.

  It was also hot in other ways.

  Desperate for some good time, people threw themselves to their passions. In Berlin the Love Parade rolled through the city, a leviathan of floats featuring thumping techno beats and go-go dancers showing it all. The rage sloshed through the streets, melting every inhibition as 600,000 ravers from around the globe and lots of middle-aged men with zooming lenses watched the throbbing spectacle, vying for glimpses of the occasional intercourse in the back of the random wagon.

  Then there was the political firestorm.

  In all major capitals, throngs of protesters marched against the war in Iraq, waving rainbow-colored flags inscribed with the Italian word “pace.” “Peace” got shunned by one letter for being of the language of the aggressor states. Flags burned, and the brouhaha fused Germany and France together like never before.

  Europe was a place of violent harmony.

  Country people mimicked city folks that year. The heat affected the mind, and people did what they usually would not have done. If the summer of ‘68 was the Summer of Love, the summer of 2003 was the Summer of Madness.

  At least in Europe.

  At least in Elmendorf.

  1

  Friday, 4 July 2003, After Dark, 85°F (29°C)

  The night had fallen. It was solid now, but it hadn’t brought any relief from the heat. When Tom ascended the stairs of the Heimeran Platz subway station shortly after 11:00 PM, Munich’s boulevards still sizzled, reflecting the lights of the city. In front of him loomed Westpark Hotel, a nice four-star fairly close to downtown. He swung through its revolving door and entered the cavernous lobby. Stale air slapped him. He found it no cooler in here than outside. The whole world had turned into a furnace.

  Out of the bar to his immediate left drifted a murmur of voices and rough laughter. He passed the cave and its whiff of Marlboro, and caught his reflection in the antique mirrors lining the wall as he approached the front desk.

  The Frenchman was on duty tonight. As soon as he saw Tom, he rose and came out of his office. The left half of the man’s face was a bit smaller than the right half, which made for a charmingly crooked grin. He flashed it now.

  “Bonsoir, Herr Stark.” He fetched key number 420 with a practiced sweep of his arm. “You didn’t move the ‘Arley today?”

  Tom had rolled into town on his ‘76 Harley-Davidson—the only item besides his books that he’d brought from Oklahoma—so Romy could use the silver 735 BMW a businessman had bestowed on the church last August. Two kids and no car for the week would have been unfair, considering that she didn’t ride.

  “No, Michel. I didn’t move the Harley today.”

  “We all admire it greatly.”

  Tom grinned. “Nothing special.”

  He took the proffered key and Michel leaned close, pointing discreetly at Stark’s white Dockers. “Monsieur has noticed the stain?”

  Tom nodded, aware of the mud streaks on his left leg.

  “Oh là là. Have you been fighting?”

  “Not a big deal. Thanks for noticing.”

  “You want it laundered?”

  “No, thanks.” Stark smiled and walked toward the escalator. A bellman sat in his cubbyhole, reading a Turkish tabloid. He barely looked up when Tom went by.

  On the fourth floor the escalator stopped with a soft ping. Its doors slid open and Stark stepped out into the dim hallway. He began to walk toward his room on the far end—when he noticed her.

  A slender blonde strode out of the shadows, the red silk of her gown spilling down on her in a way that she seemed dipped in blood. She carried the tiniest purse, and long legs on silver stilettos moved languidly along an invisible line until her eyes gazed up at him from under raven lashes. “Pardon.”

  Tom blinked.

  At least this one was dressed, even conservatively. Her décolleté wasn’t overdone and her hemline hovered barely above the knee.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” she said, her voice tender. “Can you tell me what time it is?” Her glistening lips remained slightly parted.

  He stared into her impeccably powdered face until he caught himself and said, “Sure.” His sleeve slid off his wrist and he searched for the hands of his golden Rolex-look-alike—when she stepped closer, touched his hand, and had a look for herself.

  Her fingers felt cool.

  Pleasant.

  Hold it…

  Her touch lingered. She stood close, pleasantly close; he could have wrapped his right arm around her. He could have held her…

  “That’s a very elegant watch.” She skimmed his face again with her million-dollar eyes.

  “Thanks.” Stark cleared his throat. He’d bought it three years ago at the Wal-Mart Supercenter in Alliance, Ohio, for 18 dollars and 99 cents.

  The woman wore pearl earrings. And a pearl necklace. Refined, she looked like royalty. But her dress clung a bit too much to her body, was too amply filled; her heels were too high, her hair too well groomed, her face too perfectly styled for him not to conjecture her profession.

  “Do you still have plans for tonight?” she said promptly, “handsome...” Her tapered fingers slid across his shirt. “We could relax a bit together, maybe talk… My room’s right here.” She gestured into the hallway and smiled.

  Stark’s eyes were cold as granite. He studied her. Then he said, “How much do you cost?”

  Her smile vanished. She took a step back and cast her eyes down. “You misunderstand me. I’m here for the fashion fair. I’m not what you may think I am. I’ve got, I’ve…”

  “Sure,” Stark said mildly, relaxing just a bit.

  The smile returned. She meant to say something, hesitated. “Well?” The invitation obviously still stood.

  “Miss…”

  “Tina. Call me Tina if you will, please.”

  “I’m Tom.”

  “Hi, Tom.”

  “Tina…” He fell into deep thought for a second. “Have you ever thought about giving your life to Jesus Christ? I mean, life’s hard enough as it is. Even models like you are obviously lonely at times. Did you ever think about asking God to come into your life?”

  Tina’s smile froze. Then her face straightened. Her eyes searched his before she said, “You’re a Christian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? Born again?”

  Tom nodded. “Sure am.”

  Tina’s lips parted into a giant smile. Her teeth shon
e. “This is great! This is fantastic! So am I.” She grabbed his elbow. “This is so great.” Her joy bubbled over and she laughed, lifting her gaze to the ceiling with an extravagant swish of her arm. “Thank you Lord. This is so good. What do you say, we sit down and talk about the Lord for a moment. Oh, it’s so good to meet a believer. They’re scarce around here. And I’ve got so many questions.” She meant to walk off with him.

  But Tom didn’t move. “Tina, where do you go to church?”

  “See, that’s one of those questions. I haven’t found the right one yet. I’m actually quite new in the faith.” She creased her cheeks and gently pulled on his arm.

  But he remained steadfast.

  “Billy Graham spoke in Essen a while back,” she then volunteered. “Maybe you remember. I went to one of the simulcasts down here. That’s where I got born again. But Graham’s a Baptist, I’m Catholic. You’ve got to counsel me there. Come on. If just for a few minutes.”

  They stood in silence. Down the hall the elevator rumbled away.

  “Sure,” he said, conscious of how naïve he had to sound. “I guess I can give you a few minutes.” He seemed disoriented for a second. “And we’re going to your room?” He didn’t really want to be seen down in the restaurant with a woman not his own. At least not at night.

  “Well, sure.” She was already searching her purse for the key.

  He followed her, one step behind. Like a lamb led to the slaughter.

  She inserted the key, unlocked, and her blonde tresses vanished into the opening.

  Was this the mouth of hell? The entrance to the region of the damned?

  C’mon, Stark, don’t be paranoid. A pretty sister needing help, what’s to it?

  Tom stepped over the threshold into the darkness of Tina’s abode.

  What struck him first was the air. It was filled with an intoxicating aroma, heavy, very pleasant and very exotic; richer than perfume. Had to be perfume oil. A harem in red chiffon swirled before his inner eye. Arabian nights.

  He closed the door and it got dark. Pitch black.

  Stupid move.

  But a small light came on almost immediately. “Do you want something to drink?” She stretched across the bed to switch on the second light. Her room was a copy of his own, blue textiles and beige wood with a French-sized bed in the middle, and a large window front. “Something from the mini bar?”

  The stuff was expensive, but—

  “Wait...” He closed his eyes and meditated, slightly perplexed, awash in memories of the future, slowly sipping the aroma of perfume oil, of spices, of...

  Spikenard. That’s what it was.

  The Song of Solomon. Passionate love and spikenard.

  Suddenly biblical ideas flashed through his mind like stroboscopic lightings: a sinner anointing the feet of Jesus in appreciation; a saint pouring out spikenard on his head in the same house, months later, shortly before the cross…

  Spikenard…

  Expensive, precious stuff.

  Christ had exuded that fragrance, that aroma poured on by a loving person, probably until his crucifixion and beyond.

  He opened his eyes. This scent was knocking him out. It was as holy as it was profane, a mix of white and black that didn’t result in gray—

  “Mineral water?” he said.

  “I think I drank all of that, but let me check.” With a languid move Tina lowered herself and sat on her right heel to open the tiny refrigerator built into the desk—when the hem of her dress slid onto her hip, revealing a bronzed thigh—and red lace.

  Stark looked away.

  Spikenard and lace...

  “No. There’s still one bottle.” She reached up and handed it to him. He seized it. Then she rose and smoothened non-existing wrinkles out of her gown. Smiling warmly, she turned around, got close to him, and said, “Can you undo my first two buttons?”

  Tom hesitated, his hands fidgeting. “Tina…”

  “Come on, I want to change out of this. I’ve worn this piece all day. My company won’t let me wear more comfortable clothes; you know, the fair.”

  His Adam’s apple rose and sank. He wrapped his hands around the bottle. “Who do you work for?”

  “Oh, an Italian house, from Milan. We’re suppliers for the name brands. You probably wouldn’t recognize it.” She turned to look at him. “Come on, just the first two.”

  He set the bottle on the desk, lifted his hands—and found that all his fingers had turned into thumbs. He wriggled them. The buttons were red pearls. For a second his thumbs slid along her neckline as he parted her curls and took hold of the smooth silk on her back. He held his breath.

  If my wife could see me now…

  Or Mom.

  Or Abe Lincoln.

  The top two pearls snapped out of their loops. Then his fingers quit and sweat broke out all over his body. He snatched up the miniature Evian.

  “Please make yourself comfortable,” Tina said pleasantly when she realized he wouldn’t go on. She gave him another misty smile. “I’ll be right with you.” Then she sashayed off into the bathroom, stilettos, purse, loose buttons, and all.

  The door closed with a click.

  Tom inhaled and stared at the Evian in his hand. She’s just making herself comfortable, man. Chill. But she hadn’t taken anything in with her, no new dress, no jeans, nothing. Tom tried to shake the vapors out of his mind. The perfume… She’ll change into her birthday suit. Or she might come out wearing red lace, acting like she forgot something.

  And then what?

  He knew, he wouldn’t withstand her. Not tonight. Not after all he’d seen today. His cheek muscles throbbed. He’d fall. He was smart enough to admit that.

  Romy…

  If only his wife had an inclination like some of the people he’d come across today—just a fraction of it—but Romy liked her bedroom dark, pitch black, which did nothing for him personally. He frowned. The only lace at home came in the form of ancient doilies.

  Tina.

  He heard her move behind the closed door. She sang, pleasantly, low key, a dream of a woman.

  She was a dream...

  She’s a pro, man. Get out of here!

  Suddenly a scripture arose in his spirit and materialized in his consciousness.

  Proverbs seven.

  “In the twilight, in the evening, in the middle of the night and in the darkness… behold a woman comes to meet him, dressed as a harlot and cunning of heart… With a brazen face she says to him: I was due peace offerings; today I have paid my vows…”

  My vows…

  Vows to God.

  The echo of Tina’s words resounded in his spirit. “Born again? I’m a Christian too.”

  “I have sprinkled my bed with myrrh, aloes and cinnamon. Come, let us drink our fill of love until the morning…

  “For my husband is not at home, he has gone on a long journey; he has taken the money bag with him…”

  Tina was a harlot.

  But what if she’s not? What if we just talk?

  In the end she’d ask him for money. It had all been done before. It was past eleven at night, he was alone in a big city, he was genuinely struggling and had nobody to turn to—Abe Lincoln was too new and it was too late to call Romy—but he was no moron. His relationship with God was at stake, his good conscience, the vows to his wife, his career…

  Not least his money.

  Picture a worst-case scenario. What might she come up with if she wasn’t happy when he left? An assault charge? He could picture the headline: “Pastor Assaults Prostitute at Midnight. Says Service Wasn’t Forthcoming.” He’d be finished.

  He heard Tina hum in the bathroom. She was getting ready.

  The muscles in Tom’s jaws pulsed.

  But he was no moron.

  Tom hesitated, swaying in place like a bear in a circus show. Then he tossed the Evian onto the bed, went to the door, and let himself out.

  With a little luck nobody had seen him.

  2

&n
bsp; Friday, 4 July 2003, Night, 82°F/28° Celsius

  Stark sat on the bed, inhaled the air in his own room, and frowned. It was stale, not euphoria-inducing like in the woman’s, and it was muggier than in a Georgia swamp. And he couldn’t open the window.

  He closed his eyes. Lord, come soon.

  Rubbing his face, he laid back and relived some of the events of this crazy day.

  At five-o’clock, the sun was still as hot and bright and in-your-face as a klieg light in a studio, beating down from an iron sky on him and Abe Lincoln strolling through Englischer Garten, the green heart of the city. Their conference was currently in recess, and acknowledging the need to move after sitting all day, they’d left the conference center and had entered the park with Abe leading the way—when the Stark suddenly gasped.

  Two gorgeous beauties, their glistening skin well-tanned, were appearing on the walkway, sashaying out of the shadows that had obscured them until now, and the missionary didn’t want to trust his eyes.

  Both women wore the tiniest bikinis.

  A cloth-seller’s nightmare.

  The gaunt German next to him blushed and his face became small, while Stark’s jaw dropped as he stopped dead in his tracks.

  The girls were barely beyond twenty. They had to be—they were models, pictures of perfect symmetry balancing on long, smooth legs.

  Stark stared at the apparent mirage.

  But they were really there—in the flesh.

  The one with the hip-long brown hair wore sunglasses and flip-flops, the curly blonde a straw hat and leather sandals…

  …and triangular excuses for garments.

  Tom held his breath when they came closer. A sudden chill rocked down his spine and his stomach began to tingle.

  Both were deeply tanned, the brunette a little more than the blonde—but pigment is hardly dress.

  The German’s prominent Adam’s apple rose as the women promenaded past them. They did it so casually, so nonchalantly, as if carrying your tan through a public park undisturbed by hardly a stitch of clothing were the most natural thing to do on a hot summer day. Deeply immersed in everyday conversation, they ignored the two gawkers almost completely. The blonde smiled briefly in passing, the brunette only pushed her shades back onto her nose.