by Sally John
Twenty-Four
While shaving Sunday morning, Cal considered the advantages of a goatee. Tammy had nixed the idea of growing one. He hadn’t even bothered to mention that as fall turned to winter, his goatee sprouted into a full-fledged beard. It was his annual custom, now past due to begin.
He arrived at church with 30 seconds to spare and hurried up a side aisle as the organist played the opening bars of a song. He slipped midway into a pew, grabbing a hymnal from its bracket. Beside him, a black-haired woman turned and smiled. It was Lia…with short hair!
She grinned, pointed at her head, and nodded.
He blinked. “What’d you do?”
She only sang, holding up her hymnal to show him the page number.
Turning his attention to the music, he gave her sidelong glances. By some standards her hair wouldn’t be considered short, but compared to yesterday’s ponytail swishing to her waist, this was short. Parted on the left, it hung thick and straight to just beneath her chin, a shiny swoop of jet black that set off her dark eyes and accented her creamy skin. Except for subtle eyeliner and glossy lipstick, she wore no makeup. Not that the smooth porcelain needed it. Not that Tammy’s pretty face needed it either, but that didn’t stop her from caking it on.
The music came to an end. As they sat, Lia palmed the bottom edge of her hair, patting it, and whispered, “So what do you think?”
Cal wasn’t good at faking compliments. Her long hair had been the most appealing thing about her. One of the most, anyway. Involuntarily, he winced.
She laughed quietly and leaned toward him, stretching to whisper in his ear, “It’s good to have an honest friend.”
Cal was like the gum he chewed. Lia couldn’t unstick the thought of him. This had been going on for a while, not just since Friday night when they nearly kissed, but especially so since Friday night. Whatever that had been!
Turning toward him now, she squinted against the sunlight as they walked toward her car. “I’ve moved the back room key from the desk drawer and hidden it in the laundry detergent. I usually use the one I keep on this ring with all my other keys.”
“And where do you keep that ring?”
“With me. When the store’s open, it’s in a drawer behind the counter. If I’m home, it’s usually in my handbag, upstairs.”
“Will you tell Chloe where you hid the key?”
“Cal, she lives there with me. In an emergency, she may need to use it.”
“Kids talk.”
“She won’t if I tell her not to.”
“You give her an awful lot of responsibility for a—How old is she?”
“Nine. Nine year olds are capable of extraordinary responsibility. She’s better than I am on the cash register.”
He grunted a monosyllabic reply. “Did she tell you if Chelsea had friends over Thursday night while she was babysitting?”
“I asked. She said no one came. They did art projects all evening.” She didn’t mention that Chloe had already been in bed a while when she arrived home from the book club. In her opinion, casting shadows of doubt over Chelsea wasn’t necessary. Lia opened her trunk, removed a large manila envelope, and handed it to him. “Here are the copies of invoices and everything.” Closing the lid, she scanned the parking lot, watching for Chloe.
“Thanks. Try not to worry.”
“Are you kidding? I feel like I need an armed guard just to walk upstairs to the apartment!”
He squeezed her elbow. “Hey, I’ll figure it out.” It was his larger-than-life cop tone. “And remember Philippians 4:6 and 7. Be anxious for nothing, Miss Impressively Independent.”
It worked. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Have you talked with Chloe’s dad again?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” She pressed her lips together and then exhaled loudly. “Scratch the unfortunately. Why, yes,” she attempted a cheery lilt, “I have talked with him and the conversation went rather well. I’m letting her visit him next weekend.”
He gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Way to go.”
“I sure hope so. Will you stop staring at my hair?”
“Oh, uh, sorry. It just takes some getting used to.”
“Well, get used to it when I can’t see you. You’re giving me a complex.”
He crossed his arms and made an exaggerated show of studying her from every angle. “Why did you do it?”
“Why not?”
“It looked great the way it was.”
She rolled her eyes. “Now you tell me.”
“Never thought about it.”
“Typical male. Don’t know what you want until it’s long gone.”
“Typical female, always changing to keep up with the latest fashion.” Something flickered in his eyes.
Unintentionally, the bantering had turned flirtatious. The scales they had kept so delicately balanced tipped, and the momentum pushed her comeback off the tip of her tongue. “Accuse me of paying attention to fashion, will you? No way now am I telling you why I did it, Deputy Huntington.”
“Have it your way. We’re not supposed to be friends anyway, right?” The early spring green of his eyes reflected the noon sunshine, his cheeks folding like an accordion behind his big grin.
She looked away, speechless at the surprising jab of hurt. Well, you asked for it, she chided herself, playing with fire. And yes, you did tell him you shouldn’t be friends…for Tammy’s sake.
He cleared his throat. “Here comes Chloe. Well, thanks for the papers. I’ll study them and hopefully come up with a simple explanation for the missing drugs.”
She nodded and gave him a tight smile. “Bye.”
“See you.” He threw her one last puzzled look and left.
Lia watched him stride away, his broad teddy bear shoulders draped in a white shirt with thin, subtle green stripes, its long sleeves rolled up his forearms. His thick, bristly, light brown hair was cut neatly across the back of his square neck.
Strike two. Their easygoing relationship had just turned serious.
Strike one had been his tendency to avoid Chloe. Fear of little kids. Lia had seen it often enough.
Not that she was pitching to him in the first place, but she should pray for a strike three. She was enjoying his company way too much and even missing him. Actually wondering what that kiss would have felt like. Ridiculous! After all these years of guarding her time and her heart, of protecting her space with Chloe, she wasn’t going to throw it away and lose herself to a man as her sister had done…just because a pair of green eyes danced in the noon sunlight, warming her like the first hints of spring.
Come to think of it, there already was a strike three. Tammy. He was crazy about—if not wholeheartedly devoted to—a beautiful woman.
Good. No reason for Lia to complicate her own life by encouraging his friendship…or whatever the correct term was. May he buy his toothpaste elsewhere!
Cal made one last sweeping glance over the thinning crowd outside the church. No Brady. No Gina. No Isabel. No Tony, who had become a regular in recent weeks.
He made a beeline for Celeste. Unlike the pastor himself, Peter’s wife would get straight to the heart of the matter. And she wouldn’t invite him yet again to the men’s weekly Bible study/prayer breakfast.
“Celeste. Morning.”
“Hi, Cal.” She smiled and waved goodbye to the last departing parishioner.
“Any idea where Brady and Gina are?”
“Afraid not. They talked with us briefly on Friday. Peter suggested they get away to some quiet place and be alone, but you know it’s harvest season. Brady’s in the fields.”
Cal knew. Brady would have shown up in boots, jeans, jacket, and cap, harried from taking precious minutes away from his combine. They were probably working 12-hour days. There would be no time for a getaway soon. Brady loved farming and he loved the farm. He was part owner. It was his responsibility. Even the writing would be put on hold until a rainy day. Bu
t could he put Gina on hold and survive?
“Don’t look so worried, Cal. Pray for them.”
“How were they?”
“Cautious. Gina held his hand the whole time. He looked more distraught than she did. I’m certain they’re determined to get over this bump in the road.”
“Celeste, the eternal optimist.”
“Never.” She laughed, her freckled nose all scrunched up. “They just need some healing time.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“I saw you with Lia.”
He clenched his jaw. Valley Oaks women and their preoccupation with observing every single conversation. They really should be deputized—
“What did you think of her haircut?”
“It’s, um, different.”
“Cal, that’s not the point! She donated her hair to be made into wigs for cancer patients. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Hmm. I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Yes. Did you sign the petition yet?”
“What petition?”
“Cal, you really should get out more. Some HMO is going to cut out independent pharmacies like hers. Without their support, she’ll go out of business. We can’t lose her!”
Lia needed money? What was it she had said? Oh, please don’t shut me down. I don’t know how I’m going to make ends meet as it is!
An ominous scenario began to form in his mind. He fought the urge to suppress it. After all, such thoughts were part of his job.
Twenty-Five
Isabel attended her parents’ church with them but begged off dinner at home. It wasn’t an afternoon for the happy chaos of sharing a meal with at least half of her six siblings and their families. She headed instead to the river.
It was a beautiful fall day, full of cool air and warm sunshine. Glorious reds, yellows, and oranges painted the hilly landscape of trees. The river, about half a mile wide, sparkled a silvery gray. She left her car in a lot and found a vacant bench near the riverbank, away from the walkway jammed with a steady stream of joggers, bicyclists, and strollers.
Church had filled her with a delicious sense of peace, and she intended to savor it, wringing every last drop into her frantic heart.
Her abuela, her mother’s mother, dominated Isabel’s thoughts. Listening to the church service in Spanish always brought her to mind. She had been the happiest, most contented, most devout woman in the world.
Isabel brushed away silent tears. Her abuela had been gone just over two months now. Oh, how she missed her! How she needed to talk with her! What insight would she wisely reveal?
She thought back to college days, to that spring vacation she spent in Mexico with Tony.
It had been a whirlwind trip. Of course, Puerto Vallarta had been their destination, not the hot dusty remote area of Leon. But Isabel had declared she would not set foot in Mexico without visiting her abuela. Tony promised he’d go with her. After three sun-and-tequila-soaked beach days, they rented a car and drove seven or eight hours inland.
The middle child of seven, Isabel had discovered at an early age the solution to her attention cravings: It was in Mexico on her abuela’s lap. Her grandmother never traveled to the States. By the time Isabel was 12, she was traveling alone or with some relative to visit her, choosing outdoor plumbing and hauling water over the conveniences of home for months at a time. Every penny she earned or was given went towards a ticket of some kind, be it plane, bus, or train.
It wasn’t that her abuela was a pushover. Her thick dark hair grew silver-streaked, and she always wore it in a long braid down her back. She was short and strong as an ox. Widowed at an early age, she raised eight children on her own. Though kind and generous to a fault, she reprimanded Isabel two minutes after meeting Tony.
Shorter even than Isabel, she reached up and gently took hold of her chin, gazing into her eyes, boring into the depths of her soul. She spoke in Spanish because she did not know English. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Then you are sinning.” There was steel in her abuela’s voice.
“Mamá!” She tried the most respectful address.
The woman shook her head vigorously. “You think I can’t see? Does your mother know you’re sleeping with him?”
Tony understood enough Spanish. He slipped back outside.
Isabel knew declaring innocence was pointless. Instead, she challenged, “How do you know?”
Her abuela’s eyes filled as she caressed Isabel’s cheek. “It shows, Isabel. Your mother hasn’t noticed?”
“No. I don’t know. She hasn’t spoken of it. Stop trying to make me feel guilty!”
“The Holy Spirit does that. You know the Word of God. I taught it to you.”
“But in the States, it’s different. Everyone—”
“Shush. You know better. Do you love him?”
She nodded.
“Will he marry you?”
The subject hadn’t come up. She shrugged.
“Foolish girl…”
Still, her abuela welcomed them into her home. She fed them, laughed with them, teased Tony, planted Scripture in their minds, and assumed rightly that they would go with her to church. Isabel spent two nights snuggled beside her grandmother while Tony slept in an abandoned camper at the neighbor’s.
How did she do it? Unconditional love poured from the woman, but Isabel knew she had broken her abuela’s heart.
A few months later, when classes ended, Isabel returned to Mexico alone. Tony was long gone, and her life had fallen apart.
Foolish, foolish girl.
Isabel sat long at the river, remembering her grandmother. Since childhood, Isabel had known where to run for the unconditional love that carried her safely along life’s journey. There was a void now. And then Tony had come, reminding her of the guilt, reminding her that there was no longer anywhere to run.
Her grandmother’s words came to her. “It’s not me, Isabel.”
How had she explained it?
“It’s God who forgives, God who loves. Just be still and let Him do that.”
Be still? Isabel hadn’t been still for years. Life was full…of good things…work, friends, choir, family. Always Christian music playing at home and in her car. Most weeks she was only home long enough to read a chapter from the Bible and sleep. There was no stilling time.
“I’m sorry, Father.”
A dull rushing noise filled her head. A deep sorrow took hold, as if she were physically seized by giant pincers. Her body literally ached. Instant tears burned her eyes, a voiceless cry scraped her throat raw.
She knew that she was—at last—being still, and that He was listening.
Twenty-Six
Isabel walked through the dimly lit church foyer in Valley Oaks. It was Sunday evening, and she had arrived early for her Bible study with the high school girls. The place was empty except for a few other groups scattered about the building. Adult groups were meeting in homes.
She felt as if she floated. At the river that afternoon, the ache had eventually melted away, leaving in its wake an indescribable quiet. She was forgiven. She was loved. Nothing else mattered.
“Isabel!”
She turned and saw Gina approaching. “Gina! Didn’t you get my message about Tony being here?”
“Yes.”
“And you still came?” They hugged each other tightly.
“Isabel, Tony was only the messenger.” She smiled that dazzling smile of hers. Casually dressed in blue jeans and a white cotton sweater with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was incredibly attractive. The girls were going to love personally meeting Brady Olafsson’s fiancée.
Fiancée? Isabel grasped her left hand and looked at it. The diamond caught the dim light. She breathed a loud sigh of relief. “Are you okay?”
“Well, I know he’s not a stalker, but I keep waiting for him to get possessive with me. I mean, I don’t expect him to, because he never has. Yet…” She shrugged. “It’s a trust issue. I n
eed some time to process things.”
Isabel gave her another hug. “In the meantime, I imagine you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”
Gina laughed. “If I truly wanted the moon, I think he’d get it for me!”
Tony followed Isabel’s directions and went down the steps to the church basement. The musical sound of feminine giggles led him from there.
He went to a set of open double doors at the end of a hallway. Inside a large room lit by lamps, about a dozen teenage girls sprawled on couches, chairs, and the carpet, Izzy and Gina among them. Bookshelves and posters lined the walls. The scent of chocolate drifted into the hall.
Izzy waved and came over to him, her petite figure making her appear as youthful as the girls. “Hi.”
“Hi. Looks like a fun group.”
“Come on in.”
He caught Gina’s eye as she made her way over to them. “Mind if I talk to Gina first out here?”
She winked at him and went back into the room.
“Gina.”
“Hi, Tony.”
“I’m sorry.” He decided against using his line that he was just doing his job. It wasn’t exactly the truth in this case. “I don’t know what else to say.”
She studied his face for a moment. “That about covers it. On Tuesday, it would not have covered it, but tonight…I forgive you.”
“Thank you. Are you—” He stopped from asking if they were going to make it. That was brazenly personal; his trademark, yes, but not for tonight. “I hope everything works out for you.”
“Thank you.” She paused. “Um…if I were you, I’d be very careful. You know Brady is into breaking noses.”
“I’m on my way back to Chicago this very moment.”
“Maybe you’d better stay there a while.” Her face lit up then in what Brady called her “Miss America” smile.
He shook her proffered hand. One classy lady.
“Coming in?” she asked as Izzy joined them.
“I don’t know—”
Izzy grabbed his arm. “Yes, you’re coming in. But the conversations do not leave this room.” She closed in on him, her nose nearly touching his. “Got that, Mr. Big Shot Reporter?”
