Found

by Karen Kingsbury

  Not today. He increased the volume on his radio and doubled his pace, refusing eye contact as he passed them. For half a minute, they turned around and tried to keep up, and from the corner of his eye he saw them waving, heard them screaming. Other people sitting along the beach also took notice.

  But eventually the girls wore out, disappointed and out of breath. They never could’ve caught him and neither could any of the other beachgoers. He was used to running the beach, miles at a time and faster than the average fan.

  Finally he slowed to a walk. When his heart rate was back to normal, he sat on a dry patch of sand, pulled off his T-shirt, and looked out at the ocean.

  Life had been good since he’d come home from Mexico.

  Dayne could feel the difference, sense the presence of God’s Spirit inside him. He and Bob talked every day—sometimes for an hour. He had questions about his future and what he was supposed to do with the feelings he had for Katy Hart. With every ounce of his desire, he wanted to pack his things and move to Bloomington. But that wasn’t possible—not now. Maybe not ever.

  Bob’s advice was consistent. “Talk to God about it, yes. But more than that, wait for His answer. If she’s the one . . . when the time’s right, God will show you. He won’t leave you in the dark—not if you’re asking Him for wisdom.”

  Dayne had been praying about the situation as if his life depended on it. So far, he sensed no real answer or direction, and if Bob was right, that meant he was supposed to wait. Which he needed to do anyway, because he was too busy with work to think about going to Bloomington. Even for a weekend.

  He spotted a sailboat on the horizon and watched it for a while. His mind drifted, going over the details of the past couple of weeks and especially a conversation he’d had with his agent, Chris Kane. They’d met in Chris’s Hollywood office, a glittering place on the twenty-third floor of the Bank of America Building. A wall of windows behind his desk offered a view of Hollywood Hills.

  “Things good for you, Dayne?”

  The room smelled of leather and expensive cologne. Dayne gripped the arms of his chair and gave his agent an easy smile. “Looks like I’m making you rich enough.”

  Chris raised an eyebrow and lobbed back at him. “Looks like I’m making you rich enough, you mean.”

  “Whatever.” Dayne didn’t care about the money or fame. Not anymore. He still loved acting, loved bringing a story to life on camera. But he was ready to walk away from everything that went with it. “I need to know my obligations, how many films I’m committed to.”

  Chris was a deliberate man, best in the business, the top agent in Hollywood. Everything he did was well thought out, intended to elevate Dayne in the way he was viewed and admired, the way he was sought after. The price he drew for a single film. Chris Kane controlled all of it.

  He had leaned his elbows on his desk and given Dayne a strange look. “Ready to go to contract again—is that what you’re saying?”

  Dayne could tell by his agent’s tone that the man knew full well that wasn’t what he was saying. He’d chuckled, keeping the atmosphere as light as possible. “You know what I did last week, Chris?”

  “Watched your old films, looking for ways to improve?” His words were slow, calculated.

  It occurred to Dayne why some of the people in the business found Chris a little cold. “Wrong.” He felt his grin drop off. “I went to Mexico.”

  “Oh.” Chris took a paper clip from a container on his desk. He began to work it into a straight line. “I sort of hoped you’d go to the Bahamas with Angie. She invited you, didn’t she?”

  “She did.” Dayne nodded slowly. “Yes, she did.”

  “You’ve been absent in the tabs lately.” Chris leaned back. He was still working the paper clip. “A trip to the Bahamas with Angie would’ve made the cover of every rag in town.”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “If you didn’t take Angie’s invitation, what’d you do in Mexico?” A hint of frustration had crept into his agent’s voice.

  “I accepted a different invitation.” He smiled bigger this time, complimenting himself for his play on words. “I have a friend in Mexico City, a guy I went to school with.”

  “Mexico City?” Chris frowned. “Not many senoritas and sunny beaches there.”

  “No.” Dayne had gradually grown more serious. He wanted to keep the air between them light, but what he had to say was important. “My buddy’s a missionary. He and his wife. They’re amazing people.”

  “Missionary . . . meaning, Christian missionaries?”

  “Yes.” Dayne listened to his agent with fresh ears. “Christian missionaries.”

  This was something Bob Asher had warned him about. He’d get back to Hollywood, and no one would understand. Christianity represented something foreign and dangerous to people in Dayne’s business. Hollywood saw Christians as the religious right, supporters of President Bush, close-minded bigots without any sense of political awareness.

  Dayne didn’t know about any of that. He’d simply handed over the reins of his existence to God, and in the process his entire life felt whole. But that wasn’t how his agent was bound to hear his news.

  “So . . .” Chris waved his broken paper clip in the air. “What did you do . . . get born again—or whatever it’s called?”

  Okay, God, give me the words. Dayne cleared his throat. “Yeah, I did.” He nodded, giving his agent the easy grin that people around the world had come to love. “No brainwashing or anything. Just a surrender. Time for God to take over.”

  His agent froze, unblinking. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m still me.” Dayne lifted his hands and gave a nervous chuckle. “Don’t flip out.”

  Chris leaned across his desk. The paper clip fell to the floor. “You haven’t told anyone, have you? the press or anything?”

  “Of course not.” Dayne gave him a strange look. “It’s not like that.”

  But his agent had acted differently the rest of the meeting, trying to talk Dayne into going clubbing with Angie and some of the cast from his current film and telling him he needed to keep his image sharp. “People want their Hollywood stars edgy, Matthews. Not churchy.”

  The comment had stayed with Dayne every day since.

  He squinted at the way the sun shone against the ocean water now. The place where he was sitting was far enough down the beach that there were no other people nearby. Even his house was half a mile away. The privacy felt wonderful—even though the paparazzi couldn’t be far behind.

  Edgy? Meaning the only way he could maintain his star status was by staying out until three in the morning and having his picture in the magazines with any one of a dozen starlets? That’s what should define him?

  Well . . . it was too late for that. He had God in his life now. The only relationship that was going to take him into the life he wanted was the one he was starting with his Creator. Forget the tabloids. If they truly weren’t interested in him, then so be it.

  He was finishing his thought when he heard the rapid click of a camera nearby. Yeah, Chris Kane, he wanted to say, they’ve completely lost interest in me. He looked up, feigning boredom, his grin in place automatically. “Come on, guys . . . my backside’s never my best.”

  The photographers didn’t know what to do with him. Half the time he was brilliant at evading them, and other times he practically invited them up for snacks.

  He turned toward the sound of the clicking. “You can come out.”

  “You’re no fun.” It was the big guy, the one who had been there the day Katy fled the parking lot. “And you’re wrong. The girls love your backside.” He shuffled out from the bushes and held his hands out in surrender. “Okay, who was she, Dayne? The girl who ran that night.”

  “I told you. She was an actress.” The paparazzi still didn’t know about Katy. If they did, her picture would’ve already made the magazines.

  “We talked about it.” The photog came a few steps closer. “Everyone thinks s
he’s from out of town.”

  Dayne shrugged. “It’s a mystery, I guess.”

  The man snapped another dozen photos. “How am I supposed to make a living off a picture like that? Dayne Matthews sitting on the beach—alone?”

  “That’s your job.” Dayne had talked with the guy long enough. No matter what he pretended, the paparazzi were bloodsuckers. They’d chased Princess Diana to her death, and they’d do the same to him and his colleagues, given the chance. He stood, grabbed his shirt, brushed the sand from his shorts, tipped the bill of his baseball cap at the guy, and gave him one last smile.

  The photographer snapped pictures until Dayne was too far down the beach to hear the sound. Chris Kane was wrong. As long as Dayne was making hit movies and maintaining his six-pack abs, as long as he looked tanned and toned without a T-shirt, the paparazzi would put his mug in the magazines.

  Even if he was a Christian.

  Dayne jogged another five minutes and then—with the photographer out of sight—he slowed to a walk. With all his heart he wished his agent was right. Because if there really was a danger that the paparazzi were losing interest, then his freedom might actually be achievable.

  It happened to the older guys eventually. The media lost interest in following their every move. But he was just hitting his prime. That might not happen to him for another decade, and by then . . . well, by then the Baxter family would be ten more years removed from ever knowing him. And Katy Hart? She’d probably be married with three kids.

  The question he’d asked his agent was the only one that really mattered to him. How many movies were left on his contract? The answer was something Chris finally gave him before Dayne left his office that afternoon. Five. He was obligated to star in five more films with his current studio—each for more money than anyone had a right to earn. Altogether, the commitment would take nearly three years.

  More than two more years of living and working in LA, being chased by photographers, who watch his every move, every expression, looking for even the slightest bit of dirt. He’d asked Chris about the timing, if there was a way to space the movies out so he could spend half a year somewhere else.

  The answer was no, of course. The studio wanted two hit films a year starring Dayne Matthews. A hot star was a busy star, and if Dayne wasn’t hot, the films he starred in wouldn’t be either. The formula was pretty simple.

  He would go home, spend an hour on his balcony reading his Bible. The one Katy Hart had given him. He hadn’t heard from her since he’d sent her the flowers. But she knew about the change in his life, the understanding he’d reached about God. There was no reason to badger her. Besides, he would see her in a few weeks when the trial started.

  Dayne dropped to the sand and leaned back on his elbows. The setting sun burned away what was left of the fog, and the warmth felt good on his stomach. The trial was something he prayed about often, every time the thought hit him. No matter what his legal team did, they wouldn’t be able to keep Katy Hart’s name from the media. Her part in the trial would become public record.

  Depending on how deep the paparazzi wanted to dig, there was no limit to the type of stories they could write. He shuddered at the thought. God . . . protect her. Protect the friendship between us.

  Sometimes when Dayne prayed, he could almost sense an answer, hear the small whisper of God’s response echoing somewhere in his soul. But now he only had the overwhelming knowledge that God was here . . . with him, inside him. And if that was all the answer he ever received again in his life, it would be enough. He remembered the tornadoes then, the storms that were supposed to hit Indiana tonight.

  It was Saturday, so Katy would’ve had Narnia practice this morning—the story with the message that had frightened Dayne before his trip to Mexico City. He smiled and sat up. He needed to get home, but he couldn’t shake the sudden strange feeling in his heart, an uneasiness he couldn’t explain.

  Storms came through the Midwest all the time. This night wouldn’t be any different . . . or would it? Not long ago he’d watched a special on TV about tornadoes, about how an F-5 or an F-4 could level a town. Drop it to the ground, so that all that was left of the town’s existence were piles and piles of rubble.

  What if a tornado like that went through Bloomington?

  He had the urgent feeling that he needed to talk to Katy, maybe call her when he got home. Or maybe not. Maybe this was God’s way of reminding him to pray, not just for her but for everyone in Bloomington who mattered to him. But not here, not on the beach with paparazzi probably closing in on him again.

  He slipped his shirt on and began jogging toward his house. If he could will it, he’d be there now, in Bloomington, taking cover with the rest of them. In fact, he’d be at the Flanigans’ house, talking with Katy and Jenny and Jim and the kids and perhaps even making plans to visit the Baxters.

  Thinking of his biological family always raised the same questions. Would they ever connect? Could there ever be a time when his presence in their lives wouldn’t ruin things for them? He jogged faster, pushing himself until his sides heaved.

  Not until he was home, not until he was out on his deck with his Bible in his hands did he do the thing he was dying to do.

  He bowed his head and prayed with all his heart for the people he loved in Bloomington—people he might never have in his life, but people who mattered to him more than anyone or anything else. He prayed that they would be safe and that they’d find shelter tonight.

  No matter how terrible the storm about to descend on them.

  Tornadoes were dropping all over southern Indiana.

  John Baxter had kept the battery-operated radio nearby, and when the tornado warnings came again he made the decision. Everyone would move to the basement. They could stay there and play board games, and if the lights went out, they could use flashlights and keep the kids calm.

  As soon as the decision was made, his kids snapped into action. Kari and Erin and Brooke gathered food for the downstairs refrigerator, and the guys moved the cribs and high chairs to the basement. The big kids made a number of trips down with sleeping bags and blankets and pillows—in case they all had to spend the night. When that was set up, the guys moved a number of cots down. Landon was concerned that Ashley have a place to stretch out, a way to get comfortable.

  Overall the atmosphere was calm and controlled. But the news coming through the radio was not encouraging. Tornadoes had left a path of devastation in a town just twenty miles south of them, and more were expected to touch down in the next few hours. It was a phenomenon weather experts called an outbreak. Dozens of tornadoes spawned from a single series of storms. People were being told that conditions were ripe for a major twister, an F-3 or an F-4. The warnings were repeated every few minutes.

  John hadn’t stopped praying.

  It wasn’t until they were all safely in the basement that the wind began howling in earnest. Minutes later the electricity went out. His kids were smart; they engaged their children in games and conversation, but even by the glow of half a dozen large flashlights, he could see the fear in their eyes. They’d spent time in the basement during tornado season before—but tonight’s warnings seemed more ominous than anything they’d ever faced before.

  They all had places to sit, either on the old sofas already in the basement or on the cots. The younger children were asleep except for Malin. Reagan was trying to get her to quiet down by pacing along one wall of the room, giving her a bottle.

  At one point, Luke came up to John, his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear it. “Any updates?”

  “There’re tornadoes everywhere. They’ve spotted four in Bloomington alone.”

  Luke looked around the basement. “Are we . . . are we safe here?”

  “Yes.” John had no doubts. “A tornado could tear the house from the foundation, and still we’d be okay.” He thought back to when he and Elizabeth built the house. The door leading to the downstairs was stronger than usual, a storm door. But it was
the one at the bottom of the stairs that would save them in an F-5 tornado. It was made of steel, and it bolted in six places to steel posts on either side. John felt himself relax just thinking about it. “Your mother and I built this basement to withstand any tornado.”

  “Good.” Luke breathed a sigh, and relief filled his voice. “What about Ashley? Any more labor pains?”

  “She hasn’t mentioned any.”

  “Let’s pray that baby holds off. At least until the storms pass.”

  “I am.” John gave his son a troubled smile. “Believe me, I am.”

  Time passed slowly. The big kids settled in finally, hunkering into their sleeping bags and falling asleep while their parents whispered reassuring words to them, patted their backs, and stroked their foreheads.

  By ten o’clock, the radio announcer confirmed that at least two more tornadoes had touched down in Bloomington.

  A moment later the news got worse. Landon made his way around the sleeping children and took hold of John’s arm. “She’s in labor, Dad. She didn’t want me to say anything until she was sure.”

  The doctor in John came to life, pushing his fears aside. “Let’s keep her calm.” He walked a few feet to the nearest wall and the small window well. Through it he could see the trees bent nearly in half and lightning zigzagging across the dark sky. He could hear the wind screaming through the branches. John looked at Landon, his voice quiet. “We aren’t going anywhere. Not in this storm.”

  Landon’s face was tight, his expression worried. “What are we supposed to do? I don’t want her to have the baby here.”

  “Listen—” John took hold of Landon’s shoulder—“you’re a trained medic. I’m a doctor. Brooke and Peter too. Combined we’ve delivered hundreds of babies.”

  For the first time in half a minute, Landon drew a breath. “True.” Alarm flashed in his eyes. “But that’s at a hospital. Here in the basement? We can’t have her deliver here.”

  John cast another look at the storm outside. “We can’t have her deliver out there either.”