by Ginny Aiken
I chuckle at the image, silly as it is.
Then, “There’s one thing, Andie. And I don’t want to upset you, but I can’t shake it, no matter how hard I try.”
“What is it? You won’t upset me.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that . . . Max showed up at a very . . . interesting time?”
I suck in a breath. “He did, didn’t he?”
“The same day your vendor turned up dead.”
“But he was on-screen with me. He has the same alibi I do. If I couldn’t have done it because millions were watching me, they were watching him too.”
“Who’s to say he worked alone?”
It had occurred to me the minute she mentioned his name. “You’re right. He could have had a partner.”
“Has he done anything strange?”
My laugh has more than a little hysteria. “You don’t know the guy. There’s not much he does that isn’t strange.”
“But could it be suspicious?”
My brain channel surfs through the events of the past few weeks. “You know? Now that you mention it, it’s more than a little strange that he wants to stay on this show with me so much. Especially since he’s a big-time jock.”
“Maybe he’s keeping an eye on you. Mr. Pak did come to see you.”
“Swell. Another thing to worry about around him.”
Peggy doesn’t say anything right away. Then, “Have you prayed, Andie?”
“Practically nonstop.”
“Have you stopped to listen?”
I pause. “I think so.”
“You don’t sound all that sure.”
“Well, there’s been so much going on, and every time I pray lately, I wonder if God’s still out there listening to me. I’ve always thought he was, but I’m kinda getting my prayers bounced back by the ceiling here. At least, that’s how I feel. Can he hear me? In the middle of all the craziness going on? All this has happened, I’ve prayed and prayed, and I have no answers for any of it!”
“Don’t give up. Sometimes God’s answer is just to hang on. That the solution’s just around the next corner.”
“I’m hanging, but my nails are ripping off, if you know what I mean.”
“Duct tape! Do whatever it takes, but don’t let doubts steal your faith. Remember. Faith’s our spiritual duct tape. Tell you what. Let’s pray. Right now.”
We do, and then hang up. Pain creeps up my neck from my tense shoulders. My head hurts from thinking too hard, and the gas episode has left me with some crummy symptoms of its own. But there’s still one question I have to ask.
“Why, Lord?”
The heavenly silence is deafening.
But deep in my heart, I know that question is the one that needs answering. And I don’t know where to go dig up the answer. Or the answer to any of my other million questions.
Again, it comes down to God. And trust. Which leads to patience. Something I missed back when God was giving it out. Trust is the key.
Trust . . . a little word with a huge meaning. And prayer. It’s not as if Peggy’s the only one who’s prayed with me. Before she left, Aunt Weeby prayed with me. After our amens, she took my face between her hands, stared me in the eye, then dropped a kiss on my forehead, just as she has done since I was a little girl.
“Don’t wrassle your brains into a big ol’ tangle, sugarplum. You don’t have to do it all. You don’t even have to do any of it. God’s with you, and all he wants is for you to trust him to work it all out.”
“But—”
“No, Andie. No buts work here. Only trust in God. Faith, the real deal, girl. That’s what we’re talking about. And the next time you start wrassling thoughts again, pray. Toss it all over to God. He’s the man with the answers, and you know it. Oh! And forget all about that snooping thing. I . . . uh . . . was all wrong about that.”
I do know she’s right—in my head. It’s ironic how in this hospital room, after hours of prayer, self-examination, and too many thoughts, I come to such a huge epiphany. For years now I’ve been a Christian, since my teens, when I gave my life to my heavenly Father. But it’s only now, today, just weeks before my thirtieth birthday, that I realize I haven’t really sold myself all out to God.
Aunt Weeby is right. I do try to “wrassle” answers all by myself. And to my shame, I finally know that’s not self-reliance or independence or even talent, ability, or a gift of some sort. That kind of “wrassling” I do is nothing more than a lack of trust in God. Instead of moving out of his way to let him do his thing, I barge in where his angels fear to tread.
What I really need to do is surrender, to say, “Thy will be done,” and mean it with all that is within me, every single time, and about every single thing that affects me.
Heaven help me, what I really need is to be more like my aunt. Nutty, wacky, and all the rest, she has, though, figured out this whole life and living thing. She does life in a constant state of trust in God.
And it’s only my helplessness while laying flat in a hospital bed, while under suspicion of horrible crimes, in a fog about all the awful things that have happened to me and others I care for, that brings me to a deeper knowledge of what it means to know Christ.
“Thy will be done . . .”
1700
A stay at Hotel Hospital is no fun. I cut mine short as soon as I trumped Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s arguments. The two other S.T.U.D. employees who’d been under observation were heading home, so why shouldn’t I do the same?
The daunting duo’s strong suit isn’t logic.
And now, three long days of Aunt Weeby’s not strictly necessary pampering later (picture tall me on the not-so-tall parlor sofa, since she can’t clump up and down the stairs to do her ministering), I’m heading to the studio. My beady little eyes want to see what Chief Clark has assured me. He insists the vault wasn’t breached. How does he know if someone didn’t figure out the combination, open the door, and once inside, help himself to a fortune in gemstones? He doesn’t know what we have in inventory.
Well, Sally and Miss Mona do, but still. Seeing is believing.
After a quick shower, I take my time to put together an outfit that has neither Tweety Bird nor Taz on it, like my pajamas do. Sure, I’m designer most of the time, but I’ve also got a thing for handsome cartoon males, with the likes of whom I’ve spent a great deal of time during my convalescence. I score a bagel for breakfast, then head for the front door. When I get to the parlor, I hit the brakes and come to a screeching halt. Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona are there, on their way out, stacks of shopping bags and cardboard boxes at the ready.
“What are you two doing?”
They swap looks, grin, and Aunt Weeby waves the newspaper in her hand. “Check it out. We’re going on a flea market safari. This one’s only about twenty-eight miles away. Want to come with us? See what kinda trophy you can bag? It’ll be such fun.”
Hmm . . . let’s think about this. Two giddy senior citizens, a place boiling over with more of the same, tables and booths bursting at the seams with people’s dusty junk . . .
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Aw, sugarplum. You’re gonna have to come with us one a’ these times. You don’t know what a thrill it is when you spot a treasure in the middle of a bunch a’ garbage. And then the real fun starts. That’s when you haggle the price down to bargain-basement pennies.”
I’d rather volunteer for a root canal. Without Novocain. If ever there was a time for diplomacy, this is it. “I just don’t get the thrill of it all. Dirt and trash aren’t my thing. And as far as arguing goes? You guys know I get more than my fair share working with Max.”
Miss Mona gives me one of her laser-beam looks. “And here I thought you were going to play nice.”
Was he playing nice when he first showed up? Murder’s not nice.
But I can’t bring that up. “Sure, I agreed to work with him, but that doesn’t mean he suddenly knows enough that he won’t make me crazy the next time he comes up with some dumb
comment while we’re on-screen. And besides, you did tell us you wanted the, um . . . er . . . disagreements to go on.”
Aunt Weeby chuckles. “See, Mona? I told you there’s not a thing to worry about. They’re not gonna be billing and cooing anytime soon. The viewers are still gonna get lots a’ sparks coming their way. They’re the perfect couple.”
I fight the urge to blab, to warn them, and face Miss Mona. “Any reason why you’d be heading out on a junking junket instead of coming in to the studio on the Friday morning after it was sabotaged?”
“Andie, honey, Max was right on at least one thing he said. You do take yourself much too seriously. That’s the why-for behind your ulcers. You need to be more like Livvy and me. We know how to have us some fun.”
Max, Max, Max.
“I’ll give you that I’ve become too focused on work over the last few years, but I don’t find anything about junk particularly exciting. I’m more the Queen of Clean kinda girl, not the kind who goes around collecting endless piles of more stuff.”
Aunt Weeby purses her lips and looks toward the ceiling. “You Philistine, you. We don’t buy us any junk stuff. We find us real good antiques, sugarplum. You have to give it a chance—”
The ringing doorbell cuts her off. I rush to see who came to my rescue, but wrinkle my nose when I spot the—suspicious— male on the front porch. “What brings you here?”
He seems clueless about the . . . um . . . lack of enthusiasm in my voice. “I knew the ladies were headed out for some R&R, and I thought you might like a ride to the studio.”
Uh-oh. “I usually drive myself in to work. Aunt Weeby’s been letting me use her old VW Jetta.”
Max snaps his fingers. “That’s right. I’ve seen you. But wouldn’t you like to travel in style? And the company’s not so bad either.”
A date with Jack the Ripper. “Ah . . . well . . . I never thought about it.”
“Tell you what. How about you do something wild and crazy today and give it a try? Come with me. I promise not to sabotage you and your gem geekydom. You’ll be safe with me.”
Really? “Okay.”
“Lighten up, Andie. I can’t find even a hint of humor in you.”
I don’t see the humor in a corpse in a vault. But he can stand some surveilling. I grab my purse from the table in the foyer. “Okay, pal. I’m taking you up on your offer. And just so you know, my sense of humor’s just ducky, thank you very much.”
“Oh my!” Aunt Weeby says. “I don’t know what’d be more fun today. I love flea marketing, but refereeing these two could also be a barrel of fun.”
And I traded ulcers for this? “I’m outta here.” And outta my mind.
Max holds the door, and as I head for his SUV, he calls out, “Have a great time, ladies. I’ll take good care of her.”
My suspicion-o-meter starts beeping like a trash truck in reverse.
We get into his car and buckle up. “I’ll have you know I’m a perfectly capable adult, Max Matthews. There’s not gonna be any of that ‘taking care of Andie’ going on.”
“Let me worry about that.”
Fear waves hello, but then my conscience pipes in: Try more prayer.
I give it another whirl. Lord? Can you make sure murder’s not on his agenda? And while you’re at it, please send me an extra dose of calm coolness in the face of . . . well, Max-ness.
We drive away in silence—a sticky, icky silence. What’s the deal with this guy?
After a few minutes, he says, “I’ve been playing around with an idea. Are you willing to listen?”
“I’m your captive audience, but that doesn’t mean I’ll take the bait.”
“Fair enough. Why don’t you check out the bag in the backseat?”
I give it a glance. The brown paper sack looks innocent enough. Will it blow up when I open it?
A peek at Max gains me nothing. Nothing but the reminder of how close we are. And that answers my question. I doubt he’d have a bomb in the bag. He doesn’t strike me as suicidal.
When I open the sack, I’m stumped. It contains nothing suspicious, just strange. I spread out on my lap a pair of plastic Groucho Marx glasses, a hot-pink ruler, an eight-inch-square blackboard, and an apple.
“What’s all this?”
“Where’s that sense of humor you told me about?”
“Right where it’s always been, but that doesn’t mean I get your shopping habits.”
“Let me spell it out for you. The reason you hate me is because I’m not gem savvy—”
“Wait! Wait, wait, wait. I don’t hate you. I just don’t think you’re the right man for the job.”
“All I want is for you to give me a chance—even though I’d much rather be selling sports equipment. That’s what this is all about, Teach.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“Whatever happened to your old folks’ course in rocks?” “You’re never going to think I know anything unless you’re the one who does the teaching. So how about it? If you know as much about gems as you say you do, then go ahead and share. Teach me what you think I need to know.”
Talk about being between a rock and a hard place—pun totally intended. I don’t want to spend any more time with Max than I have to. He’s too attractive, even with all his flaws. Then there’s that coincidence that might not be so much coincidence.
I mean, really. What could be worse than— No. I’m not going there. Not while we’re in his car.
You have your own flaws, remember? Figures my working-overtime conscience would kick in right about now. But flaws don’t compare with guilt. We’re talking murder here.
And maybe not.
On the other hand, Max does have a point. If he’s innocent, and if I’m going to be stuck with him, I would want to make sure he gets his facts straight. So maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all. “I guess we can give it a try. But if it doesn’t work out, then you’re off to sell sports junk.”
He lets out a sigh that tells me he hadn’t been sure of my answer. And he’d been sweating the wait for my decision. Why would he want to spend so much time with me, if he feels I hate him? Especially, if all he wants to do is sell sports stuff. I don’t do sports.
Suspicious, don’t you think?
I slant him a glance and notice his smile, no smirk in sight. In spite of everything and with no effort on his part, his easy good looks hit me in a way I don’t really want to be hit. At least, not by him, and especially not now that Peggy’s got me to thinking.
Focus, Andie, focus. “When do you want to start?”
Max the Magnificent jumps on that. “How about tonight? After work. We can grab something to eat, and then you can knock yourself out throwing gem basics at me.”
Beep, beep, beep. My suspicion-o-meter’s on double-time. His cozy little gem lesson could be construed— misconstrued—as a date. Or something more sinister.
Since I don’t want to give him any crazy ideas of either kind, I let the thought slide into oblivion, where it belongs. And will stay. I hope.
My nerves do a jitterbug in my gut. “Where do you want to go?”
“D’you like Chinese?”
“Love it!”
“See? We have something in common.”
“Oh, and last time I looked, you walk upright. That makes two.”
He chuckles. “One can work wonders with a lot less than that.”
Before a comeback can roll off my tongue, my cell phone does Beethoven’s Fifth. “Hello?”
“Miss Andie?” Chief Clark says.
Those nasty nerves of mine kick up another fuss and my heart beats a triple-time cadence. “Yes. What’s wrong? Why would you be calling me?”
“I’m afraid I do have some bad news for you. There’s been an accident.”
Try talking when your heart’s imitating a jackhammer. “Who?”
“I’m sorry, but your aunt and Miss Mona took off going east, east of I-65, that is, down by where there’s them hill
s by the farms?”
Sorry? Then he rambles? “Get to the point, please!”
His sniff comes across the line. “Well, Miss Andie, it looks like the brakes in Miss Mona’s fancy car—that Jag thing— gave way. They musta been faulty, ’cause that car’s pretty new. Can’t have wore out or anything like that so fast.”
“So far you’ve told me there was a crash, but you haven’t said a word about what really matters. How are my aunt and Miss Mona?”
Max pulls the SUV to the berm, watches me, but keeps silent.
The chief goes on. “It’s like this, Miss Andie. They’re on their way to the hospital right as we speak. Once they get them there, and the emergency folks do what they need to, then you and I, we’ll both know more. I do know Miss Mona weren’t conscious when the EMTs got to her.”
I totally free-fall inside. “Uh . . . thanks. I appreciate the call. And I’m on my way . . . to the hospital—Oh! Which one? Where’d they go?”
“Baptist East. It’s the biggest and closest to the accident.” “I’ll be there.”
When I close my phone, my hands are shaking and I feel like I’m about to throw up. I’m chilled. Everything around me feels unreal, hazy, and fragile.
“Andie,” Max says, his voice caring and gentle. “Tell me where we’re going. We don’t want to waste time.”
That unexpected gentleness of his again touches me, and I smile. “Thanks, Max. We need to get to Baptist East as soon as we can. Miss Mona’s Jag seems to have had some kind of brake failure, and they crashed.”
“Hang on. I’ll get us there.” He turns the key in the ignition, then gives me a wry grin. “But I’m going to need directions. I’m new in town, remember?”
As we hurry to the hospital, I notice how sure he is at the wheel of the SUV, how steady his actions. I take comfort in his strength, and turn, as always, to prayer.
By the time we reach the hospital, even though my stomach’s knotted and my shoulders are tight, I’m in a more peaceful place thanks to my faith in God’s mercy and the power of prayer. I’m also thankful for Max’s surprising sensitivity.
“Hey,” I say softly. “I guess you’re not a three-headed monster with a glowing green halo, after all. Thanks again.”
