by Neta Jackson
who do i lean on?
Other Novels by Neta Jackson
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Series
The Yada Yada Prayer Group
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out
The Yada Yada House of Hope Series
Where Do I Go?
Who Do I Talk To?
who do i
lean on?
Book 3
A
yada yada
House of Hope
Novel
NETA JACKSON
© 2010 by Neta Jackson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are taken from the following: THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®. © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.
The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
The New King James Version ®. © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
“I Go to the Rock,” words and music by Dottie Rambo. © 1977 New Spring, Inc. (ASCAP). Administered by Brentwood-Benson Music Publishing, Inc. Used by permission.
Liz Curtis Higgs, Bad Girls of the Bible (Colorado Springs: Waterbrook, 1999). Title and author referred to within the text of this novel.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jackson, Neta.
Who do I lean on? / Neta Jackson.
p. cm. — (Yada Yada house of hope ; bk 3)
ISBN 978-1-59554-525-1 (pbk.)
1. Christian women—Fiction. 2. Shelters for the homeless—Fiction.
3. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3560.A2415W476 2010
813'.54—dc22
2010007704
Printed in the United States of America
10 11 12 13 14 15 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Pam
My ministry partner
My “Avis,” my sistah, my friend
For putting up with me on all our travels
Speaking words of encouragement when I falter
Praying God’s Word to keep our focus
Laughing about all our bloopers
Correcting me when I need it
And doing it all
In love
contents
prologue
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
reading group guide
reading in 3-D
prologue
July 2006
Philip Fairbanks watched stoically as the young man in the gold brocade vest and gold bow tie snapped cards out of the automatic shuffler and dealt two cards facedown in front of each player. But feeling his left eye beginning to twitch, he glanced around the poker room, already busy this early on a Friday afternoon. Wouldn’t do to give the other players a clue that he was nervous. He took it all in—the hum of activity at the other tables, the chandeliers glittering overhead, the clink of glasses as pretty young things in revealing black teddies brought drinks from the bar—trying to recapture the thrill he’d felt when he first came to the casino “just for fun” with his business partner. But today, the atmosphere seemed to be closing in on him. Like a cloying silk blanket generating static electricity, waiting to spark.
He turned back. The opening bid was already on the table. Two hundred each. Leaning forward, Philip casually picked up the two cards he’d been dealt. Two tens. A pair of dimes . . . He had to do better than that.
“There you are!” Two young women moving through the poker room of the Horseshoe Casino made a beeline toward them, stopping by two frat-types who helped make up Philip’s table. “Crystal and I’ve been looking all over for you! What are you playing?”
“Texas Hold ’Em,” said one frat boy with a blond buzz cut. “The game I was telling you about. Can you wait? We’ve already started, but it goes fast.”
Philip put his cards facedown. He didn’t like spectators. The girls were too close. Distracting. He could smell a faint whiff of gardenia perfume. Too heavy. He felt like telling the girls to beat it. No, he just had to focus. He raised an eyebrow at the middle-aged guy to the left of the dealer. Was the man going to fold, or . . . ?
The bald man frowned at his hand. “I’ll raise it three hundred.” He pushed his chips forward. Philip shrugged as if bored, stacked the same number of chips, and pushed them into the pile. The two college kids each matched the first bid.
All right. It was starting to look interesting. Two thousand on the table. He needed twice that to cover the business account before Henry Fenchel got the company’s bank statement next week. Shouldn’t be a problem. After all, the Fairbanks and Fenchel Commercial Development Firm was his brainchild. His money as much as Henry’s. He’d just been off his game last weekend— having his sons show up in Chicago for their grandmother’s funeral had distracted him. And his new credit cards had only arrived two days ago, after he’d frozen his personal cards to keep his wife from using them. Why it had taken so long was beyond irritating.
Still, he wasn’t too worried. If he had a few good games this weekend, he would make up the money he’d borrowed from the business account . . . plus gravy.
Philip watched, impassive, as the dealer burned the top card and then flipped the next three cards faceup on the table. The community cards, called the “flop.” A jack . . . another ten . . . a six. All different suits. But that ten would give him three of a kind. Philip studied the faces of the ot
her three players. Nothing. Well, the bet would tell.
The big guy shook his head and passed. Ah, good. Now it was up to Philip to bet. He could simply check, see what the other two would do . . . no. He’d push it. Maybe they’d fold. Could he win with three of a kind? Not a great hand, but he’d won with less. Still, he shouldn’t appear overconfident.
“I’ll raise two hundred.”
The twentysomething to his left pursed his lips. Philip wanted to smile but didn’t. The kid had to match, raise, or fold. The girls standing behind them whispered something, gave Philip a flirty glance, and giggled. Philip wished they’d go away. Bad for concentration. Half a minute ticked by. The young man shrugged and matched the bid. So did his friend.
Back to the bald-headed guy. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Philip didn’t think he’d raise it after passing the bet when he had a chance. But now it was either match or fold. Don’t sweat it, buddy. You’ve only got five hundred in the pot. Go ahead. Fold— The man pushed chips worth a matching two hundred into the pot.
Well, okay. The pot was now twenty-eight hundred. Maybe he’d make up the four thousand he owed Fairbanks and Fenchel on the first game. Sweet.
The dealer burned the top card, then flipped a single card faceup next to the original flop of three. An eight of hearts. That made two hearts on the table—the eight and the six. It didn’t help Philip. His best hand was still only three of a kind. Maybe he should get out, take his losses, and try again. He’d only be out seven hundred. He’d still have the rest of the four thousand to play, and the night was young.
The older guy checked again. Philip tried to read him. The guy couldn’t have a good hand, or he would’ve bet right out of the gate. He was leaving it to Philip to make the call—reacting rather than taking the initiative. Chump. Philip waited a good thirty seconds and then raised the pot another two hundred.
The whispering continued. Philip glared at the young women. They backed off, still whispering and laughing.
One of the college kids folded; the other matched Philip’s bet. That made a pot of thirty-two hundred. Back to the bald guy. What would he do?
The man chewed his lip. Took out a handkerchief and mopped the back of his neck. Shaking his head, he matched the bid, moving his chips to the center of the table.
Was the fool bluffing? If so, he was taking it too far.
Last play. Philip watched as the dealer burned the top card of the deck and flipped the next card faceup next to the other four. The final card. Sometimes called “Fifth Street,” sometimes “the river.” Philip’s heart pumped. Another ten! With two on the table and two in his hand, he could make four of a kind. Not bad . . . not bad at all!
The bald guy looked at his cards. Looked at the five community cards on the table. Each player could use any three from the table to make his five-card final hand. The only unknowns were the two cards each player was holding. Philip tried to picture what the guy could possibly use. The new ten made three hearts—ten, eight, six. Maybe the guy had a pair, or even two . . . or an ace, hoping to take the pot with a single high card.
None of which would win over his four of a kind.
The guy suddenly moved all his chips into the center of the table. What—? Those chips were worth another thousand! Philip recalculated. The guy probably had two hearts in his hand—a flush, five cards in the same suit.
A decent hand. But his four of a kind would beat it.
What the heck. This is what made it fun. Philip matched the man’s thousand and sat back.
Fifty-four hundred in the pot.
The second kid threw up his hands. “I fold. You guys are nuts.”
“That’s it?” the dealer said. “Lay down your hands.”
Breaking into a wide smile, the bald guy laid down two hearts—a nine and a seven. Humph, a flush. Just what I thought. Philip gave the guy five seconds to enjoy his “victory,” then laid down his tens. “Four of a kind beats your flush,” he said, finally allowing a small smile. Ohh, that was easy. He mentally added the pot to the twenty-one hundred in chips he still had. Seventy-five hundred. Not bad for a twenty-minute game. Even after he repaid the four thousand he’d borrowed from the business account— Henry none the wiser—he’d still have thirty-five hundred in cool profit . . .
“Not a flush. A straight flush, buddy! Lookit that. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten—all hearts! Beats your four of a kind. Ha ha!” The bald guy started raking in the pile of chips from the middle of the table.
Philip stared. Why hadn’t he seen it? He felt his face redden. Now he felt like a fool. Worse than seeing his winnings evaporate.
Well, he wasn’t going to let this chump get the best of him. He still had twenty-one hundred to work some magic. He looked up at the dealer. “I’m in again. What’s the minimum bid?”
Philip pulled the Lexus into his space in the parking garage at Richmond Towers on Monday morning and turned off the motor. He sat for several long minutes before opening the car door, a sense of dread pooling in his gut. The weekend at the casino had gone badly. He should’ve pulled out while his losses were minimal. But it would have been so easy to make it all right! Just one good win and he could’ve covered the withdrawal from the business account and made a profit. But it didn’t go down that way. He’d taken out a couple thousand from his personal account, sure his luck would turn . . . and then had to do it a few more times. Now he’d lost ten thousand of his own money, and he still had four thousand to pay back to Fairbanks and Fenchel.
He got out of the car and retrieved his overnight bag from the trunk. Well, he’d take care of the business account and worry about the rest later. He’d make the transfer with his personal debit card and hope Henry wouldn’t notice the withdrawal and deposit if the balance was good. Even if he did, he’d smooth Henry’s feathers, just tell him it was an emergency. What was the problem if he put it back?
But now he was out nearly fifteen grand. He never meant to let his losses get that high.
Philip slid his security card through the keypad that let him into the residential elevators. He should have come home Sunday—maybe even Saturday—before he’d lost so much money. But the penthouse was so empty these days without Gabby and the boys . . . no, he couldn’t go there. Don’t look back, Philip. What’s done is done. It wasn’t working.
Stepping into an empty elevator, he punched the button for the thirty-second floor. Still, he spent as little time as possible in the penthouse. Everywhere he turned, it was like he expected to see them—the boys tussling over the remote . . . Gabby’s mop of auburn curls on the pillow next to him . . .
It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way! Gabby had gone off her rocker—dragging that smelly old bag lady home the first time Fenchel and his wife had come to dinner. Then she took that charity job at the homeless shelter without even discussing it with him! It was like she’d forgotten why they came to Chicago in the first place. Just decided to dance to her own music, never mind that it clashed with his.
But bringing her elderly mother and the mutt to stay at the penthouse had been the last straw . . . No, costing him the deal with a potential client—that was the last straw. He blamed Fenchel for that. Henry should have known better than to trust Gabby to deliver a phone message with sensitive information related to the business. She was so clueless about business protocol, she was like a loose cannon on a pitching ship.
The elevator dinged at the top floor of Richmond Towers, and the door slid open. Kicking her out had been drastic, but the situation had gotten intolerable. Maybe a few months on her own would knock some sense into her. She’d gotten a lawyer—some do-gooder from Legal Aid—but he knew Gabby. She wouldn’t want a divorce. If he didn’t rush things, if he worked stuff out with the boys, she’d come around. Let it pinch for a while.
Philip glanced at his Rolex as he crossed the marble foyer and pulled out his keys. He still had time to get a quick shower, change his clothes, and do the money transfer online before he headed to the office. Monday mo
rning traffic into the city from Indiana hadn’t been too bad. If he hustled, he could still get to the office by ten.
Intent on a quick in-and-out, Philip headed down the hallway to the master bedroom—but stopped as he entered. Something was wrong here. He scanned the room.
Gabby’s dresser was missing.
He tossed his overnight bag on the bed and scanned the room once more. What else was missing? Had she said something about this? He flipped open his cell phone and scrolled down through recent calls. There . . . Gabby’s new cell phone ID, dated last Friday. He hadn’t bothered to listen to the message or return the call. Figured whatever it was could wait. But had she just—?
He turned on his heel and strode back down the hallway, jerking doors open as he went. Half the linens and towels from the linen closet—gone. Both the boys’ bedrooms—cleaned out. In the kitchen, the breakfast nook table and chairs had disappeared. He opened the cupboards. Most of the dishes, pots and pans, and utensils still seemed to be there. Hard to tell. At least she’d left enough for him to function.
Philip crossed to the dining room . . . it looked untouched. Even their wedding china was still in the china cabinet. Huh. Why didn’t she just clean him out while she was at it? Go figure.
Wait. His study. She better not have touched my study! Practically breaking into a run, Philip threw open the door to his inner sanctum. But everything looked just as he’d left it . . . no, wait. The bookshelves had been disturbed. The family photo albums were gone. And a bunch of books. And a file drawer was open. The one that usually held their medical records, the boys’ school records—personal stuff.
He stood in the middle of the room. His computer, his papers, untouched. But something else seemed missing . . . what was it? His eyes roved the room, then settled on an empty spot on one of his bookshelves and realized what it was.
The framed photo of the two of them on their fifth wedding anniversary, cake smudges on their noses, Gabby’s hair a halo of red-gold curls, laughing up at him mischievously.
That photo. Happier times . . . Why had she taken it? Or had she thrown it away? A quick check of the wastebasket in the study and the kitchen trash can yielded nothing. But somehow the photo’s absence yawned larger than the rest of the missing items put together.
