by JoAnn Durgin
For all my faithful readers, I thank you most sincerely for your prayers and encouragement. For my family, as always, I am so honored by the many ways you make sacrifices for me in order to help make this writing journey a reality. You are my heroes.
Blessings,
JoAnn Durgin
Matthew 5:16
Theme Verses
in Daydreams
Hebrews 11:1
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Matthew 19:14
But Jesus said, “Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”
Revelation 3:20
Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will dine with him, and he with Me.
Chapter 1
Tuesday, December 3, 2002 — Early Evening
Amy Jacobsen’s breathing slowed to a crawl. Could that be . . . ? Swiveling on the counter stool at the upscale Manhattan eatery, she tilted her head toward the large picture window of Café Eduardo to get a better view. Holiday shoppers crowded the sidewalk as the tall, dark-haired man made his way toward the entrance.
“Landon Warnick.” The name escaped her lips without conscious thought.
Tuning out the clink of glassware, piped-in holiday jazz and animated conversation all around her, Amy observed with unabashed interest as he held open the front door and ushered two austere businessmen inside. She’d seen his photo on the masthead of his magazine and splashed across the society pages enough times to recognize the founder and editor in chief of New York Scene. The majority of men in her industry who’d reached Landon’s status were well past fifty with paunchy middles, deeply-grooved faces and more hair on their chins than their heads. Stereotypical or not, unfair or not, most smoked or drank like fiends. None of them looked like this. Ever the literary groupie, Amy mentally catapulted the well-respected figure to the top position on her list of “Publishers I’d Like to Meet Someday.”
Today might be that day.
Closing the door against the onslaught of blustery, early December temperatures, Landon peeled off his gloves and greeted a man by the door with a hearty handshake and matching smile. No doubt, the publisher knew half of Manhattan, or the other way around. In person, he appeared younger and more personable than she’d imagined. All he needed was a baby to kiss and he’d be a worthy political candidate—towering over most men and seemingly in complete control of his world. The erratic rhythm of Amy’s pulse testified to his good looks. Hardly what she’d term a pretty boy—in spite of his impeccable clothing and slightly long-but-stylish haircut—he radiated a rugged masculinity in the way he moved, his posture and the set of those broad shoulders.
When Landon removed his black overcoat—revealing a dark suit, white dress shirt and pale blue tie—it was impossible to ignore the dozens of women turning their heads in his direction. A disgustingly thin, bubbly blonde hostess bounced forward and greeted the group with a cloakroom attendant in tow. After gathering their coats, the attendant hurried off as the hostess marched them past the small crowd already waiting for tables. All that and clout to spare.
Lost in thought, she turned back to the front. She startled when the bartender placed a napkin beneath her half-Coke, half-Diet Coke and slid it across the bar.
Resting his elbows on the highly-polished wood, he lifted velvety-brown eyes—fringed with insanely long lashes—to hers. New York City had enough cute, suave bartenders to fill Yankee Stadium, but she didn’t want or need one flirting with her. “Afraid he’s taken, sweetheart.”
Her father was the only man allowed to use that endearment, but she hadn’t heard it from him in over four years. A wave of nostalgia swept through her. Swallowing a sharp retort, she raised her chin. “I don’t know what you mean.” Glancing at the clock on the wall, she willed Mitch to be on time for once. Too bad this was the only semi-warm place to wait for her brother or an available table, whichever came first. Next week, she’d choose the restaurant.
A low chuckle escaped as the bartender wiped a dry cloth over the bar, buffing it to a high shine. “Landon Warnick. He’s always a hit with the ladies. Gets them all stirred up, but that guy’s married to his work.”
“Excuse me?” Stirred up? “I only have the highest regard for Mr. Warnick as a writer, editor and publisher.”
His laugh was hearty. “Sure. That must be it. His journalistic credentials.” When he anchored a lemon wedge on the side of her glass, it earned him a little extra tip for remembering that minor but important detail before he endangered it with a suggestive wink and a bet-you-can’t-resist-me smile. “Can I get you anything else?”
Feeling awkward under his brazen scrutiny and embarrassed she’d been caught staring, Amy tucked a few strands of hair behind one ear, avoiding those flirtatious eyes. Surely the bartender didn’t believe her fascination with the handsome publisher would translate into a date—or more—with him. Sad though it might be, it probably worked with some women.
“This is all I need, thank you.” The half-and-half was perfection, but she’d hug that compliment to herself. No sense in giving him undue encouragement.
The bartender lowered his stubbled chin and surveyed her with puppy dog eyes, his smile revealing a deep dimple in his right cheek. “Name’s Marco, at your service. Are you sure there’s nothing else you—”
Okay, enough of this. “As a matter of fact,” she said, lowering her glass, “maybe I do need something.” She hoped it came across as firm and businesslike.
Hearing a grunt, she turned as Mitch dropped into the vacant seat beside her. “Hi, sweetie. Glad you could make it.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and pasted on a smile that begged him to play along.
“Want anything from the bar, sir?” Marco tugged on the towel draped over his shoulder and swirled it inside a freshly-washed glass. Judging by his wink, he didn’t buy the idea she and Mitch shared anything other than genetics. Their matching dark hair and gray-green eyes gave them away every time.
“Club soda with lime, please. Don’t let me interrupt. Go ahead, love bunny. Tell”—Mitch peered at the bartender’s nametag—“Marco what you need. I’m curious to hear the answer myself.”
Might as well make this good. “It’s tomorrow night, but it’d be great if you could come,” she said, resisting the urge to laugh at the incredulity in her brother’s expression. After twenty-seven years, he shouldn’t be surprised she’d taken his bait.
Serving Mitch his drink, Marco propped one elbow on the bar and leaned close. “Sure thing. Where to, sweetheart? If it’s an AA meeting, I know a lot of the counselors.”
Mitch turned aside and coughed as Amy met Marco’s gaze. “Actually, it’s Wednesday Bible study and prayer meeting at my church. Want to come?” Yep, that should do it. She avoided looking at her brother. He’d seen her in action before and she’d hear about it later. As expected, Marco ducked his head, mumbled something under his breath and wasted no time disappearing around the corner.
“You’re a wicked one,” Mitch said, making an annoying clicking sound with his tongue. “Using your faith to turn away men. You can’t help yourself, can you?” As he raised his glass halfway to his lips, his grin was wry. “Is this your method of missionary dating, luring unsuspecting men to church under the guise of something or other?”
“Of course not. Don’t be smug. That would be disingenuous.”
“What’s that mean?” He shot her a look before draining his club soda. “I’m a stockbroker, not an expert on the English language.”
“You know very well what it means or you should return that fancy Ivy League degree and demand your money back. I gave Marco the opportunity to go, and I’d love it if he’d take me up on the offer. On the other hand, if he’s not interested, it’s a surefire way to send a guy sprinting in the opposite direction. You saw what happened. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
I guess that’s what I get for waiting in the bar—in the restaurant you picked, by the way—but it’s not like I’m going to find a man by strutting around Manhattan wearing a T-shirt that reads, ‘I’m a Bible-believing girl—Only Christians need apply’ emblazoned across my chest.” She frowned. “Not that I’m looking in the first place.”
“First of all, you never strut,” Mitch said. “Maybe you should try the T-shirt idea, though. It’d be interesting to see the kind of response you’d get, although that slogan’s a whole lot more provocative than you realize. I’m afraid I’d need to summon the Chastity Patrol to protect your honor.”
She blew out an exasperated sigh. “Give me a break, Mitch. Contrary to what you believe, I can take care of myself, thank you very much. The right man will come along in God’s timing, if it’s meant to happen. I’m in no hurry.” Drumming her fingers on the bar, she made a mental note to get a manicure—maybe splurge on a pedicure—before the wedding in Louisiana next weekend.
“I’d pay good money to see Amy in love. It’d smooth out your rough edges, soften you up.” Mitch met her gaze. “Seriously, it’d be nice to see you smile and enjoy life more. You work too hard and play too little.”
“Speak for yourself. It’s not like I’m sitting home alone, pondering my single status. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been home one night this week.”
“Then I guess I shouldn’t remind you it’s only Tuesday.”
The corners of her mouth quirked. “You know what I mean. I stay busy and have plenty of friends.” She waited as Marco replaced Mitch’s drink. Why am I so defensive? Plenty of time remained on her biological clock and she wasn’t anywhere near the desperation stage.
“Snobs,” Mitch said with another fake cough.
“Are you calling me a snob? And what’s with the coughing? Are you catching a cold?” She pressed her hand across his forehead.
“No, Florence Nightingale. The company you keep. They’re snobs.”
“Enough of that,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Find a man who can challenge me and then we’ll talk.”
“I imagine most men run in the opposite direction like Marco and don’t know what to make of you. The difference with you is you mean what you say. You’d love nothing more than for this guy to go to Bible study with you and maybe find Jesus.”
“A girl can hope.”
Mitch stared her down. “I know you’d never purposely pull a holier-than-thou, sanctimonious attitude, but have you ever considered you might come across that way?”
Amy swallowed a sharp comeback. At least she tried to help others, even if her efforts—or her words—were sometimes misconstrued. Inside, she cringed, not wanting to admit there might be a sliver of truth in what Mitch said.
Chapter 2
Returning her cell phone to her purse, Amy stole a quick glance Mitch’s way. The tiny lines surrounding his eyes and tautness on either side of his mouth tugged at her heart. No matter what else was happening, Tuesday night belonged to Mitch. Ever since their dad died, it was a comfort knowing he was only a phone call and a few city blocks away.
Only thirteen months separated them, but tonight he looked five years her senior. The events of the last year had taken their toll on his handsome features. Losing a number of colleagues on 9/11, including his closest friend, Brad, devastated him. His solace in dealing with the grief had been to throw himself into his work, erecting an impenetrable shell to harbor his fragile emotions. She hated that he floundered spiritually, questioning why a sovereign God hadn’t stopped the tragic events that fractured so many families.
She’d given Mitch time to heal but wondered how long it would take for him to work through his pain. Like a noose, it held him in a stranglehold. Problem was, he bottled everything up inside, whereas she preferred to face life head-on and force confrontations, no matter the consequences. Hard to believe she was shy as a child. Mitch was going through the motions of life, but he wasn’t living. Losing their father had left the first huge, gaping hole in their lives. If only their dad could be here, he’d offer soothing words and impart them in the gentle, compassionate way that endeared him to the members of his longtime congregation. For now, she’d continue to pray Mitch would eventually find his way back home.
“Maybe I should be worried you’d actually accept a ride from a stranger if Marco decided to take you up on your offer,” he said. “Although the odds of that happening aren’t looking good in your favor.”
His words startled Amy from her reverie. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Your trusting nature is admirable, but not all people have your best interests at heart.” He pinned her with his intense gaze.
She squirmed in her seat. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“That’s why you need me,” he said. “For self-protection, among other things.”
“I’ll always need you.” After brushing dark hair from Mitch’s forehead, she tweaked the small cleft in his chin. He smirked at the affectionate gesture, but leaned into it instead of pulling away like usual. “You’re not getting enough sleep,” she said. “Should I be worried?”
“Been spending time at Felicity’s.” His eyes met hers. “Don’t start with me, Amy. It’s a big house with lots of things to keep up and fix. I owe it to Brad. I can’t let him down.”
Taking a quick breath, she hoped she wouldn’t regret her words. “Felicity isn’t your responsibility. If she wants to invest in the stock market, then you’re the guy to call, but she can afford the professionals for home repairs.” Although his devotion to Brad’s widow was admirable, she prayed he wasn’t mistaking friendship for deep affection or anything more. Thank goodness Felicity didn’t have a child to pull on Mitch’s vulnerable heartstrings. While strong in many ways, he surrendered his heart too easily. The one time Felicity joined them for dinner, she’d clung to him like a lifeline. While not wanting to be insensitive to the woman—and although her brother’s generosity and caring spirit were wonderful qualities—Amy hated to see him hurt over a sense of misguided loyalty.
Mitch’s lips pressed together and his cheeks flushed with faint color. “I like working with my hands and fixing things. It’s good to wear jeans and a T-shirt and sling a hammer every now and then. Gives me a sense of satisfaction I don’t get sitting behind a desk.”
“Good to hear it. I’ll let you know the next time a TeamWork mission or local project comes around. We can always use more volunteers.”
He gave her a look that said it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
She made sure she had his eye contact. “Some things you can’t fix no matter how hard you try. You need to accept it and move on. I thought your training at Harvard Med—”
“Yeah, well, we don’t need to talk about that. Old news.”
Ah, that wound’s still raw, too. Her heart swelled. She adored her older brother, always had. Unlike the relationship she shared with their younger sister, Celeste, Mitch understood her. If it was within her power, she’d do anything to ease his heartache.
“Have you taken that lesson to heart, Maddy?”
Mitch’s rarely used childhood nickname for her brought unexpected tears to her eyes. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“When?” He didn’t bat an eyelash.
Turning her head, she inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly. “When Celeste broke her leg in three places and I couldn’t do anything except hold her hand while we waited for the paramedics. When I got Mom’s call about Dad’s stroke and then found her crying on the kitchen floor last Christmas, still missing him like it was yesterday.” Her words choked in her throat. Moisture pooled in Mitch’s eyes, mirroring hers. “When I saw a homeless man being carried away on a stretcher last week, his poor old dog wailing as the ambulance drove off; and then when I heard a woman berating a child in public yesterday because the little boy was hungry and asked for something to eat.”
“I get your point,” he said. “You’re one of the few people I know who can come up with ten r
easons for anything at the drop of a hat.”
Amy leaned closer, making certain she had her brother’s eye contact. “There are so many things that could break my heart on a daily basis if I let them. People will let you down, but I’ve learned that God never fails. We can’t always protect the ones we love, but we have to trust God knows what He’s doing. Without that trust, where’s the hope?” She prayed he understood her dual meaning.
“I know. Give me a little more time.”
“All you need.”
~~**~~
Landon shifted in the chair, forcing his attention back to his guests. His plan couldn’t have worked out better if he’d scripted it. When his assistant, Dona, had departed his office after telling him his presence was required at this wine and dine of potential advertisers, he’d pulled out Mitch Jacobsen’s business card. Might as well make this more than a working dinner. With his hand on the phone to call his new acquaintance and see where he might be meeting Amy tonight, a little niggling inside had stopped him. Landon’s gaze slid once more to where Mitch sat with the lovely woman as he exchanged pre-pitch small talk while attempting—and failing miserably—to keep his eyes away from the stunning, dark-haired woman. This had to be Amy, but her photo in Habits hadn’t done her justice. Normally, he preferred a table at Café Eduardo away from the bar, but tonight it proved to great advantage.
Amy possessed a natural effervescence he found incredibly attractive, her smile the most infectious he’d seen in a lifetime of Tuesdays. Shoulder-length, straight dark hair swept her narrow shoulders. In her stylish but nondescript “uniform” of the professional career woman—straight gray skirt with crisp white blouse and jacket—the glimpse of long, toned legs got his heart pumping to the point of distraction and stirred feelings he’d pushed aside for a long time. He’d maintained a hands off policy for years, all the more reason to appreciate a beautiful woman like Amy. Although difficult to guess her age from this distance, he estimated she must be four or five years his junior.
