Abide With Me

by Shellie Arnold

  ABIDE WITH ME BY SHELLIE ARNOLD

  Published by Firefly Southern Fiction

  an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  ISBN: 978-1-946016-27-0

  Copyright © 2017 by Shellie Arnold

  Cover design by

  Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: lpcbooks.com

  For more information on this book and the author visit: http://www.shelliearnold.com/

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: Abide With Me by Shellie Arnold published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible® (NASB), Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation Used by permission. www.Lockman.org

  Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: Jennifer Slattery, Eva Marie Everson.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Arnold, Shellie.

  Abide With Me / Shellie Arnold 1st ed.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Part II

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part III

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  PRAISE FOR ABIDE WITH ME

  As a licensed counselor, I've worked with heartbroken couples enduring crucibles of strife. Shellie Arnold's writing breathes fresh realism and hope for hurting readers. Authentic characters rise from her novel to demonstrate the immensity and gravity of true marital love. More than a syrupy pit of infatuation into which we fall, true love involves sacrifice, sustaining effort, and a Savior's grace.

  ~Tina Yeager

  LMHC

  Prepare to be completely captivated and swept up into the midst of a tremendously powerful story. Marriage, mayhem, and the majesty of God all rolled into one fabulous book. Cover to cover, author Shellie Arnold delivers yet another poignant page-turner in the Barn Church Series.

  ~Clint and Penny A. Bragg

  Authors and co-founders of Inverse Ministries, Inc.

  Abide with Me is a story of love, divided loyalties, and greed. It’s also a story of grace and forgiveness. This is one powerful novel.

  ~Ane Mulligan

  Author of Chapel Springs Revival

  Shellie Arnold has done it again! The stories Shellie creates demonstrate how life can get in the way of our best plans, in devastating ways. But God can bring healing. As a pastor, I am always looking for creative tools to assist me as I counsel people. Abide With Me has become one of those tools! The day I finished reading this wonderful story, a couple came into my office desperate for help to save their marriage. They had forgotten how to talk to each other, so they didn't. (I won't give away the good stuff, but the chime method Nicholas uses to speak back into Angelina's life—they should teach this stuff in counseling courses.) I told them about the couple in this story. They loved the idea and it started them back down the road to healing their marriage. When a story can do that it's magical, in the best and most God-like way!

  ~Tina M. Hunt

  Pastor

  Ashland First Church of the Brethren

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In my opinion, this story is the story of every marriage. It’s the novel I wanted to write for the longest time, the story I wanted to tell first. But God had other plans, and rather than this manuscript being book one in The Barn Church series, it became book three.

  The plotline changed too many times to count. Every time I thought I had the story nailed down, a new set of problems awaited me. So I made revision after revision and changed layer after layer. Much like God does with us as He redeems, restores, refines, and heals. As I sat to write this acknowledgements page, I realized even the process of creating the story mirrored my spiritual life and my marriage. Both are always a work in progress.

  So once again, my first thank you is to God. Who is faithful to convict and teach and lead me, even when we have to go over a lesson one more time. God, You know how much time and effort You spent convincing me to marry. Thank You for pushing me and pushing me, then pushing me again. Thank You for teaching me as I live.

  To those who have read my previous novels and shared with me how their lives were touched. Thanks for letting me see some of the fruit of my labor.

  To my agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, thank you for supporting me writing what I feel called to write.

  To Eva Marie Everson and Jennifer Slattery, thank you for helping me birth this book during a season when I couldn’t push alone.

  To Dory Stewart and the Medina County Writers Club. Several revisions back I knew the story wasn’t working, but couldn’t figure out why. Thanks for telling me why and how to begin to fix it.

  To Officer Jim Conley of the Akron Police Department, thanks for the tour and the abundance of information you shared. All was invaluable to me.

  To my new Sisters in Crime friends. Thanks for the quick responses about legal procedures. I admit I panicked before I thought of consulting you, then sighed with relief that you were in my life.

  To my speedy betas: Tina, Tina, and Terry. Grouped together like this you sound like a girl band. You’re not, but you still rock.

  To my number one fan, thanks for all the cheers. I hear them, even from this distance.

  To my family, it always has been and always will be for you, first.

  To Stephen, thank you for listening and brainstorming with me, for listening again when I said “that won’t work because...”, and for letting me plot aloud. In moments when I struggle to find God and His love, I find both in you.

  DEDICATION

  To my husband, Stephen

  You know how scared I was to marry. You didn’t have to accept the love God put in your heart for me. Even with all we’ve been through, it’s better than we thought it could be, isn’t it?

  A Gift for You


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  PROLOGUE

  Present day, Las Vegas, Nevada

  Wearing her newest Oscar de la Renta cocktail dress, Angelina Rousseau stopped in the ballroom’s open double doorway. She clenched her jeweled evening bag and resisted the urge to pat the French twist rooted at her hairline. Attending the wedding of internationally-renowned interior designer Rita Dade demanded certain fashion and etiquette. Rita—who considered her clients her friends, and had won awards for work in Angelina’s home.

  She scanned the chandelier-lit room from columned wall to columned wall. To her right and left, twin harps worthy of a cathedral filled the space with the classic “Unforgettable.” At the far end where the groom stood on stage, garnet roses overflowed urns the size of small cars and scented the room like an English garden.

  Rita hadn’t been kidding. No expense was spared—not for Angelina’s plane ticket and opulent suite upstairs, or this, Rita’s fourth Las Vegas wedding. Over three hundred guests had been invited. Had Rita flown all of them here?

  A tuxedo-clad usher caught her eye. “Bride’s side?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Near the back, preferably an aisle seat.”

  He settled her hand into the crook of his arm. They stepped forward.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  When wasn’t she alone?

  Then, she almost stumbled. Had he actually tapped her wedding rings? The platinum band set with its three-carat diamond tilted on her finger as if losing its balance.

  They stopped, and he turned. “May I have a dance at the reception?”

  She lifted her chin and caught him eyeing the gold wrap grazing her collarbone. He winked at her and left.

  Angelina sat. A blush sprouted from her chest. If only she had the nerve to shed the organza wrap and expose her bare shoulders, simply to get another reaction from the handsome usher.

  How long had it been since her husband’s dark eyes rested on her, sparkling with appreciation? Since his soft, women-would-kill-for-those lashes fluttered against her cheek or traced her jaw? And if she let her parched heart drink from another man’s desire this weekend, when she returned home and saw Nicholas again, would he know what she had done?

  Would he even care?

  She folded a hand over her custom wedding rings, Nicholas’ gift on their third anniversary. Did the rings he’d proudly given her then mean anything to him now?

  Angelina stared at the minister holding his black book and standing beside Donatello, the groom. Then, the flirtatious usher passed by and winked again.

  Dare she respond?

  The entire weekend stretched before her. Later in her suite, she could open her balcony doors. Let moonlight stream in; let the soft night breeze stir the sheer curtains. If she gave in to the forbidden, the filigreed bed—the kind romance novels vividly describe—would keep her secret. She could touch and be touched. Smile at whispers of her beauty. Pretend the physical pleasure reached all the way to her heart.

  And like a scarlet letter, the sin would surely shine on her face, especially when she and Nicholas next attended The Barn Church. And on that exact Sunday, the sermon topic would probably be adultery.

  Or worse, hell.

  She glanced at her sapphire-studded watch. 3:23 P.M. Nevada time meant 5:23 P.M. back home in Rowe City. Nick’s plane would have landed in Alabama about the time hers had landed in Vegas. He would spend the evening working in his office downstairs. Tonight, he probably wouldn’t realize he was alone in their house, not even when he slid between the satin sheets on their enormous bed.

  Six thousand square feet of Venetian plaster, custom furniture, imported marble. And emptiness.

  Was there any worse hell than living lonely in a marriage? At what point should a woman admit her marriage was dead?

  The lights dimmed. Fiona Price, fresh from her world tour with Andrea Bocelli, emerged from the flowered hedge behind the stage singing “Con te Partiro.” The ushers lit ivory candles on brass stands lining the red satin aisle-runner. He reached her row and winked yet again.

  To her embarrassment, her heart jumped like a jubilant child. She’d not experienced this kind of sizzling spark since she fell in love with Nicholas, with one exception: Over a year ago, she’d felt an intense attraction to Rick Matthews. The sight of the married stable owner in faded blue jeans and boots had made her toes curl. What woman wouldn’t be drawn to a quiet, cowboy type who showed almost maternal care for his horses? But Rick was also kind and committed to his wife.

  Fiona’s solo ended. The wedding march began. The audience stood.

  Although Rita had described her gown, Angelina was still taken aback. Her friend’s dress was stunning. Handmade in Italy, hundreds of glass beads—each its own prism—dangled from the long sleeves, swirled across the bodice, and danced down the twelve-foot train. A wide diamond choker graced her neck.

  Rita’s steps were sure. And the expression on her face—Rita’s heart was wide open. Her glistening eyes said, finally, I found you.

  “Please be seated,” the minister said. “A wedding is a great way to start the new year, right, everyone? Dearly beloved, we are gathered together to witness the union of this man to this woman.”

  Angelina’s heart squeezed as if making a fist. Weight, like heavy hands, pressed down on her as the minister charged the bride and groom.

  She squared her shoulders. For heaven’s sake, this was Rita’s fourth marriage, and Angelina had attended the last wedding. Sentimental rhetoric was an expected part of the program.

  The fortyish pair in front of her shared a lingering kiss. The gentleman whispered in his companion’s ear, provoking a gentle elbow to the ribs. He draped his arm around the woman—make that wife, his wedding band was now clearly visible—and brushed reverent fingertips down her neck.

  And it hit Angelina. The reception would be fraught with couples dancing and sharing unspoken memories via long looks.

  Rita and her groom turned to each other and clasped hands, their every expression shown on two large video screens flanking the stage.

  “I promise all of myself to you.” Donatello’s voice shook, but his hold on Rita was solid. He raised her hands to his lips, a common enough European gesture, but the way he looked at her, like she was the only woman in the world …

  Rita laughed and cupped his cheek, her face aglow. “Donatello, you showed me what real love is. You shared God’s love with me. I promise to be your wife from this day forward.”

  Angelina shifted in her seat. How did a couple go from such loving anticipation on their wedding day, to tolerating, then despising each other as had happened to her own parents before her mother’s death? She’d hoped she and Nicholas would be fortunate. She’d hoped they would find themselves blessed with a deep relationship.

  Rather, after almost a decade together, she’d learned familiarity didn’t breed contempt, but indifference.

  She blinked, surprised at rapidly pooling tears. Lock ’em up, girl. Lock ’em up.

  What was wrong with her? She never cried, especially in front of others.

  Although she had to admit, she’d almost cried in front of Rick. Over Nicholas, and her marriage, and the incessant loneliness she faced.

  The soloist sang again, another love song. The longing, the bliss of the piece, did something inside her, forcing aside a rusty latch that secured her deepest yearnings. She could almost feel the cellar doors of her heart fly open.

  A frightening wind roared in her ears.

  Was it too much to ask to feel connected to someone in this world? To a husband after ten years of marriage? To God, after years of attendin
g church?

  Anguish burned its way up her throat and tears gushed forth. She couldn’t stem the flow.

  She clutched her evening bag and rose. She was seconds away from total meltdown and unable to stop it.

  Watching her steps through the sea swimming in her eyes, she fled. She pushed the back doors open as the first drops left her chin, crossed the smoke-hazed lobby, and turned the corner behind the lounge.

  A hand touched her shoulder.

  She turned to see the handsome usher.

  “Please,” he said, “may I help?”

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ten years ago, St. Augustine, Florida

  “I’m so happy, Nicholas. We’re going to be so happy.”

  And she’d never be lonely again.

  At the edge of the McDonald’s parking lot, Angelina snuggled against him on the wide front seat of his car.

  He raised a large Coke with two straws to her lips. “Here you go, Mrs. Rousseau.”

  Coke dribbled down her chin, and she laughed. “I am Mrs. Rousseau, aren’t I?”

  “For the past half hour.”

  She dipped a McNugget into honey mustard. “Not bad for a free meal. Sweet of the courthouse clerk to give us a gift card.”

  He looked through the windshield at afternoon rain. “I wanted better for you, Angie.”

  “This is better.” She squeezed ketchup onto folded napkins. “Way better than the mac and cheese I usually split with Phoebe.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know if you’d married someone wealthy—a doctor, a lawyer—your dad would have continued paying your tuition and shelled out for a big church wedding.”

  “Who needs a boring church wedding with all that God stuff? You didn’t really want that, did you?”

  “No, but I’m just saying. You gave up everything for me. I want to give it all back to you, and more.”

  “That’s not true. Daddy disowned me when I told him I wanted to change my major to study art. He’s always belittled my interest in art. And he wouldn’t have paid for any wedding, especially one in a church. The minute I moved in with Phoebe—black sheep number one—I became black sheep number two. Taking back my car and cell phone were just formalities.”