by LoRee Peery
“You talking about me?” Carrie said as she approached. “I forgot to tell you about the silly call at the shop. This gal said, ‘Hello, can I speak to someone who deals with the wigs? I managed to answer, ‘Sorry, we have no wigs here.’ But oh boy, did I laugh when I disconnected.”
“Now wait,” Sloan said. “You’ve got a bald mannequin. Somebody may have thought your shop needed a wig.”
They made more jokes as they finished their coffee and then took their leave.
The recent activity wiped out Dahlia, and time slowed. Surprisingly, she dozed most of the way back to Lincoln. On the street that housed her duplex, she roused from her lethargy.
Sloan cupped her shoulder, and she sat straight. “I’ll let you know tomorrow if we’ve had any kind of break. Hopefully, this will all be over. Remember to thank the Lord that Ken is going to be fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t think I’m a wimp, the way you’re telling me to take it easy? My little snooze is probably the only rest I’ll get until Christmas. Counting down the days, and Christmas Eve is always the busiest day other than Black Friday. For some reason guys put off that special gift purchase to the last minute. Not that I’m complaining.”
She’d forgotten to leave Ken’s bracelet gift for Carrie. It remained in her purse. She unlatched her belt and reached for the door handle.
“Wait. I’ll come around.” He did more than open her pickup door. He pulled her to his side, tucked her against him, and walked her up the drive.
She sighed, relished the familiarity.
Being so near to Sloan erased the years. Dahlia gave no thought to resting her head on his shoulder, falling into an old pattern.
Ever so gently, he shifted his stance so they faced one another. The icicle Christmas lights dripping from the eaves added a golden reflection to his eyes. “I won’t apologize. I can’t resist.”
“What for?”
“Shhh,” he said, sliding a finger across her lips.
He bent forward and replaced his finger with his lips, grazing her cheek with his face. His nose felt cold, but his lips shot fire through her.
Dare she give in? She was too tired to allow her mind influence over the temptation of responding to his touch.
This was Sloan after all, whose touch and feel at one time were almost an extension of her own body.
She got into the kiss.
Within a nanosecond, hands were in motion. His and hers, roaming over arms, shoulders, backs, waists, as though their limbs held memory in the muscles.
She skimmed her right hand over the ridge of ribs, firmness of body beneath layers, until her fingers reached his nape. She cupped the base of his skull, where the indented seven-shaped scar registered through her fingertips. Her traveling fingers rose higher and rolled his warm stocking cap into a heap.
He moaned, and pulled them out of the upsurge of heat. “We’ve both wanted this since we laid eyes on each other again.”
She swerved to the side, her world atilt, and bent to retrieve his cap.
He took it from her grasp and balled it into his own fist. Then he picked up her hand with his free one, and lifted her wrist for his caress.
She closed her eyes, marveled that such a minute touch at her pulse held enough force to set her senses on fire. But she didn’t have time for all that in her life.
She pulled out of his arms. “Thanks for taking me to see Ken today. I need to get inside, and ready for tomorrow.”
His arms dropped to his sides, and he swayed a bit. So he felt shaken as well. “Dream of me tonight, Dahlia. And trust. Ken will be safe. The Lord will work out all the details.”
“There you go again. I’m used to working out my own details.”
“Try to settle down, anyway. And remember, when it’s all said and done, Ken is still alive. Any chance you’d come to Christmas Eve service with me?”
“I’d like that. Dare to drive me back to Mom and Dad’s for that oyster stew you’ll not chew?”
His smile did funny things to her composure. “Always been a sucker for a dare. See you later, then.”
She entered her home in a fog. Sloan advised her to calm herself. Such down times were out of the picture of her life, of course. She always had so much going on and expected so much of herself that she viewed relaxation as uncharacteristic.
Chamomile tea didn’t wash away the mental images of Ken’s battered body.
But he’s alive.
She should be relieved after seeing Ken with her own eyes.
Dahlia opted for a fragrant bath filled with sandalwood bubbles. Slumping into the moist heat, her eyes finally drifted shut, only to pop wide open again. Her heart raced and she smiled.
Procrastination was foreign to her as a rule, but just for tonight, she decided to save the memory of Sloan’s kiss to savor later.
A new thought took its place. As clear as the blue sky, a road sign flashed through the forefront of her mind’s eye. On the highway south of Lincoln, a picture of Jesus with His arms spread, inviting. “Jesus, I trust in You.”
Could she? Would she really be able to move out of the way and renew the belief of her childhood?
The words of Isaiah 26:3, memorized long ago, came to mind. You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in You.
The recollection convicted her. No more procrastination. Time to address spiritual matters. “Lord, I want to trust You again. And I want to trust Sloan. Show me the way back. I will try to believe in Your promises again. Please forgive me for straying as long as I have. And if You desire, make this a Christmas I will always remember.”
8
The past week was erased, and Sloan knew he faced his future as soon as Dahlia opened her front door. She looked different somehow, more approachable. Her shoulders were soft, and she had a light in her eyes that held more sparkle than a Christmas glow.
Lord, I admit I love her. I always have. I pray for a miracle to take place within Dahlia’s heart. Please speak to her tonight. And after tonight, well, if it’s not Your will for us to be together, I’ll be hurt. But I love her enough to not be with her and as hard as it would be, I know You’d help me heal. She needs You.
“You didn’t have to pick me up. A promise is a promise.” She pulled a hooded red velvet cape off a hall tree. “I said I’d go to church. I could have gone on my own.”
He reached for the cape. “Hello to you, too, Dahlia. How was your day? Your week?”
“As wild as I expected. But busy wild in a good way. What about yours? You should be with your family on Christmas Eve, not babysitting me.”
“No sitter I know would need to taste that berry color you’ve put on your lips. May I?”
She smiled, and he leaned in for a kiss. At the sweet touch, tension of recent days washed away like rain on a waxed windshield.
He wrapped her in her cape. She latched the door, and they were on their way to Christmas Eve service.
How he wished for the Lord to speak to her this precious night. “You were raised in church. When we first met, you didn’t want to dance after we were crowned king and queen. You even confessed you never wanted to be that close to a boy.”
“It turned out right to feel that way. Because you put my hand in yours, placed your other hand at my waist, and I fell hard. Wanted to be close to you the rest of our lives.”
“I remember feeling the same way. Never wanted that night to end.”
Her voice turned all dreamy. “We sure did dance the night away. I fell in love, and you’re right. You competed with me going to Bible study and my violin. Life changed. A few months later, I was mad at God for life not turning out the way I had planned. And then when I couldn’t say good-bye to Grandma, I decided to live angry at God.”
“It’s not always up to us. A teen promise of forever can’t be compared to an adult promise of forever.”
“Oh, I know all that now. And I thought we talked about this. We each did what we were meant to at the time,
abiding by our parents’ rules. I was working for my music scholarship. Once in college, I kept so occupied I forgot about asking God’s direction. My college graduation gift came from my grandmother. Then I set up the boutique. And did it all myself.”
“You can’t admit God had a hand in it all?”
“I can see that now.”
He pulled off the street and found a parking spot half the distance from the church’s side door.
“That’s some name, Second Chance Church,” she murmured.
“The church name says it all. Isn’t that what eternal life is all about?”
She didn’t answer.
****
They found a seat, and Dahlia let herself absorb her surroundings. More existed inside the doors of a decorated building filled with congregants.
The Holy Spirit resided here.
I’ve come home, Lord. Thanks beyond words, for waiting for me.
The familiar carols “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and “The First Noel” brought tears of joy and peace. She scanned the platform, smiled at the blue garland and white twinkle lights on the trees. Through the choir anthem, she studied the cross high on the wall behind the choir.
Sloan reached for her hand, held it on the seat between them.
A violinist played, “O Holy Night.”
The lights dimmed. Sketches of a manger and a cross appeared on the walls flanking the cross.
“Welcome, old friends and new. I’m Pastor Troy. Have you ever taken the time to consider why Christmas really matters?” the preacher began. “Our Christmas message is right in front of us. Christmas is all about the manger and the cross. They cannot be separated. Christmas is not a cliché.
“Those of you in retail may think it synonymous with business growth. It’s so much more than that. Christmas flows right into Easter for the believer. That means Christmas, as well as Easter, need to be examined. These holidays are reminders we need to examine our relationship with Jesus Christ. He came to earth as a baby and later exhibited the heart of sacrifice. For us.”
Sloan squeezed her hand.
Dahlia wiped a tear.
Pastor Troy left the stage and stepped into the aisle. “Technology is great. We live in a world of commercial sound bytes. Distractions and short attention spans rule our days. We don’t need to carry heavy Bibles to church. We have Wi-Fi on our phones. I look out at you and can see that tools have replaced tomes. But in a way, it’s also a device of the enemy. He delights in keeping our focus off biblical things, too busy for quiet time spent with the only One who really matters at this time of year. Or any time.”
Dahlia sat enthralled. Why had she set this part of her life aside? She’d come home.
She didn’t care if anyone paid attention. She raised their joined hands to her face and rubbed Sloan’s knuckles with her cheek. She brushed a kiss across his fingers before settling his hand between both hers at her side. She returned her thoughts to the pastor.
“Love is such an overused word. We love turkey. We love a good book. We love the texture of a lady’s scarf, or a guy’s warm fleece jacket. What does love mean to you? Christmas symbolizes the meaning of love. Christmas is the epiphany of love.
“We cannot look at the baby in the manger without seeing the cross. Look carefully at the slide on the wall. That picture of the manger and the cross together, equals love.”
She understood why Sloan loved to hear Pastor Troy talk.
Oh boy, the love word used loosely.
Their eyes connected, and he lowered his gaze. Then he jerked as though poked in the ribs, staring at her feet.
She nudged him and whispered, “What’s going on?”
He whispered, “You.”
She gave him a questioning look.
Later, he mouthed.
She guessed what had caught his eye. She felt the blush, glad no one could see color rise in her cheeks. As if it mattered. She turned her attention back to the front.
The service ended soon thereafter. She totally valued heading to the exit via candlelight.
Sloan waved and said hello to a few parishioners as he guided her to his Jazzy Red pickup with a warm hand at her back.
Once they were both seated in the cab, he started the motor but didn’t put it in gear. He reached for her hand. She waited for him to speak.
“My, Dahlia Delisi, you are certainly full of surprises.”
“What surprise? Agreeing to attend service tonight?”
“That. But I’m referring to something else. I am quite thankful I read the Christmas story in Luke 2 before service tonight. After I caught a glimpse of something blue playing peekaboo on your lovely ankle, right above the red satin shoes, I lost all concentration for the sermon.”
Her eyes widened and she giggled over his reaction. She re-crossed her feet. Too bad he couldn’t get another glimpse in the dim dash lights.
Sloan smiled broad, his white teeth flashing. “Quite subtle. But in all my wildest dreams I never imagined a blue flower peeping at me from beneath the bottom of your velvet skirt.”
“A dahlia. Cerulean, detailed in aquamarine.”
“What?”
“The name of the flower tattoo and shades of blue.”
He grinned again, and they shared a rolling laugh. “Who would have guessed Dahlia Delisi to do something so frivolous as having an ankle tat?”
Sloan turned on the fan, and she shivered at the cold blast on her bare ankles.
“Sorry, it’ll take a couple more minutes to heat. Where do we go from here?”
From the church, Ken’s scare, or our relationship?
“Back to my place. I’ll get my car and go to my parents’ home for oyster stew and goodies.”
“Do you have to go home first? My folks aren’t expecting me until tomorrow. I would like to see your parents and Ken and Carrie again. See if I’ve changed my mind about oyster stew.”
****
The morning after Christmas, Sloan’s phone emitted its tone while he gulped his first cup of java. The nutty idea of changing his phone to a song with some kind of blue in the title wove through his mind. But not for business calls.
“We’ll wrap this up so we can all have a good New Year,” Chet greeted.
“Tell me what you got.”
“Ewing called and said he’s ready to talk business, on his terms.”
“Where will you meet?”
“He gave directions for an unoccupied farmstead between Willow and the home place.”
Sloan retraced where he and Dahlia had driven the Sunday they saw Ken, including the dirt road worthy of a fond smile, and knew by the description exactly where the sting would take place. They made plans to be in hiding before the appointed time.
“I’ll run this all by the sheriff so he can assign a deputy. We’ll leave from the office. See you at two o’clock.” Sloan hung up, gulped the rest of his soggy cereal, and headed for the shower.
Thirty minutes before the assignation between Rusty Ewing and Chet, the men were staked out.
Chet, ankles crossed, leaned against the front panel of a county van used for undercover assignments, nonchalantly whittling twigs off a long branch.
A deputy reclined in the backseat of an abandoned wrecked car, ready to pounce through the open door.
Sloan stood in the corner of a corncrib, prepared to hunker down at Ewing’s approach. Then Sloan checked with the team, all communication sounded clear.
A pair of squirrels played chase in the top of a black locust tree.
The sun shone blindingly bright where it reflected on an aluminum can tossed in the ditch near the drive entrance.
This part of the job tried a man’s patience. A person had to be comfortable with what went through his or her mind.
He replayed the key words to listen for and visualized Chet’s move on Ewing. And he tried not to think of Jake. No one had ever said it, but he knew in his gut, Jake had died trying to save Sloan. Would that bother him forever?
His Bib
le reading from Hebrews 11 wove through his thoughts. The faith of a cloud of witnesses. It’s all about faith. He prayed for Dahlia’s restoration of faith. He pictured her.
Dahlia’s entrance into a room, with her face and regal bearing, drew all gazes.
My prayer though, Lord, is for her to return to You. Help me be there. Have her call if she needs me.
He recalled Ken’s battered face. The man would need his family and his faith when this was done. He may feel at fault for encouraging Carrie to work at the bar. But his motives were for her happiness.
A rush of wings sounded, and Sloan turned his head. How long had it been since he’d seen a flicker? The bird’s size amazed him, close to a foot long, and it flew off again before it had a chance to explore the depth of the hole it had briefly pecked.
Sloan shifted his weight from one hip to the other. Tempted to trace his scar, he counted backwards from three hundred five times. He heard the sound of an approaching engine and slowed his breathing even more. But his heart picked up pace.
Help this go down to Your glory, Lord. I don’t want to disappoint You, or Dahlia. I always want my work to please You, to pay You back for saving me.
Chet announced, “Time to rock ‘n roll, Seven.”
A car door opened and closed.
“Ready to do business?” Rusty spouted.
“I am.”
“You can oust the farmer?”
“How soon, and what’s your offer?”
“I tried. Can’t risk it again. I can give you five now and double that once the job I failed to do is done.”
“We aren’t in a hurry here, at least I’m not. What failed?”
Sloan grinned and rubbed his head.
Chet was great at his job, always so cool and calm.
“All right. In plain English. I tried to take Delisi out on my own. I checked out a pressurized ammonia tank parked at the edge of the field. Couldn’t figure out how to rig the safety valve so it’d blow up the guy. That metal’s pretty heavy. Instead, I sawed through a rubber hose connected to the rear of the tractor. Not an easy job. And it didn’t do the job. Hardly hurt him at all.”
