The Runaway Pastor's Wife

by Diane Moody

  She put down the poker and sat down on the hearth. “Michael, it’s just been too long. You’ve led your life and I’ve led mine. We live in two totally different worlds. You would have absolutely no idea about the kind of life I lead. Not a clue. It would be like speaking a foreign language, and I wouldn’t begin to know how to translate it for you.”

  “You make it sound like you’re living on Mars! C’mon, Annie. So we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Big deal. You’re the one who told me we’ve got nothing but time here. And besides—” he paused, straining to sit up.

  She rushed to his side. “Don’t do that. You’ll only make it worse. If you want to sit up, just ask for help.” She propped the pillows behind him, lifting him to a more comfortable position.

  He grabbed her arm and gently pushed her in the direction of her chair. “Sit.”

  She slowly obeyed. “Besides what?”

  “Besides, there once was a time we shared everything, remember? And I do mean everything.”

  Her eyes met his and neither of them looked away. He watched her, knowing the same thoughts were trailing through her mind that were everywhere in his. The memories swirled through the air between them like the raging wind outside. They had shared so much. Theirs had been such a storybook romance. An unforgettable passion.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking, Annie.”

  The gentle ticking of the grandfather clock marked the minutes that passed between them. When Michael closed his eyes at her long silence, Annie assumed he had drifted back to sleep. She stared into the fire, fighting the unspoken pull of her heart. That irresistible warmth invading her senses, filling her with an overpowering desire to crawl back into all those romantic memories.

  It would be so easy. He was here. She was here. Far away from everything and everyone who had caused her so much frustration. It would be so nice. To be finally free of all the hurts and agonizing questions. Free from the heartache of God’s continuous silence. To just let go.

  She turned to find him watching her, the desire in his eyes so familiar.

  “No, Michael.”

  “No what?”

  “No.”

  She stood quietly and left the room.

  CHAPTER 22

  Seminole, Florida

  Max walked into the kitchen just as the answering machine beeped and the red light began flashing. Ignoring it, he poured a glass of orange juice then opened the back door to let Snickers out. The cool morning air awoke his senses, reminding him how little he’d slept last night. His mind wouldn’t unplug from the urgency of finding his mother. It consumed him, robbing the rest he craved. A thousand different ideas had flooded his mind.

  He had finally given up any efforts to sleep and got up to take a shower. The rest of the house was still quiet. Noticing the flashing red light on the answering machine, he remembered Megan’s promise to call with information from Denton. He pressed the button to replay the messages.

  “David, Caroline—this is Sally. I know I’m calling awfully early. Let’s see, my clock says 6:08, but I just opened today’s newspaper. If you haven’t seen it yet, you’d better take a look. I think the dam just broke. Please call me. I want to help with flood control.”

  As he listened to the message from his father’s secretary, the knot in his stomach cinched. He hurried to the front door, threw it open and searched for the paper on the lawn. Peeling off the wrapper, he walked back toward the house, stopping mid-step as he opened the paper.

  The headline appeared in bold, black letters:

  LOCAL PASTOR’S WIFE MISSING

  Even before scanning the story, Max’s eyes were drawn to the side-by-side photographs accompanying the article. He read the caption: Annie Franklin McGregor, 39, has been missing from her Seminole home for four days. Her mother, Darlene Franklin Preston (right) fears foul play. The photograph pictured his grandmother dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, her expression woefully dramatic.

  “Way to go, Nana. You’ve screwed up everything. As usual.”

  “You’re up pretty early, aren’t you?” his father asked, stepping out onto the front porch. Max folded the paper, hiding it behind him.

  “Uh, yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Max, why are you trying to hide the paper?”

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “I was hoping you wouldn’t have to see it. But I don’t suppose there’s much hope of that, is there?” He handed the folded copy to his father.

  “What could be so bad you’d try to hide the newspaper? Don’t tell me we missed the rapture?” He winked as he unfolded the paper. For a moment he stood perfectly still. “Oh no. Darlene, what have you done? No, no, no!” He crumpled the paper, then dropped his head.

  “Mrs. Hampton called and left a message on the answering machine. She wanted to warn us. Dad, why would Nana do something like this?”

  Something snapped. Max saw his father’s wall of defense come crashing down. “Because she’s nothing but a know-it-all busybody, Max! And there isn’t anything on the face of this earth she wouldn’t do to thrust her way into the center of attention—even at the expense of her own daughter!”

  Max looked around then hurried to guide his father inside the house. “Take it easy, Dad! You’ll wake the neighbors!”

  “I don’t care if I wake the neighbors! They need to get up anyway so they can READ THEIR PAPERS!”

  Max pushed his father into the house. Once inside, he jerked out of his son’s grasp. “Get your hands off me, Max!”

  “What did I do?”

  “Just leave me alone! I want you and everybody else in this stupid town to just leave me alone!” He turned and roared up the stairs. A moment later, Max heard him slam his bedroom door.

  This time, it was Max who snapped. He flew up the stairs shouting. “Fine! Go ahead—have your own little pity party, Dad! You aren’t the only one who’s worried about Mom, y’know!”

  Caroline appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapping her robe around her. “What on earth is going on?” Embarrassed in front of his grandmother, Max blew out an angry grunt then hurried back down the stairs. “Max? What happened?”

  A few moments later, he heard his grandmother enter the room as he stormed around the kitchen. She caught hold of his arm and stopped him. “Hold it right there, young man. I asked you a question and I want an answer. What is going on?”

  “Oh, it’s no big deal,” he answered, heavy on the sarcasm. “Dad just happened to get a good look at the front page of the paper this morning, that’s all. Nana shot her mouth off to the press and now the whole world knows Mom is gone.”

  Caroline’s jaw dropped. “Oh, Max, no—please tell me you’re kidding.” She drifted to a kitchen stool and took a seat. “She didn’t—”

  “Oh, yes she did. And she made sure she got not only Mom’s picture plastered across it, but hers as well. No great surprise there, now is it?”

  “Where’s the paper? I want to see it.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to pry it out of Dad’s hands. Look, Gran, it’s not my fault Nana did this! But obviously Dad wants to blame me for it. You should’ve seen him! I didn’t sleep one minute last night worrying about Mom! And this is what I get for being concerned?” Max grabbed his keys and opened the back door. “I’m outta here.”

  Just then, Snickers skipped inside. She barked playfully to remind him of her presence. “Get out of my way!” He shoved the pup out of the way with his foot. Snickers yelped as she skidded across the tiled floor. Max felt a fleeting moment of remorse. But as he turned to kneel beside the pitiful puppy, he was knocked off his feet with a head-butt from his younger brother.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Jeremy screamed, wrestling with his brother. “Why’d you kick her? Are you crazy? Why don’t you just leave! Go away and don’t ever come back!” He reached for the whimpering puppy, cradling her in his arms.

  Heart racing, Max jumped up then flew out the door.

  The bells above the door at PJ’s Donu
t Shop clanged like an emergency alarm as Max McGregor stormed in. Customers’ heads turned in unison. Ignoring their stares, he stomped his way over to his usual stool at the end of the counter. He snatched a napkin out of the dispenser, wiping the perspiration off his forehead. Suddenly looking up, he noticed everyone frozen in place, their eyes fixed on him.

  “What?!” he snapped.

  PJ appeared from the back, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Max! You gonna break my door if you keep that up!” he scolded, his thick Polish accent graveled with age. “What’s the matter you?”

  Max tried to relax. He tossed the crumbled napkin in the trash. “Sorry, PJ.”

  “Whatcha’ mean ‘sorry, PJ’? I never see you so upset. You have a fight with dat girlfriend of yours?”

  “No.” He avoided the old man’s probing eyes.

  PJ threw the towel on his work station and shuffled around the counter. He sat down beside Max and draped his arm over his shoulders.

  He lowered his voice. “Now, you tell me, Max McGregor, what’s got you so mad?”

  Max could smell coffee on his breath. PJ leaned a little closer. “I seen dat newspaper this morning.”

  Max dropped his head in his hands. Had everyone seen it? His eyes stung. “PJ, what am I gonna do?”

  “You come with me.” He clapped Max on the back and led him back to the kitchen. “You sit,” he ordered, pointing to a wooden stool. He poured Max a cold glass of milk from the refrigerator and with a tissue picked up a fresh cinnamon roll still warm from the oven. “Here. You eat. I be right back.”

  PJ hurried out to the front of the store through the swinging door. Max could hear him barking orders. “Tony, you take care of ’dose customers for me, yeah?”

  “No problem, PJ. Gotcha covered.”

  Max had often heard the story his father told of discovering PJ’s little shop shortly after moving to Seminole. On a whim, David had stopped by one morning to pick up some fresh donuts for his new office staff. Surprised by the rude demeanor of the shop’s owner and sole employee, David ordered a cup of coffee so he could observe the old man gathering up his order. The other customers seemed to take PJ’s abrupt manner in stride. David had wondered why so many people would patronize a business where they were treated so poorly.

  In the months following, he made a point to visit the odd little shop at least once a week. Gradually, over small talk and too many glazed donuts, he began to piece together the story behind the old man’s ill-mannered behavior. It seemed the shop was originally named P&J’s—short for Pearl and Jake’s. But Jake had recently lost Pearl, his wife of sixty-three years, to a long and difficult battle with Alzheimer’s. He’d grown bitter watching her waste away, no longer knowing him. Her sweet temperament vanished in the fog of dementia, leaving her mean as a snake and cussing him out with the vilest language he’d ever heard. Her eventual death nearly destroyed him. Only the daily task of running his tiny donut shop kept him going.

  Little by little, David befriended the man who came to be known as PJ. Undaunted by the gruff responses, he persisted, drawing the Polish immigrant out of his shell until one day, with no other customers in the shop, PJ poured out his heartache to his new friend. David responded with compassion and understanding, comforting PJ with the love of Jesus.

  It wasn’t long before the McGregors adopted PJ into their family. He insisted on cooking the Thanksgiving turkey each year, his flamboyant carving of his masterpiece an annual tradition. He spoiled them with armloads of presents tucked under their Christmas tree, and never missed a single birthday party.

  PJ was family.

  Now, as Max sunk his teeth into the warm pastry, he relaxed under the old man’s care. “Thanks, PJ. I didn’t know I was so hungry.”

  “Sure you did.” PJ poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Huh?”

  “If you not hungry, why you come to PJ’s? Unless, of course, you come here on account you need to talk?”

  Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay, here’s the deal. Dad lost it this morning. I’ve never seen him blow up like that. I didn’t know he had it in him. You should have heard him.”

  PJ pulled up another stool. “Not good. Not good. Doesn’t sound like your papa at all. Max, where your mama go? You got any idea?”

  “Well, she wasn’t kidnapped. That much we know for sure, regardless of what they wrote in the paper. Those idiots never even talked to us! They ran that whole story based on Nana’s rants.”

  “Dat woman—she a pack of trouble. I never liked dat lady. But dat’s just between you and me, okay?”

  Max rolled his eyes, understanding all too well.

  PJ took another sip of coffee. “You didn’t answer my question. Where your mama?”

  “We don’t know. Dad said she was having some problems, like maybe she was about to have a breakdown or something,” Max shrugged. He looked PJ straight in the eye. “She didn’t leave Dad, she just left. There’s a difference.”

  “Ah, you don’t have to tell me that. ’Dem two never gonna split up. I seen ’em together—they like a couple of love-birds.” PJ’s smile widened across his weathered face. Bushy eyebrows danced over knowing eyes.

  Max smiled. “Yeah, when I was a kid I used to get embarrassed because they were all the time holding hands and hugging and stuff. Dad was always pulling Mom over to sit in his lap and—”

  Max didn’t voice the realization dawning on him. He hadn’t seen his mother and father’s affectionate gestures in a long time. The thought twisted his stomach.

  He hid his concern by taking another bite of his cinnamon roll. “Dad said Mom just needed to get away for a while. I mean, we’re all worried and everything, but we just kept thinking any day she’ll come home. Then her mom had to go and stick her big nose in it and blab it to the whole world.

  “So Dad sees the paper this morning and it was like he came unglued or something. I’ve never seen him like that, PJ. Never. He just lost it. And naturally, I was the one in his line of fire. I know I shouldn’t have let it get to me, but lately I just—I don’t know what’s gotten into me!”

  He took a last gulp of milk and wiped his mouth. “Mom promised to call and check in so we wouldn’t worry, but last night we never heard from her. Who knows what could have happened. She could be okay or she could be . . . I don’t even want to think about all the stuff that might have happened. I just wish there was something I could do.”

  After moments of silence, PJ got in his face. “What? What you got cooking in dat head of yours?”

  Max answered with resolve. “I know what I’m gonna do! I’m gonna find Mom, PJ! I know I can do it, but I’m going to need a little help.”

  PJ stood up and placed his hand on Max’s shoulder. “You don’t even got to ask. Whatever you need, you got it!”

  “Just promise me you won’t tell anybody what I’m going to do. I mean it. This has to be strictly confidential between us. Well, except for Megan, of course. She’s already helping me track down Mom’s whereabouts. But nobody else can know, okay? Especially Dad. Have I got your word?”

  PJ stood as straight as his eighty-year-old body could muster. “You got it, buster,” He put his hand out, “Partners?”

  Max grasped PJ’s hand firmly, finally beginning to feel a trace of optimism. “Partners.” He slung his arm over the old man’s shoulders. “Now here’s what I need you to do.”

  “Max! I finally heard from Denton!” Megan blurted with excitement. “Your Mom is in Colorado!”

  “Colorado? What the heck is she doing way out there?” He blew a long whistle. “Colorado is like a gazillion miles from here.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So I’ve got an idea. But I need your help. Can you meet me at PJ’s after school today?”

  As soon as Megan walked in, Max watched PJ pull the shades and flip the door sign to read CLOSED.

  “PJ, what’s going on?”

  Though the donut shop was completely deserted, the
proprietor looked around as if making sure the coast was clear. Without a word, he herded her back toward Max, standing at the kitchen door. Max led her into the warm kitchen, to a stainless steel table covered with maps.

  She stopped cold. “Oh no . . . you’re not—”

  He held up his hand to stop her protest. “Now Megan, don’t start with me until you’ve heard our plan.”

  “‘Our’ plan?” she asked, looking from Max to PJ and back again. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Just hear me out. PJ here is going to help us find Mom. We’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Oh yeah, right. I suppose you two are taking off for Timbuktu?”

  “Megan, will you just listen? PJ’s not going anywhere. He’s going to stay right here and man my control center for me. I’m the only one heading for Colorado. Do you have that phone number for Mom?”

  Megan stared at him then slowly dug the notepaper out of her purse. “You aren’t seriously thinking about driving alone all the way to Colorado, are you? You said yourself it’s a gazillion miles!”

  “Sit, Megan,” PJ ordered as he pulled up two more stools for Megan and himself. “You listen to Max. Hear him out.” He continued motioning with his head while peeking out the kitchen door to make sure no one was out front.

  “What’s with him?” Megan whispered close to Max’s ear.

  Max wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her ear before answering. “Isn’t he a trip?” he whispered. “Ever since he offered to help me out, he’s been acting like James Bond.”

  “Hey, none of that kissy stuff, now. We got work to do!” PJ ranted, hustling back over to them. “You gotta call your mama, Max.”

  “Here’s the number.” Megan handed Max the slip of paper. “Denton said it originates out of Weber Creek, Colorado. He looked it up and said it’s about forty miles west of Pueblo up in the mountains.”

  Max ignored the piece of paper and looked up Weber Creek on his map guide, then followed the coordinates to find its exact location.