“Meet me at the Pink Parasol, 6:30. I hope this isn’t too much of a hardship. I know it’s early and that you’ll have to rush. Sorry about that, but Gertie Eldridge says eating late gives her indigestion. Oh . . . the address, in case you don’t know, is—210 Main Street, right next to the North Oberon Bank. See you. Oh . . . in case something comes up and you can’t make it, call me: 554-9876. See you. Oh . . . and this is my treat. No arguments.”
Cynthia erased the messages, then went to her closet and flipped through her clothes. She pulled out a short sleeve denim A-line which came to her calf. She didn’t feel like fussing. This would be perfect: simple, casual and suitable for entertaining someone’s addled aunt and her nervous friend.
Why had she let herself get talked into this?
The clock on the nightstand told Cynthia if she rushed she’d have just enough time for a quick shower. The debate lasted a full minute. Then Cynthia stripped off her clothes and turned on the water. Maybe a shower would improve her mood. At least it would help her look fresh. Right now, she felt as wilted as yesterday’s salad.
By the time she washed and dressed, Cynthia felt better, at least physically. By the time she drove to the Pink Parasol, Cynthia’s spirits began to lift. Maybe eating with two Alzheimer patients and one preacher wouldn’t be so bad after all. Besides, she had always wanted to go to the Pink Parasol, try it out.
As soon as she entered the restaurant she knew her outfit was all wrong. Men were dressed in suits. Women in evening wear. She had heard the Pink Parasol was on the pricey side, but she had not heard that people dressed to the nines for it, especially for a 6:30 seating. She saw Jonathan in the corner, towering over most of the other people who stood waiting. She cringed when she saw his suit and tie. One woman, standing near him, came close to his height. She wore a cream, raw-silk dress and matching blazer. Cynthia thought she saw a resemblance. Another woman, much shorter and also dressed in silk, seemed to be monopolizing the conversation. She guessed it was the woman with the nervous stomach.
With a forced smile plastered across her face, Cynthia walked up to the threesome. “Hi!”
Jonathan looked both relieved and pleased. He made the introductions while the taller lady smiled sweetly and the shorter one looked Cynthia up and down.
“You look taller on TV . . . and better dressed,” Gertie Eldridge said. “And not as skinny. We better make sure this girl gets enough to eat tonight, eh Adel?”
Jonathan gave Cynthia a distressed look as the maître d’ directed them to a lavishly-arranged, square table. A short, pale pink linen covered a white tablecloth that brushed the floor. Large pale pink napkins spiraled out of crystal goblets. In the center of the table a half-dozen pink roses floated in a crystal bowl. A large fern, in the corner, gave the illusion of privacy by blocking their table from those nearby.
Cynthia fingered the buttons of her denim dress and hoped that the maître d’ would put her next to the fern. You really fit in, Wells.
The maître d’ seated the two elderly ladies first, then Cynthia. And it wasn’t next to the fern, but in the seat most exposed to the rest of the room. She took it without comment and made up her mind she’d forget about her outfit and try to enjoy the evening.
When everyone was comfortable and handed menus, Cynthia smiled and looked at her companions. Jonathan had taken the seat to her right, Aunt Adel, her left. That meant Gertie Eldridge sat across from her and would be harder to ignore.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be that enjoyable after all.
“Have you ever been here?” Gertie asked.
Cynthia shook her head and tried to disappear behind the large, leather-covered menu.
“Well, you’re in for a treat. The food is Divine. Should I say Divine? I suppose not, but it’s scrumptious. Outrageously expensive, too. I came here once with my husband and another couple and we dropped over five hundred dollars. Can you believe it?”
Cynthia glanced anxiously at Jonathan and wondered how he could afford this.
“We only had one glass of wine apiece, an appetizer, a salad, an entrée, a small desert and coffee. That may sound like a lot but the portions were practically microscopic. If you’re a big eater,” Gertie squinted at Cynthia, “which I can see you’re not . . . you might leave here hungry. I suppose we could order you a double entrée. I wouldn’t want it said that we invited Cynthia Wells to dinner and she went home with an empty stomach. And nobody should worry. I came with plenty of money.”
“I’m sure one entrée will be sufficient.” Cynthia slid lower in her chair so she couldn’t see Gertie over her menu.
“I don’t know . . . what do you say, Adel? Since we’re paying, we should make the decision, don’t you think?”
“I was planning to pay,” Jonathan said in a soft voice, but Cynthia detected strain.
“Not on your life!” Gertie snapped. “I don’t want to be responsible for you sliding back onto dangerous ground, not with you pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and all. Of course I’ve been praying for you every minute. I know that helped.”
Cynthia peeked around the menu at Jonathan and saw that his face resembled a strawberry. What was going on?
“For awhile there we were really worried about Pastor Jonathan. Yes sir, the prayer chair has been busy storming heaven. And you can see the results for yourself.”
Cynthia continued studying Jonathan from behind her leather barrier. His face was still red and his jaw made a grinding motion, but when he glanced her way, his eyes were not full of anger, as she had expected, rather, they brimmed with kindness.
“Thank you for your prayers, Gertie. A pastor can’t have too many people praying for him.”
“Well, naturally. It’s a hard job. Everyone knows that. Say . . . I think this is new. This wasn’t here last time. At least I don’t remember seeing it before. Filet De Boeuf `a la Tapenade. I love poached beef. And tapenade . . . well, you haven’t lived until you’ve eaten tapenade. Why don’t we get a double portion for Cynthia and I’ll get a regular portion, but I’d also want an appetizer . . . let’s see . . . .”
Cynthia felt a soft, warm hand cover hers. When she looked up, she saw the kind face of Aunt Adel smiling at her. “I think our guest is quite capable of ordering her own meal, so let’s have no more talk about what we should get her . . . or about money . . . or about Jonathan. And let’s give our guest a chance to talk, too. Shall we, Gertie?”
“Well . . . of course . . . I was just trying to help.”
After saying “good night” to Gertie and getting a hug and kiss from Aunt Adel, Cynthia and Jonathan walked together in the parking lot.
“Thanks for being such a good sport. I know how hard Gertie is to take. But you’ve given her an evening she can talk about for weeks. And I’m grateful.”
Cynthia shrugged. “Sure. Anytime. Your aunt was nice. I liked her.”
“She liked you, too. As a matter of fact, I think you made a big hit. She always mothers—defends and protects—those she really likes.”
“She seems the type who likes everyone.”
Jonathan chuckled. “I think that’s pretty accurate, except maybe for . . . .”
“Gertie Eldridge?”
“Yeah. My aunt needs to work on that a little more.”
“And you? I saw how you controlled yourself when Gertie mentioned your past. But once, just once, I noticed your jaw tighten. What was that all about?”
Jonathan’s eyes danced, making him look mischievous. “Just a misunderstanding.” He quickly told her the story.
After Cynthia stopped laughing, she slipped her arm through Jonathan’s. “You are remarkably kind. I think I would have told her to . . . well never mind what I would have told her.”
When they reached Cynthia’s car, she unlocked it. “But she isn’t what she should be, what I would think a church secretary should be, I mean.”
“I guess none of us are. We’re all a work in progress.”
Cynthia studied him.
“I find you very strange.”
“Peculiar?”
“Yes, that’s it . . . peculiar.” Cynthia was surprised to see that her remark pleased him. “But I also find you sincere. It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone as sincere. I don’t see how someone like Gertie, who knows you, who’s worked with you, could ever think those horrible things about you.” Cynthia watched Jonathan shuffle his feet. “But Gertie was right about one thing. Tapenade is wonderful.”
“I’m not a fan, but I’m glad you liked it. I’m also glad you came. I had a good time.”
“So did I.”
“I was thinking, if you’re not too tired, maybe you’d like to go back to the hospital with me and see Stubby?”
Cynthia glanced at her watch, nine-thirty. “I don’t know. I’m beat.” When she looked up she saw a strange expression on Jonathan’s face. It was kind and tender, but also full of power. She felt drawn by it, as though sensing something important was happening. She also sensed a dare, a dare that pricked her reporter’s interest. “But, okay. I guess it’s still early enough.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he said, flashing a smile.
She watched him walk away, then got into her car. Maybe she was the one who was peculiar, for allowing him to lead her around by the nose.
All the way to the hospital Cynthia mumbled under her breath, calling herself names. Why did she let him talk her into this? How was it he could get her to do things she didn’t want to do? Suppose Stubby was still at death’s door? Supposed he had already died? How was she going to handle her disappointment and . . . Jonathan’s? Jonathan believed so completely in God. What if God didn’t deliver? And she so wanted Him to. Not just for Stubby’s sake or Jonathan’s but for her own. Maybe it would help her believe in something.
She pulled into a parking space and waited until Jonathan pulled into his, then waited until he walked over to her car. She got out and together they ambled silently through the dark lot.
She eyed him nervously. “What if . . . .”
“You know, the best part about walking in faith is not having to worry about how God is going to do a thing, or even when.”
He seemed relaxed and Cynthia thought she detected a slight smile, though it was too dark to be sure. “If this doesn’t end up like you planned, you’re not going to go to pieces on me, are you?”
Jonathan turned to her just as they passed under a light. He stopped and reached for her hand and held it. “I know how hard this is for you. Not only the believing part, but just being here at the hospital. I felt God prompting me to bring you tonight. And He’s not a sadist out to hurt you. He has a plan for you, and it’s for good and not evil. No matter what you see, will you try to remember that?”
Cynthia nodded and curled her fingers around his hand. She continued holding it as they walked the rest of the way through the parking lot then into the large, tiled foyer. And she didn’t let go until they reached the entrance to Stubby’s room.
Cynthia closed her eyes. Oh, please let there be a miracle. Maybe he’d be sitting up and eating. Would he be able to talk? She heard the creak of the door as it swung open, then heard Jonathan walk to Stubby’s bed. She took a deep breath before opening her eyes. Even from her place by the door, Cynthia could tell that Stubby was still unconscious. The only change was that he was no longer hooked to a respirator but breathing on his own. It took all her willpower to enter the room.
She stood next to Jonathan studying the prone body. “He looks a little better, don’t you think? Not so gray. And he’s breathing easier.” She glanced at Jonathan. “It’s not my imagination, is it?”
Jonathan gave her a bright smile. “No, he is better.”
“He still looks pretty bad, though, with all those tubes. You think it’ll be . . . .”
“Miss . . . Cynthia? Is . . . that you?”
Cynthia’s jaw dropped when she looked down and saw Stubby’s eyes open and look up at her. “Stubby! You’re awake.”
“I heard voices.” He tried reaching for Cynthia’s hand, then gave up. “I was dreamin’ and didn’t wanna wake up.”
Cynthia bent over the thin, aging man, and with her fingers, swept the fringe of white hair away from one ear. “When you’re feeling better, you can tell me all about your dream.”
“Yeah. I’m tired.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.”
CHAPTER 16
“I’m going back to the Mission, Bernie.”
“Have you lost your marbles? There’s a killer there. What are you trying to do? Save Skinner the trouble and just hand yourself over to this other guy?”
“I can’t finish Part Two.”
Bernie leaned across his desk as though trying to invade her resolve. His normal pleasant face looked as tight as a bowstring. “I thought you said it was all in your head and ready to write.”
“That’s what I thought, but when I tried putting it on paper it came out hollow, dry. It’s got no life. Miss Emily was right, I haven’t learned enough.”
“You’re talking crazy. There’s nothing more for you to learn. If Steve couldn’t find anything, what makes you think you can?”
Cynthia crossed her legs, brushing the bottom of Bernie’s desk with her beige, linen pantsuit. “It’s not about trying to get a scoop on a drug ring anymore.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s about trying to find out what happens to people like Manny, Turtle and Stubby, people who get so beaten down by life they give up. I think I’ve got that part. I know I can give you a good piece on that. But it’s the other part I can’t put my finger on. It’s the redemption aspect I can’t work out.”
“Redemption?”
“Yes. What makes some people and not others get back up on their feet and start all over. It’s like something gets inside them and gives them hope; gives them the strength to stand up when everything around them tells them to lay down and quit.”
“Are you talking religion here, Wells?”
Cynthia thought of Stubby and the miracle at the hospital. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just know I’ve seen it in Effie’s eyes, in Stubby’s, too. And what I see makes me know they’re going to make it. And I need to understand why that is. What power can change lives and make them . . . well . . . like new?”
Bernie dipped his hand in the jar of jellybeans, scooped up several then began popping them, one by one, into his mouth. “Have you thought of the consequences? You’ll be looking over your shoulder every second. The risk will be enormous. And even if you’re willing to take it, what guarantee do you have you’ll find this elusive missing piece of your story?”
Cynthia shook her head. “None. No guarantee at all. And that’s what I’m discovering, Bernie. That’s what I’m beginning to understand. There are no guarantees, for any of us. Only choices . . . choices we have to make each day. But what I need to know is do the choices we make save us or is there something else, something else entirely, like a higher power? Or is it a combination of the two? See what I mean? How can I write this piece when I can’t even answer these basic questions?”
Bernie held his last jellybean—a black one—between his fingers and studied it. “Half the population of North Oberon couldn’t answer those questions. Why should you be any different?”
“Because they don’t have a story to write. And for that story to have teeth, I need those answers.” Cynthia shifted in the wooden chair. It was impossible to get comfortable. She didn’t know why she tried. “Trust me on this. I can make this a great story. One that will sell papers.”
Bernie popped the black jellybean into his mouth and picked up the folder in front of him. “Two weeks. That’s all you’ve got. After two weeks you hand in your piece—without excuses, without whining. In the meantime, we’ll do a photo essay of Skid Row, make that Part Two, and your new story will be Part Three, and end it. Is that a deal?”
“Deal.”
“And get a new cell
phone—that’s an order. I don’t want you at the mission without one. You need to be able to call anytime. Got it?”
Cynthia nodded.
Bernie threw the folder back onto the desk and reached into his jellybean jar, again. “Maybe I’m the one who’s lost his marbles.”
Cynthia’s hand trembled as she punched in numbers on her new cell phone. A strange man’s voice answered, and for a second she thought she had dialed the wrong number.
“Is this the Beacon Mission?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d like to speak to Pastor Holmes, please.”
“He’s busy.”
“This is important. Can you tell him Cynthia needs to talk to him?”
“Does he know you?”
“Of course he knows me!” Cynthia looked at her speedometer and slowed the car. Her impatience was finding an outlet through the gas pedal. She had to slow twice more before Jonathan got on the phone.
“Cynthia? What’s up?”
“Sorry if I pulled you away from something important.”
“Nothing important. I was checking inventory in the back.”
“Whoever answered the phone made it sound like my intrusion was a capital offense.”
Jonathan chuckled. “That’s Willie Tanner. Stubby’s temporary replacement. He has trouble distinguishing between busy and can’t-disturb-busy. I keep telling him to let the calls go on the answering machine, but he forgets.”
Cynthia slowed to a crawl when she saw the school sign. “Listen, Jonathan, I won’t beat around the bush. I’ll tell you straight out, I’d like to come back to the mission so I can finish my story.” She held her breath.
“That’s not a good idea. Not until we find out who tried to kill you. Besides, I thought you reached a dead end on your drug piece. Has Detective Bradley found something new?”
Mercy at Midnight Page 25
