by Neta Jackson
where do i go?
Other Novels by Neta Jackson Include:
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Series
The Yada Yada Prayer Group
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down
The Yada Yada Prayer Gets Real
The Yada Yada Prayer Gets Tough
The Yada Yada Prayer Gets Caught
The Yada Yada Prayer Gets Rolling
The Yada Yada Prayer Gets Decked Out
© 2008 by Neta Jackson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc. books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com
Scripture quotations are taken from the following: THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.
The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
The New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
The King James Version of the Bible. Public domain.
Ann Marie Rousseau, Shopping Bag Ladies (Pilgrim Press, New York, 1981).
“I Go to the Rock,” words and music by Dottie Rambo. © 1977 New Spring, Inc. (ASCAP). Administered by Brentwood-Benson Music Publishing, Inc. Used by permission.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jackson, Neta.
Where do I go? / Neta Jackson.
p. cm. — (A Yada Yada house of hope novel ; bk. 1)
ISBN 978-1-59554-523-7 (trade pbk.)
1. Christian women—Fiction. 2. Shelters for the homeless—Fiction.
3. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3560.A2415W47 2008
813'.54—dc22 2008035948
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
This series is dedicated to
the amazing staff of
Breakthrough Urban Ministries
and its “Joshua Center”
a shelter for homeless women in
Chicago, Illinois
who have literally created a “House of Hope”
for their many guests
In memory of
Dottie Rambo
whose song “I Go to the Rock”
provides both the theme for this series
and the titles of all three books
1934—2008
“To be without a home is to be invisible.”
Ann Marie Rousseau, Shopping Bag Ladies
contents
prologue
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
reading group guide
The Yada Yada Brothers: A New Series
Harry Bentley’s Second Chance
prologue
JUNE 1990, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE
The two American coeds stood at the apex of the tree-lined Esplanade, heads bent over their guidebook. Male passersby turned for a second glance, eyeing the youthful female bodies with lusty smiles. Tank tops, shorts, and Birkenstocks did little to cover the long, shapely legs and tan skin. Some slowed, hoping for a glance at the faces hidden by the straight, corn-silk hair of one and the rippling chestnut curls of the other, both worn long and whipping about in the wind coming off the large, open square sprawled before them.
“This is it—Place de la Comédie. See the fountain up there?” The young woman with the red highlights sparking in the sun pointed to the far end of the square. “Let’s go up that way and find a café. It’s after one already.”
“But Gabby! The Polygone is right over there. It’s like an American mall.” The leggy blonde tugged her friend’s arm, pulling her to the left of the Esplanade and away from the square.
Gabby jerked her arm free. “Linda! You and your malls. I didn’t come all the way to France to shop. Come on. I’m hungry.” She ran forward a few steps, then turned around but kept walking backward. “Come o-on! I’m going with or without you!” Then she ran on, laughing, backpack bumping on her back, threading through the other pedestrians filling the square.
Within moments she heard running footsteps and Linda’s whine. “Wait up, Gabby!”
Laughing, Gabby locked arms with her companion as they walked to the far end of Place de la Comédie and approached the Fountain of Three Graces. They stopped, staring. The three graceful female figures stood atop a rocky mound of moss and green plants, with waterspouts pouring water into first one shallow basin surrounding the fountain, and then another. Several families with children sat on the smooth paving stones around the fountain, eating sandwiches and tossing crumbs to the pigeons that strutted about. A bald guy seated on a canvas stool nearby played a guitar, his guitar case open for the occasional francs. But the majority of warm bodies milling about the square or sitting on the ground around the fountain were young—late teens, early twenties—and multinational. University students.
“Mmm,” Linda said.
“I know. It’s beautiful.”
“I meant those two guys over there. Sitting by the fountain. Do you think they’re French?”
Gabby slapped her friend’s arm. “You are impossible!” She laughed. “Come on. There’s an empty table over there, see? At that café. We’ll have a great view of the Opera House and we can watch the fountain—oh! Oh wait! Look!” Gabby clapped her hands. “It’s a carousel!”
Linda rolled her eyes. “So?”
“I want to ride it! I’ve never ridden a carousel before!”
“Gabby! Don’t be silly! Those things go up and down and around. You get dizzy riding a stupid escalator . . . Oh, brother.”
A pair of eyes shaded by sunglasses followed the two young wome
n as the curly-headed one ran up to the ticket booth, pointed at herself and her friend, paid their francs, and climbed onto the prancing carousel horses. The young man, sporting a loose shock of dark hair, poked his companion seated on the ground, his nose in a book, near the Fountain of Three Graces. “Hey, Cameron. Check out those girls.”
“Where? The carousel?” His light-haired companion shaded his eyes and watched as the carousel started up, the horses lifted up and down, and the girls’ laughter sailed over the square. “Silly Americans,” he snorted. “Present company excepted, of course, Philip.” Cameron went back to his book.
That got a laugh. “Stuffy Brit. Maybe we should go ride it too. Be good for you, my man. Too much studying can ruin your youth!” But Philip’s eyes stayed on the young woman with the long, curly hair as she came around, up and down, on her prancing mechanical horse, her head back, laughing . . . disappeared . . . and came around once more. But this time the American girl clung to the pole, eyes tightly shut.
The carousel finally stopped and the girl climbed off unsteadily, almost falling. Her friend grabbed her and for a moment seemed to be holding her up. Philip started to his feet. Was she okay? But at that moment the young woman straightened and tossed her hair back, brushing off her friend’s attention with a laugh. The eyes behind the sunglasses followed as the girls headed for the outdoor seating of the café between the carousel and the Fountain of Three Graces.
“Hey, Cameron. Let’s get something to eat, okay?” Philip snatched the book out of the other’s hands. “Come on.”
His companion sighed, got to his feet, and grabbed for the book. By the time he repacked the book in his backpack and slung it over his shoulder, Philip had already picked out an outdoor table at the same café.
Gabby sucked on the straw in her lemonade and then sighed happily. “I could sit here forever watching people in this square. It’s like . . . so international!”
Linda took a sip of her iced coffee and frowned at the menu. “Yeah, well, I wish you’d sat here fifteen minutes ago, rather than ride that silly carousel. I thought you were going to throw up back there . . . Hey! Where’d the sun go?” Linda squinted upward as a shadow moved across the open square. “Better not rain,” she grumbled. “We haven’t ordered yet.”
“So what? If it rains this afternoon, we can go to a movie at the theater over there.” Gabby pulled the straw out with her teeth and pointed the dripping end at the domed building that said Cinema Gaumont.
“Gosh!” Linda rolled her eyes. “Do you always have to be so cheerful?”
Gabby giggled. “Yes. And I’d be even happier if Damien, the jerk, could see me now—in France, having a ball, with only one year to go getting my BA. Without him actually being here, I x mean.” She tossed her hair back and snorted. “That would be a bummer.”
Linda raised her frosty glass. “To Damien, king of the jerks—”
Gabby clinked her lemonade on Linda’s glass. “—may he get seasick on that fishing boat with the captain’s daughter, who no doubt smells a bit fishy by now.”
The two young women collapsed into laughter, which stopped abruptly when a male voice said, “Excusez-moi, ma’amselles?”
“Ohmigosh,” Linda said under her breath. “It’s them.”
Gabby looked up, startled. A tall young man with dark hair and sunglasses stood beside their table, accompanied by another young man with sandy hair. “Yes?” Oh, dear. I should’ve said, “Oui?” or something. He sounds French.
“May I introduce myself ? Je suis Philippe Fairbanks, and this is Cameron Brewer, my housemate. Graduate students at La Faculté des Lettres.” He pointed at himself. “Business.” Then at his companion. “History.” He flashed a smile revealing perfect white teeth. “And you are—?”
His French accent rolled off his tongue like melted chocolate. Gabby cleared her throat, hoping her mouth hadn’t been hanging open. “Oh! Uh, I’m Gabrielle Shepherd—most people call me Gabby—and this is Linda Banks. University of North Dakota.” She had never seen such a beautiful man. Tall, dark, and hand-some. Literally! And French to boot!
“Pardonne. May we sit?”
“Uh . . . of course! Please. Sit down. Right, Linda?”
Linda nodded, eyelashes fluttering, licking her lips.
“Have you ladies ordered yet?” The dark-haired one pulled over another chair. “The lamb kebobs here are superb.”
“Mmm,” the other seconded, sounding decidedly British. “Absolutely scrummy.”
Linda snorted. “Humph. Gabby needs a salad or something light. She nearly lost it on the carousel back there—ow!” She glared at Gabby. “What did you kick me for?”
The two young men laughed. Gabby flushed. “I am fine. Just a momentary dizzy spell. The lamb kebobs sound great.”
“Excellent.” The dark eyes gave an approving wink. “Lunch is on us—right, Cameron?”
And so they talked and laughed over succulent lamb kebobs and freshly baked bread. Gabby was aware that the dark eyes seemed to feast on her, and she flushed at the attention. His English was perfect—unlike her French—and his lovely French accent gave her goose bumps . . . until Cameron pulled the plug. “Aw, ladies, don’t be fooled by this bloke. His name is Philip, not ‘Philippe,’ and he hails from Virginia in the US of A. I, on the other hand, am London born and bred.”
Gabby’s mouth dropped. Then she laughed, grabbed a cloth napkin, and playfully whipped Philip’s arm with it. “You imposter!”
He threw up his hands and grinned. “Ah, well. Fun while it lasted.”
She was actually relieved at the joke. It would have been charming to be romanced by a Frenchman, but her small-town roots in Minot, North Dakota, were so . . . so provincial. She’d married her teenage sweetheart right out of high school, but a divorce two years later made her determined to get out of Minot and do something with her life. Until this junket through Europe with Youth Hostels International, the farthest she’d been was the University of North Dakota in Grand Forks. Big deal.
However, an American in Paris—or, Montpellier, in this case—put this charming looker on more equal footing. She tossed her curls back confidently. “So, why did you decide to study in Montpellier, Philip?”
Philip’s grin was half grimace. “Oh, you know the story. Family business. Dad’s got my life planned, wants me to follow in his footsteps.” He shrugged. “It’s a good business, but I want to broaden my horizons, explore some new ideas to bring the business into the twenty-first century.”
Intrigued, Gabby leaned forward, chin resting on her hand as Philip talked. A slight shadow of a beard lined his strong jawline. His dark brown hair had a boyish way of falling over his fore-head—though Damien had been drop-dead gorgeous, too, she reminded herself, and look where that got her. But . . . Philip was different. Damien was just a local pretty boy who’d swept her off her feet with empty promises. But this man . . . he had roots. A solid Southern family. (How romantic was that?) Heir to a family business. And he had new ideas. Vision. She liked that. He seemed so self-assured—the type of guy who would go places and do things—and that excited her.
“—been to Paris yet?” he was saying. “You must see the Eiffel Tower.”
Gabby let slip a wry grin and an exaggerated sigh. “Probably not. Uh, heights don’t agree with me . . . nor carousels, it seems.”
“Oh, nuts.” Linda jumped up, bumping the table and nearly spilling their drinks. “It’s starting to rain.” The leggy blonde joined the throng surging toward the inside tables of the café.
Gabby was feeling giddy and bold. “So, what’s a little rain?” Instead of going inside, she ran into the square, laughing and twirling around slowly in the warm shower, arms outstretched, letting her damp hair twist up tighter, like a crown of curly ribbons.
Standing under the awning of the café, Philip Fairbanks watched the sprite from North Dakota swirl, laughing, in the rain. “I’m going to marry that girl,” he murmured.
“Don’t be barmy,
Philip.” Cameron hunched his shoulders against the damp breeze. “She’s just a ditzy yank from North Dakota. What would your mum do if you brought home a girl named Gabby?”
Philip laughed. “Probably have a hissy fit. I’ll tell her the girl’s name is Gabrielle—that sounds French, don’t you think? And I think she’s charming. A free spirit. Different.”
Cameron snorted. “Different, all right. Look at that hair. Little Orphan Annie grown up.”
Philip was looking at Gabrielle’s hair. The sun broke through the light rain, and raindrops sparkled on the mop of chestnut curls flying around and around. “Mm-hm,” he murmured to himself. “I’m going to marry you, Mop Top. You wait and see.”
chapter 1
Looking thirty-two floors down was almost enough to bring up my lunch. Philip knew I had trouble with heights. So what kind of sadistic joke made him buy a penthouse, for heaven’s sake! Not to mention floor-to-ceiling windows that curved around the living room, like putting a glass nose on a Boeing 747.
I groaned. It’d take me a week to wash the inside of those windows. And who in the world washed the outside—?! My knees wobbled. Uh-uh. Couldn’t go there or I’d lose my lunch for real.
But the view . . . oh my.
I stood in the middle of our new living room and tried to take it all in. Trees dotted the park along Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive, wearing the fresh new wardrobe of spring. On the other side of the Drive, the western edge of Lake Michigan lapped at the miles of beaches separated by occasional rocky retaining walls and dis-appeared southward amid the misty skyscrapers of Chicago’s Loop. Tall, billowy thunderheads caught the late afternoon sun. Earlier that day, cars had hurried along the Drive, like toys zipping along a giant track some kid got for Christmas. But now, at the height of rush hour, the far lane was packed solid as commuters headed for the northern suburbs.
O-kay . Looking out at the view wasn’t so bad. I stepped closer to the window, keeping my chin up, refusing to look straight down. Near the beach, cyclists whizzed along a bicycle path, swerving around joggers. Dogs with their masters chased Frisbees or dashed into the water after a ball. No one was in the water—too early in the spring, I guessed. But the sand sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. What I wouldn’t give to—
