A Penny for Your Thoughts (46 page)

“Of course, he’ll remain on Feed the Need’s board of directors and continue to serve in a consulting capacity,” Tom said, “but the day-to-day operations will be overseen by the new CEO.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Gwen Harding!” Tom laughed. “Apparently, that was Wendell’s directive, and Derek is in full agreement. He said that Gwen was a bit shocked when he first told her this morning, but she’s been warming up to the idea all day.”

“Strike a blow for secretaries everywhere,” I said, smiling. “They practically run their companies anyway.”

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and headed out to the deck. Sliding the door shut behind me, I turned to face one of the most gorgeous sunsets I had ever seen. Of course, I thought almost every sunset on my inlet was the most gorgeous I had ever seen, but this one seemed especially beautiful.

“You’ll be glad to know that Derek and Sidra are going to go to counseling,” he continued. “The events of the last few days have really made them both take stock. But Derek said you started it all with a good tongue lashing—one that made a lot of sense.”

I smiled, picturing myself fussing at Derek in the diner.

“Yeah,” I said, “as Harriet would say, I really gave him ‘what-for.’”

Tom laughed the easy, warm laugh I knew so well.

“I wish you could see the sunset right now,” I said, sitting in my favorite deck chair. “It has the most incredible colors, and every one of them is reflected in the water.”

“Sounds gorgeous.”

“It is.”

He was quiet for a moment, and I closed my eyes, trying to picture him here with me, wondering if it was a place he could ever belong to.

“For what it’s worth,” he said now, “I’m sorry I brought you in to all of that mess. If I had had any idea how it would turn out…” He let his voice trail off.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Good for me, in a way. Made me confront some things I’ve been needing to deal with for a while.”

I thought of Marion, of her dilemma over her husband’s suicide.

“Let me ask you something, Tom,” I said. “Do you think a person who kills himself automatically goes to hell? I don’t. I was always taught that when we accept Christ,
all
of our sins are forgiven—past and future.”

“I’m not sure what I think,” he answered. “The nature of forgiveness is a very difficult concept to grasp. I’ve never thought about suicide in those terms. But I know a lot of people who believe the way Marion does, that if her husband had died by his own hand, he would’ve automatically been condemned for eternity.”

“Don’t you think the Lord knows the anguished heart of a man contemplating suicide? Don’t you think He takes that into account on judgment day?”

“I don’t know, Callie,” Tom said. “I do think that sometimes God forgives our sins
long
before we are able to forgive ourselves.”

I thought about that for a moment, hearing something in the somber tone of his voice. It wasn’t the first time Tom had spoken this way, had spoken of the need for self-forgiveness. I wondered about that, wishing I could understand the burdens he carried.

A penny for your thoughts,
Nick had said to me the night before. I thought that now, about Tom. How little I knew about him, really, when it came down to it.

“You struggle with forgiveness, don’t you, Tom,” I said, unable to help myself, knowing that his life—his sins—were his business and not mine.

“More than you know, Callie,” he answered after a long pause. “More than you could ever know.”

We hung up a few minutes later, but I stayed there on the deck, looking out at the sun and the river, listening to Sal grapple with her favorite chew toy at my feet. I thought about Tom and his private
struggles, about the Smythes’ great wealth and their heartaches, and I knew I had them all beat hands down.

I couldn’t bring Bryan back, but I could live a life that honored him. I could protect his image in my memories. And I could maybe, just maybe, learn to let go and give love another chance.

For the time being, I thought it might be time to take it all to the Lord in prayer. I sat there on the deck and bowed my head, thanking God for the beauty of nature surrounding me. I prayed for Judith and her newfound salvation, for Marion and her pain, for the souls of all who were lost. I prayed for myself and my future. I prayed for the starving children who were saved through outreach programs like Feed the Need.

Mostly, I prayed for Tom, for a healing of whatever burden of forgiveness that he carried. When I was finished, I sat on the deck in the gathering darkness and listened to the sound of the crickets in the grass. I sat there until the last speck of light had left the horizon. Then I picked up Sal and went inside, grateful for the night and the sweet, relaxing sanctuary of my home.

Join Callie on her next investigation in The Million Dollar Mysteries series

Don’t Take Any Wooden Nickels

One

I heard the gunshots from a distance, sharp and loud in the cool November air. A few seconds later there were more gunshots, then more, then all was silent.

Quickening my pace, I rounded the corner and stepped through two large stone arches into the Glenn Oaks Cemetery, a beautiful, shady old graveyard on the outskirts of Nashville, Tennessee. I had timed this just right, because I didn’t really want to get there until the funeral was finished. Now that the honor guard had fired three volleys, I knew it was almost over.

I found the gravesite and waited a respectful distance away, noting that there were about ten people in attendance and a minister, plus seven older men in dress uniforms with rifles, and two other younger military representatives. I didn’t know who the deceased was, only that he had been a naval chief petty officer in his youth and that his family had wanted him to have a full honor guard burial.

From a distance, I watched as the two younger soldiers carefully folded the flag that had been draped over the coffin. Finally, as they presented the flag to the woman I assumed was the widow, one of the older men lifted a bugle to his lips and lightly sounded out the notes for Taps. The simple tune, always so mournful, sounded especially sad in the middle of this Tennessee graveyard.

Ordinarily, I think, the whole scene would’ve brought me to tears. Even though I didn’t know the deceased or his family, I had been widowed myself only three years before. Since then, it didn’t take much to get me going at a funeral. Today, however, I was thankfully distracted by other matters. Today I had an exciting event of my own that kept my mind from becoming too absorbed with what was unfolding before me.

Once the service ended, I watched the tiny crowd. The seven men I was here to see turned and walked in the opposite direction from me, somberly shouldering their rifles as they headed toward a row of cars. I tried to catch up with them but the ground was muddy, and the heels of my Joan & David pumps sunk into the ground with the first step. Fortunately, storing away the bugle and the rifles took a few moments, allowing me time to walk around the perimeter on the sidewalk and reach them before they drove away. All of the other mourners had already gone by them, leaving only the seven men crowded into two cars and me.

I waved at the driver of the front car and he rolled down his window and smiled. The second car must not have noticed me, for they pulled into traffic and headed off, I assumed back toward the veterans center.

“Can I help you, young lady?” the man in front of me asked, perfect dentured teeth showing in a tanned, wrinkled face. He looked to be in his late 70s, weathered but still handsome in a crisp white naval dress uniform. I guess to him I
was
a young lady—though, in my early 30s, I didn’t feel all that young.

“I’m looking for Commander Davis,” I said.

“That’s me,” he replied. He opened the door of the car and stepped out, closing it behind him as the other men peered curiously from inside.

“Callie Webber,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“It’s my privilege, ma’am,” he replied, glancing down at the envelope I held in my hand. “Thanks aren’t necessary. It’s part of the Greater Nashville Honor Guard Society service. No charge, please.”

I realized he thought I was connected to the deceased and that I was here to thank him and to pay him for the military send-off. I smiled. I
was
here to give him some money, but not for the reason he thought.

“That’s a beautiful service you provide,” I said. “Very dignified and touching.”

“It’s our opinion, ma’am, that every veteran deserves full military honors at his or her funeral.”

“Yes, I agree,” I said, aware that although the government mandates supplying a burial flag and two military representatives at veterans’ funerals, it’s up to volunteer groups like this one to flesh things out by giving a full military sendoff, including the firing party and a live rendition of Taps. I thought their group provided a valuable community service, and I was happy to be the bearer of good news on this sunny autumn morning—despite my distracted mind-set and the grim surroundings of a cemetery.

“’Course,” he said, “our job is a lot easier on a gorgeous morning like this. Two days ago, we were out doing this in the pouring rain.”

I smiled, agreeing that it was, indeed, a lovely day. Unbeknownst to him, I had observed his little group of veterans at that rainy funeral—though at a distance and from the warmth of my rental car. In fact, I had been in town now for three days and had spent the majority of the time discreetly examining his organization. As an investigator for a charitable foundation, it was my job to scrutinize the finances and activities of certain nonprofits, awarding grants to them if they passed our rigorous screening process. This gentleman’s application had struck me as particularly charming, and I was glad that after a little digging around I had been able to determine that his group was, indeed, a legit bunch doing good work and that a grant would be a big help for them. The handing over of the money, like now, was the fun part that always came at the end of a successful investigation.

For me, however, an even more fun event awaited at the conclusion of this particular investigation: After a lot of frustration and much anticipation, I was finally going to meet—face-to-face, for the first time—my enigmatic boss, Tom. I couldn’t wait. Though we had spent countless hours on the phone and on the internet, we had never actually met in person. Today, however, we were finally going to get together—albeit briefly, and only in an airport.

Our meeting was just about all I could think of. All morning, I had been trying to put it out of my mind and attend to the task at hand.

Focus, Callie,
I told myself.
Focus.

“I would imagine you have a lot of expenses associated with something like this,” I said, giving my attention back to Commander Davis.

“Well, the government provides the blanks for the M-1s,” he replied. “Other than that, it’s just your basic stuff, transportation to the funerals, maintenance on the rifles, things like that.”

I nodded, thinking back over the information he had supplied in his grant request. I especially liked the section he had written under “Additional Needs:”
I guess we could use a few bugles and some bugle lessons,
the application had said,
’cause right now the only one in our group who plays the bugle is Charlie Goodall, but he wants to move to Memphis to be closer to his daughter, not to mention that his emphysema keeps acting up, and when it does he can’t really get enough breath to play good.
I smiled now remembering it, thinking that Charlie
had
sounded a little breathless when he tooted out Taps today.

“I suppose I should tell you,” I said, “that I’m from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

“The grant people? Yes, ma’am, I sent in an application a while back.”

“Well,” I replied, “it made its way to me, and I’m happy to say we will be awarding you a small amount of money for your bugles and bugle lessons.”

I handed him the envelope, inside of which was a check for $5000 made out to the Greater Nashville Honor Guard Society. I could see a slight disappointment flash across the man’s face, sorry that he hadn’t received the money for his primary request, which was $11,000 for a used transport vehicle to carry their small group back and forth to all of the funerals they attended in the region.

“Well, that’s good news, that’s very good news,” he said finally, tucking the check back inside the envelope. “We sure do appreciate that. Old Charlie, especially. Thanks.”

Old Charlie waved to me from the back seat, obviously hanging onto every word of our conversation.

“The best way you can say thanks,” I replied, repeating the little speech that always accompanied the handing out of a donation, “is to take that money and use it to further your mission as outlined in your grant proposal. The foundation believes strongly in what you’re trying to accomplish, and we just wanted to have some small part in furthering your efforts.”