A Touch of Grace (11 page)

“You’ve seen what I drive. What do you think?”

Gretchen giggled. His sense of humor got to her. “I’m sure that old van is not the only vehicle you’ve ever had.”

No doubt, a good-looking guy with his charisma had driven the hottest car on campus and dated the prettiest girls.

“You think?” He arched an eyebrow and raised the saxophone to his lips. “What’s your pleasure, ma’am?”

You.

The thought came out of nowhere, startling and unwanted. Her heart leaped. She fought down a telling blush and rising panic.

“Something sweet and lazy,” she managed to say. Any distraction to help me get my head under control.

Ian pressed the mouthpiece to his lips and began to play. Thank goodness he couldn’t read minds. She was having some serious trouble with hers at the moment.

Her gaze strayed to his mouth, pursed against the saxophone. What would it be like to have those lips pressed against hers?

She slammed her eyelids shut and leaned back in the chair. This nonsense needed to stop here and now.

The flowers from the courtyard were in full bloom. The scent of honeysuckle drifted up to the balcony.

Music vibrated on the air, gentle and tender as first love.

She was single. So was he.

Her stomach flip-flopped. There she went again. Oh, boy.

This sudden obsession with Ian as a man was all Mike’s fault. He never should have asked her if she was interested in the preacher instead of the series.

Annoyed and flustered, Gretchen pushed out of her chair and went to the balcony’s wrought-iron railing.

The music stopped.

“Don’t like my choice of songs?” Ian asked.

She didn’t care if he played “The ABC Song.” She had to get out of here. She had to stop thinking of this preacher as an attractive man when he was supposed to be the subject of a serious investigative report.

Gripping the cool metal railing, she gazed out over the grounds, moist and green from the October rains.

“I know this will break your heart,” she said a little too jovially, “but I’m wrapping things up here today.”

A beat of silence told her he was surprised. “The report?”

“Yes.” And the idea of leaving unfinished business didn’t sit well.

“Tired of our company?”

Was that relief or disappointment she heard?

“You’ve become boring, I’m afraid.” At least to her boss and the viewing public both of whom were primarily only interested in trouble.

“In other words, you can’t find any reason to blast us on the news?”

She turned to face him and then wished she hadn’t.

Looking too handsome for words, Ian was watching her, expression thoughtful. Her heart did a ridiculous, disturbing somersault.

“Just because I pull off for now doesn’t mean I’m finished. I’m still digging for the truth.”

A gentle smile tilted the corners of his mouth.

“The truth is right here in plain sight, Gretchen. All you have to do is open your eyes.”

Now what on earth did that mean?

A vague sense of loneliness shifted through Ian as he climbed into the van for his Saturday-night street patrol. The fact of the matter was he’d grown accustomed to Gretchen’s company on these runs. At first, when she’d told him the investigation was over, he’d been relieved. Surprised, sure, but also happy to be released from the pressure of a television newswoman watching his every move. He had enough hassle in his life.

But after a week without her around, he missed her. Not the bulldog reporter with the attitude, but the other Gretchen. The woman who could be witty and compassionate.

Besides, she liked his music.

Man, did he need a vacation or what? Nobody missed the Channel Eleven barracuda. Especially because of a high school vanity thing like music.

With a self-deprecating laugh, he tossed the refilled backpack into the backseat, ready for the long night ahead.

As he reached for his seat belt, a human form appeared around the side of the building. He squinted into the shadowy darkness. Was one of the kids out after curfew?

Better go check. More than one runaway had run away.

Releasing the belt, he shoved the door open. Into the
circle of light from the van’s interior stepped the barracuda herself.

Ian’s stomach went south in the most peculiar way.

She stopped not two feet from him, a hand on her hip. “Going somewhere without me?”

“I thought you were finished with Isaiah House.”

“Officially, I am. At least for now.”

“Then why are you here? Hoping to catch me in some ghastly indiscretion?”

A tiny smile tipped the corners of her shapely mouth. “Maybe.”

Strangely disappointed by her answer, Ian turned back to the vehicle. Gretchen was getting under his skin in more ways than one. “Go home and sleep. You have a day job.”

“So do you.” She grabbed the door before he could close it.

He paused, wishing she’d leave, wanting her to stay.

Yep, he was seriously messed up. Slowly, he rotated toward her. “I gotta go, okay?”

Her big green eyes held his as firmly as her hand held the van door. “I’m here as a volunteer. You need me.”

Yes, like he needed another pair of shoes. But something in her posture wouldn’t let him slam the door and drive off. Framed by the glow of the dome light the confident newswoman looked small and uncertain.

Suddenly, he got it. Gretchen was the needy one. Perhaps she always had been.

“Maddy?” he asked softly, gently broaching the once-taboo topic.

“I need to help, Ian.” A soft, sweet-scented breeze
lifted the ends of her pale hair. She pushed at it, self-conscious. “If we can save one kid…”

Ian smiled, understanding all that she couldn’t or wouldn’t say. “Contagious, isn’t it?”

Her unspoken desire to make amends for Maddy’s death resonated within him. Didn’t he want the same thing?

To lighten the mood he said, “You have to buy the pizza.”

Her shoulders relaxed. She patted her jeans pocket. “I got paid today.”

“That makes exactly one of us.” With a laugh, he motioned to the passenger’s seat, suddenly looking forward to the long hours ahead. “Get in. Time to rock and roll.”

Chapter Eight

A
s the weeks flew by and the holiday season approached, Ian grew comfortable with his Saturday-night running mate. The rest of the week she might be off harassing other ministries, but on their weekly jaunts she said little about her series. He wasn’t naive enough to think she wasn’t watching him like a hawk, but she was now more subtle.

Sometimes, like the afternoon they’d gone shoe shopping and he’d bought her a pair of sparkly heels for an upcoming office party, he even forgot her original reason for hanging around Isaiah House.

He knew she was still hurting over her sister’s death. She was also suffering from some deep spiritual wound. Though she listened to him share Christ on the streets and stood quietly respectful when he prayed, she wasn’t ready to discuss her own faith, or lack thereof.

Funny how that bothered him.

He glanced her way, throat tight with wanting to help her heal and not knowing how to go about it.

She was a tough cookie, he’d give her that. But underneath the strong exterior was a caring woman. He’d seen proof of that a dozen times over.

One dismal night beneath an overpass often used as shelter or for drug deals they’d found a dead body.

Gretchen reported an exclusive on that one. Though sadly, a dead homeless man didn’t garner much more than a mention on the late, late news. No name, no humanity, just a dead body found under the freeway along with the instrument of his demise, a dirty syringe. And that was the way she’d reported the death, a stark, painful reality of life to jar the comfortable into action.

Tonight, they’d already unloaded a dozen sandwiches, dropped a homeless woman and her child at an appropriate shelter and counseled two teenagers with nothing but time and trouble on their hands. Armed with Ian’s network of social and medical services, they could meet a lot of needs. At least enough that he could sleep without the nightmare.

“Are we cruising the bars later?” Gretchen’s modulated voice was thoughtful as Ian parked the van along a dark side street.

“Maybe.” When the streets were quiet, they often dropped in on the rowdier, seedier bars and late-night hangouts. He never knew where he might find a troubled kid or for that matter, someone looking for a listening ear or a prayer. At first, he’d been reluctant to take Gretchen inside, but true to form, she went anyway.

They walked quickly, both constantly alert to their
surroundings. Although the Café Du Monde was a popular tourist spot, the surrounding area was just as popular with the city’s underworld. Runaways congregated among the panhandlers and homeless. Prostitutes and predators lurked here, as well.

“Hey. Hey.” A female voice called. Ian turned around. “You really a preacher?”

A provocatively dressed woman sauntered toward them, a beer in one hand.

“Yes, ma’am. What do you need?”

She shifted her beer to the opposite hand and reached out for his. Her damp skin was hard and cool.

“I want you to do something. Something kinda weird.”

Hair rose on the back of his neck. Great. He was about to be solicited, probably along with Gretchen who moved in close to his side. In an odd way her reaction made him happy. Gretchen trusted him to protect her. He trusted God for the same thing.

Gently holding the street-hardened hand, he purposely made eye contact with the obvious prostitute. Regardless of her lifestyle, she mattered. He wanted her to know that.

“Weird in what way?”

The woman’s nose twitched. “I want you to pray for me.”

Thank you, Lord.
He’d been propositioned before but not with Gretchen along. “That’s not weird at all. What’s your name?”

Eyes really were the windows to the soul and hers were sad and empty.

“Leslie.”

“Well, Leslie, I’m Ian and this is Gretchen. I’d consider it a privilege to pray for you.”

He bowed his head, and on the dirty sidewalk beneath a pool of streetlight, he prayed for protection and comfort and healing in Jesus’s name.

When he finished, Leslie’s hard, damp hand hung on a little longer like the poor swimmer at summer camp who finds the rope in the middle of the pool and is afraid to let go.

It broke Ian’s heart. “Can we take you somewhere, Leslie? To a shelter, maybe? How can we help?”

She held on a moment longer, then shook her head. “Can’t. Thanks for the prayer.”

And then she whirled and quickly walked away.

Gretchen touched him on the shoulder. Tears swam in her big green eyes.

Ian swallowed a lump of sadness. If he did this for a million years, he’d never get used to the despair. He could offer all the help in the world, but until a person was ready to accept it, both he and God were helpless.

Thanksgiving came and went. Gretchen worked at the news station. Ian served turkey and dressing in the soup kitchen and had a quiet dinner with his mother that night. Though she denied any further health problems, Ian’s mother didn’t seem her usual vivacious self.

Overall, Ian was feeling better about the fate of the mission. People were generous with charities around the holidays so donations were up and pressure was down. Though the lawsuit had cost them more money than was
prudent, the plaintiff had finally dropped the charges when he realized Ian would not agree to a monetary settlement. Though he figured the question would arise again in the future, for now anyone using mission services could still be compelled to attend chapel. Except for Marian Jacobs, who, along with several local restaurants, had complained loudly about the stream of homeless at the mission on Thanksgiving Day, Ian had hope that things were on the upswing. The holidays always gave him hope, especially Christmas.

Early in December, he took the handful of Isaiah House residents Christmas shopping. Later, they transformed the old mission house with lights and wreaths and shiny garland. Generous donors made certain the kids had gifts beneath the artificial tree in the dayroom, even the ones who would go elsewhere until the New Year.

But when Christmas Day rolled around, Ian was on edge, for more reasons than one.

A couple of night’s ago when he’d been too tired to think straight, he had invited Gretchen to Christmas dinner at his mother’s house in Baton Rouge. Now he questioned the wisdom of such an action. Upon hearing that she planned to spend the day alone he’d issued an invitation out of courtesy. At least, he’d told himself that was the reason. Judging by the time he’d spent thinking about her lately, he worried that more than good manners were at play here.

Then this morning as soon as his feet hit the floor, two of the boys got in a fistfight over a pair of socks.

And now this.

“Are you sure, Roger?” A bag of petty cash was missing.

The older man’s perpetually worried face sagged. “One of the kids must have taken the money out of my desk.”

“When?”

“Don’t know for sure.”

“I can’t believe it. In three years of this ministry, nothing has ever been stolen.”

“There’s always a first. You’re a pretty trusting fella.”

Maybe too trusting, but one of the things these kids needed most was to have someone believe in them.

The knot in his shoulder returned. He resisted the urge to rub at it. “If they needed money, they should have told me.”

“Well, nothing to do about it today. It’s Christmas. You go on up to your mama’s. We’ll question the kids when everyone gets back after the holidays.”

As much as it bothered him to leave the issue unresolved, he’d have to wait.

“Sure you don’t want to come along? Mama won’t mind.” He offered for the third time this morning.

“Thanks anyway, but I got plans. You and your mama can have a little one-on-one time.”

“I invited Gretchen.”

Roger took a second to absorb this turn of events and then cuffed Ian on the arm. “Taking her home to Mama, are you? About time a lady caught your eye.”