A Touch of Grace (13 page)

“This is the time Ian broke his arm.” She tapped a photo of him in a cast. “Scared me half to death when the school called and said he was hurt.”

Gretchen turned her head toward him. The movement stirred her perfume. “What happened?”

“As I recall, Melinda Harris dared me to jump out of the swing.”

Her eyes crinkled. “Melinda Harris?”

“Third grade femme fatale. I would have jumped off the Empire State Building for her.”

“Did she fall madly in love with you after this great sacrifice?”

He gave an exaggerated sigh of defeat, letting his shoulders droop. “No, she moved to Tennessee before I could even show off my cast. I was heartbroken, let me tell you.”

“He was such a sweet boy,” Margot said. “All the little girls were crazy for him.”

Gretchen grinned at his discomfort. “I’ll just bet they were.”

“Actually, they liked me because my mom packed homemade cookies in my backpack to share in the cafeteria.”

“Oh, go on with that.” Margot flipped the page and pointed. “Here’s his sixth birthday party. Look at all those kids around him.”

“Again, Mom. I had cake to share. And ice cream.”

His mother pushed the air with one hand and kept turning pages, pointing out the well-documented chronicle of his childhood.

“What’s this one?” Gretchen touched a picture of him in a hospital bed, pale as the sheets, an IV running into his arm. Colorful balloons and teddy bears lined the bedside table and nightstand. “Were you sick?”

“Meningitis, wasn’t it, Mom?” His memories from that time in the hospital were nothing more than vague, disturbed impressions.

“Oh, yes. My poor darling.” Margot shook her head
as she studied the photo. “He was so sick. All because of an earache. His temperature shot up to 105 and he was limp as a dishrag. For days he didn’t know a thing. Just lay there with fever coming off him in waves, whimpering like a puppy. We prayed the house down, I’ll tell you. Scared out of our minds that we’d lose him after waiting all those years to get him.”

“I don’t remember too much about it.” He’d only been five.

Margot reached across and patted his knee. “And a mercy that is, too, son.”

“Except for the ice cream.” And the fear that his parents would leave him in the hospital and not come back because he was so much trouble. He kept that memory to himself. “Dad brought ice cream, six different flavors.”

“Your daddy was so distraught. He thought if he tempted you with enough foods, you’d eat something. Bless his heart.” She gave a little shiver. “Turn the page, Gretchen. I only keep those pictures as a reminder of how much God has blessed me, of how He answered our prayers for a child and then brought that child through a life-threatening illness. He’s been so good to us.”

His mother’s comment touched a soft place in Ian’s heart. All his life, she’d talked like that, calling him a blessing. He wondered why he had so much trouble accepting the compliment.

If Margot’s talk of God bothered Gretchen, she didn’t let it show. She continued to turn the pages of the album, asking questions, making comments and sharing an occasional laugh at Ian’s antics.

Page after page went by, mostly of him and his
friends. Pets, camps, clubs. His parents and the small clutch of extended family that arrived on holidays. The marching band and later the jazz ensemble at church. In cap and gown at graduation with his parents standing proudly beside him. Mom hadn’t missed a single photo op of her little boy.

When they came to the final page, Gretchen sat back against the couch cushions with a smile. “You’re right, Mrs. Carpenter. Ian was a pretty cute kid, but where are his baby pictures?”

The heaviness that had dissipated during the walk down memory lane, suddenly returned in full force. Did he have a baby book?

The phone rang. His mother jumped, knocking an album to the floor. Pictures scattered everywhere.

“I’ll get that,” Ian said firmly and made a dive for the phone before his mother could collect herself. This was the second time she’d overreacted to a ringing telephone.

“Hello?” He listened briefly then held the receiver out. “It’s Theresa.”

Nothing sinister or worrisome about his mother’s best friend, but Margot’s hand trembled as she took the phone. And she wouldn’t look at him.

This wasn’t like her. Why was she acting so strange?

He thought about the phone call a while back informing him that his mother had fainted at the health club. Had she had more of those episodes? Was she afraid one of her friends would call and tell him?

It scared him to think his mother might be sick and
hiding the fact out of love. Or that something else was going on in her life and she didn’t want him to know.

Ian’s stomach started to hurt. Something was wrong, and he had a bad feeling that he wouldn’t be happy with the answer.

Chapter Nine

G
retchen had lived in New Orleans long enough to be immune to street performers. Most of them, anyway. The only one that could hold her attention hadn’t noticed she was here yet.

Jackson Square was alive with entertainers this Saturday afternoon, a prelude to next month’s revelry of Mardi Gras. Jugglers, magicians, dancers, mimes and musicians strutted their stuff for tourist dollars. Ian was in their midst.

Lost in the music, the preacher’s body swayed, and one foot tapped rhythm to the lively sound of his gospel saxophone. The joyous melody was enough to attract a handful of spectators, including herself.

She hadn’t intended to see him today, but since Christmas, she found herself at the mission more and more—and not on official business. Her relationship with Ian had changed and she wasn’t sure what to do about it.

She’d had a great time with him and his feisty,
friendly mother in Baton Rouge. For a while she’d even forgotten her grief at spending Christmas without Maddy. And at the end of a near-perfect day, Ian had surprised her with a completely unexpected Christmas gift, a pair of tickets to an upcoming car show.

Since then she’d had a hard time focusing on her work and an even harder time remembering that Ian was a minister.

Okay, so she was attracted to him. Big-time.

Just as she was attracted to the perfect family life he’d lived. If she and Maddy had been lucky enough to have had a normal suburban upbringing like Ian’s, perhaps her sister would still be alive.

Gretchen shifted positions, her back protesting from the extended contact with tree bark. Such thoughts were useless now. She couldn’t bring Maddy back. She’d finally come to terms with the fact that she had wanted to blame Ian for Maddy’s death. Maybe she still did, but she liked him, too, a conflict she had yet to resolve.

This afternoon, however, she was once again here on business.

Marian Jacobs was now pressing for an independent audit of Isaiah House finances. Gretchen thought Ian should know. She also wanted his reaction.

To tell the truth, the councilwoman’s annoying vendetta against Isaiah House and other charities was beginning to grow tiresome. The press continued to eat it up but Gretchen wondered if Jacobs’s complaints were political maneuvering rather than truly trying to serve the public interest.

One thing Gretchen knew for sure, she no longer
wanted to find any wrongdoing here. Ian’s work mattered. Kids received help at Isaiah House. She’d seen that firsthand.

But as a respected journalist she had to go where the stories were. This was her job. To do less would jeopardize her reputation and possibly even her career.

Some ministers
did
dip into the funds for personal expenditures. It happened. Though, to this point, she’d spent enough time with Ian to know he wasn’t a big spender. He didn’t own a house or even a nice car. He wasn’t into drugs as she’d once suspected. And he apparently wasn’t into parties or gambling.

The only thing other than the mission that he spent money on was shoes. But he gave away far more than he kept. She had a snazzy pair of three-inch rhinestone heels to prove it. The man simply liked to buy shoes. A weird vice for a guy, yes, but definitely not a big expenditure, and even there he claimed personal assets. After visiting his mother’s home, she believed him.

The ever-surfacing accusations didn’t fit her insider view of Ian or of Isaiah House. But she’d started this series and now she had no choice but to follow through.

So here she was, spending her afternoon on the streets of the French Quarter. According to the doleful Roger, Ian was “playing a preachin’ gig.”

In his usual jeans, athletic shoes and ball cap the Isaiah House director looked more like a college student than a clergyman. The only thing about him that appeared the least bit religious was his T-shirt. The name and address of Isaiah House was on the back. On the
front was a paraphrase of Isaiah 58:9, “When you cry for help, He will say: Here I am.”

By now the scriptures were as familiar to her as his phone number. Early in her investigation she’d studied the verses over and over in an effort to understand what made Ian Carpenter tick.

At the end of Ian’s song, applause sounded and a number of people came forward to drop bills and coins into a box marked Isaiah House. She found it curious that Ian resorted to raising funds in such an unorthodox manner. But then, everything about this preacher was different from any she’d ever encountered, including Brother Gordon.

The mission depended upon donations. Why should she be surprised that Ian used his considerable musical talents to raise money?

An ancient man in a ragged camouflage jacket and stained straw hat shuffled forward. From the looks of him, Gretchen couldn’t imagine the man having money to donate. He and Ian exchanged a few words that Gretchen couldn’t hear.

With one foot she pushed away from the tree and moved closer. The old man reeked of alcohol.

“Nice horn you got there, son. A Mark IV, ain’t she?”

With the same practiced care she’d seen him use before, Ian turned the saxophone to a horizontal position. The sunlight glinted off the glossy, engraved brass. “Yes, sir. She is.”

“Figured. Don’t hear that quality every day.”

“You play.” Ian’s words were a statement.

“I used to blow a tune now and then.” No one could
miss the longing in the man’s watery old eyes. “Even had a Selmer once.”

Ian extended the vintage saxophone. The mother-of-pearl key covers gleamed iridescent. “Will you play for us?”

Gretchen couldn’t believe it. She knew how special that vintage sax was to Ian. Surely, he must smell the liquor. But if he did, he didn’t let his aversion show.

The man, gaunt and wobbly, hesitated. Ian smiled that gentle, mesmerizing smile of his, and nodded encouragement. “We’d be honored.”

Bloodshot eyes took on a dreamy, faraway expression. From his pants pockets, the man removed a mouthpiece. “I still carry this. Don’t know why, ain’t got my horn no more.”

With shaky, gnarled fingers that appeared incapable of manipulating the rows of shiny keys, the old gentleman accepted the instrument. Taking exquisite care, as if the horn was a fragile butterfly, he turned it this way and that, checking the keys, changing the mouthpiece, stroking the gleaming bell. He handled the instrument with the same care she’d seen Ian take.

Then he lifted the beautiful old Selmer toward Heaven and began to play.

A hush fell over the onlookers as they exchanged startled glances. The man’s stooped shoulders straightened. With each honeyed note, he seemed to become taller, younger, steadier. Any sign of inebriation disappeared in the powerful, practiced exercise of giving life to a piece of glittering, lacquered brass.

In quiet respect, Ian folded his legs beneath him and
sat down on the concrete at the other musician’s feet. Gretchen moved to sit beside him.

She started down, tilted the slightest bit and was forced to place a hand on Ian’s shoulder for balance. Strong muscles rippled beneath her fingers. Ian glanced up, face alight with welcome. Gretchen’s undisciplined heart flip-flopped. She quickly removed her hand and diverted her attention to the street musician. But she couldn’t forget the manly strength or the tender expression in Ian’s eyes.

Something was happening to her. And whatever it was, Ian was responsible.

A rich, haunting melody reverberated over the square. More listeners drifted close.

In one part of her mind, she realized that the saxophonist was excellent. But the main focus of her thoughts was the man beside her. They sat close enough that if she swayed to the music, her arm would touch his. Like a teenager with a crush, she was tempted to do it.

She held herself rigid, afraid her own body would betray her. She couldn’t put her confidence in a preacher. She shouldn’t like one, either. Yet, Ian was different in so many ways.

Confused and wanting to escape a problem she couldn’t seem to resolve, Gretchen closed her eyes and listened to the impromptu concert. Ian played well. But this ragged old man was masterful. In seconds, goose bumps prickled her skin.

“Incredible.”

She didn’t know she’d spoken aloud until Ian said, “Yeah.”

She looked his way, saw that he wore the same rapt, dreamy look that had overtaken the guest saxophonist.

“You knew he was this good,” she murmured.

“Suspected.”

And as one musician to another, Ian must have felt the hunger in the man, had sensed his desire to play even though he no longer owned an instrument. So, out of kindness he’d handed over his prized saxophone to a half-drunk street bum who doubtless carried a sad secret.

When the music died away, applause thundered and dollars whispered against coins as they were tossed into the box. The old man, who’d been as forlorn as an orphaned kitten, now stood proud as he accepted the accolades. Over and over, he tilted his head in thanks, a tiny smile pulling the corners of his mouth.

Tears threatened as Gretchen’s heart twisted. Ian had done that for him. He’d given the battered old musician an admiring audience and restored his pride, if only for a little while.

Ian didn’t move for several long seconds after the music died. He let the man soak up the much-deserved attention. Finally, the saxophone was returned. The wobble, which had disappeared during the brief concert, returned to the old musician’s fingers.