A Touch of Grace (6 page)

“It’s okay to talk about Maddy,” he said gently. “It’s even okay to be angry about what happened. Shoot,
I’m
angry about it; you have to be.”

His kindness was so unexpected that the horrible grief threatened once more to well up and flow out like a geyser. She needed to talk. She needed to make sense of her sister’s life and death. And she needed someone or something to blame for the unspeakable waste.

With sheer force of will, she staunched the threatening tears. “Don’t give me your counseling mumbo jumbo. I’m not one of your runaways.”

He pinned her with a long, quiet look, holding her gaze until she fidgeted and glanced away.

“No harm or insult meant, Gretchen. Everybody hurts.”

When she remained there, staring inanely at the slide show of monster trucks on her screen saver, the preacher pushed to his feet and stepped away. Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief. He was too close, both physically and emotionally, and she didn’t want to lose control in front of a man she was investigating. What kind of objectivity would that be?

“So, exactly why did you come here this morning, Reverend? To complain about the report? Or what?”

He answered with a smile that probably melted everyone else. “I have a complaint and a suggestion. Your report wasn’t fair.”

“Viewers have a right to know the truth.”

“That’s all I’m asking. Report the whole truth, all of it. Show what we really do at Isaiah House.”

“Meaning?”

“Come to the mission. Spend more time with us.”

That was already in her plans. She propped an elbow on her desk and pointed at him. “On your terms? Or mine?”

“I was hoping we could make a deal.”

“Why, Reverend, you shock me. Making deals. Isn’t that rather unreligious?”

“I shock my mother sometimes, too, but she still loves me.”

There he went again, trying to use that sweet, Southern boy charm.

“You actually have a mother?” She bit the inside of her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that. The flippant remark sounded too conversational, too friendly.

“I have a great mother up in Baton Rouge. She makes the best gumbo north of New Orleans. When Dad was alive—” He stopped as if remembering this was not a normal chat between friends. Funny that both of them kept venturing into side conversations that had nothing to do with the topic at hand.

Gretchen tapped a fingernail on her desktop. Time to get down to business. Just because they’d talked at Maddy’s funeral didn’t mean she wanted to be buddies. “Okay, then. What’s your deal?”

“You come back to the mission. Not a one-shot deal like last time, but over a period of days whenever you have a free hour or two. No photographer. Volunteer, take part, follow me around. See what I do.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. A chance on the inside to see if his religion bordered on mind control? This was too good to be true.

“I’ve heard some negative rumors about the mission,” she admitted. “I plan to check them out.”

“I’ve heard them, too. That’s why I want you to come see for yourself. All I’m asking is that you report the truth. I’ll give you access. You give an unbiased report to the citizens of New Orleans about the work at Isaiah House.”

This was too easy. What was he up to? She decided to test the waters and find out how much access he planned to give her. “What about your followers? Can I talk to them?”

Something flickered across his face that she couldn’t interpret. Her antenna elevated to alert. Now she was getting somewhere. What was he hiding? Why was he so hesitant to let her talk to the people inside the mission?

“They are not
my
followers. As I told you before, they’re vulnerable, and I won’t allow anything to impede their healing. You can only talk to them on one condition.”

“Being?” He’d gone ballistic when she’d confronted the trembling girl at the mission. She didn’t want a repeat performance of that, but she
was
going to talk to that girl and find out why she was so afraid.

“You ask their permission and mine, in advance.”

Interesting. Did he want to prep them first? Warn them of what not to say?

The demand sounded suspiciously like something Brother Gordon often did. She and Maddy had been taught all the correct answers to give about the commune. And all the specifics to avoid discussing with “outsiders.”

Energy bubbled up inside. She was on to something here. If she played her cards right, she could have the investigative news series of the year
and
find out if anything had happened to her sister inside that mission.

Before she could voice her agreement a male head sporting a tiny gold earring poked inside her cubicle. “Hey, Gretchen.”

The preppy speaker waved a pair of tickets in his hands. “Got ’em.”

For a second she forgot all about her visitor. In excitement, she leaped from her chair and squealed, “I can’t believe it. Let me see.”

She ripped the tickets from his hand. David Metzler was not only a great coworker and friend, he was an absolute genius when it came to finding tickets to sold-out events. A computer engineer with enough brains to fill the Superdome, David was as passionate about Monster Trucks as she was.

She quickly perused the tickets, then threw her arms around his lanky form. “You are awesome! This is going to be so much fun. I’ve wanted to see Bigfoot and Grave Digger go head-to-head for two years!”

David’s dimples flashed. “All righty then. See you tomorrow night. Six-thirtyish?”

“I’m there, buddy.” They slapped a high five and David disappeared down the corridor toward the engineering room.

“Bigfoot?” Ian spoke from behind her. “As in monster trucks?”

In her excitement, she’d practically forgotten he was there. She turned toward him, unable to wipe the silly grin from her face. A night out, watching her favorite drivers and yelling with the crowd would work wonders for her right now. She couldn’t wait to tell Carlotta that they finally had tickets.

She hitched a shoulder. “Everybody needs a hobby.”

A half smile lifted the edge of Ian’s mouth. “And yours is monster truck races?”

She slapped a hand on one hip.

“Got a problem with that, preacher man?” Goodness, that sounded flirty. She let her hand drop.

Ian laughed. The simple action did amazing things to his face. “You don’t seem the type.”

“Neither do you.”

“All men like big, noisy trucks. Even preachers.”

“I meant you don’t seem the preacher type.”

“Ah. Well. Thanks.” He looked as if the statement pleased him. “I guess we’re even then.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning stereotypes. Sometimes people judge you for not fitting the mold.”

“I guess I did that to you, didn’t I?”

“So, do we have a deal? You spend some time at the mission. Give us a chance to prove ourselves?” He flashed another of those killer grins. “Except for Friday night, of course. Can’t let you miss Bigfoot.”

Okay, so he was charming. And good-looking. Big deal. She was not about to get distracted by a gentle
voice and a pair of gorgeous blue eyes. Not when they might hide a wicked heart.

As he motored down St. Charles Avenue, Ian dialed the Baton Rouge number on his cell phone and waited for the snick of connection. He’d been so busy he hadn’t called Mom, something he tried to do every day. Since his father’s death two years ago, he worried about her. At seventy-one, she was older than most of his friends’ parents but refused to admit that age was in any way affecting her. She still gardened and ran the women’s auxiliary at church, collected donations for the mission and swam daily at the health club.

A breathless voice answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Hi, baby. How’s my boy?”

Ian slowed to a stop, grinning at the traffic light above him. Even if he was approaching six feet tall and pushing thirty, he would always be Mom’s “baby.” An only child, she’d told him over and over how special he was because he’d come along after she and Dad had given up on ever having kids. His buddies had forever teased him about being a mama’s boy. But he didn’t care. He knew there was a difference between being a wimpy mama’s boy and a man who respected and loved the woman who’d not only given him life, but a wonderful upbringing, as well.

Besides, the guys had all been crazy about her, too, and called her “Mama Margot.”

“You sound out of breath. Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course I am.” He could practically see her hand flapping away the suggestion of illness. “I was in
the garage and I like to broke my neck getting to the phone. That silly dog is always underfoot.”

That silly dog, as they both well knew, had become her best friend since Dad’s passing. An odd mix of Irish setter and schnauzer, Nehemiah had been nothing but a ball of fluff abandoned in a box outside the high school football stadium. Ian rescued him and the grateful dog had never forgotten the favor.

“Give him a pat for me.”

“Will do. He wishes you’d come for a visit.”

Which meant Mom was missing him. Guilt twinged as he pulled away from the traffic light and motored along beside the St. Charles Streetcar. Filled with tourists this time of year, the old green trolley meandered along the edge of the beautiful Garden District, a neighborhood of wonderful old homes with verdant courtyards and ancient oaks. After the hurricane, he was glad to see the streetcar up and running again.

“I guess you haven’t changed your mind about moving down here with me,” he said. Mom loved this part of New Orleans.

“No, son, I haven’t. Everything I know is here. My church, my friends, our house. I’m too old to start over.”

Responsibility was a heavy thing. Ian adored his mother. He’d been so lucky to have great parents and he knew it. He’d been the center of their universe, but now that he lived in New Orleans he felt bad about leaving his mother alone in Baton Rouge. She’d always been there for him. He wished he could do the same for her.

Because they’d had this conversation a dozen times before, his mother said, “You have your own life, Ian.
You are right where God called you to be. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Your daddy and I are so proud of what you do.”

Mom still talked about Dad as though he was in the living room.

“I know, Mom. I know.”

Her sweet encouragement made him feel even guiltier. He never wanted to disappoint her. “So, did you make that doctor’s appointment like I asked?”

A momentary silence told Ian she hadn’t.

“I’ll try to get to it next week.”

“Mom, you need a checkup.”

Last week at the health club, she’d had a “spell” as she called the episode of dizziness and fainting. If the proprietor hadn’t phoned him, Ian would never have known she was ill.

Mom, apparently, wasn’t going to discuss the incident further. “George Bodine passed on Tuesday. Do you remember him? He used to give you gum in church.”

Ian remembered. In fact, those were some of his earliest memories. He couldn’t have been more than five or six when Mr. Bodine snuck Juicy Fruit to him over the pew. Mama couldn’t figure out where he was getting the gum for the longest time. It was a huge joke between him and Mr. Bodine.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Should I send flowers?”

“Peggy would appreciate it. Or a card with a note about the gum incidents would be even better. She’d cherish the memory.”

So did he. “Consider it done.”

“The funeral was so nice,” his mother went on. “Af
terward the ladies’ auxiliary fixed a wonderful dinner for all the family. Their daughter from San Antonio asked about you. You remember Sara.”

At the mention of dinner, his belly growled. Refusing to take the bait about the still-single Sara, he glanced at the clock on the dash. Had he eaten at all today?

“Mom. You’re avoiding my reason for the call. I insist you go for that checkup next week.”

“Trying to make me feel old, aren’t you?”

“You’ll never be old.” He pulled the van into the parking space behind the mission. If he hurried, he could grab a bite to eat before heading out on the streets for the night. “But everyone gets sick now and then.”

“All that’s wrong with me is a pair of empty arms. As soon as you get married and give me some grandchildren, I’ll be right as rain.”

He chuckled into the flip phone. “In God’s time, Mom.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t even think you’re looking. You’re so busy with those street kids—and I’m not complaining about that—but son, you need a social life, too. You need to get out more. Maybe even get an apartment away from Isaiah House.”

“Can’t afford it.”

“I can.”

“Not a chance.” Dad had left her well-set, but Ian didn’t depend on his parents’ comfortable income. Not since graduating from college. In truth, he had a decent enough salary, but he plowed most of that money back into the mission.

“You have the assets Dad left. You’ve barely even touched them.”

“Someday, Mom, when I get married and have a family. I’ll need that money a lot more then than now.”

She sighed heavily, her breath a gust through the cell phone. “Okay. I know when to hush.”

“Call me when you make that doctor’s appointment.”

“Will do.”

“Love ya, Mom.”

“I love you, son. Come when you can.” The phone clicked in his ear as she rang off.

Ian flipped the telephone closed and sat at the wheel of his van for several seconds. To his left, Raoul sweated as he pushed a mower over the grass where Maddy’s body had been found. The gnawing in Ian’s stomach turned to acid. Life was incredibly short and unpredictable. So many to help. So little time.

He had a meeting with the lawyers tomorrow, potential donors coming in the next day, his usual overload of counseling and Bible teaching, the street work with the homeless, the phone calls to arrange jobs and school and a ton of other details, and the worry about Gretchen Barker dogging his footsteps. He was tired to the bone, hungry as a wolf and sorely in need of some downtime to pray and study and sleep. But someday soon, he had to get up to Baton Rouge.

Chapter Five