At Every Turn (28 page)

He scratched the back of his neck and then smoothed down the ruffled edges of his dark hair. “I’d been interested in automobiles ever since I saw my first one as a boy. And I’d become quite good at tinkering with them. So when I heard of your father’s need for a chauffeur and mechanic, I applied for the job. Of course after he hired me, he decided he liked driving his own car. So he gave me extra work at the factory. I settled in town, among many of his other employees, and just . . . lived.

“But I discovered that whether I preached with words or not, people were drawn to me. I helped them in any way I could, including introducing them to my Savior or leading them into a deeper relationship with Christ. Lives changed. I began to wonder if God’s hand had brought me to Langston for His purpose instead of my own.”

I squirmed, imaginary needles poking into my legs.

“As I maintained your father’s cars, I began to wonder if I could build my own. Then he found me late one night in the factory, tinkering with something I’d put together. He gave me permission to use spare parts when I needed. I showed him the engine I’d built. His eyes lit up. It occurred to me that this might be the future God intended.”

“God wanted you to build racing cars?” I rubbed my forehead, fearful my head would explode with all this new information.

He chuckled. “Not racing cars necessarily. But cars. I began to consider the possibilities. If I could pay my workers a fair wage to produce a quality product, I might gain credibility with them, incite them to live lives that pleased God in the process.” He grinned but then ducked his head. “Crazy, I know.”

Prickles raced through my chest, swam into my extremities. No wonder I loved this man. I’d never known a heart like his, though Grandmother’s came very close. Someone who wanted to live a life that led others to God. I reached for his hand, threaded my fingers through his. “Not crazy. Amazing. Like your own little mission field.”

His face clouded. “But Trotter was right when he said the funds at my church went missing.”

My hand went slack as I slurped in air. “You took the money from your church?” All the old doubts assailed me. Who had my money? Webster or Trotter?

One corner of his mouth lifted. “No. But it disappeared just after I resigned. There were insinuations. I didn’t take it. I don’t have any idea who did. But I determined I would pay it back anyway.”

I couldn’t make sense of his story. “So you took my money to pay back your church?”

“
Your
money?” He stiffened. “What happened to your money, Ally?”

“You don’t know?” My lips trembled. “That night—that awful night with Trotter—I went to the garage. Late. I wanted to . . . I don’t know what I wanted to do, exactly. The light was on. I thought you were there. I found my red box on the ground. Empty.”

“That blackguard.”

“Who?”

“Trotter, of course.”

“Yes. I think it is safe to assume he took it.”

“Then he hung around and waited, so he’d have some sort of alibi.”

“So he could accuse you.” Warmth lit my cheeks. “I’m not always as good at reading people as I am driving cars.”

He looked at his leg and then back at me. “Sometimes you aren’t so great at driving cars, either.”

I tried to frown, but a smile won. His finger trailed across my cheek, teasing the corners of my mouth upward. His dark eyes held mine. “But don’t worry, Ally. I wouldn’t ride with anyone else.”

 37 

D
r. Oliver plastered Webster’s leg on Wednesday—eleven days after our crash. By Thursday afternoon, my arm had been freed from its prison of bandages and housed in a simple sling instead. And Webster had been cleared to leave the hospital. Though he and I had sorted out some of our misunderstandings, we hadn’t spoken of our feelings for each other. We circled around them as if they comprised the infield of a racetrack.

“It will be good to get home,” he said as I fussed over him on our way back to Langston.

“You won’t be going home,” I told him. In the sway of the interurban car, I jostled his outstretched leg. He hissed. I winced. We did look like a pair, each with an immobile limb. But I had to wear the sling only for a couple of weeks. His plaster would remain in place for months.

“And where would you propose I go?”

“You’re coming to our house. You don’t have a choice.” I turned to the window, my heart dancing as the Langston station drew closer. I recognized Mother and Father huddled on the small platform, along with Lucinda and her children and Pastor and Mrs. Swan. Oh, how I’d missed them all!

Father jumped aboard once the other passengers exited. He helped Webster thump down the steps. Beads of sweat were clinging to Webster’s gray face by the time he got settled in the waiting wheelchair. Mother flitted about me, but I brushed her aside and squatted beside Webster. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, lips tight.

Father and Pastor Swan worked together to get him from the wheelchair and into the back seat of the Packard. I squeezed up front with Mother. “Now, Father, go slow.”

His belly shook with laughter as he put the car in gear and pointed us toward home.

Bursting through the front door, I rushed up the staircase and straight into Grandmother’s bedroom, stopping just short of the bed.

“Ally?”

“It’s me, Granny. I’m home.”

Tears filled the wrinkles around her eyes like spring rains in dry creek beds. “I was so worried.”

I eased down on the side of the bed, reached across her with my free arm, and hugged her frail shoulders. “I know you were. I’m sorry.” I pulled away.

“Your friend was here. Sweet girl.”

“Lucinda?”

“That’s the one.” Grandmother chuckled. “Very talkative.”

My mouth turned down. Lucinda? Well, my grandmother often brought out the best in people.

“And is your young man with you?”

“My . . . young man?”

“Mr. Little.”

My lips twisted into a frown. “I sent Lucinda here to tell you I was okay and to ask you to pray.”

“And she did both of those things.” Grandmother groped for my hand. “I’ve been praying the Lord would give you someone to take my place.”

I blinked at her. “But no one can take your place.”

“I won’t be here forever, dear.”

Fear careened through my body. “Is something wrong? Have they kept it from me?”

“No.” Contentment covered her face. “But an old woman knows when her days are drawing to a close. And she doesn’t mind. Not when she feels sure of the faithfulness of God toward those she loves.”

For the first time since the McConnells had appeared at our church, I felt only peace.

Mother followed me to my room that evening and helped me undress. I slid beneath the cool sheets, sheets ten times more comfortable than those in the hospital or at the hotel. I must have been more tired than I realized, for when I woke and threw open the shutters, the sun splashed yellow light far across my floor.

I spent the day between the two sick rooms but found more and more excuses to be with Webster.

“This isn’t much better than being in the hospital.” He shifted a bit, trying to settle himself upright.

“At least you get to eat Clarissa’s food.”

“Well, there’s that.”

I fought a grin. “Besides, here you get to open the window and breathe fresh air.” I poked my head into the sunshine, whiffed farmland and flowers on the warm September breeze. Gratitude swelled my heart. Whatever happened from here, I could never deny God’s existence in my life. His protection. His provision. His love.

All the things I wanted others to experience, too.

Pulling back into the room, I turned to Webster. He wanted that for others, as well. Really wanted it. Not like Lawrence Trotter, who’d pretended in order to win my favor. But even if Webster and I desired similar things, did that mean we were meant for each other?

“Thinking about Sunday?” His voice startled the question from my head.

I eased into the upholstered chair at the opposite end of the room. No sense torturing myself with his nearness. I slid the crinkled photograph from the pocket of my skirt.

Those same faces stared back at me. People I felt as if I knew. Shy, yet bold. Courageous, yet wary. They needed a lifetime of Ava McConnell to demonstrate God’s unchanging love.

“It won’t be easy. I know that.” My fingers skittered across the surface of the picture. “I feel bad for the McConnells, mostly. They were counting on that money.”

“Maybe your father will give it to you now. If you ask.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t ask. He’s just lost all that money . . .” My words faded into silence.

“Lost? Oh. You mean what he shelled out for the hospital and my operation.” His shoulders sagged. His despair pulled me from my chair. I perched on the edge of the bed.

Father had asked me not to tell Webster anything of the capital he’d intended to use to finance Webster’s car-making venture—felt he didn’t need another disappointment. Or was it just Father’s pride standing in the way?

To tell or keep silent?
Please, Lord, help me know what to do.

“There you are, Ally.” Father loped into the room, nodded at Webster.

I rose. “Did you need something?”

“Your grandmother is asking for you.” He led me to the door. I glanced back at Webster. He smiled my release.

We stepped into the hallway. “Father, you have to talk to Webster. You have to tell him about the money.”

“We already discussed this, Ally. I think it’s best to say nothing.”

“But he thinks— You see, I just mentioned . . .” I wanted to make things right between them. A deep breath cleared my head. “He still thinks you don’t trust him. He doesn’t like accepting your ‘charity.’ He needs to understand the truth: that you respect him and believed in his dream long before you knew of Trotter’s duplicity.”

Cigar-scented breath tarnished the air. His head wagged as he considered what I’d said. “When did you grow up, Ally girl?” His hand cupped my cheek. I leaned into its strength.

“Go on, now.” He nodded toward Grandmother’s room. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

In my usual place at Grandmother’s bedside, I read from God’s Word. We talked about it, prayed together. She asked about the race, the crash, my parents’ reaction to my startling revelation. And she asked about Webster.

As we finished talking, Mother took possession of me, whisking me to the dining room for supper, insisting Grandmother and Webster would be fine for a while with the nurse.

Mother, Father, and I sat at the table together, as we’d done so many times before. Mother full of plans for next month’s club meeting in Chicago, Father full of indistinguishable grunts in her direction. I sighed and pushed my plate away. How could so much have happened to me yet my daily routine change so little? Was this really all God had in mind for my life?

As soon as I could, I escaped from the table. But when I reached the upper hallway, the nurse shut Webster’s door behind her.

“He’s sleeping, miss. Finally. Best leave him until morning.” She flashed a stern scowl, almost daring me to defy her charge.

I made my way to my own bedroom instead.

I bounded from bed the next morning, checking first on Grandmother and then tiptoeing to Webster’s door. Still shut. I turned. My gaze met the nurse’s as she climbed the stairs. I headed in the other direction. A walk in the garden, but not to the garage. A cold luncheon with Mother, Father remaining locked in his study.

Every time I ventured near Webster’s room, the door remained closed, and I dared not open it. Just before supper, I approached again.

The door opened.

Father stood before me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . .” I tried to peek around his wide body to see if Webster was dressed.