Grounds to Believe (4 page)

She didn’t want to accept anything from him, polite hopes included. Now he was so close she could smell dust and sun-baked cotton. She stood up and moved away, putting the chair between them. “Are you looking for
anything else this afternoon?” she asked in her most impersonal sales voice.

He cocked an eyebrow at her, and one corner of his mouth quirked up in a half grin. A dimple dented his left cheek.
How about you?
She heard the unspoken words as clearly as if he’d said them.

Her skin prickled with discomfort, and the walls of the back room suddenly seemed too close together, squeezing the air out. Women of the Elect did not strike up casual conversations with worldly men, and certainly not men like this. By seventh grade she’d learned that talking to worldly boys at school only brought shame and ridicule. Being the sister of Madeleine McNeill Blanchard had made her shy and diffident anyway, uncertain of what others expected of her in comparison with her dazzling sibling. Julia had become used to losing even a godly man’s attention the minute Madeleine walked into the room.

But Madeleine was at the hospital, hovering over her son, and this man’s attention was total. His eyes held hers with a magnetic intensity that narrowed her consciousness to an intimate circle that contained only him.

The street door bumped closed and, startled, she broke eye contact. “Miss Quinn can ring you up out front,” she said breathlessly, and bolted into the sun-bright, welcoming safety of the front of the shop.

She made sure she was nowhere within speaking distance as Rebecca slid Donne into a green paper bag. She was well within hearing range, however, blocked from the biker’s view by the shelves.

“‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls,’” quoted Rebecca whimsically. She had years of practice in small talk with customers, walking the fine line between keeping her business successful and keeping herself separate. The Shepherds were firm about where that line was, and Julia was thankful for it. Beauty and safety lay inside the line. Chaos and sin prowled outside it.

“‘It tolls for thee,’” the biker responded. “Beautiful words. He wrote a lot of them.”

“That he did,” Rebecca agreed, handing him the parcel. “And some straightforward ones. ‘Hold your tongue, and let me love.’ One of my favorites.” Rebecca gracefully omitted the first words of the sonnet to avoid taking the Lord’s name in vain.

The biker didn’t seem to notice. “Your assistant’s pretty good at holding her tongue,” he said, neatly changing the subject and freezing Julia where she stood. “Not much on small talk.”

“Julia? Oh, I’ve never noticed
that.
But you need to understand, her family is under a lot of strain at the moment.”

Rebecca, for heaven’s sake. Stop giving out personal details.
Julia stepped out from behind the shelving. “Miss Quinn, could you give me a hand in the back when it’s convenient?” she asked.

“Certainly, dear. I’ll be right there. Have a pleasant afternoon,” she said to the biker with a smile.

“Same to you,” he answered, the dimple appearing in his cheek. To hurry Rebecca along, Julia strode back to the
used books, her sensible shoes unnecessarily loud on the wood floor. “And to you as well, Julia,” he added loudly as he pushed open the door.

B
y nine o’clock, the day had softened into the lavender-edged twilight of a northern summer. Julia closed the front door of the bookshop and paused to turn the key in the lock. She liked working Friday evenings after Rebecca went home. The tourists were in a holiday mood, and the warm, welcoming light of the bookshop and its open door often tempted restaurant goers in after dinner. People killed time there while waiting for the movie to start down the street. Sometimes the young people of the Elect dropped in to gossip about one another, and once in a great while one of them even bought a book. The only time late shift bothered her was when there was a young people’s meeting or a hymn sing scheduled on a Friday night. Often she could talk Rebecca into calling on Jeremy Black, their part-time help, but sometimes she would just have to miss out and arrive late, after the singing was over and the hungry crowd had demolished most of the food.

The air currents moving down off the mountains cooled
her skin after the warmth inside. The modestly long skirt of her dress—black, to signify the death of one’s wicked human nature—brushed her calves as she walked toward the lot where she’d left her car. Black stockings covered her legs, a symbol of a godly woman’s sacrifice of her vanity on the altar of obedience.

God’s peaceful spirit might lie in the quiet of the evening as she passed under the striped awning of the ice-cream shop, but Julia’s mind was full of worry and noise.

Ryan had been in her thoughts all day. Ryan and that biker. No, she thought hastily, just Ryan, lying weak and inert in the sterile hospital bed, his sock monkey the only spot of color beside him. It was no wonder she’d left the hospital crying on Wednesday. She’d dashed into the tiny waiting room a few steps down from the nurses’ station, after an urgent call had summoned her away from work.

She’d found her parents and Owen waiting anxiously on the uncomfortable vinyl couches. They weren’t the only ones keeping vigil for their loved ones. Madeleine had been sitting beside a young woman, her arm around the woman’s shoulder, saying something soft and low to her.

Owen got up and touched Julia on the wrist. “You made record time,” he said.

“I was scared. The message was that Ryan was in surgery. What happened? Who’s that?” Julia asked him, indicating Madeleine and the stranger with a lift of her chin. “What’s going on?”

“Her strength amazes me,” Owen said, looking at his wife. “There’s nothing any of us can do right now for Ryan
while he’s in the operating room, but instead of going to pieces, what does she do? She heard that woman’s little boy was admitted with a growth on his neck, and she’s over there giving her crisis counseling.” Owen’s face was illuminated with love for Madeleine, rising like a warm tide behind his grief and apprehension.

“Do we know anything?” Julia whispered, her voice colorless. “What happened to Ryan?” If only she could do something besides stand here asking useless questions!

Owen sat, pulling Julia down next to him. “He had a relapse. Lina went to get a cup of coffee and the nurse called her back. He was passing blood.”

“What did they do? What—?” The fear was like a smothering blanket, cutting off her ability to put a coherent sentence together. “Is he—?”

“We knew they would have to operate eventually to find out what’s going on.” Owen’s gaze was locked on his wife, as if he could draw strength from her the way the young mother did. “But they’re doing it right now instead of waiting. The poor little guy. I’m never going to forget his scared little face as long as I live.”

Madeleine gave the woman across the room a hug and came over to her husband. Julia expected fear, the traces of tears on her face, but she was wrong. Madeleine was never so beautiful as she was in a crisis.

“The poor thing is deathly afraid of hospitals,” she said softly, winding her husband’s fingers in her own. “She can’t be there for her son until she gets past that. I hope I helped a little.”

“If experience is the best teacher, she couldn’t have a better one,” Owen replied, touching her cheek. “But what about you?”

“I’m all right. I just wish we knew something. I’m tempted to go find that sweet R.N. and get her to tell me if they found what caused the bleeding in his G.I. tract.”

Elizabeth squeezed her. “Now, now, dear. Have faith that he’ll be all right. God knows best.”

Some time later the swinging doors leading to the operating rooms had opened wide enough to let Michael Archer through. His scrubs were wrinkled and stained. Owen straightened, alert as an animal scenting danger, and dislodged Madeleine, who was dozing, exhausted, on his shoulder. She murmured, and as her husband’s alarm communicated itself to her, came fully awake.

“Michael!” Madeleine whispered. She got up and took a step toward him. Her shoe caught in the edge of the pastel carpet and she stumbled. Owen reached for her, but she pushed his arms away as though they were branches blocking her path. “Michael, what have you found? What caused the bleeding? Is Ryan all right?”

Dr. Archer had the kind of spirit and gentle demeanor that had made Julia trust him even as a little girl, coming to him for colds and bumps. His face, usually grave with a twinkle of humor behind it, was still and drawn as he looked into the white cameo of Madeleine’s. His eyes seemed to have sunk a little way into his skull, as though withdrawing from the pain he was going to have to inflict on her.

Apprehension tingled through Julia’s stomach. She gripped the rolled edges of the couch, her blunt, unpolished fingernails sinking into the worn vinyl.

Dr. Archer took both Madeleine’s hands and looked into her eyes. Owen hovered at her shoulder. “Madeleine, Owen,” the doctor said softly, “you need to be strong. We might not understand God’s will, but we know it’s always right in the end.”

“No,” she said.

“I’m so sorry I—”

“No,” Madeleine said, louder, as though he were arguing with her. Her eyes were bright with challenge, her head thrown back.

“—have no good news to tell you, but—”

“I don’t believe you! It was a simple investigative procedure. I never meant—it’s impossible!” She covered her ears with both hands. Owen pulled them away, holding his wife’s wrists, staring at the doctor in horror.

“Madeleine! No, it’s not that. He’s alive…barely. Alain Duboce can pull him through if anyone can. He’s just completed the surgery. If he makes it through the night, the prognosis is good. But I wanted to prepare you. He’s not out of the woods yet.”

Julia’s nails pierced the vinyl once, twice.
Help me, Lord,
she had begged an unseen spirit.
I’ll do anything You ask me to. Just save Ryan’s life.

With a sigh, Julia drew the cool, moist night air into her lungs and shook away the vivid memory. Ryan had made it
through the night, but no one seemed able to tell them when he’d be well enough to come home. What she needed to do was pray more. That was her problem. Worrying constantly about Ryan was selfish—as if God paid any attention to worrywarts. Prayer was a different thing. Prayer could—

Twenty feet away, a man slowed his approach, the sound of his booted feet carrying in the sweet, heavy air. “‘Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you as yet but knock,’” he said.

Julia froze. That voice. A smooth bass with music in it. The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she wished she’d been paying more attention to where she was walking. How far away was the car?

“Pretty violent for a preacher, wasn’t he?” he said. He stopped just inside the shadow of the shop’s awning, a slim-hipped, broad-shouldered silhouette. “I’ve always thought they should make a movie of his life.”

Donne had been a preacher? She’d have to tell Rebecca, who had a real thing about selling the literature of worldly religions. “I don’t go to movies,” she said in a tone devoid of expression. She pivoted and moved into the cold radiance of the streetlights, balancing on the edge of the curb. Out in the open, she realized how deserted the downtown area was. There were people in the coffee bar, but would they hear her if she cried out for help?

“Don’t go to movies? Even one about the Dean of St. Paul’s?”

“He was a worldly man. Leave me alone, please.” She was almost past him now, walking fast, heading for the
parking lot and the safety of her car. Her heart bumped inside her chest, almost making her sick. This was more than shyness. This was the fear of a small animal locked in a predator’s gaze.

He followed her, his boots heavy on the asphalt. “Julia, please? I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

“I don’t even know you. Go away!” She didn’t like him using her name. It was personal. Presumptuous. Her cheeks burned, but the area between her shoulder blades felt cold.

“I’m trying to fix that. Hey, slow down.”

She swung around to face him. “I said, leave me alone!”

He stopped dead, the painted lines of two empty parking spaces between them. Lifting empty hands, he moved them apart, palms up, in a gesture of appeal. His leather jacket opened to reveal a clean white T-shirt under it. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft. His eyes were hollows filled with pain. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to have a cup of coffee and…” He shrugged and let the sentence trail away. “I…I lost my wife last year and I’m a little out of practice at this. Sorry.”

Julia bit her lip. Her conditioning against talking to outsiders warred with compunction that she had hurt the feelings of another—one who seemed to have been deeply hurt already. The needs of others always came before your own. She had jumped to conclusions about his character because of the way he was dressed, and had let those assumptions guide her behavior—just like a worldly person. Outsiders had done the same to her often enough.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized in her turn, her voice quieter but still edged with caution. “But I can’t. I’m…I’m expected somewhere.” She’d run over to Madeleine’s and see if Owen was home with news, thereby turning her little fib into the truth.

The biker looked down at the asphalt, and shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “At least let me introduce myself properly, as one lover of books to another.” He took a step toward her and held out the other hand. Automatically hers came up. “I’m Ross Malcolm. And you’re Julia…?” His big hand, warm and callused, engulfed hers in a firm grip. As she pulled away, his fingers slid along hers as though he didn’t want to let go.

Her hand tingled and she jerked it back. “McNeill,” she said reluctantly. Her upbringing wouldn’t even allow her the safety of a lie.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Julia McNeill,” he said, a smile flavoring his voice with warmth. The streetlight lit his face from the side, leaving it half silver and half black. Shadows filled the hollow curve between eyebrow and cheekbone. He looked like Satan himself. Satan after God had barred him from paradise. She circled past him, edging toward her car. A truck turned the corner, coming toward them, its headlights sweeping away the dark.

“Sure I can’t change your mind about that coffee?” he asked with a smile, shrugging one shoulder toward the warmly lit windows.

For half a second she actually wondered what it might be like. Then her good sense returned.
Choose as a date
one who’d make a good mate.
The aphorism was printed on a fridge magnet in her mother’s kitchen, handmade by Linda Bell ten years ago. She’d seen it so many times it was photographically reproduced on her brain cells, ready for moments like this.

She longed suddenly for Derrick’s arms. Safe, reliable Derrick, who was both date and mate material. Bikers in leather jackets were not, great smiles notwithstanding. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” she repeated a little desperately. She dashed to her car and locked herself in. As she accelerated out of the parking lot and down the street, she passed his motorcycle. It was parked at the curb, its front wheel facing out.

Choose as a date one who’d make a good mate.

“Organized Crime Task Force.”

The no-nonsense male voice told Miriam the folksy aunt persona wouldn’t work this time. She was about at the end of her tether, chasing the wretched man all over the countryside. It was only by sheer dumb luck that she’d thought to ask the bus driver if he knew what OCTF stood for as they’d roared into Seattle the night before. She’d already found out that he had a daughter in the police department, and at the time it had seemed like a shot in the dark.

A shot whose aim had surprised her. God surely worked in mysterious ways.

“Ross Malcolm, please.” There. That was a pretty good imitation of a lawyer in a hurry.

He put her through without further comment.

“O-Crime, Harper.”

End it all. It was never easy. Of course Malcolm wouldn’t pick up the phone. He’d probably moved to Alaska. In which case she and the girl would pack up their things and get out of this homeless shelter on the first available bus back to the meeting point.

“Ross Malcolm, please,” she repeated.

“He’s not here. Can I take a message?”

“But he works there, correct?”

“Correct. He’s out of town. Can I help you?”

She sighed. One step forward, two steps back. “No. Can you give me a number where I can reach him?”

“Who is this?”

She hesitated. Best to go with the truth, now that she’d finally found someone who seemed to know something.

“I’m a friend of the family. I’m trying to get in touch with him.”

There was a pause. “If you give me your number I’ll have him call you,” the man called Harper said with equal parts cordiality and caution.

“If you would just tell me where he is, I’ve got news for him. About his daughter.”

“Daughter?”

The man sounded so flummoxed that Miriam gave up. “Yes, daughter. Condemn that man, I’ve tracked him all over the state and I’m done trying. You tell Ross Malcolm that Annie’s dead, and if he cares about the girl, he’d better get himself back here.”

She banged the receiver down on yet another pay phone, this one in the hallway of the shelter, and resisted the urge
to shriek with frustration. Moses was so right. The government were all about hiding and obfuscation and preventing honest people from doing the right thing.