The Turning (6 page)

Jenny’s mother drew a very sharp breath, but it was her father who demanded, “When was this?”

“Five months ago. We were engaged for seven weeks. Then he broke it off. He said …”

She dropped the phone, her sobs so tight she gripped the carpet in order to draw a breath. She had no idea how long it took before she picked up the phone and went on, “He said we’d taken all this too fast. He didn’t love me enough to want to spend a life together. And it was better if we didn’t start.”

She only realized her mother was crying when she mangled the words, “Better for him, maybe.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Jenny agreed.

Her father asked, “I don’t understand. You were engaged to be married, and you didn’t even tell your own parents?”

“We weren’t talking back then, remember, Pop?” The recollection of her rage was enough to help steady her voice. “You were all over me about working for the election of the Democratic senator, remember that? I met my fiancé during the campaign. I wasn’t going to give you the pleasure of criticizing his politics too. And when it was over, I wasn’t going to let you say that it all fell apart because I had the bad sense to love a
Democrat
. A
liberal
. Because they couldn’t be
trusted
.”

“I would never have said …”

“Come on, Pop.”

He sighed. “All right. Yes. You’re right.”

Jenny smiled through her tears. “Wow. Did I really hear that?”

Her mother said, “Richard, tell Jenny what you said last night.”

Her father went gruff and sour. “We’ve covered enough ground for one day.”

“Richard, tell your daughter.”

“I said you humbled me, how you spoke. You were the wise one. I felt—”

“Ashamed,” her mother filled in. “Your father said he felt ashamed. He wished he had been the one to rise above the arguments. He wished he had been the one to say that he loved you.”

Jenny knew it was time. “I need to tell you both what happened last Sunday before I came to the house.”

As she spoke, she found herself reliving what had occurred during her Sunday school class, when she had suddenly found herself overwhelmed by the Holy Spirit’s presence, and heard the silent voice of God. Telling her to take the impossible turning, and go do what needed doing. And that she would find him waiting for her there.

When her parents did not respond, Jenny asked, “Where are you?”

“Parked outside the airport parking garage,” her mother said. “We didn’t want to risk losing the phone signal.”

Richard’s voice sounded gravelly, his words slow to emerge. “Do you think—has this event run its course?”

“I don’t know
what
to think. I never expected anything like this to happen. Not to me. I live by my brains, I analyze everything to death. But there it was. The voice of God. Boom. Like lightning from an empty sky.”

“Well, I for one think this is just the beginning,” Richard said.

“I’m not sure I want to hear that, Daddy.”

“I understand. It’s very frightening. You fear being called to do the impossible.”

“Like going to my parents’ house and making peace,” Jenny said.

Her mother asked, “Is that a smile I hear?”

“A small one, Mommy. Very small.”

“You are worried about losing control of your life.” Richard sighed. “That is something you learned from me, I fear. This need of mine to control everything. Including my daughter.”

“Good luck with that, Daddy.”

He was silent a moment, then asked, “Daughter, would you like us to come up and be with you?”

She was glad she was sitting on the floor, as it saved her from falling down. “Say that again?”

“Your mother and I could skip the dental convention. We could fly up and join you in New York.”

“But only if you like,” her mother inserted. The pleading was there, but without the customary overlay of tension. “We could offer you support. Pray with you,” said her tender, retiring little mother.

There was no reason in the world why those words should make her cry for the fourth time that morning. “I would like that so much. Please come.”

John Jacobs should have been having the time of his life. Even his wife said so. There was no reason for the sense of heavy misery he carried with him as the two of them stepped into the hotel elevator.

Monday morning, he had received a frantic call from headquarters. Their Midwest manager was down with an infection serious enough for the hospital to talk quarantine. They had a major new client wanting to talk numbers. John was to go to New York in his manager’s place, see this client. The client wanted somebody who could talk turkey. John knew the business as well as anyone. “Take Heather along—you’ll probably get some time in between to see the sights,” his boss told him.

When they’d arrived in New York, he had learned the appointment had been postponed two days. Headquarters told him to sit tight, they would send someone to cover for him back home. But John had little interest in playing tourist. John felt every one of his fifty-six years, and had ever since the trip to meet Danny. The image of his young-old nephew limping from the prison gates blistered his nights. Heather had prayed with him, then held him through dark hours as he tossed and turned and sighed hard, pushing back against the helplessness that swelled his chest until his heart hurt. So much of his life felt like this, caught in the vise of unwanted events.

The doors opened again, and there before him stood a lovely, dark-haired waif, molded from some Asian race that defined beauty. Her skin held a remarkable glow, like light shining through purest alabaster. Her long dark hair framed a face as perfect as any John had ever seen.

John wondered if she even realized she was crying.

Heather waited until the doors opened and the crowd spilled into the lobby to ask the young woman, “Are you all right?”

The act of blinking caused another tear to escape. “I’m—I’m fine.”

“You don’t look at all fine. Are you here by yourself?”

“My parents are coming in this afternoon.”

“Well, that is then and this is now. Have you had breakfast?”

“I was just going for coffee.”

“Would you like to sit with us?” Heather did not wait for the woman to respond. Instead, she did the same kind of thing that had welcomed so many newcomers into their church. She acted as though they had been friends for eternity. “This is my husband, John. Why don’t you and I sit down over here while he goes and buys us coffee. How do you take yours?”

“A small latte.”

“Coming right up,” John told them, listening to his wife pour a verbal ointment on the young woman’s sorrow. He did not need to hear the words to know that Heather was doing what she did best. Making things better.

Their Times Square hotel probably had been built in the early eighties, and its former grandeur had turned slightly seedy from the hard use of countless tour groups. The lobby was vast, like an indoor stadium and just as noisy. The tiled floor and distant ceiling and marble-clad walls reflected back every sound in a constant wash of noise. The line in front of the Starbucks stand was long. John didn’t mind. He had nothing better to do with his day.

Then he saw her.

The Starbucks stand fronted a three-way split in the lobby, to his left the main bar, right was the sunken area holding the hotel restaurant. Between those two was a long sitting area, with wire-backed chairs and metal tables for the coffee drinkers, and a long, high table where businesspeople stood to work their laptops, and more tables with chairs, and finally a wall of glass overlooking Times Square. Seated at the first table near the windows was a woman he had seen in countless photographs and on television. Ruth Barrett was the widow of Bobby Barrett, one of the great evangelists of the twentieth century. Since her husband’s death, she had become well known in her own right, speaking and writing about Christians maintaining a strong prayer life.

The woman looked stricken by some deep, afflicting burden.

“John, dear—” Heather was touching his arm, turning him around. “We’re going to move over by the windows. It’s so noisy back there I can’t hear what Jenny is saying.”

“Sure. Fine.” He watched the two women pass by Ruth Barrett’s table, already back in their conversation, Heather bent low so as to catch the young woman’s words. He hesitated a long moment, then decided there was no reason not to do exactly what his wife was doing. Even with someone as famous as this woman. He stepped out of line, approached the table, and said, “Mrs. Barrett, you look as sad as I feel.”

He half expected her to offer the sort of practiced dismissal that anyone famous had to use as armor. Instead, she looked at him carefully, then asked, “Are you the reason I am here?”

“Ma’am, I don’t—” John caught himself beginning an act of denial. He took a long breath, then released the words, “Truth is, I have no idea. But maybe, yes, ma’am. Just maybe.”

She studied him carefully. “Then I suppose we had better have a word and see.”

She waited at her lonely table while John ordered their coffees, then helped him carry the cups back toward the far wall. It was much quieter over here, the tables spaced farther apart. All of them were occupied, mostly by people on their own. Heather watched his approach with a puzzled look until she recognized who it was walking beside him. When they arrived, Heather said simply, “Oh, my goodness.”

“Mrs. Barrett, this is my wife, Heather Jacobs. I’m John. And this young lady, sorry, I don’t…”

“Jenny Linn. It’s an honor, Mrs. Barrett. My parents think the world of you. As do I.”

John asked an olive-skinned gentleman at the next table if he could spare a chair. The table on the man’s other side was occupied by a large black woman whose round features were creased with worry or concern or…John hesitated in the act of sitting down. He looked at the tiny woman seated beside Ruth Barrett. Jenny Linn looked as sad as ever. But what held him was how, despite the vast difference in size, Jenny Linn reflected to a remarkable degree the African American woman’s expression.

“What is it, John?”

“Just a second.” He walked over to the woman’s table. “I’m really sorry to be bothering you, ma’am. But I was wondering, are you doing okay?”

She started to snap at him. He could see the flash of ire, the intake of breath, like she was going to level him with a verbal barrage. But then she stopped, and her features seemed to melt. “I feel convicted by every wrong I have ever done.”

“Ma’am, can I ask, are you a follower of Jesus?”

To his astonishment, it was not just the woman who responded. The olive-skinned man seated at the next table mirrored the woman’s astonishment. She demanded, “Now why on earth are you asking a total stranger a question like that?”

“Because,” John replied slowly, carefully, “I wonder if maybe we’re all here for the same reason.”

“And what reason is that?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

The woman revealed a smile that completely transformed her face as she stood. “Ain’t that the thing, now.”

“I’m John Jacobs. That’s my wife, Heather. And Jenny Linn. And the lady—”

“I know who that sister is. I’ve been watching and listening to her all my life.” She was not quite as tall as John, but made up for it in muscular girth. “I am Alisha Seames.”

“Would you care to join us?”

“That table already looks crowded.”

The olive-skinned man rose to his feet. “Please, I am wondering, would you perhaps have room for one more? We could move the two tables together, don’t you see.” He spoke with the precise diction of one who translated as he shaped the words. “For I too am drawn here by reasons that I do not understand. And I can only hope that it is my Savior’s voice I have been hearing.”

NEW YORK CITY

T
rent Cooper sat at a narrow table against the stockroom’s rear wall. He turned on his cellphone, checking the time again. He hated having to rely on a stranger, particularly at this most important moment of his entire life. But he could not manage what he needed on his own. Success hinged upon the guy doing what he had promised, and delivering on time. Trent checked his watch, which showed the exact same time as his phone.

He had never worked so hard. And he had always worked twice as hard as everyone else. He was painfully aware of the slight indent running from his upper lip to the base of his right nostril. His tongue traced around the soft dimple in the top of his mouth where the doctors had filled the opening that in most people was solid bone. Whenever he was extremely nervous, he could feel the soft tissue vibrate when he spoke. The speech therapist, a young woman with caring eyes, had told him to look beyond such sensations and focus on the people he wanted to reach with his words. She had spent as much time building his confidence as she had working on his speech. Her whole demeanor had changed when she talked about taking control of his destiny, doing the most with what he had, rising above his difficulties,
using
them. She had challenged him in ways that no one else ever had. Certainly not his parents, who accepted their humble station with quiet resignation.

He was brought back to the present by the ringing of his cellphone. “This is Trent.”

“I’m here,” the voice said.

Trent released the frenzied tension with a tight sigh. “You’re late.”

“I’m at the door. And I’ve got the goods. That’s what matters most, right?”

“Five minutes.” Trent cut the connection, left the stockroom, and forced himself not to race down the hall. He passed through the reception area and approached the younger of Barry Mundrose’s two assistants.

Gayle finished her phone conversation and smiled at him, offering a professional friendliness that meant nothing. The woman was utterly beautiful…and cold as glacial ice. “Mr. Cooper, how are you this morning?”

“Scared to death.” He was also so excited his heart was racing faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “And totally committed.”