When Grace Sings

For Kendall Grace
,
with love and prayers for you to rest in His strength
and seek His will always

Chicago, Illinois

Early September

Briley Forrester

A folded newspaper slammed onto the corner of Briley’s desk. His fingers left the keyboard with a jolt, and he sent a scowl in the direction of the person who’d interrupted his focus. He cleared the frown quickly when he recognized his boss. He leaned back in his squeaky chair and forced a light chuckle.

“Did you skip your morning coffee, Len? You look a little tense.” Or maybe he needed a hair from the dog that bit him. Len’s red, watery eyes and drooping jowls spoke of too much imbibing last night. A habit many of his coworkers practiced, but one Briley had been wise enough to avoid establishing. Aunt Myrt had never approved of drunkenness.

“What I need is a story that’ll break us out of our rut and put us on top again.” Len perched on the edge of Briley’s desk. His bald head shone under the harsh fluorescent lights. He folded his arms over the chest of his rumpled plaid shirt and blew out a noisy breath. The man must be bothered. Rarely did he show up to the
Real Scoop
office in anything other than a crisply ironed shirt and bold tie. He glowered at the newspaper lying half on, half off the desk. “Look at the headline. Look what sells papers these days.”

Briley picked up the copy of the
Illinois Times
and unfolded it. A photograph of an Amish barn raising filled a quarter of the front page, and the lead article read “Plain Living Brings Joy and Peace.” While Briley scanned the article about the increased yearly tourism in Amish-Mennonite communities, Len continued to bluster.

“You gotta be kidding me. Driving a buggy, wearing pants with suspenders, living in a house without a television or microwave—that’s supposed to make a person happy? It’s nothing but a bunch of hooey.”

Briley set the paper aside. “So let ’em have their moment in the sun. What’s it to you?”

Len’s frown deepened. “They irk me, that’s what. Ever gotten stuck behind one of their tractors on the highway? What’re they doing anyway, driving their farm implements where only cars are supposed to be? And don’t get me started on what their horses leave behind in parking lots. Disgusting.” Len snatched up the newspaper and glared at the black-and-white image. “Look at ’em in their
Little House on the Prairie
clothes and Tom Sawyer straw hats, climbing all over that barn frame. This is news? But it’s the hottest story on Internet search sites this morning. I don’t understand it …”

A prickle inched itself up Briley’s spine. Could this be it—the idea that would take him from bit pieces in the middle of the tabloid to a front-page feature and byline? He tamped down his excitement. He couldn’t just blurt it out. Somehow he had to make it Len’s idea.

He rocked his chair on its creaky springs and assumed an unconcerned grin. “Aw, you know how people are about the Amish. Probably half the out-of-staters who come to Illinois take a drive through Amish country, gawk at the buggies and clothes flapping on the line and horses pulling plows, and buy a jar of apple butter. It makes ’em feel good to believe those folks in their homemade clothes and houses lit by lanterns have it all figured out.” He pretended to examine a small chip in his thumbnail. “ ’Course, we know it’s hooey, like you said, but it’d be pretty hard to convince the general populace otherwise.”

Briley gnawed his thumbnail and watched Len out of the corner of his eye.
His boss was thinking—crunched brow, tapping foot, lips twitching around like a fly had gotten trapped in his mouth. But it might take a while for a coherent thought to form, considering the man’s dip into a bottle last night. Although impatience nibbled at Briley, he refused to give vent to it. In his two years of working under Len’s direction, he’d learned he couldn’t push the man any more than he could push a rope.
Just let him reason it out
.

Bending over his keyboard again, Briley applied his fingertips to the keys and tried to tap out a few sentences about the scandal surrounding the selection of the new
American Idol
winner. He’d only managed to form a half-dozen words when Len blasted out a guffaw. Whaddaya know. He’d formed a thought. Briley hid a smile and looked up. “What?”

Len smacked Briley’s desk with his open palm. “Hooey. All hooey. We know it, right? So let’s make sure the world at large knows it.”

Briley raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was an expression of surprise. “You mean, disprove the Plain-living-means-peaceful-living theory?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Len’s red-rimmed eyes sparkled with fervor. He leaned in, resting his elbow on his knee and settling his intense gaze on Briley’s face. “No one’s ever tried to show the truth—the
real
truth—of living Plain. And I’m willing to bet you my Mercedes-Benz the truth is half those folks wearing bonnets and shoveling manure would rather be living in air-conditioned houses and popping frozen dinners in microwaves.”

Briley laughed. “I’m happy with my Camaro, thanks, but it’d be interesting to pursue the story.” He’d intended to let Len come up with the whole idea himself, but he couldn’t hold back his thoughts. “Consider the trickle-down effect. We could put the visit-the-Amish tourism out of business, bringing those visitors back to the cities to frequent the museums and theaters and bars instead. Every big city near an Amish community would thank us.”