Broken Things (Faded Photograph Series) (8 page)

Entering the kitchen, wallpapered in gray plaid accented with bright red cherries, Allie seated herself at the table, across from Colleen. She noticed the kitchen set was fashioned after the old 1950s dinettes, right down to the chrome and red vinyl chairs.

“This is a charming room,” Allie remarked, glancing around the spacious room. “So quaint.”

“We redid it last year,” Colleen said.

“But it probably doesn’t look like it because Colleen likes old fashioned stuff, and she’s rubbing off on me. For instance, I never would have thought I’d buy one of these kitchen sets.” Mrs. Strobel laughed. “My mother had a table and chairs much like these in her kitchen.” She shook her gray head. “And now they’re back in style. Who would have ever thought?”

Allie smiled and glanced at her stepsister. Time had filled out the once skinny teenager who liked cheerleading and gymnastics. “Catch me up, Colleen. Tell me about yourself and your family.”

“Well, let’s see…” Colleen tucked a few strands of her foggy-brown hair behind one ear. “Where should I start?”

“What happened after I left?”

“Nothing right away, I guess. Brenda and I finished high school and went to college. Dad remarried.”

“Is he still alive?”

Colleen shook her head. “He died of cancer.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. My kids were still in grade school. But I’m glad they got to know their grandfather for a little while.”

Allie stared at the table’s shiny rim, saddened by the fact that she’d never be able to make amends with her stepfather. That opportunity had escaped her.

“After college, I got married first. Then Brenda. We both sent you invitations.”

“You did?” Allie shook her head. “I never received them.”

“I called your dad in California and got your married name and address. When we didn’t hear from you on both occasions, Brenda and I just figured you weren’t interested in coming.”

“Oh, Colleen, I don’t know if I would have come or not, but I honestly didn’t receive the invitations. I suspect my husband intercepted them and didn’t pass them on to me. That was rather typical of him.”

“Are you still married Allie?”

No. Widowed.”

Mrs. Strobel’s gasp wafted across the kitchen.. “At such a young age? How sad.”

Allie shrugged and picked at an imaginary piece of lint on her black linen skirt. She didn’t want to sound heartless and say that Erich’s death had set her free, except it was the truth.

“Hey, Jack’s available.” Colleen laughed and Allie looked up in time to see a spark of mischief in her stepsister’s hazel eyes.

“Jack can’t stand me. He told me to go back where I came from.”

“He said that? Oh, man!” Colleen wagged her head from side to side. “Jack can be too blunt at times, although I like him. He and Royce play on the same baseball team.” A cloudy expression settled in Colleen’s eyes. “At the same time, Jack’s got issues. You probably don’t want to get involved with him anyhow, Allie.”

“He’s a different man today, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“I’m determined not to feel guilty, but sometimes I think it’s my fault.”

“Allie, you have no control over the actions of others. I mean, maybe you did hurt Jack. Everyone knows he was crazy about you. But I think a lot of Jack’s problem happened when he got married. I heard his wife ran off with another guy while he was working and she left their baby at home alone. That would devastate anybody―and it had lasting effects. What’s more, Jack got stuck with a kid to raise on his own.”

Allie didn’t add aloud that Steve and Nora had stepped in an shared the burden of Logan’s upbringing.

She shifted in her padded, chrome chair. “How did he ever get involved with a woman like his ex in the first place? Do you know?”

“Same way he got involved with you,” Colleen quipped. “He felt sorry for her and wanted to save her soul.”

A dark shadow of disappointment fell over her. Thirty years ago, Jack had loved people. To him, they were precious souls. He volunteered regularly at a rescue mission for alcoholics and drug addicts in downtown Chicago. He led scores of men to Christ. He reached out to her, Blythe, and Wendy, and, obviously, to his ex-wife. Allie had no trouble envisioning the scenario.

“And you should see Jack’s son,” Colleen said as Mrs. Strobel set a steaming, porcelain teapot on the table. “He’s a chip off the old block.”

Allie smiled. “Yes, I know. I’ve met Logan. Steve and Nora invited me over for a barbecue the first night I arrived in town. I attended church with them on Sunday and I got to meet Logan’s girlfriend.”

Colleen tipped her head. “She’s a teacher, right?”

“Right.”

“It never fails,” Mrs. Strobel said, settling into a chair, “whenever I see Jack’s boy, I always call him by his father’s name. Can’t seem to help it.”

“Logan’s a fine young man.” Allie meant every word.

“A minister, isn’t he?” Colleen asked.

Allie inclined her head. “A youth pastor.”

“I hope he’s got more sense around women than his dad.”

“Listen, sis, I take umbrage with that.” Allie raised her chin, half-joking.

“I wasn’t referring to you, silly. I meant Roxi. His ex-wife.”

“Roxi?”Allie ran the name through her memory and came up blank. “Did we know her? Did she go to the same high school?”

“I didn’t know her. I don’t think she was from around here. Someone told me she was a floozy and that Jack met her when the cops raided a tavern that used to be on the edge of town.”

“Lovely.” Allie sent a glance upward before gratefully accepting the cup of tea Mrs. Strobel had poured.

“Now, girls,’ the older woman said as if Allie and Colleen were teenagers instead of pushing fifty, “he must have seen some redeeming quality in his ex-wife. Jack was an upstanding man…still is, in my book. Who doesn’t make mistakes?”

Colleen simply shrugged and held her teacup to her lips with both hands.

However, Allie felt properly chastened. “You’re right, Mrs. Strobel.” You’re absolutely right. Who doesn’t make mistakes?”

* * *

The pain had once more become unbearable.

“Help me! Help me!” Cynthia Matlock hoped someone would hear her. It seemed as though she’d been calling out for hours. But no one came. “Help! Help me!”

At last the door of her room opened and a male attendant walked in. He stood at least six feet in height with broad shoulders and a straight back. His eyes were a lively bluish-green and Cynthia guessed his hair would be a nice shade of light brown if he hadn’t shaved his head completely bald. “What are you hollering about?”

Wasn’t there a compassionate heart anywhere in this place? Well, that would be her daughters’ doing. They had made sure she wound up in the worst place possible, and Cynthia figured they would be pleased to know her dying days were filled with pain and suffering.

“What do you want?”

“Some pain medication,” Cynthia rasped. “And water. I need water.”

“No water. You’ve been told that before.”

The man turned to go.

“Wait! Help me! Help me!”

Ignoring her pleas, he left.

At that moment, Cynthia hated the whole world and everyone in it. She couldn’t wait to die. She stared at the clock on the wall in front of her and watched the big hand tick off the minutes.

The attendant returned and, to her surprise and relief, he held a syringe in one of his gloved hands. Good. He’d brought the pain medication. However, he inserted the needle into her flesh with such force that Cynthia screamed, feeling the tube in back of her throat reverberate.

“Shut up, old lady.”

With that, the nurse departed, leaving Cynthia in tears and her arm aching from the assault She’d heard somewhere that before people die, their lives flash before their eyes. Cynthia’s life wasn’t exactly “flashing,” but segments played over in her head like reruns on TV―reruns she was unable to turn off with a switch.

In her mind’s eye, she envisioned the small town in Iowa in which she’d grown up. Dad’s corn fields spread out before her. Tall, green stalks reached skyward. She could almost smell the rich soil from which they’d sprung. Her parents were farmers and had great aspirations for her, their eldest daughter. According to their plans, Cynthia would be the first in their family to attend college. But she had her own ideas. She wanted excitement. Adventure. College could wait.

Then one night, she ran off with Tom Addison, the local “troublemaker,” according to the church-going folks in town. Back in 1965Tom was dodging the draft, saying there was no way he’d go to Nam. To Cynthia’s fifteen-year-old way of thinking, defying the United States Government sounded like a grand escapade, so she decided to dodge the draft with him.

But they’d gotten caught at the Canadian border, and Cynthia was sent back home. Alas, the ordeal caused quite a stir in town and brought shame to her parents―a fact they never let her forget for years to come.

Finally, at age nineteen, Cynthia left home for good. Not for college, but for the bright lights and excitement of Chicago. She changed her name and found work in a tavern, serving food and drinks. Sometimes she even sang with the jukebox and entertained the patrons. That’s what she’d wanted―a stage career. However, it never came to pass the way she’d envisioned.

Eventually she found her way into an escort service where Cynthia made more money than she knew what to do with. Young, pretty, and sought after, she quickly learned how to please a man. As a result, she kept her customers coming back for more.

Ah, yes, those were the days.

A warm, dreamy feeling flowed through her body. The narcotic was working its magic on her body as she remembered even more.

Money, yes the stuff that made the world go ‘round At the point in her life that she had money, she also had power. She could have any man she wanted.

Now all she had was pain.

* * *

Walking down the hallway, Logan spotted Marliee leading her class outside for recess. She spotted him, smiled, and waved a greeting.

Logan couldn’t contain the urge to tease her. “Forsooth, fair maiden, your presence here at the castle warms this knight’s heart,” he said in a Shakespearean accent. He topped off his theatrics with a gallant bow.

“This isn’t a castle,” one little girl in pigtails was quick to point out. “This is just plain school.”

Shouts of agreement went up from the munchkin mob.

Marilee now wore a pretty blush and her dimples winked at Logan. “Oh, never mind Pastor Callahan, boys and girls. He likes to joke around a lot. That’s why he’s the
youth
pastor.”

With hands on hips, he frowned, unsure of whether he’d just been insulted.

“I can’t wait till I’m in the youth group.” One of the boys pushed up his glasses. Logan tousled the kid’s dark hair, but the childish expression of adoration didn’t go unnoticed. “My sister says you’re the best youth pastor ever!”

“I’m glad she thinks so. I have Jesus to thank for that.”

Despite his upbeat reply, Logan cast a troubled glance at Marilee. The teenage girls’ idol-like worship of him had become a growing concern. Logan wanted them to adore Christ―not their young pastor.

Marilee didn’t seem to notice his frown. She merely smiled back. “He is the best youth pastor ever, Michael.” Her expression mirrored the teen girls’ and, coming from Marilee, it pleased Logan to no end. “All right, class, now get back in line or there’ll be no recess this afternoon.”

Like a soldier in boot camp, Logan saluted and clicked his heels together. The children giggled and hooted. Then once he felt like he’d caused Marilee enough havoc for the time being, he went on his way. He enjoyed pestering her, that’s for sure. Whenever he ran into her in the school hallway, Logan made it his personal challenge to get her to blush. Once the mission was accomplished, he felt a special little joy in his heart that words couldn’t describe.

Is this what it felt like to be in love?

Pondering the question, Logan returned to the church office suites where five teenage girls cut out postcards for an upcoming outreach, which consisted of volleyball on the beach and a bonfire afterwards. He planned to have a few of the teens give their salvation testimonies and, afterward, one of the senior high guys could preach a short message. Of course, there would be plenty of food. Couldn’t entertain teenagers without it.

He approached the girls. “All done?” They sat around a table in the conference room across from his office.

“Yep, all done.” Kim Bernette swung strands of her blond hair over her shoulder before lifting her gaze to Logan. He didn’t miss the dreamy spark in her blue eyes. “Anything else we can do?”

“Ah…no. Nothing. Thanks.”
Oh, good grief.
Recently, he’d been informed that several of the youth group girls had “crushes” on him, but Logan hadn’t wanted to believe it. However, he believed it now, ever since they started flocking into his office during their seventh hour study hall, asking if they could “help” with anything. “I think that’s it for today. I appreciate your assistance. You gals can go back to the library for the remainder of your study hall.”

“Don’t you need some filing done?” Heidi Lutz stood. The petite, somewhat pudgy young lady stood and looked up at him with hopeful brown eyes.

“Um…”

“Your desk is kind of messy,” redheaded and freckle-faced Sabina Lewis pointed out. “I could stay and straighten for you.”

“Kind of you to offer, but that’s not really a mess you see in there.” Logan threw a thumb over his shoulder.

“It isn’t? What do you call it?” Kim wanted to know.

“It’s a collection of organized piles. I know just exactly what’s in each one, too. So if you clean it up, I’ll be lost.”

The girls burst into giggles.

“Okay.” Logan smiled in spite of himself. “Back to study hall with you. Scoot. Go on.” He held the door of the church office suites open for them.

The girls complied, albeit grudgingly. But he breathed a sigh of relief once they were gone.

“Looks like you’ve got some groupies on your hands, Pastor.”

Logan paused in the threshold of his office in time to see Mrs. McMillan, the church secretary, leaning over her desk and grinning at him.