Who Do I Talk To? (26 page)

For a moment, her end of the line was silent. Then . . . “No, he's not here.”

Philip isn't there? So where . . . ?
The funny thing was, Marlene Fairbanks sounded startled. And offended. I wanted to laugh. The woman didn't
know
her precious Philip was out of town! Worse, he hadn't told her where he was going. Oh! I could almost hear her nose cracking out of joint over the phone.

I let Philip dangle. “So when will the boys be back? I'd like to talk to them.”

“They'll be late tonight. Try tomorrow. Good-bye, Gabrielle.” The line went dead.

I would've been more teed off at her rudeness, except I couldn't help but enjoy knowing Marlene didn't know any more than I did about Philip's whereabouts.

But I could take a good guess. The Horseshoe Casino in Indiana. With Henry and Mona Fenchel, who'd—“Hey! What time ya got, Fuzz Top? Anybody take that dog out yet since ya been back this mornin'? No, 'course not. Don't know why I bother ta ask. Just wanna know if I got time 'fore supper.”

I grinned as Lucy Tucker, purple knit hat perched on her head, wrestled her overloaded cart up the front steps of Manna House. “Hey yourself, Lucy. I know somebody inside who'll be mighty glad to see you.”

I kicked off my sheet and sat up, careful not to bonk my head on the bunk above me. Odd. My watch already said six thirty. What happened to the usual six o'clock wake-up bell? Did they actually let the residents sleep in on Sunday morning?

I peered around the dimly lit room. The four bunks were full, top and bottom—me, my mom, Lucy, and Tanya on the bottom bunks, Tanya's boy, Sammy, above her, plus three more new lumps on the top bunks who'd been put on the bed list this past week. Must be the sweltering heat driving them in. Had hit ninety-plus yesterday.

Sliding off my bunk slowly to avoid the inevitable squeaks, I pulled on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, stuck my feet in my slippers, and fished under my bed for my jute carryall bag with the leather handles. Since I wasn't going to church this morning, maybe I could find someplace to read my Bible since I'd started reading the gospel of Matthew again yesterday.
Huh.
Was I just feeling guilty? Okay, maybe a little. But I really did want to find a quiet place to read and think and pray.

Dandy raised his head from the dog bed the Baxters had given him as I opened the bunk-room door, but laid it back down again as if saying,
Following you around is too much effort.
Poor dog. He still wasn't completely healed.

I slipped down the stairs to the main floor, wondering where to go. Could go to my office, but that felt too much like work . . . The chapel! Of course. It was easy to forget the small prayer room tucked behind the multipurpose room—especially since you had to pass the TV room, schoolroom, and toddler playroom first.

But this morning I peeked into the small room, with its several rows of padded folding chairs, a small lectern, and a kneeling prayer bench . . .
Drat.
Somebody was there already. I started to back out when the person turned—Liz Handley, the former director of Manna House, who'd shown up last night to do weekend night staff duty. “Gabby? Don't leave. I'm done here. Gotta go start breakfast now anyway. Wake-up bell's at seven thirty.” The short woman with the mannish haircut gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder as she passed and shut the door behind her.

Well, okay. Guess I hadn't really chased her out.

I settled into a padded chair on the front row. The tiny prayer chapel didn't have the benefit of the stained-glass windows that graced the front of the building and spilled prisms of tinted light into the foyer. But warm lights of various colors embedded in the ceiling—yellow, green, rose—created a quiet mood. For several long moments, I just sat, not really thinking. Just soaking up the sense of peace.

“Come to Me . . .”

Whoa. There it was again. Jesus' words from the passage I'd read weeks ago in Matthew's gospel. The last time that Voice had tugged at my spirit with those words was the night I couldn't sleep and Dandy ended up foiling our would-be robber.

A week ago.

Okay, okay, I'm here, God.
I opened my Bible and found the place I'd left off reading in Matthew's gospel, chapter 13. Oh yeah. The parable of the sower. I remembered this story from Sunday school days. Jesus telling a story about a farmer who sowed some seed. Some of it fell on the hard path, and the birds ate it . . . some seed fell on rocky ground, so it only had shallow roots . . . some seed fell among thorns and got choked when it came up . . . and some seed fell on good ground and produced a big crop.

Never really thought much about this parable. After all, people who believed in Jesus were the seed that fell on good ground, right? Been there, done that, end of story. But today I had the same question the disciples did.
What does this mean?

I read and reread Jesus' answer. The seed was the Word of God.
Got that much.
The hard ground was like people who didn't understand it, so it never took root.
Okay, got that too.
The seed that fell on rocky places were like people who embraced God's Word at first, but when trouble came, it died, because their faith was shallow . . .

Ouch.
Kinda like me when Damien dumped me, back when I was nineteen. I'd been a Christian up till then—thought I was, anyway. But at the first big bump in the road, my faith was too shallow to survive.

I kept reading. Thorns next . . . Jesus said the thorns were all the worries of this life, choking the Word of God. He said the “deceitfulness of wealth” did that too.

Oh brother.
This parable had my name all over it. I'd let Fairbanks money cushion me from the pitfalls of life—until now. Huh. Always thought I didn't really care about money, but I'd let its comforts and expectations blind me to the way it'd been eating away at my marriage, numbing the person I was inside.

Or maybe, keeping me from knowing the person God wanted me to be.
Gabrielle, strong woman of God.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, and sat that way a long time . . .

Somewhere on the floor above, the wake-up bell was ringing. Seven thirty.

But I still didn't move. Funny that I'd found God again at a homeless shelter, of all places. Of course, if I really thought about it, God was always showing up in unlikely places. Jesus, the long-awaited Messiah—the Son of God!—had been born in a drafty, smelly cow barn, which certainly didn't look good on
His
résumé. At least I got to sleep in a room with actual people.

Except . . . if I was honest with myself, my budding faith was still choking on all my worries. Even though the prayers of the Yada Yada sisters had buoyed me up last weekend, I hadn't taken much time to pray since then. Really pray, I mean. Or listen. Most of my prayers were still talking
at
God. I let my mind get so garbled, wrestling with all my problems, that God would probably need a sledgehammer to get my attention—Oh.

Okay, God, I get it! Back off, already!

Lucy had just snapped the leash on Dandy's collar for a morning walk when Lee Boyer pulled up in front of Manna House in a black Prius. “Just a sec!” I called out, and turned back to Lucy. “Just . . . try to keep Dandy out of sight as much as possible. Alleys or whatever. Those reporters, you know.”

The old lady gave me a look. “Don't ya think I know a thing or two 'bout keepin' outta sight?” She craned her neck to look into the car. “Who's that?” Her eyes narrowed. “Not that slime-ball husband o' yours, I hope.”

“My lawyer, Lucy. We have an appointment.” I decided not to say anything about looking for an apartment. She'd been muttering not-so-subtle digs ever since she showed up yesterday about how we'd “up and left her” last weekend. “Thanks again for walking Dandy.”

I opened the car door and slid into the leather passenger seat. “Ohh, nice.” I glanced at Lee behind the wheel. His usual business attire of blue jeans and boots had given way to khaki shorts and sturdy sandals. “Don't know what I was expecting, but not such a high-tech car.”

He let slip a shy grin. “Hey. When gas went over three bucks a gallon last year, I figured I'd get smart and get one of these hybrids. You all set?” He touched a button. No sound . . . until he stepped on the gas and pulled into the street.

For some reason, I was totally self-conscious of my black-and-white floral print skirt skimming my knees, freshly shaved legs—I had to sign up for the tub—and white wedgie sandals. Lee hadn't commented on what I was wearing, but was that an approving glance as I got in the car? I wished I could flip down the mirror on the visor and check my makeup once more. At least my mop head was behaving after my haircut last week.

Down, Gabby, down.
Good grief. I was still a married woman. Should have worn slacks.

It seemed as if we'd only been driving for five minutes when Lee turned into a tree-lined two-way residential street and backed into a parking space. I got out and looked up and down the street. Mostly large U-shaped apartment buildings, three stories high, the kind with a courtyard with small plots of neatly cut grass and well-tended flower beds behind an iron fence. “This way,” Lee said. He headed down the sidewalk and stopped in front of a narrower building—a three-story brick with a set of apartments running up either side of an entryway door. Six apartments. To my surprise, each one had an enclosed sunporch jutting out on either side of the steps leading up to the entryway door. A For Sale sign was posted in front of the six-flat next to the sidewalk.

I followed Lee up the short flight of steps, as he pulled open the glass-paned door. We stepped into the tiled entryway, and Lee poked the doorbell for 1-B. A moment later the inside door buzzer bleated, allowing us access into a small foyer. Carpeted stairs rose in front of us with a door to the left and one to the right; 1-B must be the one on the right.

Sure enough, the right door opened and a thin man with an angular face waved us in. “How ya doin', Lee?” He ran a hand through his mousy hair. “Place is more of a mess than I figured, but . . . you insisted.” He shrugged. “Look around. Give me two weeks and it'll be in a lot better shape.”

We walked through the apartment. I could see what he meant. Trash had been left behind in some of the rooms. Walls needed painting. The wood floors were scuffed. The stove and refrigerator in the kitchen at the back needed a good scrubbing. But I was dazzled by the high ceilings and wooden beams in the living room and dining room. It felt so spacious! Doorways and windows were framed in dark wood. And the wraparound windows on the sunporch captured mottled sunlight coming through the trees along the parkway. I peeked out the windows. The postage-stamp front yard and the sidewalk were a comfortable six feet down.

And three bedrooms with decent closets. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine the apartment filled with the happy noises of my two sons.
Could this be—?

“It's a classic.” I opened my eyes. Lee was grinning. “Could look real nice.”

I swallowed. “How much?”

“Thirteen hundred a month.”

And just that fast, my hopes plunged in a nosedive.

chapter 27

I got in the Prius and slammed the car door. “Lee Boyer! What are you thinking! I can't afford thirteen hundred a month.”

“Easy, Gabby. Let's talk about it over lunch—Kitsch'n makes omelets to die for.” He started the car with that push-button thing and pulled out.

Lee must have taken my silence for assent, because he parked a few minutes later, and we walked to a small retro restaurant that had sidewalk seating. We picked a tiny table-for-two and ordered omelets from their “Kitsch'n Sunday Brunch” menu.

Time to launch my disappointment. “Okay, guess I'm gullible. Why I thought this apartment would be a slam-dunk, I don't know. Maybe because my
lawyer
suggested it? You know my situation, Lee, know I have next to nothing. So why get my hopes up?”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes, I liked it! I mean, as far as apartments go. I'd rather have a house out in the burbs, where my kids could ride their bikes in the street, but since my reality right now doesn't include a
house
. . .” I realized I was glaring at him. “But ‘liking' is beside the point. I can't afford it.”

Lee leaned forward, eyes serious behind those wire rims. “I know you can't afford it—right now, anyway. But once we take your husband to court, you'll have a nice hunk of change. Thirteen hundred a month? No sweat. What do you think he's paying for that penthouse?”

I shook my head. “Lee. You don't get it. You told me yourself that could take awhile. I need an apartment
now.
I need to get my boys back here by August so I can enroll them in school. If I don't, they'll start the school year at George Washington Prep in Virginia and . . .” I grabbed a napkin and pressed it to my eyes. I did
not
want to cry in front of Lee Boyer.