A Steal of a Deal (2 page)

“Whom.”

“Whatever.”

Max opens the door and winks. “Good night, Andie.”

I follow him to the porch and grin. “Good night, Max.”

As he heads down the front walk, I shiver. It’s scary. We’ve gotten into this routine, almost from the start. We could almost pass for George and Gracie—Burns, that is. Only about a century younger. You know.

Shiver number two . . . or twenty. He has that effect on me.

Even though I fight it with everything I have.

I shake off the spell he casts on me, spin on my heel, and head back indoors. Once the deadbolt’s clicked into place, I lean back against the door. “What are you trying to tell me, Lord?”

I mean, I don’t think Max’s presence at the S.T.U.D. or in my life is a simple coincidence. I’m not so sure God does coincidence. Coward that I am, I don’t let myself dig too deeply into that subject. I skim it and pray for God to keep me safe from the effects of good-looking, well-intentioned—I think—but ill-informed males.

Why couldn’t Miss Mona just have let things go on the way they’d been? You know, the Shop-Til-U-Drop TV shopping channel, by women, for women, all women.

We didn’t really need Max.

Really. We didn’t.

As the final credits scroll up the movie screen in the Eastside Christian Fellowship’s basement media room, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. I turn to Peggy Ross, my closest friend from childhood, and see the matching tears in her brown eyes.

The speaker’s voice draws our attention back to the lectern. “Can you believe so little’s been done to help those poor Kash-miri people?” she said. “True, after the earthquake, ministries sent a variety of forms of help and even missionaries. The problem is with Kashmir itself. Too many wars have been fought by China, India, and Pakistan over that small bit of land, and they’ve all played the battles to their individual advantages. That doesn’t leave much to work with on the ground.”

Our speaker slips a new transparency in place on the projector. “When I see pictures of children without even the basics . . . it’s
my
kids’ faces I see on those little bodies. And, after more than a couple of years’ time, the destruction is still . . . well, there. No homes, no protection or heat for the winter. They also have very little food . . .”

The intense stare of the missionary passes from listener to listener. “Allow me to challenge you. What can you do?”

The gerbil on the exercise wheel of my brain starts on its daily workout. She has me. Even after she’s done with her presentation. I don’t know what I can do, but there has to be something . . .

I reach for Peggy’s hand, and we bow down in private, silent prayer.

“Ahem . . .”

We turn to the owner of the cleared throat. At our side, the missionary—a tall, middle-aged woman, her clothes sensibly plain, her brown hair cut in practical, no-nonsense layers, her eyes bright with intelligence and determination— waits for our attention.

“I couldn’t help but notice you were both still here, praying,” she says.

I’ll bet.
“The movie hits harder than I imagined.”

She nods. “That was my intention.”

Hmm . . . “Are you the film’s director?”

She laughs. “Thanks for the compliment, but I’m nowhere near that talented. May I join you?”

The chair at Peggy’s side had sat empty through the presentation. “Sure,” my pal says. “I’m sorry, though. I don’t know you.”

“Of course not,” our new companion replies. “And at the beginning of tonight’s program, your pastor ran through all the speakers’ names so fast, I don’t expect anyone to remember mine. I’m Laura Seward. My husband and I have served on the mission fields of India, Pakistan, and Kashmir for the last thirty-seven years. We’re home on furlough now and have been using the time to reach out to others who might be willing and able to help us.”

Peggy and I swap looks.

I square my shoulders. “Look. I won’t act dumb here and pretend I don’t know what you’re up to—
and
I won’t insult you and pretend you came to hit us up out of the blue. I suspect someone fingered us—me—as an easy mark. It won’t take long for me to head down your road. What can we do to help?”

A grin brightens her plain features. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect such directness.”

“Ha!” Peggy elbows my ribs. “That’s because you don’t know our Andie here. She’s got the subtlety and meandering talents of a heat-seeking missile.”

“Aw, c’mon, Peg,” I object. “I’m not that bad. I just don’t like to waste time.”

Laura laughs. “I like your style, Andie.” She holds out her hand. “I think you can do a world of good.”

Her hand is warm, dry, and muscular, clear evidence of years of doing the Lord’s work under tough circumstances. I feel a twinge of nostalgia. “Thanks. You remind me of my mother, who can’t figure out how the missionary zeal skipped me. It didn’t really, but I haven’t felt the Lord’s call to the field.”

She nods.

I go on. “I grew up in Africa. My parents have been missionaries for years.”

Her smile says she knows she’s got a live one on the hook. And she does. What can I say? It’s bred in me. I kind of drank it in with Mom and Dad’s hugs and kisses growing up. I’m just not full-time like them.

“Tell me more,” she says.

“There’s not much more. I grew up, went to college, graduated, got a Master Gemologist certificate from the Gemological Institute of America, and I now work for Mona Latimer, the owner of the Shop-Til-U-Drop network. How can I help you and your husband? Or maybe what I should ask is how I can help the Kashmiri.”

Our conversation gallops from that point on. Before we know what’s really hit us, Peggy and I agree to front our congregation’s efforts on behalf of the Kashmiri earthquake victims, and a three-way friendship, as unlikely as it seems, is forged.

I glance at my watch and am stunned to see almost three hours have passed. Peggy and I hug Laura and head up the stairs.

“Who would’ve thought,” Peggy murmurs.

“What? That a movie would affect us that much?”

She slants me a look. “No, you doofus. That sitting next to you would lead to chairing a missions committee project of almost astronomical proportions.”

I sniff. “It’s not that massive. We’re just spearheading an effort to help those poor kids in Kashmir.”

Peggy stops. “Are you forgetting the widows? And how about the doctors without meds, much less ER supplies or equipment? And that’s before you take into account the reconstruction efforts that haven’t gone anywhere in all this time.”

My fluttery finger wave tries to dismiss her worries. “And you think you and I are going to fix all that? All we’re doing is recruiting the talent and funds to do it. We’re just the . . . oh, I don’t know. The delegators, I guess.”

She howls. “The delegators, huh? Boy, are you good. No wonder Miss Mona’s got you selling rocks.”

“Hey! I’m a master gemologist. I know what I’m talking about on-screen.”

“And you know next to nothing about Kashmir, medical aid to disaster areas, construction, and third-world country cottage industries.”

“What’s that?” a familiar male voice asks. “Do you mean to say we’ve found the subject on which Andrea Autumn Adams isn’t an expert? Will wonders never cease?”

I spin, smack my fists on my hips, and roll my eyes. “Me and my shadow . . .” I warble. Then I ask, “Whatcha doing here?”

He crosses his arms. “Are you claiming ownership of the church? It’s Sunday, and I’m no heathen.”

“Yeah, but the service ended hours ago.”

“Yeah, but Mr. Seward spoke to the men’s Bible study group for a couple of hours. The man’s fascinating.”

“And that sent you looking for me?”

That slow, maddening smile of his turns up his lips. “Wow!

What an ego, Miss Adams. Who says I came looking for you?”

A snicker at my side sends my elbow jabbing at Peggy’s slender waist. “Whose side are you on?” I hiss at her. To him, I add, “I’m here, and suddenly you show up. What do you want me to think?”

Peggy laughs. “That you’re both heading out the church door.”

To my eternal mortification, I look up, and realize that, yep. She’s right. We’re standing right in front of the massive glass doors to the church. Anyone could’ve been there; anyone on their way out. It just happens that Max is the one who’s chosen that moment to leave the building. Just like me.

Great. Proximity to Max the Magnificent has bred paranoia. Now what?

Before I have a chance to figure out what, Aunt Weeby marches up. “Hey, sugarplum! There you are. Mona and I were wondering if you’d like to go out for breakfast.”

I blink. “Breakfast?”

When my great-aunt nods, I stick a finger in my ear and wiggle. Something must not be right with my hearing. “Are you sure? It’s”—I glance at my watch—“two forty-five . . . P.M.! Who eats breakfast in the middle of the afternoon?”

An elderly chorus sings out, “We do!”

Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona nod like those dogs with bobbing heads in the back windows of big old cars. Then it registers. A rich male baritone had underscored their response.

“Oh no!” I shake my head.
Oh, Lord, please! More time
with Max is too dangerous to me and my sanity!

“What do you mean, no?” Max asks. “Breakfast is the perfect food. There’re whole restaurant chains devoted to serving breakfast 24/7.”

The worst part about it is, he’s right. And I know it. Not to mention I have my teeny, tiny weakness for the perfect pancake. Slathered in cholesterol-filled, calorie-heavy butter. Oh! And drowned in yummy maple syrup.

My stomach growls.

Yeah, that Benedict Arnold. It betrays me. Can you believe it? My body wants me to go to breakfast with a pair of world-class matchmakers, who’ll have their beady eyes on me and their number one candidate for my match the whole time. “Come on,” Peggy says with a mischievous wink. “Admit it, Andie. You’re dying to go munch on pancakes with this crowd.”

“Pancakes?” I ask then grin. “Okay, you busted me. I love ’em. But the company?” I wink. “You guys are loony tunes.”

Miss Mona pats her perfect silver bob. “That’s right, honey! You couldn’t ask for better partners than us.”

I look from face to face and have to agree. I start to nod, but then my eyes land on Max.

Our gazes catch. Lock.

The unnerving electricity that every so often zings between us blazes back to life. Against my every effort otherwise.

“No . . .” Even to my oh-so-subjective ears, my objection lacks conviction. “Um . . . well, okay. I guess I’ll join you guys.”

Peggy, the traitor, giggles, hugs me goodbye, and saunters out the door.

Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona follow.

Max, however, doesn’t move. The gleam in his eyes gets my dander going. I yank the door ajar.

“Look at it as an opportunity,” he says, right on my heels. “We can talk gems.”

I snort at the thought and hurry to catch up with the senior contingent. “Let’s change the subject. How about we talk Kashmir?”

“Oooooh!” Miss Mona coos. “The loveliest sapphire I ever saw came from Kashmir. Long, long time ago. Can we get some for the show, Andie?”

Max looks even more interested. “Kashmir sapphires? I thought sapphires came from Myanmar . . . Burma—whatever. We bought a bunch of them when we went to the Mogok Valley, didn’t we?”

A little bit of knowledge can be dangerous, you know.
I
tried, Lord. I tried to turn the topic to where we could talk
about serving you.

“Well, yeah,” I say. “We did buy sapphires in Myanmar— very, very good quality sapphires. But Miss Mona’s right too. The finest sapphires in the world have come from Kashmir. The mines, though—”

“Don’t tell me,” he says, that glib look on his face. “The mines are mostly done producing stones, and the prices are out-of-this-world high. How’m I doing?”

At his singsong imitation of my teacherly efforts, I roll my eyes—I did tell you I do a lot of eye rolling around Max, right? “You did fine. You only got it a tiny bit off. The mines in Kashmir played out a long time ago. Like in the 1800s.” I figure it’s in my best interest not to mention the rumors of new finds in the last ten years.

“Phew!” he says, as he holds the door to the S.T.U.D. Network’s limo for me. “And here I thought you were going to try and drag us out there to film another rickety mine. Never mind start another international incident—”

“Max!” Miss Mona cries. “What an exceptional idea—”

“NO!” Max and I cry in unison.

Then we face each other. Max and I . . . in agreement? A wacko image crosses my mind again—pigs really do fly.

I squelch a nervous giggle. You bet I’m in trouble.

What’s my life coming to?

“Lord?” I whisper, almost whimper. “Please? Not again.”

200

A brief half hour later, I close my lips around another wedge of fluffy, gooey, scrumptious pancake. At the table, the conversation continues in bits and spurts without any help from me.

The pillowy texture and sweet comfort of the pancakes fill my mouth with happiness, and I chew, my every sense focused on the experience. Oh yeah. I do like my food.

“. . . Andie?”