A Touch of Grace (21 page)

He raised his eyes toward the ceiling. “You’re the only thing left, Lord, that’s not in a mess.”

Deep inside, he questioned whether he should ever have agreed to Roger’s request.

Not much he could do about it now.

Maybe he should have told Gretchen everything, but she’d been skeptical about Collin. She probably wouldn’t believe anything he said tonight.

Gretchen was compassionate. She might understand.

The mission was at stake.

Indecision warred inside him.

“Lord, I don’t know what to do.” Could he trust an investigative newswoman to keep Roger’s name clear until his son stepped foot on American soil?

He’d given his word to Roger.

Defeated, he put on his tennis shoes and ball cap in preparation for the night’s work. Regardless of his own personal issues, the kids on the streets still needed him.

He headed for his van and the dark side of town.

Gretchen stumbled down the staircase, cheeks burning while her heart broke.

Why had she thrown her love in his face that way? He’d done nothing to deserve that.

Sometimes she didn’t understand her own propensity for hurting other people.

At the bottom step, she heard the television in the dayroom and decided to go out the back way. She couldn’t face any of the residents tonight. Not when they would all be out on the streets again after the news came out that Isaiah House was dirty.

Out on the streets again.

The words rang inside her head like a gong. She was tossing kids to the lions.

But she had a commitment to air the truth about ministries, no matter what.

The need to scream in frustration pushed at her throat. What was the right thing to do? Trust Ian? Save the mission and lose her job? Believe his off-the-wall story about having a long-lost brother?

Her huff of agitation rang in the quiet hallway. Confusion and trouble was what she got for falling in love with a preacher.

She paused in the hallway outside the chapel and stared at the framed poster proclaiming Matthew 25, the sister verse to Isaiah 58. Ian claimed these as his life verses. Feeding the hungry, caring for the sick, the broken, the stranger. Meeting the needs of the unlovely.

The final words of Christ on the poster convicted her.
“I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.”

True and undefiled religion. Unselfish. Giving. Even at the sacrifice of personal gain.

Stung, she tried to make sense of everything. This kind of personal sacrifice was Ian’s life. She knew from watching him, from working with him that this was true. And it didn’t mesh with reports of misappropriation or embezzlement. She’d known that all along.

Yet, she’d refused to believe the depth of Ian’s commitment, not because of anything he did or didn’t do, but because she had lost her faith in God.

A sob surprised her, rising up from somewhere deep inside as if it had been waiting for her eyes to open. She’d never been so confused.

Fist to her lips, she shoved into the chapel and stumbled into one of the padded seats. The room was empty and quiet except for her and a gentle, wooing presence. The glow of white sconces along the wall and around the cross added to the sense of peace.

Peace. She didn’t even know what that was.

She sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking, soaking up the ambience of the holy little chapel, eyes fixed on the simple wooden cross in back of the platform.

“I don’t know what to do, God. Are You here? Do You care? Have I been gone too long for You to hear me?”

Not since the days in the commune had she been willing to surrender control long enough to listen, to feel God’s presence. She’d been too afraid that he would ask the unthinkable.

As soon as the thought arrived, Gretchen faced a
truth long denied. God had never asked the unthinkable of her. Man had. Ian had tried to tell her that, but now she understood. The selfish, greed for power of a human had hurt her and Maddy. Her family had blindly, foolishly followed Brother Gordon without question. How could she blame God for that?

“I’m sorry, Lord. I’m sorry.”

The hard, hurting place inside began to ease. Quietly, she poured out all her hurts and fears in the dimly lit chapel.

No bells rang. No angels sang. The heavens didn’t open. But the heavy load of care and guilt and shame lightened until her tears became a watery smile.

Digging in her pocket, she came up with a tissue and dabbed at her face. She had no idea how long she’d been in here. A few minutes? An hour?

She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes until the teaser was due.

A new resolve settled over her as sweet as the newfound peace.

The situation with Ian hadn’t changed. The suggestion of wrongdoing was still present. But now she understood what she hadn’t. Ian’s actions in this mission were worthy of trust. Regardless of rumors or innuendos by disgruntled politicians and nearby businesses that wanted the troubled kids of Isaiah House moved elsewhere, Ian’s work, day after day, spoke for itself.

Yes, something was very wrong here. Ian admitted as much. But Ian would take care of it in his own time and in an honorable manner. She believed that now.

A giggle bubbled in her throat.

Was she losing her mind?

The credibility of her career was about to be jeopardized.

And she wanted to laugh and sing for joy.

Chapter Sixteen

A
t five in the morning Ian showered and then grabbed a giant travel cup of coffee from the kitchen. He couldn’t sleep anyway. Might as well go talk to Mom.

She was going to hear about this one way or the other. Better if the news came from him.

The sun was beginning to peek through the clouds when he pulled into the familiar drive in Baton Rouge. Mama’s lilacs, bunched up next to the porch, filled the air with sweetness. He still recalled when Dad had teased her about planting them so close to the house, warning that a time would come when there would be no room to open the door. That time was fast approaching.

He rang the doorbell, not wanting to barge in and startle her. From inside the house barking erupted. Good old Nehemiah was on the job.

The lock clicked and the door scraped open, hanging a little. He needed to have a look at that.

“Ian!” Mom’s face registered surprise and concern. “What are you doing here at this hour? Is something wrong?”

She shoved the glass door aside and plucked him into the living room. As always, his own face smiled out from every picture frame. Only this time, he was achingly aware that in none of the photos was he younger than five years old.

He wrapped his mother in a gentle bear hug and kissed the top of her head. “How ya doing?”

“Fit as a fiddle.” She was still in her housecoat. Nehemiah bounced around her feet, grinning, tail wagging. “You hungry?”

He smiled. Mama was only happy when she was feeding someone. “Starved.”

He followed her into the sunny kitchen where already the scent of coffee warmed the air. As a kid he’d loved this room with its delicious smells, warm colors and friendly chatter. He could still picture Dad sitting at the table with him as he struggled to understand math. He’d hated the subject. Only Dad’s quiet, stubborn insistence that he do his best had gotten him through. They’d butted heads plenty over that. A spoiled kid. A strong, determined father. His throat filled with emotion at the memory.

Wryly, he considered how that dislike now haunted him. If he’d been better at math, maybe he would have paid more attention to the books at Isaiah House.

Mom opened the fridge and began dragging out various pancake makings. “You still haven’t said what brings you up here today.”

“Do I need a reason to visit my mom?” The word
sounded odd to him this morning, considering what he had to ask. But she was his mom in every way that counted.

“You do at seven in the morning. Have you even been to bed?”

“Don’t fuss, Mama. I need to talk to you about something.”

Spatula in hand, she turned from the sizzling pan of sausages. “That sounds important.”

“It is.” When she started to say more, he patted his belly and grinned. “But I want my breakfast first.”

The old dog sidled up to his chair and Ian rubbed his ears. The liquid brown eyes adored him. He noticed the gray around the old setter’s muzzle. “How old is Nehemiah now? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“Mmm. Let’s see. You dragged him home from a football game one night. A ball of fluff that someone had dumped by the side of the road. I guess you were about sixteen. You were driving.”

“He’s old.”

“Well, so am I. That’s why the two of us do fine together.” She blew on a link sausage until it cooled, then offered the meat to the dog. With an incongruent daintiness, the setter took the treat between his teeth and sauntered off.

“You’ll never be old.”

She flapped a hand at him and began dishing up the food. “I don’t feel old but neither did your daddy.”

“I still miss him.”

“So do I. Every day. Sometimes I think I hear him out in that shop of his where the two of you built those birdhouses.”

“And a lot of other things.” The skills his dad had taught him had served him well in taking care of the aging mission house.

After pouring them both a cup of coffee, Mom set two filled plates on the round wooden table and sat down.

“You want some milk or juice with this?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

“All right then. Say grace and let’s eat. I’m anxious to hear what’s on your mind.”

Ian offered a brief prayer for the food, but inside he prayed for wisdom and for his mother’s health. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her in any way. Whether she was his birth mother or not, she was everything a parent should be.

He poured a generous helping of maple syrup on his stack of pancakes and dug in.

“You make the best pancakes in Louisiana,” he mumbled around an oversize bite.

She swatted his arm. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

They both chuckled at the familiar admonishment.

After a few rejuvenating minutes in which he polished off six pancakes and four sausages, he picked up his coffee and sat back with a replete sigh.

With eyes as blue as his, Margot studied him across her coffee mug. “What’s troubling you, son?”

Where did he start? How did he begin to ask her if she’d lied to him all of his life?

“I had a visitor yesterday.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. He’s from Oklahoma. A policeman. His name is Collin Grace.”

Her cup clattered against the table. “Oklahoma?”

“I don’t want to upset you, Mom. Forgive me if this hurts you in any way, but I have to know. Am I adopted?”

Her eyes flickered. She blinked several times, clearly distressed. Ian’s stomach knotted. Please Lord, let her heart handle this.

Mom’s fingers, thinned by age but still graceful, picked at a linen napkin. Ian’s pulse accelerated with each blink of her eyes. He didn’t want to hurt her. Not in a million years, but there were some things a man had to know.

“Mom, are you okay? Your heart—”

“My heart hurts, son, but not in the way you mean.” She placed a hand atop his, the warm, mother love flowing out of her. “Maybe we should have told you before. I don’t know. I never did know.”

“So it’s true?”

“Yes.”

The word, though barely a whisper, boomed in his ears. He’d known, and yet the answer still startled him. Still shook him to the core.

“Who am I?”

“You’re my son, Ian Robert Carpenter. The child your daddy and I couldn’t conceive. The child God gave us. You will never know how long I prayed and mourned for a child.”

“So you adopted me.” Somehow saying the words made them real. He still couldn’t quite take it in. Why had he not known? Why had he never guessed? The signs were there, but he’d never even looked at them until now.

“We’d almost given up on ever being parents, and
then the social worker called about you, a precious little boy, who was five years old and needed a family in a hurry. Daddy and I drove all night to get to you.”

“Before you ever saw me?”

She nodded. “We knew you were ours the moment she called. Finally an answer to our prayers.”

“Why don’t I remember any of this?” Leaning forward, he steepled his hands together on the tabletop. “I was five. I should remember.”

“Because you were sick, honey. By the time we arrived, you were in the hospital. Meningitis. The social worker had told us you weren’t feeling well, but we had no idea how sick you were. As soon as I walked in that room and held you in my arms, I fell in love. I prayed so hard that God would spare you. He’d finally given us a child and you were at death’s door.”

“You adopted a sick kid with some kind of brain problem? Weren’t you afraid of what you were getting?”

“Not once did we question if you were the right child. You were ours, sick or not. So sweet and kindhearted. Even when the nurses had to poke you with IVs, you’d reassure them that it was okay even as tears ran down your face. How could we not fall in love with you?” She smiled, face full of memories. “We debated telling you. In fact, your daddy and I fought about the subject more than once.”

“Dad wanted me to know.”

“Yes. But you’d had such a hard start in life. The doctor said it was a mercy that you lost your memory, and I agreed. I wanted to protect you. To keep your sweet little nature free of the sad past. You deserved to have
only good memories from that time forward. I didn’t want you to remember the bad things.”

But he had. Not consciously, but deep inside the recesses of his mind the past had lived on, tormenting him with dreams.

Part of him wanted to be angry with her, but he couldn’t muster the strength. As she always had, Mama had done what she thought was best for him.

“What about my brothers? Why didn’t you adopt them, too?”

Her face saddened. “No one told us about them, and we really didn’t ask too many questions. All we knew was that you were a legal risk adoption from a very bad situation and that your birth mother was in the process of relinquishing rights. We were so wrapped up in caring for you we never considered that you might have siblings.”