Double Identity (15 page)

She made a quick left.

When the black sedan followed, Sophie knew exactly what to do. Without hesitation she drove directly to Sheriff Dalton’s and pulled into a spot right beside a patrol car. The sedan continued past, made a left and disappeared.

Sophie sat in the car, her eyes glued to the street where the sedan had turned. When it was obvious it wasn’t going to make a reappearance, she let herself breathe. Her arms trembled and her pulse continued to race but gradually she began to calm down.

The license plate number! Why hadn’t she looked at it when the car had driven by? What was the matter with her?

She’d been scared to death, that’s what…but proud of herself, too. She’d kept her head and hadn’t panicked. Should she report the incident to the sheriff? What could she tell him? A black sedan followed her into town and then kept on going when she stopped. He’d think she was crazy…if he didn’t already.

Cain.

He’d believe her. He’d understand.

But he was away on business. Was it really business or did he need a few days to get away from her? A deep sadness enveloped her when she realized her pushy curiosity might have come with a price tag she didn’t want to pay.

Sophie accepted the beads from one of Martha Garrison’s students and realized her hands had stopped trembling. She glanced at the parking lot for the hundredth time in the past two hours…still no black sedan. Maybe she’d been wrong about this morning’s incident. Maybe she hadn’t been followed and the anger in the driver’s eyes had been there simply because she was in his way.

Maybe.

Her eyes skimmed the parking lot again. Still no black sedan. She relaxed and turned her attention back to the class. Martha, sitting at a table across the room, helped some of the teenagers slice their multicolored clay ropes and shape them into jewelry beads ready to be baked. She glanced up and smiled.

“Look at my necklace, Ms. Clarkston. It’s a one-of-a-kind and I made it all by myself.”

The misshapen beads and mottled colors didn’t seem to bother the girl at all. “You’re right, Kelly. That is definitely a one-of-a-kind. Congratulations.”

Sophie returned the child’s smile and watched her flit from table to table showing her necklace to the other kids. Her craft idea had been a big hit today with a majority of the teenagers. Warmth filled her and she couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride. It felt good helping others. Really good.

Her gaze wandered the room and locked on a belligerent teenage boy in the back of the classroom refusing to participate. She recognized him. He was the same boy Sheriff Dalton had arrested that night outside Holly’s. She took a good long look at him and realized he wasn’t eighteen or nineteen as she’d first assumed. This was merely a boy…fourteen…fifteen at best. Drag racing someone’s car? Wow. Where were his parents? Maybe that was the problem.

Martha frequently talked about the dysfunctional homes most of these kids came from. She tried to make a positive impact on the young tweens and teenagers. She tried to educate them on options other than a life of crime. She did her best to introduce them to a God who had big plans for their lives, who would love them and be their strength, no matter what.

Sophie found herself dwelling on Martha’s words. A God who would stand beside you no matter what the problem…strengthen you…fill you with peace…and joy. What would that be like? Sophie had always believed in God because her father had taught God’s existence as fact, just as emphatically and naturally as she’d been taught her colors.

This is blue, Sophie. Deep, dark blue.
She could hear her father’s voice in her mind just as clearly as if he was standing right beside her.
Paint it on a canvas and it becomes a midnight sky or a stormy sea. But, ahh, Sophie, mix in just a little bit of white and what do you get? A lighter blue. The color of the sky on a cloudless day. But still the color blue. God has an endless palette, Sophie, and He made it all for us.

She sighed. Was it really that easy? Her father’s faith? God, ever present both in stormy and cloudless skies? After a lifetime of her father’s example and now seeing how Cain’s family lived their faith, she was beginning to understand that each individual comes face-to-face at some point in their lives with having to define what they believe for themselves, having to decide whether the focus of their lives belonged to the Lord…or not.

So, what did she believe?

She remembered many mornings sitting in the sun and reading her mother’s Bible. Clasping her father’s hand as they bowed their heads in prayer before their meals. She remembered talking to God…all the time…as if He could hear every word. And she remembered life being peaceful…and content…and safe.

When had her feelings changed?

She didn’t have to ponder that question. The day her father had disappeared. The day she’d begged and pleaded for God to turn back the clock…to perform a miracle and change her life…give her a mother who hadn’t died…give her a father who hadn’t left. Her faith had faded side by side with hope, making her wonder if she had ever had true faith at all.

An overwhelming sense of sadness cloaked her like a heavy coat. She felt confused, depressed, alone. She’d give anything to feel God at her side…to know He’d never leave her even when others had…to feel the joy and peace she had known before. But all she felt was empty and hollow. God didn’t seem to be at her side anymore.

But for the first time in weeks, her anger had lessened enough for her to be able to hear a soft voice inside her head. A niggling conscience that kept asking her who had turned away from whom?

Her eyes lit again on the young boy in the back of the room. He seemed to be far away from God at the moment, too. His sullen expression and “I could care less” body language couldn’t hide the hint of interest she saw in his eyes when he watched the other teens.

Slowly, she walked toward him. As she passed the other tables, she glanced at the students’ projects. One boy had created an intricate tile design that he planned to attach to a leather wristband. Another sculpted a skull and worked securing it to leather straps. Her lips twitched in amusement. Somehow Sophie didn’t think this was exactly the type of jewelry Mrs. Garrison had had in mind, but at least the teenagers were here in class and not causing trouble on the streets.

As she approached the back of the room, she saw the boy stiffen and turn away but she didn’t let his hostile body language discourage her. She homed in like a heat-seeking missile to its target.

“Hi.” She grinned and perched a hip on the edge of his table.

He shot her a halfhearted glare and didn’t respond.

“You’re Jimmy Falcon, aren’t you?”

“A-plus for the teacher,” he sneered. Sophie almost laughed out loud. He was trying so hard to be a tough guy…and failing miserably.

“Not interested in the class?”

“Why should I be? Only wimps wear jewelry. Do I look like a wimp to you?” His eyes baited her.

Sophie bit her bottom lip so hard she thought she’d draw blood. She couldn’t let him know how humorous she found him, even if he was the cutest, non-frightening punk she’d ever met.

“Clay is an art form only limited by the imagination and creativity of the artist,” she said as she picked up a block from the table and kneaded it.

“Yeah, right. Whatever.”

“If you’re not interested in jewelry, perhaps sculpting a figure would be more your speed.”

Jimmy cocked an eyebrow. Interest and doubt flashed through his eyes but he remained silent.

Sophie slid off the table, gathered some of her tools and sat down beside him. A short time later, with the help of her scalpel and garlic press, she placed a miniature sheep in front of him.

“That’s an example of one of the pieces I made for a Nativity scene I sculpted for my father last Christmas.” She picked up the piece and held it gingerly in the palm of her hand. She remembered how much her father had loved the gift. He’d even crafted a stable to house all her miniature figurines and decided to display them year-round, not just for Christmas. Her heart swelled with pain. She missed him so much.

“Yeah, I get it. Jewelry is for wimps but a little lamb…now that’s for tough guys, right? Who are you kidding?”

His words jolted her back to the present. He was right. What on earth had made her demonstrate this particular piece for him?

She met his eyes, letting him know his glare and belligerent tone couldn’t push her away. She thought for a moment and then smiled. “You want something tough, big guy? How about sculpting a falcon?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Sophie’s fingers kneaded and shaped the clay.

“The falcon is a fast, powerful bird. Its eye is so precise, its power so awesome it can swoop down and capture other small birds in flight.”

With one of her tools, she layered indentations resembling feathers in the extended wings and Jimmy watched in fascination.

“A falcon is a bird of prey. Far from a wimp.” Sophie held up the small model and attached sharp, angled talons. “That’s your last name, isn’t it? Falcon?” When she’d finished, she held it out for Jimmy’s inspection. “There are a million things you can create, Jimmy. With time, lessons and some effort on your part, you can let your imagination soar. Just like this falcon.”

From the look of awe in his eyes, Sophie knew she’d captured his interest. The bad-guy persona disappeared and a vulnerable, hurt teenager stared at the molded shape in her hand and then back at her.

“Can you teach me to do that?”

“It’s going to take much more than one class, Jimmy. It will demand a good deal of your time. I’ll be happy to teach you…so will Mrs. Garrison…but it’s all going to depend on you. How hard will you work? You have to be truly committed, not just for an hour here and there, if you plan on being an artist. You have to learn discipline and how to control your impulses when you face failures and rejections.”

Emotions warred across his face. The tough guy. The child. Mistrust. Tentative hope. He glanced around the room, fidgeted in his seat and then looked back at the object in her hand.

“I can make anything? With clay, I mean?”

Sophie nodded. “Anything you can imagine and your fingers can shape. Are you willing to put in the time?”

Jimmy drew in a deep breath as though he needed extra strength to take the step he hoped might change his life, and nodded. “I want to make a falcon.”

Sophie smiled. “Okay. Let’s start with a block of brown clay.”

“I appreciated your help today, Sophie,” Martha said after the last of the teenagers had left and they were packing up their supplies. “You’re great with the kids.”

“I enjoyed it. It was fun. Reminded me of what it felt like when I used clay as an art medium for the first time.”

“Cain tells me that you’re quite a sculptor.”

Sophie’s cheeks heated. “I like working with clay. It relaxes me.”

Martha nodded. “I wonder if you might be interested in helping out with the class on a regular basis.”

“Me?” Sophie couldn’t hide her look of surprise.

“I can’t afford to pay much. But I think I can offer enough to make it worth your while two days a week. Also, I’ve applied for a grant. I’m hoping that in the near future I can expand the art classes into a daily program and work with the kids through the juvenile courts. If the grant is approved, it will allow me to offer you a full-time position with a more substantial salary.”

Martha clasped Sophie’s hand. “You’re great with the kids. You have a treasure trove of experience to offer them. And I can really use the help. What do you say?”

Sophie couldn’t believe it. Someone wanted to hire her…salary and everything…to teach something she’d been born and raised to do. Smiling so wide she thought her face would split, she said, “Thank you, Mrs. Garrison. I accept.”

“Ohh, that’s wonderful,” Martha exclaimed. “Let me lock up and we’ll stop by Holly’s and celebrate.”

Sophie excused herself and slipped out to the restroom. She’d just closed the door to a stall when she heard two women enter.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into Martha Garrison. Do you know who she had helping her with her art class today?”

“Elizabeth Weatherly’s daughter.”

“Exactly. I thought Martha’s idea of running an art class for borderline delinquents was one of the most ridiculous ideas Pastor has ever supported. Now this! Everyone knows what happened to Elizabeth. She ran off with a wanted criminal. How could Martha have someone with her background around those teenagers?”

“Well, it makes perfect sense to me, Margaret. Birds of a feather and all that. Who would know how to relate to town trash better than trash?”

The blood drained from Sophie’s face. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and her legs threatened to give out beneath her.

Trash? Was that what everyone thought of her?

The two women finished their business, washed their hands and left.

Sophie’s heart pounded in her chest. How could she have been so stupid? To allow herself to think she might have finally found a home? Made some friends? Had a future here?

Her pain quickly changed to anger. She stepped into the hall and nearly barreled into Martha Garrison.

“What’s the matter, dear? You’re as pale as a ghost. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. Look, I forgot I have some chores to do. I’m afraid I’ll have to turn down celebrating at Holly’s.”

Sophie tried to slide past her but Martha reached out a hand and stopped her. “What happened?”

Sophie couldn’t hold back her hurt and anger. “Two of the women in your church—two
Christian
women who are supposed to believe in Christ and act Christlike—reminded me of just who I am and where I fit in here.”

Martha’s expression registered shock. “Who said something to you? What did they say?”

Sophie sighed. “Nothing that isn’t true.” She gently released Martha’s hand from her arm. “I appreciate your offer of employment, Mrs. Garrison. And I will accept it for now. But just until you find someone else to help you. After all, I’m still looking for my father. I don’t know for sure how much longer I’m going to be in Promise, anyway.”