Flee From Evil Page 8

  “Back up and straighten out a bit.” His baritone soothed her.

  She complied.

  Sky hopped out of the car, before she could ask what was next, and popped his trunk. After rustling around, he pulled out two traffic cones, placed them next to the curb, and stuck up-ended brooms in each. He had a dangerous spark in his eye as he turned to look in through the windshield.

  Sophie shook her head. “Oh, no. I’m not ready to parallel park. You just saw what I did to the curb.”

  He jogged to the opened window, leaning his elbows on the door, his cologne meandering after him as a gentle breeze touched the blond curls at his collar. “You can do it, Soph. I know you can. So what if I need new tires after.” He tugged at the sleeve of her blouse, leaving a warm imprint on her arm where his fingers had brushed.

  Back in the car, Sky gave her directions about shifting, turning, gassing, braking. She followed as best she could, bumping into the broomsticks over and over, Sky claiming she nailed his Aunt Shirley’s car the first time, Grandma Gertrude’s another, and a few cousins in between. When he groaned over the death of his pet warthog, named Oinker, Sophie laughed so hard she ran over the cone and almost up the curb.

  “Whoa!”

  Sophie braked and parked.

  “Man, when you take em’ down, you don’t mess around.” His wide eyes softened. “Now one last time. But keep it slow.”

  After Sky set the broom back in the cone, Sophie pulled up next to it, shifted to reverse, then rotated the steering wheel all the way to the left as she inched into the spot. Reversing the wheel, she let up on the brake, easing some more. She stopped and grasped the gear shift.

  Sky’s hand covered hers. “Not yet. Back up a little more.”

  Sophie’s brows knotted. Not just because of the warmth of Sky’s palm across the back of her hand, but because she wondered why it felt so rough, bumpy. Not like callouses, but sores. She flinched.

  He pulled his hand back and fisted it between his knees, staring out his window. “Go ahead.” Words tight.

  The air in the vehicle seemed to harden as Sophie peeked at the guy next to her. She backed up, shifted into drive, and pulled up to the front broom.

  “I did it!” The accomplishment bubbled up inside.

  Sky nodded curtly. “Yes, you did.”

  The bubbles popped. What just happened? “Thank you, Sky. You’re a great teacher.”

  He nodded again. “I better get you back home now.”

  She unfastened her seatbelt and pulled the door latch. “Yeah. Sure.”

  They traded places, and rode to Sophie’s house in absolute silence.

  ~*~

  Vince poked the doorbell at Cecelia Crenshaw’s house—Eddie’s mom. Yolanda stood next to him carrying a cooler and a casserole dish. The button fell from the encasement and dangled precariously. Had it even sounded inside the house?

  He scanned the front—shingles missing, lawn and garden overgrown, trash piled high.

  “I can see your friend takes good care of his Mama.” Yolanda’s tone did not register appreciation for the man.

  Vince decided to knock on the screen door this time. It rattled as if made of foil.

  The door swung open. A large dude in a muscle shirt eyed them up and down. “We don‘t want any.”

  “We’re friends of Eddie’s.” Vince slung the words as if to race the closing door.

  It halted. Then slowly peeled back revealing muscle-shirt guy again, a question mark on his face as he scanned the two intruders. “You can’t be serious. Eddie’s got tidy friends?”

  Why did Vince suddenly feel overdressed in his Dockers and polo? And why did it feel as though the word tidy somehow translated into prissy?

  Yolanda pushed through the entrance. “We brought your Mama food.” She lifted the coolers and bags she carried while staring the man down. “Show me the kitchen.”

  Muscle Shirt let go of the door, lifting a brow at the woman, even if he did let her have her way. Yolanda marched in as if she were the President’s personal chef, preparing for a state visit.

  Vince followed past the weight bench strewn with T-shirts, stepped over balled up socks and scattered sneakers to find the woman already opening and shutting cabinets as she looked for cooking utensils. He placed his bags on the counters.

  Yolanda pivoted to Muscle Shirt, pointing to the dish-filled sink. “You ever clean these?”

  He shrugged. “Dishwasher’s broken.”

  She glared. “The faucet work?” Vince could tell she fought hard to hold back a Z-snap.

  The guy sneered as he pivoted toward the living room.

  Yolanda turned to Vince. “Go meet with the woman. I’ll take care of this place.”

  The rabble of a daytime reality show grew in volume as Muscle Shirt flopped on the couch and sunk into its cushions.

  Vince took the short hall to find the lady he’d heard had been bed-ridden with pneumonia. He knocked on the door frame. “Mrs. Crenshaw?”

  The middle-aged woman, propped up on pillows, turned from the soap opera in front of her. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Vince Steegle. Edd—”

  “You that pastor he said would visit? I didn’t believe him.”

  Vince smirked. “That’s okay. I don’t think Eddie did either.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You gonna heal me with a prayer, Preacher?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I’m not that kind of minister.”

  Her lips twisted into a sardonic grin. “Then what good are you?”

  “I brought food.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, actually, Yolanda brought it. She’s heating some soup for you now, and she’s got a couple of casseroles to tide you over the next week.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  “Would you like us to serve you here, or can I escort you to the kitchen for lunch.”

  “Escort me?” Her forehead creased. “You got Prince Charming out there too?”

  Vince guffawed thinking of the woman preparing the meal. “No. More like Oscar the Grouch.” He reached out his hand in a gallant gesture, giving Cecelia Crenshaw his most charming smile. “Your chariot awaits.”

  She eyed him sideways. Then front-ways. Then tilted her head before pulling the sheets from her pajama-clad legs. She expelled a croupy cough that sounded like she might relieve herself of her previous meal. If she’d even had one.

  “Have you seen a doctor?”

  Cecelia grasped his hand and leaned into him as she stood from the bed. “Emergency room two days ago. I got a few weeks of antibiotics that make my stomach queasy.”

  He led her down the hall, now saturated in the aroma of home-made bone-broth chicken soup—Yolanda’s supposed cure-all for anything—and fresh biscuits.

  Cecelia sucked a breath through her nose, eyes closing as her smile stretched. They opened as Vince pulled a chair from under the table for her to sit on. Yolanda placed a steaming bowl in front of her.

  “Can I pray for you?” He sat next to her.

  She nodded.

  Rolling his eyes, Muscle Shirt strode in and bent over the soup.

  Yolanda slapped his fingers when he reached for the ladle. “That’s for your mama.” Her glare sent him out of the kitchen like a puppy faced with a rolled up newspaper.

  Suppressing a chuckle, Vince began, “Dear Heavenly Father,” His fingers swallowed up the sick woman’s small ones, “We pray you will bring healing to Cecelia.”

  She ground out another string of phlegm-filled noise.

  Vince flinched at its violence. “Clear her lungs. Strengthen her body. Make her whole.” His thoughts turned more to the spiritual than the physical.

  She pulled a hand from his grasp to cover her mouth for another torrent.

  Vince peeked out of one eye. She grimaced back.

  “Fill her with your Holy Spirit. Make her well, Lord.” He drew in the scent of the broth. “We also ask You to bless this food to its intended use. In Your Son, Jesu
s’ name. Amen.”

  Her amen was punctuated by another clearing.

  Vince glanced to Yolanda washing the dishes that filled the sink from who knows how many days worth of meals. She nodded and smiled.

  Chapter Ten

  “I like this place.” Cassandra slid into the seat across the table from Kat and pulled out a chair for Tibo. Sophie dropped down next to her on the other side.

  Cassandra sipped her latte. “I’ve never seen a Christian bookstore, or any bookstore for that matter, like this one.”

  Kat’s bracelets clacked together as she pushed her freshly permed locks from her well-tanned face. “Ten years ago it was a plain-ole Christian retailer—a few Jesus-centered gifty-thingies here and there.” She waved her bangled arm toward some shelves. “But when e-readers and online shopping took over, the owners prayed hard and came up with a more interactive, people-centered gathering place.”

  Cassandra’s gaze ran over the floor-to-ceiling selection of Christian books, classics to hot releases, clusters of seating for Bible studies and small groups, and an open computer-search area where an employee helped customers find new items both in paperback and available for immediate download. Right then, the cashier was giving a tutorial to an elderly woman on how to use her new iPad app.

  “Mom, can we come on Café Night?” Sophie’s blue eyes sparked with enthusiasm. “The kids at youth group say some of the local musicians are really good.”

  “Sure, Sophie.” Cassandra fished a few toy cars from her purse and drove them across the table to her son. He took them and scurried toward the carpeted area near a couch.

  “I’m gonna check out the music section.” Sophie headed to a shelf with earphones.

  Kat twirled a new curl while bouncing her leg over a knee. “I hear you met Billy’s pop, Lew.”

  Cassandra chuckled. “How’d you hear about that?”

  “Well, sort of from the man himself.” She tugged the curl straight. “Actually, he came by for a free haircut and started asking me a bunch of questions about autism. I asked him why he wanted to know, and he told me about meeting Tibo at The Dock.”

  “Poor man. He stood to leave and Tibo barreled into him.”

  “Lew didn’t seem to mind. He said Tibo’d been acting like a race car—Lew’s lingo.” Kat smirked. “If he could become a car himself, I think it would be his dying wish.”

  Cassandra’s gaze turned toward her son driving a small vehicle up the side of a chair leg. “I guess he and Tibo share that passion.”

  “Lew even cracked a smile while talking about him …” Kat blinked, “I think.”

  “Tibo does that to people.” Cassandra looked into her cup. “At least those not put off by his disability.”

  Kat sighed. “If only Lew didn’t drink so much, he might actually be good with kids. He worries me every time I think about him driving one of those big delivery trucks. He’s gonna kill himself, or someone else, one of these days.”

  Cassandra thought about the shots he threw back at the bar. “Is he an alcoholic?”

  Kat nodded. “Probably where Billy got his tendencies from.”

  Cassandra almost gasped at the woman’s openness. “Is Billy—?”

  Kat’s eyes narrowed. “Worse. Or he was worse.” Kat pulled in a long sip of java as she re-crossed her legs. “Billy had a drug problem some years ago. All kinds of lovely stuff. It took him three tries at rehab, lots of prayers from customers at his shop who suspected, and one bold man continually inviting him to church, before he gave it all to the Lord and surrendered his addiction. That’s how we came to Water’s Edge Community.”

  Suddenly, Cassandra felt grateful for the short time she had with a husband who’d sought to follow God the whole time she’d known him. “That must have been awful.”

  Kat leaned forward. “You don’t know the half of it. Before he finally got help, he almost lost his business. Billy’s work had become sloppy, the income was going to his drugs, and he’d begun to hang out with a bunch of low-lifes,” she dropped her voice and looked around, “who found him opportunities to make easy cash to support his habit.” She shook her head. “Our world was sinking and there didn’t seem to be a way to stop it. Eventually, I had to protect myself and our daughter, and kicked him out. I told him to clean up before he showed his face again.”

  It was weird to hear this side of the man who held the respect of each church member for his hard work in various ministries. She’d already learned about his car-care ministry and how he oversaw the housing repair projects parishioners engaged in on a regular basis. Obviously, his wife was proud of him too.

  “So he got help after that?”

  Kat’s laugh lacked humor. “Billy’s a good man.” She grimaced. “Billy-on-drugs was not. Both of us, and our daughter, Shelby, wanted the good man back. So he got help.”

  Cassandra stared into her cup and meditated on the warmth emanating from it into her palms.

  “What are you thinking?” The woman had the most probing gold in her eyes sometimes. They let you know she would not leave something unsaid if she’d planned to hear it.

  Cassandra’s gaze met them. “I’m thinking how you barely know me, and yet feel free to open your life to me.”

  Kat’s smile tilted. “Some people call that my curse.” She shrugged and peeled off a layer of the cinnamon roll in her hand. “I hate lies. I prefer to live by truth.” Her gaze traveled around the book shop. “I also feel it’s important to let people see our brokenness, to let them know we’ve been there too. That’s where Jesus meets us. Our story can give others hope.” Her shoulder lifted again. “If they see how we got through it, maybe they’ll have strength to overcome something as well.”

  Cassandra nodded. Billy’s story gave her strength, like the many testimonies Tim had shared with her over the years. Yes, Jesus met us in our brokenness. Maybe that’s why she felt so close to Him. She glanced to the little boy who melted hearts with a simple smile, feeling the depth of her inadequacy in caring for him as he needed. She could only trust that God had a plan.

  Cassandra leaned back in her seat. “I didn’t realize you had a daughter.”

  “She’s away at college, doing a summer internship.” The bracelets jangled as she waved her arm. “Anyway, I worry what it will take to make Lew see the light. That man’s got a tougher shell than most.”

  “Maybe he needs something to soften it.”

  “Hmph.”

  Cassandra’s mind meandered into thoughts of her own in-laws. She knew what it was like to have concerns on that front, though hers were completely different. Still, Tim had never given her a moment of grief. Too bad she hadn’t learned to appreciate the man enough until it was too late.

  Kat’s eyes moved back and forth as if reading Cassandra’s thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” There was that question again.

  Cassandra better learn to school her expressions in front of the woman. Otherwise, Kat might probe things Cassandra hadn’t planned to reveal. “My husband.”

  “Tim?” Obviously, Mom had filled Kat in on her entire history—what she knew of it.

  Cassandra turned her cup back and forth and nodded.

  “What was he like?” Though Kat didn’t shy away from the hard subjects, she whispered the words as if requesting permission to ask. There was a safety in it.

  Cassandra’s eyes stung less than usual, but the pain was still there. “Perfect.” She met Kat’s gaze. “And yet God took him from me anyway.” She hadn’t meant to sound so ungrateful, but maybe she was.

  Kat patted her hand. “He’s hard to figure out sometimes, isn’t He?”

  “Yes,” was all she croaked out.

  “Yet willing to die for us.”

  Cassandra nodded. A change of subject would be good. “So you stayed with Billy after all that.”

  Her friend’s expression suggested she understood, and was willing to move once again to her own former troubles. “When he accepted the help, I couldn’t leave him
.” She shrugged. “I love him.”

  Sophie bounded up and dropped three CD cases in front of Cassandra. “Can I have an advance on my allowance? I’d really like to get these.”

  Cassandra sifted through them—David Crowder, Third Day and NEEDTOBREATHE. Her favorites. Sure Sophie could have an advance. “Okay, honey.”

  Sophie looked between the ladies. “Did I hear you talking about love?” Her eyebrows jumped.

  They both smiled back.

  Sophie swiveled toward Kat and dropped her chin in her palms. “How did you know you were in love with your husband?” Her favorite topic these days.

  Kat leaned back and stirred her coffee round and round with the little red stick. “Hmm. Let me think.” Her sandaled foot bounced. “We’d known each other since elementary school. He pulled my hair in third grade when I sat in front of him in homeroom.”

  Cassandra giggled. “Sounds like love to me.”

  Kat’s smile was wistful. “I always thought he was a big pest until one day in middle school this little shadow appeared right here on his face.” She tapped the dip between her lower lip and chin then sighed. “Peach fuzz—powerful stuff. My heart was never the same. I’d never seen a more manly hunk—from my eighth-grade estimation—in my entire life.”

  Sophie joined the chuckles and turned to Cassandra. “How about you, Mom?”

  Uh-oh.

  “When did you know you were in love with Dad?”

  Cassandra stilled. She couldn’t answer. Both Kat and Sophie stared as if wondering what took her so long. She looked again to the little boy on the carpet whose features so reflected his father’s, his attention planted on her as though waiting for the answer himself. How could she tell them it was only after years of marriage that she realized she loved her husband?

  “Mom?” Sophie held out her palms. “Did he do something grand to win you over?”

  Did he ever! And still she resisted his love.

  Sophie turned to Kat. “He was always doing special things for us.”

  Cassandra melted at the thought.

  “So, Mom. What was it?”

  Cassandra released the captured breath. “I think it was the combination of a lot of things that won me over. We knew each other for years before I finally realized how much I loved him.”