Authors: Catherine Palmer
He loved her. Her father loved her!
“I’m glad,” she said. Then she nodded. “I love you, too. And I’m proud to be your daughter.”
J
an didn’t know when she’d ever been so scared in all her life. Or so excited. She held Beth’s hand as the taxi inched through traffic, regularly zipping forward and then coming to a screeching halt when another car pulled out in front or a pedestrian took a step into the street. New York City was a crazy place. Horns honking, sirens wailing, and people. Everywhere…people.
“Don’t they get tired of each other?” she asked. Without meaning to, Jan had scooted across the taxi’s back seat and was now sitting shoulder to shoulder with her daughter. “You’d think they would want to see more grass and trees. They’re like ducklings, all headed in one direction, but there’s no mama duck in sight.”
Beth laughed. “How can you get tired of people when you never see the same one twice? And there’s more grass in New York than tourists think. I’ll take you to Central Park. It’s enormous.”
“I can’t imagine a park in the middle of all these buildings. There must be so much shade. How can anything grow?”
“Mom! Now you’re being silly.”
“No, I’m not! Everything is choking here. And shadowy. Dirty, too, in a way. So crowded. It’s really frightening, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s wonderful. People from all over the world live in the city. If you wanted, you could eat at a different restaurant every night for a year. I can’t wait to take you to my church and let everyone meet you. You’ll love our pastor. He’s Nigerian.”
“Nigerian?”
“New York is exciting all the time. There are plays, art exhibitions, musical events—”
“Don’t even mention art exhibitions. Oh, Beth, I have no idea why I let you talk me into bringing my pictures here. Compared to what artists in New York must create, my little drawings will look primitive—as though a third grader did them.”
Beth lifted her mother’s hand and kissed the soft, pale skin. “We already know Harry Kellner likes the pictures well enough to ask for a closer look. He might have a manuscript in mind to go with them. And he wants to talk to you about some other concepts, too. So, you’re not bringing your art in cold.”
“But it’s just children! Everyone can draw children, Beth!”
“No, Mom. Not everyone. Yours are different. Special.”
“Oh, dear.” Jan’s stomach twisted into an even tighter knot. She couldn’t see how her pictures were different or special or anything else! “Maybe it’s not too late to cancel the meetings. We could go to the park instead. And I do want to see a Broadway play.”
“You’re here for a week. We’ll have time for everything, including our appointments with Harry Kellner and the others.”
The taxi swerved toward the curb and came to a sudden stop. The driver, who was clearly Middle Eastern in origin, turned around and hooked his arm over the back of the seat. Jan shivered. She’d been worrying about terrorists for two weeks, ever since Beth had coerced her into this harebrained idea of bringing the pastel chalk artwork to children’s book publishers and greeting card companies in New York. Now here they were, two helpless women, in the very palm of an extremist who would probably try to rob them or kidnap them or something even more horrible.
Why had Jan ever permitted her daughter to show the pictures to a friend from church—a man who just happened to head the art department of a publishing company? Beth insisted God’s hand was at work, but Jan knew it was just her nosy, assertive, interfering firstborn. The pastel chalk portraits of children were meant to hang in a frame in Jan’s kitchen or by the front door, as had all the rose bouquets she had painted through the years. Not like this! Not packed into a leather portfolio and stashed inside a taxi driven by a man who was clearly the leader of a terrorist cell!
“Forgive me, I heard you speaking,” he said as he hung over the seat, smiling at them from under his thick black mustache. “You are Christians?”
Before Jan could warn her daughter not to answer, Beth nodded cheerfully. “Yes,” she said. “Are you?”
“I am. I was born in Argentina—Buenos Aires—and I have come to New York as a missionary. Of course, my job is to drive a taxi, but I do God’s work during my free time.”
A
missionary.
Jan would have dropped her teeth if they hadn’t been attached.
Beth smiled as though this were the most ordinary announcement in the world. “Great!” she said. She handed the man a small card. “Here’s where I go to church. We support a lot of missionary work through prayer.”
“Prayer is what we need most. I am Pedro.
Peter,
you may call me. If your pastor agrees, I shall visit your church and ask for prayer. My ministry is with youth. My wife and I, along with some others, we have started an after-school recreation center. Thank you,
señorita.
” He reached across the seat and shook Beth’s hand.
“Señora,”
he said.
Jan held her hand out tentatively. The man grabbed it and gave a powerful shake. Then he stepped from the taxi and helped them unload the bags and the art portfolio. After Beth had paid their taxi-driving Argentine missionary, she steered Jan toward the front door of an apartment building. In moments, they were inside.
“Your pastor is a Nigerian?” Jan asked. “You never told me that. And how can that driver claim to be a missionary to people here in America?
We’re
the ones who send missionaries to foreign lands.”
“Missionaries and ministers are coming to the States from all over the world. We’re one of the last major unchurched people groups in the world. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Beth, how can you call Americans unchurched? Our founding fathers—”
“Forget the founding fathers, Mom.” Beth carried the portfolio and an overnight bag into an elevator that looked dangerously old. “I’m talking
now.
Think about the way Americans live. Most of our TV shows, movies, lifestyles are so ungodly. Even the behavior of some church leaders. People here are far from Christ and the teachings of the Bible, and they’re moving farther away every day. Nowadays, some of the greatest Christian movements are in Asia, Africa, South America. And they’re coming our way. Christ expects His followers to evangelize the world, and we need to get busy in the U.S. and Europe.”
Jan hurried after Beth, shocked at the grime in the hallway and worried about the rickety elevator. How could her daughter live in a place like this? And what was her problem with the founding fathers? After a groaning, lurching ride up sixteen floors, the elevator doors opened, and the two women lugged the baggage down a narrow corridor.
Jan wanted to dispute her daughter’s point of view, but she wasn’t even sure what to say. How could Beth forget the way the United States had begun—founded by Christian men to become a Christian nation with a Christian constitution? It was all just too much. So confusing. Missionary taxi drivers and Nigerian pastors. What next?
“Oh!” Beth’s gasp knocked her mother’s heart clean out of whack.
“What on earth?” Jan cried. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“He’s here.”
A vision of Thomas Wood filled Jan’s imagination, and she thought she was going to faint.
“He
is?
” she breathed out. “Where?”
“Here. In New York.” Beth bent over a note that had been stuck to her door. “He sent this up with the doorman. Listen to this. ‘I flew in last night. Had to see you. Must talk.’”
Jan dropped her purse to the floor and leaned back against the wall. This was unbelievable. She had barely found the courage to fly to New York, and now she was going to have to face Thomas Wood. What would she do? And say? And wear? How would it feel to see him again?
Her heartbeat steadied but began to pump heavily. Did she look all right? She had tried a new shade of hair color, Autumn Blaze, from an entirely different company—and to her surprise, it had turned out even more natural looking than Desert Sunset. Hard to imagine that something new could look better, but it did.
At least…she thought it did. Would Thomas think so? She’d had long hair the last time he saw her, and she was thin and young and oh, she’d been pregnant and such a mess!
“I can’t believe this,” Beth said, pushing open her door and scooting her mother’s bags inside with her foot. “Why now? And without even telling me!”
“I can’t imagine.” Jan followed Beth into the small apartment and tried to absorb her surroundings along with the shocking news. “What could he want?”
“I have no idea. That’s all he says. ‘Had to see you. Must talk.’”
“Did you tell him I was coming? Maybe he wants to talk to me.”
“To you?” Beth tossed the note onto a narrow counter that divided the kitchenette from the rest of the room. “Why would he want to talk to you, Mom? Oh, this is just absurd. We haven’t been in contact for weeks.”
Jan glanced at the note. “But you told me Thomas had called you several times. You said he asked about me.”
At that moment, her eye fell on the signature. “Miles Wilson.” She turned her head quickly, hoping her daughter couldn’t see her startled expression or the flush that was now spreading across her cheeks.
“The message is from Miles, Mom,” Beth said.
“Oh, sure. I was thinking you meant…well, never mind.” She took a step toward the seating area. “This is a cute apartment, honey. You’ve fixed it up so nice. And look at that window! I bet you get a lot of sunshine. I’m really surprised.”
“Mother.” Beth’s voice held that familiar note. “You thought the note was from Thomas.”
“Well, you didn’t say who wrote it. We had a mix-up, that’s all. But it’s interesting that Miles has flown here to see you. I wonder what he wants…Is that a philodendron in the corner?”
“You were hoping it was him, weren’t you?”
“Who? Thomas? I was having heart failure over the very idea of it. Imagine him seeing me after all these years, when I’ve changed so much. Perish the thought. But Miles…now, I must say that’s a different story. You two have had quite a tumultuous long-distance relationship.”
“You’re not getting out of this so easily, Mom.” Beth shook her finger at her mother. “You wanted to see Thomas. You were hoping he had come to New York!”
“Honestly, Beth, I—” A loud buzz filled the room, cutting her off. Thank goodness.
“Oh, no, what if that’s him?” Beth’s brown eyes darted from her mother to the door and back again. “Mom, I don’t want to talk to Miles Wilson. He drives me crazy. I can’t see him.”
“Answer that buzzer, Bethany Ann,” Jan commanded. “The poor man has come all the way from London, and you owe him the courtesy of a conversation.”
Beth pressed the button by her door. “Yes?”
“Beth. It’s Miles. May I…no, better, will you come down? Please. I must speak with you.”
Jan waved encouragement at her daughter. “Invite him in. I want to meet this suitor of yours.”
Beth’s worried expression transformed into a sly smile. “Sure, Miles. But you come up. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“That should put the fear of God into him, honey.” Beth’s mother settled onto the sofa by the window. “Miles will probably think you have a boyfriend up here.”
“I hope he does. Serve him right for coming to New York without even a warning.”
Beth couldn’t stop herself from pacing back and forth as she waited for Miles to make the elevator journey to the sixteenth floor. Why had he come? He ought to have called first! She shouldn’t be feeling this nervous. They had nothing in common, no relationship, not even regular communication. Maybe he was here for some other reason and thought he’d look her up. She could appear casual and unaffected, even though her palms were sweating and her mouth had dried out.
And look at her mother! Sitting over there like the Queen of Sheba! Jan was ready to inspect Miles as though he were an unusual beetle that had stopped to visit her prize rosebush—perhaps threatening to take a nibble of the queen rose in the rosebud garden of girls….
Yet five minutes ago, Jan had been the one about to collapse. She had believed Thomas Wood was in New York. And Beth had no doubt about the meaning of that pink flush on her mother’s cheeks. She had hoped to see him.
So Jan Lowell wanted to meet Thomas Wood again. And it was more than just curiosity that drew the two of them together. They had never really ended their love, had they? Beth recalled how Saint Paul had taught the Corinthians that if a man joined himself to a woman, they became one body. A single flesh. He had reminded believers of the teaching in Genesis that when a man leaves his father and is joined to his wife, the two are united into one.
Jan and Thomas were still joined, attached to each other by a thin cord, a filament so slender it was almost invisible. They’d hidden this thread from others and denied it to themselves. But it was there, and it was pulling them closer every minute. Beth could hardly believe this was all happening, but she couldn’t deny it, either.
A knock at the door nailed her feet to the floor. Miles. Oh, why now? Why on this day of days, when she had finally managed to lure her mother to New York? When they needed to talk about Thomas and remember John Lowell and try to understand everything.
Beth didn’t want to see Miles. She would tell him that. “Sorry, but I’m busy with my mom,” she would say. “Get lost.”