What Lies Within (17 page)

Not lately. He’d started to a couple of times, but other than letting her know he was worried when Kyla didn’t come around for so long, he’d kept his struggles to himself. Which was odd, now that he considered it. He used to talk with Liv about everything.

Rafe leaned back in his chair, Tarik’s words from earlier drifting through his mind:
“It helps to talk about things.”

He could call any of the guys from the Pride, but he hated to do that. They had their own stuff to deal with. Besides, it was too late to call any of them tonight. Lights out came early for Marines.

Which left one person. One whose ear he bent on a far-too-frequent basis. Still, the old man never complained. And if there was one thing Fredrik did well, it was complain when he didn’t like something.

Which must mean he not only didn’t mind listening to Rafe, he actually liked it.

Grabbing his cane, Rafe went to get his car keys and headed out into the night.

SIXTEEN   

T
he night was creeping to a close. Dawn was only hours away.

Fredrik sat in the comforting cloak of nighttime, hands folded on his knees, eyes closed, mind and spirit focused on the only One who could help him now.

Father God, Adonai, help us. God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, have mercy on us. Lead Your servants as we seek to obey You. We need Your intervention, Lord. We need Your angels to go before us. Better yet, to be with us, at our sides, watching over us
.

His hand gripped the arm of the soft, worn chair as he prayed on, begging God for guidance. As the weight of reality settled upon him, his head bowed lower.

They had so few resources of their own. So little money, so few workers.
Those they had were willing, of course. But what could old men do? How could they shoulder all the work and accomplish the task in such limited time?

Father, send us aid. Please, send us the right person. An angel to fight for us and accomplish Your will—

A loud knock sounded on the door, and Fredrik jumped, almost slipping from his chair.
Who could be visiting him this time of …?

He cast a glance to the heavens.
So why am I surprised? Someday, Lord, help me remember You don’t fool around
. He pushed his old, aching bones out of the chair and made his shuffling way to the door.

At the sound of his slippered feet on the floor, he grimaced. When did it happen? When did he get caught in a body this old and unsteady? Time was, he stood tall and strong, could run and dance and walk with the best of ’em. Now …

Buck up, old man. Stop feeling sorry for yourself
.

He slipped the security chain free, opened the deadbolt, started to pull open the door—then almost jumped out of his skin when a firm voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“Don’t you dare open that door without looking through the peephole, Fredrik.”

He stared at the door, then pulled a face. Of course. It was Rafe. The boy might be a good forty years his junior, but that didn’t keep him from talking to Fredrik in that pseudofatherly, are-you
-out
-of-your-ever-lovin’-mind? tone. Fredrik shook his head.
You can take the boy out of the Marines …

He did as he was told, squinting so he could focus through the tiny peephole. The fisheye effect on Rafe was slightly startling. The young man was imposing enough in and of himself. Add the slightly warped magnification of the peephole, and if Fredrik didn’t know better, he’d think there was a thug on his doorstep.

Yes, indeed. Rafe Murphy was the model Marine.
But I don’t see any wings, Lord. And I know for a fact this boy doesn’t wear a halo. Maybe I’m wrong and he isn’t the angel You sent me?
Well, only one way to find out.

Let the man in.

“Oh, look”—Fredrik spoke up against the door, keeping his eye to the
peephole—“it’s Rafe, come to visit an old man. So may I open the door now, Staff Sergeant, sir? Pretty please?”

Rafe’s eye roll would have done any teenager proud. Fredrik opened the door and stepped aside so Rafe could enter. The young man came in, and Fredrik could tell from the storm in his eyes and his stooped shoulders he was troubled.

“
Sholem aleykham
, Rafe.”

“
Aleyken sholem
, Fredrik.”

Fredrik smiled. Yiddish always sounded good on a young man’s tongue. And it touched him that Rafe remembered the phrases Fredrik had taught him. “So, tell an old man. What’s on your mind?”

Rafe didn’t answer. Instead, he made his way to Fredrik’s kitchen, going to the ever-ready coffeepot, pulling a mug from the cupboard, and pouring himself a full cup of the thick black brew.

“I would think you’d get enough of that stuff at your place.”

Rafe took a deep, long sip before he answered. “I suppose so. But nothing tastes quite like the coffee you make.”

Fredrik came to refresh his own mug. “I notice you didn’t say tastes as
good
as the coffee I make.”

“You always have been an observant sort.”

Fredrik eyed Rafe over the lip of his coffee cup. “I’m Jewish, my boy. We’re like God; we notice everything.” Good. The boy could still smile. So he wasn’t too upset. “So, what brings you to an old man’s apartment this late on a Friday night? I’d think you’d be out with some lovely lady, painting the town red—or whatever the appropriate color is these days.”

A cloud settled on Rafe’s brow. So, it had something to do with a woman. Of course. Wasn’t it always a woman when a man was this restless and uncertain? “Don’t tell me you’re still mooning over that lady customer of yours?”

This time it was Rafe who eyed Fredrik over his coffee cup. “I. Don’t. Moon.”

Fredrik stirred his coffee with slow, measured care. “Of course you don’t. I should have known big, tough Marines don’t moon. My mistake that what you’ve been doing all these weeks, coming over here, talking about this woman until you’re ready to cry in your coffee was mooning.” He carried his
coffee cup over to the couch and settled on the deep cushions. “So tell me, what
do
Marines do?”

A half smile lifted Rafe’s lips. “Reconnoiter.” Rafe walked over to the window and stared out.

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, Rafe, but what kind of
mishegas
is that? Yes, fine, reconnoiter for a few days. But you’ve been doing it for weeks. Months, even. When is it time to stop thinking, stop evaluating, and actually
do
something?”

“I wish I knew.” Rafe cupped his hands around the mug. “You remember I told you it’d been a little over two weeks since she came into the shop?”

“I remember you were about to call out the Marines.” He realized what he’d said and grinned. “You should excuse the expression.”

“I’d almost decided she wasn’t coming back. And I’d almost decided how I felt about that.”

“Which was?”

“Not good.” He looked down into the coffee mug, as though the answer were somehow there floating on top of the dark liquid. “And then this morning, there she was. I could tell the minute she walked in she was unhappy.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “Kind of … unsettled.”

As interesting as this was, Fredrik had to fight the urge to tell Rafe he didn’t have time to listen to more rambling about this nameless woman.
Why
she’d remained nameless all these weeks was beyond him, but Rafe was adamant. The military seemed to have rendered the man incapable of sharing information unless he absolutely had to, so he hardly shared any details about her. Aside, of course, from the fact that she was driving him crazy.

Or, to be more accurate, that he was driving himself crazy over her.

At any rate, Fredrik had bigger worries now than Rafe’s mystery woman. He opened his mouth to tell him so, but the words froze when a voice whispered through him.

Wait
.

He crossed his arms.
For what should I wait? I’ve got no time for all this
.

Wait
.

Fredrik clamped his mouth shut. God said wait. So wait he would.

Rafe tossed back the rest of his coffee, then set the mug on the kitchen
counter. “The odd thing is, she should be happy. You know that new mall, the Mountain’s Edge mall?”

Fredrik shook his head.
What do I care about a mall, Lord? What does this have to do with—?

“Well, her construction company built it. And with all the accolades that mall and her company have been getting, shouldn’t she be happy?”

Fredrik leaned forward. All those months of listening to Rafe talk about this woman, about his concerns for her. About the impact she had on him. On his heart. His spirit. And about her eyes. Those deep green eyes …

“Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne … Righteousness and justice … justice …”

Justice.

Understanding clicked. Pieces shifted and fell into place.

Lord, could it be? Was the answer there all along and I just forgot?

Heart rate accelerating, Fredrik turned to Rafe. “Are you saying this woman owns a construction company?”

As though realizing he’d given away something he shouldn’t have, Rafe’s protective walls slid back into place. Fredrik knew that look. All too well. That was his “name, rank, serial number” look.

Lord, we don’t have time for this
. He took hold of Rafe’s arm, not even pausing when the muscles beneath his hand hardened to steel. “Listen to me, boy. God brought you here tonight for a reason. I was just praying, and here you are. With the answer I need. So tell me”—he gave that iron arm a shake—“and tell me true, is this woman Kyla Justice?”

Fredrik almost danced a jig at the astonishment on Rafe’s usually controlled features. The boy’s mouth opened, then clamped shut again. But it was enough.

“It is!” He clapped his hands, so overcome was he with delight at the wonders of God’s ways. Why had he ever doubted God’s timing? “So God shows Himself faithful again.”

Rafe’s confusion only increased Fredrik’s delight. “Don’t you see? God sees the whole of our lives. Beginning to end. Not because He’s looking at the picture, but because He
painted
it. Every stroke. Every color. Every nuance of beauty.
He
put it there. As He put you in this woman’s life. And in mine.”

“Fredrik,
what
are you talking about?”

“Kyla Justice! You must not despair. Remember, ‘The plans of the
LORD
stand firm forever, the purposes of his heart through all generations.’ ”
Abba, thank You for Your perfect plans and purpose!
Fredrik made a beeline for the phone book.

“What are you doing, old man?”

Not even the growl in that hard question could stop Fredrik now.
Righteousness and Justice. Kyla Justice. Yahweh, You had this in hand all along
. He gave Rafe a glowing grin as he lifted the phone from the receiver. “I’m calling Kyla Justice.”

Rafe’s eyes widened a fraction, but nothing compared to what they did when Fredrik went on.

“To set up a meeting for tomorrow. And you are going with me.”

“You’ll do no such—”

“
Sha shtil!
This isn’t about you, Rafe. It’s about God and His purposes.”

Rafe watched as Fredrik pulled out the phone book and flipped through the pages to the
J
s. Fredrik found the number, jotted it down, then smiled at Rafe. “God has plans. And unless I’ve heard Him wrong”—which he’d bet the last hair on his head he hadn’t—“those plans include the wonderful Miss Justice.” He grinned.
Oy
, such a sense of humor God had! “And you. So go now. Go home. Get some rest. I’ll call you in a little bit to tell you what time we’re meeting.”

“You’re so sure she’ll say yes.”

“I’m so sure like I’ve never been sure before.”

Rafe made his way to the door. “Yeah? Well, I can’t say I share your conviction. And I’m not so sure I want to be a part of whatever plan that beady little brain of yours has hatched. What do you think about that, old man?”