What Lies Within (20 page)

Not even a pause. Slow but sure, the kitten made her unsteady way to Kyla, mewling all the way.

“I will not have a cat sleeping in my bed.”

Mew!
It had reached her sheet-covered feet now.

“You are not going to get your way.”

Mew! Mew! Mew!

The kitten’s little claws gripped the sheet as it pulled itself up the mountain that was her legs, not stopping until it reached the tops of her knees. There, at last, the tiny animal halted.

They were almost nose to nose. Kyla narrowed her gaze. “Get down.”

Mew!

“Look, I’m the human. You are the animal—”

Mew! Mew!

“—You have to do what …”

Mew!

“… what I …”

Oh, who was she fooling?

Kyla reached out and caught the little creature up, cupping it in her hands as she cuddled it close, stroking its trembling body. The kitten rubbed its head against her, eyes closed. Kyla surrendered on a long, deep sigh. “Okay, Serendipity. You win.”

She held the kitten out so they were face to face. “But just until you’re stronger, understand?”

Kyla turned off the light, then scooched down under the covers, keeping the kitten cuddled on her shoulder. She rested her cheek against the soft fur, whispering into the kitten’s ear. “Trust me on this, kitty, this is
not
going to be your bed forever.”

Serendipity didn’t seem in the least concerned. She just curled against Kyla, a soft purr rumbling from that tiny chest.

Kyla smiled and closed her eyes.

Now, after just a few weeks of steady food, water, and shelter, of cuddles and nurture, scarcely a shadow remained of the bedraggled animal she’d first seen. In its place was a playful puffball that lived to entertain her.

And, of course, slept in her bed every night. But, as amazing as it was to Kyla, she didn’t mind. Because she’d laughed more in the last week than she’d done in months.

Kyla looked down at her recalcitrant companion, who was, at the moment, sprawled on her back, paws up in the air. Kyla dangled her fingers, letting Serendipity bat at them. “You’re good for me, you know that?”

The kitten arched, doing her best to capture Kyla’s fingers. She patted the fuzzy head, then reached to pull back the sheets. Serendipity sprang up from the pillow, bounced stiff-legged across the bed, and made a dive at Kyla’s hand. She pulled back, intent on avoiding more scratches—why hadn’t anyone ever told her how sharp a kitten’s claws were?—then burst into laughter when Serendipity’s momentum sent her somersaulting off the bed.

The kitten landed on all fours, then shook herself, looking around as if to say, “I
meant
to do that.”

Kyla pulled on her robe and headed for the kitchen, Serendipity right
behind her. She pulled a can of cat food from the fridge—gourmet cat food, no less. Who knew such a thing existed?—and spooned some into Serendipity’s dish.

She crouched, set the dish on the floor, and stroked the kitten’s fur as it devoured the food. “How can Mason not like you?” How could anyone not love this little rascal?

She straightened, going to the cupboard to pull out some coffee. “I’m afraid neither one of us is winning brownie points with dear Mason lately, are we?” Kyla frowned. “But then again, he’s not winning a lot of points with us either.”

Oddly enough, she wasn’t upset about it. She was just … nothing. She opened the bag of grounds. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she didn’t really care whether he wanted her to keep the cat or not.

Maybe that’s because you don’t
.

Her hand halted, the coffee scoop suspended over the coffee maker. That was absurd. Of course she cared. She loved Mason, and what he felt, what he thought, mattered to her.

Not enough for you to give up the cat
.

Yes, well, that was because he wasn’t being reasonable. She scooped Serendipity up, putting them eye to eye. “I ask you, what kind of person detests cats? Even one as adorable as you?” Kyla set Serendipity down before the cat—or, more to the point, her mind—answered that.

Some things really were better left unsaid.

“Hurry up, Fredrik.”

The sun shone bright in the sky, and cars passed by Kyla’s parked vehicle, but that didn’t matter. She didn’t want to be there.

Didn’t want to risk running into her visitor from last night.

At the thought of him, Kyla glanced around her, as uneasy as a mouse in a room full of alley cats. “Come on, Fredrik. Please.”

Daylight hadn’t done much to improve the run-down buildings and graffiti she’d seen in the dark last night. In fact, it all looked worse, which didn’t help calm her apprehension as she drove through the neighborhood.

Worst of all, since she’d parked in front of the church, she would swear she was being watched.

You’re getting paranoid
.

Yeah. Well. Just because you were paranoid didn’t mean someone wasn’t out to get you.

“Any time now, Fredrik.”

As though he’d heard her whispered plea, an old Buick pulled up behind Kyla’s car and the door opened. Despite the passing years, she would have known him anywhere.

She opened her own door and stepped out.

“Kyla,
mein kind
.”

My child
. How long it had been since she’d heard that phrase, that voice … that warmth.

Kyla walked into the old man’s embrace, and his solid arms around her took her back to the safety and joy of childhood. Fredrik had been so much a part of her youth. How could she have forgotten about him?

You’ve forgotten many things
.

“Let me look at you.” He held her at arm’s length. “Such a beauty you’ve become. So tall. And skinny.” He shook his head, which was crowned in thick white hair. “What? They don’t feed you at home?” His impish grin peeked out from the neat white beard and mustache.

Kyla laughed. “There is no ‘they,’ old friend. It’s just me.”

His head tipped at that. “So? No Mr. Wonderful in the wings?”

Mason. Tell him about Mason
.

She tucked her arm into his. “Just you,
Zeyde
.”

Before that inner voice could question her reluctance to talk about her beloved, Fredrik swatted at her hand where it rested on his forearm. “Grandfather, eh?” He nodded. “It’s good. You remember your Yiddish.”

It was coming back to her. Somehow just being with Fredrik drew it from the dusty corner of her memory.

“So.” He turned to survey the building across from them. “What do you think?”

Oh dear. How to answer that? “It’s large.”

“Close to four thousand square feet all together.” They started across the
street. “Or it was, before the fire. This was our church home for over forty-five years. And now, dear child, we’d like to make it into a youth center.”

Kyla tipped her head at that. A youth center … She studied the structure. Yes, she could see that. It looked large enough, anyway.

“Come. Let’s go inside.”

As she followed Fredrik up the steps, a movement to the side of the church caught Kyla’s eyes. Five teens stood there, watching them, leaning against the concrete warehouse next to the church. They wore the usual low-slung, baggy pants and oversized football or basketball jerseys kids sported lately; all had cigarettes hanging either from their mouths or their fingers. A veritable cloud of smoke drifted up from their gathered circle, as though staking claim on even the sky.

Kyla made eye contact with one of the boys and felt herself go cold inside. She looked from one to the other and saw the same thing. Their expressions, like their stances, sent clear messages. Defiance. Challenge. Threat.

“Be ready. God is doing something wonderful.”

Kyla barely restrained a shaky laugh at the echo of Fredrik’s assertion. From what she’d seen last night and so far today, this was the last place God would work a miracle.

She watched the fixed stares follow her and Fredrik up the stairs. Were those kids angry? Curious? Stoned?

“The church building was donated years ago, before I came here, by a couple in the church. The Maisels. Lovely people. Salt of the earth. Hard workers who made their money with integrity. They loved God and devoted this property to His use and purposes.”

Fredrik’s words drew Kyla’s attention away from the teens. “So that’s why you want to make it into a youth center, now that it’s no longer going to be a church?”

“Yes.”

If those sullen kids were representative of the teens in the neighborhood, a youth center was not just a good idea, it was a necessity. They reached the sanctuary doors, and Kyla hesitated. “So when does the renovation need to be done?”

Fredrik pulled open the double doors and held them for her to pass through. “Well, we’ve been working on this for almost a year.”

She did her best to hide her surprise at that, but his wry smile told her she’d failed.

“I know, I know. You can’t tell from looking, eh? Well, it’s not from lack of trying,
kinder
. I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of … resistance.”

His words reached her but didn’t really connect because her attention was captured by what she saw before her. She’d guessed the building was fairly old as she inspected it last night, but she’d had no idea the beauty contained within the structure. The sanctuary boasted lovely, rich wood paneling—not veneer, but real wood. Knotty pine, from what Kyla could see. The stained-glass windows were tall and stunning, and the pews, done in the same knotty pine, were worn but inviting. She walked along, trailing a hand across the back of one of the pews, loving the feel of the old wood.

Her attention drifted from one unique quality to the next, and Kyla caught her breath at the quickening in her spirit. Her mouth fell open as understanding struck home.

This was it. This was the job she’d been waiting for.

Excitement building, her imagination slammed into overdrive as she considered the possibilities, what they could do with this room …

“It’s beautiful, yes?”

Kyla’s smile was immediate. “Yes.”

“I knew you’d see the beauty, the potential here. Now we just have to figure out how to get everything done in the time we have left.”

Kyla turned to face her old friend. “About that. Exactly how much time are we talking about?”

Fredrik lowered himself onto one of the pews. “First, let me give you some background. The Maisels donated the building and land on the condition that both would always be used for God’s work. But there was a provision.”

Uh-oh. Provisions were seldom good news.

“If the building ever stood idle, or if it was used for something other than God’s work, after one year, the title would revert back to the Maisels. Of course, they’re gone now, so that means ownership reverts back to their grandson, Sam Ballat.”

Fredrik watched her expression as he spoke the name. Kyla guessed he wondered if she recognized it.

She did.

Sam Ballat was one of the most successful businessmen in the Northwest. His holdings were almost as well known as his cutthroat business practices. The man was a mogul, one who did not tolerate fools or resistance.

“So Ballat would own the property. Which means …”

Fredrik stood and led Kyla to the back of the sanctuary and up a stairway leading to three rooms that had served as Sunday school classrooms. “You know property in this area has appreciated.”

Now
that
was an understatement. Though this wasn’t the most desirable neighborhood for homes, it was a mecca for industry. From what Kyla had seen as she drove here this morning, there were as many concrete warehouses in the area as there were run-down houses. Maybe more.

Ah. Of course. “Ballat wants to sell.”

“Raze the church and build another warehouse or two.” His tone turned mordant. “
Genug shoyn
with the warehouses. Like a hole in the head this neighborhood needs another warehouse.”

She followed Fredrik back down the stairs. “Ballat’s a businessman. He’d make a pretty penny if he sold.”

“That he would.” Fredrik fell silent, his gaze sweeping the sanctuary. “But that’s not why he wants to sell.”

Kyla crossed her arms. “Then why do it?”

Fredrik indicated the pew next to them, and Kyla sat. She had the sense he wasn’t quite certain how much he should share. “As much as Harriet and Caleb Maisel loved God, that’s how much their grandson hates Him.”

“Hates Him?”

“Passionately. With a devotion I’ve rarely seen, not even in God’s faithful. For him, this isn’t a place of worship and beauty, but a chamber of lies and deceit.”

“But …” Kyla looked around the sanctuary, trying to imagine how one couldn’t see the beauty here. “Why?”

“His parents, Martin and Rose Ballat, God rest their souls, gave everything to God. Including their lives. Missionaries, they were, in the sixties. In
the Congo.” Sorrow weighted his words, and as though it did the same to his head, he lowered it. “Such an endeavor back then, it wasn’t safe. One night rebels attacked their home. Took them prisoner. For days we heard nothing. For weeks no word of hope. No word even of death. Then …”