“This person is demanding a meeting. Even threatening to write something and publish it. I have no idea what he knows. But, Eddy, you know how very much I value anonymity.”
“I do, Stella. Listen, talk to Jerry and I’ll check with my staff here— see if anyone seems to know something I’m unaware of. Anything else I can do?”
“I actually think there is.”
She explained her plan quickly and once again felt relief when Eddy said, “I’ll be there.”
Next she dialed Jerry Steinman’s home number. His congenial voice comforted her across the phone line. “Steinman residence.”
“Jerry, it’s Stella.”
“Stella! Great to hear from you! How are things coming with the new book? I hear from Eddy that he’s pushing for a before-Christmas release. Fabulous!”
“I don’t know how he will do it, but that’s Eddy’s problem. He can move mountains with the force of his words. But …” She lowered her voice as if someone might hear. “I am not as convinced about your Mr. Ted Draper.”
“Really, Stella? I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you said the interview had gone well.”
“It went fine. But I received a letter today—an anonymous letter— from someone who has obviously read the manuscript of the new novel. He’s threatening to publish an article about me and insists that I meet him next Monday in Chicago. Could this be Ted? Or could he have leaked information?”
“I don’t see how. He hasn’t read the manuscript—hasn’t read any of your novels yet. That’s his homework. I don’t see how or why …”
She could hear Jerry ruminating.
“Tell you what, Stella. Let me talk to Ted, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you, Jerry. Thank you.”
She hung up the phone, reread the letter, and set it on her desk. She tried to push the worry away. She trusted her two old friends. They had never failed her yet.
________
Katy Lynn shuffled out of Sandy’s bedroom in her pajamas, heading to the too-small bathroom for a shower. Finally, after a week, her jet lag was over and she could really sleep in. Vacation. She passed by Brian’s tiny office, where her brother-in-law had his head in some thick book.
“Good morning,” she said.
He glanced up at her. “Good morning, Katy Lynn.”
Thank goodness Brian seemed to wake up on the right side of the bed morning after morning. A happy personality—unlike poor, depressed Janelle—although she couldn’t see what difference it made in his line of work, whatever it was.
Curiosity got the best of her, and over a cup of coffee later in the morning, she asked Janelle, “What does Brian do all day?”
She could tell by the way Janelle’s face turned pink that her little question caught her sister off guard.
“Well, he has his office upstairs, and that’s where he prepares Bible studies and sermons. But the media center is downtown. He’s in charge of the day-to-day management—supervising the radio programs that broadcast the Gospel into North Africa, and the correspondence course work—sending out Bible studies in Arabic throughout the Arab-speaking world.”
“Hmm. Okay. So everything has to do with convincing those Islam people to change their religion. Is that it?”
“Muslims.” Janelle got a far-off look. “Not exactly, Katy. You see, we can’t convince anyone to ‘change his religion.’ It’s God’s Spirit who works in the people’s lives and moves them to study, to ask questions, to get to know who Jesus is. So many of these people have a false understanding of Jesus, what they’ve been taught since birth. We try to give them correct information.”
Katy Lynn winced at Janelle’s syrupy words. She shouldn’t have asked. Couldn’t her baby sister see it made her uncomfortable to hear her talk so openly about God? It reminded Katy Lynn of her teenage years when her parents discussed religion as if it were something very personal.
“Jesus this, Jesus that! Janelle, doesn’t it ever seem like a charade to you? A put-on, all this God talk? I’d go insane if I had to listen to it all day. Trying to convince yourself that some big Creative Force actually cares about us. I’ve only been here for a week and I can see it isn’t true.”
Her baby sister grew silent.
Oh, deary me, I’ve hurt her feelings.
Janelle always was the sensitive one, the sweet little thing with the heart of gold. Well, like it or not, Katy Lynn had a right to ask questions.
Ever afterward, she would ask herself what her two weeks in Montpellier would have been like if she hadn’t blurted out her thoughts. For goodness’ sake, she was the master at charades, the queen of appearances. It must have been the heat and the close quarters and the sad, sad eyes of Janelle, and all her own personal problems, all combined, that made her say these things.
The next sentence came out too quickly, and again, unplanned.
“Look, Janelle, I can see you are depressed. You can’t hide it from me. Your God isn’t helping, and you are desperate. Quit faking it! Just be miserable. I can see it.”
Janelle was completely unprepared for the accusation.
Faking it?
How could her sister, her sister of the perfect appearances, call her a fake? She stared down at her teacup, mentally calculating how many days before Katy Lynn left. The same as the last time she’d counted, five minutes ago. Eight more days,
if
they were lucky. Katy Lynn didn’t exactly seem to be in a big hurry to get back to Hamilton and Gina.
This would go down in her mental scrapbook as the
second visit from hell
.
Lord, I’d love to strangle her.
Then Janelle imagined the headline in the
Atlanta Journal
: Missionary to Muslims Strangles Debutante Sister in Passionate Debate Over Religion. No, it wasn’t worth it.
With a sigh and a sip of tea she said, “Look, Katy Lynn, I don’t expect you to understand our work—why we do what we do. You and I have never been exactly on the same wavelength. And yes, you’re right. I am depressed. But”—she turned on Katy Lynn, and her voice wavered—“until you’ve lost a child, until you’ve held that little lifeless form in your arms, I don’t think you have any business chiding me for being depressed! You weren’t there for me when Josh died, and you haven’t given a thought to us or our work for a long, long time. It’s okay for you to come and take your vacation here. So be it. But please keep your mouth shut about the rest. We chose this life and it isn’t easy. You can’t compare it to Buckhead and the club and all your well-intentioned charities. It’s different. But that doesn’t make it wrong or unimportant.”
Two perfect crimson spots appeared on Katy Lynn’s cheeks. “You don’t have to get all defensive, Janelle. I thought you’d be happy to see me after all these years. You have no idea what my life is like either. The pressures of Hamilton’s job, my responsibilities, Gina as an adolescent. My life isn’t a cakewalk!”
“Of course not,” Janelle replied, hoping to end the conversation.
“And every bit of what we have, we earned the hard way, through long hours and sacrifice. At least we aren’t begging for handouts from people—getting money from Americans so you can come live by the beach in Southern France!”
The words stung. But how could she explain it to Katy Lynn? How could her sister understand the concept of missionaries receiving their salary from Christians interested in their work, who felt it was important and pledged to support them with their monthly checks? It did sound like a handout. Janelle didn’t have the mental energy to argue. She got up from the table, put her cup in the sink, and, without turning around, said, “I’ve got a few things to do before we go downtown.” She jogged up the stairs, wishing she had not offered to take her sister to visit the old part of town at noon.
Hang on, Janelle, only eight more days.
________
Well, that’s just perfect! Just what I need! I come to France to get away from my problems, and here I am having to deal with my depressed, hypersensitive sister. Some vacation.
Katy Lynn opened Sandy’s tiny closet, where she had hung up her nicest suits. Amazingly, Janelle had suggested that the two of them go downtown for lunch.
After the little disaster at breakfast, who knows what I’ll have to put up with. But I’ll go. For the sake of my sister.
She took out her lightweight, sapphire blue pants suit with the silk camisole and the matching shoes. Janelle had specified to wear comfortable walking shoes, and these had a medium high heel, but they were the only pair that matched her outfit. They would have to do.
“Yoohoo, Janelle! I’m ready!” She stepped into the bathroom to check her makeup.
Ready for lunch.
Then she thought, with an exasperated sigh,
My treat, of course.
“I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave Montpellier, Janelle. It’s a wonderful town.”
They were standing smack in the middle of a huge open square called
Place de la Comedie
. Katy Lynn had come here by herself earlier in the week. The ornate opera building stood behind them, towering over a fountain with a statue of the three naked Muses. Off to the right was a covered mall—the only one in the city!—and farther up on the left was the majestic, tree-lined Esplanade with its fountains, parks, and kiosks. People were everywhere, sipping coffee at a crowded café with the bright Mediterranean sun warming their backs; chewing on sugar crepes and waffles as they walked along and talked; making their purchases of fruits and vegetables at the
marché
on the Esplanade. Open squares, fountains, people, sun. The beach right around the corner. Katy Lynn loved Montpellier.
They wandered in and out of the labyrinth of
ruelles,
known as the
centre ville
, narrow, cobbled streets with shops tucked into every imaginable space in stone buildings from the Middle Ages, stores offering children’s clothes, shoes, postcards, and lingerie, all hidden behind centuries of stone. Eventually they stepped into a restaurant where Janelle greeted the owner with a kiss on either cheek. The woman led them down a stone stairway into the bowels of the building, which turned out to be a cozy room with a stone vaulted ceiling and tables set with white linen tablecloths and china. A tiny fountain on the wall trickled water into an ancient basin.
“How absolutely charming! How did you find this place, Janelle?”
“Brian found it and brought me here once for my birthday. We really enjoy it. I suggest you order the menu—you’ll get your entrée, the main course, and a dessert. It’s always delicious. And the meal is on me, Katy Lynn.”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t think of it!”
Amazing! Penny-pinching Janelle!
“Please. It’s my pleasure.”
________
Janelle felt the meal had gone well. After her second glass, Katy Lynn proclaimed the wine divine, giggling at the rhyme, and she had devoured the
paté
, the duck, and the profiteroles. The sisters had found a few safe subjects to talk about—the Atlanta Symphony and the newest exhibition at the High Museum and what the French thought about the American cowboy president, Ronald Reagan.
Janelle silently thanked Brian for suggesting they pay for the meal. “A small sacrifice for a peacemaking mission” was how he had put it. That offer had certainly surprised—and pleased—Katy Lynn.
They stepped out into the sun, and a surge of wind swept past.
“Uh-oh. The mistral is here—that’s the wind from the north. It sweeps down through the Rhône Valley. We’re okay here on these little side streets, but out on the open
Place
or at the beach, it can be rather impressive.”
“Oh, yes. Yesterday it was blowing so hard on the beach that it literally stung my skin. I thought I was going to get a rash!” Katy Lynn giggled again, then suddenly looped her arm through Janelle’s, as if they had lunch together every week. “Well, Janelle, we may be as different as night and day, but I can agree with you on that restaurant. Delicious.
Merci
.”
“It really was my pleasure.”
Katy Lynn leaned into her, stumbling once on the cobbled stones. “You know, Janelle, I’ve been thinking. You wonder why we’re so different, why you embraced faith and I rejected it… . Well, maybe it’s because of all that happened during those ten years before you were born. Things you have no idea about.”
Janelle brushed the hair out of her eyes. It was true that she had precious little information about her family prior to her birth. Just a few words about how much the Lord could change any situation and what a blessing her arrival had been—“a confirmation of God’s call on our lives” was how her father put it. Her mother said nothing in those rare moments of her father’s leaking a clue to the past.
“You can tell me now, Katy, if you want. I’m sorry I never asked you before now. What was it like when you were small?”
Maybe the fact that they were walking, not facing each other, helped Katy Lynn speak. Maybe it was the two glasses of red wine. Or maybe it was the fact that after spending a week together, the ice of their relationship was thawing.
Whatever the reason, Katy Lynn blurted out, “It was pure hell, plain and simple. Our parents fought all the time. I have snippets of memories of them screaming—all dressed up for some fancy party, and Mama screaming at Daddy, and him laughing, half drunk. A little kid understands more than you think. They lived up East—New York or Connecticut—and moved among the intellectuals, an Ivy League crowd and fast moving. At least that’s what I’ve pieced together from my memories and a little snooping. There were so many parties back then, Janelle. Music, drinks, laughter, skimpy dresses, and Daddy’s roving eye.”
“What?”
Her father was the most respectable man on earth—never a wayward glance. He only had eyes for her mother.
“It’s true, Janelle. I know you think Dad is a saint, but he didn’t use to be. He got the big head and became way too familiar with way too many ladies. And Mother had enough. Took me one day and off we went. She left him. Of course, at the time I didn’t understand about the drinking and the cheating. Mother explained that to me one night a year or two later, when she was drunk herself.”
Janelle had never heard this story.
“We lived in our own extravagant way. Mother was intent on making Daddy miserable and spending every cent of his money.”