A Touch of Grace (5 page)

He would have had better luck selling sand in Saudi Arabia. Gretchen didn’t ease off.

“Here is better.” She flipped open a small spiral notebook. “Let’s get started. Tell me about the mission. What exactly do you do?”

“Easy question.” He smiled again. Might as well be nice about it. As his mother often said, he’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And Gretchen Barker definitely needed some sweetening.

He pointed to the large framed poster on one wall and moved in that direction. Gretchen followed. “Isaiah 58 is our mission statement. The scripture tells it all.”

The same words were engraved on a plaque outside each entrance.

The photojournalist focused in on the Bible verses and then turned the camera back to Ian. In T-shirt and baseball cap, Ian figured he didn’t look much like a preacher. And that was okay by him, considering the people he ministered to. Teenagers were far more likely to talk to jeans and T-shirt than a suit and tie.

“Jesus commanded that we serve others. Isaiah House tries to do that. Mostly, our outreach is to runaways and street kids, but anyone who comes through that door gets all the help we can give them.”

“Very commendable,” she murmured in a voice that was less than impressed. Her sharp, intelligent eyes studied his face, and Ian got the sense that she wanted to find fault. What had he done to earn her animosity? Was it because of Maddy? Or did she dislike ministries in general?

He gave it another shot. “Kids on the street need a place to go, a safe haven where they can get help. That’s what matters to us. Isaiah House is not three hots and a cot, as the street people call a regular shelter. We help lost people, particularly teens, find their way again.”

“Interesting,” she said, as she furiously scribbled notes. “Would you mind telling our viewers about your program? What do you do that makes you different from any other shelter?”

“Lots of things.”

Eyes narrowed, she shot him that sharp look again. “Care to articulate?”

Ian wished he’d had time to prepare. Isaiah House wasn’t a shelter, per se. It was so much more. But every time he tried to express his vision, he came off like a fanatic. And the last thing he needed was to sound like a nut on television.

The photographer had moved away to point the camera down a side hall. Roger limped in their direction, carrying a stack of towels. When he spotted the camera, he did an about-face, disappearing as fast as his hip could take him back toward the dining room. Ian couldn’t hide the smile.

“I suppose our most important difference is this—we minister to the whole person, not only the physical. Humans are three parts—mind, spirit and body. If one is out of order, the rest suffer.”

“Is there more emphasis on the spiritual aspect than the others?”

He paused to consider the motive behind the odd question, choosing his words carefully. “We use a balanced approach.”

“Do you consider it balanced to require chapel twice a day, along with a Bible study and a prayer group?”

Okay. Now he saw where she was headed. Here was his opportunity to share his rationale, not only with her, but with a wide TV audience. “Yes. I do.”

But before he could explain further, she interrupted him with another question.

“Can you discuss where the mission gets its operational funds?”

Money. Dismay filtered over him like a fog. To the press, ministries were about money, not helping people. The whole idea tore him up. No man in pursuit of wealth would choose to deal with the troubled castoffs of society. Why couldn’t the public and the press understand that?

“We depend entirely upon donations.”

“What about government funding?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then we’d have to follow their rules, and we can’t do that.”

“Isaiah House has no rules?” She scribbled something else on her notepad.

“We have plenty. Biblical rules, not rules of the government.”

“So let me make sure I have this right. Anyone who comes to Isaiah House for help is required to attend all the religious elements of the program. The Bible study, prayer groups and chapel. Is that correct?”

Ian had enough experience with opposition to know she was fishing for a negative angle, but all he could do was answer honestly and let God take care of the results.

“The only way to get people to change their lives is to change their hearts.”

A smile, the first one he’d seen, softened the line of her mouth.

“Wasn’t there a recent lawsuit filed against Isaiah House for expecting a man to attend a Bible study in exchange for a meal at the soup kitchen?”

No big news there. “Yes, but the courts refused to hear it.”

“Were you guilty?”

“If you’re asking if we require chapel or Bible classes to utilize our services, the answer is yes.” His easy admission seemed to catch her off guard. Good. She’d been trying to catch him off guard from the get-go. “People can’t change their hearts unless their minds are changed.”

“You change their minds through Bible study? Isn’t that brainwashing?”

Ian fought against rolling his eyes. Brainwashing. Please.

“The Bible teaches that we are transformed by a renewing of our minds. As a person replaces his old destructive thoughts with God’s word, he’s reprogrammed to think in productive, healthy ways.”

Did that sound as stiff and religious as he feared?

“Reprogrammed. I see.” She started to wander about the small room, gnawing on the end of her pen.

The chapel door swooshed open and a teenage girl stepped out, head down, a Kleenex clutched in one hand. Ian groaned inwardly.
Chrissy.
The one person in the mission who did not need to be confronted by a news camera.

Before he had a chance to stop her, Gretchen walked up to the girl and said, “I’m Gretchen Barker with Channel Eleven News. Could I have a word with you?”

Chrissy’s eyes widened. She started trembling, her gaze darting desperately around the room in search of escape. They landed on Ian.

“Ian?” she croaked out.

Ian sprang into action, stepping between Chrissy and
the camera. Jaw hard enough to snap, he bit out one word. “No.”

Gretchen stared up at him, clearly startled by the sudden change in his mild demeanor. “Why not?”

“Our residents have a right to privacy.”

“Can’t she speak for herself?”

“No.”

For a matter of seconds, Ian and Gretchen stared, locked in a battle of wills. There were some things in this mission that no one, certainly not a news reporter, needed to know.

Behind him, the chapel door opened and closed. Ian relaxed a little. Chrissy had escaped back to the safety of the chapel out of range of the prying camera.

Gretchen was none too pleased at his interference. Eyes arcing green fire, she continued to stare at him for several long challenging seconds. Let her think what she would. Ian refused to budge.

Finally, she snapped her notebook shut. “All right then.” She turned to her videographer and hitched her head toward the door. “I think we have plenty for this first time.”

The shock of her words rattled Ian’s brain.

First time? Did that mean she’d be back for more?

At seven o’clock Ian readied his notes for the evening chapel service. Tonight he’d speak on spiritual freedom, one of his favorite topics. Maybe the reminder would lift this heaviness from his spirit. He couldn’t seem to shake the sense of failure over Maddy and the worry about her sister’s sudden interest in Isaiah House. He’d done noth
ing illegal, but the news media could make or break a ministry. From Gretchen’s attitude, he feared she wanted to do the latter.

He left his office and started through the dayroom to the chapel.

“Hey, Ian,” one of the residents called. “You’re on TV.”

The Barracuda’s report. The woman didn’t let any grass grow under her feet. Though he’d thought of little else all afternoon, he hadn’t expected the story to be aired this soon.

“You’re famous, man,” another called. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Do I look good?” he joked in return, coming to stand behind a long couch which faced the only television in the building. He leaned his legs against the slick vinyl fabric.

“That lady reporter must have thought so. She stuck around here long enough.”

Accustomed to their good-natured teasing, Ian chuckled. “I don’t think she was here because of my pretty face.”

“Must have been the shoes.”

Henry, whose shaved head was furrowed like a cornfield, said, “Yeah, that’s it, man. The shoes.”

“I think she was looking for me.” Raoul was a street-savvy seventeen-year-old with a missing front tooth and a wicked sense of humor. “I sure do like blondes.”

Ian thumped the teen on the shoulder. “She’s too old for you.”

“But not for you.”

Henry’s comment made him uncomfortable, though
he didn’t know why. They were always ribbing him over his single status. Some day he hoped to find the right woman, but Gretchen Barker? Come on. Definitely not his type.

He frowned the teen into silence. “Be quiet so we can hear the story.”

The knot in his shoulder started acting up again. Though he was praying against a hatchet job, he didn’t have much hope.

The segment opened with the words of Isaiah 58 superimposed over a nice shot of the property. Gretchen’s warm, modulated voice-over introduced the mission and Ian. As the story proceeded, the tension in Ian’s shoulders slowly relaxed. Gretchen was doing a pretty decent job. The piece unfolded, straightforward, objective, clear, even if he did look more like a mission resident than the director.

Maybe some positive publicity would increase the lagging donations, and he could replace the ancient heating unit before next winter.

He came around the couch and sat down just as Gretchen said, “This reporter, in keeping with our commitment to truth, believes our viewers have a right to know that here in this lovely old house surrounded by the lush beauty of magnolias and wisteria, something sinister may be occurring.”

A clip of yellow police tape from the scene of Maddy’s death flashed across the screen.

Ian’s heart thumped once, hard. He sat up straight and leaned forward. What was she doing?

The camera panned to Ian’s face as Gretchen con
tinued. “The boyishly handsome street preacher freely admits to using unorthodox methods and refusing government funds so that he can make his own rules. Rules that unfortunately include, by the reverend’s own admission, mind control and brainwashing.”

“I admitted no such thing,” Ian sputtered, and then watched in horror as the camera showed him stepping, fierce-faced, in front of Chrissy. Thank goodness, the runaway’s identity was blocked from view by his shoulders.

“Whoa, Ian,” someone said, “you looked mad.”

He hadn’t been mad. He’d been concerned for Chrissy’s safety, but Barracuda Barker hadn’t recognized that reaction any more than Raoul had.

“As you can see from this video, we attempted to speak with one of the residents of Isaiah House, but Reverend Carpenter would not allow this. We plan to find out exactly why, so join us for our next segment of ‘Behind the Cross’ when we will delve more deeply into the secrets of Isaiah House Mission.”

Ian sank slowly back against the cushions in stunned silence and put his face in his hands. He had a feeling his troubles with Gretchen Barker had only just begun.

Chapter Four

T
he familiar hustle and bustle of a busy newsroom flowed around Gretchen’s cubicle. Phones rang, people talked in soft tones, a fax machine whirred. The mug of coffee on her desk grew cold. Head bent in total focus, Gretchen pounded the keys of her laptop, writing up the notes from her phone call to Marian Jacobs. Suspecting that some of the councilwoman’s statements about Isaiah House were politically motivated, she would be very careful to research every complaint before taking them to the air. Keeping her integrity as an objective reporter was paramount, regardless of her personal concerns about Ian Carpenter and the rescue mission.

A creepy feeling, as if she was being watched, came over her. She glanced up.

The Isaiah House minister stood in the open space, one wide shoulder against the doorway, his hands steepled in front of him. Above gleaming new black-and-turquoise
tennis shoes, faded old jeans and a turquoise T-shirt, he was rumpled and unshaven. A weathered LSU ball cap was pulled low over his face. The unexpected scruffy look gave Gretchen a sudden attack of butterflies. She had never met a preacher who looked so little like a minister and so much like a man.

Goodness. His eyes were blue.

“Got a minute?” he asked in that quietly compelling voice.

She took a second to casually toss an empty yogurt container into the trash can before pushing back from her desk. “Is this about last night’s story?”

Even though she’d aired nothing but facts, Gretchen fully expected him to be unhappy with the report.

He sidestepped the question with one of his own. “Do you blame me and the mission for what happened to Maddy?”

The memory of her sister’s untimely death, never far away, rushed in like a cruel wave of fresh pain. She closed her eyes, quickly collecting the loose ends of her composure before looking back at him. “Leave Maddy out of this.”

Ian pushed off the flimsy partition and moved closer. Gretchen’s pulse gave a funny jump of fear, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Was she afraid of him? Or of the odd reaction she was having to him this morning? Whichever, she refused to cower.

Her story had been fair. She’d reported what she’d witnessed, and from the way her e-mail inbox had overflowed, the people of New Orleans wanted to know more. Even if Ian was angry, what could he do in a
crowded TV station? Laser her to death with his startling eyes?

He startled her even further by going to his haunches next to her chair so that they were eye level. The action stirred a vague scent of laundry soap and new shoes. For a second, she thought he was going to touch her, but when she stiffened, he placed his hand on the edge of her desk instead.