A Touch of Grace (7 page)

“E
ver volunteered in a soup line?”

Ian Carpenter lounged against the counter inside the large dining room of Isaiah House, a box of plastic gloves dangling from one hand. This was the first time he’d slowed down since Gretchen had arrived.

Taking his question as a challenge, she tied a snowy white apron behind her back and yanked the box from him.

“I can handle it.” Any idiot could ladle soup.

One eyebrow twitched. “Just remember to be nice.”

Did he truly think she would mistreat people because they were homeless? She shoved her hand into a glove, giving it an emphatic pop. “I’m always nice.”

Ian laughed and moved off. She made a face at his back.

Fifteen minutes later, she understood his warning.

Some of these people stunk.

Gretchen fought a wave of nausea as she dished up yet another plate of beans and franks. Didn’t anyone else notice the smell?

The girl next to her, one of Ian’s runaways with a none-too-happy disposition, slapped a hefty slice of corn bread on the plate and handed it to an odorous woman.

Although she was a journalist and considered herself well-informed, Gretchen was shocked at the number of women, children and young people coming through the soup line. Weren’t the homeless supposed to be old men with alcohol problems? A lot had changed since the hurricane.

Careful not to touch her hands to her face, she scratched her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. Inhaling deeply, she tried to hold the scent of her perfume as long as possible.

Not everyone stank, but a lot of them did. And the balmy fall humidity didn’t help matters.

Methodically scooping beans, she looked around for the preacher. She planned to keep close tabs on her subject, a not-so-easy task. He was in constant motion, carrying large pots of food, busing tables, mopping up spills, sharing a word and that magnetic smile. None of the work seemed too menial. None of the patrons too dirty or unkempt for a pat on the back or shoulder hug. But Gretchen couldn’t help wondering if the preacher was putting on a show for her sake. Or rather, the sake of her story. She’d need more than a couple of hours to make that kind of judgment.

At the moment, he was crouched in front of a little girl perhaps eight years old with kinky hair and big sad eyes. He reached into his pocket and handed the child something small, though Gretchen couldn’t see what it was. The little girl smiled shyly and offered a hug. Gretchen’s stomach lifted at the sight of the big, white
man gently embracing the small, dark child as her pregnant mother stood smiling.

“Hey, lady, got any T-bone steaks back there for your best customer?”

Gretchen brought her attention back to the line of people. A grizzled old man who fit her preconceived image of the homeless grinned toothlessly in her direction.

“One T-bone coming up,” she joked as she fished in the beans for a couple extra franks and plopped them onto his plate with a flourish.

“Now you’re talking,” he said. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“First time tonight.” And already her best silver blouse was spattered with sauce, and she’d gladly change her snazzy heeled sandals for a pair of well-worn sneakers. No wonder Ian dressed so casually.

“You a volunteer or an inmate?”

The word inmate jumped out at her. “Volunteer.”

“Glad to see a pretty new face back there. Preacher isn’t much to look at.”

She could argue that, and from the glances Ian was getting, so could a lot of other females. The preacher himself seemed oblivious.

The old man took his plate and said, “Name’s James. Brother James Franklin Bastille.”

He offered his free hand. Gretchen refused to be repelled by the stained and yellowed fingers. She whipped away the plastic glove and stuck her hand across the counter.

“Gretchen Barker. I’m happy to meet you, Brother James. You come here often?”

From the back of the line someone said, “Save the introductions for later. The rest of us are hungry, too.”

Gretchen widened her eyes at Brother James and shrugged. He chuckled. “Come talk to me later. I got something to tell you.”

Leaving her curious, he took his plate and shuffled off to find a table.

For the next hour Gretchen dipped and served and tried hard to remember, as Ian had said, that every person in the place was a human being with a story. The journalist in her found that fascinating. Her fastidious side was horrified.

When the line slowed, she made a point of going to the tables to talk to Brother James and a number of other “guests.” They not only told stories of their own, they had stories about Ian Carpenter. A good reporter knew when to shut up and listen.

By the time the kitchen was closed for the evening, Gretchen’s feet ached and her head swam with information. Even though she’d yet to hear anything too negative on Ian Carpenter, she couldn’t wait to get to her laptop and type up her notes.

Untying her apron, she placed the now-dirty coverup in a bin marked for laundry. Wearily, she ran a forearm over her brow. After a day at the station, an evening here wore thin in a hurry.

Ian came round from the dining room, carrying a filled garbage bag. When he saw her, he stopped and hefted the bag over one shoulder like Santa Claus.

“Tired?”

“A little.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “So, what did you think?”

She shrugged. “Interesting.”

“That’s all you can say? Interesting?” He hefted the other two trash bags and moved to the back door.

Gretchen followed. “Actually, I mean it. Some of these people are fascinating.”

He, on the other hand, remained a virtual mystery. She’d come here to investigate
him
and so far, she’d learned little that she didn’t already know. But she had learned plenty about the myriad reasons for homelessness, information she could save for a future story.

Ian dropped the garbage bags out the back door into a Dumpster. His voice drifted back to her. “Interesting and hurting.”

Yes, she’d seen that, too. Even the ones who claimed to enjoy their carefree homeless life had come to the streets because of some pivotal, painful event.

Gretchen spotted yet another bag of trash and hurried to reach the back door before Ian could bolt it. Just as she approached, the lock snicked and Ian turned, slamming into her. She stumbled back, flailing for a hand-hold. Before she found purchase, surprisingly strong hands caught her upper arms and steadied her. His grip was sure and solid, a sign that this preacher did a lot more than preach.

“Whoa there. Can’t have a good volunteer falling into the kitchen sink.”

Blue eyes, both hypnotizing and serene, twinkled at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

They stood together, too close, watching each other
in the now too-empty kitchen. Ian smiled a mysterious half smile. Gretchen stared dumbly.

Somewhere in the building she heard voices and from overhead came the thump of feet. But in the dining area that had been so busy minutes before, she was alone with the troubling preacher. Not that this was a problem. She was an investigative journalist. Up close and personal with unsavory types was what she did. But unsavory wasn’t the word that came to mind when she gazed at this particular man. And that was totally uncharacteristic for Gretchen Barker.

She was a newscaster, for goodness’ sake, accustomed to thinking on her feet. Why couldn’t she think of anything to say?

To her great relief, Ian broke the silence. “You did a good job tonight. I think you gained an admirer in Brother James.”

His words were light, unaffected and about as impersonal as a letter addressed to “occupant.”

Gretchen felt like an idiot.

To cover her discomfiture, she stepped back and forced a laugh.

“Brother James is a sweet old guy.” Arms crossed, she rubbed at goose bumps that had appeared without permission. “He’s smart, too,” she babbled on, thankful to have found her voice. “Did you know he has a degree in literature?”

“No kidding?” Ian propped one hip on a kitchen counter and shoved his fingertips into frayed jean pockets.

Gretchen bit down on her molars, annoyed that he
somehow managed to be attractive in worn jeans and a baggy gray T-shirt stretched out at the neck.

Maybe he
was
using hypnosis on her.

She whipped around and began straightening the salt and pepper shakers. The little glass containers clinked together as she lined them up in neat rows.

“He graduated from Tulane,” she said, determined not to be affected by his eyes or his looks or his soft words. “He was a professor there, too, until his wife died. Then his life fell apart and he took to the streets.” She paused and turned around, an empty shaker in one hand. “He didn’t admit it but I suspect he started drinking, too.”

“He did. Spent half a lifetime lost in alcohol. About a year ago he found the Lord.” Ian unwound himself and moved across the room in her direction. Opening a cabinet overhead, he removed a round carton of salt. Gretchen took it from him.

“If God fixed him why is he still coming here? Why hasn’t the mission helped him get back on his feet?”

Ian spread his hands. “Some people are afraid of the real world, Gretchen. It hurt them before. If they go back, will it hurt them again?”

She unscrewed the lid and poured a steady stream of salt into the shaker. “But living on the streets without money or a home is much more dangerous!”

“Some don’t see it that way.” His gaze flickered to the doorway, and Gretchen had the distinct feeling that he was no longer paying a bit of attention to her. “Look, I hope you don’t mind if I abandon you now. Some of the girls will be back in a minute to finish up here. I have to get going.”

Just like that he walked out of the kitchen.

Gretchen stuck the salt back in the cabinet and banged the door shut. She quickly followed him into the dining area. “Going where?”

A beautiful young brunette she’d never seen before appeared from a side hallway. Gretchen’s interest piqued. Either this was her kitchen help or the Reverend had a hot date. A very young hot date.

“Emily,” Ian said. “Just in time.”

The teen, tall and lovely enough to grace a magazine cover, smiled. “Chrissy and Michelle will be down in a minute. Chrissy’s having another crisis.”

Ian stopped halfway across the wide dining room and frowned. “Is she okay?”

“She wants to take off again. I told her if she left now she’d be sorry.” The girl started to say more then glanced at Gretchen and changed her mind. Gretchen’s investigative radar sprang into action. What was the big secret? And why would the girl be sorry if she left?

Before she could stop the comparison, Gretchen was thinking about Maddy. Had she been told that she’d “be sorry if she left”?

She hated being so suspicious, but painful personal experience had taught her to trust no ministry until she knew for sure it was on the up-and-up. Though Ian Carpenter appeared to be a good guy, he’d had complaints. And, frivolous though they seemed, there were those lawsuits.

“I’d better go talk to her.” Ian started toward the exit leading into the hallway.

Emily shrugged and went to work, dragging a bucket and mop from the closet to fill with water and disinfec
tant. The scent of pine cleaner permeated the room in minutes. As casually as she could, Gretchen grabbed a wet cloth and began washing down the nearby tables.

“I’m Gretchen Barker,” she offered.

The other woman glanced up briefly.

“Emily,” was her only reply before bending her head toward the dirty wooden floor.

Gretchen waited until Ian’s footsteps faded into silence. By now she’d worked her way to the table next to the brunette. “What’s wrong with Chrissy?”

Emily slogged the mop into the water. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

She paused above the mop wringer. Her slender shoulders lifted. “Privacy, I guess.”

“Who told you not to talk? Ian?”

“Everybody here. That’s the way things are. If you want to live at Isaiah House, you keep your mouth shut about the other guests.”

Gretchen wasn’t sure how to read that comment. Either the mission protected its inhabitants or muzzled them.

“Guests?” she asked, liking the term far better than the word “family” that had bound her to the commune.

“Bunch of losers is more like it.”

The young woman’s vehement comment startled her. “You don’t look like a loser to me.”

In fact, Gretchen couldn’t imagine why Emily was here. She didn’t have that hollow-eyed druggie look that Maddy had. She was beautiful, well-dressed, intelligent. In fact, nothing seemed out of order.

The girl eyed her strangely. “If we’re here, we’re losers.”

“I don’t get it. Why would you say that?”

“Look. We all know who you are and why you’re here, poking around the mission.” She plunged the mop into the steaming water. Droplets splashed out, spattering the floor and further releasing the pungent scent of pine. “Ian’s terrific. Leave him alone.”

Emily’s expression telegraphed a fierce warning. Hands off.

Hmm. Was there something personal going on between Ian and one of his very young “guests”?

Before Gretchen could dig further, footsteps sounded on the stairway and Ian breezed back into the room.

The angry look on Emily’s face changed to a bright, model-beautiful smile aimed toward Ian. If he noticed, he didn’t react. At least not in front of Gretchen.

“The others are on their way down,” he said. “I gotta get moving.”

As if Gretchen wasn’t even in the room, he swung around and started to leave again. Wet cloth in hand, she followed.

“Where are you going?”

Ian didn’t stop. “Street patrol.”

Careful not to slip, Gretchen tossed the cloth onto a table and hurried after him, wishing for the hundredth time that she hadn’t worn these snazzy little heels.

When she caught up to him outside the dining room, she asked, “What’s street patrol?”

Three teenage girls clumped down the narrow wooden staircase, chattering in animated voices, and
headed into the dining area. Gretchen recognized Chrissy from her last visit. The teen must have recognized her as well because she quickly averted her red-eyed gaze.