At Every Turn (23 page)

“How do you know he’s a thief?” Fear clawed its way up my throat.

“Webster Little puts on a cloak of respectability, just like you.” He spat the words. I averted my face. “Ask him what happened to his church—and to their money. I daresay he won’t tell you. He’s as much a hypocrite as you—and I.”

Fire burned behind my eyes. I lowered my shoulder and barreled forward, knocking us both to the ground. My weight held him for a brief moment. Then he grabbed me again and rolled over until he pinned me to the ground.

Tears streaked down my cheeks as anger dissolved into terror. Was this my fault? Me, with my lies and pride? “Please stop. I’m not what you think.”

“I know.” His knees dug into my waist as he stripped off his coat and tossed it aside.

Sobs tore through my body.
Please, Jesus. Please.

Then the weight of him flew backward. He landed with a thump. I scrambled close to the wall, drew my knees to my chest, flinched at the smack of flesh connecting with flesh, the oomph of a fist in a stomach, the thud and tumble of two bodies tangled on the ground.

“What is the meaning of this?” Father’s voice careened through the building, bounced off the walls. The commotion ceased. Strong arms lifted me, cradled me against a broad chest. Father’s chest. His heart stormed against my ear.

“Get out!” he shouted. “Get out and don’t ever come back.”

Peace rolled over me. My father would protect me against Lawrence Trotter. And rightly so. I turned my head for a glimpse of the man’s disgrace.

“Webster.” The name sliced like a dagger in my throat as he slunk out the door, overalls smeared with dirt, a river of red dripping from his nose.

“If I even hear of your whereabouts, I’ll call the police,” Father shouted after him.

“No—” I grabbed at Father’s shirt, raised my face to catch his eyes. He didn’t look down.

I stared out the door. Webster had come to my rescue after he’d taken my money? I couldn’t make sense of it.

“It’s a good thing I stopped by to check on the car this evening, sir.” Lawrence pressed his handkerchief to a cut on his face.

Indignation flamed within me. Whatever crime Webster had committed, it hadn’t been as depraved as what Lawrence had attempted. “Father, it wasn’t—”

Steely daggers glittered from Lawrence’s eyes, killing my bravado. He could ruin me,
would
ruin me, in more ways than one. Lawrence Trotter had Father’s ear as surely as the serpent had Eve’s in the garden. How had I ever imagined him kind and good? A man of integrity? A man of faith?

I stared at him through narrowed eyes. He’d twist my accusations, convince Father further of Webster’s guilt—and my own. If I hoped to salvage anything, I dared not accuse him until I knew Father would believe me.

But could I truly defend Webster? He’d taken my money, plundered my trust.

Stolen my heart.

My knees wobbled. Father tightened his grip. “I trust you can find another mechanic to ride with you on Saturday, Trotter?”

“Of course.” His gaze rested
on me, and I knew he wasn’t through extracting his price from me. Not yet. He’d insist on Saturday’s race to save face, to prove himself in my father’s eyes, to cement my inability to prove the truth. And I owned no weapon to wield against him.

 31 

I
haven’t heard that young man whistle all morning. I wonder what’s wrong.” Grandmother fanned herself with one of Mother’s old magazines. A drop of perspiration slid down the side of my face. I wiped it away before it reached my chin. The heat of Grandmother’s inquiries mirrored the swelter of the day.

“Alyce?”

I reached for her hand, still uncertain how to respond. I had no idea anyone else’s ears but mine listened daily for Webster’s jaunty tune. He’d betrayed me. Yet he’d rescued me. And because of my deceit, I’d been unable to return the favor.

“Do you mean Mr. Little, the one who works on Father’s automobiles?” My voice cracked.

“That’s the one. Always so cheerful. He used to stop and talk to me when I could still sit in the garden, while you were away at school. He chased away my loneliness sometimes, even with just his whistle.”

I laid a hand on my stomach. Grandmother should never have been lonely. I’d failed her, too.

“Has something happened to the boy, dear?” Her face crinkled in concern.

“He . . . left.” Another falsehood piled on top of many. Did it really matter anymore?

“Left? But he seemed so happy here.” She turned her head toward the window, as if she could see past the garden, through the trees, and into Webster’s domain.

I stroked Grandmother’s hand. “What did you and Mr. Little talk about?”

Her smile gave way to knitted brows. “Something weighed heavy on him. He wouldn’t say what, but he told me how much it helped him to be here, how this job filled a need in his life.”

A need. I pressed my fingers against my forehead. A need for money, apparently. Had he been scheming some treachery long before I plunked cash into his hand? I swallowed, determined to know what game Webster was playing, determined to discover if I could ease my guilt over keeping silent last night.

“Why don’t we pray for him, Alyce?” Grandmother groped for my hands, but I feared her touch would undo me. I pressed my palms together, setting the line of my fingers across my tight lips as she prayed. “Father God, we lift up Mr. Little. Whatever his circumstances, show him that You see. You care. Judge his enemies and cover him in the shadow of Your wing.”

A small gasp escaped. Why had she prayed that? She spoke as if Webster were one of God’s own children. And how did she know he had enemies? Mr. Trotter obviously despised him, but then I’d become his enemy as well for not speaking the truth last night. Grandmother had just prayed God’s judgment on me, too.

A lump gouged my throat, cutting off the stale air in the room. Grandmother’s frail voice fell silent.

I knew she was waiting for me to pray, as was our habit. But I couldn’t. Not when my betrayal of him stung more fiercely than his of me.

My hands fisted. I pressed them into my eyes. With a groan, I groped my way to the windows, clutched at the sill. I needed air. Fresh air. Clean air. “Grandmother, how do you know when you can trust people?”

Her laughter tinkled like a small silver bell. “You can’t ever know for sure what people will do. You can guess, given their past behavior. But even then people will often surprise you.”

I leaned against the window sill, savoring the bit of cool breeze against my back. “Give me an example.”

She turned thoughtful before her face brightened. “When I first met Glorietta Swan, she and I didn’t like each other at all.”

“Pastor Swan’s wife? But she adores you. And you seem to like her, too.”

“Of course I do. Now. But it wasn’t always that way. For either of us.”

I returned to my chair, my attention rapt. “Go on.”

“Some things were said about me when I came back from Chicago a different woman. As far as I could discover, the nastiness started with Mrs. Swan. We were much younger then, of course. Her husband new to the church. She had her own issues of adjustment in our town. Your father was successful by then and some people assumed things about me that weren’t true. Such as a need to be recognized or to throw money around when they had none to spare. But though I didn’t have those flaws, neither did I have a pristine character. I’d spent many, many years believing I was in control of my life.”

“What happened?”

“We squared off against each other, each of us bidding for women who cottoned to our side of the story. One day Pastor Swan called us both to the church, sat us down, and made us talk it out.” Grandmother’s eyes sparkled, as if she could see the scene happening before her.

“Turns out, neither of us did or said or even thought the things we attributed to the other. I believed she couldn’t be trusted. She thought the same of me. We were both wrong.”

“But what if it had been the other way around? What if you’d thought she was your friend and it turned out she wasn’t? What if you discovered it later?”

Grandmother’s head dipped toward her chest. “I imagine I would have been terribly hurt. Jesus told us to be as wise as serpents and gentle as doves. That isn’t easy. Especially when it comes to understanding people. Including ourselves.”

A whistle punctuated her words. My heart hiccuped. A cardinal shot past the window. The whistle faded. With it, my hope.

“What’s happened, Alyce?” The compassion in Grandmother’s voice scraped across my wounded heart.

I climbed up beside her and laid my head on her shoulder. “I’ve done such a terrible thing.”

“Terrible? I doubt that. But tell me anyway.”

So I did. I told her about Webster’s theft. About Lawrence’s liberties. About my own betrayal of one I’d counted as a friend.

Her face grew serious as she listened. Not hard and condemning but almost as if she was working to keep her heart from breaking. When I finished with my story, tears shone in her sightless eyes and her head dropped in a slow nod.

I pressed fingers to my lips, then to my heart. “Are you disappointed in me?”

“I’m sorry for you, Ally. But disappointed? No. If you had continued on without recognizing your error, then I’d be disappointed. But even when we love the Lord we won’t live a sinless life, though we try. The key is recognizing our wrong. Repenting, as you’ve done. Then moving forward with a lesson learned.”

“But how do I move forward? What do I do now?” I wanted to bury my face in her chest as I’d done as a child.

She stroked my arm as her frown deepened. “I don’t know. I’ll pray.”

“But the race is the day after tomorrow.” I hated the whine in my voice, like a spoiled child denied a plaything.

“Patience, child. The Lord is never late as we deem lateness. Trust Him to guide you and you’ll not make things worse than they are.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“It’s hard, but true.”

I kissed her papery cheek, smoothed back her gray hair, and smiled into the sightless eyes that saw so much more than the rest of us. It would be hard to be still and listen to the Lord. But two compelling reasons strengthened my resolve: love for my Jesus and love for my grandmother.

Crashing through the back door into the warmth of the day, I ran past the garden, to the garage. Hands shaking, I hit the starter and ground the gear shift into place. Down the drive. Out onto the road.

I stopped the Packard before I reached the track, flung open the door, and ran to a small cluster of trees that towered over the tall grasses. My chest burned for air, hair tangled about my face. My feet throbbed in my shoes. Reaching for a tree, my palms grating against the rough bark, I pressed my forehead to the trunk, willing the pain to dam the flood in my eyes. But it didn’t help. Tears snaked down my face, dripped from my chin.

Stumbling out from beneath the canopy of leaves, I made my way to the center of the oval and dropped to my knees. My fingers tugged at a tenacious clump of grass. “All I wanted was to do something important for You, Lord. To prove my love for You. How did I lose my way?”

A man’s heart deviseth his way: but the Lord directeth his steps.

Proverbs. My breathing slowed, though my tears did not. I’d made a grand mess of things by planning my own way. Me, Alyce Marie Benson, who touted herself such a good Christian. A faithful lover of God. I’d woven a tangled web and caught myself in the process. Would the Lord still be faithful to direct my steps? Could I trust Him to lead me out of this quagmire?

“Forgive me, God, for putting myself above You. For running ahead of Your direction. For seeking to fulfill my plans to serve You instead of waiting with an open heart until You beckoned me with Your assignment.”

The chug of a slow engine sounded in the distance and then faded as my sin spread before me like a moving picture show. But peace swooped down and dimmed the light, blackened the screen. Peace I didn’t understand or deserve.

“Am I forgiven, Lord?” I whispered. No voice replied, but I felt settled all the same. Standing, I winced at the pain in my feet. I deserved as much for my foolishness. I shook the dirt from my skirt and limped toward the Packard, combing my fingers through scattered curls. Anyone coming upon me now would be appalled. Miss Benson, covered in dirt and sweat, but their disgust wouldn’t compare to mine.

Yet Jesus had heard my confession. His righteousness covered me now, washed me pure and clean. I still had so many wrongs to right. Those would take time. And patience. Especially if I intended Father to see the truth about Mr. Trotter. My knees quaked at the thought of racing without Webster. But if I refused, I might never get a chance to show Father the truth.

All the way home I prayed. I hadn’t been doing enough of that lately. And this time I’d stop and wait for answers at every turn.