Calculated Risk (7 page)

Nick stared at her like a stunned bird. How could he not react to Jason's treachery?

She clutched her handful of tissues to her face to stifle another wail. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself together and glanced at the yellow sticky attached to her phone. “My Greyhound bus leaves at ten fifty-five this morning from Statesville. Will you take me there now? I'm all packed. You'd be back within an hour.”
Please, please don't argue.

His gaze flicked toward the house, and then back to her. He laid his Bible and glasses on the bench, stood, grasped her hand, and pulled her toward the lake.

Hadn't he heard a word she'd said? Was he going to throw her in the lake to stop her hysterics? “What are you doing?”

“I'm saving you.”

Save? Like baptize her in the lake? She tried to free her hand.

His grip tightened, and she double-stepped to avoid falling.

“Hey, Nick! I want to meet your lovely lady!”

Cisney looked over her shoulder while trying to keep up with Nick. A barefooted man wearing black dress pants and an unbuttoned oxford shirt revealing his undershirt stood on the grass near the back patio, one hand in his pocket and the other raising a glass of orange juice.

“Later, Tony!” Nick stopped at the boathouse next to the pier.

A rowboat, whose bow bobbed a foot from shore, was tethered on the opposite side of the pier.

Nick pointed at the craft. “Get in the boat.”

“Wha—”

Tony strode toward them.

She spun to Nick. Tony's approach seemed to infuse urgency into Nick's escape from the harmless-looking young man. She drew the bow of the boat onto the grass. No way was she water-staining her black kid pumps. She climbed inside and, sliding her hands along the wobbly boat's edges, moved to the back and sat. Nick took the pier steps two at a time and drew oars from hooks inside the boathouse.

Tony had covered half the distance to the pier. “Hey, man. I just want to meet her!”

Nick descended the pier's steps and tossed the oars in the rowboat. He unfastened the rope from the pier, shoved the boat into the water, gracefully hopped inside, and back-paddled the small craft with one oar to deeper water.

Once away from shore, she caught sight of a pontoon inside the boathouse. Couldn't Nick have chosen the stable vessel for their getaway? He could forget her using her pumps to bail water from the rowboat.

At the shoreline, Tony stopped and spread his hands. “I'll button my shirt!”

Nick rowed. “Tell Mom we'll be back in about an hour.”

After Tony turned and trudged up to the house, Nick helped her wobble to the forward seat as he balanced the boat. Once she sat facing him, he took the seat in the stern and secured the oars in the oarlocks.

She fastened her gaze on him, but he avoided her eyes while he turned the boat.

His maneuver completed, he looked at her and shrugged mid-row. “I didn't think you'd want to meet Tony when, you know…” He released an oar and made little circles with his hand near his hair.

Oh, no. Where could she hide in an open rowboat? Her head-thrashing fit in her room could only mean she looked like a cavewoman. She raked her fingers through her hair, and pain exploded from her forehead. She winced.

Nick's hand dropped to his eyes, and then down to his lips. He shrugged sheepishly.

She pictured smeared mascara and lipstick all over her face. She used her handful of tissues, now a soggy ball in her fist, to wipe under her eyes and around her mouth.

He nodded toward her. “That swelling on your forehead is turning an angry red. Looks as if you were moving at warp speed and forgot to duck. How'd the ceiling fare?”

Certainly he jested. Could her forehead have dented the ceiling?

“Now you see why I need to go home.” She hadn't meant to sound so whiny.

“Take out your cell and cancel your bus ticket.”

“I can't face your family. Please understand.”

“You need my family, not a three-day pity party by yourself in your apartment.”

“What would you know about dealing with a relationship gone bad—really bad? I don't need your…philosophical…advice. I need a ride to the bus station.”

Was he going to make her miss her bus? She peered over the side. The water looked a little deep to walk to shore.

He ceased rowing and cocked his head upward. Any moment, he would say something profound from his wealth of inexperience. He resumed rowing at an easy pace. “May I ask you a few questions? You don't have to answer them out loud.”

“As long as I don't have to answer them, go ahead and knock yourself out.”

“Do you read the Bible?”

Oh, brother. Here came the sermon. Maybe she could head him off his track. “Yes. I don't read my Bible as often as I should, but I've read through it in Sunday school over the years.” That should at least thwart him from starting at Creation.

“First question…” He swept his hand to include the whole lake. “Who created the earth—all this?”

Stating her Bible credentials hadn't done the trick. At this rate, she'd miss her bus. A fish jumped, radiating concentric circles on the water. Admittedly, this monstrous lake did represent a beautiful piece of God's work. “God did.”

“Does God make promises?”

“You mean, like His promise never to leave or forsake us, or like His covenant promises to Abraham and to Moses and to the Israelites and to all people?” He hadn't tripped her up yet.

“Like both. Does God keep His promises?”

“Yes, the best being that He sent His Son Jesus to die on a cross to make a way to save us from our sins. Is this going somewhere?” Anywhere?

“Yes. Has God prophesied great historical events?”

“Yep.”
A-plus comin' at ‘cha
. “God prophesied the Israelites' exile to Babylon. The Israelites were exiled. He prophesied that Cyrus from Persia would later free them and allow them to return to the Promised Land. In God's prophesy he called Cyrus by name. One-hundred-fifty years later Cyrus freed the Israelites, and they returned to the Promised Land.” She was on a roll now. “And, of course, the no-brainer, Jesus's coming. We know Jesus will return because God promised that, too.” Maybe Jesus could come again now and put her out of her misery.

His head jerked backwards as his eyes widened. “I'm impressed. I'm not sure I'd have come up with the example of Cyrus so quickly. That's a great example of God's sovereignty.”

Did she really look like an idiot? Well, maybe now, since she looked like a wild woman. But did she, usually?

He pulled the oars up to rest on the edges of the craft and let the boat drift. “Did God merely know these events would happen?”

“No. He planned them, prophesied them, and executed them.”

“Jeremiah gives another promise from God, ‘For I know the plans—'”

“‘I have for you…plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.‘“ If that was the Scripture he'd been going for all along, why didn't he just say it, instead of all the questions?

“Exactly. So, sum up what all this means about God.”

“That wasn't a question.” She was being difficult, and probably unfair, but all these questions. What did they have to do with Jason or her need to go home?

He rolled his eyes. “How would you sum up what your answers say about God's character?”

She felt as if she were on stage for table topics at Toastmasters—make that, rowboat topics. “God is the all-powerful, all-knowing Creator and hands-on Promise Keeper, who plans and controls everything for the love and good of His people and for His glory.” The glory part should earn her a bonus point.

His jaw dropped a half-inch. “Great summary.”

She shrugged.

He captured her gaze. “So, God has great plans for His people, and God promises His plans are for their good, to prosper them and not to harm them, to give them hope and a future?”

She widened her eyes and nodded. Would he ever get to the real point?

“Do you think it's possible marriage to Jason was not God's plan for you? That God planned someone better for you?” He looked away toward the distant shore and plunged his oars into the water and pulled hard. “After the guy broke up with you over the phone, and then invited himself and his new girlfriend on your friends' ski trip, maybe you should thank God for foiling your plans.”

Her mind snapped to attention. That was blunt. Blindsiding. No question, she believed God cared for her, but God concerned about her future spouse? How had such a simple concept escaped entering her thoughts? Ever. She let her body go limp. Nick was right.

She raised her gaze. “But it still hurts.”

“I know.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Right. He knew her pain…to quote her overdue sister-in-law…
like a male obstetrician knows how a pregnant woman feels a week past her due date.

 

****

 

Nick resumed rowing.

Cisney stared at the water, her lips pursed. Then she looked at him. “I'm going to turn around on my seat and enjoy God's creation, and I request that you don't ask me any more questions, or better yet, don't say anything…just row.”

She swung her legs around and faced the bow.

He wouldn't have given her the advice if it hadn't been for today's Scripture reading. As much as God's words comforted him, they also had been a heads-up for ministering to Cisney…
so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.
But had he consoled her, or made her mad?

He forced his gaze from Cisney's slumped posture and took in the ripples in the glassy water formed by the oars. Then he raised his gaze to the ducks flying in V-formation against the perfect blue sky. Maybe he'd get up early tomorrow and throw out a line for some crappie. Grandpa might want to join him. He could fit an hour in before time to pursue Option A. His heart blipped. The brunette in front of him wasn't the only one on the rebound. Tomorrow would be the first time he'd see Dana since she broke it off with him. He'd require the Lord's strength just as much as Cisney needed it.

A breeze ruffled his hair. He regarded Cisney. Her feminine frame was slight for her height. He'd been right yesterday. Her disheveled hair, her smeared makeup, and the bump in the middle of her forehead couldn't render her unattractive, even if she added combat boots.

What was going on in that head of hers? Had he chiseled a hairline fracture in her resolve to leave? Mom would be disappointed if she left—not because Cisney would miss the festivities, but because she had gone home broken.

He looked at his watch. If they left the house in the next ten minutes, she could make her bus. Should he remind her or just start rowing for shore? Or should he let her miss her bus and hope her mood changed for the better? Her leaving was not a good thing for anyone. No doubt about that. But his place was not to play God, and what seemed the right thing to do was honor her wishes. He turned the boat around.

Cisney bowed her head. Was she praying?

Her hand holding her cell tunneled under her mass of hair to her ear. No, not praying, unless she had God on speed-dial.

“Hi. I want to cancel a bus ticket.”

 

****

 

Cisney plastered her back against the wall outside the mudroom door. “You have to run interference for me. I've got to clean up and change before anyone sees me.”

“Sure.” Nick opened the door and peered inside. He grabbed her hand.

He seemed to take her hand a lot. Didn't he know a girl might construe he liked her? But not right now. What about her cavewoman look was there to like? Dragging her was more like a control thing. But as long as he got her to her room without anyone laying eyes on her, he could play Mr. Caveman.

With Nick in the lead, they crept down the hall and scuttled past the butler's pantry and kitchen, where chopping knives and clinking pans emitted a cacophony. He released her hand and pointed to the stairs while he moved to check the front room.

“Coast is clear,” he whispered. He passed her on the stairs and took the lead again. Mid-staircase, he ducked down.

She dropped to a squat. Muted voices conversed and a door opened. Her heart pounded. What would be worse: seen by a family member in her disheveled state or caught hunkering down like Marines on a mission?

Nick pumped his hand behind him. What next? Would he give a military signal with two fingers to his eyes and then direct them toward the stair rail, motioning her to jump?

“Thanks, Grandpa,” Tony's voice said above them, “I've always wanted to wear argyle socks.”

“Beggars can't be choosey when they forget to pack socks, son.” Grandpa's last words trailed off, and a door closed.

Then another door closed. Tony going into his room?

Nick waved her on. She scurried by him, getting a whiff of his titillating cologne, darted up the first few steps of the second flight, and then stopped and turned. She needed the Thanksgiving dress code.

Nick, standing at the bottom of the stairs, wore jeans and a plaid shirt under his light jacket. If that was his dress for the day, she'd dig out a more casual outfit than the two lying on her bed.

“How should I dress for Thanksgiving?” She whispered.

“Comfortable.”

That told her practically nothing. “Are you changing your clothes?”

“Yes. Comfortable slacks and a sports shirt.”

She turned to continue climbing.

“Cisney.”

She faced him.

“Just so you know, you're the one who cut our conversation short on the lake. Otherwise, you could have carved another notch on your challenge belt.”

She cringed and her cheeks burned. Why had she blurted about the challenge during her hysteria? He'd invited her to his home, listened to her rant about Jason, and helped her see a new perspective—God's perspective—on her life. He didn't deserve her insult.