Divine (31 page)

His surprise couldn't have been greater if she'd said she wanted to fly to the moon. His brow lifted and forged a series of deep creases on his forehead. He set his forearms on the table and chuckled, disbelieving.

Mary felt sick to her stomach. "I'm serious. I want to find my grandmother in New York City and start life over."

The lines on his face faded, and his jaw went slack. Anger stirred the shallow surfaces of his eyes. "Don't tell me what you're going to do." He leaned over the table so his face was closer, his words angry darts. "Don't you see?" His mouth curved upward, but his look was hardly a smile. "You can't go now. You know too much."

Her body trembled, and something inside her told her to run as far as she could, because at least then she might have a chance at getting away. She slid her chair back and shook her head. "I know nothing, Clayton. I won't say a word."

He was on his feet, coming around the table and grabbing a handful of her hair. "Don't flash those blue eyes at me, Mary." He gave her head a solid jerk and pinched his lips together, each word a hiss. "You could destroy me, woman. It'll be years before you leave this place." He straightened and stared at her, the anger in his eyes building like a sudden storm.

Still she had to try. "I promise I won't say a—"

He raised his hand high over her head and brought it hard against the side of her face.

She screamed as she fell to her knees and began scrambling toward the door. She could run, and if he caught her and killed her, then she might be facing the open arms of Jesus when she died. But she might not. She hadn't really given her life to Jesus yet, had she? The possibilities chilled her with terror. She couldn't stay here, not another minute. Not without knowing what would happen to her if she died.

Her knees burned as she shuffled fast along the carpet. She was halfway to the door when he grabbed her hair once more and yanked her up and onto her back. He reeled back and struck her face, her arms, again and again. Only then did she realize the restraint he'd shown last time. Because this beating was too horrific to believe, sending shock waves of pain and nausea through every inch of her body. Something warm dripped down her face and into her eyes, and as she felt herself losing consciousness, her senses no longer registered the damage being done to her.

Because in every way that mattered, she could feel herself turning away, running to Jesus, her arms open wide. And there He was . . . standing at the door of her heart, waiting for her, longing for her. The picture sent her soul soaring on the winds of a joy that knew no bounds.
Jesus. . .faithful Jesus. . . I'm
sorry I didn't see You there before.

Nigel had showed her the unfathomable love of Christ, and now she believed in it with everything she was. Nigel had told her dozens of stories about Jesus and—in a blur of wonder—each of them came back to her now. One image stood out from the others, something that happened at the Lord's last supper with His disciples. It was the picture of Jesus washing the feet of His disciples—including the one who had already betrayed Him.

That was the sort of love Jesus had for her, even while she struggled for every breath under Clayton's heavy hand. The love of Jesus was warm and safe and wonderful, different from anything the world knew of love. It was a caring and a devotion that in an instant gave her a new and wonderful strength. Now, no matter what Clayton did to her, she was existing in a different sort of reality.

Something else became clear. Jesus was fully God and fully man. That's what Nigel had said, and it was why people feared getting to know Jesus. An amazing thought flashed in her mind. She—Mary Madison, daughter of the streets, child of a prostitute, former slave and mistress to one of the most powerful businessmen in the city—had the power to share the truth about Jesus with anyone who would listen. The way Nigel did. She had the power to defend history.

His story—the story of Christ.

The beating continued, blow after blow, but none of them mattered. Mary could feel the arms of Jesus around her, protecting her, sheltering her to a safe place in her mind. Finally, after every awful deed she'd done, after every unspeakable horror that had been done to her—even while she was still being beaten—the impossible had happened. She had turned completely away from Clayton Billings.

I see
You, Lord . . . I feel You with me.

Beloved daughter, you belong to Me. . . only Me. I will be your shelter.

Her shelter? Who had said that? Was it Jesus, calling to her, talking to her the way Nigel had the night before? A certainty rushed through her. Indeed, God was speaking straight to her heart. His words breathed life into her and released her from the great pain of the moment.
I love You, Lord Jesus. I'm
sorry
for missing You every time before, sorry for every wrong thing I've ever done. Hold me. Don't let me go.

I will never leave you, never forsake you, precious child.

The newness of love changed everything. The pain faded. Now all she could feel were the gentlest arms in all the world, embracing her, stroking her back, and cradling her like a beloved, precious daughter. All she could hear was the wonderful truth being whispered to her. She was free. No matter what Clayton did to her after this, it didn't matter. For the rest of her days she would revel in the great and awesome splendor of God Almighty, basking in His all-consuming love because she didn't belong to Clayton anymore.

She belonged to Jesus Christ.

Mary took a long breath and looked at Emma. The young woman's eyes were teary, and Mary felt for her. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know." Emma pulled the blanket off the cot and tucked it in around her lap with her left hand. "I'm cold."

"It's a hard story."

Emma nodded. "I can feel every blow, Mary." She ran her fingers over her cast. "In a moment like that, all I can think about is dying, how Charlie's going to kill me, and what my girls will think when they find me."

"I thought that the first few times. What Grandma Peggy would think when she found out how I died." Mary looked up, and in that moment she saw Jesus, arms outstretched, the same way she'd seen Him in those horrible moments of abuse.

"That's why I know my rescue was a miracle." She touched her fingers to the place above her heart. "He rescued me here, on the inside, even when I had no idea how I was going to survive the next few minutes."

Emma blinked, and a trail of tears slid down her cheeks. "All because Nigel showed you the love of Jesus."

"Yes." Mary's heart stirred at the mention of Nigel's name. "Nigel loved me enough to tell me the truth." Talking about him made her miss him, more than she had in years. "No man has ever loved me the way Nigel did."

Emma tilted her head. She looked at Mary for a long time. "Then . . . you're still in love with him?"

"No." A sweet sadness stung at Mary's heart, the way it always would when she thought of Nigel. "It was never meant that I feel that way for him. Not then . . . and not now." Mary adjusted a pillow beneath her elbow and leaned onto the arm of the sofa. She pictured Nigel's eyes, remembered the tenderness in his voice. She missed him as much now as she did the day they said good-bye.

"But you love him." Emma sat unmoving, trying to understand.

"Yes, I love him." Mary felt the sting of tears. "Just not the way you're talking about. Not the way the world understands." She sat a little straighten "I'm almost done. At the end I'll tell you about Nigel, the two of us."

When Mary closed her eyes, she could see it all again, the front door of the center as she climbed out of the cab and ran toward it, an hour after Clayton left her that night. . . .

***

Mary looked like death—the mirror told her that much. But she didn't care. She had escaped with her life, and she wasn't ever going back. She had a shopping bag full of her things—a few clothes, some essentials, and her little red-beaded purse.

When she found Nigel in the kitchen she fell into his arms.

"Who did this to you?" He looked angrier than ever. Angry and protective and full of his Jesus kind of love all at the same time. "What's his name?" Nigel could barely contain himself, but he kept his voice even.

Mary looked away. "I left him. I won't go back."

His fingers made contact with her swollen eye, and she jerked. "Mary . . . you mentioned the name Clayton when we talked once." He steadied himself. "Is it Clayton Billings?"

She opened her mouth to deny it, to lie the way she'd done so much of her life. But the lie wouldn't come. She looked away, ashamed and terrified. "I can't talk about it."

"I know who he is."

"He does a lot of business in the city." She felt her head start to spin. If Clayton knew about this conversation . . .

Nigel frowned. "Clayton Billings is one of the most powerful men in DC. His name's been linked with organized crime for a decade." Righteous anger filled Nigel's tone. "He's on the board of the largest church in town."

Organized crime? And he was on the
board of a church? The news hit Mary like another one of Clayton's blows. No
wonder he'd told her she couldn't leave, that she knew too much. If people found
out about her, his image would be shattered. "He'll kill me, Nigel. I'm not supposed to say anything." She bit her lip. "He'll kill me."

"He already tried." Nigel brought his fingers to her cheek. His eyes were damp, filled with horror at the damage Clayton had already wrought. "Mary ... I can't stand that he did this to you." He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath through his nose. Then he took a step back and turned toward the phone. "I'll call the police right now and set this whole thing straight before—"

"No!" Mary came after him. She grabbed his arm, shrieking. "No, Nigel, please! I'll be okay."

"Mary." He turned, broken. His hand soothed the worry lines on her forehead, her battered cheeks. "The police need to know about this."

"Not now. I'll report him after I get to New York."

Nigel waited a long time before he answered. His eyes told her what she already knew—he loved her. Not the way she had wanted to be loved by him, but with a love that was straight from heaven. A love that would fight for her, even die for her. But gradually his shoulders settled and resignation showed in his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Her mind raced faster than her heart. "I need to hurry,- I know that. When he finds out I'm gone he'll come for me. But we can't. . . can't call the police now."

A long sigh left Nigel's lips, and he held out his arms.

She came to him, the way she'd come the other night. With an understanding that Christ's love could sometimes best be felt in human arms. "Thank you." She pulled back and marveled at the emotions building in her heart, her soul.  Boundless joy at finding freedom, great victory in knowing she would see Grandma Peggy again. But sorrow because her time with Nigel was short.

He studied her for a long time, and a smile tugged at his lips. "You're glowing. Despite everything."

She took his hands. "That's what I wanted to tell you. Can you believe it, Nigel? I've done it." Her smile bunched up the swollen skin beneath her puffy eyes and made it hard for her to see. "I stopped running and gave my life to Jesus!"

Tears filled her eyes and glistened in the glow of the overhead kitchen lights. "Jesus has done so much for me. He's . . . He's changed me. And He used you to do it." A few sobs sounded from deep inside her, from a place that had never felt so loved in all her life.

She sniffed, searching for control. "Jesus loves me. He loves me like I've never been loved in all my life." She placed her hand over her heart. "He talks to me and holds me, and I'm never alone. Never."

"God is faithful." Nigel was quieter than usual. "He answered all of my prayers but. . ." He brought his finger to her face and touched the swollen areas near her eyes. "How could this happen to you? How could he do this?"

"Shhh." Mary took hold of his wrists and brought his hands down to his sides. "We can talk about that later. The important thing is I understand now. Jesus really, truly set me free. Now I have just one thing I can do for Him." The tears became tiny rivers, like so much melted ice streaming from her eyes. "I'll give Him my life. Every day I have left."

Nigel sighed. "Clayton Billings needs to pay for what he's done."

"He will one day. For now ... 1 can't have him finding out about you. He'd kill you, Nigel. I know he would."

Nigel didn't blink. "I'm not afraid of him."

"I know." Mary hugged him again. For all the ways she'd fallen for Nigel, for the days when she would've given anything to be in his arms this way, the feelings now were different. She was still attracted to him, and a part of her wanted to dream that somehow . . . someday they might find their way together.

But overriding all of that was a very real, very basic truth: Nigel didn't love her like that. He loved her because she was a broken child of God. He loved her soul. And even now—with him so close she could smell his shampoo, his cologne—God's love was enough.

Far more than enough.

Nigel released her and leaned against the kitchen counter. His eyes held hers. "You'll stay here tonight."