Losing Faith (11 page)

Cullen stopped and turned around, his feeling of anticipation disappearing quickly. “No?”

“I saw him leave this morning shortly after he returned from Sunday service.”

Cullen’s heart sank once again. “Did he happen to mention where he was going or when he’d be back?”

“Heavens, no,” Dottie said. “I’m a good neighbor. Not a nosy one. I would never ask such questions.”

“Of course not,” Cullen said, hearing the disappointment in his own voice. “I didn’t mean to insinuate. I was just hoping to see him before I left. That’s all.”

“I understand.” Dottie’s voice softened. “Would you like to wait here for him? I can make some tea, and I just baked a loaf of pumpkin bread this morning.”

“That’s very kind, but I’ve got to get back to my boat. Do you by any chance have his cell phone number?”

“I do, but….” Dottie said apprehensively. She was now biting the side of her mouth, and her expression was skeptical.

“Forgive me,” Cullen said. “I shouldn’t have even asked. That was rude of me.”

“Oh, what the heck,” Dottie finally said. “You’re a friend of Abel’s and a man of the cloth. What harm could it bring?”

“Thank you, Dottie.”

CULLEN WAS
back at the marina and sitting on
T-Time
fidgeting and checking his watch constantly. He’d called Abel while walking back to the marina. The phone rang four times and then went to voice mail. He left a message and waited. And waited. Two hours passed and still no return call. He’d tried again and the call went to voice mail again, so he hung up. Three more hours passed, and he called Abel’s number again. “Damn, Abel! Where are you?” The phone went straight to voice mail once more.

By midnight Cullen gave up and went to bed. He tossed and turned for hours, contemplating Abel’s situation and state of mind. The gentle kiss. His parting statement. Cullen remembered the process of coming out very well. First step, admitting to himself he might be gay but swearing to never act on it. Step two, acknowledging to himself he
was
gay but still vowing never to act on it. And lastly, getting to the point where he could no longer pretend. At that point, a guy could start to have seedy little trysts with strangers, or if he had the courage, actually come out. Worst case was seeing no way out and ending it all. Where was Abel in this process? He had apparently been through steps one and two, which would explain the endless praying for God to make him straight.

And then the kiss. Was he ready to come out, or was he at the point of no return? Being gay was not accepted in the Southern Baptist religion, least of all for the ministry, and that had been Abel’s chosen career. If he came out now, he would have to give up his job and everything he believed in. Cullen knew what that felt like all too well. Was Abel strong enough to walk away from his job and the church? That was the real question. It all seemed so hopeless, but Cullen kept telling himself not to jump to conclusions. He knew firsthand how everything always seemed so much worse in the wee hours of the morning with no sleep and a load on your mind.

Resigned to the fact that sleep would remain unattainable for the remainder of the night, Cullen cursed under his breath as he got up to sit on the edge of the bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet. He sighed deeply, rubbed his eyes, and then rested his head in his hands. In his former life, in times like these, prayer had always comforted him, but not anymore. Cullen hadn’t prayed since he’d held Cole’s lifeless body in his lap and begged God to save the man he loved or to take him instead. But of course God hadn’t listened, and Cullen was alone. That had been the end of his relationship with God. But at this moment of desperation, he was rethinking everything. After all, he wasn’t asking for himself, only for Abel. The safety of a fellow man and new friend.

Oddly enough his body acted mostly on impulse, and he found his hands locked together in front of his chest. He looked up in disbelief and shook his head, not believing what he was about to do.

God, I’m a little out of practice. No, that’s not true. I’m a lot out of practice, and you know damn well why. And just for the record, this is not about us. I’m putting my grievances with you aside this one time to ask for your help on behalf of a friend who is struggling. I hardly know this man, but what I do know about him tells me he is a good man and deserves to be happy. Just please keep him safe and bring him back home so I can try to help him. That’s it, I guess. I don’t hold out much hope, but this is my last option, and I have to give it a try.

Cullen got to his feet, and his first stop was the head. Exhausted, he felt like he was dragging a ton of lead behind him. Next stop was the galley. He leaned against the counter, arms across his chest as coffee brewed, the aroma slowly starting to stir his tired senses. The coffee pot beeped, signaling the brew was complete, and Cullen poured a cup and looked out of the galley porthole. Still pitch black. The clock revealed it was 5:30.
At least another hour before sunrise.

Checking his cell phone again just to make sure he hadn’t missed a call was an act of futility. The damn phone hadn’t been out of his sight since he’d placed his first call to Abel. But Cullen did it just the same.
No missed calls. No voice mail.

Cullen opened the companionway door and climbed the steps to the flybridge. The marina was eerily still. No wind. Not even a breeze. He instantly missed the familiar and comforting sounds of sailboat lanyards clanging against hollow aluminum masts. The only constant was the recurring flash of the Oak Island lighthouse, and the repeating glow steadied him somehow.

By sunrise, Cullen had finished off the entire pot of coffee. He was on a serious caffeine buzz, but at least he had a plan. His last and only hope of finding Abel. If this didn’t work, Abel didn’t want to be found, and Cullen felt he could leave Southport with a clear conscience. Not a fulfilled mission, but a clear conscience.

By seven forty-five, dressed in black slacks and a long-sleeved black dress shirt, Cullen stood in front of his mirror.
You look like an undertaker without your white collar
. But he’d long ago given up that attire.

Thirty minutes later he stood in front of Abel’s house. He was disappointed when he didn’t see a car in the driveway but hoped there was maybe a garage behind the house. He opened the gate, walked up the steps, and knocked. He waited. No one answered the door. Cullen knocked again, a little harder this time, and waited again. He listened closely, but there were no sounds or signs of life behind the front door.

Damn, Abel. Where are you?

His last hope was the Southport Baptist Church’s administrative office. Cullen hoped the office would open by at least eight o’clock, but if not he’d sit there until it did open. Heading toward the church in his undertaker’s outfit, Cullen felt bad because he knew he was going to be somewhat deceptive again. But his only chance of getting any information regarding Abel’s whereabouts was to use the fellow reverend approach he’d used with Dottie and hope whoever he encountered took pity on him.

While Cullen walked he contemplated Abel’s possible whereabouts. Maybe he was away on church business, but if that were the case, surely Abel would have mentioned that to him at some point. Or would he? They weren’t really good friends. But what were they? What was the term some people used?
Two ships passing in the night.
But they hadn’t missed each other. They’d actually met on a park bench. And yeah, they’d shared a couple of moments, but where did that leave them?

After Cullen nervously rounded the corner onto North Howe, he stopped and admired the church for a few minutes. Somehow it looked more regal now than it had the first time he’d seen it. But in all fairness, that had been at dusk, and this morning the bright sun was climbing in the sky, making the single steeple appear an extra vibrant white against the blue sky and deep red brick. The sun was even reflecting off of the highly polished bell in the bell tower, sending the sun’s rays directly to the front door of the church like welcoming beams from heaven.

“Isn’t that special?” Cullen mumbled sarcastically. “Listen to me.
Beams from heaven
. Like that would happen.”

Cullen crossed North Howe and followed the signs around back to the church’s office. A plaque outside the door said “Office Hours: Monday through Saturday, 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.” Cullen knew it was well past eight, but he checked his watch anyway.

He took a deep breath and slowly pushed the door open. A little bell jingled, and a small voice said, “May I help you?”

Cullen’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted, and he blinked into the dimly lit office. “I sure hope so.” He smiled in the direction of the voice as an elderly lady standing behind a desk slowly came into view. She had silver-gray hair worn up in some sort of twist or bun. She was wearing a conservative cotton dress with a high collar, no noticeable makeup, and old-fashioned cat-eye glasses, turned up on each end and very pointy. Her smile was warm but guarded.

“Good morning,” Cullen said. “I was wondering if Associate Pastor Weston was in this morning?”

“May I inquire as to who’s asking?”

Cullen kept it short. “I’m Reverend Cullen Kiley from Massachusetts.”
Best not to stretch the truth too much if I don’t have to.
Cullen waited.

The woman tilted her head to one side and said nothing, apparently waiting for him to elaborate.

“Oh. I… I’m on vacation, passing through Southport on my boat, and was told by a mutual friend who also went to the seminary that Abel—I mean Associate Pastor Weston—was assigned here, so I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”

The woman’s smile was still hesitant. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Reverend, but Monday and Tuesday are Pastor Weston’s days off. That boy works so hard. In fact, most times he doesn’t even take his days off. But he left a message on the answering machine over the weekend saying he was going out of town unexpectedly and wouldn’t be in until Wednesday.”

Out of town! Not back until Wednesday?
Cullen heard the words but couldn’t believe them. He cursed internally but tried to offer some sort of response. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

“How long will you be in town?” the woman asked, sticking out her hand. “I’m Agnes Williams, by the way. My husband is the pastor here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Williams, but I’m not sure yet. If you hear from Abel, will you please tell him I stopped by and to please give me a call.”

The woman slid a pad and pen across the desk, and Cullen jotted down his name and cell number and slid it back to her.

“I certainly will, Reverend”—she looked down at the pad—“Kiley.”

Cullen knew Abel had his number, but Agnes did not, and Cullen didn’t want to raise any suspicions for Abel’s sake. He knew he was already taking a chance just by coming here.

“Thank you very much,” Cullen said.

“You’re very welcome. If Abel calls, rest assured he’ll get your message.”

“Thank you.”

The woman came out from behind her desk, slid her arm in his, and walked him to the door. “Now you have a good day, Reverend,” she said patting his forearm. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Southport.”

Cullen nodded and smiled weakly. “Is the church open?” he asked, much to his surprise.

“As a matter of fact, it is. It’s always open during regular business hours.” Agnes lowered her head and looked at him over her glasses. “You know, when I was a little girl, it used to be open twenty-four hours a day for our congregation to stop in and pray anytime we felt the need. But as the years rolled on and people stopped respecting the church as God’s house, it became necessary to lock the doors at night. I’d be happy to give you a tour if you like. Are you Southern Baptist, Reverend?”

Cullen responded without thinking. “No, ma’am. Episcopalian.”

Like hell you are!

The woman nodded tightly but didn’t respond.

Cullen laid his hand on top of Agnes’s, which was still resting on his forearm. “Thank you again for your help, Mrs. Williams.”

“My husband has told me on numerous occasions that we’re different from Episcopalians, but in my book we are all God’s children, so please feel free to visit our church and say a prayer for those in need.”

“I think I’ll do just that,” Cullen said without conscious thought.

Closing the office door behind him, Cullen followed the path around to the front of the church, stopped, and looked up at the tall white steeple. He slipped his hands in his pockets and waited. He wanted to feel something. Anything that might give him a spark of the old flame he used to feel when he contemplated a place of worship. But nothing came.

Cullen walked up the steps, laid a hand on the shiny brass door handle, and slowly pulled the door open. Again it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but his ears instantly heard a song he recognized. He felt a stabbing pain in his heart, and his legs weakened to the point where he thought they just might crumple beneath him. He felt his way to the nearest pew and sat.

The song wasn’t a hymn he’d ever heard or sung in the Episcopal Church, but one he’d heard from a spiritual country music CD Cole had purchased years ago simply to get a version of “Amazing Grace” by Martina McBride. The CD was a compilation of various country singers, and Kenny Chesney had done his version of the song now playing, “The Old Rugged Cross.” It had become one of Cole’s favorites and Cullen’s as well. So much so that Cullen had it sung at Cole’s memorial service.

Chill bumps covered the surface of Cullen’s body, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.
What are the odds?
As he sat there, he could feel the tears welling up. He closed his eyes tightly against the onslaught of emotions and bit his bottom lip hard enough that he was sure he’d drawn blood.

“How can any of this be happening?” Cullen said out loud.

I must be losing my mind. That’s it. I’m finally going insane.

The vivid dreams. Abel. This church. This song. Why was Cole’s memory so alive here?