Meant to Be Mine (A Porter Family Novel Book #2) (25 page)

Nobody said things like that to him. Nobody had reason to. His friends and family all thought he was doing well, or well enough,
considering. He didn’t understand how she’d known about the things going on inside of him. He didn’t remember giving her any clues. He must have, though, because she’d come tonight. And she’d known.

“I have faith in you, Ty.”

Stupid him, because his eyes glazed with wetness at the memory of her saying those words, looking right at him, into him, even. It had undone him. He’d never imagined how much he’d needed to hear her say that.

He’d given Celia no reason to have faith in him. He found it hard to find enough faith in himself to get through the day most of the time. But he didn’t doubt Celia’s honesty. She’d meant what she’d said. She had faith in him.

He began to move his lips in almost silent speech. It took a while for him to understand that he was talking to God. He’d doubted and sinned. He’d put himself first. When it had suited him, he’d left his relationship with God by the side of the road.

As usual when he prayed, his past mistakes crippled him with regret. His injury had kicked him down so much, though, that his choices were pretty much pray or check himself into a psych ward. So he kept on praying. He asked God for help and healing. For rescue. For sleep. For Celia to love him even though she shouldn’t love him and he shouldn’t ask God for something so ridiculous.

At the end, the prayer brought him around to one final request. “God,” he asked in words that were below hearing except in his mind, “I don’t know who I am anymore. Show me who you are. And show me who I am.”

C
hurch had changed since back in the day.

It was Sunday, the day after her pill-dumping session at Ty’s house, and Celia had followed through on her promise to Meg to attend church. Meg and Bo stood next to her on one side and Addie stood on the other.

Pounding, thumping, frankly
rocking
praise music flowed over them. Printed lyrics scrolled down a screen to the right of the stage, but the voices around Celia were singing with such enthusiasm and confidence that it made her think they hardly needed the lyrics. Leading them was a band that included three guitarists, a keyboardist, a drummer, and two singers.

Where was the choir? The hymnals? The organ? For that matter, where were the pews?

The churches of Celia’s childhood had looked like churches, with steeples, stained glass, and boring white hallways holding Sunday school classrooms. When Meg and Bo had fetched her and Addie this morning, that’s the kind of place she’d been expecting. Instead, they’d driven to a Christian school in a nearby town, explaining that their church rented out the school’s auditorium on Sundays.

The song ended and another immediately began, equally powerful
and modern. Celia glanced at Addie, who stood motionless, eyes wide. Celia could only imagine what might be going through her mind. At five, Addie wasn’t exactly a veteran of the concert scene. And this worship service, thanks to the darkness bathing the congregation and the illuminated musicians on stage, reminded Celia of a concert.

Plus, the people around them were dressed more like concertgoers than churchgoers. She and Addie had on dresses and their fanciest pairs of shoes, which put them in a more formal category than anyone else in the place.

When the music finished, the audience lowered into the rows of auditorium seats. The band exited and a man wearing jeans, chukka boots, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up walked onto the stage. He looked to Celia like a technical assistant, so she expected him to grab a microphone and duck offstage.

No. He set his Bible on one of those black music stands, then made a joke about the pro football game scheduled for later in the afternoon.

This
was Meg and Bo’s pastor? He couldn’t have been much past twenty-seven or a pound over a hundred forty-five. Again, Celia had the disorienting feeling of having expected one thing and being served something entirely different. Like ordering oatmeal and receiving an omelet.

Pastors wore dark suits. They had politician type haircuts and slick edges to them. They spoke in dramatic fashion about sin. Didn’t they? This pastor had a hip and spiky haircut and probably played Xbox with his buddies on the weekends.

Addie tapped her arm. “Crayons,” she whispered.

Celia doled out the crayons and paper she’d brought along to entertain Addie. Then she folded her hands in her lap on top of the church bulletin she’d been given and listened.

Meg and Bo’s pastor was not a particularly skilled orator. He had no holy aura about him. No grand hand gestures or great charisma. But as his sermon sank in, discomfort began to gather
in Celia’s breast. Mild at first, then exerting more pressure with every minute that passed. Because . . .

God was here.

In this auditorium that had no stained glass. Speaking to her through the words of this Doogie Howser preacher. He was here, and Celia, who had not sensed Him in years—not since that day when she’d knelt and begged Him for a negative result on her pregnancy test—sensed Him now. In a way that was so real and close that it felt as if she’d been pursued into an alley that ended in a brick wall. No way out.

Her heart rate kicked into a higher gear.

The pastor did not speak about how Christians should strive to be better than they were. He didn’t try to persuade them into having a quiet time every morning or praying more or signing up to be missionaries in Africa. In fact, he talked nothing at all about what the congregation could do for God and talked endlessly about what God had done for the congregation through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

He preached grace.

And then he preached God’s love.

And then he preached grace some more. “‘To the praise of his glorious grace,’” he read from the Bible, “‘which he has freely given us in the One he loves.’”

Celia found it increasingly difficult not to squirm. With her thumbnail, she began to push at her cuticles. She’d thought, sarcastically, that she might be struck by lightning for walking through a church’s doors after so many years as a heathen. Well, she felt as if she
had
been struck by lightning—just not in the way she’d supposed. She felt stricken by the possibility that God might actually love her as much as this pastor seemed to believe He did.

She thought back on the emptiness she’d long grappled with. When had it begun, this dissatisfying feeling of seeking and hungering after something she could never quite grasp? She could re
member it as far back as her childhood, when she’d been forced to move every few years. It had been with her in high school, when she’d hoped that Ty Porter would like her back and make her feel whole. She’d sought to find her anchor in her college degree, and after that in her goal of owning her own coffee shop. She’d looked to fill it with family, but she hardly saw her brother, and her parents were nothing but occasional houseguests. Even Addie, her dearest treasure, the person she’d poured every drop of her love into, had been unable to fill her up.

The more the pastor spoke, the more her emptiness stirred. It reached out, seeking a love that was unconditional and eternal and big enough to satisfy.

Her version of Christianity had been about avoiding drinking, lying, curse words, and sex before marriage. Sure, there’d been stories of the cross and the song “Jesus Loves Me.” But what had been the result? Her belief that religion meant trying to do—or not do—stuff in order to please God.

After that pregnancy test had come back positive, she’d been certain that God had turned His back on her because she hadn’t been good enough. She’d let go of her faith in Him because she’d understood with dull certainty that she’d
never
be good enough. And she’d grown weary of trying and failing.

This pastor was agreeing with her, in a way, freely acknowledging that no one in the room would ever be good enough. But he claimed that was all right because
Jesus
had already been good enough for them all.

Unshed tears burned her eyes. She told herself somewhat frantically to think about something else. Her job search or Addie’s kindergarten or anything—

It was as if God’s hands held her cheeks, keeping her attention on that long ago day when she’d hit her knees and prayed not to be pregnant.

Think back
, He seemed to say.

It wasn’t hard to remember her terrified desperation. She’d been a young and heartsick working girl back then. The possibility of
becoming pregnant had panicked her. At the time it had been almost impossible to imagine how she’d cope with a baby.

What would you have
had me change?

Her mind went blank. Her thoughts spiraled. If God had answered her prayer the way she’d wanted Him to back then, if her pregnancy had never been, she wouldn’t have Addie.

Addie’s blond head bent in concentration over her coloring. Celia watched as her glasses began to slip down her nose. Addie pushed them back with her index finger and continued to work on a scene depicting a plump white horse with a big bow on top of its head.

Addie was the greatest joy of Celia’s life. Not a burden. Not a tragedy.

A gift. A gift that God had perhaps insisted on giving her even when, in her fear, she’d asked for the opposite.

Mercifully, the sermon concluded. Having been granted a reprieve, Celia stood on shaky legs for more songs, then sat for the offering and announcements, then stood again for the final song. The whole time her brain listed like a ship trying to right itself. She needed time and space to think about all this. To process.

Meg, Bo, Celia, and Addie filed into the foyer at the end of the service. People walked past them, talking, greeting friends.

“So,” Meg asked, “what did you think?”

“The music was loud,” Addie answered.

Meg smiled and affectionately rolled a lock of Addie’s hair around her finger.

Meg and Bo moved their gazes to Celia. They struck Celia as two people assured with God, with themselves, and with each other. So much so that they had kindness enough to share with their surprise sister-in-law and niece.

“It was good,” Celia said. A mere figment of nothing to describe the earthquake that had just happened inside of her.

Meg gave Celia a hug. “Thank you for coming.”

Within an embrace that smelled like blooming roses, Celia could almost feel God’s arms around her, His voice whispering,
I love you, Celia. I’ve always loved you.

Through methods known only to him, Uncle Danny had managed to find what might be the only mid-century modern house in all of Holley, Texas.

Danny stepped onto his porch as Celia and Addie made their way up his front walk, Celia carrying a cake. “My favorite girls!” He had on a . . .
a
Ty Porter T-shirt
? The man who never wore new clothing had on a black T-shirt so new that it still bore fold marks.

Addie ran to hug him and the two of them went through their usual fist-bumping routine.

“What are you wearing, Uncle Danny?” Celia asked.

“My new shirt. Sweet, isn’t it?” He stuck out his arms and turned slowly.

Heinous, more like. A cheesy image of Ty riding a bull plastered the shirt’s front. The back read
Ty “
The Terminator” Porter
in a flaming red and yellow font and listed the years he’d won his world championships.

“Want me to order you one, C?”

A surprised laugh bubbled from Celia. “No. But thank you.”

“I want one!”

“’Course you do,” he said to Addie. “If I can get one in your size, I will. Won’t we look sharp riding our bike around town in our matching shirts?”

“You haven’t been riding in this heat, have you?” Celia asked. The forecasted high for this third day of September: ninety-seven.

“’Course I am. I’ve taken to this weather like a seal to water. Every time I’m out in it, I just soak in the vitamin D. Can’t get enough.”

“Really?” Celia wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t feel like the inside of a furnace to you?”

“Mo-om,” Addie protested. “It’s perfect here.”

“I agree with Potaddie. It’s perfect here.” Danny looked at her cake. “What’d you bring me?”

“Lemon poppy seed.” After the monumental things that had
occurred during the church service earlier, Celia had been feeling like a stroke patient struggling to recover normalcy. She’d gone straight to the kitchen when they’d arrived home and started in on her therapy. Neill had brought his boys over, and he and Celia had talked while the cake had baked and the kids had played. Baking hadn’t helped her organize her thoughts much today, but it had produced one pretty cake.

Danny lifted the cake from her hands and led them inside. More mid-century modernness everywhere Celia looked.

Within minutes, they’d settled around his kitchen table with slices of cake and glasses of coconut water over ice.

“I know I’ve said this before.” Danny took a moment to close his eyes and chew with a blissed-out expression. “But this is insanely good.”

“Thank you.”

“You have got to let me sell this online.”

“Lemon poppy seed cake alongside wet suits?”

“It’d be awesome!”

Celia took a sip of coconut water and tried not to wince. As health conscious as she was, she’d never been able to bring herself to like coconut water. It might be more hydrating than plain water, but it also tasted yuckier than the original. For Addie’s sake, she’d pretend to drink it, then dump it in the sink.

“These Texans sure are mannerly, aren’t they, Celia? Everywhere I go they greet me, shake my hand, and offer to help me out. Ty’s mom, for one. Nancy? She and I have been talking and scoping out my next dating move.”

Another example of the Porter Family Help Squad in action.

“She’s a great lady,” Danny continued. “If she wasn’t taken, I’d snap her up in a minute—”

“But she is. Taken.”

“Which is a shame.” He forked off another bite of cake. “Now that I’m in a new part of the country, I’ve decided to revisit the online dating thing. I’ve found a couple of ladies who live within driving distance of here.”

“I don’t know, Danny. Online dating hasn’t been that productive for you in the past.”

“Nah, but hope springs eternal. Waiting on the right wave takes patience. It’s the same with this. If I keep trying, keep waiting, then the right woman will eventually come my way.”

“Like a bump on the surface of the ocean.”

“You and me. We’re here.” He moved two fingers back and forth through the air between her forehead and his. “There’s this one lady that I met online through a site called Flirty and Over Fifty. She lives in Hugo, Oklahoma, which is just two hours from here. I can’t really tell from the picture what she’s got to offer in the looks department. I know she has diabetes, loss of vision in one eye, and a recurring case of the hiccups—but, hey, she might have some real potential.”