Monday Morning Faith (6 page)

Nelda leaned forward, ebony elbows on the table. “I hear there are a lot of flies over there. And sickness. You know, Sam Littleton is a missionary. New Zealand, I think.”

“Papua New Guinea.”

Her expression changed, deepened. “Monday morning faith.”

“Monday what?”

“Monday morning faith. The gospel sounds real good sitting in a pew on Sunday, but living it come Monday morning is hard.”

I nodded, fearing I was afflicted with the same struggle.

Sally brought the salads and drinks. Nelda waved her back when she was about to leave. “Hold on a sec. Let me ask you something.”

“Sure, what?”

“This mission trip — did you do a lot of research?”

“Did we ever! I know more about Kenya than most people who live there. The information won't mean much once we get there. We'll have a lot to learn about everyday life. Want some lemon meringue pie for dessert?” Sally tucked the pen in her pocket.

I laughed. “She's on a diet.”

“Yeah. The Nelda Thomas Mashed Potatoes and Gravy Diet. What's one little piece of pie?”

“Another inch on the hips.”

Nelda sighed. “Bring on the pie.”

The afternoon ticked by; I counted the minutes until Sam picked me up. When I wasn't fussing with my hair, straightening the collar on my blouse, or changing earrings, I stayed busy at the computer typing in new purchases. Nelda paused, eyebrows cocked.

“How come you're wearing your new blouse to work? You don't dress this fancy.”

“Oh, just in the mood to wear something nice.” Nothing said I had to tell her about my plans. Besides, it wasn't a date. A sandwich at the coffee shop wasn't a date.

She slanted a narrow look at me. “Something doesn't add up. You wouldn't be trying to pull my leg, would you?”

“Would I mislead you?”

“In a heartbeat, and it wouldn't be the first time.”

“Go on. I have work to do.”

She left, but I knew my blouse had whetted her interest. I'd have been better off telling the truth.

Five thirty took its good sweet time rolling around. I shut down my computer and shrugged into my good gray suit jacket that complemented the new mint green blouse with matching embroidery on the collar and cuffs. I was being pretty obvious.

Sam was waiting in the corridor. He turned and smiled as I approached. “There you are, right on time.”

“I'm always punctual.”
Get a grip.
That sounded like something an old-maid librarian would say. What was I doing here? It had been so long since I'd been on a date, I didn't know one line of sparkling conversation.

I caught a flutter of movement out of the corner of my eye. Nelda, all smiles and self-satisfied expression, sauntered by, lifting her hand in a saucy little wave. “Y'all have a good time, y'hear?”

I shot her a threatening glance. She'd been hiding in the walls, spying on me. We'd have a long talk tomorrow.

Sam took my arm and ushered me through the corridor to the coffee shop. From there I led the way back to “our” table.

New waitress tonight; same Sam fascination. The man drew women like honey draws flies. We scanned the menu, made our choices, and gave our orders. He leaned back against the seat. “I've been looking forward to this all week.”

My resolve to keep this on a business level melted in the warmth of his smile. So how was I different from the waitresses? He seemed oblivious to the effect he had on the opposite sex. I'd never met anyone with his understated charm.

We chatted — about my job, my parents, my hobbies, my interests. I couldn't remember ever talking so much about myself, but then, no one had ever been interested before. I pushed my plate aside and reached for my dessert, double chocolate brownie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with caramel sauce. I thought about the pie I'd eaten for lunch and pictured my side button blowing and hitting Sam in the temple. I scooted, angling my body toward the doorway. Picking up my fork, I smiled. “What do you do besides research Papua New Guinea?”

“Oh, lots of interests. I read, mysteries and Westerns for fun, nonfiction on a lot of subjects, I like to fish, golf once in a while, and work in my church.”

“Yes … your church work.” I laid the fork aside, appetite suddenly gone, and cleared my throat. “How do you know it's a true calling and not something
you
want to do?” Obviously, any child of God wanted to serve him. But thousands of miles away from home in a terrain so crude bugs had a hard time finding the place?

I wanted to do more for the Lord, but with my job and Mom and Pop, when would I find time? I'd joined the choir once but made it to so few Wednesday evening practices that I dropped out.

Sam pushed his plate aside, easing his chair back from the table. “When I started working with missions I didn't intend to get so involved, but something kept pulling me in deeper. One thing led to another. Belinda and I planned to go on longer trips — to test mission waters — and then she got sick. We weren't sure at that time of the Lord's calling, and when she fell ill we aborted the plans.”

“Of course.” Hard for me to picture him with a wife; he was never with anyone when he came to the library. The topic changed to Papua New Guinea, and I listened as he told me about the country, a land of crotons, coleus, and other ornamental plants. Where papaya and pineapple bordered thatched huts, and the invigorating smell of rolling surf filled the air.

The man was already an expert. Why did he need my help?

Coffee shop employees started mopping the floor, stacking chairs on top of tables — a subtle hint they planned to close. Sam paid the bill and walked me to my car. I unlocked the door and turned to face him. He took one hand and bent toward me, his lips brushing my cheek in a gentle kiss — -almost an afterthought. “Good night, Johanna. It's been a wonderful evening.”

“Thank you, Sam. It has been nice.” Perfect. I would have few others like it, and I knew it.

I got in my car and drove home in a daze. His kiss had been polite and impersonal. That was Sam. Kind. Sold out to the Lord.

How I envied his trust.

I refused to give significance to the evening. The nonevent was a pleasant ending to a hectic day. Nothing more.

But a kiss. Now
that
was unusual from a patron.

I bumped into Sam twice more that October — both times in the research section, and once down on his hands and knees. It is hard to concentrate with such distraction.

Friday night, I was late getting away; it seemed everyone wanted new reading material. Maybe because a drizzle-snow had fallen all day and they all planned to stick close to home.

Close to seven I came home to find my mother in a mild state of panic. “Thank goodness you're here!”

I froze. “What?”

“It's your father. He's having trouble breathing.”

I trailed her into the den, where Pop sat in his wheelchair, face pale, chest heaving with the effort to get his breath. One look told me all I needed to know. “We're going to the hospital.”

“I'll be all right,” he wheezed.

“Don't bother arguing. We're going.” I shouldered my purse and pushed his chair out to the car. With Mom's help I got him loaded in the backseat. She climbed in the passenger's side, and I backed out of the driveway and threw the transmission into drive. The emergency room staff knew us by sight. Pop was whisked out of the car and onto a stretcher. Mom and I ran behind the gurney as staff wheeled him to the pulmonary unit.

While the ER staff worked on stabilizing Pop, Mom and I sat in the small waiting area adjacent to the emergency entrance. She gripped my hands so tight I could feel my circulation slow. Her lips trembled. “I'm so worried about him. It seems each spell is worse than the last.”

I patted her arm. “He'll be all right. The doctors know what to do.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to him. We've been together for so many years. He's my anchor in life.”

“Nothing is going to happen, Mom.” But I knew my words were empty. He wouldn't always be all right; Pop was getting worse all the time. He'd confided one day that trying to breathe was like having a straw up one nostril and pinching the other closed. That was his constant struggle. I didn't know what would happen to Mom when he drew his last labored breath. But I did know this: he was living on borrowed time.

The door to the waiting room opened and an older woman entered. My mouth dropped open. She was leaning on Sam Littleton's arm.

I sat up straighter. There he was, large as life. I'd gotten used to seeing him around the library, but what was he doing here? Tonight? And who was the lady he was supporting on his arm?

He spotted me and concern spread across his wind-dappled features. I shook my head, the irony hitting me. I got up and walked toward him. “Hello. Seems we can't go anywhere without bumping into each other.”

“Hello, Johanna.” His gaze indicated the older woman. “Clarisse has come down with the flu, and there wasn't anyone to bring her to the hospital, so I volunteered.”

Yes, he would do that.

I introduced him to Mom, then returned to my seat while Sam checked Clarisse in and helped her fill out insurance information. Moments later they followed a nurse down the hall.

“Who'd you say that is?”

I glanced at Mom. “A library patron.”

“Nice-looking man. Clean-cut.”

“Ummm?” I picked up a
Reader's Digest
and turned to the humor section. “Is he? I hadn't noticed.”

I might not be called to the mission field, but I was finding there was one gift I had in abundance.

The gift of misleading.

Between the first week in November and Thanksgiving, it seemed that I bumped into Sam around every corner. We'd go for coffee or get in a long discussion over Papua New Guinea's main income source: copra, which was produced from stands of coconut palms. I knew little about it other than what I'd read, but Sam was well acquainted with the villagers' method of acquiring cash, and I found his knowledge fascinating.

We'd gotten pretty cozy until the morning he set a stack of books on the return counter. “Did I tell you I'm leaving for a couple of weeks?”

I didn't look up. If I had, my eyes would have been gaping. Papua New Guinea? Had the trip been moved up? I went light-headed. Had trouble catching my breath. “Leaving?” I managed the right touch of polite indifference. There was that gift of misleading again. I really was getting good at it.

“One of the leaders had to back out of a mission trip because of family problems, so I'm taking a group of nurses to Matamoros for a week. I'll be supervising a medical clinic — ”

Matamoros. Mexico. Suddenly I could breathe again. “How nice!”

My sheer exuberance blew him off his feet. Never had I shown such enthusiasm for his work.
Mexico!
He wouldn't be gone nearly as long as the Papua New Guinea trip! Would he be back before the holidays?