The Promise (10 page)

 18 

H
enry drove his yellow '68 Chevy Impala south on 17-92, the part for his motor home sitting next to him in a small box. Going through that RV parts store in Altamonte was dangerous. He always saw a thousand little things to buy.

But he and Myra had agreed, they needed to stick to their budget, which meant he could only fix it up a little at a time. The nice thing was, he'd already done enough work so they could take it on road trips. Like this part for the gas oven. Until now, he'd had to cook outside using a gas grill. Once he got this new part installed, they could start cooking inside the motor home again.

He stopped at a busy intersection and sang quietly along with a praise song on the radio. One they sang at church some Sundays. Just then, he felt a familiar rumbling in his stomach. He glanced at his watch. No wonder, it was almost noon.

Tom and Jean's place was in Lake Mary, twenty minutes up the road. Myra had pointed out that Tom would be at work this time of day, but seeing the time, Henry wondered if it still might work out. Henry had met Tom for lunch a handful of times over the past year; Tom always took his lunch break at
noon. The main branch was only a five-minute drive from here. The car behind him blared its horn. The light had turned green.

He drove through the intersection and pulled into a gas station on the corner, watched the guy behind him speed by hurling silent profanities into the air. Henry never understood why people got so worked up in traffic. If he and that same man had been at a grocery store, and he'd accidentally blocked the man's shopping cart, the man would have politely said, “Excuse me.” And Henry would have just as politely replied, “Oh, I'm sorry,” and moved out of the way.

Out here, the same mistake was enough to incite road rage.

Henry pushed the send button on his cell phone and waited through five or six rings. Tom didn't pick up, so he left a short voice mail message. Maybe he should just head on down to Jean's house. But first, he decided to get something to eat. Wouldn't be right to just pop in on her at lunchtime. She'd feel obligated to feed him.

He thought a moment, and just the right place popped into his head. It was right up the road, one of his favorite spots for coffee and sandwiches.

He pulled back into traffic and turned right, headed for the Java Stop.

Tom had only been working at the Java Stop for two days now, but he was starting to get the hang of it. Alvin, the owner, had spent lots of time with him yesterday in moments when little to no customers had been in the store. Unfortunately for Alvin, there had been a lot of those moments. But by the end of the day, Tom had picked it up so well that Alvin decided he'd let him run the show for a few hours today while he ran some errands.

So far, things had been going well. Alvin said he'd be back before lunch, but noon was fast approaching and there was
no sign of him. The other two employees knew their jobs, but technically, Tom was supposed to be their supervisor, and he didn't want to feel stupid constantly having to ask them questions once the customer traffic picked up.

At the moment, he was fixing a breve latte, which he'd learned was a latte made with half-and-half instead of milk. Regina, one of the two employees under him, had been busy the last hour doing food prep, partially assembling two or three of each of the Java Stop's most popular sandwiches, getting ready for the lunch hour crowd. Regina divided her time between here and the local community college.

Frank manned the register. He was an odd one. Worked hard, kept a clean appearance, but he was at least in his midforties. He seemed like he could be doing a whole lot more with his life than this.

Tom put a lid on the latte, added a cardboard sleeve, and handed it to a smiling blonde woman in her fifties, who thanked him and said, “You just saved my life.”

Tom smiled as she walked away. No, he thought, in a way, you just saved mine. Not the woman exactly, but this job. He couldn't believe he'd actually been contemplating the idea of robbing a bank. What was he thinking? Would he really have gone through with it? Probably not, but his level of desperation made him wonder how far down that road he might have traveled.

Thankfully, his career as a criminal was over before it had begun. The money here wasn't great. But Tom had done some figuring and decided it might just buy him that three months' time he needed to finish studying for his certification. He still couldn't make their house payments, but he could start making car payments again and the minimum payment on their credit cards. From everything he'd read, it would take the mortgage company over a year to force them out of the house anyway. By then, he was sure he'd be in a high-paying job again.

But he'd done a few more calculations, and he had decided the house was a goner—it was just a matter of time. They would never get out from under the mountain of money they owed on the mortgage. But hey, he was working. Some money was coming in. Real money. Money he was earning with his own two hands, not a government handout, and that felt good.

He was also surprised by how much he enjoyed this kind of work, and he wasn't sure why. He had never done anything like this before. He and Jean had always practiced a conventional marriage. She owned the kitchen, which included cooking all the meals. He took care of the bills and the yard chores. The only break from that was when they grilled something outside. Occasionally, very occasionally, he would make an omelet.

But here he was, making a variety of high-end café drinks and gourmet sandwiches. Alvin had even promised to teach him how to start baking the different kinds of bread they used for sandwiches and pastries. Tom didn't figure he'd be staying on that long, but he still found it all very fascinating.

Besides the low pay, the only setback was the hours. Being the assistant manager involved closing two or three nights a week. On those nights, he wouldn't get home until after nine. Tomorrow would be his first closing shift. Last night, he had to think of something to tell Jean to explain his absence. He had never worked that late at the bank. He'd had to come up with a story—a lie, an outright lie—and he hated doing it.

He knew that was odd—his whole life had been a lie these past five months. But he'd created a system of vague answers, head nods, and ambiguities that made him feel like he was engaged in something that was, at least, less than outright lies.

But he couldn't think of anything ambiguous to tell Jean to explain these late hours, so he simply said the bank was adding a couple of new branches, so for a few months he'd have to work late two or three nights a week to keep up with all the
IT work involved. He'd even added another tier to the lie: that he would be getting paid overtime. He didn't know why he'd said it. It was a stupid thing to say. He'd just blurted it out last night over dinner.

Well, that was that, he thought. No sense worrying about it now. He had a job to do.

The little bell above the door rang, signifying more customers. Tom looked up and saw a young couple come in, followed by three college kids, but no one else. He hoped for Alvin's sake that wasn't the extent of the lunch rush. He walked toward the counter to give Frank a hand when he heard the little bell ring again.

He looked up and then instantly froze.

It can't be.

But it was.

Uncle Henry had just walked through the door.

 19 

I
t was now dinnertime in Florence, Italy. Jim and Marilyn, along with the entire tour group, were spending their last evening in this magnificent city. Tomorrow the bus would take them to the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa. Marilyn couldn't wait to see it, but she already knew nothing would top her time spent here in Florence.

As much as she loved all the history and architecture in Rome, being in Florence was like living a dream. It was so much more romantic and charming. The colors on all the buildings so much more vibrant and alive than the other cities they'd visited so far. And since Florence was considered the birthplace of the Renaissance, there was so much art to see, not just in the museums but in the streets and squares.

Florence was enchanting.

At the moment, the group was eating dinner in an upscale restaurant right on the banks of the Arno River. Jim and Marilyn sat at a table outside. Marilyn had only to look over Jim's left shoulder to see Ponte Vecchio, the oldest and most famous of Florence's six bridges. They had toured the bridge earlier that afternoon, stopping to take at least a dozen pictures from every
angle. Then they'd wandered in and out of all the quaint little shops built right on top of the bridge.

“Can you get a picture of it from here?” Marilyn said. “This is a great angle, all those colorful buildings on either side and the sun setting on the other side. I want to remember this moment just like this.”

Jim stood up and walked behind her, near the stone rail.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to remember this moment too,” Jim said. “But I want to remember it with you in the picture.”

“My hair's a mess.”

“It's not a mess. It just looks windblown. You look like a model in a fashion shoot. A photographer would have to pay extra to get that effect on your hair. I'm getting it free.”

“You're just being silly.”

“You're just being gorgeous. I love that you have no idea how amazing you look right now.”

She smiled. A warm feeling came over her. She still wasn't used to how often Jim complimented her. He said things like this all the time now. She never knew what to say when he did.

“Okay, smile.”

“You're mostly getting the bridge, right?”

“I've got plenty of the bridge in here.”

“But still, take one of just the bridge. I might want to frame it for the house.”

“I will. Now smile.” He took three shots then returned to his seat. “I got a beautiful shot of the bridge. I think you'll like it.”

“It will be a memory I'll cherish forever.”

The waiter came up and refilled their drinks. After he walked away, Jim asked, “Is this your favorite part of Florence? Ponte Vecchio?”

“Maybe. It's certainly one of them. I've loved so many of the
things we've seen these last two days. It's still hard to believe we're here. So, what's your favorite part of the trip?”

“Mine? All the parts no one will ever see but you and me. It's not one thing, it's all the times we've been alone together. In the hotel rooms, dancing out on that balcony. The times we got to break away from the group for a few hours. I loved walking down those crowded little streets, holding your hand. I love . . . just being with you.” He squeezed her hand. “And I didn't realize how much I've missed your smile. I
love
making you smile.”

“I am not being ridiculous!”

Jim and Marilyn stopped talking and turned toward the table behind them. It was that young couple, their picture-taking partners, Brian and Amanda Holbart, apparently getting into another spat. Jim and Marilyn hadn't spent a great deal of time with them since the tour began but enough to know they weren't doing very well.

Marilyn had learned they were both Christians who attended church regularly, but as Amanda talked about her church, it seemed to have a lot in common with their old legalistic church, the one in River Oaks they had left months ago. Marilyn recognized the telltale signs of a controlling husband and a wife straining under the weight of his heavy-handed approach.

Amanda had said yesterday they were celebrating their tenth anniversary. And here they were, in this incredibly romantic location, but they couldn't enjoy it.

“You are, Amanda. And keep your voice down. People are beginning to stare.”

Jim and Marilyn turned to face each other. “That's such a shame,” Marilyn said quietly. “They've been bickering like that off and on since we met them at the Spanish Steps.”

“I know,” Jim said. “I wish we could do something to help them.”

“Maybe we can.” Marilyn glanced back at them over Jim's
shoulder. The conversation still appeared tense, but at least they were keeping the volume down.

“How can we? We don't even know them.”

“I don't know, but we'll be together several more days. Let's pray God gives us some kind of open door. Maybe we could share a little bit of what we've been through. I think Brian would definitely benefit from hearing your story.”

“I was thinking the same thing just before you said it.” A worried look came over his face.

“What's wrong?” she said.

“I have absolutely no idea what I'd say. If Brian's at the same place I was a few months ago, and I say the wrong thing or say the right thing the wrong way, he could get pretty upset. Then there'd be all this tension between us for the rest of the trip.”

Jim had a point. If this idea backfired, it could ruin their trip as well.