Words Unspoken (55 page)

“Did Brian like his early Christmas present?”

Janelle chuckled. “Brian thinks that you are the best thing that has happened to us in a long time. He says you’re always welcome to bring as much French or American lingerie as you want.”

They giggled into the phone together. Then, after an awkward pause, Katy Lynn asked, “So how was it, getting back?”

Katy Lynn imagined her sister wiping her eyes. “It sure was hard to leave Mom with … with everything. I’m so thankful she’ll be spending Christmas with you and Gina.” She paused. “But it’s a funny thing. As I said before I left, I feel like the Lord is giving me a peek around the corner. At the other side of grief. And on the other side, well, I see God in a much bigger way. My grief sent me back home so that I could be with Dad one more time, hear his story, know the truth so we could support Mom now… . I don’t know. It’s big.”

“Yeah. I’ve thought about that a lot,” Katy Lynn whispered. “I can’t say it as eloquently as that, but the truth is that the horrible things going on in my life were what pushed me to France—to you and Brian. And then being with you pushed me back to them—to him—before it was too late. Pretty weird—or
big
, as you say.”

Janelle sniffed. “Anyway, I’m here, and it’s going better than I expected. It’s great to be back with Brian and the kids. And the folks at church saved me a little role in the Christmas play. It sounds silly, but that helps me jump back into life over here.” She lowered her voice. “And we took a poinsettia to Josh’s grave. All four of us. We stood there and cried, and it was like the counselor said—another tiny step on the road of grief.”

“You amaze me, Janelle.”

“Oh, please. It’s just taking one day at a time.” The phone line crackled in the silence. “How is Gina?”

“She’s doing pretty well. She has now read every one of Dad’s books— his original copies. Cries through them and then she recommends them to all of her friends. She is very proud and protective of her secret. Very proud of her grandfather. And … so am I. Better late than never.” She gave a stiff laugh, hesitated, and then said, “I called Hamilton.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I did. For Gina. For Christmas. I suggested we try to have a meal—the three of us—not on Christmas Day, but before.”

“And?”

“And he agreed. So it’s tonight. Pray for us.”

“Wow, Kat, I will.”

Katy Lynn let out a breath. “Well, that is absolutely enough talk of sad things. Now don’t forget, I gave you that money so you could get a haircut—go back to that woman we found in town. She knew just what to do… .”

________

Lissa left The Sixth Declension and headed back to Chattanooga on I-75.
Driving Lessons
sat on the passenger’s seat. It was almost as if Mr. MacAllister were in the car with her again, telling her how to drive, telling her how to live life, helping her form her “battle plan.” When she passed under the bridge and by the scene of the accident, her heart raced a little. Her knuckles tightened on the steering wheel and she felt tears prick her eyes. But she knew she was in control.

I’m in control of the car, and Someone else is in control of my life.

She took the exit to Fort Oglethorpe, drove past the Military Park and onto Sunrise Road, and turned into the driveway. She parked the Camaro, picked up the novel, and got out of the car. She walked over to Ole Bessie, and almost lovingly—as if she were patting Caleb—ran her hand over the writing on the blue Ford.
MacAllister’s Driving School
.

Annie came out of the front door and waved from the porch. She had lost weight. Her face wore the traces of grief—fatigue and poise and hurt.

Lissa hurried over to her and embraced her friend.

“Look at you, young lady. Driving by yourself! Ev would be so delighted.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Sorry I’m late. I didn’t even have time to change.”

“You look perfectly adorable in your riding attire.”

Lissa handed Annie the novel. “I waited for four hours for this. I was wondering if you would write something in it for me.”

Annie brushed her hand gently over the cover. “Lissa, you didn’t need to buy a copy. I was planning on giving you one.”

“I
wanted
to wait in that line and buy my own copy. I
needed
to. I don’t know why exactly, but it felt important.”

“Well, of course I’ll write something. The last novel by S. A. Green.” Her face clouded over briefly, then she said, “Yes, I heard there was quite a crowd in the bookstores.” She opened the screen door. “Well, come on in. Dinner’s ready.”

Lissa inhaled the familiar smells of pot roast and potatoes, vinegar and garlic, warm rolls and butter—the fragrance of comfortable, wellworn love. She sat down at the table with Annie, glanced at Ev’s empty chair, and then looked away.

He should be here. If I miss him this much, what does Annie feel?

Whatever Annie felt, she kept the conversation going during the whole meal. “You said on the phone that you’re applying to colleges?”

“Yep. I’ve almost got all the applications done. I think I’m going to study English.”

“Good for you. Ev felt you had talent. You know what he’d say to you—just remember to use your gift the right way.”

“Yes, I remember.” She would remember everything he told her. “I wrote something for you. And for him.” She handed Annie an envelope. “It was inspired by things … you know. Things he told me, about life and God. You can read it later. You’ll see.”

“Thank you, Lissa.” Annie stared at the envelope for a few seconds, then flashed Lissa a smile. “So how’s your father?”

“He’s pretty good. We finally got everything out—about the accident, about us and my future and Caleb. Dad worked out a compromise with the family in Virginia. They bought Caleb, but didn’t take him back with them yet. I’m leasing him from them until I start college, so for now I can ride—as of two weeks ago when the cast came off.” Lissa cleared her throat and took a sip of iced tea. “Dad still gets this awful look on his face every time I go to the stables, but he doesn’t say a word. It’s funny, he doesn’t seem as worried when I drive. I guess he is just so relieved that I am handling things better. I actually think he’s loosening up a bit.”

“He wrote me a very kind sympathy note.”

“Really? That’s neat. He didn’t tell me.”

“As did your Italian.”

“Silvano? He wrote you?”

“Yes, a few weeks ago. It was very interesting. He sent me a copy of the article that appeared in
Persona
magazine—wanted to make sure I approved. He apologized—in a roundabout way—for his ‘lack of discretion,’ as he put it. He assured me he wouldn’t divulge our secret, talked about how much Ev’s books meant to him. ‘They have caused me to take another look at spirituality’ is how he put it.” She shrugged. “I know you said he was quite the charmer. He was probably just covering his bases.”

“Maybe not. He’s surprising me. Underneath all the bravado, he seems to feel an incredible amount of responsibility for his family back in Rome. It couldn’t have been easy for him to give up his big scoop.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” Annie stood and took the empty dinner plates into the kitchen. When she came back out, she gave Lissa an almost sheepish smile. “Would you mind terribly if we had dessert on the porch? It was our habit.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do, Annie.”

Together on the porch swing, bundled under blankets, Lissa sat with Annie, watching the silhouette of Lookout Mountain and listening to the stillness of the evening.

Lissa drove up the mountain in the dark. Unconsciously she began to smile, and then she heard the voice. It was a whisper, barely even there.

Chosen,
it said. She turned her head ever so slightly, as if she had really heard the word spoken out loud.

Valued.

Loved
.

The words followed in quick succession, a gentle breeze blowing through her soul, words from the verses Mr. MacAllister had written on that sheet.

Whatever is true, whatever is lovely … think on these things.

She tilted her head again. Something inside of her seemed to be smiling—perhaps it was her spirit or her soul. She felt a bursting type of sensation, filling up and expanding outward. She thought of the photo of Caleb, head high, blue ribbon floating, and her own delighted face. That was how she felt. Again. At last. Only better.

Another word settled softly in her mind.

Forgiven
.

No other taunting voice came in to steal away the joy of the drive. There was only this voice, the One she was learning to recognize and listen to, all-powerful and yet gentle, all-knowing without condemnation, a voice of hope.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If we are honest with ourselves, we have to admit that we all hear voices in our heads. For many years now, I have been learning to replace the insidious lies I was so used to hearing with the truth, found in the Word of God. As I contemplated the beauty of learning to hear the truth, I wanted to create a story with colorful characters who hear voices and find out what happens to each character when he or she listens to those voices. And voilà!
Words Unspoken.
My prayer, as always, is that this story will get into your heart and soul, cause you to think, look for answers, and ultimately delight in hearing the truth.

My thanks for so many who have helped me:

A couple of years ago, my husband, Paul, asked me, “Why don’t you use an older male as the main protagonist in a novel someday?” And so Ev MacAllister slipped into my mind. Thanks, honey, for everything: advice, encouragement, love, life together. Thank you for helping me recognize lies and hear God’s truth.

Although eighteen when he moved to the States for college, our older son, Andrew, didn’t know how to drive (long story) until he started taking lessons in a little driving school in Fort Oglethorpe, GA, in the shadow of Lookout Mountain. Hearing him describe his lessons got me to thinking,
What if I wrote about learning to drive and let it be a metaphor for learning to live?
Thank you to both of our sons, Andrew and Chris, for many an exciting “ride together” on the mountain, but especially for the way you inspire me in this “ride of life.” Your zeal and enthusiasm for the Lord and His truth truly challenge me.

At the time I was writing this novel, I did not know that the U.S. would be going through a huge financial crisis that far outweighed the one I describe in 1987. I am often amazed at the Lord’s timing—how He inspires me and what He teaches me as I write.
Beware of greed!
May we all pay attention to this warning. Thanks to my father, Jere Wickliffe Goldsmith IV, the world’s greatest dad and stockbroker, for your patient explaining of Black Monday, blue chips and options, and what a “rogue broker” looks like. And thanks for being a real Jerry Steinman to so many other brokers.

Barbara Goldsmith, my amazing mother—you are tireless in your help with research, contacts, mailing books to readers, encouraging me, and much more. The rest of the Goldsmith and Musser families—Jere and Mary, Glenn and Kim, Grandmom, Harvey and Doris, H. A. and Rhonda, Janet and Steve, Scot and Carol, Beth and Bill: each of you has offered me words of wisdom and encouragement along this writing road. How sweet of the Lord to let us be together on several occasions during our stay in the States.

It’s always helpful for a writer to get to be on location when writing. Spending the fall living on Lookout Mountain allowed me to drive up and down that winding road plenty of times as well as poke around downtown Chattanooga, Fort Oglethorpe, and the Chickamauga Battlefield Military Park. I’m thankful for the help of these people as I did my research: Hazel Bickerstaff, DeeDee Dunkerley, Starlett Speakman, Peggy Michaels, Marty Vaughn, Kim Leffew, Gail Pinchak, Lacy Thompson, Melanie Gowin, and Kristi Sippel.

Thanks to Jennifer Brett with the AJC, who cleared up some last minute info about newpapers.

To Vickie Oliver from WOTH for being willing to tell me the truth about your grief.

To Isabelle Kozycki, dear friend and precious sister in Christ, for modeling for me throughout the years courage and perseverance after tragedy.

Cheryl Stauffer, Cathy Carmeni, and Bob Dillon—patient preeditors— your advice was invaluable.

Silvana Tuikalepa—many thanks for helping me with Italian, making me laugh and being one courageous young woman.

LB Norton—my priceless editor. My novels are better because of you. I am so grateful for your precision and professionalism mixed in with large doses of humor. How great finally to meet face-to-face, twice!

The ones who continue to pray for the work of my hands and cheer me on: Val Andrews, Margaret DeBorde, Kim Huhman, Laura McDaniel, Marcia Smartt, Cathy Carmeni, Odette Beauregard, Trudy Owens, Lori Varak, Cheryl Stauffer, Karen Moulton, Vivianne Perret, Michele Philit, Marlyse Francais … and many others.

My agent, Chip MacGregor—I am so privileged to be able to work with you. Your expertise, advice, and encouragement have really helped my perspective on this industry.

What a blessing to meet the Bethany House staff on their own stomping grounds! Dave Horton, as always, my deepest thanks for your wise and patient counsel throughout all the years. And to the others who work so hard and honor the Lord,
merci
: Brett Benson, Joanie Brooks, Noelle Buss, Carra Carr, Donna De For, Jim Hart, Paul Higdon, Luke Hinrichs, Debra Larsen, Dave and Sarah Long, Steve Oates, Jim Parrish, Charlene Patterson, Karen Schurrer.