The car accident had been horrific, one of the worst in recent history. It had nearly killed Jay, and the details that followed had nearly killed Kendall. Jay had been driving Kendall’s car. The head-on crash had taken place in a handful of seconds, long enough for a drunk driver in a work truck to cross the double yellow lines on Mulholland Drive and barrel head on into a speeding Jay. The mangled metal heaps that remained once the dust settled made it hard for rescue workers to know exactly how many victims they were working with.
At first media reports had it that Kendall had been killed in the wreck. But she was working with Compassion International in Costa Rica when the frantic text messages began popping up on her phone.
Are you alive?
Are you okay?
Thank God Jay’s alive!
And dozens of promises to pray. She took a flight back that afternoon, and by the time her plane touched down everyone knew the truth.
The dead body in the passenger seat of Kendall’s BMW was not Kendall, but rather the twenty-two-year-old model Jay had been secretly seeing. At almost the same time, another significant piece of information rose to the surface: the young woman had been eight months pregnant with Jay’s son.
The story hit the news, of course, but to this day Kendall was grateful it hadn’t blown up across the front pages. The media never made much of the fact that Jay was Ben Adams’ son-in-law, and since the accident wasn’t only Jay’s fault, the media lost interest. The same couldn’t be said for the lawyers in the case.
The parents of the dead pregnant model hired a team of attorneys days after her funeral. The victim had been the single mother of two little girls — neither fathered by Jay. But since the drunk driver had no insurance, and since Jay was cited with reckless driving for speeds in excess of eighty miles per hour, the lawyers came after Kendall’s father — the registered owner of the BMW.
In court the truth about the woman came out. She had been a terrible mother, rarely visiting her children and leaving her own mother to raise them. At the time of the accident, the model hadn’t spoken with her mother or her daughters for more than a year. Still, her mother contended that she could continue to raise her granddaughters, but she would need a great deal of money to pull it off. By the time the haggling and courtroom drama ended, the settlement for the woman’s daughters had cost Kendall’s father just under a million dollars.
The accident cost Kendall a lot more than that.
She talked to Jay just once afterwards, late at night during an unannounced visit to the hospital. She found him hooked to an IV, his legs in a pair of casts, bandages around his head. Even with that, he was watching TV as if he hadn’t just been party to a fatal accident, as if his whole world hadn’t fallen apart. She stood in the hospital doorway staring at him, seeing him the way he’d looked five years earlier, the night they met.
He must’ve heard her, because he turned his head, and when he saw her, his face fell. For a long while he held her gaze, then he turned off the TV and looked away. “I’m surprised you came.”
“Me too.” She moved slowly into his room, clutching her purse in front of her, as if keeping something between them might protect her heart from further damage. She reached the side of his bed and waited. Just waited, because she figured it wasn’t her job to do the talking.
The silence quickly became unbearable and he rattled loose a long sigh. His eyes found hers again. “I was going to tell you.” He brought his hand slowly to his face and pressed his fingers against his brow. “I just … I hadn’t figured out how.”
Kendall could voice just one question. “Did you … love her?” He closed his eyes for a long time. When he opened them again he said something that had stayed with her ever since. “Everybody loves everybody in this business.” His lips were dry and cracked. He ran his tongue over them, buying time. “It was my fault. I let it get out of hand.”
“Out of hand?” She wanted to scream at him. His girlfriend had been about to deliver his baby. The baby Kendall hadn’t been able to give him. “Were you planning to marry her?”
Again he hesitated. Then, “It doesn’t matter.”
Kendall thought of a dozen more questions, a hundred things she might say. But in the end she said nothing. The silence between them deafened her, the whir of machines and the sickly, antiseptic hospital smell filling her senses.
Finally he spoke. “My attorney is drawing up the papers. The divorce will be final before summer’s over.”
And like that, five years were finished.
The trouble was Kendall hadn’t seen it coming. In the days since the accident she had relived every wonderful day of their relationship a thousand times. In all her life she’d never met anyone like Jay Randolph. He had a faith that made him larger than life, and a charisma that made him the center of attention wherever he went. Her father introduced them at an Academy Awards after-party. Kendall liked to say he swept her off her feet and stole her heart all in a single conversation.
Kendall credited the Lord with a pair of miracles in the months since that final meeting with Jay. First, she had survived with a determination to live — to truly live. Part of that came from her desire to help filmmakers like Keith and Chase make an impact in the entertainment industry.
The second miracle was this: her love for God lived still. She’d been tempted at first to walk away from her faith. That’s what Jay had done. In Hollywood, Jay’s beliefs had crumbled and fallen away until they were nothing more than a patch on his sleeve. They hadn’t stopped him from having an affair, so why should Kendall think her faith could help her?
But that attitude had lasted only a few weeks before she literally felt herself wasting away inside.
Kendall grabbed a long breath and opened her eyes. The faith she’d seen in the eyes of Chase and Keith was real, genuine, and that was Kendall’s greatest concern. She couldn’t stand to see the movie business do to them what it had done to Jay. That’s why she’d felt so alarmed by the strange feelings she’d had when she hugged Chase. She could never, ever develop feelings for him. Rather, the three of them needed to stick together, talk about their faith and their commitments, include God every step of the way.
Kendall’s resolve grew as she started her car and pulled out of the parking complex. If they didn’t keep God at the center of everything they did, the power of their films wouldn’t really matter.
Because the next moral failure to hit Hollywood could be one of theirs.
Two
BAILEY FLANIGAN PULLED HER JACKET TIGHT around her shoulders and pressed hard into the wind as she crossed the Indiana University campus. The rain beat against her lined hood and she picked up her pace, hurrying toward the theater building and her rehearsal for the upcoming musical, Scrooge. The old ornate brick building was in sight when she felt her phone vibrate. Andi or Tim, she figured. No one else would text her in the middle of the day.
She pulled her phone from the pocket of her rain jacket, and what she saw caught her breath. Cody Coleman? They hadn’t talked in nearly a month.
Bailey stared at his name as she slowed her steps. He was more Andi’s friend now, ever since the homecoming game when he’d walked past her and Tim without stopping. That same night Cody had spent an hour sitting in the parking lot talking with Andi. Now Cody and Andi texted and talked often.
Though the situation hurt, Bailey hadn’t shared her feelings with anyone except her mom. When they talked about it they agreed: Cody had moved on. Sure, they’d seen each other on campus — from a distance, usually — and they sat in the same Campus Crusade meeting every Thursday night, but other than a polite wave or a quick hello, he hadn’t talked to her.
Bailey scrolled down to the message. She felt her heart rate pick up as she read it.
MISS YOU … MORE THAN YOU KNOW.
She read it again. And a third time. The message was short, but it spoke straight to her soul. She could tell herself whatever she wanted about Cody. Whether he’d moved on or not, she s
till had feelings for him.
“Does he ever mention me?” she had asked Andi just that morning as they left their dorm.
“Not really.” Andi frowned. “It’s weird, I agree with you. I think it’s because of Tim.”
Bailey’s mom thought the same thing. Ever since Tim Reed had become Bailey’s boyfriend, Cody had backed off. Never mind his promise of friendship, he’d cut her off completely. There were times when she wanted to make the first move, call him and ask why he was being so ridiculous, staying away from her and her family. But she always figured if he really wanted to reconnect, he’d call first. After all, he was the one who had walked past her at the Clear Creek High football game a month ago with barely a glance in her direction.
It was raining harder, so she used her body to shelter her phone. Her fingers flew across the small keyboard as she tapped her response.
YEAH, CODY … MISS YOU TOO.
She hit Send and slid her phone back into her pocket. Rehearsal for Scrooge was set to begin in half an hour, and she needed to go over her lines before things got started. She planned to find a quiet place in the auditorium and focus on her part. Andi and Tim were going to meet her there, since they also had lead parts in the upcoming show. This was no time to get into a conversation with Cody. She would need more than a few minutes to catch up with him, to find out why he’d been so distant.
She picked up her pace, adjusting her backpack a little higher on her shoulders, but before she walked another ten yards, her phone buzzed again. She released an audible sigh, and it hung in the cool, damp October air. “Don’t do this, Cody,” she whispered. “Don’t mess with my heart.”
She pulled out her phone once more. This time his message was much longer — so long it took two texts to get it across.
I KNOW … YOU DON’T THINK I CARE BECAUSE WE HAVEN’T TALKED. I GET THAT FEELING WHEN ANDI AND I TEXT. YOU NEED TO KNOW I’M JUST LOOKING OUT FOR YOU. WELL … OKAY, FOR BOTH OF US. YOU HAVE TIM, AND THINGS BETWEEN YOU TWO ARE MORE SERIOUS ALL THE TIME.
Bailey hated when he talked that way. She let her exasperation build as she scrolled to the second part of his message.
THERE’S NO ROOM IN YOUR LIFE FOR ME, AND THAT’S OKAY. I ACCEPT THE FACT. BUT PLEASE, BAILEY, DON’T THINK THIS IS THE WAY I WANT THINGS. LIKE I SAID, I MISS YOU MORE THAN YOU KNOW.
She read the messages once more, and tears stung her eyes. If he missed her, he should call her, maybe fight for their right to a friendship. Tim would understand. And besides, back before Cody went to Iraq, he’d had feelings for her that went beyond friendship. They both had.
Cody would be waiting for an answer. She started to tap out some of what she was feeling, but changed her mind. She was almost to the theater. Tim would pick up on her sad mood, and that wasn’t fair. Besides, she was looking forward to rehearsal. Today they’d practice the scene all three of them were in — the scene from Scrooge’s Christmas past.
She erased the few words she’d written and typed out a shorter message instead.
I WANNA TALK, BUT NOT NOW … CALL ME LATER.
As soon as she sent it she felt a sense of satisfaction. If he really missed her, he’d call.
She reached the theater door and put thoughts of Cody out of her mind. Scrooge opened in four weeks, and she wanted to give the rehearsal time her best effort. This was her first college musical. Much was riding on her performance.
Andi was already sitting in the auditorium, but as their eyes met, she didn’t look like her happy, lighthearted self.
“How’s your day?” Bailey walked to a seat a few spots from her roommate and dumped her wet backpack on the chair between them. “The rain got you down?”
Andi shrugged. “Rainy days and Mondays. Never a good combination, I guess.”
“What happened?” After more than a month of sharing a dorm together, she could read Andi like a sister. She gave her a half smile. “You bombed your math midterm?”
The question was intended as a joke, and Andi allowed a small laugh. But the defeat in her eyes and the way she held her shoulders remained. “Remember the guy I met at that frat party?”
Bailey winced. “Ben, right? The guy in your math class.” “Yeah, well. He told his friends about me … about that night.” Shame shadowed her expression. “One of his buddies invited me to a party this weekend. He said there was always room for girls like me.” She looked deeply hurt by the remark. “‘Girls like me’? Is that really my reputation? After one stupid party?”
“For a few guys, maybe. But it’s not like everyone on campus thinks that.”
Bailey and Andi had talked about Andi’s horrible experience at the frat party. She’d drunk more than she intended and walked with Ben across the street, where something worse would’ve happened if some couple hadn’t come along and started asking questions. Ben left in a huff and Andi — too sick and drunk to walk home — had called Cody, of all people.
Every detail of Andi’s terrible night had come out the next day, so Bailey knew the whole story. Even how Andi had tried to throw herself at Cody that night, and how mortified she’d been that Cody turned her down.
Bailey had been secretly relieved to learn Cody hadn’t taken advantage of the situation. Still, it was hard for her to comment on her roommate’s trouble that night when every action had been her own fault.
Andi stared at the auditorium floor, her brow lowered in deep concern. “Not just a couple guys. Their friends too. They probably think that.”
“Okay, so six guys on a campus of forty thousand students.” Bailey reached over and touched her roommate’s knee. “I think there’s still time to rebuild your reputation.”
Andi leaned on the arm of her chair and held her head a little higher. “I guess. I just hate that anyone sees me that way. It’s so weird, because … well, you know that’s not really me.”
Bailey reached into her backpack and pulled out her script. “Think of it this way: every time you tell them you’re not interested, you’ll basically be telling them it was a one-time thing, a crazy night you still regret.”
“True.” Andi nodded slowly. “You always make me feel better, Bailey.” She opened her own script. “I hate that I got drunk that night, but I don’t know … I’m not sure if drinking itself is really wrong. Like, the kids that do that all the time — as long as they’re not hurting anyone, does that mean they’re not good people? I’m still confused, I guess.”
Bailey resisted the urge to sigh. This had been Andi’s line of thought off and on since they’d met. She was the daughter of missionary parents, and she’d spent most of her life in Indonesia. But now her dad was a producer and had finished his first film, and Andi felt like she needed to rid herself of the good-girl image. As if she was ashamed of being too sheltered, too clean-cut.
Bailey flipped to her scene in the script and lifted a look to her friend. “You know how I feel.”
A wary half-smile tugged at Andi’s lips. “Just because a person thinks they’re doing well doesn’t mean they are.”
“Right. The only measuring stick we have is the Bible.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, not overly critical. “We can mess up, but we have to keep getting back on our feet and turning to Him. That’s what it means to be a Christian.”
Andi thought about that for a few seconds. “I guess. It’s just not as clear as it used to be.” She was flipping through the pages of her script when her phone rang. Whatever name appeared in the window, Andi’s smile was quick to reach her eyes. She snapped her phone open and settled back in her chair. “Hey! I thought you weren’t calling until later.”
Bailey wanted to ask who it was, but she didn’t want to seem nosy. She focused her attention on her script and did her best not to listen to Andi’s end of the conversation. But a minute into the talk, Andi laughed out loud. “Cody, you’re so funny!”
That was all Bailey needed to hear. She stood and set the script down, motioning to Andi that she was going out to wait for Tim. Outside she fought th
e tears that tried to form. As far as she could tell there was nothing more than friendship between Andi and Cody, but still … They talked often, and whatever was happening between them seemed to be getting stronger. Even that would’ve been something Bailey could handle — if she and Cody were speaking to each other. In light of Andi’s happy conversation, the pain of Bailey’s lost friendship with Cody was more than she could take.
Not that she could talk about it with anyone but her mom. Tim wouldn’t understand. If she was happy dating him — and she was — then why would it upset her so much that an old friend had lost touch with her? That would be his question and he’d have a right to it.
She would have no more answers for him than she had for herself.
The front steps of the auditorium were covered and dry, despite the damp air. She sat down and rested her elbows on her knees. At almost the same time she spotted Tim. He was walking toward her at his usual determined pace, red backpack slung over his shoulder. When he saw her, a smile filled his face and he waved. Bailey returned the wave and waited for him to walk up.
Dating Tim was easy, natural. The two of them had everything in common — their stage experience with Christian Kids Theater, their love for God, and the types of families they came from. Tim had no shady past, no troublesome background, no baggage. For years she had wanted nothing more than for Tim Reed to fall for her. And now he had.
He jogged up the stairs and took the spot beside her. “Hey.” He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “You look cute in a rain jacket.”
“Thanks.” She snuggled a little closer to him. “How were your classes?”
“Great.” He reached for her hand and rubbed his thumb along her fingers. “You’re cold. Here …” In an act that was as thoughtful as it was romantic, he lifted her freezing hand close to his mouth and blew warm air against her skin. Once … twice … After the third time he rubbed her hand and grinned. “Better?”
“Better.” She studied him, grateful. How many times had she dreamed of sharing a moment like this with him? “Tell me about your talk?” Tim was taking debate class and today they had staged a mock argument over Dr. Seuss’s book The Butter Battle. Tim’s side had argued in favor of buttering bread butter-side up.