This was beautiful country, and having spent much of her life on the road, she knew it when she saw it. Amber gazed at the trees. Some of the leaves were starting to turn that fiery-red color she loved so much. Soon, a cool wind would sift through them, lifting them into the air and then cradling them to the ground.
Ahead, a sign said, “Welcome to Tuscarawas County.” How did you even pronounce that?
The speed limit indicated she should be going much slower, so she let off the gas. The last thing she needed was a ticket, and small college towns were notorious for planting police officers everywhere. It was probably how they made half their annual budget. Past the university by only a mile was the beginning of the town attached to it. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She was probably somewhere near Amish country too. She’d have to look at her map at some point, but her best guess was she was in eastern Ohio.
“Charming little place . . . like old-Coca-Cola-sign charming.”
The car lurched and lurched again, throwing Mr. Joe off-balance. His ears flattened. Then the engine sputtered and gurgled. Amber smiled but kept driving.
She made it through the town square, going less than twenty-five miles an hour, in ten minutes. A small gas station ahead had a flat, yellow carport extending over only two gas pumps. It looked like it had been built sometime in the 1950s and seemed to be the last stop before the road stretched ahead and turned out of sight.
She deliberately drove on by, her gas light glowing yellow.
Then the engine died. With the momentum she had left, she pulled to the side of the road and let go of the steering wheel. The gas station was a five-minute walk behind her, no more.
Mr. Joe was purring again, wrapping his body around the empty glass jar he shared the seat with. Amber took the keys out of the ignition and relaxed into her seat just a bit. The temperature was so perfect. It reminded her of Monterey in April. The sky, bright and blue, was totally cloudless.
“What do you think, Mr. Joe? Home?”
The cat blinked slowly like he was fighting a nap. Amber got out and looked around. The trees were still lush and dense, so she couldn’t see far.
At the back of her Jeep, she opened the hatch, careful not to let everything spill onto the ground. Boxes of clothes, gently packed dishes, bins full of photographs. And on top of it all sat a huge bulletin board, the colorful pushpins she’d bought somewhere in Michigan still stuck into the cork. It amazed her that her whole life could fit into the trunk of a car. She grabbed her purse from under her travel bag, found her red plastic gas can, and closed the hatch.
Through the open passenger window, she picked up Mr. Joe and put him in his carrier. “All right. You know what to do. Don’t be afraid to bare your fangs if you need to. Try not to look so sweet, okay? That’s not going to keep anyone away.”
As she walked toward the gas station, Amber tried to take it all in. She didn’t see any stoplights. She liked towns that were more partial to stop signs. The buildings had character but also had an air of vacancy to them. Over the tree line, puffs of factory smoke rose like ascending, transparent jellyfish. Toward the east and across a small field was an area that looked a little more developed, with some houses and restaurants, as best she could tell.
At the gas station’s convenience store, a bell announced her arrival. It smelled like coffee and motor oil with vague hints of diesel. The man behind the counter wore a stained blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with a patch that read Larry. He smiled pleasantly, setting down his newspaper. “What can I do you for, young lady?”
Amber put a five-dollar bill on the table. “Just need some gas.”
“Five dollars ain’t gonna get you very far,” he said. “There ain’t another town—gas station either, for that matter—for sixty-seven miles.”
“I’m staying here for the moment.”
Larry grinned. “Is that so? Well, welcome. We got a great catfish place—serves it up all you can eat—just around the corner there.”
“Sounds fantastic. I’m looking to rent a small apartment.”
Larry pointed to a stack of newspapers by the door. “That’s our little publication round here. It’s got a section for renters.”
“Thank you.” Amber grabbed the paper and walked outside to fill her gas can.
When she returned to her car, Mr. Joe’s face was pressed up against the wires of his cage, his unblinking eyes staring her down for leaving him behind. She popped the gas tank open and stuck the gas can’s nozzle in. Then she spread the newspaper across the hood of her car.
She had two criteria—cheap and furnished. “All right, boy. We’re gonna go see if we’ve got a place to sleep tonight.”
“There you go—good as new,” Clay said, rocking the chair back and forth. “Well, maybe not as good, but look, you’ve been through a lot. I’ve given you a pretty good face-lift. Let’s face it: you’re never going to be twenty again. But ninety is the new forty.”
Clay stepped back. The varnish would need twenty-four hours to dry, but it looked really nice. He checked his watch. Ten minutes until time to open. He sighed, sipped his coffee, and drew stick figures in the sawdust with a scrap piece of wood.
Sometimes he attributed it to caffeine jitters, but other times he knew it was nothing of the sort. There was a restlessness scratching him from the inside. Not even a quiet workday in the back of the shop cured it. He worked hard to be content, happy even, where he was in this world, making a simple living and being a simple man. It was, however, the slightest tickle of discontentment that edged him into unwanted thoughts about the state of his life.
The quiet of the shop that usually tamped the needling hum of his thoughts was suddenly undone by . . . blaring music? That was nothing new in this town but unusual near the town square. The college kids were more likely to go down the strip, where the bars and restaurants were. At night. Clay checked his watch again. It wasn’t even 9 a.m. Who would be blaring their music at this hour?
The bass rattled the more delicate items sitting around the shop. The little figurines that usually stood perfectly still, frozen in their poses, looked to be dancing ever so slightly.
Then, as if it had been blown away by a breeze, the music stopped.
Clay lifted the rocker, carefully placing his hand underneath it to avoid the new varnish. He wanted to put a few screws in the bottom to make sure it was secure, but he could do that at the front of the store, where he needed to be during store hours.
He was headed for the front counter when he saw her. She didn’t notice him at first. She was browsing, her fingers delicately brushing over a lamp, a frame, and then a pile of old books. Her attention moved to the hand-crank phonograph that he’d estimated to be over ninety years old. She stood for a moment looking at its detail, and he stood for a moment noticing hers—curly brown hair, a little wild, like she’d just blown in with a tumbleweed. Bright, playful eyes. Beside the phonograph, in a square, woven basket, he kept two dozen 45 rpm EPs, sometimes more if he hit a good garage sale. Her fingers walked the tops of them, flipping them one by one, before she slipped one out of its black cover and gently guided it onto the turntable, then gave it a crank or two. It came to life, warbling and slow at first, but then a light and pretty piano solo began to play. Dave Brubeck, easy to spot for his unusual time signatures.
Without warning, she turned toward him. For a reason he couldn’t explain, Clay raised the rocking chair up a bit.
The woman smiled. “You look like you’re in prison.”
He blinked. Then realized he was looking at her through the slats in the back of the rocker. He quickly lowered it. Why was she staring at him? Her big brown eyes searched him like he was some interesting antique. He felt like an antique, so it was fitting.
“I like your little store,” she said. “Old Fashioned. Cute.”
She gave him one more long, concentrated look as though something entertaining might happen, then continued to explore the shop.
“C
an I help you with anything?”
And then he heard the scream. So familiar, yet it always made him cringe and clench his teeth. Two seconds later, the door flew open and the pint-size tornado blew in, her arms whirling, her face wild with excitement.
A second after that, Lisa came charging after her, carrying something plastic under her arm and a great deal of exhilaration on her face.
The screaming stopped as Cosie leeched herself onto Clay’s leg. She looked up at him and grinned, scrunching up her nose. “Hi.”
He patted her head. “Hi, Cosie.”
“You gotta see this!” Lisa said.
Clay sighed. That sentence was almost always followed by something that he not only didn’t have to see but usually didn’t want to see either.
Lisa set the plastic thing down in the center of the shop.
It was a training toilet. Pink and white. Shaped like a castle. Some princess character on the side looked inflamed with an enthusiasm that was apparently supposed to encourage peeing on ancient structures.
Clay knew from experience that once Lisa set her mind to something, there was no use fighting it. He gave the woman standing in the store a sheepish grin and an apologetic shrug. Weirdly, she seemed unaffected and totally interested in what was about to happen. Maybe Clay was missing the extraordinary part of this moment.
Surely not.
Lisa had now squatted on the floor and was beckoning Cosie over with gestures big enough to get an elephant’s attention. Her voice rose three octaves, a technique supposed to induce compliant behavior in a two-year-old.
“Come on, Cosie. Go tee-tee.” She tapped the potty with her other hand.
But as usual, Cosie stared at her, completely disinterested in the event.
“Do it for Mommy. Go tee-tee. Go tee-tee.”
Clay glanced down at Cosie. She wasn’t budging. For some odd reason, it made him smile inside. He kind of liked that she balked at the unusual way her parents were raising her and instead preferred the status quo of peeing in private.
Lisa’s voice was rising by the second. Her eyes were growing large. Real large. Large enough that if there weren’t a potty and an antique shop involved, one might think she was about to be killed in some horrific manner.
“Cosie! Go tee-tee!”
Apparently Cosie was also going deaf.
Then movement. Cosie took one step, setting off the strobe lights in her tennis shoes. If Clay watched them too long, he got a headache.
Another step. Clay swore he saw tears in Lisa’s eyes. Lisa clapped precisely twice and nodded.
Another step. Then another. Cosie stood over the potty now, gazing into the plastic hole. A smile slight enough to be mistaken for a gas bubble caused Lisa to beam like a searchlight.
Then Cosie lifted her leg, and for a second Clay thought she might be going the way of the dog. But instead she kicked the potty. And kicked again. The castle tumbled across the wood floor. Now the small smile had broken into a full-fledged grin. And Lisa’s had dropped off her face.
She rose and gasped. “Cosie! No!”
Clay couldn’t resist. He walked over to Lisa and put his arm around her. “I am so proud.”
She shrugged his hand off, clearly wrecked. Her whole life’s worth at this moment hinged on whether her kid could use a castle potty in public. Clay wasn’t about to say it, but the fact that the kid had enough sense not to go in the middle of an antique shop made him think Cosie was going to do just fine in life.
Cosie finally noticed the woman who’d come in, recognizing her as unfamiliar. She gave the potty one more nudge with the side of her shoe, clasped her hands behind her back, and grinned at the lady.
Lisa grabbed the toilet with a huff, acknowledging for the first time that there was someone other than Clay in the shop. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I live in the apartment upstairs.”
Clay’s mouth dropped open. “Wha . . . ?”
Lisa glanced at Clay, gave him that same old look: You never tell me anything. Clay scratched his head, equally perplexed. Cosie ran to him and he picked her up. She mindlessly combed the back of his hair with her fingers, like always, as they all three looked at the woman.
Lisa was gesturing that he should explain himself, but he wasn’t sure what to say. Nobody lived up there. He would know. He was the landlord.
“Just needed to get the key,” the woman said. There was a childlike quality to her, a mischievous twinkle to her eye that reminded him of Cosie. She looked to be about thirty, but he was never good with ages.
Clay cleared his throat. “The key?”
She only smiled, gave Cosie a wink, and walked out of the shop. Clay hurried after her, handing Cosie to Lisa.
“What’s going on?” Lisa said, a hand on her hip, but Clay just went out the door, trying to figure it out himself.
The woman stood on the sidewalk outside. She took something out of the bag over her shoulder. A pen. Then she held out her hand and he saw the cast on it.
“Sign, please.”
“Um . . .” Clay’s face suddenly started itching—a sure sign he’d landed out of his comfort zone. He scratched it lightly, hoping it would go away. She just stood there with her arm out. And she was smiling at him. Blinking with those awestruck eyes.
So he signed. There seemed to be plenty of space. He glanced at her Jeep and found a cat perched on the passenger window, watching him closely, its tail twitching with sharp disapproval.
When he looked back, she was studying her cast. “Clay what?”
“Walsh,” he said. “Clay Walsh. . . . You have a cat?”
She held out her hand to shake. It was awkward with the cast, but they managed. He gestured to it. “What happened?”
“Amber Hewson.” And then, without another word but still with that engaging smile, she got her cat from the car, tucked it under her arm, and walked toward the stairway that led up to the apartment.
Clay stayed where he was, trying to get his bearings, blinking in the sunlight, realizing that the loud music earlier had come from her car. He watched her climb each stair, wanting to look away but not able to. He swallowed. Not enough spit. Then too much. And why was he blinking so much? He stuffed his hands in his pockets because that’s what he did when he didn’t know what to do with them.
Amber was at the top now, staring down at him. “The key?”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Clay pulled his key ring out of his pocket. And then he started up the stairs, trying to twist the apartment key off the little circle, trying to get her brown eyes out of his head.
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Acknowledgments
I can hardly believe this is my seventeenth book. As with each child, this one feels as special and as important to me as my very first one. And at least with my “kids,” it’s true that it takes a village to raise them! I’m especially grateful to Jan Stob, Stephanie Broene, Karen Watson, and Sarah Mason for their vision and work on this book. Thanks also to the entire Tyndale family for their hard work and professionalism. I’d also like to thank Ron Wheatley, my technical adviser, and Janet Kobobel Grant, my agent, for always being there for me. And as always, thanks to Sean, John, and Cate for their support and love. You three are my most treasured possessions. And to my heavenly Father for allowing me the privilege of being a wife, mother, and storyteller.
About the Author
Rene Gutteridge is the author of seventeen novels, including four suspense novels from Tyndale House Publishers (The Splitting Storm, Storm Gathering, Storm Surge, and Listen). She is also known for her Christian comedy novels and sketches. She studied screenwriting while earning a mass communications degree, graduating magna cum laude from Oklahoma City University and earning the Excellence in Mass Communication Award. She served as the full-time director of drama for First United Methodist Church for five years. She now writes full-time and enjoys instructing at writers conferences and in college classrooms. She lives with her husband, Sean, a musician, and th
eir children in Oklahoma City.
An Interview with Rene Gutteridge
Many readers are familiar with your comedies, but how many suspense novels have you written, and what made you decide to write another one?
This is my sixth pure suspense. Suspense is actually my favorite genre in which to write. When I was a kid, the very first novel I attempted was a ghost story. Suspense lets me explore good and evil and all the fears that I sometimes don’t want to admit are there. It lets me believe that there are still heroes in the world. It helps me gain perspective on my life. And I can relax a bit in the writing process. To be a great comedy writer, you have to have suffered a bit. Many comedy writers are intense and dark, like you’d expect a suspense writer to be. Suspense writers are usually very witty and engaging, like you’d expect a comedy writer to be. Thankfully, my split personality allows me to toggle between both.
How did the idea for Possession come to you?
It sort of came from two different places. I’d read a magazine article about people whose possessions were being held for ransom by illegitimate moving companies. And that was about the time we were watching people lose all their belongings when the economy crashed. I read news stories about dads killing themselves and their entire families because they lost their jobs or lost their homes. So I wanted to explore the idea of losing everything and what that means and how to gain perspective on life . . . on what really matters.
The story opens with Lindy at the police station. Why did you start there? Were you worried about giving too much away?
I always like to start stories with a little mystery, a small amount of information that readers can carry with them. I like the opening because it casts a tiny shadow of doubt over every chapter until the end.
A lot of the spiritual content in the story comes through Conner, and the innocence of his faith is so powerful. Where did you come up with the idea of Conner’s becoming a Christian by watching a televangelist?