Divine

  Nigel Townsend.

  She had enough money to easily pay for a cab, and maybe if she spent time with Nigel she could make sense of her feelings for Clayton. That, and she could get her little red purse. Once she had the idea in her mind, it wouldn't let go. Clayton wouldn't be by until that afternoon. What would a morning visit to the mission hurt? She wouldn't mention Clayton after all.

  Finally, before lunch, she slipped her bag over her shoulder, locked the door behind her, and headed downstairs.

  "Beautiful day, miss." The doorman grinned at her and tipped his hat. He was good-looking, twenty-five years old or so. In another life she might've been interested. But she lived for just one man now. Clayton Billings.

  "Yes." She smiled at him. "I need a cab." She waited while a yellow cab pulled up. This was her first time in a taxi. She gave the doorman two dollars as she climbed inside, the way she'd seen it done in the movies.

  "Where to?" The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror.

  For a moment she considered telling him New York City. She could take the cab all the way to some place familiar, find a phone book or someone who could help her locate her grandmother.

  But two things stopped her. First, she couldn't do that to Clayton, not after all he'd done to set her up in the penthouse and give her the best clothes and makeup and jewelry, the best of his time every afternoon.

  Second, she didn't think he'd kill her, but Clayton was a powerful man. If she left, he would find her. And she didn't want to think about what would happen then. Besides, she needed to see Nigel Townsend almost more than she needed to see her grandmother. At least for now.

  Mary gave the driver the cross streets of the New Life Center and settled back into her seat.

  Ever since Clayton attacked her, she'd had the strangest feeling. Morning, night—it didn't matter. She would remember his rage and the way he'd hurt her,- then she would remind herself how much she needed him, how terribly she loved him. And then with amazing force came a new thought. The certainty that she should kill herself.

  Which was why she needed to see Nigel.

  The cabdriver pulled off to the side of the road and looked over his shoulder. "Eight dollars, twenty cents."

  Mary pulled a ten from her purse and gave it to the man. Keep the change." She climbed out and stared down the street at the mission a block ahead. This was almost the exact place where she had first spotted Clayton's car, first agreed to climb inside and head off with him to some dream life.

  She took quick steps toward the mission. Her look was different now—low-heeled pumps, tailored pants, silk blouse conservatively buttoned to the hollow of her neck. Her navy cardigan vest was the highest quality, and her long blonde curls were pinned back. As she reached the front door, she hesitated. What if Nigel didn't recognize her or remember her? What if he called the authorities and reported that she was back? They could probably put her in jail.

  Worse, what if Clayton found out she'd come? Doubts hit her like so many hailstones.

  Calm, Mary. Be calm. Nigel wouldn't turn her in. She walked the rest of the way and went inside.

  The receptionist—the one who sat where she should've been sitting—was someone new, a teenage girl with eyes far too old for her face. She gave Mary a look. "Can I help you?"

  "Yes." Mary clutched her purse to her middle. "Nigel Townsend, please."

  Another look and the girl nodded. "All right." She stood and moved toward a door behind her desk. "I'll get him."

  Mary exhaled in short bursts, trying to slow her heart rate. She took a seat opposite the desk and waited.

  After a minute or so, the girl returned with Nigel behind her. He looked at Mary, and it took only a moment for him to make the connection. As soon as his eyes locked with hers, it was obvious that he knew. Everything about his expression softened, and his steps slowed. "Mary . . ."

  Her heart filled with warmth. "Nigel." She had missed him so much, missed the look of something pure and real and true in his eyes. He glowed with goodness, and she didn't hesitate another moment. She stood and went to him, put her arms around his neck, and hugged him. "I missed you."

  Nigel didn't allow the hug to linger. He pulled back and nodded over his shoulder. "Let's go to my office."

  The receptionist eyed them, obviously suspicious. But Nigel only smiled at her. "The door will be open, but I need you to hold my messages."

  "Okay." The girl cast Mary another look of dislike ... or maybe jealousy.

  Poor girl, Mary thought. She's probably in love with him the same way I was. She followed Nigel, and when they reached his office, he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk and motioned for her to sit in a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  For a long time he said nothing, only looked at her. She wasn't sure, but his eyes seemed to grow damp as he searched hers. "You look . . . different."

  Mary folded her hands. "I am." Her voice trembled. Now that she was here she felt suddenly terrified, as if Clayton could walk through the door any minute. She pushed the fear down and took a deep breath. Clayton couldn't intimidate her this way. She had a right to visit an old friend, and she had a right to talk about her feelings.

  "I've spoken to your grandmother."

  Nigel had spoken to Grandma Peggy? Tears poked at her eyes and filled them with a veil that made Nigel's image blur. "When . . . when did she call?"

  "Right after you left. She came here." He paused, letting the words sink in.

  "You saw her?" Mary couldn't take a breath. "You know how to reach her?"

  "Yes. She spent two days looking for you. Putting up flyers, asking people on the street. After that, she gave up and went home." Pain colored his voice. "She loves you very much, Mary. She wants you to come home."

  Mary hung her head and covered her face with her hands. She could feel her heart ripping in half. Her grandma was alive and still looking for her? It was more than she had dared to hope for. She wiped her eyes and looked at Nigel. "She never gave up on me."

  "No, she didn't." Nigel pursed his lips. "Like I said, she misses you very much."

  "I miss her too." Don't cry, Mary . . . not now. There wasn't time. She had to get back before Clayton came home and . . . "Tell her I can't... I can't come see her just yet. But tell her I'm okay." Mary's throat hurt. She blinked back the tears that kept filling her eyes. "Tell her I'm fine and that I love her." She sniffed. The wall holding back a flood of sorrow was crumbling. "Tell her I love her very much."

  Nigel pulled what looked like an address book from his desk,- then he scribbled something on a slip of paper. "This is her number." A sad smile touched his eyes. "She'd love to hear from you."

  Mary looked at it. After all those years of wondering how she could find her grandma, here it was—the number that would connect the two of them in seconds. Her voice fell to a whisper. "Thank you, Nigel."

  "You're welcome." Nigel sat back and planted his elbows on the arms of his chair. "So . . . where have you been?"

  Mary considered him, the light in his green eyes, the sincerity in his voice. He was so different from Clayton, his kindness so much more sincere. So why were her feelings for Clayton stronger than any she'd known before?

  She opened her mouth to answer him, but her words died before they reached her lips. Clayton had warned her against this. She couldn't tell anyone where she was living or who was keeping her there. It was one thing to disobey his orders about leaving home. But to tell Nigel the truth? She cleared her throat. "I found a man who . . . takes care of me."

  Something sharp like pain crossed Nigel's expression. "Is this man married?"

  Mary couldn't contain her reaction. Her eyes grew wide, and she sat up straight and folded her arms tight across her middle. Nigel hadn't changed. He still seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, what she was feeling. She lifted her chin, doing her best to look proud and sure of herself. "It doesn't matter."

  "It does." His words were a caress against Mary's soul. He clearly ha
d no intentions of judging her. Even if she was living a life he didn't approve of, he cared. But he was also honest. He crossed one leg over the other and gave a slight nod. "Of course it matters."

  "He loves me."

  "No one will ever love you the way Jesus does." Nigel looked deeply at her. "He died to make you His own. Only He doesn't expect anything in return."

  "Anyway . . ." Mary's knees were shaking. She pressed them together and leaned closer to his desk. "I can't stay long. I ... I have to get back."

  "Why'd you come?" Nigel's words were slow, thoughtful. "I could report you."

  "I know." She shrugged. "I'd only run again."

  He narrowed his eyes. "You're scared."

  "Yes." She looked at her hands, the way her fingernails were bitten so far down that the tips of her fingers showed. She was having nightmares again, and nothing seemed to make sense. Maybe she would find a crack dealer and load up before she went back home. Her eyes found Nigel's again. "I have a question."

  "Ask it."

  "If I kill myself... if I took my own life . . . would I go to hell?"

  Nigel looked like he'd been punched in the gut. He sat back against his chair and sank down a few inches. "Is it that bad, Mary?"

  She wanted to say no, it wasn't that bad. Not really. She had a man who loved her, even if he had gotten out of control once. But her throat was too tight with emotion, and no words would come. Her heart pounded, and though sunshine streamed through the window, she felt chilled to the bone. The cold moved to the center of her soul. She wrapped her arms around herself. Then she stood and took a step back. "I need to leave."

  "Hold on." He reached into one of his desk drawers, and when he stood, his fingers were wrapped around something. He came around the desk and put his other hand on her shoulder. "You're asking the wrong question, Mary. Don't ask me about going to hell for killing yourself." He waited. "Ask me how to find life."

  Life? Mary shook from the cold. Yes, maybe that's what she was looking for. Because it wasn't what she was going through with Clayton, locked up, there for him to treat her as he wished. "I c-c-can't ask you, Nigel. I have to g-g-go."

  He gave her shoulder a light squeeze. "1 want to pray for you, Mary."

  A picture came to mind. Clayton standing over her, slapping her, and shouting at her and . . . She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Then she looked at Nigel and tried to focus. She had to go. "Quick, all right?"

  Nigel held her gaze for a few seconds,- then he bowed his head. "Dear Jesus—" his voice was low and calm, filled with peace—"You are the great Savior, our mighty God, our Lord and our Friend. Mary has questions and she has great fear. I don't know who she's running from, but You do. Please grant her safety and a very deep hunger. That she might find true love, the kind she's always wanted, by coming here again and again and asking questions. Because You hold all the answers, Jesus. In Your name, amen."

  "Nigel . . . thanks." She went to hug him, but he stopped her.

  Instead he held out his hand, the one still clutching something. "Here."

  She opened her palm, and he pressed something familiar against it. Mary didn't look at it—she couldn't. There was no time to break down, no time to do anything but get out. "I'm glad I came."

  A siren sounded in the distance, and it made her jump. With her empty hand she touched Nigel's arm. "Tell my grandma I'm okay." She turned away, then looked back over her shoulder at him. "I have to go."

  "Give me your address, your phone number." Nigel reached for a pad of paper. "In case I need to reach you."

  Terror clawed its fingernails down her back. "I can't." She backed up to the office door. "I'm sorry, Nigel. Good-bye."

  Mary left the office and began to run. She had no time for discussion, no time to do anything but get back outside and hail a cab before it was too late. If Clayton found out she'd gone to the New Life Center and that she'd talked to Nigel . . . she wasn't sure what he'd do.

  She felt alone and cold and scared. Her breathing came in shallow gulps, and no amount satisfied the urgency in her lungs. Not until she was in the cab did she unfold her fingers and look at the item in her hand that Nigel had given her. She had known what it was from the beginning, because the feel of it was as familiar as her own name. Nigel must've found it in her room when she'd left and saved it for her.

  The tiny red-beaded purse.

  A sick feeling settled like wet cement in her stomach. Her grandma was looking for her, so how could she go back to Clayton? Back to a man who would beat her and control her and threaten her? She stayed on the edge of the seat, her heart slamming against her chest. The answer was easy. She loved Clayton because he took care of her. No matter what he did or how he treated her, he didn't mean to hurt her, didn't want to frighten her.

  She took the folded piece of paper with her grandma's phone number scrawled across it. Then she opened the clasp at the top of the purse and slipped the paper inside with the other one, the one with the words her grandma had written for her years ago. She wanted to read it, but she was scared to touch it, scared to take it out. It was almost one o'clock. She needed all her energy to think of a story for Clayton—in case he was waiting for her when she got back.

  Not until she had the cabdriver drop her off a block from her penthouse, not until she ran home and scrambled into the elevator and tore down the hallway to her unit, not until she was certain she was alone and Clayton hadn't come yet did she drop to the sofa and bury her head in her hands. She had come too close. Going to see Nigel had been a crazy idea, especially so late in the morning.

  Next time she would have to be more careful.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

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  Regardless of the dangers of disobeying Clayton, nothing could've stopped Mary from going back to Nigel. She had questions, and he had answers. It was that simple, that profound.

  Weeks passed, and twice more Clayton had beaten her. The last time he spat at her and called her trash. Now it was September, and Mary could feel her life crumbling like a sand castle at high tide. She had nowhere to run, no way to escape.

  Sometimes in the shower she would grab the bar of soap and scrub it hard along her arms and her stomach. Hard enough to leave red marks on her body. But no amount of soap could take away the dirt, the filthiness she felt inside. Trash? That's all she was to Clayton? She still loved him— what she thought was love. But now she had to admit the obvious: Clayton was using her like every other man in her life had used her.

  Every man except Nigel Townsend.

  Sometimes as the hours passed with Clayton she would count down the minutes until she could see Nigel again. She didn't have feelings for him like before. This time she had questions. More questions than she could hold in her head. Questions about God and the love Nigel talked about so often during her visits. If Clayton didn't love her, if no man had ever really loved her, then maybe she needed to know more about Nigel's Jesus. Maybe all these years she really had been missing the greatest love of all. The love that had put the warmth in her grandma's smile and the oceans of peace in the eyes of Evelyn and Ted and Nigel. It was possible, wasn't it?

  One Thursday, when Clayton left her at four o'clock, Mary didn't hesitate. He wouldn't come back until the next day after lunch, which meant she had the whole night to herself. This time she dressed in jeans and a green blouse. She had nothing to prove, no reason to make Nigel think she was doing better than she was. Her goal was simple now. She wanted as many answers as Nigel could give her.

  That evening as the driver sped through the streets of Washington, DC, for the first time Mary thought of Clayton for who he really was. Like a week-old bandage being ripped off an old wound, she felt her heart pull away from him. If only she could break free from him completely, convince herself that she didn't need him. Then she would never again think of killing herself. She could bid him good-bye and leave for good.

  If she could do that, she could call her grandma and go
to her without fear. Until then, she didn't dare involve the one family member she had left—or Nigel, for that matter. That's why all her visits had to take place at night. For everyone's safety.

  She arrived at the center just as dinner was being served. Quietly, she took a seat at one of the tables in the back of the room. It really was a wonderful thing Nigel was doing here, the way he helped the people of DC. She looked around the room. Some of the faces were familiar, people who had come for a meal back when she worked here.

  A tableful of people caught her eye, especially an older woman and two younger women. A mother and her daughters, maybe. Mary squinted, trying to remember. Yes, that was it. A mother and her daughters, and the two toddlers sitting at the table were the little girls of one of the young women. The five of them made up a family, one who lived on the streets. Mary studied them—their easy way of laughing, the light in their eyes. Something was different about them, something Mary couldn't quite figure out.

  Mary kept watching them, the way the young mother helped her children butter their bread. The details were coming back. The week before Mary left, Nigel had just found them housing. An apartment a few blocks away. And the women had started attending Nigel's classes. Her thoughts stalled and she blinked. Was that it? Had this family found the love Nigel talked so intensely about?

  She narrowed her eyes, studying their faces, their expressions. That's when she saw it. They weren't only familiar because they'd been coming to the mission back when Mary was here. They were familiar because of the look in their eyes. The same look her grandma and Nigel and Evelyn and Ted had.

  Goose bumps rose on Mary's arms, and at the same time she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped and turned, and there he was. Nigel. Standing behind her, grinning at her as if he were seeing a long-lost daughter for the first time in a decade.

  Mary stood and put her hand on his arm. Hugging him here in front of a cafeteria full of people would be awkward. Some of them would remember how she had once felt about the man, how shamelessly she'd tried to gain his affection. She dropped her hand back to her side and looked deep into his heart. But she kept her distance. "What is it about the eyes?" She glanced back at the table of women and then at Nigel again. "Those women . . . Grandma Peggy." Her voice fell. "You. There's something different about the eyes."