“Seriously! That’s what I do, anyhow. For me, I like to talk to him during mundane tasks. Like doing the dishes, or chopping celery. I make a conscious effort not to get anxious and, frankly, Ifind it pretty liberating. And it’s all right there in the Bible. Philippians 4:6: ‘Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.’”
Rebecca rolled her eyes but smiled. “You’re like the walking Bible, Granny.”
“Not quite, but thanks, sweetheart. You might try it sometime. Talk to him about your job, say. Or Devon.”
“We’ll see.”
The squeak of tires sounded, followed by the crunch of gravel.
“Ah, that’s Davey Stewart now.” Granny got to her feet. “Help me cover this stew for him?”
That night, stretching out her legs in the four-poster bed in Granny’s guest room, Rebecca turned out the light, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth. But the words wouldn’t come. What would she even say—hey God, please let Devon be okay, and while you’re at it, fix this paper so I won’t let Granny and my whole staff down and be a complete failure?
She shook her head, anxiety building. She thought of Devon again, of the way he’d yanked his bruised wrist back, mumbled some excuse. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe that was all.
But maybe not.
And balling her hands into fists, she buried her head under the covers and willed her mind to shut down for the night. Tomorrow she’d deal with the paper and figure out a way to give Devon a ride home, see if she couldn’t figure out what was going on.
It was hard for her to imagine someone hurting a kid like Devon—sweet, friendly, quiet, the kind of kid you couldn’t imagine ever getting in trouble a day in his life. But she knew there were sickos in the world, knew people kept some pretty dark secrets. About hunger, about homelessness, you name it. Devon himself had told her that. Why not abuse?
When she slept, her dreams were filled with shadowy, deceptive figures, all of them silent. And try as she might, she couldn’t get them to speak.
???
The next evening, Rebecca pulled up at Dahlia Community Bible Church, parked in the lot. A loose crowd of men and women were already starting to gather outside the church. Most stood in packs right outside the door, but one man stood, arms outstretched, like he wanted to catch the last rays of sun. It was one of the most gorgeous days she’d seen in Dahlia since she’d moved there, the greens extra green, the sky a deep, clear azure, with a hint of cloud cover in the east. Thanks to the hurricane brewing off the coast, the weather forecasters were calling for rain, but so far, there was none in sight, and she reveled in the beauty. Even the heat had seemed to loosen its tight grip, give a little breathing space.
As she got out of her car, she could hear someone call out to the man, but he laughed and waved the words aside. He looked free beneath the tall pines, unscripted and fully, vibrantly alive—and in almost total opposition to the way she herself felt, which after today was mostly frustrated, impatient, and worried.
Granny had called right before lunchtime, telling her Devon hadn’t shown for camp.
“But don’t you fret, girl. A dozen kids are out today. Some virus is going around. If he doesn’t show tonight at the giveaway, you can bet that’s what it is. We can go visiting tomorrow morning, bring him some chicken soup.”
Work had been extraordinarily busy; otherwise she knew the hours would have dragged until the giveaway. One minute it had been nine o’clock and the next nearly four, filled with town meetings and interviews and a last-minute photo of some businessdonation. And all the while the tension and worry built.
But she could feel it melt from her shoulders as she hurried to the door, glancing down the street to see if Devon would be riding up on his bike. Maybe he was already there, helping with setup.
“Hey, there, Martha!” She smiled at the white-haired lady, who was straightening her papers and clipboards at the registration table. Next to the table, the menu for the night was written in neat script on a chalkboard: spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, and strawberry shortcake. Her stomach started to growl.
“See Devon tonight?” she asked.
Martha smiled, shook her head. “Haven’t seen him yet, but go on back if you like. Can you grab me an extra bundle of ballpoint pens from Rev’s office?”
“Will do.” Rebecca waved at Mike, who tossed her a half-smile and a “hey” as he lined up the shampoo and body wash bottles at one table. A large pile of clothing was dumped atop another, and she imagined that’s where she’d be stationed tonight. Maybe Josh and JJ would come, too, and lend a hand. She smiled as she remembered the Hostess cupcakes from the other day, the feeling of swinging her legs while perched on the back of Josh’s truck. In a way, it reminded her of the man outside in the last remnants of day—alive and free.
But there was no sign of Devon in the back, either.
“I don’t think he’s comin’, sugar,” Marla told her from the prep area, shaking her head as she buttered the last of the bread and sprinkled on garlic powder. “He wasn’t at camp today, either. Probably out with that nasty virus. I imagine teachers and staff are next.”
“That’s what Granny said.” She frowned, debated whether she should leave and go check on him now—forget waiting till morning. If she were sick, though, the last thing she’d want was a friend poking their head in. She preferred to be left alone when sick, nursing chicken soup and watching old movies on TV. Then again,this was Devon. Did he even have chicken soup?
“Marla, got that bread ready?” someone hollered from the kitchen.
“Comin’ now,” Marla hollered back, then pushed the tray into Rebecca’s hands. “Here, hon, run that to the ovens for me.”
And then it was crunch time, they were in the last-minute frenzy of setup, and she didn’t have time to worry about Devon as she ran food to the tables and folded and set out clothes, made sure all the utensils and plates were stacked for the guests. At six sharp the bell clanged, held by a grinning JJ, who stood by his dad at the front. She hadn’t seen them come in. Her heart did a little happy dance to see them, and Josh gave her a big hello wave, then pantomimed popping a giant Hostess cupcake in his mouth, pretending to chew and swallow and then rub his belly in delight. She giggled at the thought, realized she was still smiling when she looked up and saw the woman with the pink scrunchie standing before her.
“You look like the cat who ate the canary,” the lady pronounced.
