Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Jesus wept.
Devon sat there, his back against the smooth concrete, huddled against the night, grateful when the clouds shifted and the moon swept light on the pages bright enough for him to read.
When the light was gone, he hunkered down and tried his best to sleep, tried to listen to the river slosh against the rocks below the tunnel, but the dreams and the worry were too much. He knew he was weak, knew he needed to cast his worries on God and trust in his promises, but for the first time in his life he couldn’t see through, couldn’t see how he’d possibly get past this.
He couldn’t eat, either. The cereal bar was too dry for his throat, and he found he could barely get it past his lips, let alone chew and swallow it down. The few bites he’d managed burned his stomach, threatened to spill back out.
And so he sat, rocking slowly, cold and hungry and feeling utterly, completely alone.
CHAPTER 33
Rebecca
In spite of her worries about Devon, the day had ended up being great—she and Granny had found beautiful, swingy cocktail dresses at the little boutique next to Joe Mama’s, then got lattes and paninis for lunch. Rev still hadn’t called back by the time Rebecca and Granny left for the gala, and Rebecca ordered herself to put it aside for the night. Devon’s fine. You’re overreacting. Besides, she reminded herself, they had given it to God. Didn’t they need to act like they believed it?
Now it was six, and they were pulling up to Dahlia Country Club. A valet parked their car. As they stepped out, lightning lit the sky, causing the sparkles on Granny’s navy blue cocktail dress to shimmer in the twilight. It wasn’t raining, but Rebecca could tell it was coming. There was an electricity to the air, a low thrum warning them of what would be.
“Swanky for Dahlia,” Rebecca whispered to Granny as they strolled into the ornate entryway, high heels clicking on what looked like a marble floor. A camera dangled from Rebecca’s shoulder like a purse, and she clutched a tiny beaded pocketbook in the other hand.
“You can thank Victor Wennerman for that.” Granny gave an arch look.
“Erik’s dad? Let me guess—he financed this place, too, for all the richy-rich retirees living in his high-end retirement village?”
“Well, the renovation, anyway. It has brought needed tax dollars to the county, I will say that much. And they did do an absolutely beautiful job.”
Granny was right, Rebecca thought as they walked through the entryway—gleaming floors, elegant oil paintings, polished wood and chrome everywhere she looked. Wennerman seemed to bring a class act to everything he touched, sketchy media buyouts notwithstanding.
“I wonder if he’ll be here tonight,” she said to Granny. “I haven’t had the ‘pleasure’ of meeting him yet.”
Her stomach took a tumble then as she realized who else she might be seeing tonight.
Erik. The humane society schmoozefest was just the sort of place a marketing man like him would be.
Maybe he won’t be at the gala. Surely he was out with some beautiful woman in a bigger city tonight, not rubbing elbows here in Dahlia.
But to her dismay, the first person she saw when she walked into the main ballroom was Erik Wennerman himself, chatting and laughing with a group of other men. He wore a black tuxedo, she noticed, and he stood out against the sea of other men, who all wore sports coats or nice suits. Her stomach dropped as she realized once again how handsome he was, and how much he reminded her of Peter.
Before he could make eye contact, she steered Granny over to one of the hors d’oeuvres stations. She crossed her fingers as she focused intently on the small appetizer plates directly in front of her. Don’t notice me. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe their littleconfrontation in the coffee shop had been awkward enough for both of them for him to stop trying.
“Wendy Calhoun’s work,” Granny observed.
“Huh?”
“The ice.” Granny pointed, and Rebecca looked up at the hors d’oeuvres display they stood before. To her wonder, someone had carved a rather ornate—and rather excellent—sculpture of two animals, a beagle and a kitten, frolicking in front of a giant DHS. Dahlia Humane Society. Shrimp were artfully arranged all around.
“She’s Louise Calhoun’s daughter.” Granny snagged a shrimp. “Every year, she donates her services to the gala, produces a new creation.”
Rebecca gazed at the sculpture. “These things take hours. She must be a huge animal lover.”
She snapped a few photos of the ice sculpture, then some more of the crowd, making a mental note to assign Tiff a feature story on the sculptor. Then again, she thought as she clicked away, maybe she’d do the story herself. That was one thing she’d learned about coming to Dahlia—doing an occasional feature was good for her. Stretched her creativity in new ways.
She remembered the way Josh had complimented her piece on the landscape artist—and the way she’d felt when he’d said it. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she was starting to have feelings for her old friend. Real feelings. And she didn’t know what to do about them.
He said she’d been his first crush, but that didn’t mean he felt the same way about her now. For all she knew, he was dating someone else, someone gorgeous and fun and without the suitcase load of baggage Rebecca brought along for the ride. Well, it wasn’t as if she should be dating—let alone crushing on—anyone right now, anyway.
