Jordan studied the latest text message that EJ had sent, cancelling their Saturday morning run. “Seriously?”
The low-level panic he’d been feeling ever since Eric Churchill came onto EJ’s radar had flared up into screaming sirens. The man was a walking red flag.
Another text popped up from her. “How cool is that? I couldn’t say no.”
“Yes, you could’ve.” He kicked a tuft of grass with the toe of his sneaker. Blew out a breath. Shoved his phone in his back pocket.
Great. Looked like it was just him today.
The first Saturday in June was a welcome day of sunshine after a week of clouds and rain showers. The breeze that had come straight from Antarctica hadn’t made an appearance yet but was forecast to do so after ten, which meant he needed to start running now, if he was going to run at all. And after setting aside time for today, working up the courage all week to finally have a proper talk with EJ about the influence that Eric was having on her, it felt cruel to have that chance snuffed out.
He was half tempted to skip the run and head straight to her place, bang on the door until she opened, then finally talk sense into her. But knowing his luck, she would probably have already left for the day. For theyacht.
His fingers clenched, and he exhaled heavily. Stuff it. He was going to run. He obviously needed to, with so much tension to deal with.
A few minutes later, he was running alongside the harbour, heading to Cremorne Point. Expensive mansions lined the streets, their exclusive addresses the homes of CEOs, high-profile actors and athletes, and more than a few foreign investors, with their harbourside swimming pools and private docks and million-dollar boats waiting for their next outing. But dotted among them were homes that had belonged in families for generations, people around here who’d recognised a good investment and knew that selling then trying to buy into the same neighbourhood would be close to impossible. People like EJ’s great-aunt Marion, who had inherited the flat from her parents. People who had a healthy respect for family history. People unlike EJ, who seemed to have forgotten those things that had helped shape her. He wondered how long since she’d visited her aunty.
His feet pounded the pavement, the concrete footpath soon giving onto the grassy trail leading through Anderson Park, a little green oasis that reminded the public that they also were welcome to enjoy the million-dollar views of this section of exclusive Sydney. It was too early in the day for picnics, but a few couples and one family were making the most of the blue skies, sipping takeaway coffees, or chowing down on what looked like bacon-and-egg rolls.
He jogged past them, wishing he was in one of those couples. But that seemed impossible. Not when EJ was determined to ignore the roots of what had got her to where she was today.
He soon was back on the street, then down a cul-de-sac that led to Hayes Street Beach, then past yet more homes to Kurraba Reserve, which lined Neutral Bay. His legs were tiring, but the agitation inside hadn’t faded. He was pushing himself, going farther than he usually did, but the inner turmoil didn’t stop.
How could EJ have seemed so clear-eyed one minute, then blinded the next? He didn’t like to think she was that money hungry, but perhaps it was time to face facts, and she was. He winced, dragging in more air. His mouth was starting to taste like blood, which meant he knew he’d have to slow soon and get some water. Maybe stop and get a coffee and bacon-and-egg roll like he’d originally planned to. With EJ.
He had a choice now. He could backtrack and catch a ferry, or he could press on a little longer and go to Cremorne Point. Well, he wasn’t a quitter. Which meant he wasn’t going to cut this run short. Neither was he going to quit believing that somehow God would touch EJ and help her see that she was running a dangerous race.
Lord, protect her. Open her eyes. Let the scales fall like they did for the apostle Paul. Speak to her and help her see she doesn’t need Eric’s millions. She needs You.
His prayers continued as he rounded Shell Cove, passing the beach and turning into Bogota Avenue. Here was the start of Cremorne Point Walk, which was a popular running trail that lined the harbour, providing more of those iconic Sydney views. Yachts bobbed in the harbour as he hurried past units and mansions and parkland that possessed some of the best views in Sydney for New Year’s Eve celebrations where fireworks on the bridge were screened around the world.
He ran past MacCallum Public Pool, with its iconic Sydney skyline views. In the years since EJ had been living here, they’d visited the pool a few times, and he’d always enjoyed it. In aworld where everything had a price, it was hard to believe that the pool was still free for the public to use.
The path led under huge leafy trees, necessary shade in the heights of summer. But today it felt a little too cool, as sweat slicked down his back, making his shirt and skin feel clammy.
He was heaving in air by the time he reached the Robertson Point Light. The lighthouse might be tiny, certainly with none of the grandeur of the red-and-white-striped Hornby Lighthouse on South Head, but it still had its part to play. Directing ships away from the rocky cliffs, keeping people safe. Being a light in the darkness.
Just like him.
He slowed, gasping for air, placed his hands on his hips, then looked over from the lookout that had a spectacular view.
The lighthouse was not a house as such. It was unmanned, and nobody had ever lived nearby to man it, as far as he knew. It was pretty isolated, but it still kept going. Stubbornly fixed to a solid rock a few metres into the harbour. Reliable, sure.
Just like he probably needed to be. Stubbornly fixed to a solid rock—Jesus. Displaying the light. Which probably meant the frustration he felt was blocking some of that.
A recent sermon crept back to awareness, one about loving his enemies. If he claimed to love, then he needed to love like Jesus did. Even when it hurt. Even when he felt ignored. He had to dig deep into the rock and remember the source so he could share that with others.
“God, I don’t have much patience.”
A couple of Asian tourists turned to look at him, and he realised he’d said that out loud.
He moved away, to a section some called the Secret Garden. A plaque told about a couple, Lex and Ruby Graham, who in the 1950s had planted a single elephant’s ear bulb that Lex had found floating in the ocean. Ruby had added cuttings, andtogether they had transformed this patch of harbour foreshore into the lovely, lush, junglelike paradise of today. The plants were huge, towering above, silencing the city noise. Given the lack of visitors, it was like balm to his heart.
Jordan, followed a dirt trail down to the water and perched on a rock. Across the harbour, a ferry travelled to Taronga Zoo, another place that held many memories. He turned away. Here, he was protected from the prevailing breeze, and the sun-warmed rock made it pleasant to sit, sheltered from the wind. He closed his eyes as verses about being hidden in God flickered into memory.
No one was around. It was just him and God. “You are my hiding place. My strong tower. The righteous run to it and are safe.”
He swallowed as the slap of water against the rocks and screech of seagulls and low blare of a ferry begged for attention. He closed his eyes. This felt significant. He needed to trust God, not let distractions or fears get in the way.
