she looked unsure—that had been the lure, the reason for talking.
“You have your life back. That’s a special gift.”
“I do, but I don’t have what I always planned to have at this stage of my life. I don’t have the law degree, or a family of my own. I’ve never had a steady job.”
He had never been in love. He couldn’t share that with the timid blonde who stared up at him with a cup of coffee drawn to her lips and hesitation in her blue eyes.
“I think it will get better.”
“I’m sure it will.” He sat across from her, steadying himself when the gray folding chair started to buckle.
“Are you ready to get started, and to learn about our ministry?”
“I…Of course I am.” What should he say now? Did she require an explanation for his reticence? Or would she understand?
“You can be a little more casual from now on. We don’t normally dress up for this job.”
He hadn’t known, so he had worn slacks and a button-up shirt. It had seemed appropriate, even if it wasn’t really comfortable.
His gaze settled on her pale blue T-shirt and capris. Her honey-blond hair was in a ponytail and a scarf was tied around her neck. Casual, but totally feminine. His throat felt a little dry. Probably from the day-old doughnuts.
“I wasn’t sure about what to wear.” He found himself suddenly unsure about quite a few things. “So, what do we do?”
She rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the desk. “We work with troubled teens from this neighborhood, and in the community. We mentor them, counsel them—generally step in for absentee parents. We provide after-school programs, summer activities—whatever it takes to keep them busy and off the streets. If they feel connected here, they’re less likely to go out there looking for something to connect with.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Do you have any questions or concerns?” She fingered one of the manila envelopes on her desk. Slowly her head came up, her gaze connecting with his.
“I can’t think of any.”
“Michael, you don’t have to work here. This isn’t required. You could go back to school, or get a job in Springfield.” The words shot him down, making him wonder just how much she didn’t want him around.
“I have a job. But I want to be here. I want to give back and make up for what I’ve done.”
“You already have. You did your time. Working here isn’t about a job or paying back. This is about having a call.”
“I know that.” Did she think that he didn’t have a clue? “I’m here because I feel like God wants me here. I can help reach kids because of what I’ve been through.”
“I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t want you here. Or like I’m judging you.”
“Maggie, I never expected this to happen. It wasn’t my goal when I was a kid…to end up addicted to drugs. But it did happen, and I am a different person now.”
He brushed a hand through his hair, dismayed that he was the one shaking now.
“I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for a lecture or an impromptu counseling session. It isn’t really my place.” She stood, looking for all the world like she didn’t know what to do with him. Finally she continued. “But if you ever do need to talk, Pastor Banks is always available. And if you need a friend, I’m here.”
“Thank you. And I don’t mind your advice.” But maybe he did. He wanted to be treated like he had something to offer this ministry, not like he needed to be ministered to.
“Okay then, it sounds as if we’re on the same sheet of music. The kids come first. And we’ll do this together, for them.”
She paused, as if she meant to say more, but instead she shrugged and walked away. The empty cup in her hand suggested she might be on her way to the kitchen.
His gaze landed on the side of the gray-green desk. Kids had scratched their names in the rubber edging. Next to one name were the words “Jesus Saves.” Another had carved, “I Hate My Life.”
Funny how two kids in basically the same place could face life with such opposing points of view. He ran his finger over the torn edges of the words. Jesus Saves…I Hate My Life.
Chapter Three
Michael went from work to his brother’s that evening. He smiled when his older brother opened the door and motioned him into his apartment. Noah was the other oddity in the Carson family. Noah, who had a heart of gold and a career that made their mother cringe. His work for the DEA kept him out of touch, sometimes for months at a time. And sometimes even at home he didn’t seem reachable.
Stepping into the small one-bedroom apartment brought another smile to Michael’s face. If an apartment could reflect the personality of the person that lived there, Noah’s apartment did.
The place was practically bare, with a fold-out couch, a recliner that tilted dangerously to the left and a small card table shoved into the corner of the kitchenette. Thrown into the opposite corner was a collection of tattered, falling-apart suitcases.
“Nice place.” Michael wondered if Noah got the same lectures from their mother about living somewhere a little nicer.
“It suits my needs.”
“You need a wife.” Michael pushed aside a stack of newspapers and sat on the couch.
“That’s the last thing I need. What I want is a new case, so I can get back on the road.”
“I’m not sure what the romance is between you and your job. You’re on the road for months at a time. You live in rundown apartments and eat out of tin cans.” Michael had received that information from their mother and from reading between the lines of the letters Noah had sent.
“You know why I do this.” Noah shoved his glasses into his pocket and brushed a hand through hair that hung nearly to his shoulders but was usually pulled back in a ponytail. “So what’s going on?”
Sometimes Noah was the greatest brother in the world. No, he was always the greatest. But sometimes “the job” took over. It bordered on obsession. Noah couldn’t see that maybe Michael just wanted to visit. No, he had to suspect that something was going on.
“Nothing’s going on. Life is great. I’m the family felon. My future career choices are limited. Oh, and I’m being followed.”
“So, when were you going to tell me about this?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Michael leaned back and closed his eyes. He wanted life to be simple again. He wanted easy decisions. He wanted to be a kid, deciding which camp to attend or what party—no, not a party—what friends to hang out with.
“Okay, so who do you think it is?” Noah pulled out a chair from the card table and straddled it, his arms resting
