RICHARD!” ALLISON JOGGED TOWARD HIM.
To her relief, he didn’t break into a run back down the mountain. He turned, his eyes quizzical as she approached, hands stuffed in his blue windbreaker.
“Your name is Richard, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” He peered at her. “Have we met?”
“Not exactly.” She stood with hands on hips, studying Richard. The same look of gentleness and intensity she’d seen in The Vogue that day filled his eyes. “I saw you in The Vogue toward the end of April, you and another man. I sat at a table next to yours. He had a journal and he said his life had been changed.”
“Yes. That’s right, we did see each other.” Richard smiled at her the way Joel used to do, and it peeled something back inside her. “So you eavesdropped on our conversation.”
She couldn’t tell if that bothered him or if he thought it amusing.
“Yes, I did.”
He didn’t comment.
“Can I . . .” She stopped. What did she want to do? “Can I talk to you about the journal?”
“Sure.” He glanced at the sky. “Might we chat as we walk back down the trail? Looks like rain is coming.”
“Good idea.”
They made their way back to the trail. Just before starting down, Richard offered his hand. “My name is Richard. But you obviously already knew that.”
“Yes, I did.” She took his hand. Large. Warm. “My name’s Allison.”
“Pleased.” He smiled. “Impressive to remember a name you’ve only eavesdropped on once.” He winked.
Good. He wasn’t offended.
“Your conversation made an impression on me. I’ve been journaling my whole life, so it was hard not to pick up on your discussion. I love all kinds and styles, but the one I saw that day is one of the most exquisite I’ve ever seen.”
“Is exquisite? Not was?”
“Is.” She peered up at Richard. “I have it now.”
“Oh really? I’d like to hear all about that.” Richard motioned down the trail. “Would you like to lead?”
“That’s okay. I’ll bring up the rear.”
“As you wish.”
They hiked down the path, and as they weaved in and out of groves of trees and collections of boulders, she told Richard about getting the journal, talking to her mom, and mustering the courage to write in it. She told him about her conversation with Parker, and about going to Carl and learning of the monk who created the journals and of the legends surrounding them.
Richard asked a quick clarifying question here and there but otherwise spoke little till she’d finished.
“And you’ve told me all of this, Allison, for what reason?” She wished she could have seen his face as he spoke the words. Was he kidding?
“First, I want to know why your companion, Alister, gave the journal to me.”
“Because you’re the one he chose.”
“Chose?”
“Yes.” Richard turned and gave her that warm smile again. A dad smile. A smile she’d longed for from her own father. “He chose you to have the journal next. As you said, the legend is that these journals are passed from person to person. You apparently are the next in line for this particular journal. Anything else?”
“I only have three or four hundred more questions.”
Richard laughed, a hearty laugh of peace and thunder. “Ask away.”
“I want to know more about the journal. Everything I can. You obviously know something about it because of your friendship with this Alister guy.”
She stepped over a log fallen across the trail and scraped her leg on its bark.
“Here are a few of the things I know: I know Alister believed the journal was special. Supernatural, you might say. I know he wrote in it, and he told me he often felt the journal spoke back to him. I know he was a different man after having the journal than he was before.”
“How do you know him? Where can I find him?”
“How do you know he wants to be found?”
“I don’t. But I need to find him.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to find out what the journal is. What it does. What I’m supposed to do with it.”
“From what you’ve told me, you know what the journal is, you know what it does, and you know what to do with it.”
“Tell me about Alister. Please.”
“I met Alister a year ago. We got together a few times a month, sometimes more, sometimes less. A coffee shop. Hikes. He needed a friend. I became one to him.”
“How did you meet him?”
Richard laughed. “You’re not a reporter, are you? Talk-show host?”
“No and no. I’m an architect.” She held up her hands in mock defense. “But I’m motivated to find out everything I can about this journal. Sorry about all the questions.”
“Don’t be.” Richard glanced at the sky and picked up his pace down the trail. “I was Alister’s parole officer.”
“You’re a cop?”
“Used to be. Guess I’ll always be, in some ways.”
Allison sniffed out a soft laugh. Of course Richard was a cop. Nice way to remind her of her dad. God certainly had a sense of humor.
“My dad was a cop. Leon Moore.”
“I know of him. But I never met your father.”
Her dad would have liked Richard.
They lapsed into silence for five or so minutes and Allison slowed. Richard was right. She did know what to do. Write in the journal. And she knew what it was—if Carl’s words were true. She picked up her pace and caught up to Richard.
“So you believe there are seven of them? That they’re angel journals?”
“What do you believe, Allison? Has anything strange happened since you started writing in yours?” He turned and walked backward down the trail a few paces, somehow avoiding the rocks and roots that could have easily tripped him up.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to tell me about that?”
Did she? She barely knew this man, yet the answer was yes, she did want to. Not simply because the warmth that seemed to radiate off him invited her to believe this space was safe; her intuition whispered that the more open she was with him, the more open he’d be with her.
“I’ve written in the journal, and the words I’ve written have changed. It wasn’t my imagination. They changed. Not once, but two times now.”
“Alister said the same.”
“So it’s real? The journal? It really is the hand of God writing in the journal, or changing the writing?”
Before she finished her question, the clouds opened and rain poured down. Richard glanced back and said, “Mind if we pick up the pace and get off the mountain?”
Allison shook her head and they both broke into a run. Little pockets of the trail turned to mud, and dodging the larger puddles made her think of playing hopscotch as a kid. But after another half mile, her shoes and socks were drenched with fresh rainwater and ancient mud, and she gave up trying to stay out of the muck. No chance to get her question answered till they got to their cars.
But when they reached the parking lot, the rain had turned into a torrent, not exactly conducive to finishing their conversation.
“Can we talk again?” Allison shouted to be heard over the deluge.
“Anytime you’d like.”
“Where?”
Richard yanked open his car door, pulled out a business card, and handed it to her. “Call me. Or text. I look forward to next time.”
With that, he jumped into his car, waited till Allison was safely in hers, then drove off, leaving Allison enlightened, bewildered, and inspired all at the same time.