12

The phone rang after supper. Lightning streaked across the evening sky. Thunder, once a distant sound, boomed, creeping closer. Alison, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, hurried to pick up the receiver. She snatched up the phone, thinking it might be Val who’d been out of town all day with Dillon’s soccer tournament, but she didn’t recognize the number on her caller ID.

“Hello? Monaghan residence. Alison speaking.”

She heard heavy breathing and then silence. Uneasy, she tried again.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

This time there was a faint hissing sound like a snake followed by high-pitched insane laughter.

A prickling sensation spread up and down her arms. She yanked the phone away from her ear and crashed it into its receptacle.

Something loathsome and evil.

“Who was it, Mom?” In the den, Justin leaned over his putter, attempting to chip a shot into an empty, clean tub that once contained margarine. “Wrong number?”

Shaken, she ran a trembling hand over her forehead and then lowered her hand back to her side, afraid to alarm the children. “Very wrong number.”

Justin returned to his putting, no longer interested in the mundane in light of the glory of golf. Claire lay sprawled on the couch as she had for the last few months, mindlessly watching one cooking show after the other.

Alison never closed any of the blinds or curtains except for the ones upstairs in their bedrooms, but tonight, she closed every one in the house and checked three times to make sure each door was locked and double-bolted. There was a deafening crack, followed by a blinding flash of light as showers poured from the sky with a vengeance. Her garden needed the rain, but she hoped the fury of the storm wouldn’t flatten her tender plants in the process.

Returning to the den, she noticed the Testament and prayer book gathering dust on the end table where they’d sat all these months after Claire had tossed them there with only a cursory examination. Seeking a distraction, she carried them over to Frank’s chair under the glow of the floor lamp.

Kicking off her flip-flops, she lifted her feet to the ottoman and thumbed through the contents. She was surprised to find certain verses underlined in blue pen with comments in the margin. In Frank’s handwriting, not the spidery handwriting of Papa Joe. As she read, she marveled at the apparent change in Frank from these truths that had been on his mind in his last days.

One in particular Frank dotted with three extra exclamation points after writing Wow in the margin. It read,

Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.

Wow, indeed. Forgiven, cleansed, and a new creature. Sitting there in Frank’s chair with the television blaring and the children involved in their own activities, she sent a swift prayer of gratitude to her Savior.

She jumped as the windows rattled, like a gunshot, in the wake of a particularly loud peal of thunder. Holding the Testament close, she rechecked the doors one more time.

What had her interference into Frank’s murder set into motion? Mike was right. She was out of her league.

Mike . . .

It had not escaped her notice in her verbal duel with him he’d called her honey. The feel of his fingers in hers twining like honeysuckle around a post . . . The warmth of his palm against her mouth . . . She blushed, glad the children were occupied in the family room.

She flicked the porch light off. She was out of her league with Mike, too. Drowning, truth be told.

And then, there was Robert.

The doorbell rang. She jumped two feet into the air.

Peering through the glass sidelights, she gasped and flung open the door. Speak of the . . .

“Too late for a friendly visit?” Drops of water beaded the gray streaks above Robert’s ears.

“Never too late for you.” This night was turning into a regular Twilight Zone episode. “Come in.” She pulled him inside. “Claire. Justin. Look who’s here.”

Robert gave her a slow smile. “You mean look who the cat dragged in on a dark and stormy night.”

She smiled. “A mystery lover after my own heart.”

Time for a little perspective on the raging hormones and Mike department. She was way too old for that kind of foolishness, wasn’t she, God?

One could do far worse than Robert. Especially on nights with spooky crank calls.

“I think you’re the excuse I need to start a new pot of coffee.” She laughed at the pleased expression on his face. “Decaf, I promise. Or at this time of night, I’ll never get to sleep.”

Robert brushed the moisture from his hair, a sheepish look on his face. He leaned toward her. “After spending time with you, sweetheart, I always have trouble falling asleep.”

She took a half-step back as Justin and Claire edged between them to welcome Robert. Sweetheart? Part of her infused with a sudden, glowing warmth. The other part of her felt a little panicked. Moving into the kitchen, she ground the Kona beans and filled the coffeemaker as Robert chatted at the kitchen island with the children.

A mature, Christian man. Beloved by children and dogs alike. Well-respected in the community. Her children’s future secure.

Did that sound too mercenary?

Robert, she instinctively knew, wasn’t a man prone to wander like Frank. Robert could prove to be her tower of refuge.

She frowned over the coffee mugs. Wait . . . Wasn’t that supposed to be God?

“We’ll give you two some privacy.” Justin exited the kitchen.

She whirled around after placing the rest of the coffee beans in the freezer. “What?”

Claire gave her a tight smile. “We’ll put ourselves to bed. ’Night, Robert.”

Robert winked at Alison. “ ’Night, kids.” Easing off the barstool, he closed the distance between them.

Whoa. What just happened here? Things between them were rushing along—it seemed to her—at breakneck speed.

He tugged her toward the family room, the only sound the plinking of the brewing coffee. “How is it you always look so lovely at any time of the day or night?”

And after years of put-downs by Frank, it did feel incredibly nice to have someone so openly appreciate her attributes. Good ole Robert. Never a worry—

She pursed her lips. Old? Where had that come from? She could wager a guess.

Alison gave a quick shake of her head to clear the cobwebs from her mind.

Mike, get out of my head.

“Cold?” Robert trailed his arm across the back of the loveseat behind her. She looked down at her hands locked together in her lap.

Awkward. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

Robert solved her dilemma by slipping a hand between her locked fingers, cupping her hand with his own. Feeling like one of her staked hollyhocks, she surrendered to the pull of his weight against her.

All in all, murder and mayhem seemed diversionary at this point.

She cleared her throat and told him about her new job.

He received it in about the same spirit as Mike. Not well.

“Whatever is going on, I think you need to steer clear of it. At your age and with your children to think about . . .”

She jerked. Her age?

Robert held up his hand, palm out. “I’m only saying this because I care. Let that Barefoot guy handle this. It’s his job. Though how he gets anything done when he’s always hanging around here . . .”

She stiffened.

Robert released her hand and captured her chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Ali, he’s not one of us. A believer. I know Stephen’s befriended him, but as your mentor in the faith, I feel it my duty to warn you. He’s dangerous to someone like you.”

Her eyes widened. Someone like her?

Robert leaned in, a hint of expensive aftershave preceding him. His hazel eyes scoured her. “You must’ve guessed how I feel about you. And the children. What place do the Mike Barefoots of the world have in your new life?”

What place indeed? All the old insecurities, all the old inadequacies—courtesy of an alcoholic mother and a faithless husband—rose to the surface.

She swallowed and studied the wall beyond Robert’s shoulder. A mature Christian man. Beloved by children and dogs . . . One could do far worse.

She already had once upon a time.