Brother Word Page 2

  Again: who’s watching, anyway?

  She playfully stuck out her tongue and made a few funny faces at herself in her bathroom mirror as her youthful face stared back at her, a face that belied her thirty years of age. Even without any foundation or makeup, her healthy, almond-chocolate brown skin positively glowed, for which Lynn was thankful. She considered herself blessed to have such good skin tone, primarily because she had neither the time nor the patience to spend hours in front of the mirror fixing herself up.

  But what was she fretting about her hair for, anyway? Without question, her eyes were the best things she had going for her. Unquestionably passed down from her mother, her riveting, beautiful brown-and-hazel eyes were positively Natalie Cole-like. Much to her irritation and annoyance at times, she was forever telling people that no, she didn’t wear contacts and that yes, she knew she was the spitting image of Nat King Cole’s daughter.

  After a few more minutes, Lynn came out of the bathroom, grabbed her purse and keys off her sofa table, and headed out the front door. In her mind she hurriedly ran through her much-too-long list of things to do today, one day before she would blissfully take off to Myrtle Beach, where she then would do absolutely nothing for seven days.

  Take overdue library books back, place newspaper subscriptions on hold, pick up clothes from cleaners, check on Mom and Dad . . .

  She allowed herself a small smile as she opened the door of the rental Dodge Neon. It was a small wonder anything got done in her normal workweek.

  Columbia, South Carolina, was a delightful place to live, in her opinion. She’d been born and raised in Sumter, located forty minutes east of the capital, and she’d long held that the city’s hustle and bustle were just right for her. With a population of just a little more than one hundred thousand, Columbia retained that southern small-town feel that had attracted Lynn here in the first place. Though she’d been proud to have received an acceptance letter to prestigious Emory University in Atlanta, she’d opted to save money and stick closer to home. The decision to attend the University of South Carolina had paid off handsomely—after majoring in religious studies, she had found a position in outreach at nearby Faith Community Church. And after three years in that position, she’d been promoted to director.

  “You’re our right-hand person in outreach,” Alonzo Gentry, the senior pastor, had told her on the same day he announced her promotion. “And I know everyone always says anyone can be replaced, but I honestly don’t know what this church would do without you.”

  Now, running through the preset radio buttons, she longed once more for her beloved Camry with her much-used CD player. A great thrill and added joy of driving for her was the opportunity to worship while she drove by listening to her old-school and new-school favorites. If she had known this rental didn’t have a CD player, well, she certainly would not have agreed to drive it, no matter if it was free of charge with her own car still being worked on. She had a big hunch why it had been free, too!

  How in the world does one drive without music?

  After a few minutes of frustrating radio surfing and wondering aloud more than a few times why Columbia did not have a good gospel station, she reluctantly settled for an old Aretha Franklin classic.

  The temperature was forecasted to reach the mid-eighties on this clear Saturday and there was not a cloud in the June sky as she approached the downtown theater district.

  Perfect weather for lazy days on the beach, she happily thought to herself. She could endure waiting for the repairs to her car, temporarily forget about her air-conditioning problems, and even deal with the kinks in her hair because of that one blissful, luxurious thought.

  Hitting the high notes perfectly, she sang “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” aloud with Aretha as she navigated into a parallel parking space. Oh yes, her rest and relaxation would get some much-needed respect soon. Myrtle Beach was waiting.

  THE TAN-COLORED PICKUP truck steadily made its way beyond the outskirts of Sumter, heading west toward Columbia. Traveling in the right-hand lane, at first glance there was nothing unusual about its progress. Upon closer inspection, though, the late-model truck was slightly weaving and bobbing in and out of the slow lane. This was not a major concern, though, since there were not many cars on Highway 76 today.

  Inside the cab the old driver vigorously rubbed his bloodshot eyes, forcing them to remain open. He wasn’t having much success, however, and every five miles or so he was reduced to jerking the steering wheel hard to the left or right, pitifully attempting to stay in the center of the lane.

  He drained the last of the beer down his throat and tossed the empty can out his window. On the radio an old country-and-western tune was blaring, some melodramatic jingle about a jilted ex-lover from Nashville, but that was not helping him stay alert. Opening his eyes and having to jerk the wheel again after weaving to the left, he narrowly missed sideswiping a sedan that was passing him. The driver of that car shouted a few choice words and gestured rudely.

  The old man cursed back, sleepily and drunkenly slurring his words. He knew he shouldn’t be driving in his present condition, but he was only ten or so miles out of Columbia; there wasn’t much farther to go. And besides, how else was he supposed to get home? Walk?

  “I don’t know why my da-ahling left me . . .” the Nashville crooner droned on the radio as the pickup truck wobbled and weaved along the highway. Normally an avid country-and-western music fan, the driver was so conked out, he didn’t even hear the song. That he was even navigating the pickup as ably as he was constituted a small miracle.

  FORTUNATELY, LYNN SPOTTED HER a good thirty seconds before she would be approaching her rental car. The dreaded meter lady.

  Thank goodness I didn’t stop to chat with Marianne,Lynn thought as she increased the speed of her walking gait. Marianne was Lynn’s favorite librarian, but the elderly, good-natured busybody always had endless stories to tell. Usually Lynn had the patience and time to humor her, but since she’d been facing a thousand items on her to-do list today, she had consciously avoided Marianne while returning her four overdue books. And also, apparently, avoided this parking ticket. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” she cheerfully called out as she visibly and loudly jingled her keys, much to the meter lady’s displeasure.

  The old woman glanced up, a disappointed smirk plastered on her face. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today, missy. You’re over your time limit.”

  I’m not lucky; I’m blessed . . . “Sorry!” Lynn replied, flashing her best smile. “I was really trying to make it.”

  The meter lady grunted under her breath and moved on to the Mercedes-Benz parked behind Lynn’s, which was also over the limit. The driver of this sleek luxury car would not be as fortunate.

  As she made a right and merged into light traffic on Hampton Street, Lynn’s cell phone rang. A sideways glance at the caller ID showed that it was Arlene, so Lynn quickly put the call through.

  “Hey, sis, I’ve got a thousand things to do today. What’s going on?”

  Arlene’s bubbly laughter filled her ear. “Easy, Lynn. Just because you’re taking a whole week off doesn’t mean you can just blow your best friend off.”

  “I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing. But . . . uh, make it quick, now.”

  “Don’t make me put you on my prayer list!” Arlene responded, still laughing. After a moment, she added, “I’m just calling to see if you’re coming back to the office before you take off to Myrtle Beach.”

  “Now why would I do that? I love y’all, but do I need to remind you that I’m going on vacation?”

  “You’d do it because Sister Margie made some banana pudding and brought it to the kitchen this morning,” Arlene answered. As the minister of music at Faith Community Church, Arlene had an office just down the hall from Lynn’s. “And I know you would kill me if—”

  “You got that right!” Lynn exclaimed, slapping her hand atop the Neon’s dashboard and licking h
er lips for added emphasis. “That woman of God’s banana pudding is so good, it ought to be a sin to eat it!”

  Arlene laughed again, a sound that blended harmoniously with her natural voice. Perhaps that was why Lynn liked her so much—Arlene literally knew how to count everything as joy. “I take that to mean you’re coming by the office, then?”

  Lynn looked at her watch. As it was, she was already running a tight schedule, but how could she pass up a chance to score a helping of her favorite dessert, made by one of the best cooks this side of the Mississippi?

  “I’ll swing by in about an hour, Arlene. Don’t you let them eat it all up, you hear?”

  “You got it, girl!”

  Ten minutes later, now traveling east on Highway 76, Lynn calculated in her mind that if she really focused she just might get everything done today, including getting that dish of banana pudding. And she certainly didn’t mind pushing herself to be productive, because in a few days the only meaningful tasks she would be engaging in would be clicking a remote control and dialing out for room service.

  Breakfast in bed . . . my own personal masseuse . . . sunsets to simply die for . . .

  Those tempting thoughts instantly made her giddy with anxiousness. She sighed and stretched her neck, daydreaming ahead to future massages and tantalizing hours spent in the Jacuzzi . . . so she really wasn’t concentrating on driving . . .

  As a result, she only casually noticed the tan-colored pickup truck to her left as she approached the three-way intersection, at which she had the right-of-way. She thought nothing of it. Because after all, she did have the right-of-way. But had she been more focused on driving, and driving defensively for that matter, she probably would have observed that this truck was not going to heed the stop sign.

  Her mind still captivated by spas and her awaiting Jacuzzi, too late she saw that the truck was not stopping. The acute shock of the impending driver’s-side collision was too much for her senses to handle and she screamed.

  Then her entire world faded to black.

  A split second later, she felt nothing when the truck plowed into her compact car. Didn’t even feel a thing.

  Chapter Three

  FIVE MINUTES SHY OF TWO O’CLOCK found the sun finally forcing its way past the thick, cotton-like clouds that had enveloped the sky all morning. The air was not yet humid, though, a small relief to the man sitting along the banks of the Congaree River. This stretch of the river and its surrounding land, located twenty miles southeast of Columbia, had recently been designated a national park, in part because the swampland preserved the largest intact tract of old-growth floodplain forest in North America.

  The man was interested in neither the park’s serenity nor its beauty, however, as he leaned against a bald cypress tree towering one hundred feet into the sky. He longed for the rest that still eluded him.

  God, this place is beautiful . . .

  Though he’d stumbled onto this park almost by accident, he couldn’t imagine being anyplace else. After conducting a little research at the public library a few days earlier, he’d found that no other place in the eastern United States held a larger contiguous area of tall trees. And since tall trees equaled privacy and seclusion, this park had quickly become his outdoor sanctuary.

  His old black leather Bible lay open in his lap, the pages turned to a highlighted passage of scripture he’d spent years poring over—Isaiah 53. He knew the passage so well he could have recited it just as easily backwards as forwards.

  “Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”

  “The suffering servant, Jesus Christ,” the man muttered through clenched teeth. “On the cross, You bore my sins and iniquities . . . my infirmities so I wouldn’t have to. Then tell me this, God. Why . . . why do I still have all this pain? If You bore all my pain, then why am I still suffering? I shouldn’t have to feel all this pain.”

  A few minutes passed by, and when there was no answer, the man cried out in anguish.

  “Why! Why, God? Why did my love have to be taken away? What did I do to deserve this? Are You hearin’ me?”

  Again, no answer. Not that he was expecting one. He had a thought to shake his fist toward the heavens, but resisted; he knew the fine line between anger and stupidity in questioning the Almighty. Though he might never understand why God had allowed Nina to be taken away, God was still . . . God. And who was he to challenge that sovereignty?

  “Why’d you even give me this?” he asked quietly, looking down at his hands. He turned them around and over with the fascination of a newborn baby, looking at these ten-fingered appendages as if for the very first time. They looked normal enough—five fingers to either hand with two joints on each finger. The underside and palms were slightly callused from years of outdoor manual labor.

  “Why’d you even give me this gift, if it’s not for the people who mean the most to me?”

  Tilting his head back against the tree, he closed his eyes, inviting sleep to mercifully take him away from his reality. But sleep would not come. Gnats whined and buzzed around his head incessantly, and he spent several minutes swatting at them to no avail. Frustrated and tired, he slid down the base of the tree. His mind traveled back in time to the happiest day of his life. His wedding day.

  Oh, God . . .

  Most people considered weddings to be the happiest day of a bride’s life, but the same was true for the groom, at least when such a man was deeply in love.

  And he had been—as he’d watched Nina gracefully sashay down the aisle, the white veil covering the loveliest face he’d ever laid eyes on, he was unaware that he’d been temporarily holding his breath.

  Due to circumstances beyond their control, their wedding had only been a small affair. But it didn’t matter who had been invited to witness their celebration of love—this was his and Nina’s special day.

  “Do you take Nina Reneé Harris to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the minister had asked, looking earnestly into his eyes. “To love and to cherish, to have and hold from this day forth, in good times and bad, in sickness and health, till death do you part?”

  “I do,” he had answered, speaking two of the most important words he’d ever been honored to say.

  “I. Do.”

  “THE REHEARSAL SOUNDED GREAT from where I’m sitting, Sister Arlene,” Pastor Gentry remarked, looking up from his daily devotional. “But I’m not sure I recognized the voice on the solo. Who was singing?”

  Arlene walked farther into the office, gently placed a manila folder on the desk, and took a seat opposite her pastor. “That was Sister Dana—doesn’t she have the most amazing voice? I’ve been trying to get her to lead out for months now, and since we’re rehearsing some Milton Brunson classics for the concert series, there was no way I was letting her wiggle out of leading. I’m telling you, Dana sounds just as good as Kim McFarland, if not even a little better.”

  Pastor Gentry smiled at his choir director before leaning back in his chair. “That’s a bold statement. I won’t mention to Kim that you said such a thing next time I see her—Kim and I go back a few years, you know. Anyway, ‘I Tried Him and I Know Him’ is one of my all-time favorite songs. And it’s going to sound even better once we get our state-of-the-art audio equipment installed in the main sanctuary in three weeks.”

  Leaning forward again, he opened the manila folder and scanned the pages inside. After a minute or so had passed, he nodded his head. “Everything looks to be in order for the fall choral concert.”

  “Thank you, sir. We’re getting more churches from the surrounding counties involved this year—it’s going to be a tremendous event.”

  “I have no doubt of that. I take it the public relations committee is ready with their advertising?”

  “Absolutely.”

  G
entry smiled and closed the folder. “It’s enough to give God praise for having you over the choir. It’s such a blessing to never have to worry about a thing concerning the music ministry—you run a tight ship.”

  Arlene respectfully lowered her head and was about to respond when the red light on Pastor Gentry’s phone began blinking.

  “Excuse me,” he said, before picking up the receiver and swiveling around in his executive chair.

  With Faith Community’s current status as the fastest-growing church in the Carolinas, all of its members had grown used to the pressing demands on Pastor Gentry’s time. It had nearly gotten to the point where one was deemed fortunate just to have an uninterrupted meeting with the man. Arlene understood this as well as anybody, busying herself with picking imaginary lint from the fabric of her pantsuit while her pastor spoke softly into the receiver from a few feet away. She assumed it was merely another routine business call, but when he quickly swiveled back around and almost dropped the phone back into its cradle, she immediately sensed something was wrong.

  “Lord Jesus, have mercy,” Pastor Gentry breathed, closing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Pastor? Is . . . is something wrong?”

  Ten seconds passed before he opened his eyes. “Sister Arlene, please gather the intercessory team together—we need to pray as a church family. That was Brother and Sister Harper, on their way to the hospital.”

  “The Harpers? The hospital? Wha-what happened?”

  “It’s Sister Lynn,” he said slowly. His voice was now notably strained. “There’s no easy way to say this,” he began, measuring his words. He knew how close the relationship was between Arlene and Lynn. For that matter, he regarded Lynn Harper as his own daughter. “She’s been in an accident.”

  All the color drained from Arlene’s face. “Oh, God . . .”