now.”
She sighed heavily, her breath a gust through the cell phone. “Okay. I know when to hush.”
“Call me when you make that doctor’s appointment.”
“Will do.”
“Love ya, Mom.”
“I love you, son. Come when you can.” The phone clicked in his ear as she rang off.
Ian flipped the telephone closed and sat at the wheel of his van for several seconds. To his left, Raoul sweated as he pushed a mower over the grass where Maddy’s body had been found. The gnawing in Ian’s stomach turned to acid. Life was incredibly short and unpredictable. So many to help. So little time.
He had a meeting with the lawyers tomorrow, potential donors coming in the next day, his usual overload of counseling and Bible teaching, the street work with the homeless, the phone calls to arrange jobs and school and a ton of other details, and the worry about Gretchen Barker dogging his footsteps. He was tired to the bone, hungry as a wolf and sorely in need of some downtime to pray and study and sleep. But someday soon, he had to get up to Baton Rouge.
Chapter Five
“E ver volunteered in a soup line?”
Ian Carpenter lounged against the counter inside the large dining room of Isaiah House, a box of plastic gloves dangling from one hand. This was the first time he’d slowed down since Gretchen had arrived.
Taking his question as a challenge, she tied a snowy white apron behind her back and yanked the box from him.
“I can handle it.” Any idiot could ladle soup.
One eyebrow twitched. “Just remember to be nice.”
Did he truly think she would mistreat people because they were homeless? She shoved her hand into a glove, giving it an emphatic pop. “I’m always nice.”
Ian laughed and moved off. She made a face at his back.
Fifteen minutes later, she understood his warning.
Some of these people stunk.
Gretchen fought a wave of nausea as she dished up yet another plate of beans and franks. Didn’t anyone else notice the smell?
The girl next to her, one of Ian’s runaways with a none-too-happy disposition, slapped a hefty slice of corn bread on the plate and handed it to an odorous woman.
Although she was a journalist and considered herself well-informed, Gretchen was shocked at the number of women, children and young people coming through the soup line. Weren’t the homeless supposed to be old men with alcohol problems? A lot had changed since the hurricane.
Careful not to touch her hands to her face, she scratched her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. Inhaling deeply, she tried to hold the scent of her perfume as long as possible.
Not everyone stank, but a lot of them did. And the balmy fall humidity didn’t help matters.
Methodically scooping beans, she looked around for the preacher. She planned to keep close tabs on her subject, a not-so-easy task. He was in constant motion, carrying large pots of food, busing tables, mopping up spills, sharing a word and that magnetic smile. None of the work seemed too menial. None of the patrons too dirty or unkempt for a pat on the back or shoulder hug. But Gretchen couldn’t help wondering if the preacher was putting on a show for her sake. Or rather, the sake of her story. She’d need more than a couple of hours to make that kind of judgment.
At the moment, he was crouched in front of a little girl perhaps eight years old with kinky hair and big sad eyes. He reached into his pocket and handed the child something small, though Gretchen couldn’t see what it was. The little girl smiled shyly and offered a hug. Gretchen’s stomach lifted at the sight of the big, whiteman gently embracing the small, dark child as her pregnant mother stood smiling.
“Hey, lady, got any T-bone steaks back there for your best customer?”
Gretchen brought her attention back to the line of people. A grizzled old man who fit her preconceived image of the homeless grinned toothlessly in her direction.
“One T-bone coming up,” she joked as she fished in the beans for a couple
She sighed heavily, her breath a gust through the cell phone. “Okay. I know when to hush.”
“Call me when you make that doctor’s appointment.”
“Will do.”
“Love ya, Mom.”
“I love you, son. Come when you can.” The phone clicked in his ear as she rang off.
Ian flipped the telephone closed and sat at the wheel of his van for several seconds. To his left, Raoul sweated as he pushed a mower over the grass where Maddy’s body had been found. The gnawing in Ian’s stomach turned to acid. Life was incredibly short and unpredictable. So many to help. So little time.
He had a meeting with the lawyers tomorrow, potential donors coming in the next day, his usual overload of counseling and Bible teaching, the street work with the homeless, the phone calls to arrange jobs and school and a ton of other details, and the worry about Gretchen Barker dogging his footsteps. He was tired to the bone, hungry as a wolf and sorely in need of some downtime to pray and study and sleep. But someday soon, he had to get up to Baton Rouge.
Chapter Five
“E ver volunteered in a soup line?”
Ian Carpenter lounged against the counter inside the large dining room of Isaiah House, a box of plastic gloves dangling from one hand. This was the first time he’d slowed down since Gretchen had arrived.
Taking his question as a challenge, she tied a snowy white apron behind her back and yanked the box from him.
“I can handle it.” Any idiot could ladle soup.
One eyebrow twitched. “Just remember to be nice.”
Did he truly think she would mistreat people because they were homeless? She shoved her hand into a glove, giving it an emphatic pop. “I’m always nice.”
Ian laughed and moved off. She made a face at his back.
Fifteen minutes later, she understood his warning.
Some of these people stunk.
Gretchen fought a wave of nausea as she dished up yet another plate of beans and franks. Didn’t anyone else notice the smell?
The girl next to her, one of Ian’s runaways with a none-too-happy disposition, slapped a hefty slice of corn bread on the plate and handed it to an odorous woman.
Although she was a journalist and considered herself well-informed, Gretchen was shocked at the number of women, children and young people coming through the soup line. Weren’t the homeless supposed to be old men with alcohol problems? A lot had changed since the hurricane.
Careful not to touch her hands to her face, she scratched her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. Inhaling deeply, she tried to hold the scent of her perfume as long as possible.
Not everyone stank, but a lot of them did. And the balmy fall humidity didn’t help matters.
Methodically scooping beans, she looked around for the preacher. She planned to keep close tabs on her subject, a not-so-easy task. He was in constant motion, carrying large pots of food, busing tables, mopping up spills, sharing a word and that magnetic smile. None of the work seemed too menial. None of the patrons too dirty or unkempt for a pat on the back or shoulder hug. But Gretchen couldn’t help wondering if the preacher was putting on a show for her sake. Or rather, the sake of her story. She’d need more than a couple of hours to make that kind of judgment.
At the moment, he was crouched in front of a little girl perhaps eight years old with kinky hair and big sad eyes. He reached into his pocket and handed the child something small, though Gretchen couldn’t see what it was. The little girl smiled shyly and offered a hug. Gretchen’s stomach lifted at the sight of the big, whiteman gently embracing the small, dark child as her pregnant mother stood smiling.
“Hey, lady, got any T-bone steaks back there for your best customer?”
Gretchen brought her attention back to the line of people. A grizzled old man who fit her preconceived image of the homeless grinned toothlessly in her direction.
“One T-bone coming up,” she joked as she fished in the beans for a couple
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