The Prodigal: A Ragamuffin Story by Brennan Manning, Greg Garrett Page B

Christmas-themed pantsuit and tennis shoes stepped inside. Her agility belied her age. Nora Calhoun was in her eighties, but she was apparently still able to take her morning walk.
    “Jack Chisholm,” she was saying now. He looked left and right, as though perhaps she was speaking to someone else. But her eyes—and her grin—were directed straight as an arrow. “That’s right, son. I am talking to you.”
    Against his better judgment, he returned her smile. “Mrs. Calhoun,” he said. “Can I show you some hammers on this lovely morning?”
    “Don’t give me any of your lip,” she said, but she had a twinkle in her eye. Nora Calhoun had been his Sunday School teacher when he was in fifth grade, the first grown-up outside his family to tell him how sorry she was about Martha’s death. She was also the custodian of a secret recipe for fried-chicken seasoning that was the pride and envy of a town full of women who still cut up fryers and put them in a pan of hot oil. “I came as soon as I heard you were back. I hope you’ll stay a good long time.”
    “Good Lord, no,” Jack blurted, his eyes going wide. “I mean, I’m just here for a while. Just helping out.”
    Nora Calhoun shook her head. “It’s good timing,” she said. “Your father needing the extra help. And your recent troubles.”
    It’s a sad thing when your private shame becomes public knowledge
, he remembered. He had better grow a tougher skin—or regrow the one small-town living had once taught him.
    “What can I do for you, Mrs. Calhoun?” he said. “Exactly?”
    “Oh, you’re not getting off that easy, Jack,” she said. “I don’t need anything this store can offer.”
    “You need a new roof,” Tom said, and Jack turned to him, grateful for the opportunity to edge away.
    “As though I could afford a new roof, Tom,” she said. “The materials alone would set me back a pretty penny.”
    “We could sell it to you in installments,” Jack said, heading toward the coatrack. “A nail at a time.”
    “Oh,” she said in mock indignation. “I don’t suppose I’m quite that hard up.”
    “We’ll work with you,” Tom said. “Nora, you do need a new roof.”
    “I do,” she admitted. “Lyndi climbed up and put that tarp over the leaky spot. And it still leaks.” She turned to Jack. “Lyndi is my great-granddaughter. She comes to see me every week or so from Austin.” She smiled wryly. “I believe her mother makes her.”
    “I’ve got to go out to the yard,” Jack told her, pulling on his coat. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Calhoun.”
    “Oh, I’ll see you again,” she said. “That’s a promise. Now, I’m off to practice for Sunday.” Nora Calhoun had been the organist at Saint Paul’s since before Jack was born. She smiled and turned to go, and he stepped out the back door and into the lumberyard, clipboard in hand.
    It was chilly. He pulled on his gloves, tugged on the wool cap he’d found in the top of his closet, knitted by his mom years ago in the maroon and white of the Mayfield Wildcats. As he slipped it over his head, it felt a little like a hug across the great divide.
Thanks, Mom.
    The lumberyard was a small space—unlike in the big boxstores where the lumber stretched into the distance like a studio back lot. The racks and shelving were built into the walls of the building behind them, which Grampa Joe had bought, gutted, and opened to the sky back in his day.
    Jack wondered, illogically, if maybe it had been the haberdashery.
    Not much wood was out here. When contractors bid a big project, they usually went into Kerrville to Home Depot, or all the way into San Antonio or Austin. Jack wondered what his dad thought was going to keep him occupied for long in this store, in this town.
    In this life.
    He pulled out his phone, checked again: no messages. That morning, as every morning, he had already called Tracy, called her parents, called Sally. No answer, no reply, nothing from any of them.
    Would he