A Touch of Grace

Blue eyes blinked at her. “Everyone is welcome at Isaiah House.”

“I meant in an official capacity.” She watched him closely, eager to see if the suggestion rattled him. It didn’t.

Serene as a blue sky, he said, “We’re an open book.”

Satisfaction curled through Gretchen’s mind. If Ian Carpenter and his mission had anything to hide, she and everyone else in Louisiana would soon know.

Chapter Three

“Ian, I think you’d better come outside.”

Ian looked up from his desk at the heavyset young woman standing in the door of his ground-floor office. Tabitha was one of the day counselors who worked with the female residents. He thought her name was appropriate since the Biblical Tabitha had also been a servant to those in need.

“What’s up?”

“The newswoman’s here again. Channel Eleven.”

“Already?”

When Barracuda Barker said she was coming to the mission, Ian hadn’t expected her quite so soon. The funeral was only yesterday.

He pushed up from the cluttered desk where he’d been praying about the runaway he’d taken in last night. After two hours of negotiation and countless calls to other agencies for social services Isaiah House couldn’t provide, he’d gotten the girl and her parents to agree to one more try. He only hoped things worked out this time.

As he came around the desk, Tabitha glanced down at his feet. “Another new pair of shoes?”

Ian held out the pristine white runners for inspection. “Like ’em?”

“Cool. How many pairs does this make?”

That was a question Ian would rather not answer. He gave away his shoes to the needy on a regular basis, but every time he passed a shoe store he came home with a new pair. All his friends teased him about his one vice, but try as he would, he couldn’t seem to stop buying shoes.

“Don’t start about the shoes.”

Tabitha laughed. As a licensed Christian counselor, she teased him more than anyone, claiming his shoe buying indicated some kind of psychological disorder. He laughed, too, but sometimes he wondered about the compulsion.

They crossed the dayroom together and headed for the door of the converted home. The room was quiet by Isaiah House standards. This time of day, some people were in Bible study groups. Others were in classes or at jobs secured with the help of Ian and his small staff. Nobody sat idle around here for long.

Ian stepped out on the Southern-style porch. Sure enough, the Channel Eleven News van was parked at the curb and the blond reporter hopped out, photographer in tow. As he walked toward the mission the photographer aimed his camera at Ian and started shooting.

Ian stifled a groan. He really didn’t need this today with all he had to do. Hopefully, after a few questions, she’d be on her way. After all, yesterday after the funeral when they’d parted ways, he felt they’d made progress, at least to the point of mutual respect.

“Gretchen,” he said cordially when she approached the porch.

Her loose-fitting white jacket swung open as she extended her hand. Beneath she wore a tank top the color of his mother’s daffodils.

“Reverend.”

Ian let the emphasis pass, studying her with an intensity she couldn’t miss. Though carefully applied makeup covered the dark circles, nothing could erase the hollow expression in her eyes. She had no business working today.

“How are you?” And he meant it. How was she after yesterday?

Her face closed up. “I’m here on business, not to be counseled.”

Ouch. Apparently, his thought that they’d come to some sort of mutual understanding yesterday had been way off base.

Gretchen not only didn’t want to discuss the loss of her sister, she wanted to forget that she and Ian had ever talked. Even if he couldn’t understand her reasoning, he could deal with her rejection. Preachers felt the cold shoulder all the time. The woman had been through a nightmare this week, and she needed time to grieve. For her own sake, he hoped she would give herself a break. Grief was a powerful emotion that took a toll sooner or later.

He held open the door and stood aside to let her enter the cool interior of the mission. As she passed, a gentle waft of lemon, like the magnolia in the courtyard, tickled his senses.

When the occupants of the dayroom saw the camera, most of them scattered like startled mice. The one or two who remained stared in open curiosity.

“I take it you’re here on that official business you mentioned yesterday,” he said.

Her pixie face turned upward. Yesterday’s predicted sunburn tinged her tilted nose and the crest of her cheekbones. As he’d noticed the morning Maddy died, Gretchen was a small woman with fragile looks. But those looks were deceiving. Unlike her sister, Ian suspected the reporter’s backbone was solid steel.

“Channel Eleven is running a new series on compassion ministries. We’d like to include a piece on Isaiah House.”

“Hatchet job or fair story?” He didn’t know why he’d asked that. He wasn’t usually defensive about the mission, but something in her attitude today made him uneasy.

“Everything depends on your cooperation. The more open you are with us, the better we can represent you to the public.” As she spoke, Gretchen’s gaze raced around the room, missing nothing. Not that there was all that much to see. Couches and a table, a tiny reception area with a pay phone, a TV and a few plants potted and tended by Roger. “The one thing I can promise you is to be fair. My stories are honest portrayals from the inside of ministries. The public has a right to know what they’re supporting.”

“I can’t argue that, but I’m not really prepared for anything extensive today. I’m pretty busy.” He glanced at his watch. “Could we schedule another time?”

Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “Have something to hide, Reverend?”

He was gonna let that pass. For now.

“Nope.” He slouched against the reception desk, sliding one hand in his pocket. Feeling the little fish key chain calmed the jitters that had invaded his stomach. “But I don’t allow anything to jeopardize the recovery of my people, either. I’m sure you understand.”

“Your people?” She emphasized the word as though it was loaded with insidious intent.

Ian liked to be cooperative, usually enjoyed sharing his vision for the mission with others, but he wasn’t interested in playing word games with a reporter looking to catch him in a slip of the tongue to boost her TV ratings.

“Look, Miss Barker, I’m a straightforward kind of guy. If you have questions to ask, ask them.” He smiled, hoping to soften her bulldog attitude with a little friendliness. “Why don’t we have this conversation in my office? I could offer you an ice-cold orange soda.”

He would have had better luck selling sand in Saudi Arabia. Gretchen didn’t ease off.

“Here is better.” She flipped open a small spiral notebook. “Let’s get started. Tell me about the mission. What exactly do you do?”

“Easy question.” He smiled again. Might as well be nice about it. As his mother often said, he’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And Gretchen Barker definitely needed some sweetening.

He pointed to the large framed poster on one wall and moved in that direction. Gretchen followed. “Isaiah 58 is our mission statement. The scripture tells it all.”

The same words were engraved on a plaque outside each entrance.

The photojournalist focused in on the Bible verses and then turned the camera back to Ian. In T-shirt and baseball cap, Ian figured he didn’t look much like a preacher. And that was okay by him, considering the people he ministered to. Teenagers were far more likely to talk to jeans and T-shirt than a suit and tie.

“Jesus commanded that we serve others. Isaiah House tries to do that. Mostly, our outreach is to runaways and street kids, but anyone who comes through that door gets all the help we can give them.”

“Very commendable,” she murmured in a voice that was less than impressed. Her sharp, intelligent eyes studied his face, and Ian got the sense that she wanted to find fault. What had he done to earn her animosity? Was it because of Maddy? Or did she dislike ministries in general?

He gave it another shot. “Kids on the street need a place to go, a safe haven where they can get help. That’s what matters to us. Isaiah House is not three hots and a cot, as the street people call a regular shelter. We help lost people, particularly teens, find their way again.”

“Interesting,” she said, as she furiously scribbled notes. “Would you mind telling our viewers about your program? What do you do that makes you different from any other shelter?”

“Lots of things.”

Eyes narrowed, she shot him that sharp look again. “Care to articulate?”

Ian wished he’d had time to prepare. Isaiah House wasn’t a shelter, per se. It was so much more. But every time he tried to express his vision, he came off like a fanatic. And the last thing he needed was to sound like a nut on television.

The photographer had moved away to point the camera down a side hall. Roger limped in their direction, carrying a stack of towels. When he spotted the camera, he did an about-face, disappearing as fast as his hip could take him back toward the dining room. Ian couldn’t hide the smile.

“I suppose our most important difference is this—we minister to the whole person, not only the physical. Humans are three parts—mind, spirit and body. If one is out of order, the rest suffer.”

“Is there more emphasis on the spiritual aspect than the others?”

He paused to consider the motive behind the odd question, choosing his words carefully. “We use a balanced approach.”

“Do you consider it balanced to require chapel twice a day, along with a Bible study and a prayer group?”

Okay. Now he saw where she was headed. Here was his opportunity to share his rationale, not only with her, but with a wide TV audience. “Yes. I do.”

But before he could explain further, she interrupted him with another question.

“Can you discuss where the mission gets its operational funds?”

Money. Dismay filtered over him like a fog. To the press, ministries were about money, not helping people. The whole idea tore him up. No man in pursuit of wealth would choose to deal with the troubled castoffs of society. Why couldn’t the public and the press understand that?

“We depend entirely upon donations.”

“What about government funding?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because then we’d have to follow their rules, and we can’t do that.”

“Isaiah House has no rules?” She scribbled something else on her notepad.

“We have plenty. Biblical rules, not rules of the government.”

“So let me make sure I have this right. Anyone who comes to Isaiah House for help is required to attend all the religious elements of the program. The Bible study, prayer groups and chapel. Is that correct?”

Ian had enough experience with opposition to know she was fishing for a negative angle, but all he could do was answer honestly and let God take care of the results.

“The only way to get people to change their lives is to change their hearts.”

A smile, the first one he’d seen, softened the line of her mouth.

“Wasn’t there a recent lawsuit filed against Isaiah House for expecting a man to attend a Bible study in exchange for a meal at the soup kitchen?”

No big news there. “Yes, but the courts refused to hear it.”

“Were you guilty?”

“If you’re asking if we require chapel or Bible classes to utilize our services, the answer is yes.” His easy admission seemed to catch her off guard. Good. She’d been trying to catch him off guard from the get-go. “People can’t change their hearts unless their minds are changed.”

“You change their minds through Bible study? Isn’t that brainwashing?”

Ian fought against rolling his eyes. Brainwashing. Please.

“The Bible teaches that we are transformed by a renewing of our minds. As a person replaces his old destructive thoughts with God’s word, he’s reprogrammed to think in productive, healthy ways.”

Did that sound as stiff and religious as he feared?

“Reprogrammed. I see.” She started to wander about the small room, gnawing on the end of her pen.

The chapel door swooshed open and a teenage girl stepped out, head down, a Kleenex clutched in one hand. Ian groaned inwardly. Chrissy. The one person in the mission who did not need to be confronted by a news camera.

Before he had a chance to stop her, Gretchen walked up to the girl and said, “I’m Gretchen Barker with Channel Eleven News. Could I have a word with you?”

Chrissy’s eyes widened. She started trembling, her gaze darting desperately around the room in search of escape. They landed on Ian.

“Ian?” she croaked out.

Ian sprang into action, stepping between Chrissy and the camera. Jaw hard enough to snap, he bit out one word. “No.”

Gretchen stared up at him, clearly startled by the sudden change in his mild demeanor. “Why not?”

“Our residents have a right to privacy.”

“Can’t she speak for herself?”

“No.”

For a matter of seconds, Ian and Gretchen stared, locked in a battle of wills. There were some things in this mission that no one, certainly not a news reporter, needed to know.

Behind him, the chapel door opened and closed. Ian relaxed a little. Chrissy had escaped back to the safety of the chapel out of range of the prying camera.

Gretchen was none too pleased at his interference. Eyes arcing green fire, she continued to stare at him for several long challenging seconds. Let her think what she would. Ian refused to budge.

Finally, she snapped her notebook shut. “All right then.” She turned to her videographer and hitched her head toward the door. “I think we have plenty for this first time.”

The shock of her words rattled Ian’s brain.

First time? Did that mean she’d be back for more?

At seven o’clock Ian readied his notes for the evening chapel service. Tonight he’d speak on spiritual freedom, one of his favorite topics. Maybe the reminder would lift this heaviness from his spirit. He couldn’t seem to shake the sense of failure over Maddy and the worry about her sister’s sudden interest in Isaiah House. He’d done nothing illegal, but the news media could make or break a ministry. From Gretchen’s attitude, he feared she wanted to do the latter.

He left his office and started through the dayroom to the chapel.

“Hey, Ian,” one of the residents called. “You’re on TV.”

The Barracuda’s report. The woman didn’t let any grass grow under her feet. Though he’d thought of little else all afternoon, he hadn’t expected the story to be aired this soon.

“You’re famous, man,” another called. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Do I look good?” he joked in return, coming to stand behind a long couch which faced the only television in the building. He leaned his legs against the slick vinyl fabric.

“That lady reporter must have thought so. She stuck around here long enough.”

Accustomed to their good-natured teasing, Ian chuckled. “I don’t think she was here because of my pretty face.”

“Must have been the shoes.”

Henry, whose shaved head was furrowed like a cornfield, said, “Yeah, that’s it, man. The shoes.”

“I think she was looking for me.” Raoul was a street-savvy seventeen-year-old with a missing front tooth and a wicked sense of humor. “I sure do like blondes.”

Ian thumped the teen on the shoulder. “She’s too old for you.”

“But not for you.”

Henry’s comment made him uncomfortable, though he didn’t know why. They were always ribbing him over his single status. Some day he hoped to find the right woman, but Gretchen Barker? Come on. Definitely not his type.

He frowned the teen into silence. “Be quiet so we can hear the story.”

The knot in his shoulder started acting up again. Though he was praying against a hatchet job, he didn’t have much hope.

The segment opened with the words of Isaiah 58 superimposed over a nice shot of the property. Gretchen’s warm, modulated voice-over introduced the mission and Ian. As the story proceeded, the tension in Ian’s shoulders slowly relaxed. Gretchen was doing a pretty decent job. The piece unfolded, straightforward, objective, clear, even if he did look more like a mission resident than the director.

Maybe some positive publicity would increase the lagging donations, and he could replace the ancient heating unit before next winter.

He came around the couch and sat down just as Gretchen said, “This reporter, in keeping with our commitment to truth, believes our viewers have a right to know that here in this lovely old house surrounded by the lush beauty of magnolias and wisteria, something sinister may be occurring.”

A clip of yellow police tape from the scene of Maddy’s death flashed across the screen.

Ian’s heart thumped once, hard. He sat up straight and leaned forward. What was she doing?

The camera panned to Ian’s face as Gretchen continued. “The boyishly handsome street preacher freely admits to using unorthodox methods and refusing government funds so that he can make his own rules. Rules that unfortunately include, by the reverend’s own admission, mind control and brainwashing.”

“I admitted no such thing,” Ian sputtered, and then watched in horror as the camera showed him stepping, fierce-faced, in front of Chrissy. Thank goodness, the runaway’s identity was blocked from view by his shoulders.

“Whoa, Ian,” someone said, “you looked mad.”

He hadn’t been mad. He’d been concerned for Chrissy’s safety, but Barracuda Barker hadn’t recognized that reaction any more than Raoul had.

“As you can see from this video, we attempted to speak with one of the residents of Isaiah House, but Reverend Carpenter would not allow this. We plan to find out exactly why, so join us for our next segment of ‘Behind the Cross’ when we will delve more deeply into the secrets of Isaiah House Mission.”

Ian sank slowly back against the cushions in stunned silence and put his face in his hands. He had a feeling his troubles with Gretchen Barker had only just begun.

Chapter Four

The familiar hustle and bustle of a busy newsroom flowed around Gretchen’s cubicle. Phones rang, people talked in soft tones, a fax machine whirred. The mug of coffee on her desk grew cold. Head bent in total focus, Gretchen pounded the keys of her laptop, writing up the notes from her phone call to Marian Jacobs. Suspecting that some of the councilwoman’s statements about Isaiah House were politically motivated, she would be very careful to research every complaint before taking them to the air. Keeping her integrity as an objective reporter was paramount, regardless of her personal concerns about Ian Carpenter and the rescue mission.

A creepy feeling, as if she was being watched, came over her. She glanced up.

The Isaiah House minister stood in the open space, one wide shoulder against the doorway, his hands steepled in front of him. Above gleaming new black-and-turquoise tennis shoes, faded old jeans and a turquoise T-shirt, he was rumpled and unshaven. A weathered LSU ball cap was pulled low over his face. The unexpected scruffy look gave Gretchen a sudden attack of butterflies. She had never met a preacher who looked so little like a minister and so much like a man.

Goodness. His eyes were blue.

“Got a minute?” he asked in that quietly compelling voice.

She took a second to casually toss an empty yogurt container into the trash can before pushing back from her desk. “Is this about last night’s story?”

Even though she’d aired nothing but facts, Gretchen fully expected him to be unhappy with the report.

He sidestepped the question with one of his own. “Do you blame me and the mission for what happened to Maddy?”

The memory of her sister’s untimely death, never far away, rushed in like a cruel wave of fresh pain. She closed her eyes, quickly collecting the loose ends of her composure before looking back at him. “Leave Maddy out of this.”

Ian pushed off the flimsy partition and moved closer. Gretchen’s pulse gave a funny jump of fear, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Was she afraid of him? Or of the odd reaction she was having to him this morning? Whichever, she refused to cower.

Her story had been fair. She’d reported what she’d witnessed, and from the way her e-mail inbox had overflowed, the people of New Orleans wanted to know more. Even if Ian was angry, what could he do in a crowded TV station? Laser her to death with his startling eyes?

He startled her even further by going to his haunches next to her chair so that they were eye level. The action stirred a vague scent of laundry soap and new shoes. For a second, she thought he was going to touch her, but when she stiffened, he placed his hand on the edge of her desk instead.

“It’s okay to talk about Maddy,” he said gently. “It’s even okay to be angry about what happened. Shoot, I’m angry about it; you have to be.”

His kindness was so unexpected that the horrible grief threatened once more to well up and flow out like a geyser. She needed to talk. She needed to make sense of her sister’s life and death. And she needed someone or something to blame for the unspeakable waste.

With sheer force of will, she staunched the threatening tears. “Don’t give me your counseling mumbo jumbo. I’m not one of your runaways.”

He pinned her with a long, quiet look, holding her gaze until she fidgeted and glanced away.

“No harm or insult meant, Gretchen. Everybody hurts.”

When she remained there, staring inanely at the slide show of monster trucks on her screen saver, the preacher pushed to his feet and stepped away. Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief. He was too close, both physically and emotionally, and she didn’t want to lose control in front of a man she was investigating. What kind of objectivity would that be?

“So, exactly why did you come here this morning, Reverend? To complain about the report? Or what?”

He answered with a smile that probably melted everyone else. “I have a complaint and a suggestion. Your report wasn’t fair.”

“Viewers have a right to know the truth.”

“That’s all I’m asking. Report the whole truth, all of it. Show what we really do at Isaiah House.”

“Meaning?”

“Come to the mission. Spend more time with us.”

That was already in her plans. She propped an elbow on her desk and pointed at him. “On your terms? Or mine?”

“I was hoping we could make a deal.”

“Why, Reverend, you shock me. Making deals. Isn’t that rather unreligious?”

“I shock my mother sometimes, too, but she still loves me.”

There he went again, trying to use that sweet, Southern boy charm.

“You actually have a mother?” She bit the inside of her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that. The flippant remark sounded too conversational, too friendly.

“I have a great mother up in Baton Rouge. She makes the best gumbo north of New Orleans. When Dad was alive—” He stopped as if remembering this was not a normal chat between friends. Funny that both of them kept venturing into side conversations that had nothing to do with the topic at hand.

Gretchen tapped a fingernail on her desktop. Time to get down to business. Just because they’d talked at Maddy’s funeral didn’t mean she wanted to be buddies. “Okay, then. What’s your deal?”

“You come back to the mission. Not a one-shot deal like last time, but over a period of days whenever you have a free hour or two. No photographer. Volunteer, take part, follow me around. See what I do.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. A chance on the inside to see if his religion bordered on mind control? This was too good to be true.

“I’ve heard some negative rumors about the mission,” she admitted. “I plan to check them out.”

“I’ve heard them, too. That’s why I want you to come see for yourself. All I’m asking is that you report the truth. I’ll give you access. You give an unbiased report to the citizens of New Orleans about the work at Isaiah House.”