Monday's Child, page 25
[See next section for a free sample of TUESDAY’S CHILD: Full of Grace]
Book 4: WEDNESDAY’S CHILD: Full of Woe
Life in the fast lane has never been an easy place for twitchy high-society event planner Sloane Wallace, a woman born to privilege and pristine family lineage. But when a freak snowstorm and auto mishap leaves her stranded in the freezing mountains in her designer heels, a burly mountain man, unimpressed with her pedigree, shows up in time to save her couture-covered backside—and completely mess up her world.
Preorder/Purchase at:
http://www.pollybecks.com/coming-soon/wednesdays-child-full-of-woe/
Available: Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Your purchase of Wednesday’s Child: Full of Woe benefits Wednesday’s Child: Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption, Finding Forever Families for Children in Foster Care
PREVIEW
Tuesday’s Child: Full of Grace
Publication Date: Tuesday, March 3, 2015
TUESDAY’S CHILD
Full of Grace
Polly Becks
Book 3 in the EXTRAORDINARY DAYS series
© 2015 by Polly Becks
Published by GMLTJoseph, Inc., LLC
All rights reserved
ISBN 978-0-9908840-2-6
© 2015 by Polly Becks, published by GMLTJoseph LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or established organizations is entirely coincidental.
An original work by Polly Becks
TUESDAY’S CHILD: Full of Grace © 2015 by Polly Becks
Cover Art by Patricia A. Downes, Dutch Hill Design
For more information, go to www.pollybecks.com
Your purchase of this e-book provides a direct cash donation to
TUESDAY’S CHILDREN
a non-profit organization which was founded to promote long-term healing in all those directly impacted by the events of September 11, 2001.
Their mission today is to keep the promise to those children and families while serving and supporting communities affected
by acts of terror worldwide
For more information about Tuesday’s Children, go to:
www.tuesdayschildren.org
FLOWER IMAGERY
The flower featured on the cover is a daisy,
which represents gentleness, innocence, and purity
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace,
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go,
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
This rhyme was first recorded in A. E. Bray’s Traditions of Devonshire
(Volume II, pp. 287–288) in 1838
In the late spring of 1991, a flood and fire of historic proportions tore through the pretty resort town of Obergrande, New York, in the central region of the Adirondack mountains.
The twin disasters destroyed a large part of the east side of the town that bordered the Hudson River and Lake Obergrande.
In the aftermath, a new dam was built, and that damaged part of the town “drowned,” covered by the new, larger lake.
During that terrible flood, five kindergarten girls were trapped in their drowning school, huddled together as the water rose higher, rescued just in the nick of time. The nightmare bonded them to each other for life.
These are their stories.
PRELUDE
Tuesday, 7:13 AM, JUNE, PRESENT DAY
Erie, Pennsylvania
In the blue light and wisp-thin clouds of this late-June morning, Donovan Farrell, a wide-shouldered man in a leather motorcycle jacket and jeans tucked into heavy boots, came out of his motel room, his helmet in one gloved hand, directions in the other, a string-banded roll-pack across his back.
He stopped, absently admiring the color of the sunlight on the clouds at the horizon, and took a deep drink of the morning air.
His hair, hanging long in dark brown waves that matched his heavy, somewhat unkempt beard, caught the wind and danced around his head for a moment.
Donovan, known as Van to the few people who knew him, set his helmet down on the bike that was parked outside his room, a Yamaha FZ6 in the same gleaming black as the full-face helmet, and stuck the paper on which he had jotted down the directions inside it for the moment to keep it from flying away in the breeze.
He drew his hair back in a hair tie so that it was out of his face, retrieved the paper, then pulled the helmet on.
Scanning the directions again, Van made a mental note of the route he planned to take, as he did each time he got on the bike.
He was avoiding the New York State Thruway, partly because of the expense, partly because the eastward drive by way of Route 20 was more scenic and offered a lot more opportunities to stop, stretch, and eat over the course of the day.
And partly because, unlike the Thruway, Route 20 was quiet and mostly empty.
It added a couple of hours to his trip, but Van was not in a hurry.
He had nothing but time now.
He looked at the destination, which he had underlined several times upon writing it down.
Obergrande, New York.
And exhaled.
Then he got on the motorcycle, started it up, and headed east.
Danville, southern Virginia
At more or less the same moment, about seven-hundred-fifty miles south of the same destination, another man who, by coincidence, used to ride a motorcycle was, also by coincidence, eyeing directions to the same place.
His hands shaking.
Behind him, a woman was loading up the car, an old Mustang.
She put the last of their bags in, making sure the snacks were in reach of both of the front seats, then shut the car door.
She came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and put her chin on his shoulder.
“You ready?”
The man swallowed dryly. “I’ll never be ready.”
“Well, are you ready enough?”
He sighed. “Yeah.”
The woman released him and turned him around. She put her forefinger and thumb under his chin and lifted it until he was looking at her, his eyes bloodshot and nervous.
“We don’t have to do this, ya know.”
He sighed again. “I know.”
The woman eyed him for a long moment. Then she gently brought her hand around behind his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him.
“You can do this. We can do this.”
A third sigh. “Yeah.”
“Well, then, let’s go,” the woman said decisively. “It’s eleven hours total, but we’re gonna stop at that place in Scranton—the one you liked—”
“Let’s go,” he said decisively. “You wanna drive first or second?”
“I’ll start out,” she said, catching the keys as he lobbed them gently to her and heading for the driver’s side. “You sleep—you don’t look like you did last night. You were tossin’ and turnin’ the whole time.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“Well, fortunately I’m used to your nightmares, so I slept real well. I’ll wake you up when we stop for lunch in Frederick, then you can drive to Scranton. Tomorrow the ride’s only, like, four hours—”
“Let’s go,” he said irritably, climbing into the car and pulling the door shut.
Chapter 1
Wednesday morning, the next day, 11:04 AM
Obergrande Community Church, Obergrande, New York, in the Adirondack Park
For the fourth time already that morning, a polite but urgent knock sounded on the inner door of Grace Fuller’s small office, deep in the central hallway of the Obergrande Community Church.
Grace, a petite young woman with ivory skin and cinnamon-brown hair styled in a neat, chin-length bob, rolled her eyes and sighed deeply.
“Yes, Dad?”
The door opened part-way, and Reverend Benjamin Fuller, the pastor of the church, popped his head in, a sheepish expression on his face.
“Er, Gracie, I’m sorry to bother you yet again, but I was hoping you might take this next client. And thanks for all the others you’ve been gracious enough to help me with this morning.”
Grace sighed again. “Dad, I have my own appointment schedule today, and it’s full.” A nervous expression came over her face. “Are you not feeling well?”
The pastor cleared his throat.
“I’m fine, honey. I, well, I just thought this lady’s counseling needs might be better served by your talents.”
Grace sat back in her chair and crossed her hands over her stomach.
“Oh, really? I believe that you and I have done the same coursework and had the same training in the pastoral counseling areas in the course of being ordained, Dad. And you’ve been doing it a heck of a lot longer. What makes you think my ‘talents’ would be more useful for her than your own?”
Behind his glasses, Pastor Fuller’s face went red to the roots of his gray hair.
“Er, well, she says she has issues in the bedroom—and questions about them.”
Grace snickered in spite of herself. “And? So what?”
“Come on, Grace, don’t make me beg.”
Grace threw her hands up in exasperation.
“Dad, you’ve been married for thirty-one years. I would like to go on record as assuring you that I have never had ‘bedroom issues’ because no man has ever actually broached the sanctity of my bedroom—pretty pathetic, given that I’m turning twenty-eight in two weeks.”
“Grace—”
“All right,” Grace conceded, noting that her father looked much more upset than she would have ever imagined, and not wanting him to stay in that state. His recent heart attack had been a minor one, but worrisome enough for her to have given up her youth pastor position in Pennsylvania to come and help him out in Obergrande, where he had been pastor of the Community Church for thirty years.
She watched as her father smiled in relief and left the room via the interior door.
Grace stood up and went to the outer door, which she opened wide.
In the hallway was a woman who seemed to be around her mother’s age, looking nervously up and down the corridor, as if she were afraid of being seen.
“Hi, come right in,” Grace said pleasantly. She widened the door opening even more.
The woman scooted quickly inside. Grace closed the door behind her.
“Please have a seat,” she said, indicating the chairs in front of her desk. “Would you like some coffee, or some water?”
“No, thanks,” the woman said quickly. “I—I need to be getting back to work shortly.”
“OK,” Grace said, sitting down at her desk. “I’m Grace. What may I call you?”
“Terry.”
“Hi, Terry—how can I help you?”
Nervously the woman cleared her throat and looked around the office.
Grace smiled disarmingly.
“Please don’t worry,” she said, her voice gentle. “This is a safe place, I promise. You can say anything you want and no one else will ever hear of it, or judge you. I’m here to help, or to refer you to someone who can.”
The woman nodded, then inhaled.
“Do—do you believe God, uhm, prefers us to use the—uh—missionary position?”
Grace’s brow furrowed. She interlaced her fingers and brought them to her lips.
“No, Terry, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen that in any of my studies of scripture. I think any position is fine as long as you’re both happy and comfortable.”
Terry exhaled, looking somewhat relieved.
Grace smiled again. “Is there anything else?”
The woman stared at her.
“I just don’t want to make him mad, or disappointed with me.”
“Who?” Grace asked.
“God,” Terry said.
Grace blinked. “Oh. Well—”
“My husband really wanted to do something different after all these years,” the woman explained. “But, well, in the, er, middle of it, I looked at the picture of Jesus on the wall and he—he wasn’t smiling the way he usually does.”
“Usually does—?”
“I’ve had the picture on the wall of my bedroom all my life,” Terry explained. “Even when I was a little girl. He has such a sweet expression on his face. But when we, well, changed positions, I thought I saw him frowning.”
Grace nodded thoughtfully.
“Maybe the picture just looks different from—er—different angles,” she said comfortingly. “And pictures are just pictures. If you and your husband were behaving in a loving way, I’m sure the Lord wasn’t angry at you.”
Terry sighed again. “That’s a relief. Thank you, Grace.”
“My pleasure. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
The woman rose shakily to a stand, clutching her purse.
“No, thank you. I’m glad I came to see you.”
“Me too. I hope you have a wonderful day.” Grace followed the woman to the door and opened it for her, then glanced around the hallway for her next appointment.
The young couple whom she had been preparing for marriage were late, so Grace ran a hand through her hair and returned to her desk, leaving the door open. She paused on the way back and looked at the sign on the back of that door.
In front of the image of a cross, the words THERE IS NO MEMORY OF WHAT IS SAID IN THIS PLACE—LAY YOUR BURDENS DOWN IN CONFIDENCE AND PEACE were emblazoned.
She pulled a wilted daisy from the vase full of them, most of them past their prime, that always sat on her desk, brightening her office.
Then she reconsidered, grabbed the whole dying bouquet, and chucked it summarily into the trash.
Within a few moments, a rumble of arguing voices could be heard through the doorway, coming closer.
Grace closed her eyes and prayed for patience and clarity.
So much for peace, she thought.
The couple came into her office in a state of fury and disarray.
“Oh, dear,” Grace said. “Please close the door, Matthew. Have a seat, Melissa.”
The prospective bride and groom, a year or two older than Grace herself, sat down in the chairs in front of her desk. The bride pointedly moved hers away from the groom.
“What’s going on?” Grace asked.
“I want to cancel the wedding,” the bride-to-be said, glaring at the groom-to-be.
“Why?”
“I have proof that he cheated on me—”
“I absolutely did not,” interjected the groom, Matthew. “I’ve never cheated on you.”
“Yeah? Tell that to my doctor, you son of a—”
Grace held up her hands. “All right, let’s all take a breath,” she said, trying to sound as sensible as she could. She turned to the young woman, whose face was red as a STOP sign. “Literally, Melissa—take a long, slow breath in, then let it out before you speak.”
Melissa cast an angry glance at Matthew again, then complied.
“OK,” Grace said quietly. “Now, please keep your voice as low as I am keeping mine, and tell me what’s wrong.”
“He gave me crabs,” the young woman said coldly.
“I got them from an outhouse on the job site,” Matthew said hurriedly to Grace. “A lot of the other painters got ’em, too.”
“Sure they did,” Melissa said nastily. “Crabs are a sexually transmitted disease. If a lot of the other painters got ’em too, you guys are sick and should all be fired for what you’re really doin’ on the job. And I sure don’t want to marry you anymore, pervert.”
Grace struggled to keep a straight face. She cleared her throat and slid the Bible that she kept on her desk in front of Matthew.
“Put your hand on this, please, Matthew,” she said.
The young man stared at her, wide-eyed, and obeyed.
“You understand the concept of making a statement with your hand on the Bible, yes?”
He nodded.
Grace exhaled. “Now, please turn, look Melissa in the eye, and repeat what you just said, remembering where your hand is.”
The young man turned to the furious young woman.
“I have never cheated on you, baby,” he said earnestly. “Not once, ever.”
“OK,” Grace said, pulling the Bible out from under his hand and turning to Melissa. “Now, Melissa, I’m going to tell you something I know from personal experience. I would appreciate it if you would not repeat it, either of you. Everything that is said in this room remains here, as you can see by the sign on the door. Like Vegas.”
The couple nodded, their heads remarkably in sync.
“Years ago, when my older brother Keith was eleven, he went to Sabattis, the Boy Scout camp between Tupper and Long Lakes.”
Matthew broke into a wide grin. “Yeah! I went there, too—Keith and I were in the same troop. Awesome place.”
“Yes,” said Grace. “Well, apparently there was a latrine that kept getting missed during cleaning duty, one that was tucked away in kind of a dark, creepy area that a lot of the boys were afraid to go in—”
“I remember that!” Matthew said excitedly. “It was like a test of manhood to use it—”
“And he came home with crabs,” Grace interrupted. “He was kind enough to dump his filthy, dirty camp laundry into a basket of clean towels in the laundry room, then came downstairs for dinner. My mother sent him back up after instructing him to put his camp clothes in the washer, so she didn’t realize he had already contaminated the towels. So everyone in my family was lucky enough to share in the crab experience—my mother, my father, and nine-year-old me. They took up residence in the hair on my head, which I had dried with a polluted towel. I wanted to kill him.”
