Faking Grace, page 9
He defers to Tessie with a sweep of the hand. “Teresa?”
She retrieves the folder. “Not a joke, Maizy.” The folder lands in my lap. “You wanted to redeem yourself. Here’s your chance.”
The folder tab is labeled “SSCR: An Inside Investigation.”
“What’s it really like working for a Christian company?” Tessie says. “Do those who are telling the rest of us how to live practice what they preach? What skeletons lurk in Steeple Side’s closets? That’s the story the Middle Tennessee Review wants, and who better to expose the hypocrisy than someone on the inside?”
I feel sick, though I shouldn’t. After all, I said that I’m capable of setting aside personal feelings … that I’ve matured … toughened up. And yet I’m balking at investigating my current employer. But this is different. While I’ve been at Steeple Side for only a week, I know those people—at least some of them. And I like them, Jack Prentiss excepted. Now Ray and Tessie want me to spy on them…
“You know”—Tessie lays a hand on my arm—“if you’re not ready for this, we can give it to someone else.”
Meaning Steeple Side will be investigated regardless of my involvement? “Who?” Hopefully not Lance, whose motto is Take No Prisoners.
Tessie looks at Ray. “Lance would be a good choice, don’t you think?”
He inclines his head. “Or Arlene. She’s anxious to move up the ladder.”
Panic sets in at the realization that the job is being pulled out from under me. No, I’m not so naive that I don’t realize I’m being manipulated, or that the idea of this investigation came out of Jack’s thwarting of Tessie’s investigation, but it’s true that another writer could get the scoop. Not as easily as someone who is already on the inside, but I’m hardly irreplaceable—certainly not at this point in my pathetic little career. A career that’s going nowhere unless I grab the opportunity to prove I have what it takes.
“No.” Tessie shakes her head. “I think Lance is the better pick. If we can get him on the inside—”
“I’ll get you the story.”
I hate the glint in Ray’s eyes. Isn’t there something in the Bible about plucking out an eye if it offends you?
His smile ripens. “You do that, Maizy, and your future is assured.”
Redemption. If only it didn’t feel so foul…
Gripping the folder, I stand. “I won’t let you down.”
“Better not, or it’s the Dumpster for you.” He chuckles, as if I should find the threat funny. “My secretary will let Payroll know about your new full-time status and increase in salary.” He reaches for the phone. “Now get out of here.”
I exit ahead of Tessie, but the moment we’re in the corridor outside the outer sanctum, I turn on her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She regards me with studied patience. “I knew if you had too much time to consider what you were being asked to do, the softhearted Maizy who blew her chance in Seattle would blow her chance in Nashville.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You asked me to help, but if you don’t have the stomach for investigative reporting, you might as well resign your career to Mule Day reporting.”
Her face is drawn up in hard lines, but there’s hurt in her eyes over what she perceives to be ingratitude.
Caught between begging her forgiveness and recoiling, I stare at my white-knuckled hand on the folder.
Tessie touches my shoulder. “I won’t pretend that what I’ve done isn’t self-serving. You know that, I know that, and Ray knows that. But I also care about you.”
My throat tightens, while my hand on the folder eases sufficiently to allow color to return to my knuckles.
Tessie steps nearer. “You’re my friend, and I don’t want to see you writing dreary articles about mules when you possess the talent for so much more.”
I do, don’t I? Even if writing those “dreary” articles is never as bad as anticipated. Eyes moist, nose tingling, I meet her gaze.
She smiles tightly. “Think about your future, because there isn’t a single Christian at Steeple Side who cares about it as much as I do.”
She does care. She’s the only one who stuck her neck out for me following the Seattle disaster. “I know, but—”
She drops her hand from me. “What good did it do you to care about that politician, huh?”
State senator Leona Nettles. I don’t want to go there, as I’ve expended far too much emotion and energy on reliving the eight weeks I worked undercover in her campaign headquarters. But Tessie’s words place me firmly back in that setting.
Armed with the anonymous tip that led to my first assignment as an investigative reporter and a tweaked name—Mary Stewart—I had been thrilled to turn my skills from spotlighting events about town to exposing those who shamelessly take advantage of others. Slowly, the evidence of illegal campaign contributions mounted, as did suspicions that the phone conversations of Leona’s opponent were being taped. Close but no cigar, so I got closer. And was undone when Leona took a personal interest in me.
On the surface, it was ideal to serve as her assistant, but doubts about her culpability arose from beneath. She was kind, considerate, and full of praise and motherly advice. But what made me take two big steps back from the evidence against her was the vulnerability she let slip when a story broke that her husband had cheated on her years earlier. Not that she was unaware of the affair, but the public airing of it reduced her to a hiccupping mass of sobs. I offered a shoulder, not expecting her to accept, but she did and I hurt with her. Though it was another week before my world fell apart, that was the point of no return.
“You got scooped, Maizy,” a voice pulls me forward in time, but as I focus on Tessie, her words pull me back.
Ben. My television reporter boyfriend had been on me for weeks, probing and pushing and warning that I was getting too close to Leona when I expressed doubts about her guilt and frustration toward my boss, who was pressuring me to deliver the story. Then one night Ben lost it—got in my face and said that if I didn’t expose Leona, someone else would and I could kiss my career good-bye. I told him I would rather that than ruin an innocent woman’s life. The next day he scooped me with the aid of my investigative notes and pictures.
“You were fired, Maizy.”
Tessie again, and I go back once more—this time to the long walk past my co-workers at the Seattle Sound, their eyes and whispers following me as I answered the summons to my boss’s office. I knew what was waiting for me, having turned on the television that morning to find Ben’s face staring out at me from headlines that heralded the end of Leona’s political career. My boss left the door open for all to hear what a pathetic excuse of a reporter I was and that I wouldn’t work in Seattle again—or anywhere if he had any say in it. Then the never-ending walk past my ex-co-workers…
“And you didn’t get so much as a thank-you for being gullible enough to give that woman a running start at getting away with the goods.” Tessie drops in the last piece of my shame.
Leona was guilty—of everything—and somehow made it out of the country.
And here I am, gullible again, and all because I’ve grown attached to my co-workers at Steeple Side. Co-workers who would surely turn their backs on me if they knew the true depth of my faith.
“Do you hear what I’m saying?”
I nod Tessie into focus. “I hear.”
“And you’re going to take this opportunity?”
“I am, but …” Dare I say it? “What if there isn’t a story? Nothing newsworthy?”
Her teeth snap. “Then you won’t have done your job.”
And that pink slip that has yet to land on your desk at Steeple Side? It won’t have any qualms setting up camp on your newsroom desk.
“Repeat after me, Maizy: there’s always a story.”
I clear my tight throat. “There’s always a story.”
“Good. Now go get it.” She strides past me, then looks over her shoulder. “And don’t forget that, between the two jobs, you’re going to be paid very well to tell that story.” Her mouth turns up. “If that’s not incentive enough, I don’t know what is.”
Paid by the Middle Tennessee Review to investigate Steeple Side. Paid by Steeple Side to be investigated. How I wish I hadn’t eaten those greasy Tater Tots.
Tessie walks away, and when she disappears around the corner, I suppress the longing to sink against the wall.
I am not gullible.
I press my shoulders back.
I am not weak.
I lift my chin.
I am not sentimental.
I put one foot in front of the other.
I can do this.
I don’t know those people at Steeple Side. They’re just acquaintances. And if Steeple Side isn’t all it seeks to portray, then people have a right to know. Yes. They most certainly do.
SEVEN
Steeple Side Lies
#1. No real work experience (Mrs. Lucas)
#2. Currently not working anywhere else (Mrs. Lucas)
#3. Interested in full-time work at Steeple Side (Mrs. Lucas)
#4. Didn’t say the D word (Jack Prentiss)
#5. Attend Sovereign Church and like the congregation (2 lies in 1—Jack and Linda)
#6. Do freelance editing (Jem)
I had to do it, even though the lies seem worse in print. Unfortunately, because of my pursuit of the truth behind Steeple Side, there are bound to be more lies, and the more there are, the more likely one will turn on me. Hence, the need to track them.
Snapping the small notebook closed, I sigh at the irony. In pursuit of the truth, it’s necessary to lie. Makes me feel a bit like James Bond, but rather than holding a license to kill, I hold a license to fib. Of course, those first five lies were before the license … As for the sixth lie, that was necessary on Friday when Jem asked what I do when I leave Steeple Side at one o’clock. I’d nearly shrugged off her question with, “Oh, this and that,” but it occurred to me that she might have designs on my “leisure” time. Leisure time spent at my desk at the paper. Thus, I told her I do freelance editing.
And it isn’t a very big lie, as I am editing other Lifestyle writers since Ray decided to keep me in that department for the duration of the Steeple Side investigation. Having expected to be given a new desk among different co-workers, I was a bit put out, but the message was there for the reading: botch the Steeple Side story and this is the best you can expect. But I will get this story, even if it means entering the immense church across the parking lot.
Hoping Jack’s return to Nashville is delayed, I toss my notebook on the passenger seat, grab my purse and Bible, and step out into a cloudless spring day looking to all the world like I fit in—thanks to the DBGC:
Dressing the Part
So, it’s your first time at church, and the all-consuming question is, what to wear? Yes, shallow, but when you’re learning to swim, you’re less likely to drown if you start out at the three-foot end of the pool. Here are your options for determining what is suitable attire:
a) The Sunday before, slip into the parking lot and observe the clothes worn by women your age (use binoculars if necessary, but be discreet).
b) Check out the church’s Web site, where pictures of members are often posted. (This also serves as a gauge of the age range and, if you’re single, a peek at the possibilities.)
c) Dress in layers and remove articles of clothing as necessary. (This does add pounds to your figure, so you may want to rethink.)
d) Bring a variety of outfits into which you can change in the backseat of your car (park away from others to avoid an embarrassing situation).
I opted for b, and sure enough, there were plenty of pictures showing the congregation at worship, in Sunday school, and at church functions. As for a peek at the possibilities, they were there, as evidenced by the ringless left hands of several good-looking men. The really good news was that Jack was absent from the pictures, so it’s possible Sovereign Church is as much a front for him as it is for me and maybe I won’t run into him.
I tug the waist of my collared white blouse with its flared cuffs, smooth my black slacks, and wiggle my toes inside two-inch closed-toe shoes. I should fit right in.
The sun warms the back of my neck, and I cross the parking lot to join the stragglers who, like me, will walk into the service a few minutes late.
“By yourself?” asks the elderly man who greets me outside the sanctuary.
“Yes.” I accept the bulletin he hands me. “Is there still room? If not, I can sit in the balcony.”
“For a single—certainly. I’ll show you to your seat.”
How sweet. And gentlemanly.
Unfortunately, when we enter the sanctuary, it becomes obvious there are few seats in the back that don’t require clambering over those who are on their feet singing the words projected on a screen at the front of the sanctuary.
I touch the man’s arm. “I don’t see any seats down here. Maybe the balcony would be better.”
He shakes his head, causing the loose, weathered skin of his neck to swing alarmingly. “There are plenty of single seats near the front, miss.”
The front? “Oh, I don’t want to trouble you—”
“No trouble.” He keeps going, straight down the aisle, and grudgingly I allow him to escort me to a seat two rows from the front. Not good.
He pats my shoulder. “May you be blessed by the service.”
“Thank you.” As he turns away, I glance to my right where a family of—
Oh my. Surely those five kids, ranging from toddler to teen, don’t all belong to that smiling couple? No. You don’t have that many kids and look that perky. They must be keeping someone else’s brood.
As if feeling my eyes on her, the woman looks around and smiles. Her husband peers past her and does the same, as does the four-year-old girl on his hip.
I smile back, then find my place in an unfamiliar song of praise. For the next fifteen minutes, the rhythm of that one amazing summer of belief and my sporadic attendance at my grandmother’s church comes back to me—the ups and downs (as in “Please stand,” “Please sit,” “Please stand”), the greeting of one another, whereby I learn that the group beside me is the Rooter family and not only are the five children theirs but they have six-month-old twins in the nursery.
Finally the pastor steps to the podium and I settle into my seat. So here I am at Sovereign, turning Lie Number Five into the truth…
Hmm. Might I remove that one from the list? Surely future attendance counts for something. As for the second part of the lie about liking the congregation, the Rooters seem nice enough. Overpopulated, but nice.
During the next half hour, the pastor expounds on the book of Habakkuk, which, though unfamiliar, tempts my tongue to curl around the name. Surprisingly I find myself caught up in the sermon about a prophet who is bewildered by God’s seeming inattentiveness to His people and, later, his realization that God works everything—including the bad—into something good.
Meaning He’ll turn my Steeple Side deception into something good? No sooner does the thought occur than I sweep it back to its dark corner.
At the end of the service, I pop up, raise a hand to the Rooters, who turn their shining faces to me, and join the throng exiting the sanctuary. The lobby is packed with those waiting to enter for the second service, so it’s with slow, halting steps that I make my way to the doors.
A hand curls around my arm—a hand I’d know anywhere, even though I’ve only felt it once in a brief handshake. Of course, the citrus-y scent attached to it probably has something to do with the familiarity.
“Leaving so soon?”
I turn and look into Jack’s green eyes. “Hello, Jack.”
“Grace.”
I glance at his hand on me. “Did you enjoy the sermon?”
Releasing me, he inclines his head. “And you?”
“Oh, yes. Habakkuk”—did I say that right?—“is a fascinating book.”
“Then the Rooter children didn’t distract you.”
He knows I sat with the Rooters … Meaning he was watching me?
“I was in the balcony. That’s how I saw you.”
A bird’s-eye view. I push my sleeve back to consult my watch. “Well, I should—”
“Can we talk?” He nods at the doors that lead outside. “Where it isn’t crowded.”
Do I have a choice? “Okay.”
I follow him outside, and he halts at the corner of the building and out of the flow of churchgoers heading for their cars. “I’d like to apologize.”
Suspicion leaps through me. “For?”
“Offering to assist in your pursuit of faith.”
What game is he playing? “Really?”
“I thought you could use some help.” He shrugs. “Presumptuous of me. And arrogant.”
I search his eyes for a glint, his mouth for a twitch, but either he’s good at disguising his feelings or he’s sincere. Caught between wanting him to remain the arrogant, bumper-sticker-happy Brit and liking what appears to be a new and improved Jack Prentiss, I shift my weight. “I appreciate that.”
“And there’s the matter of how I’ve behaved since we met. We both know you’re forcing your faith, but it was wrong of me to bait you.” He turns his palms up. “I have no defense, but judging others is a failing to which I sometimes succumb.” He offers a hand. “Truce?”
While he seems genuine, I know how gullible I can be. I look to his hand, the back of which is lightly tanned, the fine hairs on which are golden, the thought of which makes my pulse leap.
Just shake it! I clasp his hand. “Truce.”
“Brilliant.” He releases me. “Which Sunday school class do you plan to attend?”
I avert my gaze. I wasn’t planning on attending one. “Probably the singles’ class.” Probably, so not Lie Number Seven.
“Then I recommend Avery’s.” With a broadening of his shoulders beneath his navy jacket, he walks forward. “He’s good.”
I fall into step with him. “Do you attend a singles’ class?”
