Linda Goodnight - A Touch of Grace

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.

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?”