But wait.
Cullen remembered more. How comforted he’d felt in Abel’s arms. How understood and cared for, which was something he hadn’t felt in such a long time. Abel had been so reassuring. And not the least bit judgmental.
Cullen lay down again, linked his fingers across his stomach, and looked up at the ceiling.
There’s something else.
But what?
Something important was just at the edge of his memory. It was peeking out but not fully revealing itself.
Think, Cullen. Think!
And then like the rush of a river, the memories started coming back to him.
Abel helped me to the cabin. He pulled my T-shirt over my head, and then he helped me into bed.
But there’s more. A kiss! No. Yes! It
was
a kiss. Abel kissed me on the forehead. But that’s not all. Wait! Not only did he kiss me on the forehead, he also kissed me on the lips.
Cullen brought his hand up and brushed his fingers lightly over his lips. His subconscious was trying to raise something else to the level of consciousness. Something major. “We have more in common than you’d ever imagine” rang through his head and kept repeating like Paul Revere announcing the British were coming.
The kiss. Those words. You were right. Abel all but came out to you last night. That’s what he’s struggling with.
Cullen sat up and got to his feet with renewed purpose. He needed to see Abel. He was going to help the man. Cullen’s dream came back to him abruptly.
Maybe Cole handed me off to Abel because he knew Abel needed me.
AFTER A
shower and a bite to eat, Cullen decided on a run. He needed to wrap his head around everything that had happened in the last few days, and running always cleared his head.
Wow. Has it only been a few days? It feels so much longer.
But more importantly he needed to see Abel. He was worried Abel might be freaking out and wanted to make sure he was okay. And lastly he needed to get the bourbon out of his system, and sweating it out was probably the quickest way.
Cullen started out on his normal route, heading for the Riverwalk. His first hope was that Abel would be on his usual perch. If he was there after last night, he was either praying for forgiveness or begging God to make him straight. Either way Cullen would be there to try to make him see he didn’t need forgiveness or to be straight, as if that were even possible. When Cullen rounded the corner and the swings and park benches came into view, there were people everywhere, enjoying the Sunday afternoon, but as he ran along the water’s edge perusing every bench and swing, he caught no glimpse of Abel.
Where are you, Abel?
His next thought was to go straight to the church office, but it was Sunday, and the office would be closed. Besides, Abel would probably not be very comfortable with Cullen showing up at his church. So he did the only other thing he knew to do.
Abel had told him when they first met that he lived a few blocks from the marina, so Cullen started running down West Bay Street. When he hit North Howe, he turned left and then left again at the next block and ran all the way down to the water. He turned right and then right again all the way back up to North Howe, running a grid of the area around the Southport Marina.
Sure, he knew it was a longshot, but it
was
Sunday, and he imagined after the service, Abel would probably have the rest of the day off. And maybe—just maybe—Abel might be working in his yard or might be out for a walk, and they’d run into each other. He couldn’t not do
something
, and short of this, there was little else he
could
do until tomorrow morning.
After almost seven miles of running up and down every street within a six block radius of the marina, Cullen was back at the Riverwalk. He slowed now to a stroll, scanning the park for Abel as he attempted to catch his breath, but there was still no sign of him. The last bit of hope he had of finding Abel today was that during his run he’d remembered Abel’s last name. It was Weston. Abel Weston. As soon as he got back to the boat, he would look up Abel’s landline, if he had one, or at least find his address. Southport was a small town. How hard could it be?
With no confirmed sighting of Abel at the Riverwalk, Cullen walked briskly back to the marina. Back aboard
T-Time
, Cullen grabbed a bottle of water and his computer and settled on the flybridge. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t done this before, but he typed “Southport Baptist Church” into a Google search box. The first result showed a picture of the church, the address, and the telephone number. He clicked on it, and the church’s website appeared on his screen with a big ad for Weeknight Worship and dinner every Wednesday night through the fall. Cullen then scanned the top of the page and moved his cursor over the Team button. A drop-down menu appeared with a Meet Our Team option. Cullen clicked on it and a list of names appeared. The senior pastor was first, and Abel’s name was just below as Associate Pastor Abel Matthew Weston.
Matthew? Nice.
To his dismay, all he was offered was an e-mail address. But at least he had Abel’s middle name, and that might make his search a little easier. So he opened Google again and typed in “Pastor Abel Matthew Weston, Southport, North Carolina.” The first thing to pop up was the church’s website. Next came a link to a story in the local paper, the
State Port Pilot
, with the heading “Abel M. Weston joins Southport Baptist Church as Associate Pastor.”
Cullen clicked on the link and saw Abel’s smiling face looking back at him from where he sat on the front steps of the church. Cullen started reading the article.
A youthful new associate pastor named Abel Matthew Weston has just joined the Southport Baptist Church. Associate Pastor Weston graduated at the top of his class from the Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary in Wake Forest, NC, with a Master of Divinity with Pastoral Ministry.
Associate Pastor Weston was born to an underage unwed mother and given up at birth, which resulted in him spending eighteen years in the North Carolina Foster Care system. According to Associate Pastor Weston, his treasured Bible is the only link he has to his birth mother. “This Bible belonged to my birth mother,” said Weston. “As a young child, it’s what I used to learn to read and is what has carried me through many dark times while I navigated from one home to another in the overburdened foster care system. It was the inspiration for my spiritual journey, and it and my faith mean the world to me,” Weston added.
Associate Pastor Weston comes to Southport from the First Baptist Church of Raleigh, NC, where he studied under Senior Pastor John B. Hutch as a Minister of Missions.
“We are extremely thrilled to have Associate Pastor Weston join The Southport Baptist Church,” said Senior Pastor Henry P. Williams. “His expertise and youth will be a perfect fit for our outreach programs, which are designed to develop and increase Southport’s youths’ participation in the church.”
Associate Pastor Weston is currently single and will reside in the church-owned residence on Caswell Street in Southport.
Cullen closed the article with slightly renewed hope.
Caswell Street. I’ve seen that street. As a matter of fact, I’ve been on that street. Several times.
And then he sighed.
Wow, Abel, foster care? I had no idea. That must have sucked.
After selecting a people search engine from Google, Cullen typed in Abel’s full name and state, clicked search, and waited. Minutes later three Abel Matthew Westons came up, but they didn’t show any information other than a name. When he clicked on the first option, the site asked for a credit card.
Free? Yeah, right.
Cullen entered his credit card information, and additional information regarding the first Abel appeared on the screen. This Abel graduated from Duke, was in the financial industry, lived in Charlotte, and was married with two children.
Definitely not him.
Cullen exited that record and clicked on the next Abel. This record showed a little more promise but not much. It did have this Abel as a graduate of the Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary, which was correct, but the address listed was a Raleigh address.
This is an old record.
Cullen read on. Single. No children.
Damn!
He exited that record and held his breath as he clicked on his last option.
Bingo!
Cullen became hopeful.
This has got to be him.
Associate Pastor Abel Matthew Weston, Southport Baptist Church, Southport, NC.
Wait, no!
The address listed was the church’s address on North Howe Street. Cullen slammed his computer closed.
I guess since the church owns the residence, that must be his formal address.
Certain something wasn’t right and feeling more ill at ease by the minute, Cullen did the only thing he could do. He went back to Caswell Street.
It’s Sunday afternoon. Someone’s gotta be out in their yard or taking a walk. It’s a small town—doesn’t everyone know everyone in a small town?
Cullen picked up his pace until he was almost jogging. He cut through Yacht Basin Street to Brunswick Street and turned left onto Caswell. He walked all the way up to North Howe and saw not one single soul in their yard, sitting on their porch, or simply taking a stroll. He crossed the street and started back down the other side of Caswell, keeping a sharp eye out.
Most of the houses in Southport, at least near the harbor, featured a plaque next to the front door with the formal name of the house and the year it was built. He’d read somewhere that the houses were usually named after the ship’s captain who built them, but he also thought that maybe Abel’s house, since it was owned by the church, might reference something religious as well. He knew it was another long shot, but as he walked along, he studied each plaque for any sign of the church. Cullen also paid attention to the details of the houses, looking for any small sign of Abel. He stopped at one house that had a pair of worn boat shoes at its front door. Cullen studied the shoes from the sidewalk to see if he recognized them as Abel’s. But no such luck.
Cullen was nearing the last block of Caswell, and he was quickly losing hope. Until he spotted an elderly lady bending over and cutting dead roses off of a row of bushes against a white decorative fence. When she looked up, he smiled at her. “I’ll bet those were beautiful during the summer months.”
“They were indeed.” The woman straightened and stretched her back. “But I think this may be my last year of doing this on my own. I’m just getting too old.”
“I’m not much of a gardener, but I’d be happy to help if there’s anything I can do.”
The woman smiled appreciatively. “Oh, thank you. But I’m sure you have better things to do than help an old woman deadhead her roses.”
Cullen realized he needed to keep the conversation going until he could work in his question about whether she knew Abel. But what? Then he took a page from Abel’s book and used his retired profession to help him along. “I’m Reverend Cullen Kiley.”
The woman brushed the strands of her gray hair behind her ear and pressed the front of her cotton dress. “Reverend Kiley. So nice to meet you. I’m Dorothy Arnold. But you can call me Dottie.”
Cullen nodded shyly. His first thought was he didn’t want to lie to this nice lady, but he knew he would have to stretch the truth a bit to get the answers he needed.
“Are you settling in Southport, Reverend?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. Just passing through on my boat.”
Truth!
“I was told by a mutual friend that a buddy of mine who also went to the seminary lived near the marina in Southport. So I thought I’d stop here on my way down south and reconnect.”
Sort of the truth! Not really. Okay, I lied a little. Fine! I lied a lot.
“Oh could you be speaking of Abel—” She stopped and corrected herself. “I mean… Pastor Weston.”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Cullen said. “Do you know him?”
“Of course I do. He’s my neighbor.”
“Now what are the odds of that?”
Dottie smiled. “Southport is a very small town, Reverend. I’m 106 Caswell Avenue, and he’s 108.” She gestured to the house next door.
Cullen followed her hand with his eyes and smiled when he saw a neatly maintained, two-story, medium-gray bungalow trimmed in white, complete with a matching white picket fence and front porch with rocking chairs. “Can’t get a town much smaller than that,” Cullen said absentmindedly.
He stepped back and took it all in. The house was bigger than he’d expected, but after careful consideration he thought it somehow fit Abel. It might belong to the church, but it had a
Mayberry R.F.D.
feel and matched Abel’s boyish looks in an odd sort of way.
Cullen stuck out his hand. “Well, it was sure a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Arnold.”
“Oh, Dottie, please,” she said, smiling again. “Any friend of Abel’s is a friend of mine. He’s such a sweet boy. I swear to you, Reverend, I don’t know why some pretty young girl hasn’t scooped him up yet. I’ll tell you—” She looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. “—if I was fifty years younger….” She blushed and batted her eyelashes. “Oh, shoot. There I go again with my wild imagination. My mother always said I had no filter between my brain and my lips. Just please forget I said that.”
“Forget you said what?” Cullen winked.
Dottie smiled coyly and rested her hands on her tiny hips. “I like you, Reverend.”
Holding her frail hand in his, Cullen leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “I like you too. It was sure a pleasure. Now I’d better get over there and say hi to Abel before I run out of time. Enjoy the rest of your Sunday, Dottie.”
“You too, Reverend.”
Cullen followed the sidewalk to Abel’s front gate.
I know why some pretty girl hasn’t scooped him up yet.
“Oh, Reverend,” Dottie called out. “I was so caught up in our conversation, I almost forgot. Abel’s not at home.”