Rain Dance (19 page)

“Thank you. It was my mother’s tea table.”

I never knew there was a special table for serving tea. My confidence continued to dwindle. I was all middle class in the presence of high class.

“I read several of your articles and interviews, including some posted on the Web,” Eve said. “I’m impressed with your work. I appreciate the research you did even if I don’t agree with your conclusions.”

“Thank you,” I said, surprised.

“You brought a recorder, I assume.”

“Yes.” I took the recorder from my briefcase and placed it on the table. She saw me take a deep breath.

“You’re nervous.”

“You’re famous.”

With a faint smile, she poured the coffee. “If it helps at all, interviews always make me apprehensive.”

Her frankness eased some of my shakes. “I’ve watched you several times. You cover it well.” I took a sip of the delicious brew.

“Keeping up with the opposition party?”

“I suppose, in a way. However, I enjoy hearing honest debate. It’s the only way to get a fair take on any issue.”

“You’re into fair and balanced news?”

“I am.”

“Much of what we politicians say is taken out of context. The media twists things to fit their conservative or liberal bias. Neither pleases me. I’d like them to let the discussion play out for the voters to decide. But I
am
a politician. We’re great pretenders who know how to spin the moment to our party’s advantage.”

“I’m not part of the mainstream media,” I pointed out. “I hope to do all I can to help raise awareness for the needs of the women’s shelter in an article or two. If I can show readers how two women so divided on most issues can come together and make a difference when they are united in a cause, the reward will be doubled.”

“An idealist. How refreshing. I forget how contagious genuine enthusiasm is.”

I knew she was busy, and I needed to move on or lose the interview, but my writing hand seemed attached to the handle on my dainty china cup. The tiny cracks in the finish revealed that it too was an antique. I wondered if these were family heirlooms as well or something she picked up along the way—part of her senatorial persona. I found myself curious about her office in Washington. Did she decorate differently there than here?

It bothered me that I was curious about things not important to my article. I had the feeling I was supposed to ask her something not on my list, but I had no idea what. My lack of focus frustrated me.

Soft track lighting on the ceiling revealed something startling. Eve’s cool demeanor, careful coiffure, and expensive clothing didn’t disguise the way her hand shook as she lifted the cup to her mouth. Her makeup couldn’t conceal her pale skin.

I sensed that something was terribly wrong. In her eyes I caught a reflection her campaign posters and TV interviews missed. Sadness.

“Stacie mentioned you are a Christian.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me. Are you trying to convert my daughter?”

Her hard veneer barely concealed her protective instincts.

“I’ll leave that up to God.”

“No hellfire and brimstone scare tactics while she is in her present hormonal state?”

“It is never my intent to manipulate someone into a decision. I love your daughter. And though we do not believe the same way, I intend to be a good friend to her.”

“Interesting. So you agree to disagree?”

“We don’t talk about it much.”

“Your religion isn’t your passion?”

“I don’t have religion,” I explained, setting down my cup. “But my faith is very much a part of who I am. I love the Lord.”

“So you do intend to convert Stacie.”

I shook my head. “No. But I hope she finds Christ. Conversion is His work, not mine. Only God can change a heart.”

I squirmed internally. The overhead lights seemed to spotlight me, and the chair warmed under my thighs.

“Are you hoping to share your testimony with me?”

Studying her, I asked, “Do you want me to?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t. But if you ever do open up that door to me, I will walk right in, sit down, and tell you about Jesus.”

“You remind me of my mother.”

“Your mother was a Christian?”

“Yes, and so was my father. They raised me in a faith-filled home. I was surrounded by believers. If the church doors were open, we were there.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I just didn’t buy Jesus.”

“Of course not.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Pardon me?”

“He isn’t for sale.”

“No, as I remember He’s a gift from God,” she acknowledged, her tone dry.

“He is.”

“If that’s true, He’s the one gift I’ve left in the package. Although my parents went to their graves praying for my soul, I never had any desire to know Him.”

“Can I ask you another question?”

She smiled and raised a pencil-groomed eyebrow. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

I leaned toward her. “Are you all right?”

“You Christians think you know it all, don’t you?” She stood, drawing her body stiffly erect as she smoothed her skirt with trembling hands.

“No. But my intuition radar is sensitive.”

She let her hands fall to her sides and looked at me wide-eyed, the tears suddenly spilling over. I knew I’d just found the question I was here to ask. Today would result in a byline for me, but it was mostly about a woman in need of prayer.

“I have breast cancer.”

“Does Stacie know?”

“Her father is telling her as we speak. For right now, this part of the conversation is off the record. Is that understood? I’ll be giving a press conference in a day or so to inform the public. My family and I need a few days to let it sink in and figure out a treatment plan I can live with. Literally.”

“Of course. My editor doesn’t need the piece for three weeks.”

“By then it will be public knowledge so you can use it in the article if you wish. Maybe it will bring in more awareness and support for the women’s shelter. I’d feel better if I knew this could bring about some good.”

Eve’s assistant interrupted our conversation. Someone else was waiting for the Senator, and it was time for me to go.

I watched her carefully pat away the tears. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your interview. I’ll have my assistant fax or e-mail you the information. I trust you to quote me correctly. Please let her know how you’d like to receive the release, my quotes, and photos. You can also interview the woman who manages the shelter. She will help you capture some of the passion I am lacking today.”

We were back to business as usual and I’d just been dismissed. As I moved toward the door, I stopped and turned around.

“Senator, I’m going to pray for you.”

“Of course you are.”

“Do you mind?”

She hesitated, then answered, “No.”

Stacie

I found an angel to add to the one already in Jonica’s garden. The same wire wings as Jonica’s decorated her back, but this one had short tightly curled hair and sat cross-legged, holding a butterfly on her finger. I knew she would bring a smile to my friend.

None of us will ever forget the night Mike and I sneaked into Jonica and Ben’s back yard. I hated getting caught, but as I thought about what happened, I had to smile.

A knock at the door interrupted my walk down memory lane.

“Hi, Dad. Come on in. I know Jonica isn’t home today, so she won’t catch you.”

He smiled. “And where do you want me to leave this cherub?”

“Right by her swing in her rose garden. There’s a spot front and center where she lost a bush. Put her there.”

“And if Ben is home?”

“He won’t be. He’s on a business trip. The timing is perfect.”

While I fixed coffee, Dad pulled a bag out from behind his back. “Morning glory muffins sound good to you?”

“Sure do!”

“You look great.”

“Thanks.”

Swiping his cheek with a kiss, I set the muffins on a crystal plate and brought them to the table.

“You should visit Eve’s local office sometime,” he said as he took a seat. “You might like the changes.”

“She redecorated?”

“Sort of. She bought some chairs and had some artwork commissioned. I guess your new office inspired her.”

“I thought I only inspired her disapproval.”

His face grew sad. Before he could respond, the phone rang.

A sweet female voice told me a social worker had referred her to me. She and her husband were caring for a brain-injured child and wanted to adopt her. There were extenuating and complicated circumstances, and because of the girl’s mental, emotional, and physical condition, she needed a lawyer who specialized in advocacy. I agreed to meet them at my office the next day.

I turned to my dad. “My first case.”

“Good.”

Something in his voice wasn’t right. “Dad, are you upset?”

“Did you ask Jonica to visit your mother?”

“No. Jonica told me she wanted to write an article about the women’s shelter. I told her about Eve’s passion for the women who live there. Jonica called her and asked for an appointment. I told Eve about our friendship later.”

“That’s good.”

“Why?”

“I know Jonica is a Christian, and if her motives are other than the shelter, your mother will see right through her.”

“You think she went there to witness to Eve?”

“If she did, she’ll find that your mother is very aware of people approaching her with a hidden agenda. It happens all the time. People don’t usually come to Eve for help because they like her. They want to use the power of her name to promote their issue. So she is accustomed to smooth attempts at manipulation.”

“You make it sound like politics is lonely,” I scoffed. “But Eve is surrounded by people who believe as she does.”

“She has a staff she hand picked,” Dad admitted. “She sees some dear old friends. And she has us. But honey, politics is lonely. For most of the causes she believes in, she is the mouthpiece—the classy woman who can deliver the message and bring in the bucks.”

“Isn’t that the goal?”

“Yes, but it gets old after a while. Those groups she works so hard for don’t know your mother. They don’t understand what she sacrifices to carry their message to the masses. They don’t know she wishes she were here instead of there. Or how sick she is. They just don’t get it.”

“Sick? Eve is sick?”

I watched a horrible sadness creep into Dad’s eyes, followed by tears. A crying daddy is scary.

Reaching for me, he held me close and whispered, “Honey, your mother has breast cancer.”

The babe in my womb moved as I started to weep. Dad held me closer.

I asked him, “Do you know how to pray?”

“No,” he whispered.

Chapter
18

Jonica

Hope blossomed in my spirit as I sat in our garden and looked at my new angel. In reality I pictured angels as strong warriors fighting the spiritual battles I knew raged just beyond my vision. But these silly statues never ceased to bring a smile and thanksgiving. Stacie had found a Christian symbol she was comfortable with and didn’t resent.

I thought about the mother and baby elephant statue I had taken to Stacie’s dad to sneak into her home for me. He got a kick out of being my secret agent. I pictured the porcelain figurine in her office nook at home, right under the print of an elephant charging. In the animal’s dust you could see other adults and two babies. I knew the art represented Stacie’s desire to protect women and children.

All the furniture in my friend’s home was metal, glass, and leather. She added color, warmth, and zip with teal, purple, gold, and red rugs, pillows, and pottery. Elephants of all shapes, sizes, and colors stood in corners, held plants, or stood holding glass on their backs as end tables. It was all beautiful, passionate, and elegant.

For a few minutes I let myself get caught up in the flutter of activity at the bird feeders as goldfinches, chickadees, and a sparrow feasted there. A robin worked the freshly weeded flower bed, while a wren sang from the top of a birdhouse. A hummingbird hovered by the sugar-water feeder before settling in for a drink, and an oriole savored bits from an orange slice. So much beauty in feathers.

I wondered how Stacie was doing with her new client. Unable to share any of the details, she had told me the case would put her skills to work and get her started in the direction of her dream. She was thrilled to be in the arena doing battle for someone unable to fight for themselves.

I turned to the essays sitting in my lap. After finishing the editing on my new book, I had volunteered to lead a creative writing class for the teens at church. The kids asked hard questions and sought honest answers from God’s Word. Some wrote about mission trips and lives changed forever by the poverty and disease they saw and the simple faith they encountered. Others fought temptation, while some failed the fight, and then regained lost ground with God’s help. Most wrote poetry. They filled their folders with the reality of their faith, dreams of love, secret hurts, and the hope only they could offer their world. As their edifier, I wrote only comments of encouragement to each one and let them know I kept them in my prayers. Sometimes I noted places they could submit their work, leaving the decision up to them.

After reading the last essay I headed for the house. I set the folders on the counter where I would remember to take them to church.

The phone rang.

“Hi Jonica. I had to call someone. I’m confident my first case is going to succeed.”

“I’m so glad.”

“Until now, it’s been a dream focused on me. This afternoon, it was all about a client who needed a voice.”

I heard her rustling papers. “Doing paperwork?” I asked.

“Just going through my mail. Well, it’s time to head home. Dad said he might drop off a package today. He’s always picking something up for me or the baby.”

Wishing I could see her face when her dad delivered my gift, I said, “Thanks for calling.”

“Figured you’d want to know and celebrate this victory with me.”

“You’re right, Counselor.”