Книга - The Path To Love

The Path To Love
Jane Myers Perrine


I found God. I know, I'd said it once before, to get out of trouble, but this time it's true.I was drawn to a church, and this one hymn, about saving a wretch like me, touched me. So did the reverend, speaking about love, redemption, mercy and grace. It was nothing like the church my mother dragged me to as a kid, trying to keep me from the family life of petty crime.Next thing I knew, tears were rolling down my face as I felt…healed. But does my stiff-necked parole officer believe me? No! How can I convince Brandon Fairchild that this conversion - and the feelings I'm having for this good-looking man - aren't just a con game?












When Francie heard a knock at the door, she flew off the sofa and stood hyperventilating in the middle of the small room. She calmed herself down by repeating, “The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, patience…” as she moved toward the door and opened it.


There Mr. Fairchild stood, all six feet plus of him, dressed in a light blue shirt, blue patterned tie and blue slacks. No jacket today—probably wise, with the heat.

At the moment she knew why it had been so important for her to clean up the apartment, why she hadn’t wanted him to see the dump in the first place and why making a good impression on him was so important to her.

The reason was simple: she didn’t think of him as only her parole officer. She saw him as an attractive man. Of course, any woman would see Brandon Fairchild as an incredibly handsome man. Obviously she was no exception.




JANE MYERS PERRINE


grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, has a B.A. from Kansas State University and has an M.Ed. in Spanish from the University of Louisville. She has taught high school Spanish in five states. Presently she teaches in the beautiful hill country of Texas. Her husband is minister of a Christian church in central Texas where Jane teaches an adult Sunday school class. Jane was a finalist in the Regency category of the Golden Heart. Her short pieces have appeared in the Houston Chronicle, Woman’s World magazine and other publications. The Perrines share their home with two spoiled cats and an arthritic cocker spaniel. Readers can visit her Web page at www.janemyersperrine.com.




The Path to Love

Jane Myers Perrine








The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy,

peace, patience, kindness, generosity,

faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

—Galatians 5:22-23


This book is dedicated to Jeannie Gray.

A dear friend, a wonderful writer and a joyful spirit.

We miss you very much.

And to my dear husband, George,

who has generously shared his faith and love

with me for so many years.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader




Chapter One


Francie Calhoun learned to pick pockets when she was five, mark cards at eight and hotwire a car years before she could get a driver’s license.

At the age of sixteen, with all the adults in her family living at the expense of the great state of Texas, Francie was pretty much alone.

Life hadn’t improved a whole lot since then. Eight years had passed, eighteen months of which she’d spent in prison. She could see no hope until after a twelve-hour shift waiting tables she stopped in front of a church for absolutely no reason except she was so tired she couldn’t take another step.

She had hesitated outside the church, but was finally drawn inside against her will. She stepped through the wide doors and looked around the sanctuary. The entire audience was standing and smiling, their voices joyfully joined in a hymn—something about saving a wretch like me.

The words fell upon her like spring rain, soothing her nerves and refreshing her soul. She slipped down a side aisle and found a place on the end of a bench.

“Here’s where we are,” the woman next to her said with a smile as she handed Francie a book and pointed at the verse of the song they were singing.

“Thank you.” Francie nodded at the woman.

As she sang uncertainly, trying to fit the words with the unfamiliar music, Francie could feel pain and anger rolling out of her.

For the next thirty minutes she joined the singing and prayed, hands clasped in front of her and eyes closed just as she saw the lady do.

Then the Reverend Mr. Jonah Miles stepped to the front of the platform. He wasn’t an impressive figure: thin and bald, wearing a white suit that seemed too big for him. But when he began to speak, his deep, assured voice wound a spell around the audience. He seemed to grow taller.

He spoke of love and redemption, mercy and grace. It wasn’t at all like the hell-fire-and-damnation stuff her mother had taken Francie to with the hope her daughter would be a good girl if the preacher could fill her with fear. That had failed terribly.

But the message of the Reverend Mr. Miles entered Francie’s heart and healed it, filling in deep cracks and crevices left by a hard and lonely life, a troubled existence.

“Here, child.” The nice woman handed Francie a tissue. It was only then she realized tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Almost an hour after he’d begun to preach, the Reverend Mr. Miles asked anyone who had been saved to come forward. Francie thought she might have been but wasn’t sure enough to join the crowd headed toward the front.

After the last hymn was sung, she left, filled with such wonder and buoyancy that she knew she’d be there the next evening.

But, when she went back, the church was dark and empty and the Reverend Mr. Miles was gone.



When she met Brandon Fairchild, her new parole officer, the next week, he was skeptical of Francie’s conversion.

“Miss Calhoun, I don’t believe for a minute that you’ve changed.” Mr. Fairchild looked up from the file he held in front of him. “As I look through your life of crime, I see a history of con games and manipulating the truth, as well as that robbery conviction. A lot of deception, three convictions and not a word of remorse.”

“I am sorry for everything I did, Mr. Fairchild. I truly am,” she said to his frowning countenance.

He closed the folder, took off his reading glasses, and stared at Francie with eyes as cold as the metal furnishings of his small, gray cubicle. “Is that all you have to say?”

At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything more. Odd, because usually she was never at a loss for words. Attempting to explain what had happened to her the other night to this disapproving man seemed impossible. Francie looked down at her hands and took a deep breath before returning her gaze to her parole officer.

He certainly was handsome. Rumpled blond hair and a face that would have made her artistic aunt Tessie long to paint it. Unfortunately, Aunt Tessie was serving eight to ten for forgery and fraud.

His white shirt displayed broad shoulders, while the loosened tie and open collar button showed a muscular neck. About thirty, he was good-looking enough to tempt a woman to do what she shouldn’t, and pretty enough to make every sensible word—and a lot of foolish ones—flee Francie’s brain.

In spite of that gorgeous exterior, he was cold. His hard gray glare froze her to the bone. She’d never convince him she was telling the truth.

Again, her smart mouth deserted her. Francie swallowed before she mumbled, “I went to church last Friday.”

“And?”

“And it changed me.” That was good. She sat up and met his eyes. “I’m going to try to be a better person.” She shook her head. “No, I’m going to be a better person.”

He leafed through a few pages of the folder. “I see you were redeemed once before, four years ago.”

“That wasn’t real. That was a con. Besides, I was never charged with anything that time.” Her appearance and sincerity had always been her ace in the hole. Thin, with curly black hair, innocent blue eyes and freckles, she looked young and guileless and could almost always talk her mark out of pressing charges. Too bad she wasn’t having any luck convincing Mr. Fairchild.

“So that conversion was a con? Would you explain the difference this time?”

“This isn’t a con.” She leaned forward and gave him the sincere look she’d perfected after years of practice. “You have to understand. This is real.”

He smiled but there was no humor in his expression. “Oh, I see. This one is real.”

“Please believe me. I had a real experience that healed me, inside.” She pressed her hands on her chest.

But he shook his head.

“It happened,” she said. “I know it’s hard to believe. I mean, you have my record right there in front of you, so you know I haven’t always been honest, but please, don’t doubt what happened. Don’t put it down because of my past. This one was real. Really.”

For a few seconds, he stopped smiling and studied her seriously before he laughed. “You are good. I read that in your file.” He looked at the tab on the folder. “Let’s see. Mr. Gentry, your last parole officer, wrote, ‘Frances Margaret Calhoun can make anyone believe anything.’ That’s right.” He shook his head. “You almost had me there.”

Francie sat back in her chair with a sigh. “But it is true.” Goodness, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d failed to convince someone about something.

“Okay, so if you’re redeemed, if you’ve truly gone through a religious transformation, where did you go to church Sunday?”

“I didn’t go.” That was a mistake, both for her sake and for a chance to convince Mr. Fairchild. She should have gone back Sunday morning instead of studying for a test.

He lifted his eyebrow. “I think going to church would be the first thing you would do.”

“Well, you’re right. I’m just not in the habit of that yet. Besides, not all churches welcome ex-cons.”

“The right one will. If you are sincere, the only way you’ll know is by giving the churches a try.”

She nodded.

“All right, Miss Calhoun. Why don’t you tell me how else you have changed your life?”

“I don’t know yet,” she confessed. “I mean, it just happened. I’m kind of new at this. I don’t know exactly where to start.”

“Miss Calhoun, I sincerely hope you’ve changed, but you’re going to have to convince me. That’s not going to be easy. You’re going to have to stay clean.”

“I’m going to stay clean and not only because I want to convince you.”

He shuffled through the papers and notes in her record again. “I notice Gentry didn’t keep up on your hours at work.” He looked at another page. “Are you still a waitress at the Best Diner?”

She nodded. Her former parole officer hadn’t kept track of much of anything in the months before he retired.

“You need to bring me your pay stubs so I can verify employment.”

She nodded again.

“How many hours a week are you working?”

“As many as I can get. Thirty-five to fifty.”

“And you still live in an apartment on Dixon Street?”

Hardly an apartment. “Yes.”

He made a note and checked a form. “All right. Bring me that pay stub. Keep out of trouble if you want to convince me. And work on those changes in your life.” He looked up at her frigidly for a second before closing her file and picking up another.

“That’s the problem,” she confided. “I still don’t know how to even begin with this religion thing. I mean, I’m going to find a church, but what do I do next?”

He thought for a moment. “If you want a place to start, you might try the fruit of the spirit.”

“You mean, like grapes?”

This time his smile was genuine but lasted barely a second and hardly warmed his eyes. “If you’re sincere, you’ll find that out for yourself.” He opened the other folder. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“When Mr. Gentry was my parole officer, I only came once a month.”

“I work differently.” He frowned at her. “I want to see you in two weeks to make sure you’re headed in the right direction.” He wrote a few words on his appointment calendar. “And I am going to have to visit your work site and your apartment in the next few weeks. I see Gentry didn’t do that, either.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I think that’s everything we have time for today.” He stood and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Miss Calhoun.”

Francie took it. He had nice, strong hands, even some calluses on them, as if he’d worked in the yard or something. She turned to leave.

“Oh, Miss Calhoun, don’t forget church on Sunday.”

She looked back. “Isn’t that against the law? Mentioning religion?”

“Not if you’ve chosen it to be part of your rehabilitation program. However, I will expand my statement. I suggest you attend the temple, synagogue, mosque, church, cathedral or other religious establishment of your choice.”

“Thank you.” She left the office feeling a little off balance.

Before his retirement a month earlier, Mr. Gentry had only barked out a few questions having to do with her recent incarceration for holding up a convenience store and asked how work was going, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Mr. Fairchild seemed both more interested and more judgmental, almost as though he didn’t like her. He certainly didn’t trust her. Not that that was a bad thing. She wouldn’t trust an ex-con, either.

She wasn’t sure if she liked Mr. Fairchild’s approach or not. What she did know was that she was stuck with him.



The next day at work, Francie asked her boss Julie Sullivan, the owner of the diner, and her regular customers if they’d heard of the fruit of the spirit. One suggestion sounded good.

Julie said maybe apples or cherries because a nice slice of pie always lifted her spirit. But, in the end, the consensus was, well, no one had the slightest idea.



“The fruit of the spirit,” Francie repeated as she walked up and down the aisles at a religious bookstore the next afternoon.

Unable to find anything in the sections loaded with CDs, books on the end of time and T-shirts covered with bright pictures and Bible verses—at least, she guessed that’s what the phrases must be—Francie finally went to the checkout counter and asked, “Where would I find something about the fruit of the spirit?”

An older woman with tightly permed hair and owlish glasses said, “Romans,” without even looking up. Then she shouted over her shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Harvey? Fruit of the spirit—isn’t that in Romans?”

“She might want to look at Galatians five,” said the white-haired man. “Nice list there. Can’t remember the verses.” He smiled at Francie and turned back to some papers he’d been checking.

“Okay, try Galatians five.” The woman picked up a pencil and started marking off items.

Well, what the—Francie’s thoughts started until she reminded herself to start watching her language. What did all that Romans and Galatians stuff mean? But all she could see was the top of the woman’s tight curls and the back of the white-haired man’s head. They looked so busy she hated to bother them again. Instead she returned to wandering around the store, feeling incredibly dumb.

“Are you looking for something?” a high-school girl asked the third time Francie passed her.

“I need to learn about the fruit of the spirit. Something about Romans and Galatians, I think.”

“Why don’t you look it up in your Bible?”

Ah, so that’s where Romans and Galatians could be found. Why hadn’t Francie thought of that? She looked around. “Where would I find a Bible?”

“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” The girl smiled. “I’ll show you.”

Within seconds they were in an area Francie’d passed through before. The girl waved her arm at an entire case of books. “Here are the Bibles.”

“Those are all Bibles?” Francie studied the six-foot-high shelves that stretched forever across the room. The books were of all different colors, from black to white with shades of red and brilliant blue and somber brown. Some faced forward to show pictures or symbols. There were hardbacks and others with paper or leather or plastic covers. She shook her head. This was getting a lot harder and more complicated than she’d thought it would be.

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. Just a regular Bible. How do I know which one?” The silver Bible with a hologram on the front looked interesting but not very…well…religious. Then she noticed the prices. “Are the more expensive Bibles better? I mean, do they have more words and stories in them?” She tried to remember how much money she had—a couple of dollar bills, a five, some quarters. Yeah, price was important.

The young woman smiled again. “No, the only difference is the translation and the binding. Find one that you like to read. You can find something cheap. It’ll have the same thing the more expensive ones have.”

The task still seemed overwhelming. “Which one do you like?”

“This one’s good.” She took one from a shelf and handed it to Francie, then added several more, helping Francie look at the different versions.

After she read a few lines in each, Francie found one she liked and could afford. “Thank you,” she said.

The young woman took Francie’s hand and said, “It was a blessing to meet you.”

What do you know? It was a blessing to meet her. A lovely thought. “It was a blessing to meet you, too.”

Francie paid, then hurried back to her apartment, grasping the bag with the Bible inside tightly.

Not much of an apartment, she reflected as she closed the door. Not even an efficiency. Once up the three flights of stairs and inside, she could take five strides and be at the only window—which overlooked the alley. On the right was a sofa bed; to the left in a tiny kitchen was a card table covered with a bright-yellow checked tablecloth.

Around the walls were splashes of brilliance: Aunt Tessie’s forged impressionistic paintings, fifteen that Francie had saved from the police and would guard until her aunt’s return. They were beautiful and brought so much color into the small room that Francie didn’t need light or a view from the window. Besides, with the pictures in place, only inches of the flaking green walls showed.

She settled on the threadbare sofa and opened the book.

It wasn’t all that hard to find Galatians. In the front, she found an index and turned to the right page. Once there, she discovered that some thoughtful person had divided the book using numbers in large, bold print. In no time, she found Galatians five. Scanning the chapter, she read to herself the words: “‘…the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.’”

Francie ran her finger across the words as she read them again. Finally, she whispered to herself as she read, “‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.’” With a nod, she added, “I like that.”

She closed the Bible and looked at how thick it was. Then she looked at the end of the last book—1,402 pages. She hadn’t read that much in her entire life. The thought of finishing that many pages overwhelmed her.

Francie sat back in the chair and sighed. Why had she thought she could do this? People like white-haired Harvey and the clerk in book store had probably been reading the Bible since they were kids. Even the young woman who’d been so helpful had probably spent more years reading the Bible than Francie had wasted being a troublemaker in school.

And Mr. Fairchild must have read lots and lots of it. He knew about the fruit of the spirit.

How could she even attempt this? But, if she wanted to change, Francie knew she had to tackle all these pages. Francie Calhoun was not a quitter.

Where should she begin? Obviously at the beginning. It would take her an eternity to finish all of it but she had to, really had to.

Besides, the Reverend Mr. Jonah Miles and that nice lady at the church had probably read the entire book. They’d started her on this road. She couldn’t let them down. She was behind, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t try.

She said to herself, “‘…love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control….’ That is a good place to start.”




Chapter Two


Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Francie reminded herself that she had to work on this problem of constantly running behind as she dashed up three flights of stairs in the Austin, Texas, courthouse annex. She glanced at the clock on the landing—ten minutes after ten. She was only a few minutes late, but she was also panting and her hair was a springy mess. On top of that, her cheeks must be bright red from the exertion of running from the bus stop.

Terrific, she mumbled. Here she’d wanted to impress Mr. Fairchild with what a fine citizen she was, and she couldn’t even arrive on time for her second appointment. She stopped just inside the door of the parole office and attempted to slow her breathing.

From the cubicles, separated from each other with six-foot-high gray metal walls, she could hear the low buzz of voices. Telephones rang from the offices that surrounded the cubicles. Parolees waited on hard wooden benches, reading or sleeping, while others wandered through the open space drinking coffee and talking.

In spite of the chaos in the small area, she was aware of Mr. Fairchild who sat quietly and alone in his cubicle scanning a page of a file folder.

Oh, my, he was absolutely gorgeous. When she saw him, she wished she was at least three or four inches taller and a few pounds heavier. And wouldn’t she love to have something to wear besides jeans and ratty tennis shoes? And, while she was wishing, wouldn’t it be nice to be absolutely gorgeous, too?

With a pat to the top of her head, she attempted to tame her wild curls as she walked across the scuffed gray vinyl floor toward his desk. “Mr. Fairchild?”

He glanced up, saw her, stood and reached his hand out toward her. She took it and smiled. He had such a nice, strong grip.

“Miss Calhoun.” He nodded. “I was looking over your file and realize Gentry didn’t keep up with you very well.”

“No, he didn’t. I was assigned to Mr. Gentry when I got out of prison six months ago. I think he was winding down for retirement.”

“That may be true. Nevertheless, I still need some very basic information about you. There’s almost nothing written here other than the dates of your appointments and your address.”

As he read further, he tapped his pen, silver with what looked like his initials engraved on the side. “I find no mention of what you discussed during your appointments. He didn’t keep up with your employment or much of anything else, no information from your trial or prison records.” He looked up at Francie. “That’s not at all professional.”

Professional must be very important to him, Francie thought as she put her book on the floor and leaned forward. “I think he was really burned out.”

“It’s kind of you to say that, but I can’t be as forgiving.”

Wow! He thought she was both kind and forgiving. That was at least one fruit of the spirit. “Thank you.”

“Miss Calhoun, you shouldn’t be forgiving, either, not in this case. A parole officer is supposed to assist you to return to the community as an honest, upright citizen. Gentry let you down.”

She nodded. He was right.

“Let me check on the information I have.” He read a few lines. “Your father, aunt and uncle are all—”

“Incarcerated.”

“Your mother?”

“I don’t know where she is. She walked out on us when my father was arrested. I was six.”

“Who brought you up?”

“Oh, different people, off and on. Usually, when they weren’t incarcerated, my uncle Lou and aunt Tessie, my father’s brother and sister. Larceny runs in my family, I fear.”

“You believe it is a genetic characteristic?”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I’m afraid so, but I’m working hard and hoping to overcome that unfortunate trait.”

“Commendable, Miss Calhoun.”

He glanced at his watch, a lovely thin silver-colored one. Expensive, she thought. Of course she knew nothing about watches. Maybe it wasn’t as costly as it looked.

“Oh, it’s probably getting close to time for your next appointment. I’m sorry I was late.” She put a hand against her cheek. It felt warm. “I had a test that lasted much longer than I thought it would. The bus was late so I had to run all the way from the bus stop. I thought I’d be here sooner but I kept dropping stuff and the lights held me up.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I do hate to keep people waiting.”

“A test?” he asked. “Are you not feeling well? I don’t believe I’ve read anything here about health problems.” He leafed through the pages to check.

“No, not a medical test. English lit. Jane Austen. You know, she writes wonderful characters and she’s really funny, not what I’d expected from the classics.” She scooted forward on the chair and whispered, “Have you ever read Pride and Prejudice?”

“Yes I have…but why did you take a test on Pride and Prejudice? Why are you even reading it? I remember being forced to read parts of it in high school. I also remember it was slow and not very interesting.”

“Oh, no, it’s wonderful.” She sat back and pondered for a moment. “Even though they lived in a totally different time, those people are incredibly interesting. They’re not all that much different from us.”

“You’re reading Jane Austen for pleasure?”

“No, no, for English lit, but if I’d known it was so much fun, I’d have read it years ago.”

“Miss Calhoun,” he shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Would you please explain why you are reading Pride and Prejudice.”

“Isn’t it in my file?” She moved forward and tried to read the record upside down. “Didn’t Mr. Gentry mention that I’m working on an associate’s degree, picking up the required courses?”

He frowned at her information sheet. “How can you do that? Gentry’s notes say you don’t have a high-school diploma.”

“What do you mean?” She tried to read her file again, again unsuccessfully. “It’s not in there, is it? I got my GED while I was incarcerated.”

He looked up at her, his eyebrow lifted. “You did? Congratulations. I’ll get that information from TDC and put it in your record.” He wrote on a sticky note and attached it to her folder. “Did you bring me your pay stubs?”

She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no! I had them all ready to go, then I got worried because I had forgotten if Elizabeth Bennett had—well, you probably don’t care about what I had to check, but I thought it might be on the test. Anyway, I left them on the table when I ran out. Can I…may I bring them next time?”

“Of course.” He studied her for a moment before he asked. “How is the great metamorphosis going? I mean, have you moved along with your change?”

“Yes, my metamorphosis is moving along just fine.” She studied him for a moment before she nodded and said, “I do know what the word means.”

“Of course you do. I had no doubt—”

“You know, criminal doesn’t mean stupid, except on certain topics, like hard work and honesty and common sense. Truly, I’m working hard not to fall into that trap again. Self-control is high on the list of fruit of the spirit, one I’m concentrating very hard on.”

“Of course, Miss Calhoun. Please forgive my rudeness. I have to say that I’m very pleased you have found out what the fruit of the spirit is.”

“Thank you.” She felt surprisingly delighted at the compliment. “Okay. About the metamorphosis, I’m still looking for a church.” She held her hand up before he could ask. “The Sunday after I saw you, I went to the first one I visited, the one where I decided I wanted to change. The people there didn’t seem happy to see me. Guess they don’t mind if I come to the revival service but not Sunday morning.” She shrugged. “That evening, I visited another church, but it was a little, well, a little too loud for me. Last Sunday, I tried another but that was…ummm…slightly boring and the people seemed a little cold. So I’m still looking for one that will be right.”

“If you’re sincere, I’m sure you’ll find a place.” He picked up his pen again. “Why don’t you tell me about your plans for the future? Why did you decide to go to college?” He wrote the date and looked up expectantly.

She didn’t speak for almost a minute. She bit her lower lip before saying, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that education,” she said finally. “I just knew, when I went to prison, that I couldn’t live like that anymore, like I always had, like my family always has. Stealing from people and hiding from the police and being locked up. I knew I had to prepare for a better life.”

He nodded his encouragement.

“My family hasn’t been much for looking ahead. I mean, past the next job or casing the convenience store or bank they wanted to knock over or setting up their next scam. Planning is new for me, too, but I have to change. I know education is the place to start.”

She looked at him for a second, then she gave him a tiny, uncertain smile which grew into a grin.

His expression changed from concentration to—it looked like interest. Oh, she knew she had to be wrong, but maybe a spark of attraction was there, for just a second. Then he blinked, cleared his throat and assumed an unsmiling professional demeanor.

“Education seems like, for my mind, what those fruit of the spirit are for my soul, you know?” she continued. “I’d like to use my education to help people, to become a teacher, maybe.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, just kept his eyes on her face until he realized she was watching him while he studied her. “I’m sorry, Miss Calhoun. An idea about another client distracted me. If you would please repeat your comment?”

It didn’t seem to her he’d been thinking about another client. He’d been looking at her, sort of inspecting her face, as if he found her attractive. She wasn’t going to call him on it. How dumb would it be to contradict her parole officer? How dumb was it to think he could find Francie Calhoun attractive?

Instead she said, “I said I thought once about maybe being a teacher, although I don’t think a school would hire anyone with my record.”

“That’s probably right.” He used a cold, professional tone.

She shivered at the unexpected chill in his words. Why had he changed so much? And he seemed to be meditating again, looking down as his pen before pulling his attention back to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s an enormous problem with the other client. Please continue, Miss Calhoun.” He didn’t meet her eyes.

“How nice of you to be so concerned about all your clients. I don’t think Mr. Gentry thought about us at all.”

“Nevertheless, I should not be taking time from your appointment.”

“I figure nursing is out, too, and probably accounting, so I don’t know what I want to do, what’s open to me. I’m just picking up the basic hours.”

“I’ll arrange for you to see a vocational counselor.” He wrote another note on her file.

“Thank you.” She blinked in surprise at his suggestion. Mr. Gentry would never have thought of that. “That’s a wonderful idea. They could give me some direction.”

“I appreciate your gratitude, but it’s nothing. Gentry should have done this months ago.”

“It’s something I could certainly use.”

“Miss Calhoun,” he began but his voice seemed to go all funny, alternating between friendly interest and that chilling note. She wondered why. If she hadn’t known better, she’d think maybe he did find her attractive and was trying to ignore it, but that was crazy. She was, she reminded herself, an ex-con. He was, after all, her parole officer.

Did he have to keep reminding himself, too? She wondered for a moment before stuffing that thought back in the far depths of her brain. Of course not. He was her parole officer and would never find a woman with her criminal tendencies interesting.

“Miss Calhoun,” he said after clearing his throat, “how many hours do you have in college?”

“Oh, only fifteen so far. Nine when I was incarcerated and six since—but I’ll have twenty-one when I get my credit for this course and the intro to psych course I’m taking. I wish it could go faster but it’s hard to work and go to school. I work breakfast, from five-thirty to nine or so, and lunch. Julie lets me work in a morning class between nine and ten when I need to, and in the fall, I’ll take two in the afternoon. And, of course, the cost—”

“Have you checked into scholarship help or grants?”

“What?” She considered for a moment. “No, I haven’t. Would I be eligible? I didn’t think people like me—”

“There are some government funds that are closed to anyone with a record, but I believe there are others you could apply for. I’ll write a note to get in touch with your school. What school are you attending?”

“Texas Community College, the downtown branch.”

He nodded again. “I know someone in the financial aid office. I’ll give her a call.”

“You are the nicest man.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on his.

He quickly moved his hand to pick up his coffee cup. She probably shouldn’t have touched him.

“I’m sorry.” Embarrassed, she sat back in her chair. “It’s just that no one has ever made an effort to help me like this. Thank you.”

“Gentry should have.” The chill clung to his voice. “I guess that’s all, Miss Calhoun.”



Brandon kept his eyes on his pen. Not that there was anything interesting in the silver tube, but he refused to look at Miss Calhoun’s face. Her blue eyes probably showed confusion and hurt over his attempts at aloofness and his hot-and-cold behavior. That couldn’t concern him at this moment. The point was to be professional because right now he didn’t feel at all professional. Not a bit.

He was attracted to her probably because he didn’t meet all that many women in this job. After a second, he had to admit that was not an acceptable explanation. It wasn’t an explanation at all.

Then he had to remind himself he was not interested in Miss Calhoun. He could not possibly be attracted to a felon. He was only interested in her as a man would be interested in any pretty young woman.

He could not possibly be attracted to Miss Calhoun. She was medium height and thin. With all that curly black hair, she wasn’t really pretty. The freckles dotted across her fair skin made her cute, but not pretty. He’d never been drawn to cute women.

But there was such a sparkle about her. She was so full of life and joy. Hope glowed in her eyes. Why would a woman with such a background feel optimistic about her life?

There certainly was little future in a relationship between the two of them. After all, Miss Calhoun was certainly not the type of woman he could bring home to meet his mother.

Where in the world had that idea come from? He jerked his attention back to his client and looked at the calendar. “Two weeks, Miss Calhoun? Same time?”

“Perhaps a few minutes later, ten-thirty? My class is from nine to nine-fifty. If I can catch the bus right away ten o’clock is usually fine, but today it was hard to get here on time because—”

He cut her off before she could complete the sentence and shooed her away with his hand. “Ten-thirty is fine.” He jotted a note in her file and slid it into the cabinet. He needed businesslike gestures to remind himself who she was and who he was.

But he couldn’t keep himself from watching her walk away from his desk. When she got to the door, she turned. Her eyes met his and she smiled unevenly at him.

Callously, he dropped his glance to his desk, but he could not wipe out the memory of her face and the charm of her smile, so genuine and full of delight and interest, as if she cared about him and his reaction, as if she hoped he shared her happiness.

Mixed with that picture was the memory of her un-cooperative black curls and those wide and oddly innocent eyes that could also sparkle with humor or pain, the hurt she tried so carefully to hide. In their depths, he glimpsed anger which she also tried to disguise, attempting to make a good impression on him, he guessed. What she didn’t realize was that she already had. Too good an impression. He was even starting to believe her. Not wise to believe a parolee.

Other than her incredible smile—which he was sure she’d used to con countless others—and many physical attributes, why did he care about Miss Calhoun? She was no different from the other ex-cons he worked with, not a bit.

Not a single bit, he repeated to himself. He didn’t know yet, but he guessed she was as untruthful and manipulative as many of them. Then, why was he so concerned about this one, about her?

This was not at all the emotion he should be experiencing when talking to a parolee. Being interested in a client, he lectured himself, was incredibly unprofessional. If he acted on it, if she even guessed he was attracted to her, he could get in a great deal of legal trouble. In addition, he didn’t want to make Miss Calhoun uncomfortable, didn’t want her to think he was harassing her in any way. She needed to believe his interest in her was completely professional.

Oh, he always helped the parolees he worked with. There was nothing new about that. He’d always thought that was his duty as a Christian. He helped them find work, financial aid, housing, even food, but never with the need, almost a compulsion, he felt to help Miss Calhoun.

But there was something odd about her, something that nagged him. He flipped the folder open and scanned her record. Several arrests, two convictions on scams but no time served. Then this robbery. Strange she would turn from being a con artist to a robber. It happened, of course, people changed, but she didn’t look like a violent person.

He slammed the folder shut. What did he know? She was a convicted felon and his client, only that.

Then he looked up into the scarred, beefy face of Butch Conway who stood in front of his desk. Butch had returned to society after a ten-year stay in Huntsville for assault with time off for good behavior.

All thoughts of the attractive-but-felonious Francie Calhoun fled to the back of his brain as he began his work to mold Butch into a model citizen.



“So, how’s this hunk of a parole officer of yours?” Julie Sullivan, owner of the diner, put two cups of coffee and a slice of apple pie on the table and joined Francie in the booth where she was reading for her English lit class.

Francie looked up at Julie and shook her head, attempting to return from Shakespeare’s flower-scented bower in the Forest of Avon to the smell of bacon and syrup left over from breakfast in Julie’s tiny diner.

It was a nice, neat little place with a black-and-white checkerboard floor. The table tops were beige with chairs and booths upholstered in red. The windows looking out on the busy street were covered with beige curtains with red piping. Against the walls were six booths—empty now except for Francie and Julie—with eight square tables in the open space.

“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I hate to call him a hunk when our relationship is purely professional.”

“You called him that before and didn’t seem to mind.” Julie poured two packets of creamer into her cup and stirred, keeping her eyes on Francie’s face as she pushed a strand of her graying black curls back in place, curls Francie had noticed barely ever moved on their own.

“Two weeks ago, he didn’t feel so…I don’t know. He got a little stuffy at the last appointment, sort of cold. Oh, not that he wasn’t helpful,” she hurried to add. “He seemed different this time, not as friendly.”

“That’s not unusual. You know how men are. I mean, Manny can be a real jerk sometimes, when he’s feeling real macho.”

“I don’t know. That might be it.” Francie shrugged and looked back at her book. “Sorry, Julie, but I have to read the rest of this play.”

“I won’t bother you for long. We’ve got a good two hours before the lunch crowd comes in. You might as well take a break.” She pushed the cup and the pie in front of Francie. “This is your boss talking. Do what I say. You’re getting too thin. Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The coffee was strong and hot, and the pie tasted wonderful, warm and cinnamon-flavored. “Okay, Julie, suppose you tell me what’s going on with you and Manny while we’re taking this break together.”

“Nothing’s going on between us. You should know that. Since I broke our engagement last year, we’ve never looked back. He dates other women; I date men, lots of men.” She looked over her shoulder at the dark, handsome cook.

“He’s just like all men,” Julie continued.

“I think he’s more handsome than most, Julie.”

She bit her lip. “Yes, I guess he is. He’s got those dark brown eyes that say such romantic things to a woman, but he’s got a really macho attitude. Thinks he owns his woman and can’t get it through his head that I have a brain and can take care of myself. He hates it that I own this place.” She leaned toward Francie. “I think the fact that I was his boss and told him I would not hand the diner over to him when we got married was what finally broke us up.” She sat back in the booth. “Men!”

“You know, it’s probably hard for him to work for the woman he loves.”

“What?” Julie sat up straighter. “What’s the matter with you? You used to agree with me about Manny.”

“I’m trying that kindness thing.”

“Huh?”

“I’m trying to be a kinder person.”

“Just because you’re trying to change doesn’t mean you have to side with Manny. You’re still my friend and can be kind to me.”

“I’m trying not to judge other people.”

“If that doesn’t beat all.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I want you to be happy, Francie, but don’t get all goody-goody on me.”

“I’m sorry, Julie. Sometimes it’s hard to know exactly the right balance. I’m still searching.”

“I guess you’re doing the best you can.” Julie stood. “Okay, I’ll leave you to your play.” Julie picked up the coffee cups and took them to the kitchen.

When Francie was alone, she leaned against the back of the bench and closed her eyes, turning her thoughts toward God. “You know,” she whispered, “this whole transformation is turning out to be a lot more difficult than I ever imagined. I’d appreciate a little help here because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Francie had just finished studying when the lunch crowd came in. Within minutes, she had tables and booths full and was running back and forth, taking orders and picking them up, placing them on tables, adding up checks and picking up tips. While she did all of this, she smiled and kept up running jokes with the regulars.

Shortly before one-thirty, the crowd thinned. As she filled the glasses of the few remaining customers and wiped down tables, she heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, Curly, how’re you doing?”

Francie turned around to see her cousin Mike Fuller, Tessie’s older son. “Hi there. How’s one of my favorite cousins doing?”

He had become such a handsome young man. She’d met him when he was seven and she was twelve, back when Uncle Lou went to prison and she’d moved in with Aunt Tessie. For six years, they’d been like sister and brother. He’d been a skinny little kid, a runt everyone in the neighborhood picked on. Now he was over six feet tall, broad from working out and almost as handsome as Mr. Fairchild.

Where had that foolish thought come from? Mike was much more handsome than Mr. Fairchild, in a different sort of way. Besides, she shouldn’t be thinking of her parole officer like that. She shouldn’t be thinking of him at all.

“Hey, Francie.” He hugged her.

“Sit down. What do you want? The usual?”

“Yeah. You know how much I love Manny’s hamburgers.”

“Hi, kid,” Julie said and gave Mike a hug. “Take a break, Francie, and grab a bite with Mike.” She picked up the order Francie had written and handed it to Manny who took it from Julie’s hand but didn’t look at her.

“Friendly guy,” Julie grumbled.

“Hey, Mike,” shouted Manny from the window. Then he turned toward Julie to say, “See, I’m a very friendly guy when people treat me right.”

Julie frowned. “If you weren’t such a good cook and never missed a day of work, I’d fire you.” She picked up a plate and carried it to a customer.

“What a terrific surprise,” Francie said to Mike. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have class?” She slid into the booth next to him.

“Hey, lay off. I don’t have classes this afternoon, and I’m not due at work for an hour. Why can’t I stop by to see my favorite cousin—”

“Only cousin.”

“Without getting the third degree?”

“The third degree is sort of a custom with our family.” She smiled at him. “How’s life going?”

“Great. My grades are good. You know I got accepted to med school.”

“I know. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

Mike took her hand. “If it hadn’t been for you—” He shook his head. “Thanks, Francie.”

“Enough of that.” She shook her head. “Okay, so tell me why you’re here.”

“My girlfriend’s family is having a barbecue Sunday. She’s heard me talk about you and wants you to come.” He put onions and ketchup on the hamburger Julie had just placed in front of him, then took a drink of the milkshake. “We’re going to start about noon.”

“That sounds wonderful, but I’ll probably be a little late.” She paused and dropped her eyes to the plate Julie had placed in front of her. “I…um…I’m going to church on Sunday.”

If he hadn’t had taken a big bite of hamburger, Francie knew Mike’s mouth would have fallen open. While he chewed and swallowed, she picked up the tuna salad sandwich Julie had given her and nibbled on a corner.

“You’re going to church? Why? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I want to go. I had an experience a couple of weeks ago.” She paused for a minute. “This is hard for me to explain, but I went to a church service and it felt good. I felt close to God.”

“Terrific, Francie. If that makes you happy. It just seems strange.” He shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone in our family who’s been religious.”

“Maybe it’s about time.” She took a deep drink of diet soda. “I’d be happy if you’d like to come with me sometime.” After she’d found a church.

“Yeah, sure, maybe sometime.” He began to devour the enormous pile of French fries.

“How’s your little brother doing?”

“I don’t see Tim much. He’s still living with the Montoyas.”

“How long has he been with this foster family? Three years?”

“That’s about right.” He studied her frown. “Francie, stop worrying about him. Stop worrying about me. We’re doing fine. With school and work, you’ve got enough to take care of in your life without taking on more.”

She took one of his fries and studied him. “I’ll never stop thinking about you. I’m just an old maid aunt who doesn’t have any children of her own to watch after so I worry about you and Tim.”

“You’re the prettiest, youngest old maid aunt I’ve ever seen, but Tim’s sixteen, almost grown up.”

“Sixteen is not almost grown up. Sixteen just thinks it’s almost grown up. So does twenty-one.”

“I’ve been on my own for nearly four years and will be going to med school in the fall. If that isn’t grown up, I don’t know what is.”

She smiled at him again just because he had matured into such a terrific young man.

“Now, don’t get all teary-eyed,” Mike warned.

“I wouldn’t think about it, Mike. Anyway, I know you’re still wet behind the ears, whether you believe it or not.”

He shook his head as he finished off the last bite of hamburger. “My girlfriend—”

“Does she have a name?”

“Here’s Cynthia’s address.” He handed her a small piece of paper. “She lives just north of the mall, in a pink house in the middle of the block.”

That would be easy. Buses went to the mall all the time.

Mike stood. “I’ve got to run. Don’t want to be late for work.” He turned toward Manny and Julie to say, “Thanks for lunch.” Then he dropped a kiss on Francie’s cheek and whispered, “I love you,” before he ran out of the diner.

“Nice kid,” Julie watched him as he walked out of the diner.

“Yeah, he is, isn’t he?” Francie agreed. “I hope I can get him to come to church with me someday.”




Chapter Three


“Would you look at the hunk that just came in?” Julie said to Francie as they served the lunch crowd the next week. “I’d trade Manny for him any day.”

“In case you didn’t realize it, you don’t have Manny to trade,” the cook shouted.

“Manny has to have the best ears in the world,” Julie whispered. “Funny, when we were engaged, he never heard a word I said.”

Francie grinned at Julie before turning to look at the man Julie had noticed. She promptly dropped the pitcher of iced tea she held. “Oh, my gosh. That’s Mr. Fairchild.”

“You know him? Who is he?” Julie grabbed a mop and started to clean up the puddle and broken glass.

“My parole officer.” Francie knelt and began to pick up glass and ice cubes.

“Whoo-hoo! No wonder you called him a hunk! The man is gorgeous. And would you look at the suit? Handsome and tailored. My, my, my.” She waved Francie away. “You go ahead and wait on him. I’ll finish this. You want to show him how well you do your job.”

“Oh, sure. Dropping that pitcher had to really impress him.” She washed her hands and wiped them on her apron as she moved toward the booth where he sat. “May I take your order, Mr. Fairchild?”

“Do you have a menu?”

He looked completely out of place here. As Julie had said, his suit was beautiful. And yet he wore it casually, tossing the jacket over the back of the booth. He’d also unbuttoned the top of his shirt and loosened his tie.

Francie didn’t think she’d ever seen a suit in here except the time Manny had worn one after his father’s funeral, but Manny’s suit was nothing like the one that covered Mr. Fairchild’s broad shoulders.

Now, stop it, she lectured herself. A parolee should not be noticing how broad her parole officer’s shoulders were, and, for goodness sake, she should not be drooling over someone so far out of her reach.

“A menu, please, Miss Calhoun?” he repeated.

“Oh, sure. Just a minute.” She went to the cashier’s booth, grabbed one and took it back to him. “Today’s special is tuna salad sandwich with soup.”

“That sounds nice. What’s the soup?”

She went blank for a second. Why was she so nervous? She’d been a waitress for months, and remembering the specials didn’t tax her intelligence all that often.

“Vegetable beef and chicken noodle,” Julie shouted.

“And they aren’t canned,” Francie added. “Our cook makes them fresh every day.”

“All right.” He put down the menu. “I’ll have a tuna sandwich with vegetable soup and a glass of tea.”

Now if she could just bring him his food without dropping anything, most especially not Manny’s hot vegetable soup on Mr. Fairchild’s beautiful tan slacks.

When the order was up, she almost asked Julie to take it but reminded herself she could do this. She’d been waiting tables for almost six months, and he’d come to see her on the job.

With the bowl and plate in one hand and the glass of tea in the other and walking really slowly, she reached the booth, placed the food there, and didn’t even spill a drop.

Standing back proudly, she said, “Will there be anything more?”



Brandon watched her from the moment he came in. She seemed nervous—dropping the pitcher was a sure sign—but he was used to his clients being anxious when he visited their work sites.

No, what he noticed was the fresh yellow uniform and ruffled white apron she wore, still with her old athletic shoes. She looked neat and bright and fresh, but it was her presence and smile that brought a little sunshine into the place, a bit of radiance that had nothing to do with the color of her uniform or the brilliance of the apron.

The customers liked her. She went from table to table, refilling glasses and taking orders, joking with some and listening to others. One of the men had tried to grab her. Quickly and unreasonably angry, Brandon had started out of the booth, but she had the situation in hand. She slipped away from the man with what looked like a practiced move and exchanged her smile for a glare—for just a second—to warn him. Very nicely done.

Why had he felt it was necessary to intervene when that man had tried to touch her? Well, she was his client and he should protect her, but he knew that wasn’t the only reason. In fact, he refused to examine the thought any further and started to eat.

The food was surprisingly good; the soup hot, savory and full of meat and potatoes. The apple pie he ordered for dessert was delicious, juicy and sweet with a light, flaky crust. One of the best lunches he’d had in a long time.

He’d just taken his last bite of pie when the other waitress put two cups of coffee on the table and slid onto the bench opposite him.

“No, thank you, I don’t need coffee,” he started before she interrupted him.

“I’m Julie Sullivan. I own this place.” She reached her hand out and shook his with a firm grip.

“Brandon Fairchild.” He tried to stand in the narrow space but Julie put her hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the seat.

“I know who you are. When you came in, Francie told me your name and that you’re her parole officer.”

He opened his mouth to say he couldn’t confirm that, but she continued.

“I know you can’t tell me anything about Francie because that’s all confidential.”

He nodded and started to answer, but Julie swept on.

“But that doesn’t stop me from telling you that she’s a terrific kid. Conscientious, always at work on time, never misses a day and wants to improve herself. Did you know she’s going to school?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, you’d have that information. She’s determined to do better than her family, not that that would take a lot of work. She wants to make something of herself and be a good example to her cousins.”

“Her cousins?” Did he have any information about her cousins? He started to ask about them, but Julie started talking again and he’d already learned not to interrupt her.

“She loves those boys, has always tried to help with them. She’s kept an eye on them all their lives, even when they were in foster homes after Tessie was caught.” She fixed Brandon with a firm stare. “Francie’s had a tough life but has never let it get her down although sometimes that’s a struggle. You be nice to her,” she warned.

“Thank you, Ms. Sullivan. It’s good to know Miss Calhoun has such a good friend.”

“You can’t say a word about her, can you? It wouldn’t be professional or ethical. You can’t even say you’ll be nice to her because that would show that you have a relationship, like being her parole officer, but that’s okay. I just wanted you to know that, yes, Francie does have good friends.” She moved her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Manny would do anything for her and so would I.

“Well, nice to meet you.” She nodded and stood before reaching her hand out and shaking his again. “The meal’s on the house.”

“It was nice to meet you, also. And thank you, but I can’t accept the meal.” He took out his wallet and put a bill on the table.

“Oh, yeah.” She picked up the money. “That’d be like a bribe, huh? Okay, I’ll get you a receipt.”

“What in the world did you say to him?” he heard Francie ask her boss.

“Don’t you worry about it. Just take his change back to him and the receipt. Give him a big smile and maybe you’ll get a good tip.”

Miss Calhoun rolled her eyes but took the change and receipt, brought them to the table and put them down in front of him.

“Thank you. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”

“It was very good. I’ll recommend the diner to my friends.”

“Yeah, Manny’s a great cook.”

For a moment, she just stood there, shifting from foot to foot before she said, “I’ll see you next week.” She picked up his dishes and smiled at him.

Her smile began with a slight hesitation before it turned into that high-voltage one she’d given him in his office. This time, he didn’t turn away immediately or drop his eyes. This time, he watched her and basked—just for a moment wouldn’t hurt anything—in the joy her expression brought him. Just for a moment, he allowed himself to soak in the warmth and happiness of her personality.

Then he reminded himself sternly that she was an ex-con and he was her parole officer and getting all sentimental because she had a wonderful smile was a really dumb and incredibly unethical thing to do.

But he grinned back at her before she turned and dumped the dirty dishes in a big plastic tub which very effectively destroyed the tenuous connection between them.



“Well,” Julie said as she and Francie watched Mr. Fairchild leave, “you got yourself a great parole officer. He seems nice and professional.”

“Ah,” came Manny’s voice from the kitchen. “You don’t care if he’s professional. All you care about is that he’s good-looking.”

“If I’d cared about men being good-looking, I never would have been engaged to you.” She picked up a rag and started toward the empty tables.

“Then why were you engaged to me?” Manny put a plate on the dividing counter.

“I’ve never been able to figure it out.”

Julie wiped the tables down with so much energy Francie was sure she’d throw her bad shoulder out, but she knew better than to interrupt a quarrel between her boss and the cook. Once she had. They’d both turned on her.

They were nice people, both of them, although Manny tried to act tough. Really nice people who had given her a job when she needed one. They’d never reminded her about her mistakes, about being an ex-con, just encouraged her and allowed her to work her schedule to get to classes.

They’d broken their engagement only days after she started work. Both had pretended that it didn’t bother them, that they hadn’t been hurt or angry, but there was sure a lot of unresolved emotion hanging around.

That sounded like something she had picked up in psych class, didn’t it?

Usually they didn’t argue. Knowing how uncomfortable some of the customers would be with raised voices and fighting, Julie stayed in the diner and Manny in the kitchen. Both did their own tasks and pretended the other wasn’t around. But every now and then their tempers exploded or a word was said and the other had to retaliate which made Francie feel as if she’d wandered onto a firing range.

Other times they were silent and glared at each other but the emotion was still there. It almost made the air crackle.

The whole thing upset her. It also reminded her that one fruit of the spirit was peace. She’d need to remember that, try to bring peace here, but she’d need a lot of help. Julie and Manny certainly weren’t cooperating. They probably didn’t want a ceasefire, much less a peace agreement.

“So, what are you doing this weekend?” Julie continued to clear and wipe tables while Francie completed the last few orders.

“What do I usually do? Go to class, study and sleep. But I’m excited about Sunday. I saw a church the other day when I was walking home from the bus stop.”

“It just appeared, huh? Sort of a miracle?”

“No.” Francie grinned at Julie’s joke. “I’m sure it was always there but I just noticed it. It’s a nice white building, not too big. It has a little steeple with a cross on top. It looks, well, like a church should look. Warm and welcoming. I thought I’d try it.” She turned to look at Julie. “Want to come with me?”

“Hey, don’t try this conversion thing with me. If you’re happy, fine, but I haven’t been to church for years and enjoy sleeping late Sunday morning.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind—”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to tell you.” Julie snorted.



Brandon glanced up from his paperwork at ten-thirty but didn’t see Miss Calhoun in the reception area. Well, she wasn’t late yet.

A few minutes later, Brandon looked at his watch again. She was four minutes late. Unusual, he thought. Not that he really knew. Nothing about her punctuality or lack of it had been written in her file, but her boss had mentioned it. In addition, he believed she wanted to impress him, to assure him she had changed.

After another minute, Brandon began to wonder again why he was so concerned about this one, about her. His other parolees could come an hour late, and he took advantage of the time by finishing up notes or making calls or seeing another client. Why did he care about Miss Calhoun? She was no different from the others, not a bit. Not one single bit, he repeated to himself.

Then she threw the door open and came into the office area. With one hand she closed the door. With the other she tried to tame her unruly curls. Unsuccessful at that, she dropped into a chair in the waiting area. Her remorse was so obvious he had to struggle not to smile.

He looked back at her file where he’d taken a few notes, questions he needed to ask her but the image of her, all the energy she radiated and those wild curls, stayed with him.

Brandon glanced up again. “Miss Calhoun?” he called.

Francie—Miss Calhoun, he corrected himself—stood and walked toward him. She wore jeans and a trim blue shirt with a button-down collar. A less buttoned-down person he’d never seen.

Did she have an extra spring in her step? Who in the world still used the phrase “spring in her step?” But she did seem to have a little more energy than when he’d seen her last.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I don’t know what happened to the time.”

“That’s fine. You’re only a few minutes late.”

Standing, Brandon reached out his hand and shook hers. “Please sit down,” he said as he did the same. For a moment, he shuffled the papers before he asked, “How has your week been?”

“Really terrific. I went to church last Sunday and think I found the right place.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, as I told you before, I don’t have a lot of clothes, especially not nice things to wear to church, but they didn’t mind. Everyone greeted me and was so friendly. They even asked me to stay for their monthly dinner after the service. It was really great. They had me take home a plate of food for dinner.” She paused for a moment. “And they take up an offering to help the hungry and homeless. Everyone brings canned food and beans and stuff.”

“So they have a strong evangelism program and mission outreach.”

She considered the words. “Yes, I guess that’s what you’d call it, but it felt a lot friendlier.”

“What about the minister?”

“He was really nice. It was a good sermon. I mean, if I could stay awake after school and work to listen, it had to be interesting.”

“How was his theology?” What a dumb question. He was her parole officer. He was supposed to get her back on track, not act like a seminary professor. Or was he trying to put some space between them? Maybe even put her down to remind himself he knew more about church and religion than she did? Whatever the reason for the question, it wasn’t at all necessary.

“Well, I have to tell you, I don’t know. I liked what he said. He challenged me in some places, too—to be a better person.”

Brandon looked down at his list of questions. “I need to set up a visit to your apartment.”

“Oh?”

Because her voice sounded so horrified, he looked up at Miss Calhoun. Her eyes were wide and she was biting her lip.

“My apartment? Couldn’t we meet someplace else?” she asked.

“No, Miss Calhoun. I have to make visits to the apartments of all my parolees.” He motioned toward his list. “It’s one of the requirements.” He guessed she’d say Gentry hadn’t done that so he repeated, “It is required.”

She leaned forward. “It’s just that I really don’t want you—” she stopped and bit her lip again “or anyone to see my apartment.”

“Is there a problem?” He started to write a note in her file.

“It’s just not a really—” she paused as if she were searching for a word “—plush place,” she finished. “It’s little and not in a particularly nice area of town.”

“Miss Calhoun, the people I work with don’t come out of prison with a lot of money. I realize you can’t afford much yet and that doesn’t bother me. This is a purely professional visit.”

“Oh, I know that. I’m really proud of how I’ve changed, except for the apartment.”

“Miss Calhoun, most parolees don’t want me to see where they live. They’re embarrassed that where they live now is not as nice as they’d like. I know that, but I have to see that you do have a place to live.”

After a long pause, she said, “Okay.” Then she added, “You have my address. Do you know how to get there?”

He looked at her file. “Yes, I’ve had clients in that area before. Probably in that building. Do I remember that there’s no elevator?”

She nodded. “My apartment’s on the fourth floor. It isn’t a bad climb.”

“When is a good time?”

“That’s harder to say. I work the breakfast and lunch shift, have classes Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and afternoons. The psych class is every afternoon.”

“You don’t work Saturdays?”

“No, we’re only open during the week. We really serve people who work in the area. Some come for breakfast; a few stick around and work late. They drop in for dinner, but our big crowd is for lunch.”

“You tell me. What day and time are best for you? I can change appointments around if I need to.”

“Sometime between eight and ten Tuesday or Thursday?”

“Are you sure? I can work almost anything into my calendar.”

“You certainly are flexible. Thanks, because my schedule can be so crazy.” She thought for a moment. “What about Tuesday?” That would give her the weekend to clean up. Not much to clean or make an improvement, but she’d try. “I don’t have a class and can tell Julie I have to leave after breakfast. But I’ve got to be back at the diner by eleven.”

“Eight-thirty? That way, I can come to your apartment first, before I come to the office. We’ll both have plenty of time to get to work.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

He wrote the appointment on his calendar. “Do you need a card?”

“No, I’ll remember.”

“I need to get some information about your life and some dates, Miss Calhoun. The only one I have is the date of your birth.”

“Go ahead.”

“Parents’ names?”

“Sam and Maisy Calhoun.” She squirmed a little. “I don’t like talking about my parents.”

“Mother’s maiden name?” he asked without a pause. She was like any other parolee, he reminded himself again. He couldn’t ignore things she didn’t like talking about—but he hated to see her so uncomfortable.

“Busby.”

“Place of birth?”

“Me or them?”

“Yours, Miss Calhoun.”

“I was born in Austin.”

“Where are your parents now?”

“My father has been in Huntsville for—” she stopped to count “—for sixteen years. He should be out in a few years. As I told you earlier, I don’t know anything about my mother since she left, and I don’t remember much of her before she walked out.”

“And you haven’t heard from her?” He continued to take notes and fill in blanks on the information sheet.

“Not a word since she left.” She looked down at her hands. “I’ll never understand that. I’ve always wondered how a woman could walk out on a child without making arrangements for her care.”

He wished he could say something reassuring but thought she’d probably feel uncomfortable if he did. Besides, this was all purely professional. “Then you went to live with your uncle, Louis Calhoun?”

“Yes, and after he was incarcerated for grand theft auto, I lived with my aunt Tessie, Tessie Fuller.”

“Your boss mentioned you have two cousins. Are they Mrs. Fuller’s children?”

Francie nodded.

“What are their names?”

She shifted in her seat. “Why do you need to know that?”

“Gentry kept no information on any of his clients. I could pull up the prison records but they’re not always complete. Are you uncomfortable with this? Do you mind helping me complete this information?” He glanced up at her.

“No, but my cousins aren’t involved in the family business—you know, crime—and I don’t like to include them in this. I’m sort of protective of them. Can’t you leave their names out?”

“Miss Calhoun, this is purely informational, for my files.”

She took a deep breath and sat back in the chair. “Okay,” she said reluctantly. “My nephews are Mike—he’s twenty-one—and Tim. He’s sixteen and lives with a foster family. Mike did, too, until he was seventeen. Mike will graduate from college this spring. He’s going to be a doctor.” She smiled. “They’re great young men.”

“Very impressive.” He wrote a few more notes before looking at her. “What’s your phone number?”

“I don’t have a phone but the woman down the hall will take messages.” She gave him that number and those of her cousins.

“Any other relatives?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t know if my mother had family.” She bit her lip and looked away. “I mean after she left us.”

“Thank you. That should fill in everything.” He studied the form again. “Oh, one more thing. How’s your health?”

“Fine. No problems.”

He closed the folder and handed her a card. “Here’s the name of the financial aid officer at your school. I talked to her. She said for you to come in. She believes they can help you with tuition and books.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” She looked as if he’d given her a wonderful gift. “Even a little bit would make so much difference. I wouldn’t have to feel like I’m always broke.” She rubbed her hand across her jeans. “I could buy some new shoes and maybe a dress to wear to church.” They were such small things, but she glowed with pleasure at the idea.

“I hope it works out.”

“And thank you.” She scooted forward in the chair. “Thank you for doing this. I wish you’d been my parole officer from the beginning.”

Then she directed her smile toward him. He felt warm inside, a sensation a truly professional parole officer should not feel—and he never had before—when one of his clients smiled.

Today he’d made an effort to be warmer, in a professional way. When he’d erected the front of cold indifference previously he’d felt as if he’d hurt her deeply. His inability to be objective, his tendency to see her as an attractive woman, not a parolee, were his fault, not hers. No, he couldn’t be her good buddy.

How much longer he could continue to work with Miss Calhoun?

What an odd thought. He pushed it away. Structure and firmness were the best way to keep a relationship with a parolee proper and professional, he reminded himself.

“Thank you, Miss Calhoun. If there isn’t anything more?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” She stood.

“I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Yes, thank you. Tuesday.” She smiled at him, that smile that warmed him, before she left the cubicle.

Then Mitzi Matthews—a seasoned criminal of fifty with the hard expression of a woman who’d been in trouble all her life—took Miss Calhoun’s place.

If he had anything to do with it, Miss Calhoun would never end up like Mitzi Matthews.




Chapter Four


The entire weekend—except for the time Francie went to church or studied or the few hours on Sunday afternoon when she went to Mike’s girl friend’s barbecue—she cleaned. She swept and mopped and then swept and mopped again.

Finally, she spent almost an entire afternoon on her hands and knees with a scrub brush and bucket of sudsy water, scouring off the dirt of decades. There was residue built up in the corners she was sure no one had ever touched. She had to dig it out with a toothbrush and a nail file.

Using vinegar and a newspaper, she polished the window until it shown, but, since the view was so dismal, she pulled down the shade. The poor thing was covered with spots of dirt and scrapes, but she discovered correction fluid covered them up pretty well.

Tuesday morning she rushed back from work to do another quick cleaning. She stood in the middle of the small room and turned in a slow circle to make sure she had scrubbed or swept or polished every square inch.

Not that the little place took all that much time, but she did want it sparkling and immaculate because it would never be spacious and beautiful or even attractive.

After straightening one of the glorious paintings that covered the dingy wallpaper, she moved back to survey the room. It was the best she could do, she thought as she squared the yellow tablecloth and tugged the quilt that covered the worn back of the sofa bed.

She wished she could hide the burned place on the linoleum, but short of putting a piece of furniture in the middle of the floor, there was nothing she could do.

She took a deep sniff and could still smell the roach killer she’d used to get rid of the horrible crawly creatures. She knew from experience they wouldn’t stay away long. The next time one of her neighbors fumigated, they’d be back and she’d have to fumigate again.

To get rid of as much of the odor as possible, she threw the window open, then checked the weather. It was always dark in the alley but she could see clear sky if she leaned out way too far and looked up.

She switched on the floor fan in the corner which began to move the air around. That should be okay for now. It was morning and not all that hot yet although the forecast for that afternoon was ninety degrees.

Forcing herself to admit she’d done everything she could to brighten the apartment, Francie washed her hands, changed her T-shirt and combed her hair. That completed, Francie took three steps to the center of the apartment and began to pace.

Francie was not a patient person. That was something she had to work on. After all, it was the fourth fruit of the spirit. She would work on patience soon, but not now, not yet. She was way too nervous for that.

She made herself sit and relax on the sofa as she thought about church and how friendly and welcoming the members were.

The barbecue on Sunday afternoon had been wonderful. Cynthia was lovely—pretty and pleasant. Her family had welcomed Francie, fed her a delicious meal with ribs and potato salad. They’d even driven her back to her apartment in the late afternoon and hadn’t commented on the terrible area of town Francie lived in. Once there, they’d waited until she got inside the building before driving off.

Francie could tell how Mike felt about Cynthia, hovering around her, gently touching her hand or her back, bringing her a soft drink when she needed one. Cynthia had gazed at Mike as if he was the most wonderful man in the world, as, of course, he was.

Wasn’t love great? Well, she didn’t really know. She’d never been in love. Oh, she’d dated, although not much and not recently. She’d never been in love before. Was that because of her problems or because the few times she’d dated she always picked losers? Must be another hereditary characteristic. She hoped her cousins had missed this one.





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