Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope Read online

  She was right, and I knew it. But it all seemed so disingenuous.

  “And don’t call it manipulation,” Myra added, reading my thoughts. “It’s simply savvy client relations. Like women’s handbags, one size doesn’t fit all.”

  We reached the law firm library that served as my temporary office for the summer.

  “I’ll set up a duplicate file so we have the same information,” Myra said, stopping outside the door. “Then we can divide up the names and get busy on Monday.”

  After Myra left, I went into the library. The other female summer clerk, Julie Feldman, a Jewish law student from Emory, sat staring at one of the computer terminals we used for legal research.

  “What did Mr. C want?” she asked, running her hand through her thick black hair.

  I told her about the Dabney case. Her eyes widened.

  “I’m stuck here sorting through IRS regulations, and you’re going to bring down a televangelist.”

  “She’s not a televangelist. More likely she has a little church in a poor area of town. And all I heard was the client’s side of the story. What if Dabney is doing a lot of good? I don’t want to attack some-one who is faithfully serving God.”

  “I doubt that. She’s probably on a local radio station ranting for thirty minutes on Sunday morning. Can you believe the stuff they let on the air? You should check it out. I bet she has her own show at seven thirty on Sunday mornings. If she says something defamatory about our client on the air, you could join the radio station as a defendant.”

  Julie had the creative energy I lacked for this fight.

  “Maybe you should work on the case.”

  “I’d love to. I have no problem busting someone who is using religion as an excuse to harass people, and of course the very idea of a woman preacher offends me. Feminism only goes so far before stubbing its toe on the Ten Commandments.”

  I smiled, knowing Julie was kidding.

  “I saw that,” Julie said. “I’m friends with a woman rabbi in Atlanta. Does your church have women preachers?”

  “Not exactly. A woman can exhort in a meeting with the pastor’s permission.”

  “What in the world does that mean?”

  Before I answered, Zach Mays stuck his head and broad shoulders into the room.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Give me ten minutes to talk to Mr. Appleby about a research memo I gave him yesterday.”

  Zach waved and left.

  “Joel only looks at me like that after he’s had three glasses of wine,” Julie said.

  Julie was in the midst of a summer romance with a young free-lance photographer.

  “He always thinks you’re picture-perfect.”

  Julie beamed. “For that, I’ll help you with the Dabney case if you can convince Mr. C to go along with it. We’ve done that on a bunch of files already.”

  “But you don’t know anything about religious fundamentalism. That’s what seemed important to him.”

  “Don’t be dense. I’ve spent countless hours in the same room with you for weeks. I’m going to be an expert on Christian fanatics by the end of the summer.” She paused. “But Mr. C will be more interested in the research paper I wrote on defamation law in Georgia.”

  “You did a research paper on libel and slander?”

  “I wouldn’t lie about something like that, would I?”

  THIRTY MINUTES PASSED without Zach’s return, and I began to fret he’d been caught in the Friday afternoon work trap I’d escaped. An admiralty law specialist, Zach mostly worked with Mr. Appleby, one of the senior partners. For a second-year associate like Zach, the time demands of the firm were nonnegotiable. I turned on a computer and tried to pick up a thread of research from earlier in the day.

  “It’s a good thing Vinny went to Charleston yesterday and won’t see you sneaking out of town with Zach,” Julie said.

  “He understands,” I answered, with more confidence than I felt about the summer clerk from Yale. “We’re having lunch on Monday after I get back.”

  “Even though he’s a geek, Vinny isn’t going to let you fall into the arms of another man without a struggle.”

  “No one is putting his arms around me.”

  “That’s right. You have a guy on each side pulling you apart like the wishbone of a chicken.”

  I laughed. Julie knew I’d toiled the previous five summers in the chicken plant where my father worked as a floor supervisor.

  “That got your mind off the clock for a few seconds,” she said.

  The door opened. It was Zach.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Have fun,” Julie said as I quickly grabbed my purse. “And, Zach, leave a trail of bread crumbs so you can find your way out of the mountains.”

  2

  ZACH AND I STEPPED INTO THE THICK AFTERNOON HEAT. IT WAS easy to understand why wealthy antebellum plantation owners didn’t stay in Savannah during the summer and owned second homes farther inland. The sprinkler system that watered the flowers and bushes in front of the office was spraying an invisible vapor.

  “If we were in Powell Station already, I’d take off my shoes and let the mist cool my toes,” I said, stepping toward the center of the walk-way. “Mountain girls like me don’t wear shoes before our sixteenth birthday. After that it’s optional, except on Sundays.”

  “I packed shoes for the trip,” Zach said.

  “I hope they’re not wingtips.”

  We reached Zach’s car, a small white import. He opened the door for me, a habit that drove Julie nuts. She claimed no man had opened a car door for her since her father put her in a child’s car seat.

  The office of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter was at the edge of Savannah’s historic district. It was several blocks to the West Hull Street home of my landlady, Mrs. Margaret Fairmont. Zach parked at the curb in front of the residence, a square two-story brick structure with tall, narrow windows on the first level and broad front steps. Two large live oaks stood between the house and the sidewalk. An iron railing extended from the steps down the street on either side, then turned toward the rear of the house. I could hear Mrs. Fairmont’s pet Chihuahua, Flip, barking on the other side of the front door.

  “Should I come in?” Zach asked.

  “She likes talking to you, but don’t be surprised if it’s the same conversation you had with her last week.” I put my key in the door. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  The foyer was flanked by matching parlors, one green and the other blue. I knelt and scratched Flip behind his left ear. He gave me a thank-you lick on the tips of my fingers.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said, “but I promise to come back with all kinds of interesting smells.”

  Flip gave Zach’s foot a quick sniff, which was better than the animosity he showed some of Mrs. Fairmont’s guests. We crossed the green parlor and entered the den. Mrs. Fairmont, wearing a stylish dress and nice shoes, sat in her favorite chair. It was a good day. She’d fixed her hair and put on makeup. The TV was tuned to a sports station. The elderly woman’s eyes were closed. I gently touched her arm. Her eyelids fluttered and opened. She squinted at me for a moment, then looked past me at the TV.

  “Tami, unless you really want to watch that show, I’d like to change the channel.”

  “You can change it, Mrs. Fairmont. I’m about to leave town,” I said, motioning Zach closer. “Zach Mays, one of the lawyers at the office, is going to take me home to visit my family for the weekend.”

  Mrs. Fairmont turned in her chair. Zach leaned over and greeted her.

  “The young man from California,” Mrs. Fairmont said, her dark eyes twinkling. “I so enjoyed talking with you about your motorcycle trip down the coast. Harry and I drove that route years ago in a Ford convertible. The cliffs, the ocean, the surf on the rocks—I’ll never forget it.” She paused. “Until this multi-infarct dementia gets the best of me.”

  I left Mrs. Fairmont chatting with Zach. On he
r best days the elderly woman would talk specifically about her illness. It made me glad and sad: glad she was temporarily functioning at a high level; sad that it wouldn’t last. My greatest fear was that she would die without believing the truth of the gospel.

  I went downstairs to my apartment, a garden basement suite that opened onto a courtyard with narrow walkways and a large fountain in the middle. I’d already packed two suitcases, one with clothes and another with gifts for each member of my family. I put my hanging clothes in a dark blue bag that included the three new outfits I’d bought since coming to Savannah. I’d saved the sales receipts in case Mama didn’t approve. There was a knock on the door frame. I jumped.

  “Sorry,” Zach said. “I thought you might want help with your bags.”

  He picked up the suitcases with ease. Even with his hair bound tightly into a short ponytail, there was nothing effeminate about Zach Mays. He carried himself with easy strength and was tall enough that I didn’t look out of place beside him. When I went through the adolescent growth spurt that helped me on the basketball court, I began praying that God wouldn’t send me a short husband. Zach and Vince Colbert were both over six feet. On that level, they were equal.

  With the hanging bag draped over my shoulder, I followed Zach upstairs. Mrs. Fairmont was in the kitchen.

  “Gracie already fixed supper,” she said.

  “And your daughter is going to come by in the morning to check on you,” I said.

  “Christine called earlier. She’s not going to be able to make it. Something about a charity golf tournament at her club.”

  “Can’t she skip it?”

  “No, she’s one of the patrons. And she drew a foursome with Peg Caldwell, who’s coming in from St. Pete especially to see her. She and Christine were classmates at the Academy.”

  “But what if—” I stopped.

  “I drop dead and no one knows about it except Flip? Do you think that’s going to happen this weekend?”

  “I believe the number of our days is in God’s hands.”

  “Then pray he doesn’t drop me soon. In the meantime, I’m going to brew an afternoon cup of coffee and drink it black.” Mrs. Fairmont gave me a wrinkled smile. “Decaf, of course, and don’t worry about me while you’re gone. If I feel this good tomorrow, I may get Nancy Monroe to come by and take me out for crumpets and tea.”

  I shifted the hanging bag to the other shoulder.

  “Have a nice weekend, and let your parents know they can come for a visit,” Mrs. Fairmont continued, smoothing her dress with a diamond-bedecked hand. “Bring the whole family if you like.”

  I nearly laughed. I could never dump all seven members of my family in a house that was more like a museum than a home. One of my brothers might break something simply walking through a room, and the twins would want to inspect every antique.

  After a good-bye pat to the top of Flip’s head, I followed Zach out of the house.

  “Mrs. Fairmont is having a good day, isn’t she?” Zach asked.

  “Yes. And the longer I stay with her, the more I like her.”

  “She feels the same about you.”

  “Are you sure? Her daughter mentioned a cousin might be coming to town before the end of the summer. If that happens, I may have to move out.”

  Zach put the luggage in the trunk.

  “I have two extra bedrooms at my townhome. We could be roommates.”

  I jabbed him lightly on the arm. Even casual contact with a male was a new experience for me.

  “That’s not funny. And please don’t make a joke like that in front of my parents.”

  “Who’s joking?”

  “You are. Or at least you’d better be.”

  The car rumbled across the cobblestone street. I’d spent enough time during the summer with Zach that I felt safe. His kidding didn’t threaten me because he’d shown respect for me and my beliefs. That, too, was new for me, and explained why I’d invited him to visit my family. However, the butterflies in my stomach weren’t totally still. Zach’s respect for me didn’t keep him from having strong opinions. That could create problems. My parents wanted me to meet a man with strong convictions—so long as they weren’t too different from our own.

  WE LEFT SAVANNAH and drove north. The flatlands of the coast gave way to the gentle swells that guarded the southern approach to Atlanta. The first time I saw the city with its skyscrapers and twelve-lane freeways it seemed like an alien world. God would have to speak to me in an audible voice before I would consider living there. It still overwhelmed me. I preferred being surrounded by millions of trees to countless people and their cars.

  Zach, used to driving in Los Angeles, calmly navigated through the perpetual traffic snarl that surrounded Atlanta. Leaving the city behind, we watched the sun dip below the dark hills of the north as they rose to meet us.

  “Tell me more about your basketball career,” Zach said as he flipped on the car’s headlights.

  “I wouldn’t call it a career. I played on the local high school team for four years.”

  “Four years on the varsity?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many ninth graders were on the varsity besides you the first year you played?”

  “None.”

  Zach nodded. “That’s impressive. I want all your statistics: points per game for each year, rebounds, assists, and how well the team did in your conference, including any tournament games.”

  “I’m not sure I remember all that stuff.”

  Zach turned his head and encouraged me with a nod. “Yes, you do.”

  I’d loved playing basketball and had a knack for recalling statistics. Zach wouldn’t let me leave out any details.

  “There was a four-game stretch my junior year when I had more turnovers than points and missed half my free throws.”

  “Did the coach ever bring up your bad games after you made the game-winning shot in the play-offs?”

  “No. All he cared about was how we performed in pressure situations.”

  “It’s the same with Joe Carpenter,” Zach answered. “That’s why he praised you for standing up to him in the Moses Jones case. If you didn’t give in when he had the power to fire you, he figures a lawyer on the other side of a lawsuit won’t intimidate you either.”

  Even though criminal law wasn’t his area of practice, Zach had mentored me in the Jones case.

  “I was just trying to do the right thing.”

  “And believed that was more important than anything else. It’s one of your strengths. The danger is confusing wrong and right.”

  “Such as thinking that Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Braddock were co-conspirators in covering up Lisa Prescott’s murder and wanted to send Moses to prison for a crime he didn’t commit?”

  “Yeah,” Zach answered with a grin. “That would be a glaring example. But they won’t ever find out about it from me.”

  We passed an exit for a field that was the location of a Civil War battle during Sherman’s march toward Atlanta.

  “Mr. Carpenter brought me into a new client meeting this afternoon.”

  “Litigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of case?”

  I stared out the window. “I really don’t want to talk about the office.”

  “Careful, don’t be obstreperous. That violates the rule that sum-mer clerks take advantage of every opportunity to talk to one of the lawyers.”

  “Right now, you’re my driver, not my boss.”

  Zach laughed. “I’m good with that. Lawyers who can’t leave the office behind are an unhappy lot.”

  We rode in silence for a few miles.

  “Would you like to play some one-on-one when we get back to Savannah?” Zach asked.

  “What?”

  “Basketball. You’d probably beat me, but there are courts at the YMCA where I work out. I’d love to see your jump shot.”

  I’d never played coed sports in high school or college. Trying to guard a sweating ma
n, or worse, having him guard me, didn’t sound like a good idea.

  “No, maybe we could play a game of horse.”

  “Or obstreperous.”

  “I’m not sure I can spell it.”

  “That will be my problem,” he said. “I’ll be the one missing shots.”

  WE PASSED A REST AREA. Trucks with running lights that looked like Christmas tree decorations were parked for the night. We turned north onto a secondary road. In about an hour I would be home. The jittery feeling in my stomach at the thought of Zach meeting my family returned.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “Hungry. Do you want to stop at a convenience store for a snack?”

  “No, I mean about meeting my parents.”

  Zach moved his hands to different positions on the steering wheel. “Are you trying to take away my appetite?”

  “You’re nervous?”

  “Not enough to get a haircut.”

  “I didn’t ask you to cut your hair—”

  “Which let me know there’s no Delilah in you,” he answered, pulling on his ponytail. “Not that I’m claiming to be much like Samson either. I’m a bit apprehensive about meeting your family, but I believe I know a lot about them because I’ve spent time with you. The strength of their influence in your life makes Samson look weak.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Mostly.”

  “I want them to like you, especially my parents, but Mama has a lot of discernment and forms strong opinions quickly.”

  “Is she going to tell me all my secret sins?”

  “She believes it’s better to confront sin than ignore it. Anything less is insincere love.”

  “You’ve seen her do that?”

  “Only with family members.”

  “What if the Lord lets me see her sins? Should I tell her?”

  The thought of Zach confronting Mama was so bizarre that I laughed.

  “No,” he said, shaking his finger in my direction. “There’s nothing funny about sin.”

  “And there’s no use worrying about any serious discussions with Mama and Daddy tonight. I’ll give everyone a gift, then we’ll go to sleep. Saturday is a big workday about the house.”