A Blessed Life. Dana Corbit

bit of it back then. It’s only now that I would have realized you were a genius.”

      “If we’ve just met and you think I’m a genius, then we’d better avoid getting to know each other better. I’d hate to see my I.Q. plummet in your mind.”

      She laughed again, a real, honest laugh that felt wonderful. And to think that lately she’d wondered if she would ever laugh again. He was so easy to talk to. And he made her feel as if everything was going to be all right—for the low, low price of free.

      Andrew tapped his fingers on his desk a few times until she finally looked back at him. “It’s okay to feel sad, you know. About Tessa’s illness. About the divorce. Even about the loss of your charmed life.”

      “Then, why do I feel so guilty about being sad?”

      “This is just a guess, but I think you’re used to being in control. You haven’t been able to control any of these things, and it’s making you crazy.”

      She raised an eyebrow. “Crazy? Is that a word a counselor should be using?”

      “I’m a youth minister these days. I’ve forgotten all of those rules.”

      “So I’m supposing you’ll be recommending me to real counselors now?” She’d done it—used a sentence as a question. Great, now she was talking like him.

      He shook his head. “So you’re having a bit of a pity party after a really rough year and a half. Who could blame you? I’m not saying never to seek professional help, but you probably could wait for a while. Treat yourself really well and wait to see if the blues subside. If not, then seek further help.”

      “Is that your professional advice, Mr. Westin?” She stood to indicate she was ready to leave.

      “Absolutely, Mrs. Jacobs.” He followed her to the door. “Now let’s discuss that little matter of payment.”

      Serena looked over her shoulder at him and chuckled. “I gave at the office—I mean, in the offering plate.”

      “Oh, well then. See you Sunday.”

      Andrew closed the door on his most nerve-racking day since starting his fellowship at Hickory Ridge Community Church six months earlier. Had she noticed that he’d swallowed hard every time she pushed her shiny, dark hair behind her ears, letting the sun dance on its auburn highlights? He’d thought she was beautiful, having only seen her from across the church. But up close, she was amazing.

      At least he’d known enough the past few Sundays to be glad it was Reverend Bob’s job to deliver the sermon and not his. Otherwise, he was sure Paul’s admonishment to the church at Corinth would have been full of warnings about long, wavy hair and full lips.

      Now that he’d had a good look at her, the image in his head this Sunday would be more vivid. He would see eyes that were a combination of delicacies—shaped like almonds and the hue of dark chocolate. He would know that her face was a little too square, her nose too straight, to earn her the title of classic beauty, but that somehow made her more appealing. He couldn’t allow himself to think about the way she looked in her prim white blouse and that skirt/shorts thing, even now, without breaking a sweat.

      It would surely require a prayer for forgiveness, but he’d been thankful when he’d learned she was divorced. It should have made him want to step back from her, but it didn’t.

      Pushing those dangerous thoughts away, Andrew pulled the monthly youth calendar up on his computer screen. Immediately, he felt tired. In theory, it was great to keep the youth too occupied in the summer to get into trouble, but all of those activities required chaperoning. The finger for that job pointed right back at him.

      Trips to the Detroit Zoo and Michigan’s Adventure Park in Muskegon, plus pizza night—that would be enough without tonight’s youth lock-in. That was all he needed—spending twelve hours in a house full of adolescents. Eating too much junk food. Getting no sleep. Even with reliable fellow chaperones Robert and Diana Lidstrom and Charlene Lowe, it would be a harrowing night.

      He walked to the window and stared out across the field to the older farmhouse that served as both his home and the temporary Family Life Center. The deacons had been fortunate that the prior owner had been ready to retire to Florida when they’d searched for property on which to build a new center.

      Architects were already planning the shiny, modern structure that would stand there after the house was razed, but as he looked at the existing building—majestic in its own utilitarian way—he wished they’d just leave it alone. It had such character. Such history. The house spoke to a time when Milford had been a farming area instead of a bedroom community for Detroit.

      Twirling the blind control, Andrew darkened the room and returned to his desk, wondering why the old house was so important to him. No one had promised him a permanent job in Milford. He was still only in the “hope” phase. But if he could prove himself indispensable to the deacons here, maybe he could finally convince the naysayers in his life that he was at least a little worthwhile.

      And maybe he could convince himself.

      Another image of that willowy brunette became a castaway in his thoughts, making him more uncomfortable than he cared to admit. Even if this wasn’t a true doctor-patient situation where he needed to avoid personal involvement. Obviously, it had been too long since he’d had a real date, if he was allowing their conversation to take on this much significance. He had to get out more. But a feeling deep in his gut made him wonder if he’d still be having these same unsettling feelings even if he’d had a month’s worth of interesting dates.

      The phone rang and saved him from the uncertain implications of his thoughts. He didn’t need or want the complications of an involvement now. Especially not with a troubled woman. She had as many problems as he did.

      “Hickory Ridge Church, this is Andrew Westin. May I help you?”

      “Andrew, this is Charlene.” She spoke in that heavy New Jersey accent that made her identification unnecessary. “Got bad news. My mom’s having emergency gall bladder surgery. I hate to bail out on you, but…”

      “Of course, Char, you have to be with your mom. Don’t worry a bit about us. I’ll find someone else to fill in. Let your mother know we’ll be praying for her.”

      He lowered the phone to the receiver, feeling a new weight on his shoulders. Did he know anyone who was crazy enough—or naive enough, to agree to chaperone a youth all-nighter with less than eight hours’ notice? A few faces flickered in his mind and disappeared, but one unlikely image showed up and refused to fade.