Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer

because the paint is peeling even worse than those posters out front. So our towel mass is becoming critical, and we could use an adult to help out.”

      “I’m not that into laundry,” she said. “I send most of my clothing to a dry cleaner.”

      He sat back and studied her. “Ah. A dry cleaner type.”

      “Do you have a problem with dry cleaners?”

      “I have a problem with people taking up my valuable time discussing wet towels.”

      She picked up her notebook. “When did you meet Terell Roberts?”

      “At LSU. We both played basketball there.”

      “And then you turned pro?”

      “He did. Played for the Magic and the Clippers. I went into the military. Marines.”

      “Ah,” she said. “A Marine type.”

      He couldn’t hold back a grin. “Not a Marine type. A Marine. I brought that training to Haven, because I believed if I could teach discipline and respect, the kids would benefit.”

      “So you contributed the military atmosphere, while Terell came up with the seed money to start the operation.”

      “Haven is a team effort. We rely on our patrons for funding. Our volunteers add their ideas to make this a better place. Nobody has all the answers to help these kids.”

      “So what’s your motivation?”

      “Like I said. Helping kids.”

      “Really?” She sounded skeptical. “Terell wants to help children, too, I suppose.”

      “Yes, he does.”

      “Why these kids? And why you?”

      He put his head on the padded chair back and closed his eyes. How could he explain the complex and painful reasons why he had sought out Terell Roberts after so many years? How could anyone even begin to understand what had compelled him to spend every last cent he had saved, to work countless hours tearing out old plaster and making the place habitable, to come each morning knowing it might be the last day Haven’s doors would open?

      Lifting his head, he gazed at Ana Burns. She sat across from him, her notebook propped up and her pen poised. Her straight shoulders and long neck were held in that regal pose now so familiar to him. But for the first time, he noted a small pendant at her throat. A gold cross set with garnets.

      “Your necklace,” he said.

      Her hand moved up to touch the cross. “My mother gave it to me on my fifteenth birthday—the Quinceañero. It’s a special occasion.”

      “It’s a reminder of your family…and your faith?”

      “God is important to me.” Her dark eyes pinned him. “Without Him, I wouldn’t exist.”

      Stunned at her bluntness, Sam couldn’t respond for a moment. She dropped her focus to her notebook, as if reading over what she had written, but he could see that her eyes weren’t moving.

      He let out a breath. “Then maybe you’ll understand this. I started Haven because I believed it was what God wanted me to do.”

      She had stopped taking notes and was moving her pen tip around on the paper in a tiny blue circle. “You believe God talked to you?”

      “In a way.”

      “Is it the same with Terell?”

      “Terell is a strong Christian. When we were in college together, he led me to Christ.”

      She looked up. “Led you to Christ?”

      “To salvation. I’d been raised in a Christian home and had believed in Jesus from early childhood. Terell helped me see that it’s not enough to believe. A person has to commit his life to Christ.”

      She wrote something in her notebook. “So, your patrons…you run Haven as a religious organization?”

      “We get some financial support from churches, and we maintain Christian principles. But Haven is nondenominational. We’re not-for-profit, and we operate under those governmental regulations. We don’t qualify for any exemptions as a religious group.”

      “You’ve met state guidelines in every area except this lead paint situation?”

      “As far as I know. They allowed us to go ahead and open, but different agencies keep coming around to inspect. We’re doing our best.”

      He stood, the subject touching a sore place in his gut. “The codes, the regulations…the whole thing is difficult. When Terell and I found this building and bought it, we thought we’d just need to clean it and then get the center going. We had big plans for the outside—turning the parking lot into a top-notch basketball court with bleachers and a snack bar, setting up a tennis court, even putting sod down for a park area with picnic tables. But we haven’t had time to start on any of that because of all the work we’ve had to do inside—wiring, plumbing, rehabbing the whole basic structure. We had to widen doorways and enlarge the bathrooms. Had to buy special toilets. Had to put in ramps. Lights. Exit signs. Washer and dryer.”

      He moved across the room and began restacking the books on his small shelf. “Don’t get me started on the kitchen,” he continued. “We’re not even close to code there. We’re not certified, so we can’t provide hot meals or homemade refreshments—which was one way we hoped to make a little money. At this point, all we can sell is packaged snacks, popcorn and sodas, and we do that at cost.”

      “I had no idea it was so complicated,” she murmured, taking notes. “It sounds like an uphill battle.”

      “Battle is the right word for it. Right after we purchased the building, vandals broke into the main level. It was still empty, so they couldn’t find anything to steal. But they smashed out windows, spray-painted walls, demolished toilets. We’ve had to use the bathrooms downstairs, which is a problem for our kids with special needs. Some of our volunteers have offered to build ramps, and those have to meet code. We’ve been working like crazy to fix the restrooms on this level, and we’re nearly there. The punks destroyed nearly all our light fixtures, too, so now we’re working to buy and install new ones.”

      “Your military background must be a help. If you see this as a battle, I’m sure you’re determined to win.”

      “We’ll win. But there are times I’d almost rather be stranded in an Iraqi sandstorm.” He rubbed the back of his neck, remembering. “Terell and I can handle the kids, and our volunteers will get the building into shape. But we need more of two things we lack. Time and money.”

      “If Terell played professional basketball, he must have earned a huge salary.” She frowned, the raven wings drawing closer. “Maybe you could convince the city to give you more time.”

      “Terell can tell you about his pro career, if he chooses, but he gave Haven all he had left. He’s a good man. We’re both willing to sacrifice everything for this place, but we can’t live forever without bringing in some income. And we can’t keep the doors open unless we have a solid financial operating base. The trouble is that our donors are reluctant to fork over more money until they’re sure we’re on solid footing with the city, the county, the state and probably the Feds.”

      “Makes perfect sense.” She leaned back, relaxing in her chair for the first time since she’d entered his office. “And it explains your reluctance to let me publicize your problems.”

      As the light of understanding shone in her eyes for the first time, the knots in Sam’s shoulders loosened a little. He picked up a file from his desk.

      “Our donors are mostly individuals or small-business owners,” he explained. “Churches have given us some money, but we don’t have any corporate sponsors. We can’t afford to pay salaries for a fund-raiser and a public relations expert. Basically, it’s up to Terell and me