How could she possibly please everybody?

  She passed a billboard on her right. A red, blank billboard.

  Okay. Enough of this. She expressed her frustrations to the car. “What is with these blank signs? Maybe I’m dumb, but I don’t get it. Not at all.”

  Oscar’s words came back to her: “God will give you wisdom every time you ask for it. So ask.”

  The idea that God would not deny her this prayer spurred her forward. She lowered her voice slightly, but its intensity remained. “Wisdom. I need it, Lord. Help me figure this thing out. I don’t know what to do, and I feel the opposite of wise. So . . .” She decided to just say it plain. “God? Give me wisdom. A heaping double helping.”

  She laughed a bit at her wording, doubting that God had ever been offered a prayer with the word heaping in it. She said it again for emphasis: “Heaping, God. Heaping.” Then added, “Please?”

  A satisfied calm came over her. She didn’t feel wiser, but she did feel like she’d done something toward a better end.

  “I’m ready, Lord. Anytime.”

  She drove on.

  Home.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Velvet was well into her second cup of coffee and halfway through her second blueberry muffin when she noticed a trend. The Sunday paper lay before her. As usual, she’d started on the front page, quickly skimmed over the war and destruction that thankfully seemed to be everywhere but here, and moved to the local articles—which were oddly filled with Johns.

  According to the paper, John Stevens was badly hurt in a car accident.

  John Markus was arrested for assault and battery.

  John Severin, a city council member, voted no on a shopping center.

  John Jalinsky made odd sculptures out of junk and was the bane of his neighborhood.

  John Thompson was honored as an outstanding elementary school teacher.

  John, John, John. Yes, it was a common name, but it seemed that a disproportionate number of newsworthy men owned the John moniker.

  Including . . . her John, listed in an ad on page six announcing that he was preaching this morning at Christ Community Church. Come join us!

  She shoved a stray crumb into her mouth. I should go.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried to get dressed.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Velvet was late to church. By more than a few minutes, if she got right down to it. She was late by . . . decades? Had it been that long?

  She knew it was true when she slid into a back pew and immediately received a mental image of patent leather Mary Janes and her grandmother by her side. Decades? It had been a lifetime.

  The church was packed, with all eyes glued to John. With good reason. Not only was he a handsome man, he was a dynamic speaker. If he’d been speaking Russian or Turkish, the effect would have been the same. By the expectant stance of his body, the intensity of his face, the deep baritone of his voice, and the rhythm of his words the hearer assumed he was saying something important and worth hearing.

  Not that he was overpowering like an old fire-and-brimstone preacher, yelling at the congregation to repent and be saved. He was more like a father or a favorite uncle, sharing his heart and life experience because he cared.

  “Forgiveness is a busy intersection,” he said. “We need to ask others to forgive us, we need to forgive others, we need to forgive ourselves, and we need to ask God to forgive us.”

  Fat chance. Forgiveness of any kind was not an option.

  John continued. “The best news I can give you this morning is that God keeps the door open. Always. If we go to him feeling contrite, asking him to forgive us, he does. There is no lock, no line, no waiting list. Just him. He’s waiting for us to step into his presence.”

  Velvet mentally shook her head. John was wrong. There was a door. A big one. Barred shut with chains and locks. Many locks.

  John leaned on the podium, his voice soft. “Just go to him. Talk to him. Tell him everything, knowing that he loves you anyway. Jesus took the punishment for all our sins, past, present, and future—the punishment we deserve. The price has been paid. Our slates are wiped clean because of his sacrifice.”

  This time Velvet physically shook her head. No. Her slate was not clean and could never be clean. She’d done too much. Years ago she’d chosen her punishment: isolation from any intimate connection with anyone. Every day, every hour, she accepted it as her life sentence.

  John sighed. “If you need further prodding, remember this: since God knows everything we’ve done or said, we might as well be honest with him and lay it all out. As bad as it is, offer it to him with a penitent heart.” He turned his face toward heaven and opened his arms, palms up, in a stance of supplication. “And then . . . then he does the rest, cleansing us, giving us the blessed gift of grace and mercy and unconditional love. Hallelujah!”

  The applause started as a smattering amid a few soft amens. But soon the entire congregation was on their feet, clapping and shouting.

  Velvet couldn’t remain seated—she couldn’t be the only one—and so she too stood and clapped. But as she clapped, the joy of the room wrapped around her and through her, pushing its way in no matter how hard she tried to keep it away. Her breath turned into short gasps and her chest tightened.

  What’s going on?

  The woman beside her in the pew took a step closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze.

  Velvet began to cry.

  Yet even as her thoughts sped to What are you doing? Stop that! a hidden part of her being embraced the tears as a watershed, a turning point, a defining moment.

  Yes, let go. Please let go!

  Suddenly, the choice she’d made aeons ago—forbidding herself to be close to anyone—seemed absurd and unnecessary, as though she’d told herself to never, ever enjoy chocolate or laughter or joy or any good thing even though no one had instructed her to make the sacrifice.

  Sacrifice. Jesus had made the sacrifice—the ultimate sacrifice. For her.

  Her punishment of isolation had been totally self-imposed. No one had forced it on her, condemned her to such a life. Her sins—though many—were paid in full. By Jesus, on the cross. John had said so.

  And she believed him.

  Someone started singing “Amazing Grace.” The music fell upon her, reaching into every empty space, filling her to overflowing.

  “I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.”

  It was too much, but just enough.

  Velvet slipped away and felt herself falling. . . .

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  She opened her eyes and saw John’s face.

  And others.

  Velvet lay upon a pew, her purse and someone’s jacket, her pillow. She immediately sat up, appalled. “Did I faint?”

  “You slipped clean away,” said the woman who’d shared a shoulder squeeze.

  Most of the sanctuary was empty, but a few stragglers filed down the center aisle toward the back. Their faces were soft with concern and a few offered her supportive smiles.

  “I never faint. I’m fine—embarrassed, but fine.”

  “Oh, don’t be embarrassed,” said a man wearing suspenders. “When the Spirit moves, he moves. It can be overwhelming.”

  Spirit? She knew what she’d felt, but . . . Spirit? What was the man talking about?

  John took her hand. “Come on, people. Let me take her out for some fresh air.”

  The onlookers parted and she let herself be led into the foyer and beyond, out a side door, into the sunlight.

  “Better?” John asked.

  “Still feeling foolish but better, yes.” She tried to look strong, sound strong. “Truly, I’m not a fainter, and I don’t know why—”

  “The man with the suspenders spoke the truth, Velvet. Although no one but you can say for certain, it could be you felt the Holy Spirit at work.”

  She took a step away from him and formed a time-out T with her hands. “Hold it there, preacher; I’m not one of your praise-the-Lord drama queens who faint and flail and speak gibberish.”

  “And I’m not a drama queen director. Or instigator. But the Holy Spirit was present in that room, Velvet. I know because I never planned on talking about forgiveness. Sometimes that happens. I’m talking about one thing and God nudges me to take a detour. And it obviously was the right detour, because that’s the subject people responded to. The Holy Spirit is the one who made the people jump to their feet and applaud. They weren’t applauding for me but because God worked within them, making them feel him, making them know he exists.” John stepped to a rosebush, cupped his hand around a full pink bloom, then leaned down to take a whiff. “It’s the best part of my job.”

  “So this always happens?”

  “Not at all. What happened today was not an orchestrated event. I said my piece, I shared my heart, and when it resonated with those who were listening, they let God in. My job was to nudge them through the door. He did the work.”

  He did the work in me?

  John was watching her, studying her. “You felt something, yes?” he asked quietly.

  Tears threatened, embarrassing her further. “When you were talking about forgiveness, I . . .” She forced herself to look right at him. “I’ve done wrong, John. To a lot of people, including myself. And I’ve done wrong to you.” She glanced toward the church and saw a group of people at the doors, watching them, talking among themselves. Although she’d been on the verge of saying something—saying too much—she stopped and pointed in their direction. “They are probably waiting to ooh and aah over you and feed you ham loaf and Jell-O.”

  “They can wait.”

  So could she. The chance for release had been missed, the moment lost. Everything that had happened in the sanctuary took a step back and became like a dream, something she was unable to grasp—a dissipating mist. “I can’t discuss this now,” she told him. “Not here—if ever. Leave it alone, John. Leave me alone. Go home.” She started walking again, toward her car.

  He followed after her. “Does your reaction have something to do with the girl working concessions—the one with the gray streak framing her face?”

  She kept walking, though if she’d had on different shoes . . .

  Running would not have been out of the question.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  When Maya got back into town she did not go directly home. Instead she turned the car in the opposite direction. It took her a block to realize where she was heading.

  “I suppose,” she said to her subconscious, who had obviously made the decision. “One last time. To say good-bye.”

  She drove to the hospital and rode the elevator to the maternity floor. Would she ever be a patient on this floor? Was there any solution? Maya felt her thoughts colliding. I’m getting confused again, God. Help me here. Wisdom? Remember me asking for wisdom?

  She reached the nursery window and spotted nurse Betty taking the vitals of a newborn. Maya waved.

  Betty did not. She did not even smile. And as soon as she was finished with the baby, she exited the nursery.

  Maya figured she was just involved with an infant and didn’t have time to chat. She looked at the newborns anyway: two boys and a girl, all neatly swaddled and wearing little blue and pink cotton caps.

  The hall door leading to the nursery area opened and Betty and another nurse came out.

  “Hi there,” Maya said. “Only three? A slow night, huh?”

  The other woman, whose name tag read Agnes, spoke. “You have to leave.”

  Maya wasn’t sure she had heard right. “Excuse me?”

  Betty looked at the floor, then crossed her arms. “We can’t have you coming around anymore, Maya. Looking at the babies, when you . . .”

  Agnes picked up where Betty left off. “When you stated in the paper you would do anything to get a baby. Anything.”

  The newspaper article. “I didn’t mean it literally,” Maya said. “I would never steal—”

  “You already did.”

  With that, Agnes moved to the double doors at the end of the hall. She opened one and held it.

  Maya was being led out! Banished. She’d come to say good-bye to the babies, but not like this.

  Not like this.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Maya drove aimlessly for over an hour. At every corner, humiliation dogged her to keep moving. She was mortified at being kicked out of the nursery. She wasn’t a criminal. She would never steal a baby. Surely they knew that.

  Yet as one block turned to two and then to three, her anger subsided. The nurses weren’t to blame. It was their life’s work to care for babies and keep them safe. Because of the article, Maya was a possible threat. They were only doing their job in keeping her away. Finally, the humiliation backed off, and the memory of Sal’s phone messages gained strength. Come home, Maya. Come home.

  It was time. Home was the one place she could run to that would accept her, flaws and all. Yet as she turned in to their driveway, as she turned off the car, she felt her nerves turn on. Seeing Sal for the first time since he’d found out about her job fiasco, for the first time since he’d walked out needing to think, for the first time since she’d run away . . .

  She said a quick prayer, hoping God would give her an instant answer. Help me. Please help me.

  She gathered her purse and keys and exited the car. She tried to fortify herself with a mental pep talk. Sal said, “Come home.” He wants me home. In spite of everything, he wants me—

  She needn’t have bothered, for at that moment Sal came out the front door to meet her.

  He smiled.

  He rushed toward the car.

  He pulled her into his arms. “I’m so, so glad you’re back, Maya. So glad.”

  She clung to him and sobbed into his shoulder, not realizing how much she needed him until she felt his embrace.

  He pulled back and looked at her face, wiping a stray tear with his thumb. “Where were you? I called your parents, your sisters, your friends. . . .”

  “I went to the cabin.”

  He nodded. “That’s a good place.”

  To hide out.

  Maya wondered if their neighbors were looking out their windows, thinking bad thoughts about her.

  Thoughts she deserved.

  She was glad to get inside, though once there, she and Sal stood awkwardly in the foyer, as though they were on a first date. “Well,” he said.

  Maya finished his thought. “Where do we go from here?”

  Unfortunately, here was different for Sal than it was for Maya because he didn’t know about Dr. Ruffin.

  She took his hand and led him to the couch. “There’s something I have to tell you.” He looked wary but let himself be led. They sat, and then she took his hand in hers. She told him about the fire at the lab.

  She expected him to react, to pull his hand away, to stand, or pace, or rake his fingers through his hair. She did not expect him to calmly nod, or to say, “That’s that, then.” He captured her eyes with his. “I’m so sorry, Maya. I know how much you wanted to have a child.”

  She stood and let out a huff of air. “‘That’s that’? That’s all you can say?”

  “You do have to admit that the whole thing has been pretty extreme. Sometimes it’s felt like we’re pushing it, stretching it.” He looked at Maya. “I want a child as much as you, but all this . . .”

  She remembered her morning conversation with Oscar. There was another option. She returned to the couch and took his hand once again. “Then . . . what about adoption?”

  Sal shook his head. “Oh, Maya. I don’t know.” He blinked. “What brought that on?”

  An early morning boat ride with a wise old man. She shrugged. “Just think about it, all right?”

  He nodded, which was enough.

  For now.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Peter opened the door to his apartment to find his parents in the hallway. “Mom! Dad. What are you—?”

  His mother kissed his cheek and came in. “William’s funeral is tomorrow. We had to come.”

  Yes, he supposed they did. Although Peter had barely met William’s dad, William had been with Peter to the family farm many times. William had often made comments about how envious he was of Peter’s family. “They love you wholly, Peter. Their love for you is not contingent on anything.”

  Peter wasn’t sure about that. They loved him because he’d never tested their love. But now, with a huge test looming . . .

  He was just closing the door when he heard Carrie’s voice in the hall. “Peter!” She ran toward him. “I’m so glad to see you. I’m trying so hard to be strong, but—” He opened the door more fully to let her in. She stopped when she saw his parents. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Carrie, you remember my parents.”

  His mother took Carrie’s hand and squeezed it. “Your William was very brave, wasn’t he?”

  Carrie nodded and began to cry. Peter’s mother pulled her close and comforted her.

  Peter could have used a hug himself.

  | | | | | | | | | | |

  Roman heard the front door open but didn’t look up from the couch where he had lived for the past two days.

  Friend or foe at the door? He didn’t care. Nothing mattered. Ever could matter. Everything that did matter had died.

  I’m so sorry. . . .

  The doctor’s words continued to haunt him, floating like a fog around his body, his mind, his soul. And yet . . . Sorry? What kind of inept, inconsequential, inadequate word was sorry? The doctor was sorry Billy died? Neither the word nor the sentiment held any depth and was as meaningless as saying “Sorry” when you accidentally bumped into someone, or forgot to gas up the family car, or were late for an appointment.

  Sorry was insufficient compensation for the death of his son. His life. His reason for living. His hope. His future. His—

  “Hey.”

  At the sound of AJ’s voice, Roman pressed his face into the pillow. He did not open his eyes.