Kept Page 38

  “But he’s never dated someone like me, someone with a past.”

  “The awesome thing about the word past is that it means it’s behind you. It’s not around any longer. Ever thought about that?”

  “My past isn’t staying behind me. Dillan doesn’t know what he’s getting into.”

  “I think he does. He’s a pastor, girl. He deals with people. Chicago people, not angels.”

  She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Jordan says Dillan’s crazy about you. She thinks you’re the one.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Yep, she brought it up, in fact. She’s wondered ever since Memorial Day. You weren’t a Christian then, so she kept quiet. But she told me last Wednesday—after you shared that past we should all be so terrified of—that she thought Dillan had found the woman for him. You.”

  That couldn’t be. “Why would she say that?”

  “Because he’s never looked at another woman the way he looks at you. He’s never talked about a woman the way he talks about you. I can see it. Jordan can see it. I hear even Garrett sees it.” Tracy snagged her hand. “Quit trying to shove him onto another woman who’ll never love him like you do. Take a risk, Miska—and if something happens and he hurts you, well, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Wow. Step out on a limb.”

  Tracy grinned. “Fine. You can double my rent.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on. He’s the third best thing that’s ever happened to you. Don’t push him away just because you’re scared.”

  She wasn’t scared; she was petrified. “Wait, third best?”

  “God. Me. Then Dillan.”

  “At least you come after God.”

  “Good to see you smiling again.” Tracy pulled Miska to her feet and hugged her. “Now that my work here is done, I need to go. Some of us have jobs tomorrow morning. Are we looking at houses this weekend?”

  Miska followed her. “Probably. I’ll send you any links Ian sends me.”

  “Good. Please talk to Dillan.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for that. “We’ll see.”

  “I love you, Miska. You know that, right? I just want the best for you.”

  Like she wanted the best for Dillan. And security for herself.

  Tracy opened the door. “You know what? You need to read the book of Ruth in the Old Testament. It’s a short one. You’d like it.”

  “I’ve never heard of Ruth.”

  “Didn’t think so.” Tracy stepped into the hall. “She was from a country that practiced human sacrifice, a country that clearly didn’t know God. But God loved her anyway. A lot. Read it. Tell me what you think.”

  Somehow the story would take her back to Dillan.

  She knew it.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  For the rest of the week, she thought about reading Ruth.

  Thought about it when Dillan knocked on her door Thursday and Friday and then when he didn’t Saturday.

  Thought about it when she came late to Sunday’s service and Dillan stood up front, leading the music. He almost froze, his arm up in the air.

  Miska sat in the back row and buried herself in the song’s words, but every time she glanced up, his eyes were locked onto her.

  She wasn’t ready for him. She couldn’t do this.

  She left before the song ended.

  Dillan knocked on her door around one.

  Miska didn’t answer.

  Ian called on Monday to say that two offers were coming in. They’d priced the home aggressively to drive people to it, and the plan had worked.

  On Tuesday, the Chicago-based publisher asked for an interview. Hope rose in her throat, but Miska shoved it down. She scheduled it for that afternoon, and, in their offices ten minutes north, the woman looked at her funny as they shook hands, probably wondering why she recognized her. The interview went well, but when it was over, Miska told her about Mark, that she was a new Christian committed to living the way God wanted, not the way she had been.

  The woman’s face shuttered.

  Miska left, knowing she’d never hear from them.

  Ian called with the two offers. They countered both, and the next days were spent negotiating. Miska and Tracy filled Saturday with house hunting and found a home fifteen minutes from church, ten minutes from Tracy’s work, and smack dab in the middle of Miska’s uncertain future. She signed the contract, and Ian called later with the news that the all-cash offer on her condo would close by the end of August.

  She released a deep breath. Things were starting to even out. Finally.

  On Sunday she went back to church. On time. Friends greeted her as if she’d been gone forever. People she didn’t know told her they’d be praying for her.

  Dillan stayed on the other side of the auditorium, nodding once when they locked eyes.

  How she missed him.

  Ian called that afternoon. She had the house she wanted with closing scheduled the same day as the condo’s closing.

  Now if she could only find a job.

  *****

  The phone call came Wednesday morning while she emptied her walls. The publisher she’d interviewed with asked for a second interview.

  Hope surged through her wounds.

  During the interview, they talked about their fiction, asked if she’d read any of their titles.

  She’d read six of their latest releases.

  Of course they wanted her thoughts.

  She took a deep breath, told them what she loved about her favorite, talked about the others that she’d enjoyed, and shared as kindly as possible why she wasn’t fond of one of them.

  They nodded with her.

  They liked her skills, they said. Her New York references were good. But they wanted to know more about this change in her life. Could they talk about that?

  She was in the news. Of course they had to be careful.

  Miska set caution and security aside and kept nothing back.

  Home again, she found herself wandering, fingering her Viking stove and lingering by the living room windows. Her words from the interview haunted her—her relationship with Mark, Tracy’s determination to show her the truth, her realization that she’d lived her first thirty years completely wrong.

  How could this publisher look past her oh-so-public sins? How could anyone? How could God?

  Really, how could he?

  Buckingham Fountain’s jet climbed into the sky.

  The more she read the Bible, the more it seemed like she’d broken every rule there was. How could God see past that?

  “God, please.”

  Her words startled her. Silence had reigned in her home for so long; she couldn’t voice her truest thoughts. Not anymore.

  Please, she tried again. Don’t let me go. You’re all I have. Everything else—everyone else is gone.

  She mashed her lips together, then forced herself to speak. “I need this job. I don’t deserve it—I know I don’t deserve anything from you. Not forgiveness. Not a second chance.” Hurt chased dampness down her cheeks. “Not love—yours or… anyone else’s.”

  Dillan’s face swam before her.

  If this was as good as life got, she’d be content with it. God had saved her, that much she knew. She might not ever be good enough for him or any man to love, but that was okay. Because more than anything, she couldn’t go back to the life she’d once lived. Never. All the security and money in the world couldn’t keep her anymore.

  The week passed, then another. She packed until boxes stacked the walls of the smallest bedroom. She was down to paper plates, Solo cups, and a deep skillet.

  Tracy called her each night, giddy with excitement. This move couldn’t happen soon enough.

  On Wednesday—the second-to-last day in August—her phone rang.

  Miska set down the skillet she’d been scrubbing and dried her hands as she checked the caller.

  The publishing house.

  Adrenaline shot thro
ugh her, burning her stomach. She dried her hands and picked up the phone. Stared at it, then answered.

  “Miska, this is Connie Gilbert in HR. How are you?”

  She moistened her lips. “I’m well. You?”

  Connie chuckled. “Wishing I could take my office outside today. Can you believe it’s August?”

  Really? She was making small talk? “Hard to believe.”

  “We’re all going to fry tomorrow, they say. I already told my husband we’re having a picnic tonight.”

  Miska closed her eyes. God, make her just say it.

  “Anyway, listen. Nancy Thompson let me know an hour ago that they’d made their choice for the editing position.”

  So it wasn’t her.

  “She wanted me to apologize for taking so long to get back to you, but—”

  The true depth of unacknowledged hope squashed her. Had she really thought they’d look past everything and hire her? She’d known better than that.

  “—and then after surgery it got infected and… anyway, she’s missed a lot of work. So that’s why it’s taken so long.”

  Surgery? “I’m sorry—what happened?”

  “Nancy broke her leg. Had surgery to put a screw in it. You should hear the jokes around here. Like I said, the job is yours if you’d like it.”

  “Mine?”

  “Absolutely. You can take some time if you need to, but we’d like to know by the end of the week.”

  The job was hers? She caught her breath. “I accept.”

  Connie laughed. “Nancy will be thrilled. She wanted to call you herself, but she knew you’d understand how buried an editor gets when she misses six days of work. I’ll let her know you accepted, and she’ll be in touch when she gets a moment. Is that okay?”

  She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “That’s fine.”

  “Great. Does Tuesday work as a start date?”

  “Tuesday’s good.”

  “Wonderful.” Connie spent another minute detailing information Miska needed, then ended the call.

  Miska grabbed her desk chair and sank onto it.

  Was this real? She stared at the phone shaking in her hand. Did she truly have a job editing Christian books? She broke into tears, deep, loud sobs that echoed off her bare walls. How could this be?

  “Oh, God—” She couldn’t finish the prayer, but the thank you rang deep within her. She buried her face in her hands and let the tears flow.

  God loved her after all. He hadn’t just saved her. He loved her. She mattered—and now he’d taken care of her. All that worry, all that fear—for nothing.

  She caught herself smiling through the tears. Only God could take the mess she’d created and turn it into something perfect. As long as she lived, she’d never forget this… this miracle. This gift. This love.

  She dried her face and blew her nose. From the corner of her desk, her Bible called to her. She flipped through the Psalms she’d discovered after Tracy had mentioned David and Bathsheba. Since that frank conversation, she’d spent every day reading Psalms and stories Tracy had mentioned, but she’d ignored that book Ruth, unsure what Tracy was up to. She searched the table of contents and found it.

  Short, like Tracy had said.

  She read about Ruth leaving everything she knew for Naomi and a foreign land. How Miska identified with that. She searched online to fill in the gaps Dillan probably knew backwards and forwards—who Ruth’s Moabites were, their history with Israel, the gods they worshiped.

  When Boaz told Ruth to stay in his field and take what she needed, Miska’s tears returned. How silly she’d been to think that God hadn’t been there before. How many people over the centuries had he provided for?

  When Boaz told Ruth that he’d heard she’d left her father and mother and the land of her birth and had come to a people she didn’t know, the tears flowed again. Ruth understood. Boaz understood.

  God understood.

  And then she understood why Tracy had told her to read the book. Ruth went to Boaz and asked him to take care of her. To provide for her. To be her husband.

  That Tracy.

  She read on, realizing at the end that this Boaz, this Ruth, had been part of the line that belonged to King David. This foreigner who had come from a godless, wicked society had left all for the faith of Israel.

  And she’d been welcomed.

  And loved.

  Loved!

  Her Bible cross-referenced Matthew, and Miska looked up the verse. Ruth’s role as a many-times grandmother of Jesus wasn’t hidden. Anyone who wanted to see it, could. Ruth, Rahab, Tamar, David, Bathsheba—they’d all been placed out in the open as ancestors of Christ. Anyone who wanted to know—it was there.

  If God had chosen them for his own son, might he really have chosen her for someone like Dillan?

  The thought was staggering.

  The closings were both tomorrow. She had to have her place empty and the keys to Ian before eleven. She packed and cleaned late into the night, this time skipping small group because she had to in order to be out on time.

  But she prayed while she cleaned. About Dillan. For Dillan. About what she should do. She’d thoroughly turned him down, and clearly he believed she meant it. He’d never resumed knocking on her door and stayed on the other side of the auditorium.

  So if anything was going to change, it was going to be up to her. She had to take action.

  Just like Ruth.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  On the last day of August, Miska woke before the sun.

  She showered and dressed, fixed her hair and put makeup on, even though she expected to go for a run. Smiling, she tossed her pajamas into the laundry bag on her empty closet floor. The only clothes left were the white shorts and gray, cotton T-shirt she’d wear after her run.

  Moving day clothes. She couldn’t wait.

  She filled her water bottle and left her condo. She’d wasted so much time, hiding out instead of enjoying her last days in Grant Park, but no longer would she look back.

  Today was all about the future.

  She leaned against the wall opposite Dillan’s door and waited.

  Five minutes.

  Ten.

  Fifteen.

  He should have come out already.

  The door opened, and Garrett flew out, his pace taking her back to when Dillan had barged into her life, knocking Mark flat.

  How right that had been. And she hadn’t even known it.

  “Miska.” Garrett sent her a curious smile as he locked his door. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Waiting for Dillan. Is he coming?”

  He took in her running clothes and makeup. “Is this what I think it is? You have a ring on you?”

  “Stop it.” He laughed, and she backhanded his arm. “Keep it down. He’ll hear you.”

  “He went running early. Has been all week.”

  “He’s out there already?”

  Garrett checked his watch. “A good forty minutes. Hurry; you might catch him.”

  She raced for the elevator.

  *****

  Dillan wasn’t by the fountain or in the trees or paths nearby. Praying he hadn’t taken the route back by the Art Institute, she jogged across Lake Shore Drive and down the stairs to the running path.

  August wind blew her ponytail off her neck. Water slurped at the concrete’s edge, and she stopped, unwilling to face the northern path where Mark had almost destroyed her. She looked south, toward Adler Planetarium and Shedd Aquarium.

  No perfectly tall man stood out in the joggers.

  That left only one place. She took a long, slow breath. It was daylight, she reminded herself. Mark was still in jail. She swallowed, turned, and looked north.

  Far down the running path, Dillan faced the water, hands in his pockets, watching her.

  She stayed there while her lungs filled, then swallowed the terror that crashed through her. Why didn’t he move?

  Maybe he’d had enough. She wouldn’t bla
me him if he had.

  But maybe he hadn’t either.

  She kept to a walk as she approached him, kept her eyes trained on his, on those guarded brown eyes that watched her near. He held her gaze until she was close, then looked down, one Nike kicking the ground like he’d done so long ago when they’d first talked beside the fountain.

  “Hey.” She forced a calm smile. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  His eyes returned to hers, his smile tentative, maybe even hopeful. “Yeah?”

  “Yes.” She dropped her gaze. “Dillan, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Not a big deal? “You saved my life. More than once. You and Tracy—you two mean everything to me.”

  Caution filled his eyes.

  How she’d hurt him. “I’ve treated you terribly, Dillan, and I have to tell you how sorry I am.”

  His lips twitched. He looked across the lake.

  Clearly he didn’t want to hear what she had to say, but she needed to try one final time. “Tracy told me I should read the book of Ruth. You know that one?”

  “Sure.”

  She laughed. “Rhetorical question.”

  A wary smile broke. “I don’t know it all.”

  “Me either.” She reached for his hand, took his long, masculine fingers in hers. “What I do know is that I’ve twice told the most amazing man that he deserves better than me—when all I want is to see him every day.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Dillan.” She swallowed, wrapped both hands around his, and glued her gaze there. “I’m about the worst woman a pastor could date. I don’t know the Bible well, I’ve got a past that I wish would disappear, and I’m so scared that I’ll hurt you or that…”

  His fingertips slid along her hairline. “Or that I’ll hurt you.”

  She couldn’t look at him. Her voice wobbled. “That’s crazy, I know. I’ve done so much that I have no right to think you might—”

  “Miska.” He stepped closer, his warmth enveloping her. “Can I see you tonight?”

  She caught her breath. Oh, his eyes. “Tracy and I are moving.”

  “I’ll bring movers. And pizza.”