Page 69 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

Chapter Thirty-Nine

“I promise you’re doing the right thing, Brec.”

Brec slid Molly a half-lidded look out of the corner of his eyes as he drove them from the shooting range in Bloomington to Eden the next week, where the corpse of his past was buried. “Yes, but can you promise I’ll survive it?” he muttered, the sarcasm in his tone as thick as the dread in his throat.

“Yes, I can promise you that because we prayed about it, remember?”

His mouth thinned along with his patience. Yeah, he remembered. First when Aunt Lilly strong-armed him into rededicating his life to God the afternoon of Molly’s birthday, so he could put his past behind and start anew.

With Molly.

Then Molly insisting they pray together in the car before they went to his father’s house.

Rededication in stereo, and it was starting to hurt his ears.

Which meant he had a long, long way to go before he could ever woo Molly with her aphrodisiac of choice. His mouth crooked as he stared over the dash.

Faith.

“So, what’s that smirk for, mister?”

He glanced over with a bonafide smile. “It means you’re awfully bloomin’ cocky regarding my life, Princess, especially for a prayer that only has a 50/50 chance of success.”

“How you figure?” She studied him through a squint.

He shrugged as he negotiated a curve on the particularly winding country road. “Well, the Bible says, ‘the prayers of a righteous man availeth much’—”

She cut loose with a low whistle. “Whoa, look at you—flinging Scripture around like one of those Holy-Roller types. Be still, my heart.”

He tossed her a dry smile. “I lived with one of those Holy-Roller types almost every summer till I was eighteen, Goldie, so give me some credit, will you?”

“Oh, I do, Pelé”—her expression was serious, but he didn’t miss the humor in her eyes—“because I don’t know many players who can quote Scripture.”

“Anyway,” he said, ignoring her veiled tease, “what I meant is you’re righteous, but I’m not, so I’m counting on your 50% to get me through.”

“Ah, ah, ah ...” She wagged a finger at him. “Romans 3:21-22 says, ‘the righteousness of God comes through faith in Christ for all who believe.’” Her chin rose in challenge. “I’m pretty sure that includes you unless Miss Lilly fell down on the job?”

His mouth took a twist. “You know she didn’t. But I sure did, later.”

She dismissed his statement with an unruffled shake of her head. “Doesn’t matter because the line before the one you quoted just happens to be”—she paused with palms raised, obviously for dramatic effect—“‘confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed,’ which Miss Lilly said you did with her the day of my birthday dinner, yes?”

“Yes.” It came out more curt than intended.

“So, that means you’re good to go, Soccer Boy, because A.) You already have God’s righteousness through Jesus, and B.) You’re trying to maintain it via repentance and prayer, right? So, boom!”—she gave a proud jut of her chin—“1 John 3:22 in the flesh: ‘And whatsoever we ask, we receive of him, because we keep His commandments, and do those things that are pleasing in his sight.”

His lips skewed to the right as he put his blinker on. “Easier said than done, Princess.”

A wispy sigh drifted from her lips. “True, but then if it were easy, everybody would give it a shot, and that’s certainly not the case. Which just brings us full circle, Pelé, back to the old ‘when you are weak, then you are strong’ discussion, confirmed by the good, ol’ prophet Isaiah: ‘So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’”

“Blimey, lass, you have an answer to everything, don’t you now?”

“Yep. It’s called the Bible.”

His chest expanded and contracted in a tortuous sigh as he pulled into a long paver driveway as unsteady as his nerves. Ribcage constricting, he turned the engine off and just stared out the window while unwelcome emotion thickened the walls of his throat. “Yeah? Well then, what do you do when you’re dizzy and sick to your stomach?”

He felt her gentle touch on his arm. “Oh, that’s a piece of cake, Pelé,” she whispered in a caring voice that held just a hint of tease. “You put your head between your knees.”

She reached for his hand and gave it a gentle press, which he promptly returned with a sting of tears he hoped she didn’t see. “Thank you, Nurse Ratched. I’m glad you’re here to pick up the pieces.”