Nigel was wrong about her. God wasn't trying to do something in her life. That wasn't the reason Nigel was drawn to her. He was drawn to her because she loved him. And in some frightening place in his heart, Nigel loved her too. Otherwise he wouldn't spend so much time praying for her. Now all she had to do was convince him.
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Chapter 16
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When the burning pain of Nigel's rejection wore off some, Mary sat up in bed and looked at the red numbers glowing from the clock beside her. It was ten after seven. Ten minutes into the two-hour class where Nigel would tell a roomful of street people and drug addicts about the greatest love of all.
What he thought was the greatest love.
She gritted her teeth and flipped the covers off. Fine. It was too hot to sleep anyway. She could go and be late, sit in the back of the class, and try to understand Nigel better. Maybe if she heard him talk about Jesus the way she'd heard him pray, she'd get a better take on how to reach him. Because she had to reach him. She thought about him every night and woke up every morning with him on her mind.
There had to be a way.
Her clothing was still limited, but she'd picked up a bag of jeans and shorts and pretty shirts, things donated to the mission. She slipped into a pair of cutoffs and positioned herself in front of the cracked mirror propped up against one wall of her room. She smiled. No question, she was beautiful. More so than ever. Her legs were long and toned, her waist narrow. If these shorts didn't get Nigel's attention, nothing would. Next she found a tight red T-shirt that showed off her figure and made her long blonde curls stand out.
Makeup was something she'd worn daily back in Jimbo's basement, but not much since. Still, she kept a few items in her bag, and now she scrounged around looking for lipstick. She found it and after she'd applied it, she rubbed her fingers into the roots of her hair, making it fuller, more alluring.
She looked in the mirror once more. There. Nigel would be begging for a visit to her room by the time the night was finished. Yes, he had turned her down for the last time. She took nothing with her as she headed through the building to the west end, where the classrooms were.
The sound of Nigel's deep, rich voice filled the hallway, and she felt drawn to him as she followed it. When she reached his classroom, she stopped for a moment in the doorway. It took several seconds for her heart to decide whether it would beat again.
He was walking across the front, his presence filling the place. As much as she wanted him to notice her, she had the strongest desire to be invisible, to watch him and study him. What was it about the man that drew her so? He turned his back to the class and wrote something on the board.
Mary used that moment to slip in and sit behind a couple of taller men. Maybe Nigel wouldn't see her right away, and she could watch him, listen to him. Learn enough about him so she could find a way into his heart. She watched his back, the way it formed a V from his shoulders to his waist, the way his shoulder muscles flexed as he wrote. He finished and stepped aside. Only then did she see what he'd written.
Dead to self. . . alive to Christ.
She frowned. Dead to self, alive to Christ? She slumped down in her seat and looked at the words twice more. How could she ever hope to gain the attention of Nigel—not Nigel the teacher, but Nigel the man—if he talked in terms so strange and frightening? She didn't want to die, and Nigel shouldn't want that for her either. All her life had been leading to this point, to knowing Nigel and being loved by him. She was sure of it. Death had no part of what she wanted to share with him.
He faced the class again, and almost at the same time his eyes found hers. He hesitated and smiled, but not the sort of smile she wanted from him. That was okay. She sat a little straighten One day he'd smile at her that way.
Nigel shifted his gaze to the other side of the classroom and pointed back at the chalkboard. "Jesus Christ wants to be at the center of everything we do. His life is life. It's the only life where we will be loved the way we were meant to be loved." He walked to the other end of the room, but he looked at Mary again. "He has the love each one of you has been looking for all your life. The greatest love of all."
Mary shifted in her seat. Was that all this class was? A two-hour talk about why God was so great and how His love was the greatest goal of life? Nigel was asking the people to turn their Bibles to John chapter ten. That's when she stopped listening. She'd heard enough. If Nigel didn't have facts, if he didn't have something more interesting than his opinions on God, she wouldn't stay. One day he would listen to her, and then she wouldn't need to come to his class just to hear him talk. Because he'd talk to her whenever she wanted.
In her room ... on her terms.
She stood and left without looking back. Out in the hallway, down twenty feet or so, was a girl about her age—maybe a few years older. Mary had seen her before, stopping in at the mission for a meal or hanging out with people who took Nigel's class.
There was no way back to her bedroom without walking past her, and as she approached, the girl rolled her eyes. "Like a broken record, huh?"
Rarely did women talk to Mary, so the question took her by surprise. She wanted to look over her shoulder, make sure the girl wasn't talking to someone else. Instead she stopped and leaned against the opposite wall. "Nigel's class?"
"Yep." The girl wore jeans that were a size too small and a low-cut tank top. She was thin and had dark hair. Pretty but hard. She had the look of someone who had spent years on the streets. "Got in there and heard it was about love today." She released a single laugh, but she didn't smile. "I don't need some Holy Roller teacher telling me about love. I already know about love." Another laugh. "In my life, love pays the bills, if you know what I mean."
Mary wasn't sure. She twisted her face, curious.
The girl must've taken her expression as a sign to continue. "You turn tricks, right?"
"Tricks?" Heat filled Mary's cheeks. She must've known about her past. "Prostitution, you mean?"
"Of course." The girl glanced down the hall where they could still hear Nigel's voice. "Let's get out of here. We can talk outside."
"Okay." Mary wasn't tired, and the girl was interesting. Someone she could talk to. She followed her outside the mission and down the street a few doors.
"You're new, right?"
"Sort of. This is my third week."
The girl tossed her hair over her shoulder and propped herself against the wall. "My name's Summer." She gave Mary a once-over. "I know about your past. Of course you turn tricks. I mean, look at you."
Mary wasn't about to acknowledge her past. But she could answer for who she had become. "I'm not a prostitute, no."
Summer laughed. "You will be." She gestured toward the street. "There's a fortune waiting for you out there." She squinted at Mary. "With a face and body like yours, come on."
Strange new feelings tossed around in Mary's heart. A fortune? Why hadn't she ever thought of that before? In juvenile detention she couldn't turn tricks. She could sleep around and almost never get caught. But she couldn't leave the building and get paid for it on the streets.
Now, though, she was an adult, eighteen years old. In a year when she was finished working at the mission, she could do whatever she wanted. The sun was setting, and the angle hit Mary straight in the face. She shielded her eyes. "I'm still finishing my sentence. A year working at the mission before I can even think about it."
"Nah." Summer swatted at the air above her head. "I had a work program once too. You leave and they put your name on a list. But no one ever comes looking for you." She nodded to the streets again. "How're you ever gonna break free without money?"
It was a good question. The mission work paid something—fifty dollars a week. That and food and a free room. In a year she could have twenty-four hundred dollars if she saved every penny. It sounded like a fortune when she added it up. Plenty of money to find her way back to New York City and see if by some miracle her Gra
ndma Peggy was still there.
She leveled her gaze at Summer. "I'll have more than two thousand dollars after a year. That isn't bad."
"Two thousand dollars in a year?" Summer folded her arms and sneered. "You can make that in a month on the streets."
For most of her life Mary had known people who serviced men for a price. Her first year in juvenile detention she figured out that prostitution was how her own mother had made a living. A conversation came to mind, something she and her mother had talked about the month before she disappeared.
"How come you dress up some nights, Mama?" Mary had been young and only vaguely aware. She was certain her mother did drugs, because she'd heard her grandma talking about it. But she must've paid for the drugs somehow.
"Mama does her job at night, sweetie."
"What sorta job?"
"Well . . . Mama takes care of men."
It was the same job Mary had done for Jimbo all those years in the basement. Prostitution.
Summer was still talking, something about having a boomer month one year. "I pulled in seven thousand—" she whistled—"but that's when I was young like you. Now I've got twenty-five years on me. Five or ten more and I'll need me a new line of work." She laughed as if it were the funniest thing she'd said all evening.
Mary wondered if she'd feel old when she was twenty-five. She felt sick at the thought. Turning tricks might work for a while. But for a living? She'd sooner starve to death. "Maybe you'd feel better if you found a different job."
"Nothing pays like streetwalking." She shrugged. "You'll figure it out, kid."
"No." Mary's resolve grew stronger. She thought about Nigel. "I'll file papers until I find real love." She made a face. "Not the love Nigel Townsend talks about though."
"Oh . . ." Summer studied her, and then a slow smile filled her face. "You're in love with him." It wasn't a question.
"No." Mary shook her head. "I could never—"
"He'll break your heart. He's gorgeous and strong and good." She whistled again. "No one looks like Nigel Townsend." Her tone changed. "But he isn't your type or mine." Summer narrowed her eyes and looked at the darkening sky. "Almost like he's straight from heaven. The woman who turns Nigel's head will be a God-fearing woman, the kind you and I ain't never gonna be."
The statement made Mary angry. Summer didn't know what Nigel wanted. Besides, all men wanted the same kind of love, right? She could offer that sort like a pro. She was finished talking with Summer. She started walking in the opposite direction of the mission.
"What? Did I scare you off?" Summer called after her, and Mary picked up her pace. Before she was out of earshot, she heard Summer's laughter echoing down the street.
Mary crossed a busy street and headed into a park beyond. Rules at the mission were strict. No leaving without permission from one of the staff members and then only for an express purpose and for a short amount of time. Definitely not after dark, and already it was dusk.
Still . . .
Nigel was in class until after nine, and the other staff would be gone or in class with him. The night had kicked up a warm breeze, something to break the sticky humidity. Mary slowed her steps and stopped. Ahead of her was a couple like the kind she wanted to be a part of. A pretty, well-dressed woman with a nice-looking man on her arm, living in a world of dreams and dates and shared love. That's what she wanted with Nigel. She leaned against a tree. The bark was rough against her back, but she didn't care. The couple stopped at a play area, and the young woman sat in one of the swings.
Mary couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but she could hear the woman's laughter, see the way she tipped her head back as the man pushed her high into the air. Eventually the couple grew tired of the swing and continued down the path through the middle of the park. As they faded from view, Mary thought about what Summer had told her. Nigel would break her heart. He wanted a God-fearing woman, someone clean and pure.
Like the breeze on her face, the truth hit her. Summer was right, of course. Nigel would never want her. He would tell her about God's love and how following Jesus meant being dead to self and alive to Christ. But he could never accept her past—a past he clearly knew about. Every detail was in her file.
She drew a long breath and held it. It was mid-July. The smell of cherry blossoms was gone, and the air was rich with the earthy scent of fresh-cut grass. What if Summer was right about the other stuff too? Two thousand dollars after a year's work? All the while seeing Nigel every day and knowing she couldn't turn his head in any of the usual ways?
It would seem like a decade at least.
Prostitution wasn't something she wanted, but short term ... a month or two. . . . That was all it would take to have enough money to get back to New York. She bit her lip and pulled away from the tree. The decision didn't have to come tonight. She could work around Nigel for another week or so and see if anything changed. If it didn't, well . . . the tricks would always be there.
She headed back toward the busy intersection. Another block and she'd be at the mission. After a good night's sleep, she'd probably forget she'd ever had thoughts like these. Nigel would see the light eventually. She came to the crosswalk and pushed the button. At that same instant, a shiny black car drove slowly past her. The driver was bald and was wearing a fancy suit. He looked hard at her and then drove on.
But before the light turned, before she could cross the street, he swung his car around and went through the intersection again, his eyes still on her. Once more he passed by and swung his car around. This time he pulled up and rolled down his window. "Hi, beautiful." His eyes were bright. Not like Nigel's, but not mean like Jimbo's either.
Her nerves rattled, and it took a moment to find her voice. "Do I know you?" He didn't look familiar. Was it her past? Was that how he knew her?
"Actually . . ." He motioned her down the sidewalk a few feet, away from the busy intersection. Then he turned off his engine. "Here." He patted the seat beside him. "I do business in the area."
Business? The man had a powerful look about him, but he didn't frighten her. She opened his car door and sat inside, one foot still on the curb. "What. . . sort of business?"
The man smiled. "Banking."
"Oh. How do you know me?"
A sadness came across the man's face, but it was a sadness that didn't quite look real. "I don't know." He brushed his fingers against her chin. "You look familiar."
She was about to get out, to walk away so he wouldn't remember where he'd seen her before.
That's when he made a shallow gasp. "Wait, I know." He snapped his fingers a few times. "You're that girl—the one they rescued from the basement." He pointed at her. "Mary, right?"
Her face felt hot, and she stared at her lap. "1 should go before—"
"Wait!" He sounded sincere. "It was wrong, what happened to you." He hesitated and brought his lips together tight. "Are you . . . are you by yourself?"
"Yes." She lifted one shoulder. His car smelled rich, like leather and expensive cologne. The man didn't seem quite genuine, but he wasn't going to hurt her. She could tell that much.
The man searched her face. "Do you work down here?"
Mary nodded. She considered telling him about the mission and her filing job, but she changed her mind. "I'm saving money to get back to New York City."
The man ran his tongue along his lower lip. "Are you . . . eighteen yet?"
"Yes."
A smile lifted the man's face. "Mary ... I think I can help you." He leaned against his door. "How would you like to work for me?"
Mary started to shake her head, but the man held up his hand. "Not that sort of work. I mean secretarial tasks—typing, filing, answering the phone." His voice was casual, but the intensity in his eyes doubled. "I'll pay you twice whatever you're making now."
His body language confirmed what she had already guessed. He meant her no harm. "That sounds okay."
The man smiled, but it never reached his eyes. "I'd set you up in your
own place, get you some nice clothes. You'd start next Monday."
Mary's head was spinning. She hadn't done drugs since she'd been at the mission, but in that moment she was desperate for a hit of something. The man's offer was too fast, too good to be true. "I ... I don't know."
"The way I see it, Mary—" he reached out and touched her hand briefly—"you deserve a break."
Mary breathed in, but the air refused to fill her lungs. She gripped the door handle of the car. "Come with you? Right now?"
The man squinted out the windshield and looked down the street. "Where do you live?"
Heat filled her cheeks again. Her voice fell some. "At the mission."
Genuine sadness filled his face this time. "That settles it. You'll come with me."
"What about my clothes, my stuff?"
The man shook his head. "We'll get you new things. You have the rest of your life ahead of you."
Mary looked down the street toward the mission. She could play this out, couldn't she? see where it led? She could come back to the New Life Center in a week or so if the job didn't pan out. She felt her confidence swell. Working for a businessman was a respectable job, not like turning tricks on the streets.
Maybe with a job like that, Nigel would see her differently.
"Come on, Mary." The man looked in his rearview mirror. "Everything's going to be okay."
"All right." A rush of fear hit her as she shut the door, as the man pushed a button and the locks slipped into position. "Where are we going first?"
"I have a penthouse where I entertain out-of-town businesspeople." The man pulled the car into traffic. He glanced at her. "You'll be safe there. Tomorrow we can get you some clothes and find you an office in my building."
"You have your own building?" Mary still felt breathless. Everything was happening so fast.
The man chuckled. "I have ten buildings."
Mary had nothing to say in response. The man must've been a millionaire. A billionaire even. But what would he want with her, and how had it all happened so quickly? She sat back in her seat and gripped the armrests. The man hadn't even told her his name or the name of his business. What if he wasn't a businessman at all? A flashback came at her, making her dizzy with fear. The last time she'd climbed into a car and headed off to some unknown destination was with Jimbo and Lou. The place they had taken her had made her a prisoner for the next five years.