Part 1 (1/2)
BEYOND THE STORM.
Quilts of Love Series.
Carolyn Zane.
For my sister, Judy.
Acknowledgments.
Thankfully, I have never been in an actual tornado, so I had to lean heavily on the expertise of others and on detailed historical doc.u.mentation. Any errors made regarding storms are due to my own lack of understanding on such matters, not misinformation from my experts. My second cousin, Nancy McKenney, was a first responder for the Red Cross in the recent Tuscaloosa, Alabama, tornado, and she told me many firsthand accounts of the devastation she encountered there. I also interviewed a number of friends from the Midwest who shared their memories of rus.h.i.+ng to the bas.e.m.e.nt, a tornado at their heels. Thank you, Elizabeth Kelley, Linda Schuck, Harold Mayc.u.mber, and Jill Foster for sharing these memories.
For the basic plot and idea, I have to thank my sister, Judy Pierce. For her many prayers, our brainstorming sessions, the Spurgeon quotes, her enthusiasm for this project, and our countless phone calls devoted to discussing details, I have to say that this is her baby, too. Also, thank you, first readers: My husband, Matt Pizzuti; parents, Doug and Pat Tope; my daughters, Madeline and Grace Pizzuti; niece, Charlyn Pierce; and my good friends Betty Springer and Wendy Warren, who were so encouraging and gave awesome critiques and notes.
I must also acknowledge the nonfiction books I pored over for the hair-raising details of the real thing: And h.e.l.l Followed with It by Bonar Menninger, Storm Warning by Nancy Mathis, and 5:41: Stories from the Joplin Tornado by Randy Turner and John Hacker are among some of the best. YouTube also has amazing firsthand video of recent post-storm devastation in Joplin and Tuscaloosa and other regions, which reduced me to tears more than once.
For pure inspiration as to what it looks like for a person to be sold out to and in love with Jesus and his Word, I thank my pastor, Brett Meador, for his fine example. His book-by-book, verse-by-verse Bible teachings can be found online on the Athey Creek Christian Fellows.h.i.+p website ().
I can't begin to explain the chain of miracles that led me to write this book without saying a huge, heartfelt thank-you to my award-winning agent, Sandra Bishop of the MacGregor Agency, and to my editor, Ramona Richards, who conceived the Quilts of Love series. Thank you both, for believing in me.
And, of course, first, last, and forever, Jesus Christ, my coauthor and redeemer: I love you.
PART ONE.
THE EDGE OF THE.
STORM.
All afflictions are not chastis.e.m.e.nts for sin;
there are some afflictions that have
quite another end and object.
-C. H. Spurgeon.
1.
7:00 a.m.
”Good morning Rawston, heart of the American Midwest! We've got seven a.m. straight up on your Sat.u.r.day, May 3rd, and you are listening to Mike and Julie on 101.5 K-RAW. Keep it right here for traffic and weather on the tens as head meteorologist Ron Donovan's got some breaking news about a thunder boomer headed our way, right after this!”
The bell over the Doo Drop-In Hair Salon's front door jangled as it opened. ”I got wings!” Isuzu Nakamura shouted as she did every morning when she arrived for work. As usual, she gave the door a healthy, window-rattling slam.
”Mmph.” Twenty-eight-year-old Abigail Durham, the salon's owner/operator jerked awake and blinked around the break room. Ah, man. She'd been dozing. And the day hadn't even begun. What on earth had possessed her to stay out so late last night? Isuzu's ma.s.sive purse crashed onto her workstation table and moments later, Abigail could sense her standing at the door, frowning as she sat up and peeled a granola bar wrapper off her cheek.
”You look terrible.”
Abigail yawned up at Isuzu-fresh-as-a-lotus-flower-Nakamura. She might be tiny in stature, but the dainty j.a.panese national was as tough as the acrylic she used for her customers' French-tip nails. Isuzu rummaged through the cupboards. ”I make more coffee. You stay out too late at Kaylee bachelorette party last night?”
”Golly, mom. Why do you ask?” A person would never guess that Zuzu was three years younger than Abigail, the way she acted like such a granny at only twenty-five.
Isuzu dropped the metal coffeepot into the sink and turned the water on, full blast. ”You wear two different shoe.”
”Oh?” Abigail frowned at her feet. ”Oh. Don't worry. I'm not actually here yet. I just came down to check my appointment calendar. I don't have anyone till 8:30.”
The smell of the coffee beans Isuzu had ground began to tease Abigail awake. ”So? How was party?”
”Kaylee hated it . . . so, it was fun.” Dancing and party shenanigans had never been the virginal bride's bag. Probably would have left before the whole thing started, but Kaylee wasn't one to hurt anybody's feelings. Had Kaylee been an animal, she'd have been a dainty, coal-black poodle, all soft curly hair, soulful brown eyes, and perfect manners.
”Too bad you miss Friday service at church last night. They dedicate big, fat baby to Jesus. Baby cry and smack pastor in nose. Blood everywhere. Very exciting.”
”Ah. Yeah. Well. Next time.” As if. Abigail ducked her head and crossed her eyes. Church on Friday night? Isuzu needed to get a life. Sunday morning was enough for any normal person and even then, only if one couldn't come up with a good excuse for sleeping in.
The door jangled again, and Isuzu glanced up. ”I do prom nail for my niece, Brooke, this morning. She invited to prom dance with nice boy tonight. Fresh coffee in two minute, okay?” Isuzu pointed at the hissing machine and then rushed to greet her niece, leaving Abigail to mull over memories of last night while she waited for her java to perk.
Kaylee's bridesmaids had gone all out. A pinata filled with party favors and gifts, line-dancing lessons, and some dude named Bob Ray Lathrop-part-time personal trainer-had dressed as a cop, arrested Kaylee for ”breaking hearts everywhere,” and then proceeded to do a dance that had everyone howling. They'd all taken a turn on the dance floor with Bob Ray, and he'd pa.s.sed out business cards and coupons for one free personal training session down at his gym, The Pump.
But, to Abigail's way of thinking, the best part of the night had arrived too late. ”Whoooie! Get a load of the Marlboro man!” one of Kaylee's bridesmaids had shouted over the blaring country music, just as Abigail staggered off the dance floor and flopped into a chair to rest up. Craning to see, Abigail had snapped to attention. Oh, my. Yes, indeedy. Cute, cute, cute. Real cute. He wore his plaid s.h.i.+rt untucked, and his Levi's and cowboy boots gave the impression that he'd just climbed off the rodeo bull. In her professional opinion, he could use a good haircut, but it was hard to tell as he'd covered most of the offense with a backwards ball cap. She ignored the niggling voice of caution that cried, Anybody that good-looking has to be a womanizing jerk. Don't you have enough scar tissue on your heart from meeting guys like him in places like this? Feeling rebellious, Abigail had pointed her fingers, like twin revolvers, at cowboy-man and pulled the trigger, then blown at her fingertips.
”Abigail! He saw you!” the bridesmaid had shrieked and ducked her head in a fit of laughter.
”Uh-oh,” she'd said and laughed. Right about that time, the bride, killjoy-Kaylee, began making noises about heading home. Seemed the bachelorette had family arriving from Seattle over the weekend and wanted some beauty rest. Plus, her fiance had called her twice, which Abigail had razzed her about, teasing that he was probably worried about Kaylee's virtue.
”Marlboro,” as the girls had nicknamed the newcomer, stood just inside the door, arms folded-making it obvious he spent time in the gym-and surveyed the joint for a few minutes. Then, much to the bridal party's delight, he strode across the room and asked Abigail to dance. It had been like something out of a movie.
”My hero!” she'd shouted for the benefit of the girls. They'd all catcalled and whistled as she'd skipped out to the dance floor after him. Abigail's hands had felt feminine in his work-roughened ones, but his touch had been gentle and polite and his smile genuine. He was all beautiful teeth and twinkling eyes and five o'clock shadow. He'd taken enough time to slap on a little aftershave that morning. Armani. It wasn't cheap. Abigail knew this because she carried it at the salon. Mm-mm. Such deep blue eyes. And eyelashes? Long enough to sweep her off her feet.
As she reminisced, Abigail found a mug and poured herself a cup of coffee.
”Come here often?” he'd asked in a deliciously rich baritone.
She'd leaned back in his arms and grinned at the dopey line. ”Nope. You?”
”To be honest, the only reason I'm here now is because I just finished some work I was doing on a charity project and I'm starving. If I come here at all, it's usually with a group of work buddies for burgers and to catch the game scores.”
”Sounds fun.” Charity thing. Yeah. Sure. Whatever. It was true, however, that Low Places offered burgers as big as your head and a trough of fries for a song.
”Your boyfriend mind me asking you to dance?”