When You Believe Read online

  Copyright © 2003 by Deborah Bedford

  All rights reserved.

  WARNER BOOKS

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  The Warner Faith name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: August 2003

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56101-3

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF DEBORAH BEDFORD

  WHEN YOU BELIEVE

  “When You Believe gently explores the hearts of two women—one younger, one older—and the desperate secrets they keep hidden inside.… Deborah Bedford takes us on a journey inside those hurting hearts, plumbing their depths, seeking answers to questions we’ve all asked: ‘Does God listen to our prayers? If He listens, does He care? If He cares, why doesn’t He answer?’… This touching story demonstrates how carefully He listens, how much He cares, and how grace-filled are His answers.”

  —Liz Curtis Higgs, author of Thorn in My Heart

  “Deborah Bedford spins another stirring tale, drawing the reader into the story with her trademark charm. But don’t be fooled by the charm—When You Believe’s innocent setting quickly becomes the cauldron for a compelling story full of pain, deceit, and ultimate redemption—a story you can’t put down from start to finish. Give this one to any person who has lived in silence with secret pain.”

  —Patricia Hickman, author of Fallen Angels and Sandpebbles

  “Faith and love gleam like twin jewels in When You Believe. A heartrending story of redemption and hope.”

  —Angela E. Hunt, author of The Shadow Women

  A MORNING LIKE THIS

  “The writing is solid, the pacing steady, and the description satisfying.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A compelling read that will appeal to readers of all kinds, but particularly of Christian books.”

  —Southern Pines Pilot (NC)

  “I finished A Morning Like This with tears in my eyes and hope in my heart. Deborah Bedford reminds us that nothing is too hard for God, no heartache is beyond the reach of His comforting, healing hand.”

  —Deborah Raney, author of Beneath a Southern Sky

  “Real problems… real faith… and a God who gives songs in the night. A Morning Like This reminds us all that we can do more than just ‘grin and bear it.’ We can overwhelmingly conquer.”

  —Stephanie Grace Whitson, author of Heart of the Sandhills

  A ROSE BY THE DOOR

  “A story of relinquishment, reconciliation, and grace… grabs the reader by the heart and doesn’t let go.”

  —Debbie Macomber, author of Ready for Love

  “A compelling page-turner and a surefire winner from Deborah Bedford.”

  —Karen Kingsbury, author of A Time to Dance

  To the ones who hide what happened even from themselves,

  who don’t speak of it because it just wouldn’t do.

  To those whose hearts have yearned to be pure before the Father.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To author Sherrie Lord, who read several versions of this manuscript and made so many wise, helpful, and godly suggestions. To Natalie Stewart, whose prayers have kept me writing with joy. And to Sheila Oreskovich who, with one phone call, was always there to pray and sing Psalms over these pages. Your thereness means so much to me.

  To Charlene Zuckerman, who made me go kayaking right when I needed it most… even though there were whitecaps on String Lake. To Maria Miller, the best neighbor anyone could wish for, who has saved me more than once during a deadline and who let me borrow the incriminating evidence found in Chapter 14.

  To Pastor Mike Atkins and my family at the Jackson Hole Christian Center, because your hunger to be lovers of the Lord has taught me so much.

  To Bev Elgin, counselor at Riverton High School, who was willing to spend so many hours answering questions and giving advice.

  For space, I wish to thank the staff at The Bunnery in Jackson Hole—you’ve kept my heart and my tea warm the entire time this piece of writing has been in the works. I also thank the staff at the Teton County Library for the comfy chair, the sunny table, and the assistance with reference books and interlibrary loans.

  To my family at Warner Books, each of whom works so hard to get God’s message out in the right way—it is a privilege to stand beside you and to be on your team. You are each so dear to me.

  To Kathryn Helmers, Agent 007, whose passion and faith and belief can never be replaced. May you soar with the Father, dear one. I can’t wait to watch and see what the Lord will do!

  To my dearest P., who read one last draft of this manuscript, and who offered so much insight. Thank you for letting me tell your story. You have awed me with your willingness to be honest before your heavenly Father and before me. I have learned so much about being real in front of God from you, and that, as you know, has changed my life.

  The truth is incontrovertible.

  Panic may resent it;

  ignorance may deride it; malice may distort it;

  but there it is.

  Winston Churchill

  This then is how we know that we belong to the truth,

  and how we set our hearts at rest in his presence

  whenever our hearts condemn us.

  For God is greater than our hearts, and He knows everything.

  1 John 3:18-20

  CHAPTER ONE

  The afternoon started like any other afternoon. The first Tuesday of October was a solid, bright school day and, outside on the school steps, the sun fell across everyone’s arms like a warm shawl. The glare on Lydia’s desk had veered to the left along the windowsill. She knew it was after two P.M., yes, because the shadows of the sumac stalks outside all bent toward the east.

  Lydia Porter had been in her cubicle at Shadrach High School ever since the second lunch bell. She still had three months to work on this Missouri standards-test schedule, and it would take her that long to figure it out. If the juniors and seniors tested upstairs, she’d been thinking, the sophomores could take over B-hall downstairs. But that would leave a quarter of this year’s freshmen wandering around A-hall after third period with nothing to do.

  Her biggest challenge every year, this test schedule. She propped her chin in her palm and stared at her notes. That’s when the timid tap-tap-tapping began at the counseling office door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened five inches and a teenager’s head appeared in the crack. Amazing how the young ladies always acted so hesitant, when the boys just burst in.

  A little wave, an uncertain smile. “Miss P?”

  “Hey, Shelby. How are you?”

  For the moment, the teenager left the door open behind her. Halls that in nine minutes would be coursing with students—friends shouting, conversation rising—stood empty. Rows of b
eige metal lockers waited, closed. Except for the hum of incandescent lights in the ceiling and the far, muted voice of someone’s emphatic lecture in a classroom, the building was quiet.

  “I’m… I’m okay. Well, I guess.”

  Lydia’s chair rolled over the plastic floor mat with a welcoming clatter. “So, how’s that leg?”

  Shelby had gotten hurt tripping up the goalie from Osceola in the third game of the season. Since then, everybody had teased her about how, for a gentle and sweet girl, she’d been getting downright mean on the soccer field.

  “It’s getting better.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” A pause, while they studied each other. “Miss P? You got a minute?”

  “Sure I do. Come on in. What’s up?”

  “I was hoping… maybe… we could talk.”

  “I’d love to.”

  In Shelby came, her messy bun sprouting from her crown like a rhododendron and her sunglasses perched high atop her head. She pulled up a chair, adjusted her tiny skirt, and sat. She stayed a good minute with her knees together and her feet splayed apart, her clog-toes tapping the ground.

  She fiddled with the engraved nameplate on Lydia’s desk that read, “Miss Porter. School-to-Careers Counselor.”

  “So,” Lydia asked in a light voice, slapping her legs with her hands, settling in. “You been thinking about colleges lately?”

  “No, not really.”

  Shelby Tatum was one of Lydia’s favorites. She was one of those lucky kids whose mother showed up at every parent/teacher conference, giving proof to their favorite dictum in this office: the parents who showed up at teacher’s conferences were seldom the parents who needed to. Recently, Shelby’s grandfather had sold an old house down in Barry County and her parents had let him build a guesthouse on their property. Such a blessing; most kids never even got to know their grandfathers. And Shelby’s stepdad parked himself on the sidelines of every soccer game, roaring his approval of her team. Every week he’d be there with his golf umbrella, a folding chair, and a dilapidated briefcase as wide as a corn-fed piglet, filled with documents from Place-Perfect Missouri Real Estate, where he worked.

  So college wasn’t the right button to push. Well, she was only a sophomore. Lydia probed a little further. “Your classes coming along okay?”

  “Yeah,” the girl said. “Okay.”

  Over the past year Shelby had sealed Lydia’s admiration by launching into those loose, comfortable conversations in the hall. Not the way adults launched into them, mind you, but the way only a sixteen-year-old would do it: stony silent if you dared ask questions, burbling torrents of information when you least expected it.

  That’s why it seemed odd today, after the door shut quietly behind them, that Shelby didn’t have anything to say.

  Lydia’s pointed questions, Shelby’s short, vague answers, fizzled into silence.

  A heavy breath lifted Shelby’s breastbone and set it down again. Her eyes had taken on an unfathomable hue, a darkness that made Lydia lean forward.

  No, I can see. It’s more troubling than school stuff.

  She waited for Shelby to volunteer something. She knew she had to be willing to wait. This girl who normally gestured largely to her friends in the hallway, who slumped against her locker chattering on her cell phone, now sat with her chin against her collarbone, a twist of hair fallen from her bun, hiding her face. As she studied her, Lydia noticed the swollen eyes, the smudges beneath them as dark as slashes of purple lipstick. She had never seen Shelby this distressed.

  Oh my.

  Lydia felt a draw toward the girl so strong and natural that it might have been a tide in the ocean or the pull of the moon. She cared so much about all of them, especially the discomfited ones—the ones who had pushed boundaries a little too hard, the ones broken and flailing out against people, who didn’t understand how worthy they were.

  A sense of warm purpose welled in her bosom.

  How she longed to touch these kids with her heart, to share with them real tools for living instead of the slick pages of college catalogs.

  It’s the future you see in this place, never the present, Lydia thought. Never the present, until a worried student comes walking in the door.

  Now that Lydia thought about it, she remembered Amy Mera mentioning that Shelby, usually a stellar student, had missed homework in history. She hadn’t finished a French II assignment, either.

  So she asked, “You’ve been having trouble keeping up in class?”

  Besides soccer, Shelby sang in honor choir, had been picked to be on the mock trial team, and came early for meetings of the student council. And, as everyone knew, the good kids could get way too busy.

  Shelby had kept her backpack slung by one strap over her shoulder. Now, she let it slip to the floor between her legs. “If I had problems in one of my classes,” she asked as she replaced Lydia’s nameplate on the desk and reached for a paperclip instead, “could you help me?”

  “Of course I could. We could get you into a study hall fifth period. We could find you a tutor for French II if you needed it.”

  “That’s all it would take to get you to help me with something, Miss P? To tell you about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to tell you about it,” Shelby said, “because you’re the only one I can talk to.”

  Lydia nodded, waited.

  “You’re the only one who’s really listened to me for a long time.”

  Lydia waited some more.

  “Well.” Shelby’s fingernails, painted a Glamour-magazine buff, had been chewed on. With them, she bent the paperclip into the shape of an elongated S and dropped it on the desktop. “Really, it’s nothing.”

  “It is that, then? Do you need a tutor?”

  They listened to each other breathing for a while.

  “No, it isn’t that, either.”

  Another dead end. Well, Lydia knew how to find her way around dead ends. She began to try a little harder. “Things okay with your peers? Everything okay between you and your friends?”

  “Yeah.” The girl cocked her head. “Everything’s fine.”

  “So, everything okay at home?”

  At that moment the door burst open and in barreled three uninvited boys. “Hey, Miss P,” Tommy Ballard announced as the door hit the wall. “My mom said I was supposed to stop by here and pick up something.”

  “Tommy—”

  “Don’t remember what it was, though.”

  Lydia resented the interruption, but tried to sound reasonable. “Are you going to be out? Homework, maybe?”

  “No. Something else.”

  “You know the rules around here, don’t you? When you come into this office, you’re supposed to knock. We were talking.”

  “Oh.” Lydia saw Tommy glance with interest at Shelby. “Sorry.”

  Shelby surveyed the weave of the industrial carpet beside her left clog as if it were the most intriguing pattern she’d ever laid eyes on. She looked like she wanted to disappear into thin air.

  “What are you doing in here, Shelb?”

  “None of your business, Ballard.”

  “Tommy—”

  “Oh.” He snapped his fingers. “I know what I needed. Is this where we get those SAT sign-up things?”

  “Over there.”

  “Thanks.”

  In the same way they’d burst in with no regard, the boys overzealously helped themselves to what they needed. They started out before Lydia finished. “And this is the book of sample questions on the test,” she called as she held out another pamphlet. “You boys knock next time.”

  Tommy seized the booklet from her hand, rolled it inside his palm, and smacked the doorjamb with it. “See you, Shelb.” He led his tribe of friends out the door.

  Wordlessly, they watched Tommy Ballard go. Lydia readjusted herself, settled in the chair. Shelby played with a buckle on her backpack.

  Lydia tried again after the silence seemed like it had gone
on forever. “You didn’t answer my question, Shelby. Is everything okay at home?”

  Shelby tossed her head so one strand of unrestrained hair flew back against her shoulder and then fell forward again. Her shoulders slumped against the back of the chair. Lydia saw her slight hesitation. The girl’s lips parted as if she wanted to say something. Then they shut again.

  Shelby grappled on the floor for her backpack. “I’ve got to go.”

  Lydia couldn’t lose her now. If she did, Shelby might be gone completely. She might disappear into the river of students that coursed toward their next classes when the bell rang.

  With a sinking heart, she tacked a different direction, broaching the subject the way someone would check a tender bruise. “You’re frightened. I can tell that much.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you want to run away.”

  “I—I can’t do this.”

  “But you’re here. You came because you wanted to talk.”

  The girl rose, upsetting the nameplate on the desk. “I said I’ve got to go.”

  “Shelby.” Lydia reached for her arm and grabbed her, but didn’t rise. To rise would have meant concession, and she wouldn’t do that.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.”

  Silence.

  “Sit down.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  Lydia searched her mind for something, anything, that might change the girl’s decision to leave. “Don’t let Tommy Ballard mess this up.”

  They stared each other down. At last, Shelby plopped back into the chair and dropped her backpack again.

  “Okay,” Lydia said. “Let’s start over.”

  Outside the counseling-office window, a sprinkler kicked out its traveling arc of water over grass that looked as shorn and sun cured as a drill sergeant’s haircut. The letter board proclaimed in four-inch red-and-blue capitals GO FIRE-RATTLERS! 1999 MISSOURI STATE CLASS 2A CHAMPS.

  Underneath, smaller type declared Homecoming Dance, Oct. 10, A Night To Remember.