Who Do I Lean On?

who do i lean on?

Other Novels by Neta Jackson

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Series

The Yada Yada Prayer Group

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

The Yada Yada House of Hope Series

Where Do I Go?

Who Do I Talk To?

who do i

lean on?

Book 3

A

yada yada

House of Hope

Novel

NETA JACKSON

© 2010 by Neta Jackson

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

Scripture quotations are taken from the following: THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION ®. © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

The New King James Version ®. © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

I Go to the Rock, words and music by Dottie Rambo. © 1977 New Spring, Inc. (ASCAP). Administered by Brentwood-Benson Music Publishing, Inc. Used by permission.

Liz Curtis Higgs, Bad Girls of the Bible (Colorado Springs: Waterbrook, 1999). Title and author referred to within the text of this novel.

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jackson, Neta.

Who do I lean on? / Neta Jackson.

p. cm. — (Yada Yada house of hope ; bk 3)

ISBN 978-1-59554-525-1 (pbk.)

1. Christian women—Fiction. 2. Shelters for the homeless—Fiction.

3. Chicago (Ill.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3560.A2415W476 2010

813'.54—dc22

2010007704

Printed in the United States of America

10 11 12 13 14 15 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Pam

My ministry partner

My Avis, my sistah, my friend

For putting up with me on all our travels

Speaking words of encouragement when I falter

Praying God’s Word to keep our focus

Laughing about all our bloopers

Correcting me when I need it

And doing it all

In love

contents

prologue

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

chapter 30

chapter 31

chapter 32

chapter 33

chapter 34

chapter 35

chapter 36

chapter 37

chapter 38

chapter 39

chapter 40

chapter 41

reading group guide

reading in 3-D

prologue

July 2006

Philip Fairbanks watched stoically as the young man in the gold brocade vest and gold bow tie snapped cards out of the automatic shuffler and dealt two cards facedown in front of each player. But feeling his left eye beginning to twitch, he glanced around the poker room, already busy this early on a Friday afternoon. Wouldn’t do to give the other players a clue that he was nervous. He took it all in—the hum of activity at the other tables, the chandeliers glittering overhead, the clink of glasses as pretty young things in revealing black teddies brought drinks from the bar—trying to recapture the thrill he’d felt when he first came to the casino just for fun with his business partner. But today, the atmosphere seemed to be closing in on him. Like a cloying silk blanket generating static electricity, waiting to spark.

He turned back. The opening bid was already on the table. Two hundred each. Leaning forward, Philip casually picked up the two cards he’d been dealt. Two tens. A pair of dimes . . . He had to do better than that.

There you are! Two young women moving through the poker room of the Horseshoe Casino made a beeline toward them, stopping by two frat-types who helped make up Philip’s table. Crystal and I’ve been looking all over for you! What are you playing?

Texas Hold ’Em, said one frat boy with a blond buzz cut. The game I was telling you about. Can you wait? We’ve already started, but it goes fast.

Philip put his cards facedown. He didn’t like spectators. The girls were too close. Distracting. He could smell a faint whiff of gardenia perfume. Too heavy. He felt like telling the girls to beat it. No, he just had to focus. He raised an eyebrow at the middle-aged guy to the left of the dealer. Was the man going to fold, or . . . ?

The bald man frowned at his hand. I’ll raise it three hundred. He pushed his chips forward. Philip shrugged as if bored, stacked the same number of chips, and pushed them into the pile. The two college kids each matched the first bid.

All right. It was starting to look interesting. Two thousand on the table. He needed twice that to cover the business account before Henry Fenchel got the company’s bank statement next week. Shouldn’t be a problem. After all, the Fairbanks and Fenchel Commercial Development Firm was his brainchild. His money as much as Henry’s. He’d just been off his game last weekend— having his sons show up in Chicago for their grandmother’s funeral had distracted him. And his new credit cards had only arrived two days ago, after he’d frozen his personal cards to keep his wife from using them. Why it had taken so long was beyond irritating.

Still, he wasn’t too worried. If he had a few good games this weekend, he would make up the money he’d borrowed from the business account . . . plus gravy.

Philip watched, impassive, as the dealer burned the top card and then flipped the next three cards faceup on the table. The community cards, called the flop. A jack . . . another ten . . . a six. All different suits. But that ten would give him three of a kind. Philip studied the faces of the other three players. Nothing. Well, the bet would tell.

The big guy shook his head and passed. Ah, good. Now it was up to Philip to bet. He could simply check, see what the other two would do . . . no. He’d push it. Maybe they’d fold. Could he win with three of a kind? Not a great hand, but he’d won with less. Still, he shouldn’t appear overconfident.

I’ll raise two hundred.

The twentysomething to his left pursed his lips. Philip wanted to smile but didn’t. The kid had to match, raise, or fold. The girls standing behind them whispered something, gave Philip a flirty glance, and giggled. Philip wished they’d go away. Bad for concentration. Half a minute ticked by. The young man shrugged and matched the bid. So did his friend.

Back to the bald-headed guy. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Philip didn’t think he’d raise it after passing the bet when he had a chance. But now it was either match or fold. Don’t sweat it, buddy. You’ve only got five hundred in the pot. Go ahead. Fold— The man pushed chips worth a matching two hundred into the pot.

Well, okay. The pot was now twenty-eight hundred. Maybe he’d make up the four thousand he owed Fairbanks and Fenchel on the first game. Sweet.

The dealer burned the top card, then flipped a single card faceup next to the original flop of three. An eight of hearts. That made two hearts on the table—the eight and the six. It didn’t help Philip. His best hand was still only three of a kind. Maybe he should get out, take his losses, and try again. He’d only be out seven hundred. He’d still have the rest of the four thousand to play, and the night was young.

The older guy checked again. Philip tried to read him. The guy couldn’t have a good hand, or he would’ve bet right out of the gate. He was leaving it to Philip to make the call—reacting rather than taking the initiative. Chump. Philip waited a good thirty seconds and then raised the pot another two hundred.

The whispering continued. Philip glared at the young women. They backed off, still whispering and laughing.

One of the college kids folded; the other matched Philip’s bet. That made a pot of thirty-two hundred. Back to the bald guy. What would he do?

The man chewed his lip. Took out a handkerchief and mopped the back of his neck. Shaking his head, he matched the bid, moving his chips to the center of the table.

Was the fool bluffing? If so, he was taking it too far.

Last play. Philip watched as the dealer burned the top card of the deck and flipped the next card faceup next to the other four. The final card. Sometimes called Fifth Street, sometimes the river. Philip’s heart pumped. Another ten! With two on the table and two in his hand, he could make four of a kind. Not bad . . . not bad at all!

The bald guy looked at his cards. Looked at the five community cards on the table. Each player could use any three from the table to make his five-card final hand. The only unknowns were the two cards each player was holding. Philip tried to picture what the guy could possibly use. The new ten made three hearts—ten, eight, six. Maybe the guy had a pair, or even two . . . or an ace, hoping to take the pot with a single high card.

None of which would win over his four of a kind.

The guy suddenly moved all his chips into the center of the table. What—? Those chips were worth another thousand! Philip recalculated. The guy probably had two hearts in his hand—a flush, five cards in the same suit.

A decent hand. But his four of a kind would beat it.

What the heck. This is what made it fun. Philip matched the man’s thousand and sat back.

Fifty-four hundred in the pot.

The second kid threw up his hands. I fold. You guys are nuts.

That’s it? the dealer said. Lay down your hands.

Breaking into a wide smile, the bald guy laid down two hearts—a nine and a seven. Humph, a flush. Just what I thought. Philip gave the guy five seconds to enjoy his victory, then laid down his tens. Four of a kind beats your flush, he said, finally allowing a small smile. Ohh, that was easy. He mentally added the pot to the twenty-one hundred in chips he still had. Seventy-five hundred. Not bad for a twenty-minute game. Even after he repaid the four thousand he’d borrowed from the business account— Henry none the wiser—he’d still have thirty-five hundred in cool profit . . .

"Not a flush. A straight flush, buddy! Lookit that. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten—all hearts! Beats your four of a kind. Ha ha!" The bald guy started raking in the pile of chips from the middle of the table.

Philip stared. Why hadn’t he seen it? He felt his face redden. Now he felt like a fool. Worse than seeing his winnings evaporate.

Well, he wasn’t going to let this chump get the best of him. He still had twenty-one hundred to work some magic. He looked up at the dealer. I’m in again. What’s the minimum bid?

Philip pulled the Lexus into his space in the parking garage at Richmond Towers on Monday morning and turned off the motor. He sat for several long minutes before opening the car door, a sense of dread pooling in his gut. The weekend at the casino had gone badly. He should’ve pulled out while his losses were minimal. But it would have been so easy to make it all right! Just one good win and he could’ve covered the withdrawal from the business account and made a profit. But it didn’t go down that way. He’d taken out a couple thousand from his personal account, sure his luck would turn . . . and then had to do it a few more times. Now he’d lost ten thousand of his own money, and he still had four thousand to pay back to Fairbanks and Fenchel.

He got out of the car and retrieved his overnight bag from the trunk. Well, he’d take care of the business account and worry about the rest later. He’d make the transfer with his personal debit card and hope Henry wouldn’t notice the withdrawal and deposit if the balance was good. Even if he did, he’d smooth Henry’s feathers, just tell him it was an emergency. What was the problem if he put it back?

But now he was out nearly fifteen grand. He never meant to let his losses get that high.

Philip slid his security card through the keypad that let him into the residential elevators. He should have come home Sunday—maybe even Saturday—before he’d lost so much money. But the penthouse was so empty these days without Gabby and the boys . . . no, he couldn’t go there. Don’t look back, Philip. What’s done is done. It wasn’t working.

Stepping into an empty elevator, he punched the button for the thirty-second floor. Still, he spent as little time as possible in the penthouse. Everywhere he turned, it was like he expected to see them—the boys tussling over the remote . . . Gabby’s mop of auburn curls on the pillow next to him . . .

It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way! Gabby had gone off her rocker—dragging that smelly old bag lady home the first time Fenchel and his wife had come to dinner. Then she took that charity job at the homeless shelter without even discussing it with him! It was like she’d forgotten why they came to Chicago in the first place. Just decided to dance to her own music, never mind that it clashed with his.

But bringing her elderly mother and the mutt to stay at the penthouse had been the last straw . . . No, costing him the deal with a potential client—that was the last straw. He blamed Fenchel for that. Henry should have known better than to trust Gabby to deliver a phone message with sensitive information related to the business. She was so clueless about business protocol, she was like a loose cannon on a pitching ship.

The elevator dinged at the top floor of Richmond Towers, and the door slid open. Kicking her out had been drastic, but the situation had gotten intolerable. Maybe a few months on her own would knock some sense into her. She’d gotten a lawyer—some do-gooder from Legal Aid—but he knew Gabby. She wouldn’t want a divorce. If he didn’t rush things, if he worked stuff out with the boys, she’d come around. Let it pinch for a while.

Philip glanced at his Rolex as he crossed the marble foyer and pulled out his keys. He still had time to get a quick shower, change his clothes, and do the money transfer online before he headed to the office. Monday morning traffic into the city from Indiana hadn’t been too bad. If he hustled, he could still get to the office by ten.

Intent on a quick in-and-out, Philip headed down the hallway to the master bedroom—but stopped as he entered. Something was wrong here. He scanned the room.

Gabby’s dresser was missing.

He tossed his overnight bag on the bed and scanned the room once more. What else was missing? Had she said something about this? He flipped open his cell phone and scrolled down through recent calls. There . . . Gabby’s new cell phone ID, dated last Friday. He hadn’t bothered to listen to the message or return the call. Figured whatever it was could wait. But had she just—?

He turned on his heel and strode back down the hallway, jerking doors open as he went. Half the linens and towels from the linen closet—gone. Both the boys’ bedrooms—cleaned out. In the kitchen, the breakfast nook table and chairs had disappeared. He opened the cupboards. Most of the dishes, pots and pans, and utensils still seemed to be there. Hard to tell. At least she’d left enough for him to function.

Philip crossed to the dining room . . . it looked untouched. Even their wedding china was still in the china cabinet. Huh. Why didn’t she just clean him out while she was at it? Go figure.

Wait. His study. She better not have touched my study! Practically breaking into a run, Philip threw open the door to his inner sanctum. But everything looked just as he’d left it . . . no, wait. The bookshelves had been disturbed. The family photo albums were gone. And a bunch of books. And a file drawer was open. The one that usually held their medical records, the boys’ school records—personal stuff.

He stood in the middle of the room. His computer, his papers, untouched. But something else seemed missing . . . what was it? His eyes roved the room, then settled on an empty spot on one of his bookshelves and realized what it was.

The framed photo of the two of them on their fifth wedding anniversary, cake smudges on their noses, Gabby’s hair a halo of red-gold curls, laughing up at him mischievously.

That photo. Happier times . . . Why had she taken it? Or had she thrown it away? A quick check of the wastebasket in the study and the kitchen trash can yielded nothing. But somehow the photo’s absence yawned larger than the rest of the missing items put together.

Philip walked slowly into the living room. As far as he could tell, only one easy chair was missing, plus some framed photographs from the walls. That was it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, he stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Lake Shore Drive and Lake Michigan beyond, battling his emotions. Gabby had more chutzpah than he’d given her credit for. She’d been in the penthouse once before when he wasn’t there—had left a glass with her lipstick on it as a calling card. Huh. He should’ve been warned. In spite of himself, a tiny smile curled one edge of his mouth. This raid was like the old Gabby—impetuous, daring—like the girl in the photo.

The tiny smile died. Now she was gone, along with her stuff.

It wasn’t the things she’d taken that bothered him so much, but what it meant. He hadn’t thought it would go this far! Was it too late to turn things around? She’d not only taken her stuff but everything that belonged to P.J. and Paul too!

An unexpected wave of loss swept over him . . . but it was drowned a moment later by a larger surge of anger. No! No way was she going to just take the boys away from him. He swore under his breath. Where were the boys supposed to sleep when they came to visit? And now he was fifteen grand in the hole! He couldn’t just go out and buy new furniture for their bedrooms, not to mention CD players, clothes, sports equipment—all the stuff it took to keep two preteens housed and entertained. He didn’t have time for this crap—

A vaguely familiar figure caught his eye thirty-two stories below in the narrow park that created a verdant buffer between the luxury high-rise and Lake Shore Drive. Looked kind of like the old bag lady Gabby had run into, the one who’d started this whole mess. She had a yellow dog with her this time . . . Wait. Philip leaned closer to the wraparound window and squinted. Not just any yellow dog. That was Dandy! His mother-in-law’s dog—or Gabby’s dog now that her mother had passed. What was that old woman doing with Gabby’s dog? Stupid question. She probably stole him while Gabby was out in North Dakota burying her mother. Give those thieving street people a dime, and they’d rob you blind.

Well, the old bag wasn’t going to get away with it!

With a reckless energy that surprised even Philip after his short night at the casino hotel, he strode out of the penthouse and back into the elevator . . . and a few minutes later he was half-running across the frontage road between Richmond Towers and the park. Hey, you! he yelled. What was her name? Couldn’t remember it. You with the dog!

The old lady had sat down on a bench, but she looked up as he ran toward her. The dog made a low guttural noise. Philip stopped. Is that Dandy? Martha Shepherd’s dog?

She looked him up and down, narrow eyes glittering between sagging folds of skin. Was.

So she was going to play games. He wanted to shake her. "Okay, so you know Mrs. Shepherd died a week ago. But that dog belongs to my wife now. Our son Paul is crazy about that dog. You—whatever your name is—you stole him. Give him back— now." He thrust a hand out, ready to jerk the leash out of her hand if she didn’t give it up.

The old woman stood up. Well! Don’t that just rot my socks. You sayin’ you want the dog? She took a menacing step in his direction. Dandy growled again, his top lip curling over his canines. Philip pulled his hand back. "You? she hissed. Mister high-an’-mighty Philip Fairbanks? Who don’t even have the decency to give food an’ shelter to that wife you mentioned two breaths ago. You kicked her out on the street, left her no place to go. Now you want a dog?"

She stabbed a finger in his chest so hard it hurt. Startled, Philip took a step backward. And if ’n I got my facts straight, you don’t even have time ta take care o’ them two boys o’ yours. Just packed ’em off to they grandfolks. Guess you thinkin’ this dog can take their place.

Philip felt his face flush. She had no right—

Oh yeah. Almost fergot. You kicked poor Miss Martha outta your fancy digs too. But, hey. The old lady shrugged. Guess you figgered if ol’ Lucy here could live out in the street, must be good enough for your wife and her ol’ lady too. Why, I’m kinda flattered—for about half a second.

She punched that stubby finger in his chest again. "But I feel for ya, Mister Fairbanks. Now that you don’ got no wife, no kids, no mother-in-law ta take care of, must get kinda lonely up there in the sky. Guess you be needin’ a dog to take care of. Ain’t so hard. Just gotta take him for a walk mornin’ an’ evenin’, and pick up his poops—they got a law, see, says ya hafta clean up after ya dog. Sign’s right over there. She jerked a thumb somewhere behind her. So . . . here. She held out the leash in her clawlike hand. Guess he’s yours. Go on. Take him."

Philip stared at the old woman . . . Lucy, that was her name. The old bag was nuts! He suddenly felt foolish. What had he intended to do? Return the dog to Gabby, like a peace offering? Maybe . . . but mostly, he’d just been angry. Angry at everything. Nothing was going right.

He threw up his hands. Look. I can’t take the dog now. I have to go to work. But you . . . He shook a finger at her, trying to regain the upper hand. You have no business with that dog. An old lady like you can’t take care of a dog living out on the streets. Just take the dog back to Gabrielle, wherever she is. If I see you around here again with Dandy, I’ll . . . I’ll call the police.

Philip wheeled and walked stiffly back toward Richmond Towers. He gave a fierce shake of his head, but Lucy’s words still burned in his ears.

chapter 1

THREE WEEKS LATER, AUGUST 2006

For the umpteenth time, my twelve-year-old jumped up from the living room floor where he and his older brother had been squabbling over last Sunday’s newspaper comics and peered out the front bay window. Mom! When’s Dad coming? He said six and it’s already six thirty!

Yeah, and wherever we’re going for supper, it better be air-conditioned. His older brother’s voice rode the edge between whining and wilting. All that fan’s doing is moving hot air around, Mom.

I’d been hanging around the living room for the past half hour, rearranging books in the built-in bookcase on either side of the painted brick gas fireplace and watering the new houseplants my coworkers at the Manna House Women’s Shelter had given me as housewarming gifts, not wanting to miss even one minute of precious time with Paul and P.J. before their dad came to pick them up. I bit back the first words that rushed to my mouth— "Ask him why he’s late!—and instead chirped, He’ll be here any minute, I’m sure. Friday night traffic can be a beast, you know."

Like a prophecy fulfilled, we heard two short honks outside. See? There he is.

Both Paul and P.J. grabbed their duffel bags and scurried for the front door. I followed them outside, trying to imprint the backs of their heads in my mind to last me for the next twenty-four hours until Philip returned them. Free from boarding school regulations, Paul’s hair had grown back into the tousled chestnutred curls that reminded me of my own at that age. P.J.’s hair was dark and straight like his dad’s, but the two inches he’d added over the summer were still a startling revelation, as if his new height had been attached to his fourteenth birthday—the birthday I’d missed.

I’d missed Paul’s birthday too, for that matter. But that was going to change this weekend.

Hey! I called after them. I need a good-bye hug.

Oh yeah! Sorry, Mom. Paul did an about-face, ran back to give me a smack, then disappeared into the backseat of the Lexus. P.J. waited until I caught up to him on the sidewalk and let me give him a hug, then he opened the front passenger door and lowered his lanky body inside.

I gave a little wave as the car pulled away, a lump crowding into my throat.

So this is my new reality.

I should be in that car too, all of us going out together for pizza, or whatever they were going to do tonight.

Instead, I turned and looked at the three-story six-flat that was now my home. A classic Chicago brick with bay windows at the front of each apartment. Late afternoon sun—still muggy and warm—trickled through the leaves of the trees lining the mostly residential street, casting speckled light and shadows dancing on the brick facade. My new apartment was on the first floor—a gift I gratefully embraced every time I looked out the front windows and saw the ground only seven feet down. No more dizzying heights.

I brushed a damp curl off my forehead. No use moping. I had more phone calls to make if I was going to pull off this welcome-home-birthday-party surprise that Jodi Baxter and I’d been cooking up. The boys had arrived last weekend from Virginia, where they’d been staying with Philip’s parents the last six weeks, but I’d wanted to give them a week to get adjusted to the new apartment and the new situation between Philip and me before I invited people over to celebrate. Frankly, as hard as it was to let the boys out of my sight, Philip’s taking the boys for tonight and tomorrow gave me time to make party food and do some shopping. I’d better get to it.

I ran up the six wide steps leading into the building and into the small foyer with its six gleaming mailboxes, three on each side—and stopped. I’d come out without my keys! The inside foyer door was locked—and there was no one in my apartment to buzz me in.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

I peered through the glass panels of the foyer door. My apartment door to the right stood open. Well, that was half the battle. If I could get through the foyer door, I was in. The only thing standing between me and getting inside were the glass windowpanes in the door. Huh. All I had to do was break one, reach inside, and open the handle—

Nope. A broken windowpane in the door would be an open invitation for any stray Tom, Dick, or Harry to walk into the building too.

I walked back outside and looked at my bay windows. The fan sat in the open window closest to the steps—but would still be a long reach, even if I got up on the wide cement arms of the low wall on either side of the outside landing where I stood. Even if I could reach it, I’d have to find a way to take the screen out first. If only I had something sturdy to stand on so I could reach it from below.

Rats! I sat down on the top step and buried my face in my hands. This was so . . . so stupid! How in the world was I going to get in? Even my cell phone was inside the apartment—but a lot of good it’d do me, even if I had it. Anybody I called wouldn’t have a key to my place anyway. Guess I’d have to sit here until one of the other residents in the building came home, and— Wait a minute! I stood up, went back inside the foyer, and pushed the buzzer of the apartment above me. I waited thirty seconds—no response. I pushed the third-floor buzzer. Still no response. Oh, please, please, somebody be home. I crossed to the other side of the foyer and pushed the buzzer for the other third-floor apartment and waited. Suddenly the intercom crackled.

Yeah?

It’s Gabby Fairbanks in the first-floor apartment! I—

Who?

Gabby Fairbanks! First-floor apartment! I—

You got the wrong apartment. No Fairbanks up here.

No, wait— The intercom went dead.

I pushed the buzzer again and leaned on it this time.

The intercom came alive.