Into the Fire

The first two chapters of my novel . . . in a love song available only in ebook format. 

. . . in a love song

PART 1

One

The first time he looked over the half-empty pitchers of beer on the oblong rough-hewn table and past the cheeky smiles and loud laughs of the men seated there, he caught a glimpse of her pulling the tap lever while smiling across the counter at a kid he’d swear was under 21. Immediately his mind drove straight to the recollection of how long since he’d been with a woman and parked there.

     Not much of a drinker anymore he’d agreed to accompany his coworkers on this Friday night macho session simply because he knew the drill. His construction buddies wanted to christen the new guy with the camaraderie of drunken manhood, share a few more crude jokes, flirt with the barflies, and assert their praiseworthy abilities to hold their liquor. Only one of the group was married, the boss, but it didn’t slow the guy down in the beer chugging or flirtations, though he didn’t seem serious with the teasing and the girls didn’t take it so.

     He felt the beer gaining momentum along with the usual accompanying bravado, one of the primary reasons he’d decided to leave drinking behind for the most part. The crazy stuff was far back in the past, but the tendency to strut, which he buried when sober, always seemed to display itself like some posing peacock if the alcohol gained any authority in his bloodstream. As his eyes locked onto her, that rebel urge surfaced in full peacock hue. He grabbed a couple of the near empty pitchers and sauntered up to the bar placing them on the counter beside the youngster’s barely touched glass of dark brew.

     “Refills, please.” He kept his voice level in spite of the noise, not wanting to appear as shouting his instructions. She hadn’t seen him until then, and the feathers felt full and mighty fine when she looked into his eyes because he caught the fleeting surprise in hers which he was sure ended in a blush concealed by the low lights of the bar.

     “Yes, sir.” She emphasized the “sir” and gave him a sideways smile, fully recovering from her emotional lapse at what he assumed—or rather—hoped was a pleasant view for her. She filled the two pitchers, and he paid for them with a $50 tip. She started to protest, but with a slight tilt of his head he stared her into submission. She pushed it into her black jeans’ pocket, a bit flustered.

     “Thank you,” he said and walked back to the table full of raucous high-fiving guys beginning to feel their beer. After he sat down to a couple of good-natured shoulder shoves, he leaned back, tipping his chair, to catch her watching him. It felt good to be a man at that moment. He gave her a subtle smile before she turned away.

     “Will you look at that?” The words were delivered in slow motion as the vintage jukebox belted out the old Rolling Stones tune “Honky Tonk Woman”. The stoutly built and curly blonde-headed guy named Keith who sat next to him on his right fairly panted as three dazzling women entered the bar with a lot of exposed legs perched on spindly heels and possibly even more revealed breasts. Heads turned at their table and at a few others occupied by male patrons eager to share in the view.

     “Never seen them here before,” Dave on his left drawled, his eyes transfixed on the laughing girls who were well aware of the attention they’d garnered. They meandered their way to the bar, taking in the stares, bending their heads toward each other in secret summations and covert giggling.

     He looked around his table and smirked at the inebriated men who’d been hooked and landed like a bunch of hungry fish. His eyes searched for the gal he’d admired earlier. He watched her approach the newly arrived women at the bar, seeming to hunt inside herself for a pleasant expression. Joining her to wait on them was the bartender, a guy he figured to be near his age and clearly anxious to assist these new customers.

     The conversation at the table descended into the discussion of the size of body parts and what they hoped to do with theirs. It was time for him to go, so he got up to head to the rest room before saying goodnight to the boys and wishing them a good weekend. They made a big show of wanting him to stay, but he kidded them about how hangin’ out with an old guy might cramp their style. They guffawed and a couple of them chided him with a toast and a “’Night, Gramps” knowing he was only three to six years older than most of them.

     At the door, he looked one last time toward the bar and found her eyes on him. He smiled at her and walked out.

Two

Early June in this small eastern Washington town and the evening was still a bit warm. He inhaled the fresh night air, enjoying the hint of sage smell. Hands in his pressed Levis’ pockets, his self-shined boots took him back the way he came from his new home, a second floor furnished studio apartment in a glorified boarding house where he was grateful to pay the extra for the private bath in his room.

     “Evenin’, Mr. Rivers.” Round in stature with silky silver hair that hung nearly to her waist when it wasn’t pulled away from her face in a tight and tidy bun, Eva Johnson identified him without looking up from her entryway desk she seemed to man 24 hours a day, although he knew she didn’t.

     “Mrs. Johnson. You’re up late,” he replied, headed for the stairs.

     “Uh huh. Sweet dreams, Mr. Rivers.” She glanced up after him, and he smiled at her.

     He unlocked the door and knew it was going to be a long night of tossing and turning. The woman at the bar had taken up residence in his mind’s eye and other places he couldn’t deny. He cussed in frustration.

      Seated on the bed he tugged hard on his boots, removed his socks, and rested his elbows on his knees staring at the floor and his bare feet. Thirty-five years come and gone so quickly. And remained unchanged. That rambling man approach to life hadn’t netted him much other than a good bank account because if there was one constant in his life, it was work. He always worked. Somewhere. Everywhere. He kept working.

     He could’ve flirted with her, he supposed. Demonstrated his interest. Maybe even brought her home with him or went with her. But he thought not. Although he’d never quite understood them, he’d been with enough women to discern a few things about them. Most every one of them wanted some kind of respect but not near as much as they wanted some kind of love. This gal most likely had some guy like himself lay the big line about lovin’ her and then at some point walked out, leavin’ her in tears, feeling used and embarrassed but still in love enough to cry. He’d played that game enough times to know the results, although he’d never quite been able to write “I love you” into the script, and received no pleasure in the hurt he caused while knowing without a doubt it was time to move on.

     And every time he couldn’t help but wonder what this thing called love really felt like.

     He’d been fond of a few of the women in his life going back to his first real girlfriend in his high school years. Sandi Bentley, the cheerleader without a big head on her shoulders, sweet and kind, and built like a woman. They’d been friends as kids, but she moved away in the fifth grade. By the time they were reunited as sophomores at the same high school, he wasn’t a kid anymore in so many ways.

     He lay back on the double bed, his head resting in his hands. He wanted a cigarette, and he hadn’t smoked for probably five years with any consistency, but he kept a pack in his Jeep for times like this, debating whether or not to go get it out of the glove box. The welcome flow of nicotine might slow and subdue his other cravings, relax him enough to get some sleep.

     Pulling himself up, he moved to the tiny open closet to retrieve his tennis shoes, jamming them on his bare feet. Grabbing his keys, he slipped out of his room and tried to tread quietly down the stairs.

     “Not sleepy, Mr. Rivers?”

     He stammered, “Forgot somethin’ in the Jeep.”

     “Uh huh.”

     No one ever seemed able to jar his confidence. Not men of any age or women of any kind. But somehow Eva Johnson, proprietor and night owl, unsettled him with her few words and knowing looks from penetrating pretty hazel eyes. The first time he moseyed up the front steps of this huge old house with the massive wrap around porch sitting back off the cracked concrete road, he admired the lush green lawn and exorbitant foliage in the landscaped grounds surrounding it. Storybook material. When he pulled open the screen door and turned the fancy glass doorknob and walked inside, Eva Johnson was standing in the lobby like she was expecting him.

     “Don’t know how long you’re gonna stay, but it might be awhile? I have one room left with a bath in it. Cost you more, but I figure you don’t mind what it costs.” She’d walked over to her desk then and handed him a map of the available rooms with the daily and monthly rates, placing a red X on the one with the private bathroom.

     The lawn and flowers stopped at the back of the house where there was ample asphalt parking for guests who roomed there short or long term.

     Now he stepped down the front steps and around the inlaid river rock walkway at the side of the massive house to the back where his old Wrangler with its oxidized paint displaying an unidentifiable color and 350,000 plus miles waited topless and of course unlocked in the farthest spot from the back door which was secured every night at 9 o’clock. He went directly to the passenger side, reached over to the glove box and grabbed his probably stale pack of Winstons, removing one and lighting it with a faded blue Bic lighter. Leaning against his rig, he smoked and breathed in the night air. The frogs and insects sang a busy melody while his eyes scanned the sky and found more stars than he’d seen in a lot of months and a moon almost full. The chill began to creep into the early morning hour and through the cotton of his western-cut baby blue shirt.

     After taking his last drag, he made sure his tennis shoe ground the life of the cigarette to an absolute death. The scent of alfalfa reached his nose, and he took a deep whiff of one of his favorite smells. Without a hint he felt tears in his eyes and he swore in a whisper, using his sleeve to wipe his eyes. Closing the door of his Jeep, he walked swiftly back to the entrance of Eva’s Inn, figuring she’d still be there but hoping she wasn’t.

     Only the low glow from a wall sconce remained in the lobby as he trudged up the stairs.

 

Father, thank you for every word, character, inspiration, story. As I've said and meant thousands of times: Apart from you, I can do nothing. And thank you will never be enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

                                                            An old post . . . 

Bastion

What comes to mind? A castle? A bunker? A fortress? A citadel?

Probably not the bastion of the mind. The place where we hide things we can't face. Or the place where we deposit painful experiences because we know the protection sustains those things not easily accessed.

Some are constructed hastily. In the moment. Others take years to build as we add onto the structure piece by hurtful piece. Containment. It's what we expect from our bastions. Protection from the life-thwarting daggers of certain episodes in life.

Who would've thought we'd need to erect a stronghold to keep us from ourselves? To deny us passage into the dark place we'd rather not admit exists.

Writing forces us to charge the barricade, to demand the drawbridge lowered, to storm into the chilling entrance and stand transfixed by gaining entry. We look with wonder, our torches high and flaming, surveying what we've become and what we've failed to overcome. The story gushes forth like a frothy, foaming poison threatening to douse us in its liquid death, but since we seem planted – even paralyzed – by both its beauty and its horror, we stand still, and it comes right to us and infuses our nostrils with its hot danger but subsides before forcing us to breathe in its annihilation.

We've trespassed our hidden limits. And survived. Recorded our innermost fears. Revealed our pungent emotions. Wondering who will be offended by our truths.

The bastions of writers: conquered. Again.

Father, we need you to reveal who we are at our core. You know us where we've hidden. We're desperate for you, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

 

As a non-bestselling author, I've learned a few things along the way, having started this writing novels thing later than most. So here's what I'm going to tell you about me.

Who I don't want to be as an author:

I don't want to be an author who ignores the fact that I can promote other authors who I enjoy and appreciate. No matter their success – be it spectacular or moderate or little-known – I can write posts about them, do reviews of their novels, and suggest readers look into their work. 

I don't want to be an author who focuses on myself and my work without recognizing and giving credit to other authors. I know the audience for my work might not be the typical Christian Fiction reader, but I can prop up other authors who write with a different style or in a different genre. 

Where I might have – well, actually, I confess I have – criticized a novel or two for the writing, the story, the characters, etc., I no longer do that. It's not a gracious thing to do, and sometimes it's simply a matter of taste. If I don't like a book, you won't read about it. 

What I will say I don't like:

I'm not fond of the trendy covers, story-types with catchy new genre titles. I read a few genres outside of my favorites but only by authors whose writing I can appreciate. 

I don't care for the major conflicts in romance novels that are a result of a refusal to communicate honestly – which is why I read very few romance novels in spite of writing love stories heavy on the romance. 

Just my Wednesday Wanderings . . . 

 

Father, please continue to encourage me to be the one you designed me to be. I'm always desperate for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

 

 

 

 

A little more smooth jazz to make you linger in that sax sound by the great Candy Dulfer. 

 

Father, thank you for your wonderful musicians. May each one with that gift realize from whom it comes. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

                       

Rocky Road is the second novel in the Sons of Scandal Series by Becky Wade.

Jude Camden is the younger of two sons born to Fiona and philandering former famous professional football player Felix Camden. Jude became an attorney first but is now an FBI Special Agent and prefers to stay way out of the limelight afforded his older brother Jeremiah who once gained his fame from his previous occupation (read Memory Lane, Book One).

When an undercover role presents Jude with an opportunity to catch a Frenchman (Cedric) in the perfume industry who's been associated with multiple international crimes and would be willing to sell the heretofore family secret formula for one of the oldest and most beautiful scents ever produced, Jude is all in. The FBI has determined the place to start is with Gemma Clare, Cedric's cousin, who operates her own little boutique perfume shop in town. Will she be willing to catch her cousin under the guise of being Jude "McConnell's" girlfriend since the FBI has learned Cedric is looking for a buyer? Gemma has her own problem with her cousin related to someone close to her and grudgingly agrees.

In the process of preparing for this operation, Gemma discovers Jude is a drop-dead gorgeous by-the-book man, loves chocolate, and is rock solid in his likes/dislikes and the ways to execute every single detail.

Jude discovers Gemma is beautiful, impetuous, spontaneous, creative, and the opposite of Jude in most every single detail.   

After weeks of prep, Cedric agrees to meet Jude. 

Romance novels do have a formula, and Rocky Road is no different. Conflict is inherent in the genre (and of course in every genre), but in romance novels, traditionally, boy meets girl, attraction begins, and then . . . it's usually derailed for various reasons. For me, the obvious and central reason for liking romance novels is the characters. Are they realistic, is their conflict "acceptable," and is their resolution done satisfactorily? Becky does all of this well adding humor, touching scenes, and meaningful information indicative of precision research. 

Becky is one of the few romance novelists I read because she "gets" chemistry and that factor alone is intrinsic in romance for the story to be realistic. 

Touching upon subjects relative to Christianity and the need for a relationship with God, Rocky Road is Christian Fiction-light. 

Romance lovers, start with Memory Lane and move on to Rocky Road. Book 3 of the trilogy will be on its way soon. 

 

Father, you know all of Becky's needs, desires, and heart-felt concerns. Please give her exactly what she needs for what you have for her to do, to write what you have for her to write. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

See, a king will reign in righteousness

   and rulers will rule with justice.

Each man will be like a shelter from the wind

   and a refuge from the storm,

like streams of water in the desert

   and the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land.

Then the eyes of those who see will no longer be closed,

   and the ears of those who hear will listen.

The mind of the rash will know and understand,

   and the stammering tongue will be fluent and clear.

No longer will the fool be called noble

   nor the scoundrel be highly respected.

For the fool speaks folly,

   his mind is busy with evil:

He practices ungodliness

   and spreads error concerning our Lord;

the hungry he leaves empty

   and from the thirsty he withholds water.

The scoundrel's methods are wicked,

   he makes up evil schemes

to destroy the poor with lies,

   even when the plea of the needy is just.

But the noble man makes noble plans,

   and by noble deeds he stands. 

 

Isaiah 32:1-8 (NIV)

                         

A Cold Day for Murder is Book 3 in The Kelsie Butler Mystery Series by Karin Kaufman (the Queen of Cozy Mysteries). 

An unusual but intriguing invitation arrives in the mail for Kelsie for an all-expense paid weekend at the old Thorne Mansion in the mountains. Allowed to bring a guest, Kelsie invites Angela, one of her mystery club companions, who jumps at the chance to accompany her on this strange adventure. 

Upon arriving after a snowy drive, they (Kelsie, Angela, and Kelsie's dog Stella) are greeted by a pleasant and polite man named Julian and introduced to Emma from the Mansion's management. They're given a directive and before long, they and the other guests are served a lavish and delicious dinner in the dining room. Afterward, there are unusual plans for stories and secret clues given to each guest settled around the fireplace in this chilly domicile. 

Kelsie and Angela retire to their individual rooms along with the other guests who've all been a rather interesting bunch of unrelated co-workers and/or married couples. Angela goes to Kelsie's room to discuss the event so far while questioning who's hosting this shindig. 

What proves to be a very eventful evening in the cold mansion sets everyone on edge and over the edge.

As cozy mysteries go, this one is perfect for reader sleuthing. Little by little facts are revealed and who's who in the whole scheme is a grand mystery. Murder and confined mayhem make ascertaining who, how, and why difficult. Then the snowstorm hits and the snowplows are delayed along with the sheriff. Between losing power and cell service and knowing there is a murderer among them, all add to the high tensions while Kelsie and Angela are doing their best detective work to discover the whodunnit of this bunch. 

Cozy Mystery Lovers will have great fun with this one. It's a potential book for a non-stop read until the satisfying end.  

 

Father, I ask that you would continue to give Karin everything she needs, body, soul, and spirit, to write what she loves. Inspire and direct her and give her your divine touch. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

 

 

 

 

                                   

Above is my favorite of the 22 Mitch Rapp novels. Below is the Fan Fiction I wrote about Rapp encountering the woman I wrote just for him.

FAN FICTION – A LA MITCH RAPP

Her name is Christine Ravenswill, but it's not her real name. She's a psychiatrist who specializes in counseling veterans and operatives in elite warrior positions whether government sanctioned or not. Christine is tall, close to 5'10" with a deep blue to her eye color that sets off her long wavy natural honey blonde hair that she wears parted in the middle with bangs.

With elegant, efficient movements, Rapp wonders if she's athletic when she strides toward him to shake his hand. He deduces she's close to his age, her handshake takes a firm grip of his larger hand. 

     When she introduces herself, he smirks. "I assume that's not your real name." 

     She knows he doesn't want to be there in her office, nor does he want to talk to or confide in her. She recognizes he probably realizes he should be willing to do so, but that doesn't carry any weight as to him determining he will. She decides to go on the offensive.

     "Mr. Rapp, I'm smart enough to know you don't want to be here. I get that. You're right about my name. Although Christine is my actual middle name, I chose Ravenswill for my last name when I came to terms with my dad's occupation. He too was a warrior with a similar job description and assignments as you've experienced. The last time I saw him was on my 21st birthday, but occasionally I discreetly visit his star. You would no doubt be familiar with his name if I was allowed to reveal it to you, so I apologize for not being able to share it." 

     She sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk that faced the one he stood stoically behind, picking up the pen and pad on it and setting them on her lap. "If you prefer to stand, I understand. I'm not here to play games with you. I respect you and what you've done for our country far too much to attempt any kind of coercion to speak with me. I of course hope that you would acquire a trust – or perhaps that's too strong a word." She briefly faltered but regrouped. "Let me put it this way: I have no way of knowing if I can offer you anything you can use or might need until I listen to what you have to say about anything that you care to offer in conversation. I've cleared my schedule for the rest of the day in order not to adhere to any annoying time requirements." She briefly looked down at the pad on her lap. Then looking directly up at the focused stare looking back at her, she said, "This is the absolute truth. I've admired you for a long time, and it's an honor to finally meet you face to face."

     She noticed the brief surprise in those dark eyes, the quick parting of the lips before once again sealing shut.

     "I'm very familiar with the standardized version of life in your profession. As for my life, I'm a fair marksman, know Krav Maga and Brazilian Jui-jitsu. I'm armed with my trusty Glock 19, and haven't had to kill anyone yet. I've been attacked once on the way to this office when I decided to jog to work. Fortunately, I subdued my attacker so here I am. Here you are. If there's anything you want to ask me, please do." 

     Rapp moved around the chair and sat in it folding his arms against his strong chest. "How much did Irene tell you?" 

     "Irene told me she would suggest you come to me, 'try me on for size', just for the purpose of releasing some of the pain you carry around with you because she believes it's intense. She said it in no way has affected your work, but that . . ." She stopped and studied his expression before continuing. "But that it hurt her to know you kept a lot of that pain as a constant companion in your everyday life and that just maybe you might be willing to discuss it with me – but not to count on it." She pushed herself farther back in the chair and crossed her right leg over her left.

     Rapp examined her and noticed she met his gaze with an expression he rarely saw from women who looked at him. If he had to identify it, he’d call it empathy. Maybe because she’d come as close to experiencing the content of his rare lifestyle without ever physically having to live it. He dropped his defensive posture and cocked his head slightly to study her features.

     Finally, he said, “You look like him, you know.” He paused. “Your father.”

     Her lower lip dropped slightly, and tears instantly formed in her eyes. She reached behind to her desk for a Kleenex and blotted her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied quietly. “I didn’t know . . .”

     “It can be a small world sometimes.”

     Silence permeated the realization. He decided to let her take a moment, knowing the anguish that came from the remembrance. He watched her as she regained control. When he was sure she'd managed it, he added, "He was one of the few real heroes. He had a heart. That's one of the things I admired about him." Rapp stood again. "Thank you for understanding I don't want to be here, don't want to talk about myself, my pain, my life. It's not you. Seems pointless. It's done. It's not going to change. I chose this life. I'm sure the exit won't be . . . pretty."  

     She stood, carefully judging her motive first and then her next move. "Mr. Rapp–" 

     "It's Rapp or Mitch."

     "Rapp, would you consider having lunch with me? I'm starving and it would be good to have lunch in a non-professional environment. If you have time. I'm not the kind of girl who's going to analyze your every word and response in conversation. I usually eat alone. It would feel good to spend some time having a 'normal' lunch. Are you game?" 

     He gave her a look with a barely there smile. "Can I trust you?"

     She let out an abrupt laugh. "I don't know, can you?" 

     Rapp started for the door and looked back, “Coming? I’ll drive.”

     “We can go in separate vehicles if you’d be more comfortable,” she offered, suddenly feeling a bit intimidated by the prospect of having asked this man she’d long admired to lunch.

     He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I thought you said you wanted a ‘normal’ lunch. I’m taking you to lunch. Is that ‘normal’ enough for you?”

     She walked quickly toward him. “Yes, sir, it is.”

     He gave a rare laugh and held the door open for her. She walked out in front of him. 

     Once inside his armored BMW X8, he asked, “Where to?”

     “It’s fairly out of the way. You like Italian food?” she asked hopefully.

     “I do.”

     “Head south.”

     He noticed as he repeatedly and routinely checked his mirrors she did the same. Conditioned probably from an early age by her father and now because of who her father was. Rapp knew there was simply no way you could hide from everyone. No matter how much you wanted to or how hard you tried.

     “How long have you known Irene?”

     She cut her gaze away from the mirror to look at him and followed it with staring out the windshield. “About 18 years or so. I don’t get to see her often, but we try to communicate fairly regularly and if possible to have lunch once a month. Doesn’t always happen, but it’s always good when it does. She’s recommended several clients over the years. It’s rewarding to have someone like her have that confidence in me. Truthfully, for her to recommend me to you? Priceless. I didn’t think you’d show up.” She quickly shot a glance at his profile.

     “Not sure why I did,” he replied after a few moments passed.

     She gave him further directions. He pulled into the tiny parking lot and backed into a spot near the entrance to what resembled a small restaurant where he once had dinner in Rome. Strange to have that memory surface.

     Christine collected her purse from the floor and began to open the door.

     “Sit tight, Doc.” He got out and did a careful but casual assessment as he rounded the front of the car to open her door.

     Once inside the restaurant, they were greeted by a man who immediately extended his hand to grasp Christine’s and bring it to his lips.

     “So good to see you again, Christine.” Returning her hand, he extended his to Rapp. “It’s a pleasure, sir." He shook it firmly.

     “Follow me. I have your usual table available, cara mia.”

      “Thank you, Paolo. How is Rose?”

     He led them to the table as he spoke. “She is wonderful as always.” A genuine smile accompanied his words.

     Rapp noted it was situated so both of their chairs faced the front door and maintained a clear view of the kitchen’s entrance. He ordered a black espresso, she a tonic water with lime.

     “You come here often,” he stated.

     “Often as I can which hasn’t been often enough lately.”

     A young man with olive skin and a dark ponytail tied back low on his neck set their beverages and menus before them, nodded and left them alone.

     Perusing the menus, they closed them simultaneously and sipped their drinks.

     “I’m not great at making conversation.”

     “A man of few words. I can appreciate that.”

     “What about you?”

     She gave a brief laugh. “I have a tendency to spill my guts with little provocation. An open book mostly. Except where work is concerned.”

     She noticed he gave her that almost smile.

     “Husband, boyfriend?” He caught her quick look away and back to him.

     “I believe we share a similar circumstance in our distant pasts. My fiancé was KIA. We were told it was in Afghanistan, but I suspect that was a ruse.” She adjusted her posture. “No one even remotely serious since.”

     He studied her. She didn’t flinch. “But many have tried?”

     She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Some.”

     The young man returned with pad and pencil. Rapp nodded at Christine and she gave him her order. Rapp followed with his. He thanked them and quickly returned to refresh Rapp’s coffee with the dark brew.

     “So, you want to ‘spill your guts’ to me? Outside of work of course.”

     She laughed. “Okay. I’m willing to tell you some things that Irene wouldn’t have mentioned and that you possibly might not appreciate.”

     “Intriguing.”

     She spoke directly to him, her tone firm and serious. “Not that ‘intriguing’, Rapp, but very real to me. I’m a Christian.”

     She watched as the expressionless mask took over his face but not before she caught the minute moment of a reaction in his eyes.

     The waiter arrived and carefully placed their plates in front of them. He spoke for the first time. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be back with a refill of your drink and more espresso.”

     “I’m not surprised,” he said after they’d both taken a few bites and got their beverages refilled.

     She set her fork down and took a drink from her glass. “Well, I’m surprised that you’re not.” She smiled at him.

     He too set his fork down, sat back a bit, and looked at his plate, pensive.

     She waited, her glass on the table still in her hand.

     “As you’re well aware, we come across all kinds of people in this world. I’ve seen some of the worst.” He paused and grasped his cup but left it on the table. “You could say I’ve had to look the devil in the eye.”

     She waited.

     “I’ve wondered how I’ve managed to make it this far.”

     He picked up his fork and went back to his meal as did she.

     “I see why this is a favorite place of yours. Great food, nice atmosphere, good people. Feels good to have a few ‘normal’ minutes.” He took a drink of his espresso. “So what else?”

     It took her a moment to realize his reference, but she added, “I love to hike, but I can’t do heights or cliffs. Really can’t. As a kid, I rode my bike everywhere, but I hate bike riding and bike riders now – at least those who think they should have equal space with cars.”

     He gave one of his rare laughs but sobered quickly. “Yeah, thought I’d take up biking for a brief stint.” He paused. “Didn’t work out.” He finished his espresso. “Heights I can do. It’s caves for me. Do my best to stay out of them.” 

     She felt her face heat briefly as she considered what to say next.

     “What?”

     She glanced up from a quick look at her plate.

     “It’ll no doubt strike you as silly, and comparably it’s downright ridiculous,” she said with a brief shake of her head.

     “Let’s have it.”

     “I,” she looked away and then sat up straighter. “I’ve taken some private military instruction with various weapons combined with my self-defense classes. I’ve learned so much, and, please don’t take this wrong, but I’ve found it to be quite fulfilling as I’ve accomplished certain challenges.” She knew she blushed. “It’s nothing like what you’ve had to do,” her voice dipping.

     He cocked his head slightly and watched her. “I respect that,” he said after several moments. “Did your dad suggest you do that at some point?”

     “He did.”

     “He must’ve known you had the talent and drive to do it.”

     “He didn’t want me to get involved in . . . in what he did, but apparently he thought I could have. My brain kind of operated the way his did, and he told me I was gifted with a gun. He was my hero, you know, so his praise meant everything to me.” She reached for her napkin and quickly patted under her eyes. “I’m sorry, Rapp. I didn’t mean to make this conversation about me.”

     “That’s the best part of this conversation. I prefer not making it about me.”

     She took another drink and hesitated briefly before saying, “Is there anything you want to tell me or ask me? I know you’ve been trained to evaluate people. Not only because of your line of work but because of your innate sense of self-preservation, you won’t easily trust me if ever at all. If you don’t want to be my client, I would hope that somehow we might be able to cultivate a friendship. Do you think that could ever be feasible?”        

     Rapp decided right then that he liked this woman. She was truthful and had no obvious desire to play games. She didn’t pry into his life even though he suspected she knew a fair amount about him, having said as much in her office when she told him she’d admired him for some time. He considered her offer.

     “If you had to choose, which one would you take?”

     “Friendship, hands down,” she replied without hesitation. “But before that could happen, I have a confession to make. Not here though.”

     The waiter collected their plates, asked about their beverages, and replied he’d bring their check when Rapp asked for it. He returned quickly with two carefully wrapped dessert boxes.

     “Compliments of Paolo. He said he knew you wouldn’t stay for dessert.” He set the bill next to Rapp who picked it up, glanced at it and handed him a hundred-dollar bill.

     “Keep the change,” he said as he stood. “And please express our thanks for these and the perfect lunch.”

     Once inside the car with their desserts in her lap, Christine said, “I won’t keep you long at the office, Rapp. I just need to speak with you for a couple of minutes.”

     He glanced at her noticing the subtle worry on her face. “Okay.”

     After arriving in the private parking area, he turned to her. “You seem worried about something. Want to tell me why?”

     “I do. I’ve been given something to give to you. Many years ago. It’s a letter from my father addressed to you. He instructed me not to read it but to give it to you if I ever had the opportunity. I’ve kept it with me wherever I’ve been and gone. It was one of the last things he gave me on that fateful 21st birthday.” She dropped her head and took a deep breath. Sitting back upright and looking straight ahead, she said, “He gave me one also. About you. My instructions were to read it if and only when I ever felt truly threatened. I haven’t read it yet.” She looked at him and met his serious gaze.

     He undid his seatbelt and said, “Well, let’s get to it then.” He got out, did his usual inspection as he walked around to let her out. Before she got out, she left his dessert on the console. 

     Once inside her office, Rapp took his seat, relaxed. He watched her set her dessert on the desk and quickly attend to the phone. Keeping her purse, she came around her desk to sit across from him, unzipped a compartment of the large leather bag and pulled out two long envelopes, handing both of them to him.

     Picking up on her nervousness, he listened as she said, “I apologize for the wear and tear. I did my best to keep them somewhat pristine. I know Dad wrote them in his own script, and I was afraid the ink might bleed or something might interfere with his message.” She stopped.

     “One of these is yours.”

     “I know, but I want you to read it. In case there’s anything in there you’d rather I didn’t know.” She looked down at her hands, having not felt this nervous since she couldn’t remember when.

     “What do you think is in it?”

     She looked directly at him, knowing he could see her discomfort. “I suspect he was truly concerned that at some point his family would be in danger due to his –”

     “I get it. Definitely a concern. So you assume he wanted you to contact me somehow if you suspected your life might be threatened?”

     She nodded, thinking she might not be able to utter another word without either saying something stupid or resorting to ugly crying, both of which she considered embarrassingly unprofessional. The loss of her dad still resurrected that intense grief, something she'd never displayed so openly with anyone else, keeping it well-hidden until now. 

     He stood. She stood, clutching her purse, then quickly set it on the chair, trying to hold his gaze and find her voice. 

     "I'll call you," he said. 

     "Thank you." It came out just above a whisper. 

     He turned and left her office, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

     Back in the car, he put the key in the ignition but didn’t start it. Instead he took the envelope addressed to him and used his knife to slice it open. Unfolding the letter, he scanned the handwriting. Easy to read, so he began.

     Hello, Mitch.

     This is no doubt an unusual circumstance if you’re now reading this. I’m assuming I got to know you a whole lot more since writing this. We’ve met in passing, and I’ve talked to Stan about you. I won’t bother writing his colorful reply, but beneath all the rhetoric he had a certain gleam in his eye when he spoke of you.

      I’m sure you can relate to that innate trust factor which very few people in this world inspire in us. It’s the nature of the beast. I knew the first time I spoke with you on the one assignment where our paths crossed that I had it in you. It was instantaneous for me, and, because of that, I’m writing this to you with specific instructions for my daughter which I know she’ll respect and obey.

     Personal experience tells us there’s potential for our loved ones to come under threats and terrible danger – some we see coming, and those we don’t. I’ve done my best to educate my daughter and teach her “the ropes” of self-defense. You know the drill. Know this: if you ever have the pleasure of meeting her – which I hope the reason for that isn’t because she’s in terrible danger – she probably could’ve been one of us with her talents, but her tender heart would’ve prevented it, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve told her to change her name as a professional, but her real name I want you to know: Raven Christine – and you know my surname. Her first name was decided upon by something significant between her mother and me.

     All of that brief background to say this: I’m asking you, if there’s any possible way that you can, if you will rescue her if she is in trouble. There is no one else I trust to do what will need to be done. Since her mother’s death, we’re all we have, and we don’t have near enough time together. And if I’m around when you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. I’ll be there for you no matter what. Just, please, if you can, take care of my daughter if I’m unable to do so.

Daniel Wilson   

     Mitch lowered the letter to his lap and stared straight ahead through his bulletproof windshield. He remembered Daniel well as he’d told his daughter. Respected his skills, professionalism, but mostly his heart. He didn’t “eliminate” unnecessarily. Their “jobs” made them cynical at best, but he also noted it could make psychopaths out of some, sociopaths of others, and almost suicidal and broken operators of still more. As he’d admitted to Christine, he’d wondered why and how he was still around – especially of late.

     Should he read the letter addressed to Daniel’s daughter? Picking it up off the console where his dessert rested, he slit it open and began to read.

     Hey, Sweet Girl.

     No time to waste here if you’ve opened this. You must find a way to contact Mitch Rapp. If you can’t locate him quickly, get to Irene Kennedy for assistance immediately on one of those burner phones I told you to keep handy.

     Mitch is the best of the best. I’ve worked with the best and have even been the best at one time, but Rapp is the absolute top of the line. He’s around your age, and if anyone can help, it will be him.

     I hope you will meet him one day simply because you need to know that there are others out there giving their all in this thing we do. He’s young, focused, and utterly skilled. He knows good and evil and never confuses them. He’s had to do things – as I have – which are soul-crushing, but he’s withstood them and will continue to.

     If you’re in trouble, find him, Sweet Girl. Do it quickly. Tell him I sent you. I love you more than life itself, and I hope I can always be there for you, but you know that’s not a given. Take good care, Raven. I love you.

Always,

Dad  

     What hit him first was that he wasn’t “young” anymore and was truly astounded that Daniel Wilson had given him that much credit so many years ago when the letter had been written, before he became more experienced – back when Irene was constantly running interference for him after his assignments.

     And then it occurred to him that Daniel had an inkling of his approaching death.

     He inserted the letter back into its envelope, grabbed both letters and his dessert and got out of his car, locked it, and headed back up to “Raven’s” office. 

     She tossed her purse to the floor and sat down hard on the chair, pushed off her shoes, folded her arms and crossed her legs. She forced back the tears and grief and frowned at her behavior. Completely at odds with how she’d conducted herself in front of Mitch Rapp, she admitted to herself that in person he personified the previously ill-defined cliché “larger than life”. Now she knew exactly how the expression translated in real time.

     Over lunch, it had been easy. He, as expected, didn’t want to discuss himself and preferred she speak freely about herself which was easy to do on a surface level. Admitting her Christianity got the response she anticipated. Not negative. A moment of surprise quickly concealed.

     A light knuckle tap on her door brought her abruptly to her feet giving a quick glance at the wall clock, knowing she had nothing expected for the rest of the day. She walked across the room to answer it after seeing Rapp on the camera image mounted beside her door. She quickly opened it wide for him and saw his dessert box and the two letters in hand. He walked in and she closed the door.

     “We didn’t finish our lunch,” he said, continuing to the chair he’d adopted.

     “You’re right.” She took her box off her desk, kicked her shoes out of the way, and once again sat across from him. “I have trays in the closet if you think we need them,” she offered.

     “I’m good,” he said, placing the letters on the arm of his chair and opening his box.

     It took him no time to unwrap the napkin and fork inside, taking a bite. “Wow. This is as good as the rest of the meal.”

     She quickly sampled hers. “Mmmm.”

     After a few bites, Rapp said, “So, Raven, I read both letters.” He looked directly at her, watching her startled expression.

     Something happens inside a woman when a man she admires or is attracted to uses her real name and says it with deliberation, firmness, and just a hint of affection. Whether it’s actually chemical or some kind of romantic hit-piece to the heart, the sound taps a target, strikes its mark, and causes an unscheduled emotional reaction close to an inflamed melt-down – all of which must not appear visible to his naked eye.

     With an extreme effort to keep her voice and expression neutral, she responded, “And . . .”

     “Your assumption regarding your father’s intent in writing the letters is correct.”

     She struggled hard to compose herself while he finished his dessert.

     “If he was presumptuous in any way, I—”

     “Don’t.” He said it without hesitation. “I get it. And if you know anything about me, you know I get it.”

     “I do know that,” she responded quietly.

     He put his fork and napkin inside the box and held it up as a request for where to deposit it. She turned in her chair and pointed to the waste basket beside her desk.

     He returned to his chair and looked at her. She forced herself to meet his gaze.

     “So you want to be friends.”

     A statement. “I do.”

     “I don’t know how good at it I’d be.”

     She kept quiet for a moment as she pondered how to respond. “I have no demands,” she finally said.

     He stood. She stood, set her empty box on her desk, grabbed a business card and a pen, wrote her private Sat-phone number on the back of it, and handed it to him.

     He examined it. “Can I call you Raven?”

     “Yes,” she forced out, knowing her voice sounded unsteady.

     “Thanks for some ‘normal’ time,” he said.

     “Thank you.”

     He made it to the door as she followed him before turning back to her, pulled a scrunched piece of paper from his jeans’ pocket and wrote something on it against the door before handing it to her.

     “I plan on honoring your dad’s request.”

     With that, he gave her a final nod and walked out, once again quietly closing her door. As she walked back to her desk, she noticed he'd left her letter on the arm of the chair. 

     She picked it up as she moved past to sit behind her desk. Stared at the envelope. Considered not reading it – only because she knew the grief would erupt all over again, and she acknowledged to herself, maybe for the first time, she was weary of it. Tired of the intense pain of having lost both of her beloved parents. And later her fiancé.

     She rarely addressed her loneliness, settling for busy-ness, indulging herself in her physical training and weaponry use, forcing herself to excel, to improve. Attending an occasional seminar specific to her area of expertise. She gave an abbreviated hard laugh at the thought: it surely didn’t seem like her specialty with high level operatives did much good for Mitch Rapp.

     She ripped the letter out of the envelope and began reading it. Yes, the tears fell as the words registered and reminded her of her dad’s devotion and love and the stark and very telling instruction to find Mitch Rapp if she was ever in real trouble.

     His final words confirmed what she’d suspected but had never admitted to herself prior to reading them: he suspected he might be heading into a potentially deadly situation. That 21st birthday celebration where he’d taken her to dinner, made a concentrated effort to listen to everything she probably babbled about that night, presented her with the engraved ring she wore on her right ring finger with a stunning birthstone sapphire arranged between two diamonds on a platinum band: Forever, Dad.

     She placed the letter on her desk and stared away into her memories as the tears dried.

     When she heard the knuckle tap on her door again, she pushed away from her desk and quickly covered the distance once again to see Rapp on the other side.

     After she hurriedly pulled it open, he leaned against the jam, folded his arms, and with that almost smile in place, he said, “I figured you might need a friend.”

     She outright laughed and losing all sense of decorum, she put her arms around that solid body and embraced him. “I do.”

     Realizing quickly how presumptuous she’d been, she pulled back. “I’m so sorry, Rapp.”

     “You said you had the rest of the day,” he said without reacting to her hug or her apology.

     “Yes.”

     “I know a place. You want to go?”

     The gratitude she experienced from his offer threatened tears again. She forced herself to get control. “I’ll get my purse.” Pull yourself together now! She grabbed it and walked out the door in front of him.

     Rapp knew better than to start something he never intended to finish. Why he’d come to her office in the first place was still a mystery to him other than to placate Irene. He and Irene had survived some treacherous things through the years but not without the residual pain and scars.

     As a tribute to Daniel Wilson, he would help Raven if ever she got in over her head, but why was he inviting her now to do this? Hadn’t those scars and that pain been enough in his life? Hadn’t the regrets piled up to an untenable pile of memories he couldn’t seem to diffuse?

     These useless thoughts assaulted him as they walked to his car. As he opened the door for her, she looked directly at him and spoke quietly.

     “I can almost physically feel the conflict you’re experiencing with having invited me to go with you. I won’t be insulted if you want to withdraw your invitation, Rapp. I don’t want to contribute in any way to your adding unnecessary relationships or infringing upon your hard-earned freedom from the weights of this life.”

     He returned her direct stare, noticing the blue of her eyes and the sincerity they divulged.

     “Not a lot gets by you, does it?” he finally said.

     “More than I care to admit, I’m afraid.”

     “Get in,” he said gently.

 

Father, thank you for it all – the inspiration, the words, the works. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

                 

To fall in love can be easy, but truly loving someone is not. Not if you give your whole self to that goal, to devote yourself to another person or persons. An act of love is a sacrifice and within this body of flesh, sacrifices don't come easy. They require not holding onto life as you've known it to that point. Yes, in a good relationship you are still who you are, but what's required of you will not be centered on who you are but on who the object of your love is. Not to enable but to enhance. And inevitably if you're enhancing who they are, that love will be returned. 

The entangled hearts in the image represent the locked position of two lives given to one another, inseparable, entwined. 

Valentine's Day is supposed to be a celebration of ethereal love and romantic love. Like Christmas, it's been consumed with a commercially acceptable alternative of chocolates, roses, negligees, sexual romps, etcetera. That's part of what makes loving someone difficult. Will I measure up to expectations? Will he or she? The world has set impossible parameters for measuring love – most all of them wrong, invalid, or unnecessary. 

Perfect love (and the only One who's achieved that is Jesus who sacrificed His life for you and me) is virtually unattainable, but it's a noble goal. And the only way to even attempt loving someone well is to know the God of the Universe who explains what it entails. Let me tell you it's not for the faint of heart. It's hard, it's work, and it "don't come easy." Why? Because we're selfish souls in our flesh. We want what we want when we want it, and we don't really like it when anyone gets in the way of that. 

On this Valentine's Day I wish you love, the kind that God gives, Jesus demonstrates, and the Holy Spirit enhances. That kind of love for another is the real love and the only one worth experiencing. 

 

Father, thank you for your immeasurable love, the beauty of love, the ones I love. You've given me love I've never deserved. Never can thank you enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen. 

   

I know I've posted this one on Tuesday Tunes in the past, but it's such a good song by the late Nicolette Larson. These are some good lyrics coupled with some real musicians. Great song. 

 

God, again, only you know hearts. May each one know you're the One who's provided them with their talents and gifts before last breaths are taken. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.