Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7


PART I
SPEAKING IN TONGUES


8

MARINA WAS SHOCKED when Trey appeared at Kresge’s the next day. “What happened?” she breathed in horror, looking at his bandaged right hand.

“I’m a little bit too embarrassed to say, Marina,” he said sheepishly.

“That looks painful,” Dot said with a small grimace.

“It is,” he affirmed, “which is why I need a lime rickey to wash down some aspirin.”

Marina slid over immediately and patted the seat, which he took with a nod of thanks. “How was your test today?” he asked her.

She gasped a little. “Oh! It was hard,” she began, “but I took my time and tried to remember what you taught me. I don’t know what marks I’ll get but I’m hoping for an S.”

Trey nodded approvingly.

“How’d you find revival last night?” Dot asked Trey with no sarcasm.

Trey seemed to perk up a bit and said, “Good, good. I may be able to settle in.”

Marina’s heart sank. “May?”

Trey looked at her and said gently, “I can re-dedicate my life to Jesus anywhere, anytime. I can do it at night when I get on my knees to pray. I don’t need a preacher to help me speak to God.”

Marina’s brow wrinkled because that was wrong.

“That’s what we believe,” Dot said softly. Marina looked across the table at Dot, who wasn’t looking at Trey, but at Marina. “He’s Pentecostal and he thinks that, too.”

“Methodist,” he corrected. “But no protestant church says you have to go through a preacher to get to God.”

“Father prays for me!” Marina protested.

“Well, good fathers should pray for their children.” That wasn’t what she meant, but— He glanced at Dot to include her in the conversation, then back to Marina. “I’m looking for a church to make my own and a preacher I can talk to when I have theological questions. I don’t need anybody to intercede for me.”

Marina tried again, even though he had taken the conversation so far above her head she felt like she had Tuesday. “My father says the man is the head of the household and God speaks to him for his wife and children.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Dot put in. Marina looked at her warily because now it felt like Dot and Trey were ganging up on her about things they thought Marina didn’t quite understand. “God tells the man how to serve his family, not—”

“Serve?” Marina interrupted. “That’s the woman’s job.”

Dot huffed. “It’s everybody’s job. Everybody serves each other!”

“But—”

“Hold up, there, ladies,” Trey said smoothly. Marina flushed. She’d forgotten he was there. “Is this a perennial argument?”

“A what?” Dot asked.

“Yes,” Marina told Trey, then told Dot. “Perennial argument. One that keeps popping up all the time. Like gardening. You know. Perennials, annuals.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Dot replied, sitting back and letting it be, but clearly not happy about it.

Trey cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to be the cause of one. Marina, I’ll be happy to come to your church for as long as we’re keeping company. Some churches just have to be gotten used to.”

“You’re Methodist?” Dot asked and Trey nodded. “So your services are pretty quiet.” Again he nodded. “Have you ever been to a Pentecostal church before?”

“Ah, no,” he said with a wry laugh.

“It’s different,” she said sagely, and again, Marina felt left out. Stupid. Childish.

“As long as I can sit by Marina, I think I can get into the swing of it.”

Marina glanced at him to gauge his sincerity, but now he was soberly studying the menu card.

“Trey.”

All three of them looked up and Marina’s mouth dropped open.

“Gene Luke!” Trey exclaimed in delight and hopped up to shake his hand, then withdrew it with a pained grimace. “Apologies. What brings you by?”

Mr. Luke was possibly the most handsome man Marina had ever seen, with black hair, brown eyes, and light olive complexion. He’d turn any girl’s head and that included a girl whose head had been turned two days before by someone else. He was dressed as finely as Trey, which, along with his coloring, would ordinarily make Marina think he was Sicilian.

Father had frequently lectured on the evils of Sicilians, who brought Satan with them wherever they went, along with guns, liquor, and girls. Marina wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with them bringing their families, but she didn’t dare ask. Father tolerated Dot’s place in Marina’s life. He would not tolerate a Sicilian anywhere near Marina.

But with a name like Gene Luke, he most definitely wasn’t. Gene Luke was also not comfortable at having caught Trey’s attention, and his sober expression was not inviting.

“Ladies,” Trey said cheerfully, “this is my associate, Gene Luke. Gene, that is Miss Marina Scarritt and that is Miss Dorothy Albright.”

Gene inclined his head. “Miss Scarritt,” he said, his voice as sober as his expression. “Miss Albright.”

Marina and Dot traded wary glances then murmured their hellos. Marina noted that Dot wasn’t her bright and bubbly self, which meant she was as wary of this man as Marina was, which might bother her more if she hadn’t been just as wary of Trey two days ago. Now they were chatting about religion as if they were friends.

“Hey, join us!” Trey said, clapping his uninjured hand on Gene’s shoulder and practically pushing him into the seat next to Dot, who scooted toward the wall so fast she knocked the napkin holder over with her elbow. “Careful there, Dorothy. Sodas and onion rings. On me.”

“Uhhhh … ” Gene said with the faintest glare at Trey.

Marina didn’t know about this. Dot was uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn. Dot’s cheeks were a little flushed and she wouldn’t look at Gene. “Dot, why don’t you come over here and sit with me so Trey and Gene can sit together?”

Dot started. “No, no!” she said brightly. “Trey, you stay there with Marina. I, um, I … ” Marina had never seen her so discombobulated and she didn’t like it. Dot mumbled, “Um, hi. Gene. Nice to meet you.” Oh, of course. Sitting next to Gene meant she didn’t have to look at him.

“Likewise you, Miss Albright,” he mumbled in return, barely glancing at her. This was not normal male behavior around Dot, as he clearly did not want to be here at all, much less sitting next to her.

“So! Gene!” Dot said with fake gaiety that Marina didn’t like. “What do you do?” Even if Dot hated a boy, she wouldn’t be mean. She wouldn’t ignore him. But she wouldn’t go to any extra trouble to be sociable. This was altogether something different.

“I work for Trey, Miss Albright,” he stiffly replied with an accent that sounded familiar, but unplaceable. Again Marina and Dot traded glances.

“He’s one of my salesmen,” Trey clarified as he gestured for their waitress. None of them spoke while Trey ordered for Marina and Dot and himself, then gestured to Gene, who said,

“Vanilla phosphate, please.”

“Anything to eat, sweetie, or are you sharing the basket?” the waitress asked in a suspiciously flirtatious voice.

Gene’s mouth tightened a little. Dot stiffened a little. He didn’t look up at the woman. “No. Thank you.”

“Hrmph,” she sniffed, then sauntered off.

Dot was staring at her hands, which were working a napkin over, and Gene looked like he was about to bolt for the door.

“Marina,” Trey drawled. “Do I see the latest Agatha Christie sticking out of your handbag?”

“Oh!” she said, twisting to get it, suddenly feeling very much in cahoots with Trey to save a sour social situation. Why he didn’t let Gene go she didn’t know, but since Gene worked for Trey, he wasn’t going to leave no matter how much he wanted to. “Not the latest one, no. The librarian said it was due in later this year.”

“And you’re just now getting around to reading last year’s?”

“I’m re-reading it. For the third time. I’m picking out all the clues so maybe someday I can solve one of them before the villain is revealed.”

Trey gave her a surprised look. Then he nodded his head as if he were truly impressed. “But if you do, they won’t be any fun.”

“Oh sure they will!” she said, delighted at his response. “The fun would be figuring it out and seeing if I was right.”

He winked at her. “I like the way you think.”

“Ahem.” Dot cleared her throat and said at the space between herself and Gene, “I need to … um … powder my nose. If you could … ”

“Oh, of course,” Gene said immediately, scrambling to allow Dot out of the booth and standing well away from her. “Ah, Trey,” he said as Dot disappeared toward the back. “I have a client to meet at—” He took his pocket watch out. “Five.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Trey said affably.

He hurried out the door, snatching his fedora from the front hat rack as he went, the bells jangling behind him, which left Marina and Trey alone.

There was no buffer now, and Marina’s heart started to race. Her mouth went dry. Her ears started to buzz.

“Hi,” Trey murmured.

Marina turned her head and tried to look into his eyes, but she couldn’t move them away from the knot in his tie. “Hi?”

He nudged against her. “You know I like you, right?”

Her eyes flew to his. “Why?” she blurted. She might have been embarrassed but she really wanted to know.

“You’re interesting,” he replied promptly. “I like interesting girls.”

“I’m not very smart.”

He smiled softly and reached up to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. “I told you. Everybody’s smart in their own way.”

She waved a hand at Dot’s place. “She’s smart. In every way.”

“You had to explain ‘perennial argument’ to her.”

Marina blinked. “Um … oh.”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice softer and deeper now, “she’s a numbers person and you’re a words person.”

Marina huffed, her nervousness gone, replaced by irritation. “If I were a words person, I wouldn’t be getting an M in literature. And I’m definitely not a math person or I wouldn’t have an I.”

“You read a lot, then?”

“Yes,” she sighed with resignation. “It’s one of my favorite things to do. It seems I can’t stop long enough to do what I’m supposed to.”

“Mm hmm,” he hummed slyly.

Marina felt her face heat up with her admission and his little bitty tease. “It’s the themes and symbols and motifs I don’t understand.”

“Moteefs,” he mused. “You’re reading a mystery for the third time to pick out the author’s patterns. Anybody who does that understands those things without having to be told, but you’re confused by the terms. The theme is the moral of the story. Agatha Christie’s theme is usually that the villain makes mistakes, so if you don’t want to get caught, cover your tracks. Motifs are the same things popping up over and over again, the patterns you’re trying to pick out. The symbols are the clues that help Detective P—the detective—solve the mystery. If he sees a ring, it reminds him of something different he saw. They’re not related, but in his mind they are.”

Marina studied him in awe that he knew so much and understood how to teach her. “How can you be a numbers person and a words person?” she blurted.

He shrugged. “I read a lot. Everything. But in my line of work, I had to learn how to be a numbers person if I was going to be any good at it. I taught you what I was taught.”

That made sense.

“So what are you studying right now? In English?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and sulked. She should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. Nobody cared if a girl was smart if she was pretty, but Marina wasn’t even pretty. “A Tale of Two Cities,” she muttered.

“Hey, that’s a great book! It only seems like a drag because it’s an assignment, but sometimes they pick really good stuff. You have to read it like you picked it, like you want to read it so you can have some fun at the same time.”

She scowled. “Really? Well, what’s it about?”

“Your teacher’s going to tell you all sorts of things about the French Revolution and what this means and what that means and yes, themes and symbols and all that, but if you’re reading it to pick those out for a test, you’re not going to like it. But that’s not what the story is about. So I’ll tell you it’s about two cats and a girl. One cat’s rich and nice. The other’s a lawyer and a lout. They’re both in love with her. And the story is which one she picks and why and what happens to the other one. The moral of the story—the theme—is what happens to the other one and how he got there and why he made the decisions he made.”

She blinked. “Really?

He nodded sagely. “But I’m not going to tell you that part because you should read it to find out.”

“She picks the rich one.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Is that who you’d pick?”

“I’d pick nice over lout.”

“What if you’re in love with both of them?”

Marina gave him a haughty look. “No decent girl can be in love with a lout.”

His smile started to appear. “’Zat so? But how can you tell?”

“I’d be able to tell if you were a lout,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“What if—and this is just a what-if, mind you— What if they were both nice but had different ways of showing it?”

She scowled at him. “That doesn’t make any sense. You can tell the difference between the ways nice men show that they’re nice.”

“There are a lot of ways for a lout to prove he’s nice, although sometimes it doesn’t look like what you might think of as nice.”

“Like for example?”

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘cruel to be kind’?”

“Well, of course, but I don’t remember where it’s from.”

Hamlet. Shakespeare.”

She nodded. “I see what you mean, then. The girl lives her life thinking he’s a lout, but he wasn’t really but she’ll never know.”

“Exactly. And the lout lives the rest of his life without her.”

“Is that what happens in this book?”

“I am not going to tell you,” he said archly, making her smile. “That’s cheating.”

“Is it cheating to trick me into wanting to read the book?”

He winked at her again. “Cruel to be kind.”

Marina laughed. “I don’t believe you could ever be cruel.”

His eyebrow rose and he gave her a wicked grin. “You think?”

“Yes,” she said firmly.

“Miss Scarritt, you must truly be a daughter of God, to have that kind of faith in a man you just met.”

8


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