Redemption's Road Read online

  “Grandpa, when will my fingers stop being sore?”

  “When the music is something more than what you’re playing.”

  “Huh?” My twelve-year-old brain couldn’t understand.

  “When the music reaches here”—he poked a finger over my heart—”and not just here.” He touched my forehead before urging me to continue.

  It took years for enough callouses to build up on my fingertips, while I learned to play at Grandpa’s knee. My sister and I were proud of the source of our musical talents. None of our other cousins had inherited the musical gifts, but Grandpa sat on the porch with us on hundreds of occasions. He taught us the verses to every hymn he knew, much to my mother’s angst. Dad, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less. His conversion to becoming a Jehovah’s Witness was merely a ruse to get my mother to remarry him after he’d strayed one too many times. He was my own personal version of the devil.

  I walked out of my studio as I sipped my coffee, then strummed through Here I Am Lord. I was feeling introspective. Senna’s innocent question hadn’t shocked me, only pointed out the obvious—that she saw me as anything but a typical pastor.

  My phone rang. As if I’d conjured her up with the notes I played, the name of the woman who’d changed my life appeared on the screen. I answered the call in a way I knew would make her smile.

  “Peace be with you, Pastor.”

  “And also, with you. How are you, Rhebekka?”

  I pictured the woman on the other end of the line, all five foot five of her. “I’m good, Naomi. How’s the weather out there?”

  “Freezing, how about your neck of the woods?”

  “The same. Fresh layer came down last night, a good eight inches.” She was beautiful no matter what time of day it was. If I tried hard enough, I could smell her perfume.

  “Ha, not more than a skiff then. Try seventeen here.”

  Reverend Naomi Layman lived in Colorado and Open Door Ministries was an unconventional church much like my own. As their spiritual leader, Naomi accepted saint and sinner to join her in worship.

  That was how I ended up sitting in the back row, hungover and watching a very sexy woman drop wicked riffs on a Fender, as she espoused the grace of God. At that point, I didn’t think God existed and certainly not for someone like me. Naomi’s voice pulled me out of that memory.

  “Dusting the cobwebs?”

  “Huh?”

  Apparently, I’d missed something in my thoughts of a woman in a short leather skirt, boots, and a leather jacket.

  “I asked if you have your sermon done.”

  “Sorry, got lost in a moment there. I do. Tomorrow, we’re examining the issue between love and lust.”

  “Ah, as if you aren’t lusting right now.”

  The sound of my laughter bounced off the plaster walls of my loft. She knew me far too well. “Guilty as charged. I was thinking about the first time I saw you in those boots.”

  The returned laughter over the line was like water in the desert. It’d been far too long since I’d held her, something I knew I’d likely never do again.

  “Wow, you really did step into the way-back machine. I’m way past the miniskirt.”

  “You could still rock it. I’ve seen you, remember?” Oh, the memories.

  “I’m almost old enough to be your mother.”

  “Given my mother was sixteen when I was born, that’s not saying much.”

  Naomi grew far too quiet for my liking, and I knew the thoughts running through her mind. “I’ll behave. Now, to what do I owe this honor?”

  “I’m coming to Pittsburgh. I know you got an invitation as well, so don’t bullshit me.”

  Eyes closed, I focused on her voice, smooth like aged bourbon, with a burn at the end that left my nerve endings raw and exposed. At fifty-one, she was still the sexiest woman I’d ever met.

  “I did. I looked at the schedule, and I can’t make it. I didn’t know you’d be there. I’m playing that evening.”

  “At your own bar. Find someone else. Put your ass in that rust bucket you own and drive north.”

  God, how this woman knew me and how to work the internet. The little shit had checked the entertainment schedule on the Tucker County live-music web page. I was sure of it.

  “It’s not that easy.” I strummed the chorus to Eric Clapton’s, “Wonderful Tonight,” our song.

  “It is that easy. You’re making it difficult.”

  I heard her join in on the Fender I knew she still played during her services. I could feel her long fingers stroke my skin, as I visualized them strumming the harmony. I more than lusted after this woman; I still loved her with all my heart. “I probably am. Doesn’t mean it’s going to change.”

  “Not until you’re ready for it.”

  There was silence between us, only the notes of the melody drawing out in a long cry. We reached the point of the song that epitomized the crux of our relationship, the lesson we’d learned the hard way. The chords we played blended like honey melting into hot tea. They became one, inseparably joined. As the final note drifted off, we sat silently with thousands of miles between us.

  “I need to go to bed.” My jaw ached from holding back what I really wanted to say.

  “You’re a terrible liar, Rhebekka. You forget, I know that you never go to bed before four in the morning. Peace be with you.”

  “And also, with you.” I heard the click, then the endless silence that indicated she’d disconnected.

  I raked my pick across the strings angrily, frustrated at my inability to forgive. I was a minister who spoke of God’s grace, the forgiveness of sins paid for by Christ. Yet with all of that, I was unable to forgive…myself. My mood was on a downward spiral. If I didn’t reverse course, the morning’s sermon was headed for an iceberg bigger than the one that sunk the Titanic.

  I stripped down to my black jog bra and jeans, then carried my guitar back to the stand. I stepped into my recording room. After I chugged the rest of my cold coffee, I picked up my Strat and plugged in the amp.

  Sometimes, I would sweat out my frustration in the gym or on a long trail ride. Other times, I exorcised my demons with vibrating strings on that black-and-white electric guitar. At heart, I’d always be a musician. That night, I channeled Stevie Ray Vaughn, until I’d cast the demon out. I launched into Voodoo Child and prayed to the God of peace and mercy.

  Chapter Two

  I HEARD RUSTLING IN the seats as I slowly paced across the small stage with my guitar slung across my back. I’d read to them from the Bible, my well-worn, leather-bound companion, which held the message I’d tried to impart. There’s a difference between love and lust. I gave my small congregation examples from both the New and Old Testaments to show the destructive side of desire, if not channeled properly. They sat on a mishmash of secondhand furniture, sipping from teacups and mugs of coffee as they listened.

  The previous year, a stalking incident had nearly cost the lives of the local veterinarian, Jax Fitzsimmons, and her assistant, Lindsey. More recently, there’d been an incident in the newspaper where a young man had refused to take no for an answer. He stalked the girl so mercilessly that she’d been forced to get a restraining order against him. It was a high-profile case, because he was a commissioner’s son.

  “King David lusted for Bathsheba to the point he committed adultery with her, then had her husband killed to hide the child they’d conceived. There are consequences to destructive desire. Having desire isn’t wrong, until you turn it into something ugly, hurtful, or deceptive. Desiring to be a better person isn’t wrong; desiring to pay your bills or make a good grade isn’t wrong.” I made air quotes as I said this, to drive home my point. “Lying about who you are and catfishing someone, writing a bad check or cheating on an exam, is. God wants us to be happy and have the things that will bring Him honor and glory. It’s up to us to find the path that can do that, while still honoring our commitment to being good people. It’s by His grace we can do that, and by His g
race alone. Amen.”

  Their faces lit up with anticipation, as I pulled my guitar from my back. “Turn in your hymnals to page 499, Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.”

  I played through the first verse my way. The melody stays the same, but admittedly, I like to change the tempo and intensity a bit, always a rocker. They came for my message, but they also came for this, the moment when they became part of the music.

  As I led my congregation into the first verse, the energy in the room was palpable. By the time we hit the last verse and “I will sing” poured from my mouth, Johnnie in the back was jumping straight up and down and singing with me at the top of his lungs.

  My group of believers was small but mighty. Sermons were intentionally short, then I’d sit down on the edge of the stage and strum my guitar, while I opened the discussion portion of my service. Someone would throw out a topic, and it was my job to find the question in the suggestion. And an answer.

  Laura, a young nurse at the state orphanage in Elkins, was the first to throw something out. After the night I’d had, I was grateful she threw a softball.

  “Faith,” Laura suggested.

  I looked around the room and nodded. “Faith has different connotations. Trust or belief in something. Confidence that something is true. Then there’s the parallel with those thoughts, such as belief in God, religion, or ideology.” I stopped and looked at each of the eager faces and silently asked God for direction, as I continued to strum. “We have faith that tomorrow will be a new day. We can believe in this, because we’ve seen it time after time, without fail. We trust that it will happen. Our faith tells us that God created all things, and thus, He makes the sun come up in the east and set in the west, without fail. We have faith this will happen, because we have witnessed His ability in our everyday life, over and over. The question comes in when the belief, or faith that we’ve held to, is shaken somehow. We know the sun is there, even if the clouds cover it. The belief that if I live a good life, God will reward me, hangs on a thin line of faith in what we can’t see. None of us have seen heaven, but our faith tells us that by His grace, we will see it. We can strengthen that thin line by studying His word and the plans He has for us. We are all children of God, and He knows our hearts. He was there the day we were born, and He’ll be there the day we take our last breath. Faith helps us believe that, even when our fragile human thoughts doubt it. He walks beside us. Isaiah 41:10 says, ‘So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’”

  We recited the Lord’s Prayer together, and I closed the service with my usual thoughts. “Go in peace. And next week—” I waited for them to finish the phrase.

  “Bring a friend!” the voices sang out in unison. That never failed to make everyone smile.

  I shook hands and hugged each of them. This was a beer and Bible study week, Salvations and Libations, as it had come to be known. “Those of you who can, join us Tuesday at six. If you will, please sign up, so we have enough for everyone.”

  Tank sat down on the stage beside me. “Nice sermon, Rev.”

  “It had its moments.” I looked around at the vacated furniture. “I need to fix the leg on that chair. I thought Karmen was coming out of it during the sermon.”

  “I almost did.” Karmen sat on the opposite side.

  Tank stood and wiped her palms down her jeans. “Let me see what it needs.”

  Seconds later, I watched her pick the heavy chair up as if it was nothing. “Glad she’s on my side.”

  Karmen cleared her throat and averted her eyes. “Did you get the cinnamon rolls?”

  “I did. There’s only one left that’s not in here.” I patted my gut.

  “I talked to Senna after you left last night. You can add her to the list for beer and bullshit next week.”

  “That’s beer and Bible study, you heretic.”

  She tipped her head from shoulder to shoulder. “You say tomato, I say tomahto.”

  “You can’t tell me you don’t have a good time.”

  Tank came back with the broken leg in her hand. “The damn screw’s broke off. I’ll get my tools and fix it later this afternoon.”

  “I’ll pay you in beer.”

  Everyone had gone but the three of us, and I kicked my arms back and rested on my palms.

  Tank snorted. “I work at a bar.”

  “True and you are an excellent barkeep.” I nodded. She was much more to me, but few people knew. Tank had been my shadow for the majority of my rock ‘n’ roll career. She hated the terms bodyguard or security agent, so we’d settled on shadow. Tank had saved my life many times, in numerous ways.

  Karmen elbowed me. “What’s going on in that bucket up there?” She touched my temple. “You’ve got bags under your eyes, which means you didn’t get your normal three hours of sleep last night.”

  I shrugged it off and looked around the former theater. Thick, red velvet curtains still hung at the edges, and dark wood accents sucked up every bit of natural light. The wooden floors popped and creaked like my loft, a sound I found more comforting than creepy. “The songwriting bug hit me. I put together a few things for Ellie.”

  Ellie was my superstar sister. Once I stepped back out of the limelight and into a silent partner role, she turned up the wattage on her star and became the lead singer of my former band. EllieAnna McNally was a bonified rocker, and I loved her even more for it. She’d put in the hours to keep the band relevant, when everyone in the music industry wanted to write them off after I left. Regal Crimson is still in the top one hundred every year, when they talk about bands with staying power.

  Ellie inherited MaMaw’s butterfly soft voice. When we sang together, she smoothed out my gravel. For twenty years, Regal Crimson had held court in the rock world. Just over five years ago, I personally hit bottom and walked away. EllieAnna let the horses run and surprised even me with the power she could generate.

  “Anything we can hear yet?” Tank beamed.

  “They’re still pretty rough.”

  “When’s she coming by again?” Karmen kicked at one of the rugs that had flipped up. I watched Tank straighten a bit and move in toward us.

  Like half the world, Tank had a monster crush on my gorgeous sister. Ellie is feminine where I’m butch, soft where I’m hard, and bisexual, which I am not. Tank had pined for her since the first night they met. I’m sure they hooked up at least once, but neither woman has ever said so. It wasn’t my business.

  “I talked to her last week. The time difference is killing us. They’re touring in Europe, right now, and coming back to the States next month.”

  Slumped shoulders showed Tank’s impatience. I was sure she wanted another shot at trying to catch the wind that was my sister.

  Karmen touched her index finger to her lips and pointed at me. “You know, you could always go to her. I know she’s offered you tickets more than once.”

  The conversation was headed down a dangerous road. “I’m aware. That would only lead to the belief I’m coming back, and that isn’t happening.” That was why I’d stopped using the name I was born with, McNally. Deklan was MaMaw’s maiden name. The attention that came with the name Bek McNally was more than I wanted ever again. When I walked away from the band, I took the formal version of my name, the one Naomi preferred. I became Rhebekka.

  “Come on. I’m cooking, and you’re supplying the beer.” Karmen pointed to Tank.

  “If you’re good, maybe I’ll give you a sneak peek of what I’ve been working on.” I stood and dusted off the back of my pants. If only Tank saw that Karmen had a thing for her. I could see it as plain as the nose on my face.

  With Grandpa’s guitar safely in the case, we climbed the stairs and stepped into the warmth radiating from the fireplace in my loft. My home was comfortably furnished with big, soft leather couches and chairs. Wooden end tables and a coffee table with slate accents finished it off. I didn’t struggle fina
ncially, between my income streams and investments. I’d spared no expense in the kitchen. My kitchen would make any serious chef drool. I didn’t cook much, but I knew someone who did. More than one someone, present company included. Karmen made her way behind my counters and went about fixing a meal that I had no doubt could be served in a five-star restaurant. She’d started on the basics before services began.

  Tank dug a growler out of a cooler and poured two Mason jars for us, before confiscating my leftover coffee for herself. From the color of the liquid inside that Kerr jar, I could tell she’d brought the stout I’d been drinking the night before.

  Karmen pointed a wooden spoon at me. “I’m thinking spicy chicken noodle. That way, you have enough for lunch this week.”

  Her constant need to mother me made me smile, even though she was ten years my junior.

  “Thanks, Mom. If I run out, I know where I can check out the daily specials.”

  “Oh, by the way, I’m making your favorite this week.” Karmen grinned.

  I perked up at that. “Broccoli cheddar?”

  She nodded. “That’d be it. Get there early, or it’ll be gone.”

  I walked over to the studio area and grabbed the Strat, along with the score sheets I’d been working on. Tank camped out on the couch, while I took up residence in the window seat overlooking downtown Thomas. Streams of people made their way into the coffee shop next door. The sight brought the memory of the first time I took my skeptical, coffee-snob sister there. Ellie swooned and made me swear to send her the house-roasted beans wherever she was on the road.

  “You know you can order this online. Having me personally send this to you is like demanding I give you all my green M&M’s when we were on the road.”

  Ellie’s eyebrows rose. “And hearing from you once in a while would be so bad how?”

  “Ellie, I call you every week.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  I pulled her hands into mine across the table. Ellie, for all her bravado, was still my little sister, a beautiful young woman full of insecurities. Petite and shapely, she sat there playing with the neon blue streaks in her black hair and staring at me with her pale blue eyes.