Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(82)

His writings were always highly regarded in my church growing up, but I never made it past The Chronicles of Narnia. For the life of me, I can’t remember ever telling Roland of my interest in Lewis, but I’m heartened that he paid attention to whatever signals I gave off.

Also, spending Christmas in Kentucky does have its advantages as far as the weather is concerned. It feels like late March, rather than late December, and I’m able to take a few minutes to myself out on the back deck while the little kids bask in their day-after-Christmas toy hangovers. The blue ceramic mug filled with cocoa warms my hands as a dry breeze blows a few flurries across the frozen ground.

“Quieter out here,” Nora remarks, sliding the glass door shut behind her.

I smile and nod, sipping the cocoa. “It’s so quiet here. Peaceful.”

Nora wraps her scarf around her neck a second time. “Is it noisier in your town?”

“Sort of. I mean, there’s not a lot of traffic or anything, and the town sure boasts its exclusivity but … there’s just a lot of people. And money. And people showing off their money.”

Nora chuckles but says nothing more. I love the privileged upbringing I had in Greenwich, don’t get me wrong. But the more distance I have from that environment, the more it’s making me question the culture all together. Sure, I grew up in the church, but what did I learn? What did I internalize? I know for a fact that Dick Watkins, who always sat two pews in front of me and Mom, was a corporate litigator. The kind that went to bat for big companies and smushed non-profits under his heel with little more compassion than he’d show a bug.

On the flip side, there was my mother—purveyor of justice against social wrongs. Still, in order to make any money fighting for the underdog, you’ve got to be good. And to be good means you sometimes have to play dirty. She never did anything illegal that I’m aware of, but her battles often ended up being more about mudslinging than the morals for which she was sent to fight.

“It’s confusing,” I blurt out to Nora mid-thought. “I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by people who are faithful, whether Christian, Jewish, or whatever else, but I don’t think I spent a lot of time around really nice people, except for my immediate family and a few friends, until I came here. I mean, I know that doesn’t sound fair because I know very little about most of their personal lives …”

“Whose personal lives?” Nora asks, turning to rest against the rail of the deck.

I twitch my lips. “Good point.”

“I’m serious,” she presses.

“I meant the people in Greenwich. All cut-throat business folk or actors looking to hide in their modest five-million-dollar homes. They throw lots of money at causes from time to time, but it’s rare to see any of them board a plane to help the starving children.”

“There is that one actress and her husband that do that … she’s too skinny though, isn’t she?”

I laugh at Nora’s accurate and refreshingly real insight. “Yes. But I don’t think the Jolie-Pitts have a place in Connecticut. I could be wrong though—it is kind of hard to keep up sometimes.”

“And the people at CU. You thought they were full of it too when you first got here, didn’t you?” She grins. I like her more by the second.

I nod. “I still think some of them are. But … it’s different. I feel like where I came from is a caricature of how America is, and where I am now is one of how it should be. Why is this so complicated?” I put my hands on my hips and chuckle a little, though I’m not so sure what’s funny.

Nora waves her hand. “People, dear. People are woefully complicated. It’s hard to see hearts, but I see yours loud and clear.”

Lifting my eyebrows, I take a deep breath. “You do? Care to share some insight?”

Her face softens into a grandmotherly smile and she takes my hands. “You’re fierce, like both your mother and Roland. And, incidentally, both of them fight for justice, which I think you want to do, too. You just don’t know how. You want to do what’s right, but you’re trying to find your footing.”

“Huh,” I whisper, my throat growing tight. “You’re good.”

“I have something for you,” she says, pulling a small rectangular box from inside her coat. “I didn’t give it to you yesterday during all the present excitement because I didn’t want to put you on the spot in front of everyone.”

“I appreciate that.” And, I really do. I love surprises, but I hate having to manufacture a reaction.

She extends the package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. I tuck it under my arm while I take off my mittens.

“You don’t have to open it now if you don’t want to,” she says without sounding like she’s committed to the words.

I grin. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”

Sliding my finger under the tape, I take a moment to admire the simple, yet elegant wrapping. Judging by the crafty, Americana feel of the inside of Nora’s house, I don’t even have to question if she wrapped this herself. Martha Stewart would be proud. Actually, she wouldn’t even bat a perfectly-placed eyelash. Martha’s not a very nice person, and her garden parties are kind of boring. The stack of Martha Stewart Living magazines on the coffee table tells me to keep this information to myself—it’d just break Nora’s heart.