Prophet by Frank Peretti Page A

looked the area over thoughtfully. In the corner was a large pile of lumber, some kind of project under a tarp, but apart from that there was plenty of open space here. Near the windows was a perfect spot for an easel, and on the next wall plenty of room to hang his paintings. This end of the workbench had space for his paints, palettes, and brushes, and in the center of the area was a fine worktable. During the day the light would be ideal.
    He wanted to be here. “It’ll be a beautiful place to work.”
    “Then that’s that.”
    “But I don’t want to cause any problems, you know?”
    “You belong here.”
    “Well, I mean, with my father. He doesn’t know I’m staying here, and I was afraid to tell him.”
    “Oh, I’m sure he’ll find something to fuss about. But that’s because he doesn’t know you and you don’t know him, and he’ll be concerned for me.”
    “What kind of a person is he?”
    She raised an eyebrow. “Ask him yourself. That’s why you’re here.”
    Carl looked around the room again, fascinated, captivated by this world—his world—he’d never known. “I still feel like I’m intruding.”
    “No, now remember, this was my idea.” She touched him, got him to look at her. “Carl Barrett, my name is Lillian Eve Barrett. I’m your grandmother, the mother of your father. And you, young man, are my only grandchild.” She put her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. He didn’t know how to respond to that and just stood there stiffly, his hands awkwardly at his sides. “This is called a hug, Carl. It’s one of the things I do to people I love. You’ll get used to it.”
    He absorbed the hug and the words that came with it and then shyly agreed, “Okay.”
    She let him go and stepped back to smile at him and to even point a motherly finger in his face. “If you get to be a nuisance, I’ll let you know, so don’t be. I expect you to keep this place clean, like your grandfather kept it and your father never did. You can have your father’s old room. The bed’s still there and his dresser. Right now I’ve got my sewing in there and a bunch of boxes from the Women’s Missionary rummage sale, but we’ll cart all that stuff upstairs and out of your way. If you start feeling guilty for mooching off a little old widow, I’ve got plenty of work for you to do around here to earn your keep. I’ll give you a list.”
    He smiled, nodded, feeling a bit nervous, on the spot. “Yeah, okay. Fair enough.”
    “Any questions?”
    “Oh. Well . . .” His eyes drifted toward the pile of lumber and whatever else under the tarp. “Would it be okay if I moved that stuff there? Then I’d have this area all clear. It’d be perfect.”
    She stepped over to the pile and lifted one corner of the tarp, folding it back over the top. Underneath were several planks cut to precise, curved shapes, mingled with finely cut wood ribs.
    “Looks like a boat,” said Carl.
    Mom didn’t answer right away. She seemed drawn by those unassembled parts into another world. Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’d better get inside now. I see Dad everywhere I look . . .” Her hands went to her face and she turned away, heading for the door. “Come in whenyou’re ready, and we’ll get you moved in.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
    “It’s all right.” She stopped and turned toward him one more time, wiping her eyes, speaking with quaking breath. “I want you here. Dad wants you here too. I know.”
    She went out the door. Carl stood there, unsure of what to do next. He finally heard the back door to the house open and close again. She was safe inside now. She was home.
    Who is she anyway? he found himself wondering. Who was Grandpa? Then he chuckled. Who’s my old man?
    He reached out and touched one of the boat ribs. And for the longest time, he just couldn’t take his hand away.

    MONDAY AFTERNOON, AT ten to 1, John parked in his designated stall under the building, punched in the