three-piece business suit came out holding a polished black briefcase. He nodded to the secretary and noticed Dynah. He smiled slightly and looked back briefly at the man standing in the office doorway. Dynah felt some current in that look, some silent message being passed.
“Miss . . . Miss? I’m so sorry. I didn’t get your name,” the secretary said.
“Jones,” Dynah said, blushing and lowering her eyes. “Mary Jones.”
“Miss Jones, this is Pastor Tom Whitehall. Pastor, this is Mary Jones. She asked if she could speak with you.”
“Didn’t I have another appointment? One at the hospital?”
The secretary looked momentarily confused and flustered. She glanced at her calendar and back at him. “No, sir. Not unless I forgot to write it down.”
Dynah looked up at him.
The pastor met her eyes and frowned slightly, looking disturbed and faintly annoyed. “I guess I have some time then. Come on in.”
Self-conscious, Dynah sat in a wing chair before a big oak desk and avoided looking into the man’s eyes. She looked at his desk instead. It was strewn with texts and papers. Behind it were shelves lining the entire office. One shelf held nothing but various versions of the Bible. Theology books and commentaries lined several shelves, and she noticed a plethora of counseling texts. Interspersed throughout the shelves were family photographs and memorabilia from mission trips to Southeast Asia, Africa, and Mexico.
“What can I do for you, Miss Jones?” Pastor Whitehall asked, sitting down in the swivel chair behind his desk. Mary Jones! She might as well have said her name was Jane Doe.
Dynah’s heart drummed, and she pressed her damp palms against her skirt. She sensed his reticence, but it had taken her five days to get the courage to come here, and she didn’t dare leave now. She knew if she did, she wouldn’t have the courage to come back. “I need some advice.”
Tom Whitehall leaned back slowly and assessed her. She was a beautiful girl and clearly a troubled one. He could see the dark shadows beneath her blue eyes, the wariness in her expression. He could guess what was the matter. It was probably the same problem most young women like her brought into his office, and the last thing he needed to face today, right after the attorney had left.
Jack Hughes’s look had been clear enough. Community Church was in deep trouble because of a lawsuit over a young girl who had received counsel and then gone out a week later and killed herself. The court seemed to be leaning toward the parents’ viewpoint. They claimed he’d given counsel when he was untrained to offer it, and his blundering attempts to help had caused the girl to go over the edge. He had no doctorate in psychology, and therefore he had no right to offer counsel to a troubled girl.
It made Tom sick with grief every time he thought about Mara. Stricken with guilt, he went back over everything he had said to her, trying to find something that might have put her over the edge. She had been a deeply troubled girl, estranged from her physically abusive parents, promiscuous, newly clean from drugs. He thought she was doing better. He thought she was seeing some glimmer of hope. Then the news had come that she’d committed suicide. And now the lawsuit. His stomach churned, burning.
He looked at Mary Jones and wondered if he was being set up by Mara’s parents or their slick attorney. Community was a big church. Jack said all concerned figured it had deep pockets. “What sort of advice were you looking for, Miss Jones?” he said cautiously.
“Of a delicate nature,” she said, afraid she was going to cry. Weaving her fingers together, she let her breath out slowly, trying to relax and regain some control over her emotions. “In January I was raped in Henderson Park.”
The information came like a punch in his stomach. One look into her eyes and he believed her, and that made everything worse. Father, I’m not equipped for this. My
“Miss . . . Miss? I’m so sorry. I didn’t get your name,” the secretary said.
“Jones,” Dynah said, blushing and lowering her eyes. “Mary Jones.”
“Miss Jones, this is Pastor Tom Whitehall. Pastor, this is Mary Jones. She asked if she could speak with you.”
“Didn’t I have another appointment? One at the hospital?”
The secretary looked momentarily confused and flustered. She glanced at her calendar and back at him. “No, sir. Not unless I forgot to write it down.”
Dynah looked up at him.
The pastor met her eyes and frowned slightly, looking disturbed and faintly annoyed. “I guess I have some time then. Come on in.”
Self-conscious, Dynah sat in a wing chair before a big oak desk and avoided looking into the man’s eyes. She looked at his desk instead. It was strewn with texts and papers. Behind it were shelves lining the entire office. One shelf held nothing but various versions of the Bible. Theology books and commentaries lined several shelves, and she noticed a plethora of counseling texts. Interspersed throughout the shelves were family photographs and memorabilia from mission trips to Southeast Asia, Africa, and Mexico.
“What can I do for you, Miss Jones?” Pastor Whitehall asked, sitting down in the swivel chair behind his desk. Mary Jones! She might as well have said her name was Jane Doe.
Dynah’s heart drummed, and she pressed her damp palms against her skirt. She sensed his reticence, but it had taken her five days to get the courage to come here, and she didn’t dare leave now. She knew if she did, she wouldn’t have the courage to come back. “I need some advice.”
Tom Whitehall leaned back slowly and assessed her. She was a beautiful girl and clearly a troubled one. He could see the dark shadows beneath her blue eyes, the wariness in her expression. He could guess what was the matter. It was probably the same problem most young women like her brought into his office, and the last thing he needed to face today, right after the attorney had left.
Jack Hughes’s look had been clear enough. Community Church was in deep trouble because of a lawsuit over a young girl who had received counsel and then gone out a week later and killed herself. The court seemed to be leaning toward the parents’ viewpoint. They claimed he’d given counsel when he was untrained to offer it, and his blundering attempts to help had caused the girl to go over the edge. He had no doctorate in psychology, and therefore he had no right to offer counsel to a troubled girl.
It made Tom sick with grief every time he thought about Mara. Stricken with guilt, he went back over everything he had said to her, trying to find something that might have put her over the edge. She had been a deeply troubled girl, estranged from her physically abusive parents, promiscuous, newly clean from drugs. He thought she was doing better. He thought she was seeing some glimmer of hope. Then the news had come that she’d committed suicide. And now the lawsuit. His stomach churned, burning.
He looked at Mary Jones and wondered if he was being set up by Mara’s parents or their slick attorney. Community was a big church. Jack said all concerned figured it had deep pockets. “What sort of advice were you looking for, Miss Jones?” he said cautiously.
“Of a delicate nature,” she said, afraid she was going to cry. Weaving her fingers together, she let her breath out slowly, trying to relax and regain some control over her emotions. “In January I was raped in Henderson Park.”
The information came like a punch in his stomach. One look into her eyes and he believed her, and that made everything worse. Father, I’m not equipped for this. My
Similar Books
