Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [19]
Brady explained why he needed it. “I mean, unless you have a gig tomorrow. I could have it back by seven or so.”
“We only play weekends now; you know that. Doing the Ramada Friday and Saturday and some kid’s birthday party Sunday.”
“Cool.”
“So you don’t need the amp? You’re not gonna plug it in?”
“I’m just going to hold it and pretend.”
“You’ll keep it in the case at all times otherwise?”
“Promise.”
“And you’re not gonna let anybody else so much as touch it.”
“I swear. Man, I really appreciate this.”
“You’re a nut, Brady. You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
Stevie Ray went to get the guitar, and Brady could hear him talking with his wife. Then he laid the case on the couch and opened it. “I’m just an old rocker,” he said, “but I learned something from the pros. You treat your ax like a gem. None of that trashin’ your equipment for me. Maybe those dudes can afford a new one every week, but not me.”
The gleaming instrument was metallic blue with white trim. Perfect.
“Stevie, you’re as good a picker as I’ve ever heard—Clapton, Harrison, all of ’em included.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stevie Ray said, smiling. “And those guys don’t work on cars between gigs. Listen, so much as a scratch on this thing and you’re dead.”
“I’ll protect it with my life.”
8
Oldenburg
Thomas Carey had never considered himself handy, but things around the new house needed attention. So he was up at dawn, dressed in work clothes, and unshaven. He never, ever, missed his morning Bible reading and prayer ritual—even on his days off. Today, as usual, Ravinia was at the top of his prayer list. How he agonized over her, pleading with God to draw her back to Himself.
Normally Grace was fixing breakfast by the time Thomas had finished his devotions, but he heard no stirring and decided to tackle a few small projects in the bathroom while waiting. He was under the sink with tools and caulk when hunger overtook him and he wandered out to see about Grace. He found her still in bed.
“A little punky this morning,” she slurred.
“Big day yesterday,” he said. “I’m exhausted too. Hungry? Let me bring you something.”
“Not really, but that’d be nice. Something light and easy.”
He laughed. Toast would tax Thomas’s kitchen abilities.
He put water on to boil for tea, poured a small glass of orange juice, and soon delivered both with lightly buttered toast and marmalade. But Grace was asleep again, her breathing even and deep.
Her graying hair was pulled back into a bun, and yet even without makeup she still looked like the sweet young thing he had met at Bible college. Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on her shoulder, but she did not stir. He idly munched toast and sipped the juice, finally leaving the room to finish his chores.
Loud banging at the door startled Thomas, and he leaped to his feet, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He hoped he could find a cap between the bathroom and the front door. Visitors on his day off was a pet peeve, but worse was being seen out of uniform. Any other day, by now he would be shaved, showered, combed, and in at least a shirt and tie.
He splashed a little water on both hands and ran them through his hair, reminded by the sound of splashing on the floor that he had not yet resecured the drain. If only Grace were up and could save him the embarrassment of appearing at the door with stubble on his chin. . . .
The phone installer was expected that day. Thomas supposed he could abide being seen this way by a workingman or -woman. But no such luck. It was Paul and Patricia Pierce in full shrillness.
“Got a little worried about ya not being in the office this morning,” Paul said as they entered and sat. “It’ll be handier when you’ve got a phone. What’s up?”
Thomas hesitated. Did he really have to explain himself to Paul? It seemed too soon to put his foot down, stand his ground, all those things Grace had urged him to consider. “I generally like to take Monday off,”