Rooms - James L. Rubart [102]
“But Rick says—”
“Let it go, Micah. Stop fighting. Your striving won’t change things, make them happen faster or slower.”
“You’re saying I shouldn’t strive for freedom? And the changes God has made in my heart?”
“No, not at all. To want that is so good. But stop pushing so hard. Do you have God’s peace right now? No. Relax and let the changes take their natural course.”
“Rick would say we are in a battle and it won’t happen naturally.”
“Exactly. There is a battle going on in Seattle right now. We have lost almost everything we’ve created, and Rick is absolutely right. To sit here and wish for the things we used to have to return is futile. We must act now. The window of opportunity to get our old life back is closing. This is the moment to make your choice—the truth or a lie. There is a battle in this instant for your destiny, and you must decide who to believe. Now is the time to reverse this.”
Micah got up and paced for a full minute. Then he turned and spoke in complete confidence. “All right. We’ll go. Just give me a day to tell Sarah.”
“Even a day might be too late, Micah. We must hurry.”
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By 8:00 that night he’d called Sarah four times. He needed to talk to her. With a decision this monumental he couldn’t leave a message on her voice mail. Where was she? She always answered her cell if it was him, even at Osburn’s. Maybe he should drive down there. No. Being with her would shatter his resolve to head back to Seattle. It would draw the conversation out for hours. He needed to leave immediately.
As he paced on his deck, he watched a somber sky turn dark from gray clouds bunching up on the horizon like sheep forced up against the shearing pen.
He sat on his Adirondack chair, shook his head, and laughed. What was wrong with him? This was not a big deal. He’d be back down all the time. It wouldn’t change his relationship with Sarah a nanobyte.
As he picked up his phone to call her again, his hands began to sweat.
CHAPTER 37
Osburn’s was shutting down for the night, and the Saturday evening crowd had thinned down to two customers who meandered out the door. The ice cream machines were rinsed and cleaned out, but Sarah still needed to clean the tables, mop the floor, and wash the windows. Heading home for the night seemed years away.
“You okay?” asked the gal helping Sarah close up the store.
Sarah’s rag grew cold in her hand, but she continued using it to wipe up the tables stained with Chocolate Chip Mint, Oreo Cookie Crunch, and fourteen other flavors that had slid down customer’s throats that day.
“Yeah, good. And you?” Sarah answered without looking up.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” But she wasn’t.
It had been two days since Sarah had heard from Micah. It wasn’t normal. Eight hours without at least a phone call was unusual. Something was wrong. Twinges in her stomach said more than wrong.
She tried to ignore the feeling as she finished her cleaning and flicked off the store lights, sending Osburn’s into shadows for the night.
Ten minutes later the gravel moaned under her Subaru as Sarah pulled slowly into the driveway of her one-bedroom apartment. She threw the gear shift into park, turned off the car, but didn’t get out. She sat and replayed the conversation she’d had with Micah two days ago. It had just felt . . . off.
Finally she pushed open her car door and stepped outside. A brisk wind brought her the smoky aroma of a beach fire, and she wondered who sat around it. It should be Micah, waiting for her to join him.
As she opened her front door, her eyes jumped to her answering machine. Yes. The red light blinked. A beacon of hope? Or an emergency siren?
She walked toward the machine in slow motion, closed her eyes, then opened them to peek at the digital readout of the last call. Micah’s cell phone number. She reached