Beyond I Do Read online

  Beyond I Do

  Will seeing beyond the present unite them or tear them apart?

  Jennifer Slattery

  New Hope® Publishers

  PO Box 12065

  Birmingham, AL 35202-2065

  NewHopeDigital.com

  New Hope Publishers is a division of WMU®.

  © 2014 by Jennifer Slattery

  All rights reserved. First printing 2014.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Slattery, Jennifer, 1974- author.

  Beyond I do / by Jennifer Slattery.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-59669-417-0 (sc)

  1. Christian fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.L3755B49 2014

  813’.6--dc23

  2014014595

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois. All rights reserved.

  Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Scripture quotations marked KJV are taken from The Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Editorial: Joyce M. Dinkins, Kristin Easterling, Melissa Hall, Natalie Hanemann, Bethany Kuhn, Kathi Macias, and Kathryne Solomon

  Cover Design: Michel Lê

  Interior Design: Glynese Northam

  ISBN-10: 1-59669-417-3

  ISBN-13: 978-1-59669-417-0

  N144123 • 0914 • 3MI

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Dedication

  To my sweet friend, Iris Peters, who showed me what it means to live for Jesus, right up to the end.

  Acknowledgments

  To my sweet hubby, you saw the writer in me before I did and have always been such an encourager! You continue to bring out the best in me, and I appreciate your commitment to Christ, your family, and sharing God’s love with others. Thank you for showing me, day in and day out, what it means to love patiently, humbly, and sacrificially. Though my name is on the cover of this book, we both know I’d know nothing of forever romance if not for you!

  To my mother-in-law, Bea Slattery, I cherish you not just because you raised the man of my dreams, but also because of all the support and feedback you’ve offered over the years.

  To my dad, I’m still skipping and still rhyming. Thanks for instilling in me a love for words and encouraging me to chase after my dreams.

  To my mom, thanks for teaching me to view others through a “deeper” lens. I hope this tendency comes out in everything I write.

  Dr. Andrea Mullins, what a blessing you have been in my writing journey! When I first met you, I was struck by how much you radiate Christ. To all the staff at New Hope Publishers, thank you for making my first book such a wonderful experience.

  Joyce, you are such a brilliant, encouraging, and inspiring editor! I’m so blessed to be able to glean from your strong faith and wisdom. You are a wonderful woman of God, and I learn something every time I hear you speak.

  Finally, I’ve had some amazing critique partners, and can’t thank you enough for all the help each of you has offered from draft one to ten; but Kathleen Freeman, you knew you’d get a special thank-you, right? Thanks for encouraging me to follow God’s leading in my journey to publication. Cherish you, girl!

  Chapter 1

  insley’s stomach churned as she eased into the Whispering Hills Apartments parking lot. Broken beer bottles and other trash littered the ground. A few tenants had draped sheets across their windows. Other windows were boarded up. One was busted in, shards of glass held in place by silver duct tape.

  Please tell me this isn’t where Marie Nelson lives. She compared the address Deborah had given her to the rusted numbers on the complex in front of her. This was the place. And from the looks of it, the very place Ainsley shouldn’t be, at least, not alone.

  Her phone chimed, making her jump. She glanced at the screen. Her fiancé’s number flashed. Cutting her engine, she answered. “Hey, Richard. What’s up?” She shoved her purse and computer case under the passenger seat.

  “Where are you?”

  “Doing a favor for Deborah. Why? You need something?” She grabbed her pepper spray from the glove compartment.

  “Who?”

  As if she hadn’t talked about the woman countless times over the years. “Deborah Eldridge, the one who told me about Christ.” And kept her from going completely insane or spiraling into rebellion when Ainsley’s home life fell apart.

  “Sometimes I wonder if you ever really listen.”

  A pack of muscular and hardfaced men gathered around a navy pickup watched her, causing her already queasy stomach to cramp. There were four of them, two dressed in black with thick chains draped across their neck. The largest was covered, neck and arms, with angry tattoos. She looked away, suddenly acutely aware of her shiny sedan and department store garb.

  Oh, Lord Jesus, please keep me safe.

  “That Deborah. Right.” A keyboard clicked on the other end of the line. Richard was probably working on final edits on his book. “Now I remember. So you’re in Smithville?”

  “Not exactly. More like . . .” She scanned her surroundings again, her gaze lingering on a used diaper decaying on the ground ten feet away. “More like . . . the Admiral Boulevard area.”

  Richard made a choking noise, as if spewing coffee. “You’re where? Please tell me you are not in the crime center of Kansas City.”

  He let out an exasperated puff of air. “You are, aren’t you?” He muttered something under his breath. “Why must you continue to jeopardize your safety like this?”

  “And why must you treat me like a child?”

  He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. But surely you know how dangerous that area is.

  “I’ll be fine. It’s broad daylight. Besides, criminals and gang members aren’t the only people who live in this part of town. There are women and children,
senior citizens.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve seen pictures of some of them flash across the evening news—after they’ve been shot.”

  She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. This wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have. Not now, sitting like a bright, shiny target in an this rundown apartment complex’s parking lot. “Good-bye, Richard. I’ll call you when I get home.”

  “Tell me exactly where you’re at.”

  So he could come rescue her? “Listen, I’ve gotta go.” She ended the call then slipped her cell into her blazer pocket.

  Her phone chimed again but she ignored it. Richard was much too sheltered by his high society friends. As her pastor often said, “If you don’t know any single parents or folks living in poverty, you need to get out in the real world, because Jesus doesn’t need any seat warmers.”

  It was time she acted on that same advice. She stepped from her car, and a gust of wind carrying the scent of trash swept over her. Moving to her trunk, she glanced around. A man in a lowrider pulled up beside a girl in four-inch heels, a miniskirt, and bikini top.

  Please tell me she’s not doing what I think she is.

  Time to drop off her care items then get home. Grabbing her shopping bag filled with everything from cough drops to orange juice, she locked her car and scurried to unit number 478. A door covered in dirt stood in front of her. Apparently, the only entrance into the complex.

  There she stood, looking like a small-town librarian, about to enter into a danger zone. An area known for shootings, rapes, and robberies. So why was she still here and not back in her car headed toward I-70?

  Because Deborah said this was important. The woman would’ve come herself, had she been able. And after all she’d done for Ainsley over the years, this was the least Ainsley could do.

  Holding her overstuffed bag and pepper spray in one hand, Ainsley reached for the knob and turned. The door squeaked open, a thick stench of mildew and cigarette smoke permeating the air. A single bulb flickered in the darkened hallway, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Surveying her surroundings, bag clutched to her chest like a shield, she searched for an elevator. All she found was a dark stairwell that smelled of vomit.

  A verse taped to her bathroom mirror came to mind: If you try to hang on to your life, you will lose it. But if you give up your life for my sake, you will find it (Matthew 16:25).

  Lose her life, her rights, for Christ. That was fine when it meant holding babies in the nursery or bringing meals. She glanced at her shopping bag. Or medicine to shut-ins. She always said she wanted to live God’s adventure, but whenever the chance arose, her fears and insecurities held her back. Not this time. God was giving her the opportunity to put action to her words, and she was determined to see this through.

  Finger poised over the trigger of her pepper spray, she climbed up the stairs. Lord Jesus, keep me safe. Lord Jesus, keep me safe. Lord Jesus—

  A door above slammed shut, and she startled, nearly dropping her bag. Holding her breath, she pressed against the cool cement wall as heavy footfalls descended toward her. A large woman carrying a poodle rounded the corner with a grunt. Ainsley’s jittery legs went slack as intense relief washed over her. Thank You, Jesus. She offered the woman a shaky smile then faced the remaining stairs with renewed focus. Taking them two at a time, she arrived on the third floor out of breath, heart racing.

  Marie Nelson’s apartment was three doors down on the left. From inside, a television blared. Ainsley knocked then waited, casting frequent glances down the hall.

  No answer. She tried again, louder this time. Muffled yelling erupted from the adjacent apartment, followed by a loud crash. Ainsley knocked again, this time using the flat end of her fist, then her foot. Again, nothing. She started to leave when the television turned off. Once again, she knocked, the yelling in the next residence now louder, clearer.

  “Can’t even cook fried chicken. What’d I tell you about burnin’ my dinner, you stupid cow?” A deep male voice. “You disgust me.” There was a high-pitched cry followed by a thud.

  Domestic violence? An urge to do something welled within her, battling against her fear. Should she call the cops? Absolutely, but first, she needed to get out of here.

  She inched toward the stairwell, ready to bolt. The door to the adjacent apartment burst open, and a lanky man with veins bulging along his arms and chest appeared. Tattooed lettering replaced his eyebrows and dime-sized studs pierced his ears. He smelled of stale liquor, cigarette smoke, and dried sweat. Behind him a woman cowered on the floor, her back against the wall. Sobbing, she covered her face with her hands. A boy, maybe nine or ten years old, crouched beside her. He looked at Ainsley, tear-filled eyes pleading.

  She gasped, her heart aching.

  The drunken man slammed his apartment door. “What you staring at?” He glowered, his blue eyes boring into Ainsley with such venom, the hairs on her neck stood on end. Holding her breath, she inched backward, stumbling over a crease in the carpet. She dropped her bag, the contents spilling out.

  The man looked at her, his upper lip curling, hands fisted. He stepped forward, and she closed her eyes, shielding her head with her hands. His footsteps thudded on the ragged carpet then continued past, soon echoing in the stairwell.

  She remained on the ground, trembling.

  Marie’s door creaked open. “Hello?” An old woman dressed in a lavender housecoat and matching slippers appeared. “You there, did you knock on my door?” She smiled as if completely oblivious to the battle that had occurred in her neighbor’s apartment. And the mess of medicine spilled across the hallway floor.

  Ainsley’s heart hammered so hard, her chest began to burn. “Hi.” She scooped her items back into the bag and stood on trembling legs. “I . . .” She looked from the stairwell to the door, now closed, that hid the broken woman and child. What should she do? What could she do?

  “You must be Ainsley Meadows.” Maria opened her door wider, resting her shoulder against it. “Deborah told me you’d be coming.” Her silver hair was pulled into rollers, numerous strands escaping. Her wrinkled face had a yellow tint. Jaundice? Or was that a side effect of chemo?

  Ainsley nodded and extended her hand. “Good to meet you.”

  The woman coughed, a dry, rattling sound then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Ainsley’s mouth felt dry. She touched her phone, her fingers resting on the smooth plastic case. Did the woman in the next apartment need help? Was it any of her business? The image of the boy, so young, so frightened, cemented in her brain. She knew what it was like to feel as if the world was crumbling. To wonder if the adults in your world cared. She might not have experienced physical abuse, but she understood intense loneliness, the kind that ate at one’s gut and made one wonder if life was worth living. If not for Deborah—

  “Don’t just stand there looking like a banked trout.” The woman winked, making a sweeping motion with her arm. “Come in. Come in.” She pulled a wad of tissue from her housecoat pocket and blew her nose.

  Ainsley stepped inside, lingering in the entryway. The apartment, a studio, was small but tidy. The furniture reminded her of an old I Love Lucy television show, down to the twenty-inch black-and-white television set.

  “I brought you cold medicine.” She held her bag out then set it on a table pushed against the wall.

  “Isn’t that kind? I’ll tell you what—all that chemo has wreaked havoc with my immune system. Not that I’m complaining none. Just happy to be here, till the good Lord takes me home.” She shuffled over and peeked into the bag. “Oh, my! Jelly beans! my absolutely favorite candy. How did you know?”

  Ainsley smiled. “Deborah Eldridge told me.”

  “Such a sweet woman; always does remember the little things.” Stifling a cough, she pulled out a bag of lozenges and wrestled the bag open. “Would you like some tea?”

  “I . . .” Scraping her teeth over her bottom lip, she cocked her head, listening for sounds comin
g from the other apartment. Silence. “What’s the story with your neighbors?”

  Mrs. Nelson wrinkled her brow. “Neighbors? Oh, you mean sweet Wanda and her good-for-nothing boyfriend.” Frowning, she shook her head. “Don’t know how many times I told her to leave that lowlife. If not for herself, for the safety of her son.” She moved to a paisley loveseat and practically fell into it. “But like my momma used to say—god rest her soul—can’t help someone who won’t help themselves. Still, I pray for her. The good lord knows how much I pray for her and that boy.” She winced as if in pain then grabbed a heating pad from the cushion beside her. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes.

  The woman was tired. Needed to rest. “Listen, I don’t want to keep you.” Ainsley smiled and pivoted toward the door.

  Marie struggled to sit up, her face contorted.

  Ainsley raised her hand. “You relax. I can see myself out.” With a wave good-bye, she slipped out and continued down the stairs. Once at her car, she glanced toward the apartment building, focusing on the third floor. The young boy she’d seen inside that dingy apartment stood in front of his opened window. He held Ainsley’s gaze. An urge to go to him, to scoop him up and hold him close, to protect him and his mother, swept through her. To show him how infinitely loved he was. Like Deborah Eldridge had done for her, back when she was his age.

  But what could she do?

  Oh, Lord Jesus, please show me what I can do.

  Chapter 2

  ichard hollis stopped pacing and checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was 6:15, and Ainsley still hadn’t returned his calls. All eight of them. How could he show her the danger of her actions? Philanthropy projects were fine, if done through the proper channels. Did the woman have any idea the violence perpetuated in those kinds of areas?

  No. She didn’t. And he had no intention of allowing her to learn the hard way.

  Grabbing his computer bag, he exited his office, locking the door behind him. Not that he knew where to go, except maybe to randomly drive through northeast Kansas City hoping to find her.