Читать книгу Love, Honor or Stray: - E.N. Joy - Страница 9

“Eleven-seventy-seven Covenant Park,” Deborah said to herself as she stared down at the address on the printed e-mail.

She sat in her car parked in front of the residential address that she had assumed would be an office building of some sort. “But I’m almost certain it said to meet him at his office.” Deborah shuffled around the trail of back and forth e-mails she had accumulated with Mr. Born, a.k.a. Born2Write@writersworld.com.

Since returning from her three-month sabbatical a couple of weeks ago, it seemed as though Deborah had done nothing but sit in front of her computer checking e-mails. She’d spent Christmas and New Year’s checking e-mails. And when she wasn’t checking e-mails, she was checking voice mail messages. While away, she hadn’t used her cell phone or e-mail. She had cut off all communication with everybody; that is with the exception of God. Her pastor of New Day Temple of Faith was the only person who knew how to get in touch with her in case of an emergency. There had been no emergencies.

Upon returning home, she was greeted with a cell phone with a full voice mail box. Even though the voice mail greeting informed callers that she would be unavailable until December, many had opted to leave messages anyway. Then there were the gazillion e-mails that needed her attention. She had no idea that many messages could be stored. AOL wasn’t playing when they said “unlimited e-mail storage.”

The Deborah three months ago, along with the average person, would have lost her mind had she had to deal with such a tedious task. But the new refreshed, cleansed, and restored Deborah wasn’t fazed by the workload that awaited her. In order to clear out her voice mail box, she had given her voice mail messages her immediate attention. With a notepad in hand, she’d listened to every single message, writing down the caller’s name, subject matter of their message, and return contact info. She then went down the list and returned each call that required feedback. This had taken her almost a week alone. The e-mails were another story. She was still working on those, although she’d managed to acknowledge a good chunk of them. Mr. Born was among the chunk.

After several e-mails back and forth, it typically taking Deborah a day or two to respond to him, they’d decided to meet up. Mr. Born was interested in Deborah doing some literary consultation with him and several people he knew who were interested in self-publishing. He’d written in one of his e-mails that he, along with three others in an online writing group he belonged to, decided that they wanted to self-publish their books. They’d concluded that with the economy not being on the up and up, and major publishers not giving out book deals like they used to, self-publishing might be the better route for them to go for now. Deborah’s name and Web site had been posted to the group as someone who could possibly assist them. After doing their research and choosing Mr. Born as the ring leader, Deborah was contacted.

As the owner and only employee of Everything Literary, Deborah loved the different hats she wore. For the four years her own literary agency had been in existence, out of editing, literary consulting, and agenting, Deborah adored consulting the most. She loved taking her clients step by step, from just being a writer to being a published author. She, too, had started off wanting to be a published author. She’d written the book and everything; but God had other plans for her. Still, she wasn’t giving up completely on the idea of maybe one day being published herself. Who knows? Maybe God still had plans for that two hundred and seventy page manuscript of hers. For now, her mission was to help others reach that status, and it included Mr. Born. Through Mr. Born’s e-mails, she could feel the same drive, passion, and determination she’d started out with after penning her novel. She couldn’t wait to use him as her muse.

The plan was that since Mr. Born and his friends were scattered about the map, with him being local, she’d do some one on one consulting with Mr. Born, who would then pass on the information to the others. They’d all do some conference calls and online chats here and there, but the majority of the instructions would be between Deborah and Mr. Born.

“Yep, there it is,” Deborah said, finally finding the e-mail in which the two had initially set up their meeting. “We can meet at my office….” She read Mr. Born’s reply after she suggested they meet instead of sending e-mails back and forth. She’d printed off the contract she had customized to fit him and his fellow writers’ specific needs. If all was agreed upon, they’d sign the contract, she’d receive half down for her services, and they’d be in business.

She looked up at the quaint little house that sat about twenty-five feet from the curb. A stone walkway traveled right up the middle of the yard to the front door. Deborah contemplated for a moment before opening the car door. She stood up to look for any signs of life inside. The sun had just started to go down, so she wasn’t surprised not to notice any lights beaming from any of the house’s windows.

She contemplated a few more seconds before grabbing her messenger bag and purse, all the while keeping her eyes glued on the house. She closed the car door and set the alarm with the remote. The clickety-clack of the heels of her leather winter boots sounded eerie as she headed up the walkway. For a moment there, fear tried to rear its ugly head. “Lord, you have not given me the spirit of fear”—she spoke out loud in an effort to chase away the unwelcome spirit—“but of love and power and…and…something else, only I’m too scared to remember it right now.”

Finally reaching the door, Deborah admired the heavy, oak double doors and the lovely Christmas wreath hanging on them. What she noticed, though, was that one of the doors was slightly cracked. “And a sound mind,” she said, recalling the final line of the scripture she’d been confessing.” Being that God had given her a sound mind, she knew that what she should have done was turn around and hightail it back to her car. Of course, she didn’t. The curiosity of it all had too much of a stronghold on her to allow her to do that.

Slowly, Deborah placed her hand on the gold door knob and pushed on the door just a little. She had fussed out many leading women in thriller movies for doing this exact same thing. Knowing what had become of those leading ladies, she still proceeded to push the door open.

I can’t let fear get to me, Deborah told herself. Mr. Born could be inside hurt or something. Deborah continued to try to convince herself that perhaps God had brought her there to that place at that specific time to intervene in what could possibly be a tragedy. Perhaps Mr. Born had fallen and couldn’t get up. After all, she didn’t know his age. He could be some eighty-year-old man lying helpless on the floor. She’d never forgive herself if that were the case; if she let fear prevent her from doing God’s will. Yep, all those were things she told herself just to keep from facing the truth: that she was more curious than she was a Good Samaritan.

Taking a deep breath, Deborah pushed the door all the way open, simultaneously calling out Mr. Born’s name. Not hearing a response, she stepped inside the foyer while calling out his name again. “Mr. Born. Mr. Born, it’s me, Deborah Lewis.” Although she didn’t hear him reply, she did hear some soft music coming from what sounded like the next room. She couldn’t see inside the room, but she could see the opening. It appeared dark with the exception of a very dim light.

“Mr. Born, are you in there?” Deborah called out. When she didn’t get a response, she slowly took steps toward the room from which the music was coming. She stopped in her tracks when something flickered. “Mr. Born?” She knew calling out his name would probably be in vain; still, she did it anyway.

She looked behind her at the door she’d left open. She could turn around now and leave if she wanted to. She could turn all five feet, seven and a half inches and one hundred thirty-five pounds around and get the heck out of there. She turned and faced the room again, wondering if Mr. Born was in there injured. Murdered, even. Now she looked back behind her, this time focusing on the door knob. If I leave now and Mr. Born is in there, victim of a murder, perhaps a robbery gone bad, my prints are all over the door knob.

A stinging sensation ran through Deborah’s veins when she thought there was a chance that this was all a setup: that she’d been set up to take the fall for a murder. She shook the thought out of her head before saying, “The devil is a liar and I have to stop watching all of those prime time crime shows.”

With that final thought, Deborah held her head up high, straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked into that room like she owned the place.

“Oh my God!” With her hand over her mouth in complete shock, Deborah wasn’t prepared for the sight before her eyes.