Chapter One - Amy

At four years old, I proudly stomped into my pre-K classroom to show off my brand-new, light-up, sparkly unicorn high-tops, and the other kids let me have the first choice of squares on the color carpet. I learned the value of confidently walking into each and every space like I own it. I’ve never slunk in through a side door or been pushed or carried into a building, but if I can’t make it through those glass double doors on my own steam today, I’m going to have to break down and ask for a piggy-back ride. The inelegant absurdity of being observed in such a position will probably be enough to get my feet moving across the parking lot, but it remains to be seen if it will sustain me through actually entering the premises.

Normally, my schedule is full of places to go, doors to enter, events to attend. I’ve made a life of it. Not once in my twenty-eight years do I remember having to give myself a step-by-step action plan to walk inside a building. Creating a goal to get a coveted invitation? Absolutely. Making a plan to arrive at a meeting at a specific time and with a certain impressive accessory? On more than one occasion.

I am adept at making detailed plans to achieve a greater goal for my career, my finances, or my personal ambitions. Never have I ever created a series of small targets to build up to the incredible feat of opening a door.

Yet here I am, doing just that. And right now, I’m working hard to convince myself I can’t push back the next of those miniature milestones.

Again.

I’ve already moved it three times.

Today, I cannot call simply making it onto the property a win. I cannot hide in the back row of the parking lot. I cannot climb into the backseat and huddle under a blanket while I connect remotely on my phone.

Today, I’m going inside.

Before I can lose my resolve, I drive past the shaded, out-of-the-way side lot I’ve been parking in and follow the brightly colored signs directing me to the visitor spaces, right up front, only a matter of steps from the three large sets of double glass doors.

If I don’t get out of my car now, there are people everywhere who will notice and wonder, and if one of them approaches to see if I’m all right, it will be more embarrassing than anything that could happen inside.

On the other hand, if I get out and walk with purpose, keep my head down, and don’t talk to anyone, I can make it through those doors without drawing the notice of any of the people milling around on the sidewalks outside. Unless, of course, someone sees me getting out of a car parked in a visitor spot, but who really pays attention to things like that?

I grab my purse from the seat, nearly falling out the driver’s door at the lack of weight. I’m accustomed to carrying a large bag filled with everything I’ll need for the day, but the sedate black bag the size of a box of granola bars is closer to everything I saw when I looked up outfit inspirations online a month ago. In the name of fashion, I crammed the basic necessities into the smaller space and dropped everything else into a Bogg bag tucked behind the driver’s seat.

My confidence grows with every step I take away from my sporty red Mercedes. Who knew just getting out of the car was going to be the hardest part? After five steps, I feel certain diving back into the vehicle is no longer a danger.

Now I can set my sights on accomplishing my next goal. Get in. Get out. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t draw anyone’s attention. Don’t linger after the meeting is over.

A small group of people is making their way through the middle set of doors, and I try to fall in behind them, merging with the flow. It takes effort not to swivel my head around and take in everything to be found in the enormous, two-story church foyer, but ogling the decorations is an obvious sign you’re new.

I don’t want to look new. I want to appear like an insider who belongs here and has come and gone so often that whatever is in this room has become totally mundane. I am as forgettable as the flooring, as innocuous as the wallpaper, as ignorable as the—

“Hi there!”

It would seem a tall woman in a deep violet-colored shirt and hair curled high enough to make a 1980s grandmother proud is going to ruin my plan. She smiles down at me, clearly oblivious to the startle she gave me that has my already nervous heart auditioning for a heavy metal band.

“My name’s Betsy.”

Her enthusiasm is almost enough to send me back to my car. I can drive to the back of the parking lot and no one will be any wiser.

Especially me because I’ll feel like a veritable idiot.

The bubbly woman steps around three other people to stand in front of me, her hands clasped together at her chest as if she is having to physically hold herself back from hugging me. “Is this your first time? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

I blink at this woman and her shoulders that are broad enough to inspire the desire to poke at them to see if someone has started fitting T-shirts with shoulder pads. Across the cavernous space are more double doors. Wooden ones, propped open to reveal an enormous auditorium-style room that has to contain at least a thousand people with more walking in every second. How can she possibly know I’ve never been here?

I turn my head to look out the doors I just entered, but the visitor parking isn’t visible from here. Is there a guy on a security camera relaying the description of everyone who parks there to a special team of people? Discreetly, I try to see if Betsy is wearing an earpiece like a spy, but her giant purple earrings and puffed out curls could be hiding anything.

More people are entering the foyer area from hallways that jut off toward the sides of the building. Why didn’t I think to check for side doors? Probably because I didn’t realize a church would recruit their welcoming committee from the front of a Wal-Mart. Or are these the greeters that Wal-Mart rejected for being too aggressive? I haven’t been to one of those big box stores in years. Maybe all the greeters tackle people at the door these days.

Are all the entrances being guarded by people like Betsy? If I try different doors, they’ll think I’m new every time I arrive. Or, with the luck I’ve been having lately, I’ll accidentally choose the door that has me wandering onto the stage.

All of that is a concern for next week, though, assuming I can work up the nerve to make a second attempt at attendance. For now, I need to deal with Betsy.

I give her my best smile, which is normally wide and engaging and all things personable. Right now, it feels tighter than extra strength shapewear. “I’m just . . . going in there.” I vaguely point toward the room filled with lots of people and blessed anonymity.

“Of course you are.” She loses the battle with herself and one hand lands on my arm. I barely feel it through the cable-knit sweater I settled on wearing. “But you don’t want to go without your gift.”

“My gift?” My sister, Emma, gave me a long list of things I simply had to do at church. A very long list. An intimidating, suffocating list. Nowhere on it was receiving a gift.

“Your first time visitor gift.” Betsy waves the hand not clutching my sleeve toward a counter set up on the side of the large foyer. Purple must be the color family for the newcomer brigade because an enormous banner in indigo hangs over the counter. Large gold letters read “Welcome, Visitors.”

More smiling people stand beneath the banner and large brown paper gift bags stamped with the church logo line the edge of the counter. Their shirts are more of an iris color. All these slightly different shades of purple in the same room make my eyes burn.

The logo on the bags appears to be stamped in green instead of purple, though. This color combination is not acceptable unless you’re catching beads and getting drunk in New Orleans.

Wait. I should not be thinking about getting drunk while standing in a church. Probably shouldn’t be thinking about getting drunk at all. Not that I was ever a fan of that activity. Such a loss of control often leads to unflattering stories that follow you around for years.

Betsy is wanting me to follow her now, as she tries to guide me toward the counter and its small army of paper greeting soldiers that must contain the aforementioned gift.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no. I am not carrying one of those bags around. They practically scream, “Come talk to me. Pretend you’re happy to see me. Convince me I belong here.”

On the average day I’m a sucker for anything that makes me the center of attention, but I’d rather fade into the background today.

I try to smile again. “That’s really not necessary, I’m—”

“Of course it’s not necessary.” Betsy laughs and the flouncy curls on her head bobble. “That’s what makes it a gift.”

She continues walking toward the counter with her arm hooked with mine. My choices are to rudely extract myself and run away, follow her to the table and rudely turn down their gift, or fake a smile through it all and rudely ditch the paper bag in a potted plant.

I may be new to this whole Christianity thing, but I’m fairly certain being rude in church is not on the approved behavior list. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so determined to figure this out myself instead of letting Emma tell me what to do.

I make one more attempt to get out of more unwelcome welcoming attention. “I should go . . . that way.” The excuse that I was meeting someone had been on my tongue, but I know for certain that lying is unapproved behavior.

And I am very deliberately not meeting anyone. My sister and her boyfriend attend this church, but they attend the second of the Sunday morning services. I know because Emma invited me to join her.

Repeatedly.

But I don’t want to come with Emma. Our relationship has changed over the past few months, grown deeper and stronger and turned into the real version of the close relationship I’d once thought we had. I’ll be forever grateful to her for guiding me to the massive, life-changing decision of salvation, but now . . . Well, now I need to do it myself. I need to figure out who I am and what I do, and I don’t need Emma hovering over me and telling me her version of the answers.

So, no, I don’t want to find Emma.

Still, I can’t keep my desperate gaze from searching through the foyer for some sort of escape. Church would be the most likely location for a miracle, wouldn’t it?

My gaze snags on a taller than average man with a head of dark, well-groomed curls. He looks as comfortable in this church as I feel in a Neiman Marcus, and I doubt he had to give himself a pep talk to get out of the car this morning. He’s dressed in faded jeans and a plaid button-up and has a small smile that looks unconsciously formed for no apparent reason.

Until his eyes meet mine. He takes in my situation and his smile turns into an amused grin.

I can’t look away even as my feet keep following Betsy. When she pulls me to a stop, I tear my attention from the handsome stranger to the counter we’ve arrived at. Betsy is catching the attention of a middle-aged man holding one of those dreaded gift bags.

“There you are!”

I blink because that sentence did not come from the man now looking at me as if he found an employee’s hidden stash in the corner of a boutique sample sale.

The three of us and a few others turn to see the dark-haired man crossing the foyer. I know for certain I have never seen him until thirty seconds ago—I would absolutely remember anyone that attractive—but he’s acting as if we’re long-lost besties. His smile is as excitedly welcoming as Betsy’s, but it doesn’t feel like a lure trying to make me the victim of an attack hug.

I press one hand to my chest, curling the tips of my fingers into the thick, soft wool. “Me?”

“Of course, you.” He nods toward the doors to the auditorium. “We saved you a seat.”

Betsy squeezes my arm. “Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting friends? You’re in good hands with this one, even if he doesn’t know he should meet his guests at the door.” She reaches up and pats the man on the cheek.

People actually do that in real life? I thought it was something old grandmothers did in TV shows or movies on the Heartfelt channel.

The man chuckles. “I’ll do better next time, Betsy.” His blue eyes lift to a point over my shoulder, and he shifts to reach out an arm. “Thanks, Jeff. I’ll give this to her.”

Jeff is trying and failing to hide his disgruntlement at my would-be rescuer’s interruption, but he hands over the gift and finds a smile for the next visitor. My knight in muted plaid takes the bag and brings his bright, questioning gaze my way.

He’s clearly asking me a question, but I’m not sure what it is. Do I want the bag? Do I want him to walk away? Do I want to meet Jeff? The answer to all of those questions is no, so I give a small, discreet shake of my head.

He skillfully manages to settle the bag at the end of the row of gifts and guide me away from the counter in a single smooth move.

As we walk away, his smile turns a bit sheepish. “I’m sorry. You can tell me to go kick rocks if you want, but you looked like you could use saving.”

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