Read Online Beyond the Farthest Star by Bodie and Brock Thoene - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bodie and Brock Thoene
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thickness of the writingtablet seemed designed to be an accusation of inadequacy:
You’ll never be able to do this! What makes you think you have anything to say that anyone wants to hear?
Accusatory—
that was the word.
Maurene scanned the room, seeking inspiration. Her gaze fell on the cover of one of her favorite romance novels. It was so inviting, so tempting, like luscious fruit.
She turned quickly away. Where was that Scripture about salvation being the free gift of God, so that no one should boast? That was about gift giving, right?
Maurene felt herself drawn back to the wavy-haired Edwardian-era male on the book cover. Strong and gentle, passionate and understanding, impetuous but not demanding.
“Perhaps just ten minutes,” Maurene promised herself. Ten minutes to calm her nerves and relax herself. Her thoughts would flow so much better afterward, she was certain.
Then Maurene told herself sternly that she must not touch that book right now. She knew how the hours would pass with the pages and the daydreams of the romance she would never have, and how frustrated with herself she would be afterward.
Maybe what she needed was a short nap. That was it: a brief rest before launching into writing.
A smile played across Maurene’s lips as she dozed. Lord Nathan … Chadwick Castle … being rescued from all unreasonable demands.
When the phone rang, she awoke with a guilty start. She could not speak to anyone right now. Better let the answering machine pick up. Maurene rubbed her eyes with both fists, trying to get her world back into proper alignment.
As the phone clamored through four rings, she glanced back at the clock. Where had the time gone? Two hours had passed. Now there was barely enough time to get dressed for the luncheon.Who would be calling her now, anyway? All the people she knew in Sticksville—she corrected herself sternly, in Leonard—were already gathering to lay out their homemade fried chicken and macaroni salad and sweet-potato pie.
Maurene had heard of the latter but never sampled it. She could certainly manage several bites of most anything the cuisine of Leonard offered, as long as it didn’t include boiled okra. She’d been offered that dish once at a pastor’s conference in Waco and nearly barfed at the sight of its stringy, slimy, snotlike consistency.
The answering machine beeped and picked up the call. Maurene, with no intention of lifting the receiver, wandered nearer to hear the monitor.
It was Adam times two. The first voice was their recorded pastoral greeting: “Praise the Lord! You’ve reached the home of Pastor Adam and Maurene Wells. You are so very important to us and to the Lord Jesus, so please leave a message and we’ll get right back to you.”
This was followed by Adam, live, so that he was speaking to himself. He often did that, she thought. Her eyes narrowed with that truth. Adam so frequently made pronouncements about how things should be done that Maurene frequently tuned him out.
“Hey, Mo. Wanted to remind you Margaret’ll be by at eleven to drive you to the luncheon. She’ll have my notes, just in case. Hope you won’t need them.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Maurene could not escape the accusations in the closed Bible and the blank notepad.
“Really, I think it’s wonderful you’re taking the initiative with the address. Your speech will be great.”
Maurene headed toward the bathroom without waiting to hear the rest of the message. More important than the notes and the bath, she needed the contents of the pink shoebox, now resting behind the lower rack of clothes in the closet.
Chapter Eight
A DAM LEANED FORWARD over the desk in his church office. Despite the fact he was alone and the door was shut, he spoke in a guarded tone. “Really, I’m sure it’ll be great. It is going to be great, isn’t it, Mo?” Now wasn’t the time to tell Maurene about the destruction of the crèche. She’d hear about it at the luncheon anyway,
You’ll never be able to do this! What makes you think you have anything to say that anyone wants to hear?
Accusatory—
that was the word.
Maurene scanned the room, seeking inspiration. Her gaze fell on the cover of one of her favorite romance novels. It was so inviting, so tempting, like luscious fruit.
She turned quickly away. Where was that Scripture about salvation being the free gift of God, so that no one should boast? That was about gift giving, right?
Maurene felt herself drawn back to the wavy-haired Edwardian-era male on the book cover. Strong and gentle, passionate and understanding, impetuous but not demanding.
“Perhaps just ten minutes,” Maurene promised herself. Ten minutes to calm her nerves and relax herself. Her thoughts would flow so much better afterward, she was certain.
Then Maurene told herself sternly that she must not touch that book right now. She knew how the hours would pass with the pages and the daydreams of the romance she would never have, and how frustrated with herself she would be afterward.
Maybe what she needed was a short nap. That was it: a brief rest before launching into writing.
A smile played across Maurene’s lips as she dozed. Lord Nathan … Chadwick Castle … being rescued from all unreasonable demands.
When the phone rang, she awoke with a guilty start. She could not speak to anyone right now. Better let the answering machine pick up. Maurene rubbed her eyes with both fists, trying to get her world back into proper alignment.
As the phone clamored through four rings, she glanced back at the clock. Where had the time gone? Two hours had passed. Now there was barely enough time to get dressed for the luncheon.Who would be calling her now, anyway? All the people she knew in Sticksville—she corrected herself sternly, in Leonard—were already gathering to lay out their homemade fried chicken and macaroni salad and sweet-potato pie.
Maurene had heard of the latter but never sampled it. She could certainly manage several bites of most anything the cuisine of Leonard offered, as long as it didn’t include boiled okra. She’d been offered that dish once at a pastor’s conference in Waco and nearly barfed at the sight of its stringy, slimy, snotlike consistency.
The answering machine beeped and picked up the call. Maurene, with no intention of lifting the receiver, wandered nearer to hear the monitor.
It was Adam times two. The first voice was their recorded pastoral greeting: “Praise the Lord! You’ve reached the home of Pastor Adam and Maurene Wells. You are so very important to us and to the Lord Jesus, so please leave a message and we’ll get right back to you.”
This was followed by Adam, live, so that he was speaking to himself. He often did that, she thought. Her eyes narrowed with that truth. Adam so frequently made pronouncements about how things should be done that Maurene frequently tuned him out.
“Hey, Mo. Wanted to remind you Margaret’ll be by at eleven to drive you to the luncheon. She’ll have my notes, just in case. Hope you won’t need them.”
Glancing over her shoulder, Maurene could not escape the accusations in the closed Bible and the blank notepad.
“Really, I think it’s wonderful you’re taking the initiative with the address. Your speech will be great.”
Maurene headed toward the bathroom without waiting to hear the rest of the message. More important than the notes and the bath, she needed the contents of the pink shoebox, now resting behind the lower rack of clothes in the closet.
Chapter Eight
A DAM LEANED FORWARD over the desk in his church office. Despite the fact he was alone and the door was shut, he spoke in a guarded tone. “Really, I’m sure it’ll be great. It is going to be great, isn’t it, Mo?” Now wasn’t the time to tell Maurene about the destruction of the crèche. She’d hear about it at the luncheon anyway,
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