Read Online The Committee by Terry E. Hill - Free Book Online

keen intuitive powers to predict how the dance would end. Each quickly calculated they had a deal before the next word was spoken.
    â€œAll right, Mr. Truman,” Camille said, breaking the stilted silence, “I’ll do it.”
    She stood signaling the end of the meeting. “You can make the arrangements with my assistant, Megan,” she said, extending her hand as he stood.
    Gideon released a silent sigh. I know you’re hiding something, he thought as he matched her firm grip with his own, and I’m going to find out exactly what it is.
    The two exchanged parting pleasantries, leaving Camille to run the city and Gideon to begin the dangerous journey that lay ahead.

    Hattie felt a cold shiver as she stood at her kitchen sink peeling a bowl of potatoes. She gripped the black handle paring knife tightly in one hand and a half-peeled potato in the other as the chill traveled up and down her back. She knew it was a sign, but had no clue what it was about.
    â€œLord,” she said out loud as a steady stream of cold water from the tap splashed the brown spuds, sending droplets in every direction, “one of your children is in trouble. Whoever it is, protect them, Lord,” she prayed. “Hold them in the safety of your arms. Guide their footsteps and deliver them from evil.”
    Hattie commenced with the peeling of the potatoes, having done all she could do with the limited information available. Ringlets of brown peel twirled under the blade and fell intact into the sink. Her hand trembled slightly, a sign she was concerned about whoever was in need of prayer.
    A hymn slipped involuntarily from her lips.

    â€œI want Jesus to walk with me.
I want Jesus to walk with me.
All along my pilgrim journey,
I want Jesus to walk with me.”

    The pile of potato skins grew as she continued the preparations for her signature salad. Every morsel coming from within the loving walls of Hattie’s kitchen were coveted treasures: sweet potato pies, macaroni and cheese, the magical mixture of greens from her garden, smothered pork chops with gravy and biscuits kissed by an angel. They were always the most sought after dishes in the buffet lines at church events, family functions, and picnics. This particular salad would grace the table of a repast scheduled for the next day.
    A pot of bubbling water stood at the ready for the naked orbs on a snow-white O’Keefe & Merritt stove. Hattie handled the potatoes as if they each had a story to tell, and she wanted to hear every word. “Love is the ingredient most folks forget,” she often said. “When you love what you’re cooking and who you’re cooking it for, they can taste it in every bite.”
    She placed each potato into the boiling pot and waited with reverence until it sank to the bottom before the next spud was dropped. It took three trips from the sink to the stove before the pot was filled. Hattie wiped her moist hands on a tea towel hanging from the oven’s chrome door handle and made her way back to the sink, each step accompanied by the lines of the hymn.

    â€œIn my sorrow, Lord, walk with me.
In my sorrows, Lord, walk with me.
When my heart is aching,
Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.”

    A bunch of scallions fresh from the garden, newly boiled eggs with steam still rising from the shells, yellow mustard, relish, white onions, and celery waited for Hattie on a butcher block next to the sink. She skillfully sliced and diced the ingredients and formed neat piles of each on the board. The chill in her spine had not gone away but continuing the hymn was her way of saying, “I’m listening, Lord.”

    â€œIn my sorrow, Lord, walk with me.
In my sorrows, Lord, walk with me.
When my heart is aching,
Lord, I want Jesus to walk with me.”

    Hattie knew the potatoes were done without even poking them with a knife. Steam from the boiling pot rested on the window above the sink, causing a