Read Online Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson - Free Book Online Page B

chocolate-chip cookies and send them to P.J. and Paul. Not exactly the same as coloring eggs and putting all sorts of goodies into their Easter baskets like I did when they were younger. I wished I’d thought of this sooner, so they’d have them for Easter, but . . .
    I started pulling measuring cups and measuring spoons out of the drawer. Tomorrow was Easter. And I wanted to go to church. Might just go crazy perched up here on the thirty-second floor all weekend. But where in the world would I go?
    Could always ask Mr. Bentley. Who else did we know? Camila, the maid? Well, I would, but I didn’t have a phone number for her, only the cleaning service, and I was sure they wouldn’t give out Camila’s personal number.
    Who, then? The Fenchels? I rolled my eyes. If Mona Fenchel were the last person on earth, I wouldn’t ask her where to find a church.
    So that left . . . the people at Manna House. Well, why not? They were familiar with the city. Someone would remember me from yesterday.
    I peeked into the den. Philip was deep in thought, a spread-sheet on his computer screen. I picked up the bedroom extension, dialing the number Mr. Bentley had given me. A bright voice on the other end answered, “Manna House.”
    â€œHi. This is Gabby Fairbanks. I visited Manna House yesterday—”
    â€œOh, yes, I remember. This is Angela. The receptionist.”
    â€œYes, of course.” The Asian-something girl. At least now I knew her name. “Uh, this might sound like a strange request, but we’re new to Chicago, and I’m wondering if you could recommend a church for us. Tomorrow’s Easter, you know.”
    â€œWell, uh . . .” There was a long pause. “I don’t know where to begin, Mrs. Fairbanks. There are a lot of churches. Depends on what you want, you know, Methodist or Baptist or—”
    â€œWhere do you go, Angela?”
    She giggled. “I go to a Korean-speaking church. I’m sure you’d be welcome, but I don’t know how much you’d get out of it.”
    Oh, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t going anywhere. I tried not to sound exasperated. “What about Mabel Turner? Or that young couple, the Baxters. Do you know the name of their church?”
    â€œMm. Not sure about Ms. Turner. But Josh and Edesa . . . all I know is that some folks from their church are coming here tomorrow night to lead our Sunday Evening Praise. SouledOut something or other.”
    â€œComing there?” Well, that was a thought. “In the evening, you said. Well, thanks, Angela . . . oh, what time?”
    â€œSix o’clock,” she said. I clicked the Off button. Not exactly Easter Sunday morning. But something inside me said, Go.
    Maybe it was time to get the rust off that God connection.

chapter 7

    To my surprise, Philip got up early the next morning—well, early for a Sunday—and said he was going for a run. “Henry goes to the gym,” he grunted, tying his running shoes. “Might as well take advantage of the jogging path before those thunderheads get serious.” He winked at me. “Send out the hounds if I’m not back in an hour.” The door closed behind him.
    I gave him two minutes to ride the elevator and cross the frontage road to the parkway; then I went to the wall of windows to watch his shiny blue warm-up jacket and matching shorts heading for the underpass. He reappeared moments later, a tiny blue dot, heading south along Foster Avenue Beach.
    Maybe I should go for a walk too . But I had second thoughts when I saw the large thunderclouds piling up over the lake. Breathtaking . . . but I’d had my fill of coming home soggy and chilled to the bone. Besides, it was Easter Sunday and I really should call my mom. She’d been alone two years now since Dad died. That was another thing that made me mad at God. Why a heart attack at seventy-two, for heaven’s sake?! Noble Shepherd had kept