Monday Morning Faith Read online

  Also by Lori Copeland

  Morning Shade Mystery Series

  A Case of Bad Taste

  A Case of Crooked Letters

  A Case of Nosy Neighbors

  Child of Grace

  Christmas Vows

  Brides of the West Series

  Faith

  June

  Hope

  Glory

  Ruth

  Patience

  Roses Will Bloom Again

  Men of the Saddle Series

  The Peacemaker

  The Drifter

  The Maverick

  The Plainsman

  Stand-Alone Titles

  Monday Morning Faith

  Now and Always

  Simple Gifts

  ZONDERVAN

  Monday Morning Faith

  Copyright © 2006 by Copeland, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition July 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-56637-3

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Copeland, Lori.

  Monday morning faith / Lori Copeland.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-310-26349-4

  1. Women librarians —Fiction. 2. Papua New Guinea—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3553.O6336M66 2006

  813’.54 — dc22

  2006010171

  *

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Interior design by Michelle Espinoza

  To the men and women who serve the Lord on the mission field

  Table of Contents

  *

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter: One

  Chapter: Two

  Chapter: Three

  Chapter: Four

  Chapter: Five

  Chapter: Six

  Chapter: Seven

  Chapter: Eight

  Chapter: Nine

  Chapter: Ten

  Chapter: Eleven

  Chapter: Twelve

  Chapter: Thirteen

  Chapter: Fourteen

  Chapter: Fifteen

  Chapter: Sixteen

  Chapter: Seventeen

  Chapter: Eighteen

  Chapter: Nineteen

  Chapter: Twenty

  Chapter: Twenty-One

  Chapter: Twenty-Two

  Chapter: Twenty-Three

  Chapter: Twenty-Four

  Read a sample chapter from Lori Copeland’s Now and Always

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  *

  PROLOGUE

  I manhandled my carry-on luggage and an oversized umbrella down the long jet bridge, aware of the thump thump thump of my rubber-sole shoes against the carpeted floor. I sounded like a butter knife caught in the disposal.

  As I entered the plane, my heart rate accelerated. This was it.

  No turning back now.

  The point of no return. The real thing.

  I squeezed past the smiling flight attendant, passed the stairway on the plane to the upper lounge, and made my way through first class into the cabin section. I paused, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the 747 Boeing aircraft. My eyes traveled row upon row of cabins. How would they ever get this thing off the ground? They would — I knew from prior experience — but right now my fact meter had blown a fuse.

  Moving along, I passed the galleys, glancing at my ticket and excusing myself when I stepped on toes or bumped into a fellow passenger blocking the aisle. I eased through business class, past even more galleys, the lavatories, and the coach/ tourist/economy section. I studied my ticket. My seat was in the back of the plane. So were the majority of bathrooms.

  At long last, I spotted my row. With my purse on the end of an armrest and my oversized umbrella tucked underneath my arm, I swung around — almost knocking a man unconscious with the clumsy rain gear. When I heard the solid thwack! I spun, horrified. The wounded passenger clutched the side of his head. For a heartbeat my voice failed me, but I managed to sputter out a weak, “I’m so sorry!”

  I turned back to store the umbrella in the overhead bin, but the burdensome wood handle nailed a woman seated next to the aisle and flipped her spectacles two rows up. She grabbed for the flying missile and missed. Squinting, she glared up at me.

  By now all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and pull the dirt in behind me. Everything I did drew more attention to my clumsy entrance. Glasses were passed back, and the hostess appeared with an ice pack for the passenger’s smarting injury. I tried to stuff my carry-on in the overhead bin; the hostess took the umbrella and assured me she’d give it back when we landed.

  I sank into my seat and wanted to die.

  And I figured I would. This monstrosity — this jumbo jet — would never get off the ground, let alone fly thirteen hours over land and sea. Had I done that once before? Me.

  Johanna … Johanna …

  What was my last name?

  I brushed at crumbs on the front of my suit jacket. I had yet to walk through O’Hare and pass a hot dog stand without indulging. Chicago Dogs.

  Starbucks.

  See’s Candies.

  My nerves and I hit them all; I was eating my way to the hereafter. I pushed my glasses up on my nose. Contacts would be impractical where I was going. The climate was far too hot. I’d left them at home with my wool coat.

  I glanced out the window a final time. Saginaw, Michigan — and Mom, Pop, and Nelda — was eons away. My entire existence had been marching toward this moment in time. Would I measure up?

  Of course, since this man-made contraption would never get off the ground, I wasn’t sure it mattered whether I did or not.

  Sniffing the faint scent of wieners in the air, I settled back to await my death.

  ONE

  My descent into madness began in the fall — October 13, to be exact, which happened to be my birthday. The dreaded fortieth. I was old enough for the bloom to be off the rose, but still young enough to shrink from the AARP card coming my way in another ten years.

  How I reached the milestone so fast and how I could feel so young on the inside and so ancient on the outside still puzzled me. I used to be a brunette, but my hair was showing touches of silver, and if those were laugh lines around my eyes, I must have been having a better time than I’d realized.

  I dried my hands on a paper towel and gave a final glance in the restroom mirror. Johanna Holland, old maid. A tag I hadn’t planned on when I charted my life. I’d counted on the bungalow, picket fence, loving husband, and two perfect children. But here I was, aging so fast I couldn’t catch my breath, and so wrapped up in work and o
ther things that marriage was the last thing on my mind.

  Sighing, I prepared to face my birthday festivities. Never mind that I was the one who’d set up the community room at the Holfield Community Library, where I’d worked for twenty years (crepe paper, obligatory balloons that read Half Dead, One Foot in the Grave, and the old standby Over the Hill). I’d also helped address the party invitations and ordered the refreshments, which was one way of getting what I liked, I suppose.

  My aunt Margaret, Dad’s sister (a sweet lady, but nutty as all get-out) had ordered my birthday cake, so there was no telling what I would be stuck with this year. She’d indicated a surprise.

  Surprise and Aunt Margaret were words that I never wanted to hear in the same sentence. The last time she “surprised” me, I ended up on a blind date with a widower named Harvey. He had ten kids and was looking for a live-in babysitter. He did offer marriage, on the first date, which I declined. I realized he was desperate, but I wasn’t. In fact, I wasn’t even needy, and for a forty-year-old woman that was doing okay.

  I pushed my glasses farther up my nose.

  The noise level grew louder as I approached the library community room. I smiled, spotting the balloons dangling from the ceiling. One for every year I’d graced the earth with my presence — forty big, round, shiny helium globes, announcing to the whole world that I was hopeless.

  Not.

  I still had a little spunk left in me, but I got the point.

  Forty and still single. Aunt Margaret equated the condition with death. According to her, the battery was about to expire on my biological clock. In fact, she’d stage-whisper, she suspected it had already ticked its last tock.

  Any misgivings I might have had about tonight’s festivities vanished in a chorus of well-wishers greeting me. Friends and family, two of life’s greatest blessings. Truly, I was rich in the things that counted.

  Threading my way through the packed room, I shook hands, shared hugs, and basked in the affectionate glow of love. What wonderful people who cared enough to help a lady celebrate her birthday.

  Mom and Pop were by the window; I ended up beside them. “Hey, you two. Having a good time?” As always, they wore the demeanor of Ma and Pa Kettle — long, solemn faces. Pop never liked parties. Mom, frail and thin, suffered from osteoporosis; my father was confined to a wheelchair, the victim of emphysema. But they both were dressed in their Sunday best, here to celebrate with me. I was proud of them. I lived at home, looking after their needs. I didn’t mind a bit. Despite their no-nonsense approach to life, they were a joy to be around, seldom complaining. And their love for each other and for me was the cornerstone of our lives.

  Mom, seated on the sofa, reached up to pat my hand. “It’s a good party, dear. Fun.”

  “The best.” Oh yeah, a real blast. Thank goodness in an hour it would be over.

  “Have you seen your cake yet?” Pop’s tone indicated trouble on the way, and my antennae shot up with the speed of a pushbutton parasol.

  “What is it this year?”

  “Nothing.” Mom glowered at Pop. “It’s a beautiful cake, Clive.”

  I groaned. What had Aunt Margaret done? I looked at Pop in time to catch a fleeting grin. “What?”

  The faint twinkle in his eye did not calm my nerves. “Ole Margaret strikes again.”

  I knew I should have ordered my own cake.

  Mom’s older sister was one of those people who knew how everyone should live but was blind to her own shortcomings. When Millie Treybocker asked Margaret if she was making New Year’s resolutions, my aunt said she had intended to, but after thinking it over, she couldn’t think of any areas where she needed improvement.

  Pop shook his head. “You’ll have to see it to believe it.”

  Standing space around the table had cleared, so I hopped up and made my way over to take a good look at the culinary centerpiece. My tongue coiled in my mouth.

  My cake was shaped like a shoe?

  A high-topped, buttoned-up, old-fashioned shoe. The monstrosity on the cake board must be Aunt Margaret’s symbol of my life.

  She materialized beside me. “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s … creative.”

  “Isn’t it? I thought it might give you a push in the right direction.”

  “And which direction might that be?” Off a cliff? Fleeing the building, screaming?

  “Johanna Holland! You can’t be that dense. It’s the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.”

  “Oh … okay, but what does that have to do with me? If you recall, she had a number of children. You may not have noticed, but I have none. Nada, Aunt Margaret. Zippo.”

  “No, but Harvey has a peck.”

  “Harvey?” She was still harping on the widower? The man who wore his outdated polyester suits a size too small?

  “He’s willing to give you another shot. The cake was his idea.”

  I looked up to see Harvey waving at me from across the room. I closed my eyes and then opened them again. Oh, no! He was working his way through the crowd in my direction.

  “Aunt Margaret! I am not interested in marriage, and if I were, I’d like to pick my own candidate, if you don’t mind.”

  “But you’re too picky. You’re about to miss the boat — ”

  I walked off in my flat-heeled shoes, counting under my breath. I wasn’t about to miss the boat — I had missed it. Couldn’t she see that?

  I headed for the door, anywhere to get away from Harvey and the gleam in his ferretlike eyes.

  “Johanna! Where you off to?” Nelda Thomas, fellow librarian and best friend, waved at me. Tonight her mocha skin glowed against the soft rose of her blouse.

  “Hi, Nelda. We’re running out of plates and cups. I’ll be back in a jiff.” I had to get out of here before I strangled someone. Heaven help me, but Aunt Margaret brought out the devil in me.

  When I stepped into the main lobby, library patrons were going about their business. I spotted a Wet Floor sign and frowned. Who’d spilled something? And what had they spilled? Coffee? Soda? The coffee shop was a trendy addition, but the once-immaculate library could do without the sticky messes that too often showed up. I slowed my pace, but the second my slippery soles hit the slick, my feet gained a mind of their own.

  My arms flapped, and I balanced, struggling to catch myself. But one foot went one way, the other slid a different direction … and right there in the lobby of the Holfield Community Library, Johanna Holland did the splits. Granted, I used to have the move down pat. I’d performed the maneuver (both right and left split) on a regular basis as a high school cheerleader. Though that had been many moons ago, I remembered the move.

  What I didn’t remember was the pain!

  I managed to drag one leg back toward me, thinking I might never walk again. A plan formed in my pain-hazed mind: just crawl to the restroom and stay there until feeling returned to my lower limbs. As far as I could tell I’d not broken anything, but I’d knocked everything out of joint.

  In the middle of my panic, firm hands took hold of my forearms and I became airborne as someone I couldn’t see lifted me to my feet. Somehow I managed to stand erect.

  I took a deep breath and turned around to come face-to-face with Tom Selleck. My hold tightened on the rocklike biceps, hanging on while I stared up at warm brown eyes, rugged, handsome features, a silky mustache.

  I blinked and shook my head. When I looked back, Tom Selleck had disappeared, leaving in his place a man who had to be his twin. “Thank you,” I managed. My face had to be the color of the burgundy drapes hanging in the reading rooms. I shoved my glasses up on my nose.

  He smiled, and the effect was stunning. “You’re welcome. Name’s Sam Littleton. You work here, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m Johanna Holland, head librarian.” I straightened, touching my hair. “Have we met?”

  It was all I could think to say, but I knew the answer already. We hadn’t. Believe me, I’d have remembered this man if I’d seen him in
the library. I’d have remembered him if I’d seen him in a dark alley.

  “No, but I’m here often. I’ve seen you around.” He indicated the stack of books he’d dropped when he came to my rescue. “I’m researching Papua New Guinea.”

  I struggled to regain my composure. Bending over, I began to pick up the scattered reading material. “I must have made quite a spectacle.”

  His features sobered. “You took a bad spill. Sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure.” I’d have aches and bruises tomorrow in muscles I didn’t know existed, but I’d choke before admitting it. “Papua New Guinea? You’re going there?”

  “January 15th.” He smiled, indicating the stack of books. “I have a lot of reading to do.”

  “Yes — it would appear.” Think, Johanna, say something intelligent. But the mental well had run dry. I was as blank as a cleaned slate. What were we talking about? Oh, yes. Papua New Guinea.

  “You sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”

  “No.” If my face got any warmer I would ignite. “I’ll be fine.”

  He picked up his books, smiled at me, and walked on. I sized him up as he walked away. Maybe midfifties, prime physical condition. A weird tingling zipped up my spine. Must have been because of the fall …

  Shaking off the sensation, I returned to the party. The fun and festivities were going strong, but thank heaven both Harvey and Aunt Margaret had disappeared. Facing the inevitable, I reached for the knife and approached the cake. “Okay, who gets the first piece?”

  Nelda held out her plate. “A shoe cake?”

  I managed a smile. “There’s a joker in every crowd.”

  “Where did Margaret go?”

  “Who knows? Off to pester someone else, I assume.” I hadn’t intended to sound so sharp, but Nelda caught it, of course. She caught everything.

  “She on your case again?”

  “Always.”

  “She hates the thought of you being single, doesn’t she?”

  I licked buttercream frosting off my finger. “You should see the candidate this time. He comes equipped with ten children, so I wouldn’t have to do a thing but rear them and tolerate him.”

  “Ten?” Nelda set the plate down and fanned her face. “Nobody today has that many kids. Think how much it would cost to buy shoes. Reminds me of that nursery rhyme about the old woman who …” Her gaze fell to the table. “Aha! The cake!”