The Path To Love

There Mr. Fairchild stood, all six feet plus of him, dressed in a light blue shirt, blue patterned tie and blue slacks. No jacket today—probably wise, with the heat.

At the moment she knew why it had been so important for her to clean up the apartment, why she hadn’t wanted him to see the dump in the first place and why making a good impression on him was so important to her.

The reason was simple: she didn’t think of him as only her parole officer. She saw him as an attractive man. Of course, any woman would see Brandon Fairchild as an incredibly handsome man. Obviously she was no exception.

JANE MYERS PERRINE

grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, has a B.A. from Kansas State University and has an M.Ed. in Spanish from the University of Louisville. She has taught high school Spanish in five states. Presently she teaches in the beautiful hill country of Texas. Her husband is minister of a Christian church in central Texas where Jane teaches an adult Sunday school class. Jane was a finalist in the Regency category of the Golden Heart. Her short pieces have appeared in the Houston Chronicle, Woman’s World magazine and other publications. The Perrines share their home with two spoiled cats and an arthritic cocker spaniel. Readers can visit her Web page at www.janemyersperrine.com.

The Path to Love

Jane Myers Perrine

The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy,

peace, patience, kindness, generosity,

faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

—Galatians 5:22-23

This book is dedicated to Jeannie Gray.

A dear friend, a wonderful writer and a joyful spirit.

We miss you very much.

And to my dear husband, George,

who has generously shared his faith and love

with me for so many years.

Contents

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

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

Francie Calhoun learned to pick pockets when she was five, mark cards at eight and hotwire a car years before she could get a driver’s license.

At the age of sixteen, with all the adults in her family living at the expense of the great state of Texas, Francie was pretty much alone.

Life hadn’t improved a whole lot since then. Eight years had passed, eighteen months of which she’d spent in prison. She could see no hope until after a twelve-hour shift waiting tables she stopped in front of a church for absolutely no reason except she was so tired she couldn’t take another step.

She had hesitated outside the church, but was finally drawn inside against her will. She stepped through the wide doors and looked around the sanctuary. The entire audience was standing and smiling, their voices joyfully joined in a hymn—something about saving a wretch like me.

The words fell upon her like spring rain, soothing her nerves and refreshing her soul. She slipped down a side aisle and found a place on the end of a bench.

“Here’s where we are,” the woman next to her said with a smile as she handed Francie a book and pointed at the verse of the song they were singing.

“Thank you.” Francie nodded at the woman.

As she sang uncertainly, trying to fit the words with the unfamiliar music, Francie could feel pain and anger rolling out of her.

For the next thirty minutes she joined the singing and prayed, hands clasped in front of her and eyes closed just as she saw the lady do.

Then the Reverend Mr. Jonah Miles stepped to the front of the platform. He wasn’t an impressive figure: thin and bald, wearing a white suit that seemed too big for him. But when he began to speak, his deep, assured voice wound a spell around the audience. He seemed to grow taller.

He spoke of love and redemption, mercy and grace. It wasn’t at all like the hell-fire-and-damnation stuff her mother had taken Francie to with the hope her daughter would be a good girl if the preacher could fill her with fear. That had failed terribly.

But the message of the Reverend Mr. Miles entered Francie’s heart and healed it, filling in deep cracks and crevices left by a hard and lonely life, a troubled existence.

“Here, child.” The nice woman handed Francie a tissue. It was only then she realized tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Almost an hour after he’d begun to preach, the Reverend Mr. Miles asked anyone who had been saved to come forward. Francie thought she might have been but wasn’t sure enough to join the crowd headed toward the front.

After the last hymn was sung, she left, filled with such wonder and buoyancy that she knew she’d be there the next evening.

But, when she went back, the church was dark and empty and the Reverend Mr. Miles was gone.

When she met Brandon Fairchild, her new parole officer, the next week, he was skeptical of Francie’s conversion.

“Miss Calhoun, I don’t believe for a minute that you’ve changed.” Mr. Fairchild looked up from the file he held in front of him. “As I look through your life of crime, I see a history of con games and manipulating the truth, as well as that robbery conviction. A lot of deception, three convictions and not a word of remorse.”

“I am sorry for everything I did, Mr. Fairchild. I truly am,” she said to his frowning countenance.

He closed the folder, took off his reading glasses, and stared at Francie with eyes as cold as the metal furnishings of his small, gray cubicle. “Is that all you have to say?”

At the moment, she couldn’t think of anything more. Odd, because usually she was never at a loss for words. Attempting to explain what had happened to her the other night to this disapproving man seemed impossible. Francie looked down at her hands and took a deep breath before returning her gaze to her parole officer.

He certainly was handsome. Rumpled blond hair and a face that would have made her artistic aunt Tessie long to paint it. Unfortunately, Aunt Tessie was serving eight to ten for forgery and fraud.

His white shirt displayed broad shoulders, while the loosened tie and open collar button showed a muscular neck. About thirty, he was good-looking enough to tempt a woman to do what she shouldn’t, and pretty enough to make every sensible word—and a lot of foolish ones—flee Francie’s brain.

In spite of that gorgeous exterior, he was cold. His hard gray glare froze her to the bone. She’d never convince him she was telling the truth.

Again, her smart mouth deserted her. Francie swallowed before she mumbled, “I went to church last Friday.”

“And?”

“And it changed me.” That was good. She sat up and met his eyes. “I’m going to try to be a better person.” She shook her head. “No, I’m going to be a better person.”

He leafed through a few pages of the folder. “I see you were redeemed once before, four years ago.”

“That wasn’t real. That was a con. Besides, I was never charged with anything that time.” Her appearance and sincerity had always been her ace in the hole. Thin, with curly black hair, innocent blue eyes and freckles, she looked young and guileless and could almost always talk her mark out of pressing charges. Too bad she wasn’t having any luck convincing Mr. Fairchild.

“So that conversion was a con? Would you explain the difference this time?”

“This isn’t a con.” She leaned forward and gave him the sincere look she’d perfected after years of practice. “You have to understand. This is real.”

He smiled but there was no humor in his expression. “Oh, I see. This one is real.”

“Please believe me. I had a real experience that healed me, inside.” She pressed her hands on her chest.

But he shook his head.

“It happened,” she said. “I know it’s hard to believe. I mean, you have my record right there in front of you, so you know I haven’t always been honest, but please, don’t doubt what happened. Don’t put it down because of my past. This one was real. Really.”

For a few seconds, he stopped smiling and studied her seriously before he laughed. “You are good. I read that in your file.” He looked at the tab on the folder. “Let’s see. Mr. Gentry, your last parole officer, wrote, ‘Frances Margaret Calhoun can make anyone believe anything.’ That’s right.” He shook his head. “You almost had me there.”

Francie sat back in her chair with a sigh. “But it is true.” Goodness, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d failed to convince someone about something.

“Okay, so if you’re redeemed, if you’ve truly gone through a religious transformation, where did you go to church Sunday?”

“I didn’t go.” That was a mistake, both for her sake and for a chance to convince Mr. Fairchild. She should have gone back Sunday morning instead of studying for a test.

He lifted his eyebrow. “I think going to church would be the first thing you would do.”

“Well, you’re right. I’m just not in the habit of that yet. Besides, not all churches welcome ex-cons.”

“The right one will. If you are sincere, the only way you’ll know is by giving the churches a try.”

She nodded.

“All right, Miss Calhoun. Why don’t you tell me how else you have changed your life?”

“I don’t know yet,” she confessed. “I mean, it just happened. I’m kind of new at this. I don’t know exactly where to start.”

“Miss Calhoun, I sincerely hope you’ve changed, but you’re going to have to convince me. That’s not going to be easy. You’re going to have to stay clean.”

“I’m going to stay clean and not only because I want to convince you.”

He shuffled through the papers and notes in her record again. “I notice Gentry didn’t keep up on your hours at work.” He looked at another page. “Are you still a waitress at the Best Diner?”

She nodded. Her former parole officer hadn’t kept track of much of anything in the months before he retired.

“You need to bring me your pay stubs so I can verify employment.”

She nodded again.

“How many hours a week are you working?”

“As many as I can get. Thirty-five to fifty.”

“And you still live in an apartment on Dixon Street?”

Hardly an apartment. “Yes.”

He made a note and checked a form. “All right. Bring me that pay stub. Keep out of trouble if you want to convince me. And work on those changes in your life.” He looked up at her frigidly for a second before closing her file and picking up another.

“That’s the problem,” she confided. “I still don’t know how to even begin with this religion thing. I mean, I’m going to find a church, but what do I do next?”

He thought for a moment. “If you want a place to start, you might try the fruit of the spirit.”

“You mean, like grapes?”

This time his smile was genuine but lasted barely a second and hardly warmed his eyes. “If you’re sincere, you’ll find that out for yourself.” He opened the other folder. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“When Mr. Gentry was my parole officer, I only came once a month.”

“I work differently.” He frowned at her. “I want to see you in two weeks to make sure you’re headed in the right direction.” He wrote a few words on his appointment calendar. “And I am going to have to visit your work site and your apartment in the next few weeks. I see Gentry didn’t do that, either.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“I think that’s everything we have time for today.” He stood and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Miss Calhoun.”

Francie took it. He had nice, strong hands, even some calluses on them, as if he’d worked in the yard or something. She turned to leave.

“Oh, Miss Calhoun, don’t forget church on Sunday.”

She looked back. “Isn’t that against the law? Mentioning religion?”

“Not if you’ve chosen it to be part of your rehabilitation program. However, I will expand my statement. I suggest you attend the temple, synagogue, mosque, church, cathedral or other religious establishment of your choice.”

“Thank you.” She left the office feeling a little off balance.

Before his retirement a month earlier, Mr. Gentry had only barked out a few questions having to do with her recent incarceration for holding up a convenience store and asked how work was going, then dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Mr. Fairchild seemed both more interested and more judgmental, almost as though he didn’t like her. He certainly didn’t trust her. Not that that was a bad thing. She wouldn’t trust an ex-con, either.

She wasn’t sure if she liked Mr. Fairchild’s approach or not. What she did know was that she was stuck with him.

The next day at work, Francie asked her boss Julie Sullivan, the owner of the diner, and her regular customers if they’d heard of the fruit of the spirit. One suggestion sounded good.

Julie said maybe apples or cherries because a nice slice of pie always lifted her spirit. But, in the end, the consensus was, well, no one had the slightest idea.

“The fruit of the spirit,” Francie repeated as she walked up and down the aisles at a religious bookstore the next afternoon.

Unable to find anything in the sections loaded with CDs, books on the end of time and T-shirts covered with bright pictures and Bible verses—at least, she guessed that’s what the phrases must be—Francie finally went to the checkout counter and asked, “Where would I find something about the fruit of the spirit?”

An older woman with tightly permed hair and owlish glasses said, “Romans,” without even looking up. Then she shouted over her shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Harvey? Fruit of the spirit—isn’t that in Romans?”

“She might want to look at Galatians five,” said the white-haired man. “Nice list there. Can’t remember the verses.” He smiled at Francie and turned back to some papers he’d been checking.

“Okay, try Galatians five.” The woman picked up a pencil and started marking off items.

Well, what the—Francie’s thoughts started until she reminded herself to start watching her language. What did all that Romans and Galatians stuff mean? But all she could see was the top of the woman’s tight curls and the back of the white-haired man’s head. They looked so busy she hated to bother them again. Instead she returned to wandering around the store, feeling incredibly dumb.

“Are you looking for something?” a high-school girl asked the third time Francie passed her.

“I need to learn about the fruit of the spirit. Something about Romans and Galatians, I think.”

“Why don’t you look it up in your Bible?”

Ah, so that’s where Romans and Galatians could be found. Why hadn’t Francie thought of that? She looked around. “Where would I find a Bible?”

“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” The girl smiled. “I’ll show you.”

Within seconds they were in an area Francie’d passed through before. The girl waved her arm at an entire case of books. “Here are the Bibles.”

“Those are all Bibles?” Francie studied the six-foot-high shelves that stretched forever across the room. The books were of all different colors, from black to white with shades of red and brilliant blue and somber brown. Some faced forward to show pictures or symbols. There were hardbacks and others with paper or leather or plastic covers. She shook her head. This was getting a lot harder and more complicated than she’d thought it would be.

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. Just a regular Bible. How do I know which one?” The silver Bible with a hologram on the front looked interesting but not very…well…religious. Then she noticed the prices. “Are the more expensive Bibles better? I mean, do they have more words and stories in them?” She tried to remember how much money she had—a couple of dollar bills, a five, some quarters. Yeah, price was important.

The young woman smiled again. “No, the only difference is the translation and the binding. Find one that you like to read. You can find something cheap. It’ll have the same thing the more expensive ones have.”

The task still seemed overwhelming. “Which one do you like?”

“This one’s good.” She took one from a shelf and handed it to Francie, then added several more, helping Francie look at the different versions.

After she read a few lines in each, Francie found one she liked and could afford. “Thank you,” she said.

The young woman took Francie’s hand and said, “It was a blessing to meet you.”

What do you know? It was a blessing to meet her. A lovely thought. “It was a blessing to meet you, too.”

Francie paid, then hurried back to her apartment, grasping the bag with the Bible inside tightly.

Not much of an apartment, she reflected as she closed the door. Not even an efficiency. Once up the three flights of stairs and inside, she could take five strides and be at the only window—which overlooked the alley. On the right was a sofa bed; to the left in a tiny kitchen was a card table covered with a bright-yellow checked tablecloth.

Around the walls were splashes of brilliance: Aunt Tessie’s forged impressionistic paintings, fifteen that Francie had saved from the police and would guard until her aunt’s return. They were beautiful and brought so much color into the small room that Francie didn’t need light or a view from the window. Besides, with the pictures in place, only inches of the flaking green walls showed.

She settled on the threadbare sofa and opened the book.

It wasn’t all that hard to find Galatians. In the front, she found an index and turned to the right page. Once there, she discovered that some thoughtful person had divided the book using numbers in large, bold print. In no time, she found Galatians five. Scanning the chapter, she read to herself the words: “‘…the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.’”

Francie ran her finger across the words as she read them again. Finally, she whispered to herself as she read, “‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.’” With a nod, she added, “I like that.”

She closed the Bible and looked at how thick it was. Then she looked at the end of the last book—1,402 pages. She hadn’t read that much in her entire life. The thought of finishing that many pages overwhelmed her.

Francie sat back in the chair and sighed. Why had she thought she could do this? People like white-haired Harvey and the clerk in book store had probably been reading the Bible since they were kids. Even the young woman who’d been so helpful had probably spent more years reading the Bible than Francie had wasted being a troublemaker in school.

And Mr. Fairchild must have read lots and lots of it. He knew about the fruit of the spirit.

How could she even attempt this? But, if she wanted to change, Francie knew she had to tackle all these pages. Francie Calhoun was not a quitter.

Where should she begin? Obviously at the beginning. It would take her an eternity to finish all of it but she had to, really had to.

Besides, the Reverend Mr. Jonah Miles and that nice lady at the church had probably read the entire book. They’d started her on this road. She couldn’t let them down. She was behind, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t try.

She said to herself, “‘…love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control….’ That is a good place to start.”

Chapter Two

Too impatient to wait for the elevator, Francie reminded herself that she had to work on this problem of constantly running behind as she dashed up three flights of stairs in the Austin, Texas, courthouse annex. She glanced at the clock on the landing—ten minutes after ten. She was only a few minutes late, but she was also panting and her hair was a springy mess. On top of that, her cheeks must be bright red from the exertion of running from the bus stop.

Terrific, she mumbled. Here she’d wanted to impress Mr. Fairchild with what a fine citizen she was, and she couldn’t even arrive on time for her second appointment. She stopped just inside the door of the parole office and attempted to slow her breathing.

From the cubicles, separated from each other with six-foot-high gray metal walls, she could hear the low buzz of voices. Telephones rang from the offices that surrounded the cubicles. Parolees waited on hard wooden benches, reading or sleeping, while others wandered through the open space drinking coffee and talking.

In spite of the chaos in the small area, she was aware of Mr. Fairchild who sat quietly and alone in his cubicle scanning a page of a file folder.

Oh, my, he was absolutely gorgeous. When she saw him, she wished she was at least three or four inches taller and a few pounds heavier. And wouldn’t she love to have something to wear besides jeans and ratty tennis shoes? And, while she was wishing, wouldn’t it be nice to be absolutely gorgeous, too?

With a pat to the top of her head, she attempted to tame her wild curls as she walked across the scuffed gray vinyl floor toward his desk. “Mr. Fairchild?”

He glanced up, saw her, stood and reached his hand out toward her. She took it and smiled. He had such a nice, strong grip.

“Miss Calhoun.” He nodded. “I was looking over your file and realize Gentry didn’t keep up with you very well.”

“No, he didn’t. I was assigned to Mr. Gentry when I got out of prison six months ago. I think he was winding down for retirement.”

“That may be true. Nevertheless, I still need some very basic information about you. There’s almost nothing written here other than the dates of your appointments and your address.”

As he read further, he tapped his pen, silver with what looked like his initials engraved on the side. “I find no mention of what you discussed during your appointments. He didn’t keep up with your employment or much of anything else, no information from your trial or prison records.” He looked up at Francie. “That’s not at all professional.”

Professional must be very important to him, Francie thought as she put her book on the floor and leaned forward. “I think he was really burned out.”

“It’s kind of you to say that, but I can’t be as forgiving.”

Wow! He thought she was both kind and forgiving. That was at least one fruit of the spirit. “Thank you.”

“Miss Calhoun, you shouldn’t be forgiving, either, not in this case. A parole officer is supposed to assist you to return to the community as an honest, upright citizen. Gentry let you down.”

She nodded. He was right.

“Let me check on the information I have.” He read a few lines. “Your father, aunt and uncle are all—”

“Incarcerated.”

“Your mother?”

“I don’t know where she is. She walked out on us when my father was arrested. I was six.”

“Who brought you up?”

“Oh, different people, off and on. Usually, when they weren’t incarcerated, my uncle Lou and aunt Tessie, my father’s brother and sister. Larceny runs in my family, I fear.”

“You believe it is a genetic characteristic?”