“Isn’t that heartwarming?” he mocked.
“It is, if you think of it.”
“Hell, Cherise, I think you’re wasting your breath.” He dropped the card onto the nightstand near the phone. “I’m a sinner from way back. Remember?”
“A lost lamb . . .”
“Or a damned wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“You can’t convince me not to pray for you, Nicholas.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I try.”
“I know.” She started for the door and Nick followed her in his stocking feet. “So . . .” she said, holding her umbrella in a death grip. “Next time I’ll try harder to convince Montgomery to come with me.”
“Do that. I haven’t seen him since I was a kid.”
“He’s still the same,” she said, her eyes darkening a bit. “Still playing the part of the bad boy. Still fighting his demons.”
“I guess he hasn’t found the Lord yet,” Nick said, remembering Monty’s fondness for fast women, fast cars and a variety of pharmaceuticals.
“I’m working on him. Donald is, too.”
Bully for Donald, Nick thought.
Cherise changed the subject. “It’ll be good to see Marla again. It’s been too long. She and Alex were having some rough times, you know. They’d split up a couple of times.”
“Is that so?” This was news to Nick.
“I think so. Once or twice maybe . . . but I shouldn’t gossip. It’s their business, but I do pray for them.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I’d just like to reconnect with Marla. She must feel awful. I heard on the radio that the truck driver died, too.”
Nick nodded. Alex had called him with the news. “I didn’t know that Alex and Donald were close,” he said.
She didn’t meet his eyes. Swallowed hard. “They’re not. But . . . well, Donald did some work at Cahill House, was even on the board of directors for a while. And he was the pastor at Bayside at one time. He’s wonderful, Nick, a true Christian. Always volunteering where there’s a need, you know,” she said quickly, then, as if she was suddenly anxious to leave, reached for the knob of the door. “Just see if I can visit her, okay?” She hesitated, then added, “It’s been good to see you, Nick. Really.” Biting her lip as if she was afraid she’d blurt out something she shouldn’t, Cherise touched a hand to his cheek. “Take care.” And then she was gone, out the door and down the hall, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
Nick finished his beer in one final gulp, then tossed the can into the wastebasket wondering what the hell Cherise really wanted. He just couldn’t buy into the sitting at Marla’s bedside and reading the Bible bit. No way.
He slid his wallet from his pocket and found a beat-up business card from his days of playing God with corporations. Turning it over he read several numbers scrawled on the back and, hoping that Walt hadn’t moved, Nick reached for the phone and punched the old number.
A gravelly voice picked up on the third ring. “Haaga here.”
“Walt, it’s Nick. Nick Cahill.”
“Well, I’ll be buggered, what the hell are you doin’ callin’ me after all these years?” Walt asked from his apartment in Seattle.
“I need some help. Want you to do some digging for me.” Nick heard the click of a lighter on the other end of the phone, testament to Walt’s three-pack-a-day habit.
“I thought you gave up the business,” Walt said.
“I have for the most part.” He gave Walt a quick rundown on just how he’d happened to land in San Francisco.