Stand by Me Read online

  stand by me

  Also by Neta Jackson

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Series

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

  The Yada Yada House of Hope Series

  Where Do I Go?

  Who Do I Talk To?

  Who Do I Lean On?

  Who Is My Shelter?

  stand by me

  Book 1

  A SouledOut Sisters Novel

  neta jackson

  © 2012 by Neta Jackson

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

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are taken from the following:

  THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jackson, Neta.

  Stand by me : a SouledOut sisters novel / Neta Jackson.

  p. cm. -- (A SouledOut sisters novel ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978-1-59554-864-1 (trade paper)

  1. Christian women--Fiction. 2. Chicago (Ill.)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3560.A2415S73 2012

  813’.54--dc23

  2011048495

  Printed in the United States of America

  12 13 14 15 16 17 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the Dumpster-divers

  we know and love . . .

  it’s been an education

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Midwest Music Festival, Central Illinois

  Kat Davies ducked into the billowing exhibition tent staked down in a large pasture in central Illinois like a grounded Goodyear blimp. She’d been at the Midwest Music Fest three days already—didn’t know it was a Christian festival until she got here—and needed a little respite from the music pulsing morning till night on the Jazz Stage, Gospel Stage, Alternative Stage, Rock Stage, Folk Stage, and a few more she’d forgotten.

  Besides, she’d be heading back to Phoenix in two days, and sooner or later she needed to figure out how to tell her parents she’d “given her heart to Jesus” after the Resurrection Band concert last night. Maybe this tent had a quiet corner where she could think. Or pray. Not that she had a clue how to do that.

  Kat had a good idea how they’d react. Her mother would flutter and say something like, “Don’t take it too seriously, Kathryn, dear. Getting religion is just something everyone does for a year or two.” And her father? If he didn’t blow his stack at what he’d call “another one of your little distractions,” he’d give her a lecture about keeping her priorities straight: Finish premed at the University of Arizona. Go to medical school. Do her internship at a prestigious hospital. Follow in the Davies tradition. Make her family tree of prominent physicians proud.

  Except . . . she’d walked out of her biochemistry class at UA one day and realized she didn’t want to become a doctor. She’d tutored ESL kids the summer after high school and realized she liked working with kids. (“Well, you can be a pediatrician like your uncle Bernard, darling,” her mother had said.) And the student action group on the UA campus sponsoring workshops on “Living Green” and “Sustainable Foods” had really gotten her blood pumping. (Another one of her “distractions,” according to her father.)

  Was it too late to pursue something else? Her parents were already bragging to friends and coworkers that their Kathryn had received her letter of acceptance into medical school a few months ago. Feeling squeezed till she couldn’t breathe, she’d jumped at the chance to attend a music fest in Illinois with a carload of other students—friends of friends—just to get away from the pressure for a while.

  What she hadn’t expected was to find so many teenagers and twentysomethings excited about Jesus. Jesus! Not the go-to-church-at-Christmas-and-Easter Jesus, the only Jesus she’d known growing up as the daughter of a wealthy Phoenix physician and socialite mother. That Jesus, frankly, had a hard time competing with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

  But these people talked about a Jesus who cared about poor people. A Jesus who created the world and told humans to take care of it. A Jesus who might not be blond and blue-eyed after all. A Jesus who said, “Love your neighbor”—and that neighbor might be black or brown or speak Spanish or Chinese. A Jesus who said, “All have sinned,” and “You must be born again.” The Son of God, who’d died to take away the sins of the world.

  That Jesus.

  That’s the Jesus she’d asked to be Lord of her life, even though she wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. But she desperately longed for something—Someone—to help her figure out who she was and what she should do with her life. The guitar player in the band who’d challenged the arm-waving music fans last night to be Christ-followers had said, “Jesus came to give you life—life more abundantly! But first you must give your life to Him.”

  That’s what she wanted. Abundant life! A life sold out to something she could believe in. To give herself to one hundred percent. So she’d prayed the
sinner’s prayer with a woman in a denim skirt whose name she never learned, and a “peace like a river” flooded her spirit.

  Last night, anyway.

  But by the light of day, she was still heading in a direction—medical school—that she didn’t want to go.

  Big fans circulated the air in the large tent, though mostly it just moved the stifling July heat around. Thick, curly strands of her long, dark hair had slipped out of the clip on the back of her head and stuck in wet tendrils on her skin. Redoing the clip to get the damp hair off her neck and face, she wandered the aisles, idly picking up brochures about Compassion International, Habitat for Humanity, and YWAM. Huh. What if she just dropped out of premed and did something like this Youth With A Mission thing. Far from Phoenix and the Davies Family Tradition. Go to Haiti or India or—

  “Nice boots,” giggled a female voice nearby.

  Kat glanced up from the brochure. A cute brunette with a shaggy pixie cut grinned at her from behind a booth that said Find Your Calling at CCU! Kat self-consciously looked down at the Arizona-chic cowboy boots peeking out beneath her designer jeans and flushed. Ever since she’d arrived at the festival, she felt as if she’d walked into a time warp—girls in tank tops and peasant skirts, with pierced nostrils, guys wearing ponytails, tattoos, shredded jeans, and T-shirts proclaiming Jesus Freak. Kat had felt as conspicuous as a mink coat in a secondhand store.

  “Thanks. I think.”

  The young woman, dressed in khaki capris and a feminine lemon-yellow tee, laughed. “This your first time to the Fest? Where’re you from?”

  Kat felt strangely relieved to be talking to someone else who didn’t look like a throwback to the seventies. “Phoenix. First time.”

  “Wow. You came a long way.”

  “You?”

  “Detroit. But during the year I’m a student at CCU in Chicago. I get a huge discount off my festival fee if I sit at this booth a couple hours a day during the Fest.” The girl grinned again and extended her hand across the stacks of informational literature. “I’m Brygitta Walczak.”

  Kat shook her hand. “Kathryn Davies. But my friends call me Kat. With a K.”

  “Like ‘kitty kat’? That’s cute. And . . . blue eyes with all that dark, curly hair? Bet the guys love that.”

  Ignoring the remark, Kat glanced up at the banner above the booth. “What does CCU stand for?”

  “Chicago Crista University. Usually we just call it Crista U. Located on the west side of Chicago. I’ll be a senior next year. Christian ed major.”

  “Christian ed? What’s that?”

  “You’re kidding.” Brygitta eyed her curiously. “Mm. You’re not kidding. Uh, are you a Christian?”

  Kat allowed a wry smile. “For about twelve hours.”

  The pixie-haired girl’s mouth dropped open, and then her amber eyes lit up. “That is so cool! Hey . . . want a Coke or something? I’ve got a cooler back here with some soft drinks. Wanna sit? I’d love some company.”

  Brygitta dragged a folding chair from an unmanned booth nearby, and Kat found herself swapping life stories with her new friend. Unlike Kat, who had no siblings, Brygitta came from a large Polish family, had been raised in the Catholic Church, “went Protestant” at a Youth for Christ rally in high school, planned to get a master’s degree at Crista U, and wanted to be a missionary overseas or a director of Christian education somewhere.

  “Sorry I’m late, Bree,” said a male voice. “Uh-oh. Two gorgeous females. You’ve cloned yourself. I’m really in trouble now.”

  Kat looked up. A young man about their same age grinned at them across the booth. He was maybe six feet, with short, sandy-brown hair combed forward over a nicely tanned face, wire-rim sunglasses shading his eyes. No obvious tattoos or body piercings. Just cargo shorts and a T-shirt that said CCU Soccer.

  Brygitta jumped up. “Oh, hi, Nick. This is Kat Davies. She’s from the University of Arizona, first time at the Fest. Nick Taylor is my relief. He’s a seminary student at Crista—well, headed that way, anyway.”

  Nick slid off his shades and flashed a smile, hazel eyes teasing. “So, Miss Blue Eyes. Has Brygitta talked you into coming to CCU yet?”

  Kat laughed and started to shake her head . . . and then stopped as her eyes caught the logo on the banner across the booth. Find Your Calling at CCU!

  Transfer to Crista University?

  Why not?

  Chapter 1

  Chicago, three years later

  The earrings. A slight panic rose in her chest as Avis searched the jewelry box a second time. Where were the ruby earrings Peter had given to her as a wedding present? They went perfectly with the wine-colored moiré silk dress lying on the bed, and she’d already told Peter she was going to wear them.

  Avis Douglass sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. Think, Avis, think. They couldn’t be lost! She’d only worn them a few times since their wedding six years ago. The deep red brought out a rosy glow in her dark chocolate skin. But . . . ruby earrings weren’t exactly de rigueur for an elementary school principal in her fifties. She’d had a few kids at Bethune Elementary—just a few, but still—who wouldn’t have thought twice about ripping them out of her ears.

  Besides, she liked to save them for special occasions. Like this weekend.

  Their sixth anniversary.

  A smile tickled her lips, and Avis sank into the upholstered rocker beside the queen bed, forgetting the earring hunt for a moment. Six years. Amazing. Second marriage for her. First for Peter. Old college friend of Conrad’s who’d never married. Looked her up after Conrad died of pancreatic cancer, and one thing led to another . . .

  She closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the rocker, careful not to disturb the twists piled on top of her head after her visit to Adele’s Hair and Nails that morning. Peter would be home soon—he often put in five or six hours at the office, even on Saturday—but she still had time to get dressed. The tiny smile broadened. Her man had turned out to be a class-A husband—well, mostly—in spite of “baching it” for several decades. She was proud of the way he’d built Software Symphony from a grassroots startup to the thriving business it was today, in spite of the obstacles he’d had to climb over as an African-American male. He treated his employees well—black and white—giving them opportunity to advance, even get more training if needed. He took his involvement seriously as a board member of Manna House, and under his guidance the women’s shelter had operated in the black for the past few years.

  But those things made him a good man. What made Peter a good husband was not only that he was crazy about her—she wanted to giggle like a girl every time he called her “my queen”—but his unflappable steadiness. A man she could count on. His thoughtfulness about little things and helpfulness around the house went a long way too. Avis chuckled. At least he’d learned to fold his own laundry and do the dishes while he was baching all those years!

  In fact, the only time they’d ever had a serious disagreement was over the girls.

  Her girls. He didn’t have any kids.

  Not that they’d had any problems with Charette, her oldest, who was married and living in Ohio. Or Natasha, the youngest, still single, working in D.C. as an advocate with the Center for Law and Social Policy. No, their only tension had been all the drama her middle daughter, Rochelle, dumped into their laps. Like last Valentine’s Day . . .

  “Can’t believe it’s almost one o’clock!” Avis giggled as Peter unlocked the front door and they slipped into the darkness of their third-floor condo. “Makes me feel like a teenager tiptoeing home after curfew.”

  Peter took her warm winter coat and threw it over the back of a chair. “Except now I get to spend the night.” He chuckled. “Come here, beautiful.” He pulled her close, and she felt his warm lips pressing gently on hers.

  She wove her arms around his neck, breathing in the faint, cool smell of his aftershave. The evening still glowed in his eyes. He’d brought her a dozen red roses and then taken
her to dinner and dancing in Uptown. On the way home they’d stopped at a vantage point where they could see the lake, shimmering in the clear February night. Moonlight had tickled the water out beyond the icy buildup along the Lake Michigan shoreline.

  Breathtaking, even in winter. But thank God for the car heater! The outside temperature hovered around zero.

  Avis wiggled out of his embrace and headed for the bedroom. Using the matches she kept in her bedside table drawer, she lit several candles around the room—but when she turned around, she burst out laughing. Peter was leaning against the door frame, arms folded, one of the long-stemmed red roses held between his teeth.

  “You’re nuts, you know that.” Still laughing, she slid the ruby earrings out of her ears and turned her back to him. “Here, help me with this dress.” The red silk dress was one of his favorites. But instead of unzipping the dress, he slid his arms around her again from the back and nuzzled her neck.

  Blaaaaaatt!!

  The loud door buzzer in the other room made them both jump. Avis gasped. “Who could that be at this hour!” She started for the intercom beside the front door.

  Peter spit a sharp retort under his breath and then called after her, “Whoever it is, tell them to butt out and come back tomorrow.”

  The buzzer rang again, loud and insistent. Somebody had a lot of nerve—at one o’clock in the morning! Avis pressed the Talk button. “Who is it?”

  “Mom? Mom, it’s me! And Conny! Please, let us come up!”

  Rochelle! Avis pressed the button that released the door down in the lobby, her heart suddenly beating faster. What was Rochelle doing out this late at night? With six-year-old Conny at that! The girl must’ve lost her mind!

  “Don’t tell me . . .” Peter’s voice behind her was flat. More than flat. Annoyed.

  Avis opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and peered over the banister. She could hear Rochelle’s and Conny’s footsteps thumping up the carpeted stairs of the three-flat, and then their heads appeared as they trudged up the last flight. Conny, bundled in a hooded parka, dragged behind his mother, pulled by her grip around his wrist.