Be Sweet by Diann Hunt Read Free Book Online Page B

That’s great news, though. Such a beautiful property.”
    We move on to discuss how things are going at the office, and by the time we hang up, I’m driving through the brick-lined streets of down-be town Tappery and soon pull my car up to a beach by the shores of Lake Michigan.
    A fresh gust of icy air grazes my cheek when I climb out of the car. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. Lifting my face toward the dusky skies, I watch the twinkling stars and take a breath, the chill reaching deep down into my lungs. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a maple mac-chiato with a triple shot of espresso right about now.
    Moonlight shimmers across the lake and illuminates my path toward the shoreline. Pulling my coat closer to my neck, I carefully avoid the cascading wall of ice that has formed from the icy winds and breaking freshwater waves near the shoreline. A few diehard beach lovers stroll along and lift a smile as we pass one another in the misty twilight.
    The howling of the wind, the somber call of the lake, and the isolation of the moment all cause me to pause and reflect on my life. How many times did I come here when I needed to think and clear my head as a teenager? When life hurt too much, I always met God in the forest or on the beach.
    As the smell of lake water mingles with the misty air, my gaze lifts skyward. I love the sense of worship that falls over me when I stand before Lake Michigan or the sea by my cottage—or even when I’m tucked away on my favorite tree limb where no one can see me or hear me but the Father. “Why do things have to change?” A gust of wind circles and carries my words out to the lake, while my feet trudge along the sand and my heart whispers heavenward. With my bad attitudes lately, I’m surprised He’s still listening.
    By the time I make my way back to the car, I realize it’s too late to visit Mom and Dad. It’s just as well. I’m not sure I’m up to it tonight.
    â€œAnd how long have you been here, young lady? ” Mom barrels through the front door of Janni’s house in a huff. That’s one thing about my mother that never ceases to amaze me. Upon meeting her, it always seems we’re in the middle of a conversation—or confrontation.
    â€œGood morning, Mom. Good to see you too,” I say, closing the door behind her.
    A blur of white whips past me. Say what you will about my mother, there is no denying she has a great head of hair.
    She drops her purse by the sofa. Pulling herself up to her full four-foot-eleven-inch frame she turns and faces me, all twigs and skin. “You didn’t answer my question. And why weren’t you in church this morn-ing?” Bony fists settle on her hips like a gun belt. I believe Mom was the secret to my father’s pastoral success for forty-two years. I’ve seen her on more than one occasion yank a sinner by the ear and drag him to the altar. Once her pale blue eyes lock on you, there’s no use fighting it. She will win.
    â€œWell? When did you get here?” Her toe is tapping now.
    I sigh. “Yesterday.”
    Her mouth drops. “And why didn’t you call or come over?”
    â€œI was tired, Mom. I knew I could see you today.”
    â€œYou didn’t even come to church, Charlene Haverford. We needed help in the kids department.” She makes that last statement as though it’s my fault. Her eyebrows take a sharp dip south, and her lips pucker like a bad seam. “We’ve taught you better than that.”
    â€œI’ll tell Saint Peter at the pearly gates that it’s totally my fault.”
    â€œOh, that’s right, make light of the Gospel.”
    â€œI’m not trying to do that, Mom—”
    â€œEverything is a joke to you, Charlene. A party.”
    â€œNot true. I’m not exactly having fun at this moment.”
    She stabs a pointed stare straight through me. We both know joking isn’t the only