Everything’s Coming Up Josey by Susan May Warren Read Free Book Online Page A

suitcase—wait, I thought this bag was bigger. Ten minutes of zipping and grunting and it is finally shut. The suitcase looks like a…Teletubby. Round and fat. I jerk it off my bed and nearly rip my arm out of its socket.
    Jas gets off the bed and grabs the handle. “Good night, Josey! What do you have in here?”
    â€œA few books?” All right! Yes, I did bring along four new romances—all inspirational. I might have some free time, and I get four a month in the mail. I don’t want to fall behind. And my study Bible, of course. And a notebook.
    And a picture of Chase and me in high school, the one we took just before we went backpacking with the 4-H club. He’s bunny-earing my head and I am looking trim, toned and tan. I should have grabbed him and hiked into the hills, never to return.
    Jas and I double-team the suitcase and wrestle it down to the car. Popping the hatch, we muscle it in and the car actually groans as it settles on its haunches.
    â€œYou’re going to come back, right?”
    â€œYeah, sure.” Maybe. I suddenly have a knot in my stomach. The July sun has already started to cook the morning. My mother is over at the restaurant, Dad is fixing something, the AC perhaps. Maybe I should say goodbye.
    Or maybe I’m just asking for another round of questions. I’ve decided that if my mother ever wanted to change careers, get out of baking award-winning Norwegian specialties, she’d have a stellar career as a CIA interrogator. She knows how to put a person to the screws.
    â€œI guess this is it,” I say. I hug Jasmine. She holds on just a little longer than I expected and when I pull away, I have to squint, just a little, through the tears.
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    There are exactly five rest areas between Gull Lake and Des Moines. I know because I also discovered that I have a bladder the size of an acorn.
    I pull into Mission to the World HQ just as the sun is dipping into the corn fields. Des Moines turns out to be flatter—and hotter—than expected, and poor Stevie Subaru (yes, I name my cars, but that is another story) has drunk enough gas to put him in lock up to dry out for two weeks. I leave him woozy and panting in the parking lot and go in search of the office.
    I have to say, I expected more. After all, the letter was written on linen stationary with a gold embossed return address on the envelope and a multicolored return address stripe on the bottom of the letter in navy blue and gold.
    But maybe they spent all their money on letterhead. Mission to the World is headquartered in a 28-by-40-foot aluminum-sided…shed? My uncle Bert has an identical building for his tractors. I trudge up a cement walk, surrounded on each side by semiwilting shrubbery and a bed of thirsty pansies. They nearly beg me for sustenance as I stumble forward.
    I push open the door and a gust of glacial air hits me in the face. My nose reacts and pain makes my eyes water.
    Correct above assumption. They spent all their money on letterhead and Sahara-strength air-conditioning. Gooseflesh rises on my bare arms as I turn toward the receptionist sitting at the front desk. I notice she’s wearing a pink crocheted cardigan and her long white-blond hair is tied into a low bun. She looks about thirty-five and when she smiles, lines of what I hope is good humor appear around her eyes.
    â€œMay I help you?”
    â€œI’m Josey Berglund, and I’m here to meet with…with…” My eyes widen and I’m digging in my pockets for the letter, which I’ve folded and tucked, oh, please, somewhere accessible. “Dwight Wills.”
    â€œJust a moment.” She picks up the telephone and five minutes later I’m sitting in Dwight’s cubicle. Everyone in the building has cubicles. Dwight leads me down a maze of turns and twists and back alleys to the very bowels of the building where I am offered a metal folding chair. Shouldn’t they have blindfolded