The Turning by Davis Bunn Read Free Book Online Page B

better.
    Their Times Square hotel probably had been built in the early eighties, and its former grandeur had turned slightly seedy from the hard use of countless tour groups. The lobby was vast, like an indoor stadium and just as noisy. The tiled floor and distant ceiling and marble-clad walls reflected back every sound in a constant wash of noise. The line in front of the Starbucks stand was long. John didn’t mind. He had nothing better to do with his day.
    Then he saw her.
    The Starbucks stand fronted a three-way split in the lobby, to his left the main bar, right was the sunken area holding the hotel restaurant. Between those two was a long sitting area, with wire-backed chairs and metal tables for the coffee drinkers, and a long, high table where businesspeople stood to work their laptops, and more tables with chairs, and finally a wall of glass overlooking Times Square. Seated at the first table near the windows was a woman he had seen in countless photographs and on television. Ruth Barrett was the widow of Bobby Barrett, one of the great evangelists of the twentieth century. Since her husband’s death, she had become well known in her own right, speaking and writing about Christians maintaining a strong prayer life.
    The woman looked stricken by some deep, afflicting burden.
    “John, dear—” Heather was touching his arm, turning him around. “We’re going to move over by the windows. It’s so noisy back there I can’t hear what Jenny is saying.”
    “Sure. Fine.” He watched the two women pass by Ruth Barrett’s table, already back in their conversation, Heather bent low so as to catch the young woman’s words. He hesitated a long moment, then decided there was no reason not to do exactly what his wife was doing. Even with someone as famous as this woman. He stepped out of line, approached the table, and said, “Mrs. Barrett, you look as sad as I feel.”
    He half expected her to offer the sort of practiced dismissal that anyone famous had to use as armor. Instead, she looked at him carefully, then asked, “Are you the reason I am here?”
    “Ma’am, I don’t—” John caught himself beginning an act of denial. He took a long breath, then released the words, “Truth is, I have no idea. But maybe, yes, ma’am. Just maybe.”
    She studied him carefully. “Then I suppose we had better have a word and see.”
    She waited at her lonely table while John ordered their coffees, then helped him carry the cups back toward the far wall. It was much quieter over here, the tables spaced farther apart. All of them were occupied, mostly by people on their own. Heather watched his approach with a puzzled look until she recognized who it was walking beside him. When they arrived, Heather said simply, “Oh, my goodness.”
    “Mrs. Barrett, this is my wife, Heather Jacobs. I’m John. And this young lady, sorry, I don’t…”
    “Jenny Linn. It’s an honor, Mrs. Barrett. My parents think the world of you. As do I.”
    John asked an olive-skinned gentleman at the next table if he could spare a chair. The table on the man’s other side was occupied by a large black woman whose round features were creased with worry or concern or…John hesitated in the act of sitting down. He looked at the tiny woman seated beside Ruth Barrett. Jenny Linn looked as sad as ever. But what held him was how, despite the vast difference in size, Jenny Linn reflected to a remarkable degree the African American woman’s expression.
    “What is it, John?”
    “Just a second.” He walked over to the woman’s table. “I’m really sorry to be bothering you, ma’am. But I was wondering, are you doing okay?”
    She started to snap at him. He could see the flash of ire, the intake of breath, like she was going to level him with a verbal barrage. But then she stopped, and her features seemed to melt. “I feel convicted by every wrong I have ever done.”
    “Ma’am, can I ask, are you a follower of Jesus?”
    To his astonishment, it