Deceived: Lured from the Truth (Secrets) Read online

  “Heart-wrenching and heartwarming, Rachel’s story forced me out of my comfort zone and gave me a picture of what practical compassion looks like for a Christian. I highly recommend it!”

  — ERYNN MANGUM,

  author of the LAUREN HOLBROOK series and the MAYA DAVIS series

  NavPress is the publishing ministry of The Navigators, an international Christian organization and leader in personal spiritual development. NavPress is committed to helping people grow spiritually and enjoy lives of meaning and hope through personal and group resources that are biblically rooted, culturally relevant, and highly practical.

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  © 2012 by Melody Carlson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without written permission from NavPress, P.O. Box 35001, Colorado Springs, CO 80935. www.navpress.com

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-60006-952-9

  Cover image by VanHart/Shutterstock Images LLC

  Published in association with the literary agency of Sara A. Fortenberry

  Some of the anecdotal illustrations in this book are true to life and are included with the permission of the persons involved. All other illustrations are composites of real situations, and any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental.

  Unless otherwise identified, all Scripture quotations in this publication are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version® (NIV®). Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Carlson, Melody.

  Deceived : lured from the truth / Melody Carlson.

  pages cm -- (Secrets ; [bk. 5])

  Summary: “Lured by the possibility of a relationship with a boy she likes, Rachel secretly attends his cult-like church. Slowly but surely, she is lured into a religion that goes against everything she’s ever been taught”-- Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-60006-952-9

  [1. Cults--Fiction. 2. Christian life--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C216637De 2012

  [Fic]--dc23

  2012022457

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 / 16 15 14 13 12

  OTHER NOVELS BY MELODY CARLSON

  SECRETS Series

  Damaged

  Forgotten

  Shattered

  Trapped

  TRUECOLORS Series

  Bitter Rose

  Blade Silver

  Bright Purple

  Burnt Orange

  Dark Blue

  Deep Green

  Faded Denim

  Fool’s Gold

  Harsh Pink

  Moon White

  Pitch Black

  Torch Red

  [CHAPTER 1]

  Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. And I don’t mean spending my summer sweltering behind the counter of Nadine’s Natural Ice Cream Parlor either. I can handle scooping out sticky, drippy ice cream orders. And I know how to be polite to entitled rich kids — even the ones with zero manners. The personal disillusionment I’m referring to is the sad realization that I am now the product of a broken home. Yes, I know the term broken home is hopelessly old-fashioned. But so am I.

  “It’s official,” my mom called to tell me at seven thirty this morning. “The papers came through, and as of midnight last night, your father and I are legally divorced.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” I sat up in bed, blinking into the bright July sunlight streaming through the dusty window next to my bunk and trying to remember where I was … and why. Oh, yes, the women’s dormitory at Rock Canyon Lake Resort, a bare-bones barracks where summer workers are housed together like sardines … or inmates. I’ll admit I was thrilled to come here at first. I imagined myself working in one of the swanky restaurants, improving my culinary-art skills. Instead I’m peddling ice cream.

  “I’m sorry too,” Mom said a bit too cheerily. “But I’m also greatly relieved. At least it’s finally over. I can get on with my life now.”

  I bit my tongue, knowing that getting on with her life was just another way of saying she was ready to start dating again. Although the truth is, she has already begun dating — on the sly since she knows how much I disapprove. But now that her marriage is legally “dissolved” and I’m living up here for the summer, I know she feels completely free to do whatever she wants with whomever she likes.

  It’s futile for me to point out that divorce or no divorce, she and my dad are still breaking a sacred vow they made to God. I’ve watched their wedding video enough times to know that they got married in the church and promised to love each other and stay together “in sickness and in health” and “for richer or poorer” and so on and so forth until death forced them to part ways.

  However, not even twenty years later and they’re still both very much alive … and according to Mom, they’re “legally” parted. And I could tell by her voice, she’s happy about it. In fact, I’ll bet she’s already planning a big date tonight to celebrate her newfound freedom.

  After I grab my towel and shower bag, shuffling off toward the bathroom, I wonder if that wasn’t the real reason she farmed me off with her friend Nadine for the summer. “Just think of the money you can make for culinary school,” she told me as she drove me up here three weeks ago. “And living with a bunch of young people in the dorm — well, it’ll be so fun for you. I’m already starting to get jealous. Seriously, Rachel, with the lake right there and all the beautiful scenery, it’s like being on a paid vacation.”

  Vacation-smacation. It was just her convenient way to get rid of me for a while.

  I get in the shower line and estimate how long it will be until my turn. Not that I’m in any particular hurry since I’m up earlier than usual, but hopefully there’ll still be hot water.

  “Mind if I take cuts?” a short blonde named Steffie asks me hopefully. “I have to be at the Blue Moose by nine and your ice cream parlor doesn’t open until later, right?”

  I shrug. “Go ahead.” I don’t point out that although Nadine’s doesn’t open until eleven, I still have to be there at nine thirty to get the place ready to go, which means getting a head start on making waffle cones and receiving deliveries. Plus I try to air out the stuffy shop in the morning while it’s still cool, and I get everything cleaned up better than it was left the night before.

  I also don’t point out to Steffie that the ice cream parlor is one of the hottest, stickiest places to work in the resort, thanks to the recent high temps. Washing dishes at the Blue Moose Café might be worse, although I doubt that’s Steffie’s job. I also doubt she’d care to hear me whining about Nadine’s. Everyone around here seems pretty self-absorbed. Their problems are major; mine are invisible.

  No one cares that Nadine’s broken-down AC isn’t scheduled to be fixed anytime soon. Or that despite the two box fans Nadine dropped off on Tuesday, the lack of AC combined with the heat produced by the refrigeration units makes the ice cream parlor nearly uninhabitable.

  But does that keep people from coming in there for their mocha fudge delight sundaes or their triple-berry yogurt smoothies? Think again. And when they have to wait very long, which is often the case, they get pretty impatient and grumpy. All they want is to grab their cool treats and escape the sweltering little sweatshop. Really, who can blame them?

  A couple
more girls entice me to give them cuts in the shower line before I finally put my foot down, which doesn’t endear me to anyone. Not that I particularly care as I jump into a shower that’s quickly turning lukewarm. I hurry to rub a special keratin conditioner into my hair before the spray turns icy cold. And I try not to listen to Steffie and another girl exchanging stories about their previous evening.

  Shortly after arriving here several weeks ago, I learned that this is a party crowd. And if you go along with them — partying, I mean — they’ll all act like your very best friends. But if you stand up for your own personal convictions, like I attempted to do right from the start, they pretty much freeze you out. Kind of like the water is starting to do right now. I hear some warning yelps from other bathers, and just as I’m rinsing conditioner out of my long hair, I get my ice-cold wake-up call too. But I don’t scream like the others. What’s the point?

  I turn off the water and grab my towel. Ignoring the snide comments from some of the restaurant girls still waiting in line — girls who should’ve partied less and gotten up earlier — I hurry back to my bunk to get dressed in the silly pink-and-white-striped uniform of camp shirt and shorty-shorts Nadine thinks is “just adorable.” Someone should make her wear it. However, being that Nadine is the boss and owner and pushing fifty, I doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon.

  And to be fair, Nadine is actually pretty nice. I appreciate how she trusts me enough to give me some managerial responsibilities including allowing me to open for her. Plus she pays me a fair wage. No, this isn’t about Nadine. It’s just that I’m in a foul mood today.

  As I walk through the immaculately clean resort (Nadine told me they have a sanitation crew that goes through in the wee hours of the morning to ensure it’s “tidier than Disneyland”), I try to rally my spirits. When I first arrived at Rock Canyon Lake Resort, I was somewhat charmed by its well-maintained and old-fashioned decor. It was created to resemble an old west town with false-front buildings and boardwalks and old-fashioned businesses like Maybelle’s Mercantile or the Sarsaparilla Saloon, and it seemed like a great place to bring a family.

  My first reaction was to assume that this resort was just my cup of tea. Kind of like going back in time, or so I imagined. I don’t like to admit to most people that I consider myself to be an old-fashioned girl, but I sometimes confide to close friends that I feel like I was born in the wrong era, that I would’ve fit in much better if I’d been born into my grandparents’ generation — they were teens in the late fifties. I even have Grandma Lindy’s old poodle skirt and oxfords to prove it.

  But the problem with this resort is that the charm is skin deep. It only took a week to figure out that most of the people who stay here are wealthy, entitled, selfish, and impatient. They treat me like I’m less than them — or worse, like I’m invisible or have no feelings. And they almost never tip.

  However, as I unlock the door to Nadine’s, I am suddenly encouraged by an unexpected thought. Today is Thursday. And although it’s not the end of my workweek, it does mean there’ll be an LSD delivery today. Okay, I’ll admit the first time Nadine said that to me, I nearly fell over. Was she really expecting a delivery of illegal drugs? But she quickly explained that LSD stands for Lost Springs Dairy and they deliver on Monday and Thursday mornings around ten thirty.

  Lost Springs Dairy is Nadine’s main provider of the locally made all-natural organic ice cream. And it’s not that I’m over the moon for their ice cream, although it’s pretty yummy. It’s simply that the guy who makes these deliveries, a certain Josiah Davis, is totally yummy. Okay, yummy is the wrong word. He’s just plain old handsome. But perhaps even more impressive than his looks is that he seems to be genuinely nice. And in a place like this where people can be cruel, someone as thoughtful and kind as Josiah is most welcome. And it doesn’t hurt that he has this amazing Australian accent.

  Of course, as soon as I’m inside of Nadine’s, I realize that considering it’s Thursday, I should’ve taken more care with my appearance this morning. Not only did I walk out without even peeking into a mirror, but I didn’t bother to dry my hair. So in the midst of giving the tiny employee restroom a quick wipe down, I take a couple minutes to dig some mascara and lip gloss from my purse.

  I know I’m lucky to have good skin — I’ve had like three zits in my entire life — so my beauty routine is pretty low maintenance. My friend Carlie complains about this all the time.

  “You’re just naturally beautiful,” she tells me about once a week. Then she’ll offer to trade her pale, freckled face for my smooth dark bronze skin. And without hurting her feelings, I always remind her that we should be thankful for the way God made us.

  As I comb my long, dark hair back into a smooth ponytail, I’m relieved I took time to condition it. The keratin straightening treatment is supposed to last all summer if I take care of it. Now that I’ve primped a bit, I start to put on the silly polka-dot apron that’s part of my uniform, then stop myself. Since the shop’s not officially open, I can postpone that bit of humiliation until after Josiah’s delivery.

  I’ve just finished cleaning the front window and door when I see the blue-and-white LSD truck coming down the street. I peer out, trying to make sure Josiah’s driving today, but the truck whips down a side street before I can see. However, when I go to the rear of the store, quickly rinsing the vinegar glass cleaner from my hands and unlocking the back door, I spy the truck pulling into the alley and am pleased to see Josiah waving from the driver’s seat.

  Grinning like a goofball, I eagerly wave back. It seems impossible that I’m this glad to see someone I’ve met only a few times before. But it’s like he’s my long-lost best friend … or even something more. “Hey, Josiah,” I call as he hops out of the van.

  “Good die, Rachel Hebert,” he says with an accent that melts me even faster than a dropped scoop on a July afternoon. “How’s my favorite sheila doing?”

  By now I know sheila is Australian slang, kind of like chick. “Just fine. How are you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” He grins as he opens up the back of the truck, emerging with a wooden crate in his hands. “But it’s going to be a hot one, I hear.”

  I nod as I hold the door open for him. “Triple digits again.”

  He looks puzzled as he sets the crate on the back counter. “Triple digits?”

  Now I realize we have a language barrier. “I mean, the temperature is going to be more than a hundred degrees.”

  He looks shocked. “A hundred degrees?”

  “That’s what I heard someone say …”

  “Oh yeah.” He pushes a strand of dark hair away from his forehead and smiles directly into my eyes. “You mean Yankee degrees.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yanks use Fahrenheit, which seems unnecessarily confusing to an Aussie. Why not just use Celsius? It’s so much simpler.”

  “Right.” I nod as I remember what I learned in chemistry. “Fahrenheit and Celsius degrees are different, aren’t they? I just can’t recall exactly how it works at the moment.” How can I be expected to remember science when I’m looking into those intense brown eyes framed in dark brown brows?

  “Zero degrees Celsius means it’s freezing,” he explains patiently. “I reckon that’s about thirty degrees Fahrenheit or thereabouts.” Now his forehead creases as if he’s calculating something. “So one hundred degrees for you would be about forty Celsius for us.” He laughs. “But one hundred degrees Celsius is hot enough to boil water. If it were that hot today, we’d all be toast.”

  I laugh too as I follow him back out for another crate. “Well, it gets pretty hot in here. I’ll probably feel like toast by the end of my day.”

  “At least you can go jump in the lake.” He sets the second crate on the counter.

  “I suppose …” I glance out the window. How hot would I have to be to run out there and jump in the lake all by myself? It would be one thing if I had friends to do it with.

  “You seem sad, Ra
chel.” He leans over and peers curiously into my eyes. “Something bothering you?”

  Surprised by his unexpected kindness, a lump lodges in my throat. But not wanting to break down in front of this cool guy, I quickly look away. “I’m okay,” I say in a gruff voice.

  “Out with it,” he urges. Then he places his hand on my forearm and turns me around to face him. “I can tell something’s not right. What’s troubling you?”

  I look into his face, which looks honestly concerned, and despite my resolve to be strong, tears fill my eyes. Then I’m telling him about my mom’s wake-up call. “And she announces that my parents’ marriage is over as of today.” I sigh. “It’s completely dissolved. Just like that.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s really rough.”

  I nod as I reach for an organic napkin. “I mean, I realize that lots of people go through this.” I wipe my nose with rough paper. “It’s just that I never thought it would happen to my family. I mean, we were so normal. I thought we were happy. And we always went to church together and — and — ” My voice cracks with emotion, and I realize this is way too much information to share with someone I hope to get to know better.

  Just mentioning my church is like opening a fresh wound. And now I’m crying even harder. How can I possibly explain that watching my beloved church when it split and fell apart last year hurt nearly as much as seeing my parents’ marriage crumble?

  [CHAPTER 2]

  I want you to sit right here.” Josiah pulls out the chrome kitchen stool with the pink vinyl seat and eases me onto it. And the next thing I know, he’s unloading the ice cream cartons from the crate and putting them away in the freezer, which is actually my job. But I feel helpless to stop him as I blot my tears with my handful of organic napkins. Feeling guilty, I glance up at the clock and am relieved to see that I don’t have to officially open for business for nearly twenty minutes.

  “How did all this happen?” he asks as he rearranges the cartons in the case. “Start at the beginning.”