Deceived: Lured from the Truth (Secrets) Read online

  Suddenly I hear myself telling Josiah about how my dad lost his job in real estate when the economy fell apart, how he got really depressed, and how my mom got angry because she had to work harder than ever and it was like my dad was completely paralyzed.

  “I know it was really hard on their marriage.” I pause to blow my nose. “Even when my dad started to get better, he couldn’t find work.” I toss the wad of napkins into the trash and take in a deep breath. “Instead he found himself a girlfriend. That was about the same time that our church pretty much fell apart. It started with a disagreement over the budget and turned into this big theological debate that split the church in two.” I hold up my hands in a helpless gesture. “So just when we needed it most … at least I needed it most — poof — the church was gone.”

  “That’s rough.” He nods as he puts the last carton into the case.

  “I’m sorry to be such a baby.” I reach for a fresh napkin. “I didn’t mean to go to pieces on you like that.”

  Now he places both his hands firmly on my shoulders — again looking directly into my eyes. I feel like my stomach’s doing a flip as I look back into his — they are exactly the same color as the espresso gelato. “I asked you to tell me your troubles,” he says seriously. “I’m truly glad you did. I care about you, Rachel.”

  “Really?” My chin trembles, and I’m afraid that I’m going to cry all over again.

  “I could tell as soon as I met you that you’re a good person, and I’ve been wanting to know you better.”

  “Really?” I say again, wishing I could think of a more intelligent response.

  He nods. “I’m truly sorry about your parents’ divorce, and I know how you feel. My parents split when I was just a kid. It’s rough. And I’m sorry about your church letting you down like that.” His lips curve into a smile. “But if you’d like to visit a church sometime, you’d be more than welcome to come to ours.”

  “You have a church?” I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. Maybe it’s because the resort workers I’ve been around so much lately all seem to be a bunch of unchurched, superficial party animals. It’s like I forgot there might still be some decent young people around.

  “It’s my uncle’s church. I’m still fairly new to it. I only came to the States a few months ago. But I can assure you it’s a good church with good people. And my uncle wants it to grow.”

  “And it’s nearby?” I ask hopefully.

  “It’s about twenty minutes away.”

  I frown. “I don’t have a car here.”

  “I can pick you up.” He reaches for a napkin and a pen. “Give me your number.”

  I’m happily telling him my cell phone number when I notice several teenybopper girls standing outside. And now they’re banging loudly on the still-locked front door. I glance at the clock to see it’s almost eleven now.

  “They’re a few minutes early, but I should probably let them in before they break the door down.”

  He pats me on the back. “And I reckon I should finish with my deliveries before the other customers wonder what became of me.”

  I pull the key ring from my shorts pocket and approach the door, hating to end our conversation and see him go. I reluctantly unlock the glass door, then step away as the girls burst in like they own the place.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he calls from the back of the shop. “You can count on that, Rachel.”

  I hurry back to the counter and, relieved he’s still here, thank him again. “You have no idea how much I needed to have that conversation today,” I quietly tell him. “You’re truly a godsend.”

  “You take it easy now.” He tips his head politely. “Don’t get too hot today. And I’ll give you a ring.”

  For some reason, maybe it’s his accent or that he said “ring” instead of “call,” but the three girls start giggling even more loudly now. Ignoring their immaturity, I simply wave as Josiah makes his final exit. But when I turn back to the girls, I’m surprised to see they’re all staring at me, studying me with what seems like unusual interest.

  “Can I help you?” I ask in a no-nonsense tone as I reach for the polka-dot apron, giving it a quick shake before I tie it around my waist. Feeling like I’m about twenty years older than these teenyboppers, I study their bright-colored outfits and fancy sunglasses. For some reason their “fashionable” attire seems strangely out of place in a rustic lake resort. Honestly, they look more like they dressed to go mall shopping, but you see all kinds around here.

  “Your boyfriend looks just like Robert Pattinson,” the redhead says to me with wide eyes made dramatic by two garish slashes of electric blue eye shadow.

  “Who’s Robert Pattinson?” I nonchalantly reach for the vinegar spray and start cleaning the top of the glass case.

  Now all three of them laugh hysterically, like I’ve said the funniest thing ever.

  “Are you kidding?” the redhead says. “You don’t know who Robert Pattinson is?”

  I shrug, then squirt some more spray, wiping the paper towel round and round in fast little circles the way Nadine likes it.

  “Robert Pattinson just happens to be the actor who plays Edward in the Twilight series,” the skinny blonde girl informs me in a snooty tone.

  “Seriously, you’d have to live under a rock not to know that,” the redhead adds. Again they all laugh, exchanging superior glances among themselves.

  Trying to hide the sting of their childish rudeness and remembering how some of my own friends are total Twilight freaks who’ve made fun of me too, I dramatically sigh and roll my eyes. “Maybe I have better things to do than obsess over a fictional vampire character.” I hold my head high. “Especially since having a real live boyfriend is so much better than merely drooling over a silly actor.”

  To my relief that comment mostly silences them, and the three girls quickly become distracted with narrowing down their ice cream choices. And yes, I know it’s a huge leap to insinuate that Josiah is my boyfriend — and I would be humiliated beyond belief if he’d been close enough to hear my false claim. But I comfort myself that these girls assumed he was my boyfriend first — I simply played along with them. Besides, I decide as I scoop up some pink and blue bubblegum ice cream for the redhead girl, Josiah could be my boyfriend … someday. Miracles might still happen.

  The next hour and a half passes in a blur of tourists of all shapes and sizes with two things in common: (1) they want their ice cream and (2) they want it fast. Even though both fans are running on high and the doors are open, it’s already more than ninety degrees in here. It’s hot and humid … and it smells like a dairy farm. I should’ve had help by now, but Belinda, as usual, is late.

  It’s twelve forty-five by the time Belinda arrives at work. And when she waltzes in, the shop is literally hopping. It’s like someone in the resort started a rumor that there will be a shortage of ice cream today.

  “Sorry I’m a little late,” she says glibly as she ties on one of the silly aprons, taking her time to fluff out the bow. Belinda’s shift was supposed to start at noon, and although I’m used to her lateness, this seems to be a personal record for her. Unfortunately, I don’t feel comfortable complaining since Nadine is her aunt. Instead, I toss a frown her way as I hand a woman a dish of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

  “My alarm clock stopped,” she says in a slightly whiny tone.

  “Can you ring that man up” — I use a damp towel to wipe my sticky hands — “while I dish up the rest of these?” A woman and four little kids are noisily waiting, and I’m eager to get them on their way.

  Belinda nods, taking her place by the register, which I know she would rather be running than dipping into the sticky, drippy ice cream.

  “Shouldn’t Alistair be here by now?” she asks as she hands the man his change. She doesn’t bother to count it out the way her aunt has asked us to do. She simply dumps it in his palm, then closes the till with a bang — something else Nadine frowns upon. However, Nadine is not he
re right now.

  “I’m sure he’s on his way,” I say over my shoulder as I scoop out some butter brickle for one of the little girls. Alistair might not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but at least he’s not usually late. And he knows how to count out change. I hand over the butter brickle, then wait as this impatient woman urges the preschool-aged boy to hurry and make up his mind. But when he can’t decide, she speaks for him. “Just give him a small scoop of peppermint.”

  “I don’t want peppermint!” He stubbornly folds his arms across his front.

  “What do you want?” I ask him in a friendly tone.

  “Benny likes peppermint,” the little girl next to him insists.

  “Do not!” he yells back at her. “I hate peppermint!”

  “Do you like chocolate?” I ask hopefully.

  His eyes light up and he nods with enthusiasm.

  “No,” the woman firmly tells me. “He cannot have chocolate.”

  Now the boy starts to throw a total fit, claiming he wants chocolate and only chocolate, and I don’t know what to do.

  “See what you’ve gone and done?” the woman snarls at me. “Benny thinks he likes chocolate, but he really doesn’t. If you give it to him, he’ll just end up wearing it all over his shirt. Do you have any idea how hard chocolate stains are to get out?”

  I shake my head, forcing a sympathetic smile. “Maybe I should help the next person in line until you guys decide.” I glance over her shoulder to where two teen girls are glaring at me with sour expressions.

  “No, we were here first,” the woman insists. “Just dish up some peppermint and hurry it up.”

  “Okay.” I rinse the scooper and reach into the peppermint carton, which I personally think is disgusting — it reminds me of Pepto-Bismol and I can understand the boy’s reluctance. Meanwhile I hear the little boy howling that he doesn’t want peppermint. But what am I supposed to do?

  “I want chocolate!” he screams so loudly my ears begin to ring.

  “I think someone needs a nap,” the little girl says. I think she’s right, but naturally this only makes her brother get louder.

  I hurry to shake the scoop of gooey pink into a small dish and quickly hand it to the mother, and then I direct her to the cash register as I ask the girls in line what they want. As they tell me, I resist the urge to scratch my tickly nose. It’s one thing to have an itchy nose but something else altogether to wipe sticky ice cream all over your face while amused customers watch. I learned that lesson the hard way.

  Of course, by now the little boy (aka brat) is throwing a full-fledged temper tantrum, and after his mom gives Belinda a credit card to pay for the ice cream and tries to placate the kid with the detested peppermint, he responds by hurling the dish of ice cream straight at the window I washed earlier. The dish soundly smacks against the glass and falls to the floor as the lump of ice cream slides down the glass in a long pink stripe of peppermint goop.

  “Guess you should’ve let him have the chocolate,” one of the girls says to me as I hand her a double scoop of raspberry gelato.

  I shrug. “Tell that to his mother,” I say quietly.

  “What did you say?” the woman demands as she thrusts her signed receipt back toward an amused Belinda. I hadn’t realized the mom was still here.

  I shrug again. “Nothing …”

  “I heard you.” She glares at me. “And I blame you for everything, young lady.”

  “Me?”

  “I think I’ll fill out a customer complaint card and report you to the management,” she says threateningly. I suddenly grasp why her son is such a brat.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.” I force myself to remain calm.

  “You’re the one who brought up the chocolate,” she shoots back at me.

  “Sorry. It’s an option.” Turning away from her, I take a deep breath and pick up a fresh scoop, dipping it into the sugar-free vanilla bean. As I hand it to the second girl, I turn back to the grouchy woman. “If it would help, I can give your son a free dish of chocolate ice cream.”

  “Yeah!” the boy yells. “I want the chocolate.”

  She rolls her eyes, telling her kids to get outside as she attempts to herd them toward the door. But the little boy isn’t budging. Instead he presses his grimy hands and face against the glass front of the case, insisting he wants the chocolate. So I quickly dip a small scoop, and despite the fact that his mother is ignoring me now, I hand the dish to him.

  “Enjoy!” I tell him with a fixed smile. And to my relief, he leaves.

  “Nice work,” Belinda says in a sarcastic tone, “now let’s just hope he doesn’t have allergies and his mom decides to sue us.”

  The teen girls laugh, and I try not to look worried. But after seeing that mother deal with her kids, it wouldn’t surprise me if she ran out to find a lawyer or complained to the management of the resort. On one hand, I’m not sure I’d mind losing this job. But my mom would be disappointed. And there goes my college fund.

  Also there’s Josiah to consider. If I go back home, how will I ever get to know him better? How will I get to visit his church? And meet his uncle? Thinking of Josiah makes it easier for me to smile and act congenial toward the customers. And ironically, it seems that they begin to smile and act more congenially to me.

  Alistair arrives right at one, and soon the three of us are working like crazy as the pace settles into a frenetic rush. As the temperature rises, so does everyone’s craving for natural ice cream. The upside of being this busy is the time goes by quickly. And to my relief, it’s soon three o’clock, and Nadine shows up to work on the books and oversee things — it’s also time for my “lunch” break and not a moment too soon.

  As I go outside, where the triple-digit temps have hit, I remember what Josiah said about jumping in the lake. I look down at my now-grimy uniform and the usual droplets of ice cream spotted on my legs and tennis shoes. And without considering what it must look like, I walk down to the dock, going clear out to the end, and simply jump off. The cold water takes my breath away and I come up sputtering. There, sitting in a sailboat and wearing swimsuits, are some of the girls who bought ice cream earlier. Naturally, they are laughing at me.

  “Rough day at the ice cream parlor?” one of them calls.

  I just nod and, turning away, proceed to swim toward shore, which is awkward in tennis shoes. But eventually I make it, walking out with water pouring from my clothes. And that’s when I remember — I forgot to take my iPhone out of my pocket. I check to see if it’s still there. It is. But as I shake the water out of it and attempt to turn it on, I can see that it no longer works.

  [CHAPTER 3]

  As I walk over to the Greek kiosk to order my usual gyro for lunch, I realize that no cell phone means that Josiah cannot call me now. While I eat my gyro, I come up with what might actually be a good backup plan. I will call him instead.

  By the time I return to work, my uniform is almost completely dry, and really, I don’t think anyone could even guess that I jumped into the lake an hour ago. Maybe I’ll start doing that every day.

  “Your mom called during your lunch break,” Nadine tells me as I tie on my little apron. “She said she tried your cell phone.”

  I sigh. “It got wet. It’s not working now.”

  “Well, she’s decided to come up here for the weekend.”

  “My mom’s coming up here?” I’m not sure if I like this idea.

  “It’s the Fourth on Sunday, so Monday is a holiday … well, not for us, of course.” Nadine pauses to write something down on her ever-present notepad. “And the fireworks on the lake are spectacular. I told Bev she should come and see it. She’s going to stay with me in the condo.” Nadine frowns at me. “You okay with that?”

  I shrug. “Of course. Mom can do what she wants.”

  “I know you usually have Sundays and Mondays off, but I hoped you’d be willing to work — ”

  “But I already made plans,” I tell her.

  “Plan
s?” Her brow creases again.

  “I’m going to church on Sunday.”

  She waves her hand. “Oh, well, that’s okay. You can work after church. And since it’s a holiday, I’ll pay you time and a half for both Sunday and Monday.” She points to her office. “Now you better call your mom and let her know your phone’s not working so she doesn’t get worried.”

  I start to point out that I talked to her this morning, but why bother? Instead I call Mom and, without going into detail, explain that my phone got wet, and she promises to bring me a spare phone when she comes up for the weekend. “Maybe you can stay at Nadine’s too,” she suggests.

  “I don’t think so.” There’s no way I’m going to spend a night at Nadine’s. “It’ll already be crowded with you and Belinda staying with her. I’m fine at the dorm.” Never mind that she has four long-haired cats in her “cozy” two-bedroom condo. Then I tell Mom that I’m going to church that morning.

  “That’s nice,” she says in a tone that suggests she has absolutely no interest in hearing more about this. Which is perfectly fine with me because I don’t want to tell her about Josiah anyway. No need to stir up any unnecessary curiosity with her.

  I can just imagine her demanding to know everything — like who is he, how old is he, what are his intentions? But thinking of Josiah reminds me that I need to get the dairy’s phone number. So while Mom rattles on about someone in her office, I flip through Nadine’s Rolodex. Finding the number for the Lost Springs Dairy, I jot it down for later use and slip it in my pocket, right next to my useless phone.

  The rest of my shift continues to be as busy — and as hot — as it was earlier. As usual, Nadine leaves just as Lorna arrives for work at six. Lorna only works evenings, although Belinda is plotting to have Lorna trade shifts with me since she and Lorna seem to have become fast friends and Lorna makes no secret about wanting to get more hours.

  My shift ends at six thirty, nine hours after I arrived this morning, and as I’m getting ready to toss my apron into the laundry hamper, I decide to say something to Lorna. Belinda is on her lunch break, and this might be my best chance to get Lorna’s attention. “I don’t mean to complain,” I tell her as I fill in my time card, barely looking at her, “but when I got here this morning, the soft yogurt machine was really a mess.”