The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story) Read online

  The Missing Piece

  A novel by

  Carol McCormick

  www.carolmccormick.com

  Celestial Press

  New York

  THE MISSING PIECE

  Copyright © 2003, 2012, 2013

  Carol McCormick

  REVISED EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in articles and reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Scripture quotations are from King James Version of the Holy Bible. Copyright © 1989 Thomas Nelson, Inc., and the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984. International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

  The heavenly scene depicted in The Missing Piece, although based on the teachings of Jesus and the Revelation of John, is nevertheless my own interpretation and creative imagination.

  The Missing Piece has been approved by Stonecroft Ministries International for sale and distribution at Stonecroft related events.

  REVIEWS

  “Fresh dialogue, realistic characters, a powerful message. The Missing Piece is an honest look at the damage that a relationship can face and the challenge of getting things back on track. McCormick does a great job portraying her characters and the struggles they endure,” The Romance Readers Connection

  “The characters in the story are real and give a true account to a relationship in crisis…inspiring and encouraging…anyone who desires a restoration to their spirit should read The Missing Piece,” Myshelf.com

  “A wonderful, heartwarming Christian romance. This is definitely a story that I recommend to all lovers of Christian romance,” Escape to Romance

  ALSO BY CAROL McCORMICK

  Your Special Gift:

  A Preteen Primer to the Facts of Life

  “Your Special Gift is a wonderful booklet for parents to share with their adolescent children!” Marjorie Holmes, bestselling author

  __________________

  Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.

  2 Corinthians 5:17

  ONE

  Dylan had been walking for what seemed like an eternity, and the soles of his shoes and his patience were wearing thin. He’d felt that way for quite some time now, impatient, like a racehorse prancing in place behind the gate, waiting for the metal to swing open, so he could bolt from the stall in a race to recover his life. And that wonderful day had finally arrived. It was here, and he was free. Free to do something about his sorry circumstances, rather than watch the world go by through a set of steel bars nearly two states away.

  A light gust of wind lifted his hair as he squinted up at the blue June sky. The breeze felt cool against his face as he breathed in deeply, savoring the smell of the sweet, clean air that he’d taken for granted most of his life.

  Ahead, a symphony of honking horns and idling engines vied for position on the corner of Main and Eagle Streets. Dylan stopped at the intersection and glanced up at the building in front of him to compare the newspaper address to the one on the entrance. The brownstone’s large and looming façade stared back down at him, intimidating to be sure. A nice little pep talk would do about now. Even a word or two to bolster his confidence would help, so he listened, straining to hear a sign that he was in the right place, doing the right thing, but the steady hum of traffic behind him was the only sound that he heard.

  Dylan stepped inside the building and stopped at the door with Austin Agency stenciled in gold on an ebony nameplate. He stood for a moment and looked down at the floor, while running through his pitch for the tenth time that day. He took a deep breath, gave a quick rap, and waited, as the heavy wooden door gave no indication of what he might find behind it. He wished that it was Wayne Brady ready to make him a deal by offering him some wonderful prize to make his life easier. A car, a living room suite, a TV, anything, he didn’t care. A bag of groceries would even help out.

  The door swung open and he snapped to attention as a neatly dressed woman asked, “May I help you?”

  Dylan cleared his throat and motioned to the newspaper tucked beneath his arm. “I'm here about your paper.” He instantly corrected himself, “I mean, I’m here about your job in the paper.”

  “I see,” she said, opening the door wider. “Please come in and have a seat.” The woman waved him to a chair, and then after reclaiming her own, she pressed a button on the phone, cupped her hand over the receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece. When she hung up, she addressed Dylan. “Mr. Austin will be with you momentarily.” Having made this announcement, the secretary resumed her duties by straightening a stack of papers on her desk with a sharp whack, and then shuffling through a pile of envelopes as though he wasn’t there.

  So there he sat, waiting again for a simple yes or no from a man he’d never met. Dylan twirled the ring on his finger as his gaze dropped down to his hands. Why is it that when you’ve lost someone your thoughts go back to the beginning? The first shy meeting of eyes. The first tentative kiss. The happy times together.

  He’d heard people say that the mind plays tricks, remembering good over bad or sad. Maybe it was nature’s way of keeping a sane person from going crazy with guilt. Not him. From sunup to sundown he remembered his mistakes. All of them. In vivid Technicolor. On a good day, it felt like a fist shoved down his throat and into his stomach to turn him inside-out like a sock. Nothing looks normal, nothing’s the same, until it can be turned right-side-out again.

  The secretary cleared her throat, and he glanced up and then down at his hand again. In less than four months the ring would be gone and in its place a void where it had once been. The white tan line branding him a DWM for the whole world to see that he, Dylan Clark, lost the only true love of his life. He closed his hand, hoping to drive the thought from his mind, refusing to give up in his heart. He had to get Lorraine back because if he didn’t, there would be a permanent hole in his soul.

  Dylan’s gaze drifted to the secretary’s desk where the calendar glared a mocking reminder that today was Friday the thirteenth. What a day to go job hunting, but since he had no choice in the previous use of his time, he’d actually been looking forward to this day for a year-and-a-half now.

  He strummed his fingers on the armrest and shifted in his seat, wondering why he’d bothered to come. Who was he kidding anyway? He was way out of his league on this one, and didn't even want this job. It wasn't him for crying out loud. He hated writing out his grocery list. He liked working with his hands, building things, but there wasn't much of that going on around here from what he could see in the paper. If he had any sense at all, he'd get up and leave with his dignity still intact. The sudden thought roused Dylan from his seat, but as he stood up to walk out the door, a tall man in a dark olive suit intercepted with his hand extended. The man wore the biggest gold ring Dylan had ever seen.

  “Frank Austin here,” the jeweled man said.

  “Dylan Clark,” he replied, shaking his hand.

  “You're inquiring about the job?”

  “Yes, I am, if it’s still available.”

  Mr. Austin glanced down at his sleeve and brushed a speck of lint from the cuff. “Do you have any experience in sales?”

  There was something in the man’s tone of voice that made his question more of a challenge than an inquiry. “No, but I’m a fast learner,” Dylan offered anyway. Any hope of securing this job was quickly deflating like a slit tire on a riotous night
. So much for his rehearsed pitch. He knew what was coming next. He'd heard it a dozen times today: Leave your name and number and we'll give you a call. But like the unpopular girl being let down easy on the first date, the boy promises to phone, but never does.

  And as if on cue, Mr. Austin said it: “Why don't you leave your resume with my secretary and we'll call you for an interview.”

  Dylan didn’t have a resume with him or anywhere else for that matter, so he turned to the secretary and asked, “Do you have some paper and a pen I can use?”

  The woman swiveled in her chair then licked the tip of her finger, displaying a dagger-length, fuchsia-colored fingernail. Intrigued by the long claw, Dylan wondered how she didn’t poke herself in the eye upon licking.

  The secretary tore a sheet from a small pad and placed it squarely on the desk in front of Dylan. As he reached for the paper, she snapped a ballpoint pen down next to it with an efficient click. He scrawled his name and an imaginary number down on the sheet, and then handed everything back to the secretary. The woman smiled up at him and wished him a good day. The gesture appeared more of condolence than that of kindness, and he assumed that she, too, knew there would be no phone call.

  Once outside, he descended the stairs two steps at a time, then threw the newspaper into a trash barrel next to the curb. He raked his fingers through his hair while surveying the businesses that lined the street, wondering what to do next. He had to get Lorraine back, but he couldn’t attempt that great feat until he at least had a decent job.

  When he stepped off the curb and walked down the street, he felt like his feet were encased in cement. Dylan’s gaze drifted to a church where a man was kneeling on the ground planting red geraniums. The man sang as he dug into the soft brown earth and then glanced up to wave his spade in the air. “Beautiful day today, isn't it?” his cheery voice sang out.

  Dylan gave a slight nod and kept on walking.

  Without a doubt, the village was beautiful. Twin parks adorned the downtown commons where cherubim fountains poured out heavenly waters from golden pitchers. Graceful trees overshadowed benches where people gathered and lounged to share newsy events, amid urns of petunias that trumpeted forth their glorious colors.

  Dylan lived within walking distance of the village, but far enough away to have plenty of privacy. His home sat nestled among the trees of a small apple orchard on a dead end road where deer and turkey roamed freely in his yard. When it was warm outside, he would open the windows to hear the crickets’ soft chirp and the gentle breeze rustle the leaves as he drifted off to sleep. He also loved that Canadaway Creek ribboned its way behind his home, and that it was only a two-minute walk through the woods to fish, or to sit on the banks by the burbling creek and relax, whenever he felt the urge to do so.

  Dylan came upon a convenience store and walked inside. He headed straight toward the bakery section against the far wall and glanced through the display case doors, pretending to look over rolls and breads and other yeasty baked goods, until the customer at the counter finished paying for his milk.

  The reflection in the mirrored cases reminded him that he needed a haircut, while the slight crinkle in the corners of his eyes hinted that he’d almost reached the quarter-century mark. The jingling bell cued him to step up for his turn at the counter. But first, he opened the acrylic case and picked up a jelly donut with a napkin then approached the saleswoman before setting the pastry on the counter. “A pack of Winstons, please.”

  The cashier pulled a box of cigarettes from the slot behind her.

  Dylan reached into his pocket and laid a handful of change on the counter. The coins clinked onto the hard surface, and he cringed inside as he cupped his hand over the pile to keep the coins from rolling onto the floor. He hated that sound. The sound of flipping cushions and rummaging through junk drawers filled with nuts and bolts and buttons. The sound of scraping bowls and wearing socks with holes.

  The cashier exhaled audibly as she picked through the coins like a chicken looking for a tasty bug, separating and sorting until she counted every last penny. When she finished, she looked up at Dylan and slid two cents back toward him, while snapping her gum to emphasize her obvious annoyance. “Thanks,” she said blandly.

  Dylan dropped the coins into a penny cup and then picked up his purchase to leave, but his hand halted on the door when he spotted a community bulletin board on the wall. He scanned the various business cards tacked up in neat little rows, amid Post-it notes and scraps of tablet paper. It was then that he saw a small yellow sheet in the lower left corner that said, HELP WANTED: Custodian to care for local church, cleaning, painting, and maintenance. Apply in person. Green Valley Christian Church, 375 Main Street, Fredonia, NY.

  In an instant the napkin hit the trash, and Dylan snatched the paper from the tack before he shoved the door open with such force that the bell went into a jingling fit. He walked up the street with the donut hanging out of his mouth, as he tamped the pack of cigarettes on the base of his thumb, opened them, and then shook one out.

  Juggling the cigarettes, lighter, pastry and paper, he checked the addresses on the buildings and realized that the job was at the church with the friendly gardener. The job couldn’t be all that bad, he thought. The gardener seemed happy enough for both of them. Dylan pushed the last of the donut into his mouth and then brushed the powdered sugar from his shirt. A block later, he flicked the cigarette into the street, and when he approached the gardener in front of the church, he held up the note like a badge. “Who do I see about the custodial job?”

  “You'll need to speak to Pastor Jacobson. He's in there.” The gardener pointed the spade toward the door.

  Dylan walked to the front of the building and through a set of double doors. Inside, he found another door to the left that was made of glass, where a man was standing on the other side, searching through a tall bookcase. Dylan lightly tapped on the glass.

  The man immediately turned and greeted Dylan with a smile, as he walked toward the door and opened it. “Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?” The man clasped Dylan’s hand and gave it a hearty shake.

  Dylan was taken aback when the man called him sir, and not only that, he seemed to sincerely desire to help him. “I’d like to see someone about the custodial job,” Dylan answered, as the paper badge reappeared.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Aaron Jacobson, pastor of this church. Come inside and sit right down. Would you like a cup of coffee? I just made a fresh pot.” He picked up the carafe and raised it in the air.

  “Sure, thank you.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “Cream and sugar, please.” Dylan eased into a leather chair as he took note of his surroundings. Everything was simple, yet tastefully decorated. A sturdy uncluttered desk was positioned across from him, a few plaques with Scriptures hung on the walls, and shelves of books extended from floor to ceiling. To the left, an old-fashioned gumball machine was perched atop a steel pedestal. Dylan smiled when he looked at it. He studied the pastor for a moment, and guessed the man to be about forty-years old. He had warm eyes and a smile to match with a full head of brown hair that grayed at the temples. His movements were smooth and fluid, which exuded competence and grace.

  The pastor handed the cup to Dylan before walking around to sit at his desk. “So, tell me about yourself.”

  Dylan felt an uncanny sort of comfort in the minister’s presence, like a protective cloak had enveloped him. It reminded him of the blanket forts his mother made when he was just a boy, where he’d sit inside and feel safe and secure from all the evils of the world. Yet, something else radiated from the man. A holiness of some sort that gave Dylan a sense of awe in his presence. He took a sip of coffee and then cradled the warm cup between his hands. “My name is Dylan, Dylan Clark. I saw your job offer at the convenience store, but I see that you’ve already found someone.” He nodded toward the door.

  “Oh, no, no, that’s Bill Simpson.” The pastor chuckled. �
��He owns a few greenhouses on Orchard Street and he donates flowers to the church about this time every year. And, as you can see, he even plants them for us. He’s a good man.”

  Relieved that the job was still open, Dylan wondered what to say next without sounding too desperate. He leaned forward and took a deep breath then opted for honesty. “I realize that you don’t know me,” he paused for a moment to gather his thoughts and courage before he continued, “but I’m a hard worker and a fast learner, and I really need a job.”

  Pastor Jacobson leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingertips together, touching them to his lips as though praying.

  The silence between them hung in the air like an invisible weight pressing down on Dylan. He shifted slightly in his chair while trying not to appear anxious, as thoughts rumbled through his head like a recurring thunderstorm. Boom! Here it comes! Get in line. We will call you later.

  Pastor Jacobson leaned forward and folded his hands on his desk. “We need someone right away,” he said, looking up at Dylan and then back down at his hands. “There's enough work here to make this a full-time position. If you will commit to the hours, you may have the job.” The pastor held Dylan with his eyes as though searching the depths of his soul. “Can you start Monday morning?”

  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in after so many rounds of refusals. “Yes. Yes, of course,” he said, while standing to shake the pastor’s hand “I’ll be here first thing. Thank you.”

  TWO

  Dylan slapped his hand over the clock and juggled the beeping contraption to shut the noisy thing off. He wasn’t used to getting up to an alarm. Didn’t need one where he’d been. The sound of the metal chow wagon rattling across the concrete floor roused him from his bunk at promptly 6 AM, whether he wanted to get up or not. He glanced toward the window, happy to see a green leafy tree and the sky, rather than steel bars and the bricks of another building nearby. A single beam of buttery sunlight streamed across the room and through the floating dust-motes. Yes, he was glad to be home.