Where Do I Go?: A Yada Yada House of Hope Novel by Neta Jackson

Author:Neta Jackson [Jackson, Neta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, ebook, Christian, book, Fiction
ISBN: 9781418571979
Google: ExUPpuqhTjUC
Amazon: B002ZNJW5E
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2008-12-09T00:00:00+00:00

chapter 24

To my relief, no one was in the dining room or kitchen when I left at four o’clock, and I scooted through the multipurpose room without waving to the two women who sat sprawled in a corner, playing cards. I took a deep breath and stopped by Mabel’s office . . . Drat! Not in! I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or vexed. Just delayed the inevitable confession and flagellation.

I signed out and scowled my way home, going over my options. Not that I had any. I’d practically promised Philip—okay, I had promised—that I wouldn’t let my job interfere with things connected to his work. But I hadn’t anticipated having to break a promise to my “clients,” after getting them all excited about our first outing.

Should I tell him my dilemma? If I told him I canceled an outing at the shelter to go sailing on his client’s boat, maybe he’d quit harping at me about whether I was “on his side” or not. Or would he get ticked off that I’d even planned something on the weekend? Maybe “don’t ask, don’t tell” was a better policy. Just go, try to have fun . . .

I groaned inwardly as the buildings and shops along Sheridan Avenue slipped past the train windows. What was this going to look like to Mabel and the board? The new program director makes plans for an outing, gets everyone all excited, then turns around and cancels because she and her husband got an invitation to go sailing . . .

Argh! I felt like banging my head against the window of the El. Not the greatest way to kick off my program plans. Maybe I should write a book: The Idiot’s Guide to Starting a New Job—How to Get Fired the First Week by Gabrielle Shepherd Fairbanks.

But instead of head banging, I leaned my cheek against the cool window. When was God going to show me the path I should go? Felt like I was in the soup either way—

“Thorndale! Next stop Thorndale!”

What? I scrambled for the door of the train car. I’d overshot my stop by two stations this time.

Sunday. Eleven o’clock. Sunny. Breezy and mild. Perfect day for a parade.

But instead of loading up the borrowed van with Manna House residents, I was walking behind Philip along a dock in Waukegan Harbor north of Chicago, carrying a picnic basket with two bottles of Shiraz, three kinds of cheese, and a couple of boxes of good crackers. We were wearing his-and-hers white deck pants, new navy windbreakers, “boat shoes” with good rubber soles, sunglasses, and white baseball caps—except my bushy chestnut curls stuck out from under the cap, making me look like Bozo the Clown.

I’d finally sucked up the courage to call Mabel on Saturday morning and told her I had an unavoidable family conflict—something my husband had arranged—that put the kibosh on the Cinco de Mayo outing on Sunday, and would she please tell those who had signed up that I was so, so sorry.

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