CHAPTER
THREE

I

“Hey, Deb — a blast from your past.”

It was almost five o’clock. In her Loop law office ten stories above LaSalle Street, Debra Wyatt had been deciphering depositions when her cell phone chirped.

“Well, well — Garry Strider. I haven’t heard from you in a while,” she said as she slowly walked over to her door, shut it, and then strolled back to her desk. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”

Strider let out a laugh. “Come on, Deb! You know I’m not all business. How’ve you been?”

“Just fine. Now, Strider, get to the point.”

“Okay, okay. I’m helping out Pete Jackson, our guy over at the Criminal Courts Building. They arraigned Nick Moretti the other day — you know, the hit man. I’m sure you came across his name when you were at the U.S. attorney’s office. Have you been following his case?”

Debra tucked an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “What about it?”

“He got sent over to Hector Sepulveda for trial.”

“And?”

“Well, I’ve always been suspicious of Sepulveda. He just seems … you know, dirty. Did you come across anything on him when you were part of that investigation into the court system?”

“You know I can’t talk about that,” she replied. “We looked at a lot of stuff.”

“Gimme a break, Deb. I’m just looking for some leads. Off the record — is he dirty?”

“Strider, I can’t say. It would be a breach of confidentiality.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized the irony of her making a statement like that. “I know I’ve crossed a few of those lines in the past,” she said before Strider could interrupt with one of his sarcastic quips. “But no more. You understand? No more, Strider. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

Strider didn’t reply.

“Besides,” she added, “they cleaned up the arraignment system over there. Now there’s a computer that automatically assigns cases.”

“Yeah, I know. As I said, I’m just nosing around. I came across your name this morning and thought I’d at least try. You’d tell me if he was dirty, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not saying anything about him. And by the way, where did you see my name?”

“I was going over some records on Diamond Point Fellowship and I saw you listed as one of their elders. I assume that’s their main governing board, right? Man, I was really surprised — so you finally reformed your wicked ways, huh? I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

Debra cocked her head. Why would Garry Strider be checking records on her church?

She said, “A lot has happened since we talked last. What’s it been — five, six years? So why are you looking into Diamond Point?”

“I’m just sniffing around. You know Eric Snow, then?”

“Sure.”

“Pretty amazing guy …”

“I think so.”

“Is he for real?”

“Look, Strider, not every institution is corrupt. I’m an elder there, right? Do you think I’d be part of something that wasn’t on the up and up?”

It was Strider’s turn to pause. “Well, as you say, we haven’t talked for a while.”

Debra swept his cynicism aside. “If you have questions, why don’t you talk to Art Bullock? He’s the associate pastor. He’ll give you anything you want. In fact, it might do you some good to hang around over there for a while.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Good–bye, Strider.”

“Wait, wait — don’t hang up. No kidding, I’m interested in how you ended up over there. Could we have lunch sometime?”

Debra let out a sigh. “Garry,” she said. “Why don’t I trust you?”

II

Transcript

Interview with Arthur Bullock in his office
at Diamond Point Fellowship, April 12

—Thanks for letting me tape this, Reverend Bullock. It helps me to be accurate.

— No problem. You don’t mind if I turn on a recorder myself, do you? I’d like to have my own recording.

—Yeah, that’s fine, but I’ve never had anyone do that before. Sounds a little paranoid, actually.

— It’s just that we’ve been burned a few times by the media and I’ve found it’s a good safeguard.

—We’ve been good to you at the Examiner, haven’t we?

—Oh, Matthew’s great. He’s one of the best religion writers in the country. So why isn’t he doing this story?

— Uh, this is going to be more in depth.

—Your business card says you’re head of the investigative unit. Are we under some sort of investigation?

— [Laughs] No, nothing like that. Your church is an influential place and we just want to dig a little deeper than a typical feature article.

—That’s fine. Did my assistant give you the background material?

—Yeah, Statement of Faith, by–laws, audited financial disclosure, list of ministries, history. Can I also get the minutes of your Board of Elders? Your elders are your main governing body, right?

—Yes. I mean, no. [Laughs] What I mean is: Yes, they’re our main governing body, but, no, you can’t get their minutes. They discuss very personal matters. We can’t breach that confidentiality.

—Okay, I get it. I’ll digest all of this material and get back to you with more specific questions, but let me get some initial stuff out of the way. How did you end up as associate pastor?

— I was selling life insurance and tried to sell a policy to Eric when he was head of Snow Visionary Software. We hit it off and stayed in touch.

— Did he buy the policy?

— [Laughs] No, unfortunately he was already insured. But we became friends.

— He cashed in at Snow Visionary and then had some sort of spiritual epiphany, is that right?

—You should talk with him about that. But, yes, I was already a committed Christian and so I mentored him after his conversion. He was a quick study and went to seminary for a while. When he told me he was going to start a church, I said, “Count me in.”

— Do you have a seminary degree?

— No, I’ve got an undergraduate degree in biblical studies. But I’m ordained.

— By who?

—The elders of this church.

—So let me get this straight — you and Eric started a church and then the church turned around and ordained you. That’s pretty convenient. You don’t need a seminary degree to be ordained?

— No, it’s a decision of a denomination or church. It’s all legit.

—That gives you a big break on your personal taxes, doesn’t it?

—Well, the government doesn’t tax the money the church gives me for my housing expenses.

—That’s a sweet deal.

—You make it sound nefarious. Congress enacted the law.

— [Laughs] Well, you pastors must have a lot of clout to get something like that passed! Anyway, you’ve got — what? More than a hundred staff members?

—That’s right.

—Are a lot of them like you — people who came out of the corporate world instead of the typical route through a seminary?

—A lot did, but we’ve got some seminary–trained staff too.

— Uh–huh. How much money do you make?

— Excuse me?

—Your salary. How much do you get?

—We don’t make individual salaries public. The financial statement gives the aggregate amount we spend on salaries. You can do the math and see that the average salary is rather modest.

—Averages can be deceiving. The little guy might be making dirt while the higher–ups are raking it in. Don’t you think it makes the public suspicious when you don’t disclose individual salaries?

—Are you suspicious?

— It’s my job.

—Well, we’re not public employees. We’re not obligated to tell the world something private like that. I’ll tell you this: I make a lot less than I did when I was selling life insurance.

— How much did you make selling insurance?

— Mr. Strider, c’mon! Nobody’s getting rich here.

— [Laughs] Okay, okay, I’ll move on. Does the church own any property other than your campus?

—We’ve got a camp for kids near the Quad Cities. We don’t have any vacation homes or beachfront hideaways, if that’s what you’re getting at.

—Any private jets?

— No, no jet.

— Ever charter them?

— Um, talk to Eric about that.

—Speaking of Reverend Snow, who should I talk with about scheduling an interview?

— He’s very busy, especially since this has been the Easter season.

— Yeah, but he gives interviews, right?

— Of course.

— I’ve looked at all the articles we’ve run on him through the years and he’s gotten a lot of good press, especially when he was on that RTA commission. Has that made him think about running for public office?

—You’ll have to ask him.

— He’d be an attractive candidate, don’t you think? Strong communicator, smart guy, lots of experience leading large organizations, big bankroll, degree in business.

— Finance.

— Right. And he’s not short on ambition.

— Listen, Garry, these are questions you need to discuss directly with him.

—Oh, so you wouldn’t rule out politics?

— Don’t put words in my mouth. Talk to Eric.

—Okay, fine. I’ll talk to him about his six books too. Most have been compilations of his sermons, right?

— He starts with material from his sermons and then supplements it and shapes it into a book.

— Uh–huh. And he uses assistants to help prepare his sermons?

— They help with research.

— Uh–huh. And he writes his sermons in his office here, using the church computer and church supplies?

— Sometimes. What are you getting at?

—Well, I’ve been thinking about this. A church is a nonprofit organization with tax–exempt status. Under the law, nobody can make use of a tax–exempt organization in order to unduly enrich himself.

— So?

— So here we have Eric Snow using the offices of a tax–exempt organization, and assistants employed by a tax–exempt organization, and the basic sermons he did as an employee of a tax–exempt organization, in order to help him produce books that make him a mountain of money. Seems to me he’s unduly profiting from a tax–exempt church.

— Look, you’re working hard here to make a case. He doesn’t even take a salary, and he pours a lot of his own resources into the church. Pastors all over the country turn sermons into books. Churches allow it to make up for the below–market salaries they get. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it.

—We’ll see. I’m just asking questions, that’s all.

—Well, I’m curious: what’s prompting all these questions? Why did you decide to research us?

— Uh, your organization affects lots of people. Obviously, it’s not your typical church.

— How do you mean?

—When I think of a church, I picture a steeple and pews and an altar and priests in robes. But you’ve got no crosses on the walls, no altar at the front, no choir, no robes, no organ, no hymnals, no pews — just plush theater seats, a stage, a rock band, and a preacher in casual clothes.

—We designed it that way for a purpose. We’re trying to create a comfortable environment for people to investigate the Christian faith.

—Why no crosses?

—We avoid a lot of symbolism because people can read too much into it based on their background. A cross represents one thing to a Christian, another thing to a Muslim, another thing to a Jewish person. We don’t want to put them off by displaying a cross before we have a chance to teach them the real message of Christ. Besides, if we were really going to symbolize Jesus, we’d also need a loaf of bread, because he’s the bread of life; and a candle, because he’s the light of the world; and a shepherd’s staff, because he’s the great shepherd; and an empty tomb, because he’s resurrected, and on and on. That’s just too much.

— I have to admit that your auditorium is impressive. How many does it seat?

— Five thousand six hundred.

—What did it cost?

—Maybe fifty million total.

—Why so much? Why do you need all the high–tech stuff?

—We want to communicate as efficiently as we can. We believe our message is important for people to hear. We don’t want a poor sound system to get in our way.

— But fifty million? Why not build a smaller auditorium and have more services — and give the savings to the poor?

—That’s not practical. There are only so many optimal time slots for church services. When we had our smaller auditorium, we had to hold six services a weekend, and some of them had pretty poor attendance because they were on Sunday night or too early on Sunday morning. Besides, it’s exhausting for a pastor to preach that many times.

—So you spent fifty million dollars just so Eric Snow doesn’t strain his voice?

— It’s not that simple, Garry.

—Some have called your auditorium a monument to Eric Snow’s ego.

—That’s ridiculous! Who says that?

— Some bloggers.

— Oh, sure, unaccountable critics on the Internet. They’re hardly credible, Garry. I hope your article focuses on knowledgeable people who have substantive things to say.

— I’m talking to all the right people. But cut me some slack if I step on any toes — the church world is new territory for me.

—You don’t go to church?

—Me? [Laughs] Not since my parents dragged me to a Lutheran church when I was a kid.

— So you’re — what? Agnostic?

— Skeptical, to say the least.

— [chuckle] You’re too smart for all of this?

— Let’s just say I don’t need it. But that brings up another question. Am I going to hell?

— Depends on how this article turns out! [Laughs]

— No, seriously. Does your church teach that anyone who believes differently from you do will burn in hell? Being tortured for eternity, of course, by your loving God?

— [pause] Do we believe in heaven? Yes. Do we believe in hell? Yes. Why? Because Jesus did, and he established through his resurrection that he’s divine, so he seems to know what he’s talking about. But nobody has to go to hell, Garry. You’ve got free will, right?

—Still, it seems pretty intolerant. Would you classify your church as fundamentalist?

— No. We believe in the fundamentals of the Bible, but the term fundamentalist carries a lot of baggage. It’s a pejorative these days. We’d be considered evangelical Christian.

— [Laughs] That’s a pejorative to a lot of people.

— Unfortunately, you’re right. And that’s too bad. I think that when people get to know us, they see we’re loving and caring people who just want to tell others about how Jesus has changed our lives.

—Seems like when you say “evangelical,” the first things that come to mind are what you’re against: gay marriage, a woman’s right to choose, embryonic stem cell research. Liberals. Obama.

—We’re actually for a lot of things, Garry.

— Oh, yeah. Like the death penalty and torture for terror suspects?

— Is this going to be an editorial or an article?

— Hey, I’m just yanking your chain. Really, thanks for putting up with my questions. It’s just that I had to take the test twice to pass my catechism class when I was a kid — and maybe I’ve had a bit of an attitude toward religion ever since.

—Well, that explains some things! (Laughs) But seriously, we’d appreciate it if your article presents fair and balanced information. Let people visit for themselves and determine if Diamond Point Fellowship is right for them.

— Got it. Let me look at this background material and then I’m sure I’ll have follow–up questions.

—Any time, Garry. Just give me a call.

End of recording.

III

Phillip — “not Phil”—Taylor served for eighteen years on Navy ships from the Panama Canal to the Persian Gulf and didn’t want anyone to forget it. Stocky and barrel–chested, with short gray hair in a relaxed crew cut and tattooed arms hidden beneath his button–down shirt and discount–store blazer, the retired ensign looked a lot more imposing than he really was.

You can’t be an ensign for as long as he was, he’d be quick to tell you, without genuinely liking people. And for people with gambling addictions, Phillip Taylor was the friend of last resort.

“This pastrami’s the best,” he said, biting a chunk out of his sandwich in a back booth at Woody’s Deli on North Clark Street. At quarter to three in the afternoon, the place was almost deserted.

Tom O’Sullivan nodded. “Thanks again for meeting with me,” he said. “I know it’s an inconvenience.”

“I work over at a security firm not three blocks away. I don’t mind an excuse to eat here. They bake their own rye every day, d’ya know that?”

Tom picked up his Woody’s Diet Special — lean ham, smoked turkey, low–fat Swiss cheese, and honey mustard on wheat (still 543 calories) — and tossed the tray aside.

“I know I probably should have just shown up at one of your meetings, but I wanted to get some information first. Besides, I feel a little awkward.”

“‘Cuz of your name?”

“Yeah. My family’s pretty notorious.”

“Confidentiality is one of our core values,” Phillip said. “First names only. What’s said in the room stays in the room. We’ve had some pretty well–known folks in the past and security has never been breached.”

“Really? Like who?”

Phillip laughed — not a pretty sight with a mouthful of pastrami. “Good one,” he said. “You’ve still got your sense of humor — hang onto it. Nine times out of ten, people who seek me out have hit bottom — they’re bankrupt, their bookie’s chasing them, their wife’s left, whatever. Not a lotta laughs.”

Tom sat back and scrutinized him. No, definitely not what he was expecting. The Examiner article portrayed him as a kind of miracle worker for people with gambling issues. But he certainly didn’t seem like the poster boy for a white–collar, upscale, suburban church like Diamond Point Fellowship.

Tom tested his lunch — not bad for low–cal. He sipped his light beer and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said finally, “I’ve hit some tough times.”

Phillip put down the remains of his sandwich. “I assumed that or you wouldn’t have called me. You want this pickle? I hate these things. I hate it when the juice gets on the rye.”

“Uh, no thanks. I only like them on hotdogs.”

“Look, you’ve gotta understand something up front. Gambling’s a complicated deal. More complicated than drugs or booze, if you ask me. Compulsions are tough to break. There might even be a physical cause for it.”

“Really?”

Phillip wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Yeah, they’ve studied the brains of gambling addicts and found that winning at cards has the same effect as a hit of cocaine for a druggie. So does it have some sort of a physical component? I don’t know, maybe. But I do know this: a gambling addiction is chronic, it’s progressive, and it will wreck your life.”

“It’s starting to do a pretty good job of that.”

“You’re not alone. You read my story in the Examiner, right? I lost my wife because of this. Alienated my two kids for a long time. Chased away friends. I lied and cheated and stole because of this. Almost shipwrecked my career. And I’ll tell you something else, unless you get help like I did, it’s gonna get worse. That’s not just a prediction; that’s a promise.”

Phillip let out a small chuckle. “I was gonna say you can bet on it, but that’s not the best choice of words. The truth is you’re gonna keep taking bigger and bigger risks to get the same rush. And sooner or later, everything’s gonna come crashing down.”

Tom sat back. “But I can beat it, right?”

“Beat it?” Phillip sounded amused. “Ha! Sorry, no.”

“No?”

“Keep it under control, maybe. I said maybe. With most traditional programs, there’s one shot in ten that a newbie will stick with it and stay away from gambling for a year.”

“Not good odds.”

“No — a long shot, so to speak. It helps if you add private therapy. You in counseling?”

“No.”

“Should be. I can get you some names. It’s pretty deeply rooted, right?”

“It started when I was twelve. My dad took me to the races at Arlington Park and said he’d bet twenty bucks for me. I pretended to study all the stats in the racing sheet, but I really chose my horse because I liked his name — Wee Tyree.”

“What were the odds?”

“Eight–to–one. I bet all twenty to win. The horse stumbled out of the gate but recovered quickly and then gained strength on the backstretch. I was whooping and hollering the whole time; when he won by a nose, it was like a surge of electricity shot through my body.”

“Yeah, been there. How did it feel to hold the winnings in your hand?”

“That’s the odd thing. When my dad tried to collect, the cashier pointed out the ticket was actually for a horse that finished sixth. My dad leaned down and said to me, ‘Let that be a lesson — when you buy a ticket, check immediately to make sure they punched the number for the right horse.’ “

Phillip grunted. “Seems to me the lesson should’ve been for him — he placed the bet.”

“Yeah, but what could I do? Besides, I was busy scouring the racing sheet, looking for the next horse. I was hooked, right then and there.”

“Like I said — it’s deeply rooted. What’s the latest crisis that brings you to me?”

“Well, it’s a bunch of things. My wife left me last year for the guy who ran her real estate office. I can’t say it was directly because of my gambling, but our financial situation had been shaky for a long time. That really bothered her. He had money, security. As I said, it’s a lot of things. But your program can help me, right? The article said you’ve had good success.”

“Better than most. I’m biased because I’ve been leading this thing as a volunteer for so long, and I’ve seen some pretty amazing recoveries.”

“What makes the difference?”

“We’ve taken the traditional twelve–step approach and ratcheted it up.”

“How so?”

“Ours is faith–based. You a Christian?”

Tom found himself liking Phillip, but there were times when his bluntness annoyed him. “Uh, I went to Catholic school.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tom shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I believe in God, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s a start. But you have to understand that we don’t just believe in some airy–fairy higher power — anybody can claim anything as a higher power but that doesn’t mean it works. Our twelve steps are based on the Bible. You read the Bible?”

“Not really.”

“Well, personally I believe these principles work because they’re built on biblical values.”

“Such as?” Tom asked, inching forward.

“Humility, confession, forgiveness, honesty, faith — nothing that would surprise you. The Twelve Steps. First, we admit we’re powerless over our compulsive behavior. Sounds like you’re pretty close to that.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch for me.”

“Second, we believe that it’s gonna take a power greater than ourselves to restore our sanity. Third, we turn our lives over to God. Am I making you nervous yet?”

Tom gestured for him to continue.

“Then we make a moral inventory of ourselves and admit our wrongs to God and another person.”

“Whoa,” said Tom. “I’m a lawyer. Lots of confidentiality involved.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody’s forced to do anything illegal or unethical.”

“What’s next then?”

“Well, it goes on from there — we ask God to remove our character faults, we make amends to the people we’ve hurt, we learn to pray and meditate.”

Tom crumbled his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. “I don’t know,” he said. “There’s an awful lot of God stuff in there.”

“That’s … why … it … works,” Phillip replied, emphasizing each word. “I’m telling you there’s a spiritual dimension to this that you can’t ignore. Are you ready for that?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Phillip let out a laugh. “That’s exactly what I said when I was in your position.”

IV

“Bonsoir, monsieur et mademoiselle!”

“Bonsoir, Édouard.”

With the dramatic flourish that only a Frenchman can get away with, the maître d’ grandly ushered Strider and Gina into the lobby of Le Beaujolais in Chicago’s North Loop.

“So good to see you,” Édouard gushed as he collected their coats. “I have a special table for you. And I will serve you personally on this auspicious occasion!”

Strider shot him a glance with the clear but unstated message, Tone it down, buddy, before she gets suspicious!

Gina looked elegant in a sleeveless burgundy dress that subtly accentuated her figure. Somehow — and Strider loved this about Gina — her short dark hair managed to look both coiffed and casual at the same time. That was such a reflection of her personality: playful and unfussy, yet with an unforced and underlying sophistication.

He’d even dressed for dinner this time — sort of. He was wearing a dark suit and French blue shirt open at the collar. Sure, his black shoes were scuffed, but this was about as well as he cleaned up.

The evening had an unusual feel for both of them. When they lived together, they typically ate at home, with Gina creating minor masterpieces out of leftovers, or they dined at informal little cafés near their townhouse. But in the three weeks since Gina had moved into Jen’s apartment, their get–togethers were more like the dates they used to have after they first met. That wasn’t all bad, Gina mused.

Friday night was Strider’s favorite time to visit Édouard’s dark wood bistro, because it was the only evening that he offered his signature bouillabaisse. Édouard prefers to serve it in the traditional style of his native Marseilles, with four different kinds of fish in one dish and the delicately seasoned broth in another.

As for Gina, any night was good at Édouard’s; she was equally fond of the coq au vin, the grilled lamb brochettes with couscous, and a half dozen other entrees that were fixtures on the menu. The prices, though reasonable for a restaurant of its caliber, were enough to keep their visits fairly infrequent, so each one became an experience to savor.

“We have a special appetizer tonight — ratatouille with goat cheese in a delicate pastry shell with a tomato coulis,” Édouard said after seating them at a candle–lit table in the corner, away from other diners. “C’est très bien! Then again, I know you like the sautéed crab cakes with aioli.”

“We love the crab cakes, Édouard,” said Gina, turning to Strider.

“Yes, Édouard, please — the crab cakes. We’ve been thinking about them all day.”

“Bien!” he declared before disappearing into the kitchen.

Strider slipped on his wire rims and smiled as he looked fully at Gina. “You look great — as usual,” he said.

“Oh, Strider, thanks. This is such a wonderful way to end the week. The kids have been pretty rambunctious. Seems like summer will never get here! “

Strider nursed his South African chenin blanc — not his favorite, but it was Édouard’s cheapest white wine by the glass. Gina sipped a club soda with lime.

“Got plans for the weekend?” she asked.

“Nothing special. Maybe we could take a stroll through Lincoln Park tomorrow, if the weather’s nice.”

“Oh, that would be great — early, before the crowds. And Sunday — want to come to church with me again?”

Strider cocked his head. “Church?”

“Like last weekend. You know, Diamond Point. You left right afterward so we didn’t get to talk about it.”

“Oh, well, I’m not sure I’ll need to. I may have all the color I need for the story.”

“The story? Are you writing something about the church?”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you never mentioned that. I thought you were going because you wanted to, because you were really interested in what’s happening in my life.” There was no missing the hurt in her voice.

Strider scrambled. “Oh, sure, that too! Of course I’m interested in what you’re going through. And on top of that, I needed to experience a service for myself if I’m going to write about the place. Didn’t you notice I was taking notes?”

“Strider, you’re always taking notes! You never told me you were writing about Diamond Point. What’s the angle?”

“I’m sorry — I guess I should have let you know. I’m just nosing around for an in–depth feature. Talked with Art Bullock the other day.”

“The associate pastor? What’s he like?”

“You’ve been going there for six months and you’ve never met him?”

“Strider, it’s a big place. This isn’t your little corner chapel.”

“No kidding — did you know the auditorium cost fifty million?”

“They need to accommodate a lot of people. Apparently, a whole bunch of folks are benefiting from what they do — like me.” She sounded more defensive than she intended. “So what is Art like in person? I’ve only seen him up front.”

“Nice guy. We had a good talk.”

“Are you going to interview Eric Snow?”

“Yeah, at some point. There’s no focus to the story yet. You’ve said such good things about the place that I thought it would be worth checking out. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“I feel a little used that’s all,” she said. “Why would you keep this from me?”

“No reason. Look, honey, I’m sorry. I’ll keep you looped in from now on.”

Gina hesitated as she sized up Strider. “Okay, thanks,” she said, then paused. “I was just hoping that you had personal reasons for going. That you were checking out faith.”

Strider looked around the room, stalling for time. He took a swig of his wine and put down his glass.

“Look, Gina,” he said, speaking calmly in an effort to deescalate the conversation. “It’s fine if you want to pursue your spiritual side. I’m just not particularly interested in the subject on a personal level. I find a lot of it hard to swallow. The truth is that we’re wired up differently, and that’s okay. Opposites attract. But I don’t want your religion to get between us. I’ve really missed you since you moved out. I feel like we’re starting to drift apart — and I don’t want that. I want us to be together.”

Gina shook her head. “Strider, listen to what you’re saying. It doesn’t make sense. You say it’s okay for me to grow as a Christian but that it shouldn’t affect our relationship. Well, it’s inevitable that it will. It’s changing the way I look at the world; it’s changing me — in a good way.”

“Honey, there’s no reason we can’t be together while at the same time having different spiritual perspectives. Gina — I love you. That’s why I brought you here tonight — to tell you that.”

“Oh, Garry, I love you too. And that’s why this is so hard.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Gina, I’ve loved you since the first day we met. You mean the world to me. I can’t picture my future without you.”

“Oh, Garry.”

Strider reached into his pocket and pulled out a maroon velvet pouch. He tugged the drawstring and withdrew a gold ring crowned with an oval–cut diamond, its brilliance glimmering as it caught the candlelight.

“Gina,” he said, his voice almost a plea, “will you marry me?”

Gina’s eyes darted from the ring to Strider’s face and back again — and then she sprang to her feet, her chair almost tipping over, her napkin falling to the floor and her glass tumbling, spilling water that spread all over the white tablecloth.

“Oh, Garry!” she cried as she turned and ran toward the door, every head in the restaurant snapping around to watch.

“Gina!”

Strider sprinted after her. She made it out the front door and a few steps down the sidewalk before he grabbed her arm and flung her around, pinning her against the red brick building. “Gina! What’s wrong?” He tried to pull her close but she resisted. “Gina, will you marry me? I love you!”

“I want to marry you — but I can’t!”

“Why? What’s stopping you?”

Gina pulled away from him. “Christians aren’t supposed to marry outside the faith,” she said. “Oh, Strider, I thought you were going to Diamond Point because you were starting to think about God. I was so excited because I thought you might end up in the same place I am. But now I see you’re just writing another one of your stories. Garry — I love you. I do! But I can’t be your wife. Not now. Not like this!”