NINE

Boston, Massachusetts

Cal Jordan looked absently from the front window of the crowded main room of the Reardon Art Gallery and out at the traffic on Harrison Avenue. For a moment he was oblivious to the seventy-four patrons, art aficionados, and buyers politely milling around with glasses of punch in their hands, taking in the array of paintings with their heads cocked forward to study every detail, pointing and talking to each other in hushed voices, as if they were in a cathedral. He had even forgotten, for one brief moment, that three of the paintings on display that day were his.

There was a time, not long ago, when Cal would have thought it incredible that his art would be on display in a place like this, that even as a college student he would find his work in the company of some of the East Coast’s best artists.

But he wasn’t thinking about that or the cordial, well-heeled manners of the art enthusiasts around him. His mind was elsewhere … back in a dark, ugly place … hands tied, duct tape over his mouth, staring into the face of a sadist.

In that harrowing place, only two things stood between Cal and certain death: God and his father, Joshua Jordan. Sometimes he wondered whether he confused one with the other, taking his father too seriously, with too much fear and awe, and not having taken God seriously enough.

But in the cold, sickening fear that had paralyzed him during that incident, Cal cried out to God from the bowels of his soul. The NYCPD bomb squad eventually showed up and rescued him, but he suspected at that moment, and later knew for sure, that his father had been the one behind his rescue. Of course.

Which made Cal wonder what he was doing now at an art gallery in Boston. He was having second thoughts. He was sensing a change of heart about what he wanted to do with his life. But was it really because of his own prayerful sifting and weighing, or was he just trying to please his father?

After his rescue, he naively thought that things would be different with his dad. But he came to realize that, yes, in matters of life and death some things can change in a heartbeat. But other things don’t, at least not that quickly.

Then a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. “Wow, I am so impressed, Calvin Jordan. At the Reardon Art Gallery …”

He turned around to see the pretty face of an ex-girlfriend. “Karen, what are you doing here?”

“In town for a family thing. My folks read the blurb in the paper about the show and saw your name.”

Cal smiled even though he and Karen shared some painful memories. “So, I don’t see you on campus, but suddenly you show up here for my art show in Boston …”

“Yeah, I’ve been super busy. Music. Drama club.”

“And still dating Jeff?”

Karen reached out and squeezed his forearm. “I’m sorry how that all happened …”

“I’m over it. Really.”

“I tried to call after the news about what happened. I couldn’t believe it. So scary. Oh my gosh …”

“Thanks. I know. I got your messages. My fault. After all that, I wasn’t in the mood to return calls.”

She nodded and shifted uncomfortably. Then she said, “You look … I don’t know … different. Bigger. Wow, you really do. You look good. Been working out or something?”

“Yeah. Keeping in shape. Doing some weight lifting. Physical conditioning.”

“After what you went through, yeah. No doubt.”

“Well, not just that. Just wanted to do it. For myself, I guess …”

Then Cal heard another voice. “Mister Jordan, you’ve been avoiding me.” Cal turned and saw the bearded face of Alvin Reardon, the proprietor. He had a strained smile. “I told you I wanted to chat while you were here …”

Karen gave Cal’s hand a quick squeeze. “You’ve got business. I’ll let you go. Congratulations on the show.”

When Karen had stepped away, Reardon got right down to details. “Your work is getting a very positive response.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“Now it’s time to expand, I think, get you loosened up as an artist, get more edgy, find your real artistic center. Your still-life work is impressive in technique, but there’s more to art than technique.”

“What are you getting at?”

“You like to paint traditional stuff: bowls full of grapes with curtains blowing in the background, a worn Bible on the table. That’s fine. A certain kind of passive energy there. But you need to break out. That’s why I brought you here.”

“I thought I was here because you liked my paintings.”

“You’re here because of your potential. I would like to bring you along. I want you to bust out of the box you’re in.”

“I didn’t know I was in one.”

“You are whether you realize it or not. Your mind-set is too … well, static. Conventional.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s boring. Look, I know you got this Christian thing going. Okay. What you do with your time on Sunday mornings is your business. But if you are going to be a successful artist, you need to explore the reality beyond your personal beliefs.”

“Like …?”

“Take Salvador Dalí. His crucifixion piece, for example. Jesus floating on a cubic cross, hovering over a chess board. You could use religious iconic symbols if you want, that’s up to you, but break out of your stuffy, churchy traditionalism.”

“You know, Mr. Reardon, I just changed my major.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m leaving the art department at Liberty University.”

“You mean you’re going to an art academy? That’s great news …”

“No. I mean I’ve decided not to major in art.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, I don’t think so. There’s nothing wrong with art. I’ll always enjoy it. But I feel like I’m supposed to be doing something else with my time.”

Reardon had the look of a racing fan who had just bet on the wrong horse. He stretched out his arm and swept his hand out to take in the whole of his gallery. “What could be more important than this to an artist?”

Cal shrugged. “That’s what I am about to find out.”