Her Minnesota Man (A Christian Romance Novel) (26 page)

Sighing, he put his coffee down and reached for the telephone directory he'd slapped on the table a minute earlier. He located the number he needed and called the hospital to inquire about Mrs. Lindstrom's condition.

His call was answered by a cheerful young female who offered to put him through to Mrs. Lindstrom's room.

"
No
," he said quickly, shuddering at the thought of causing the cranky old lady to have a stroke the day after he'd saved her life. "Just tell me how she's doing."

"I can't. Sorry. I'm only filling in for Mrs. B. while she goes to the bathroom." The girl was crunching on something and smacking her lips. Potato chips, Jeb guessed. "Her usual replacement is out sick, and Mrs. B. was desperate, so I offered to sit here for five minutes. I know how to transfer a call, and I could have done that for you 'cause I heard Mrs. B. tell somebody just a minute ago what room Mrs. Lindstrom is in. But I don't know how to access the patient information on this computer." More crunching and lip-smacking. "Mrs. B. will be back in five minutes if you want to—"

"This is Jackson Bell," Jeb said impatiently. He rarely threw his name around, but this girl, who had clearly never attended one of Laney's etiquette talks, was getting on his nerves. "Maybe you could find somebody to—"

"Oh!" the girl squealed. "You don't mean
the
Jackson Bell?"

"I'm afraid I do." Jackson Bell, the hometown horror. Jackson Bell, the outrage of Owatonna. Jackson Bell, the monster who needs a cigarette so badly he's about to snap a leg off his kitchen table and start gnawing on it.

He shook his head at the ceiling. "Maybe you could—"

"You saved that lady's life, didn't you?" the girl demanded. "I heard it on the news. Hold on a sec, and I'll get somebody who knows how to use this computer. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Take your time," Jeb said dryly.

Five minutes later, he called the tearoom and told Laney that Mrs. Lindstrom was in good condition.

"I know." Laney chuckled. "I called the hospital first thing this morning and talked to her sister. It seems the nurses would like to stuff our cantankerous neighbor into a closet and lose the key." Her voice softened. "How are
you
doing?"

Jeb closed his eyes. Much better, now that her gentle voice was pouring into his ear and soothing his agitated
nerves
. "I'm fine," he said. "How are you?"

"I barely got three hours of sleep, so I'm insanely tired," she said. "But you're all right, and you saved Mrs. Lindstrom, and it's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Looks like rain to me." Jeb happened to be gazing out a window, and the sky was definitely darkening.

"You know what mean, Jeb. Life is good."

"You sound like your old cheerful self," he said approvingly. "It must be all that time we're spending at
chur
—" He was interrupted by a loud crash, the unmistakable sound of a tray of dishes hitting the floor.

"Jeb, I have to go," Laney said
,
and she ended the call.

Poor princess. He hoped she hadn't lost too much of her flowery china. But even if she had, he'd put a smile on her face when she got home tonight. The minute she pulled into his driveway, he was going to flag her down and tell her what he would have told her last night if he hadn't been sidetracked by that kiss.

That kiss. It had been pure and sweet and hands-down the most thrilling ten seconds of his entire life.

"Stop it," he said under his breath. He propped his elbows on the table and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. "Just stop thinking about it."

He poured himself another cup of coffee and went to the dining room to finish a project he'd begun yesterday: sorting his music CDs. He'd collected the discs from his bedroom and the music room, tossing them into a big cardboard box, which he had then emptied onto his dining room table.

He sat down and put the box next to his feet. Evaluating one CD at a time, he made small towers of "safe" music on the table while tossing a staggering percentage of his collection into the trash box.

Profane cover art. Lewd lyrics. Songs celebrating casual sex and illicit drug use. Jeb was seeing all of it through new eyes, and he understood why it was unacceptable to God. But what, exactly, was a Christian man supposed to listen to when his heart still beat to rock music?

He needed some air. Abandoning the mess in his dining room, he grabbed his jacket and went out the kitchen door. He strode across the porch and gave the screen door an impatient shove; it slapped shut behind him.

In front of Laney's place, his restless steps slowed and then halted as he took a good, long look at the burned-out house across the street.

God had spared him last night, no doubt about it. But for what purpose? Who was Jackson Bell meant to become?

He resumed walking, and although he'd had no destination in mind, he wasn't surprised when he ended up downtown, staring through the front window of Clark's Music, the store he'd haunted as a teenager.

He went inside. The place hadn't changed a bit.

"Be right with you," somebody called from the direction of the cash register as Jeb honed in on the array of electric guitars mounted on the back wall.

Spotting a vintage Fender Stratocaster in candy apple red, the exact twin of his very first instrument, Jeb reached out and stroked its neck with a loving hand.

His father could easily have afforded the guitar, but Jeb had never liked asking for anything, and the old man hadn't been one to give birthday gifts. So when thirteen-year-old Jeb had fallen in love with the red
Strat
, he
'
d seriously considered stealing it.

Laney had saved him from that folly.

It had been winter, so she'd suggested that Jeb earn money by shoveling snow off the neighbors' driveways and sidewalks. Excited by that idea, he
'd
knocked on the doors of at least ten houses.

Nobody wanted to hire the neighborhood bad boy.

Laney
had been
outraged. She
'd
pulled on her boots and grabbed a snow shovel and dragged Jeb after her. They
hadn't rung
any doorbells, but simply cleared snow off of five driveways. And after finishing at each house, they'd taped a neatly printed note to the front door.

Jeb still had one of the notes. He'd carried it in his wallet for years. Below his phone number, Laney had written:

This nice clean drive way is a free gift from Jackson Bell Jr. He needs an electric
gitar
. You can call him the next time it snows and he will do your drive way for money next time. Thank You.

Her plan had worked. Several neighbors had given Jeb regular snow-removal work and other odd jobs, and by the end of that winter he'd earned enough to make the red
Strat
his own.

He'd played that thing day and night. And when the fingertips of his fretting hand had blistered and bled, Laney had wrapped strips of moleskin around them and carefully taped it so he could keep playing.

He'd bought at least fifteen guitars since then. But the red
Strat
, stolen years ago in a sleazy club Skeptical Heart had played in its early days, would always hold a special place in his heart.

"Go ahead," a voice urged from behind him. "Take it down and try it."

Jeb removed his hand from the instrument and shook his head.

"We give lessons," the unseen clerk offered encouragingly. "Anyone can learn."

"That's what I've heard." Jeb turned and found himself eye-to-eye with a pimply blonde guy nearly as tall as he was, but who didn't look a day over 18. The kid wore a friendly expression and a T-shirt that said, "Jesus Rocks."

"Welcome to Clark's Music. What can I help you with?"

"I could use some guitar strings," Jeb said.

"Sure. You bet." Confusion flickered in the kid's eyes. "Have you been in here before?"

"Not lately." Deciding to practice his new conversation skills, Jeb added, "I grew up here. Used to come in this store a lot when I was a kid."

The clerk's jaw went slack and he raised an index finger as though silently requesting a moment to process a complicated thought. "You know," he said finally, "if your hair was longer, you'd look exactly like—"

"Yeah," Jeb said. "I get that a lot."

"You
are
!" You're Jackson Bell!"

Jeb heard an electronic beep and glanced toward the front door. Two other guys had just come in. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep that to yourself," he said. "I'm kind of on vacation right now."

"But you're Jackson Bell!" the kid informed him in a loud whisper. "Wow! I can't believe Jackson Bell is standing right here in our store! My dad says you bought your first guitar here, but—" He stopped and smacked the side of his head, apparently to help his brain take in this great wonder. "Oh, this is so unbelievably cool!"

"I'm just an ordinary guy," Jeb protested. He had never understood why people went into these transports of delight when they met him. "I put my guitar strings on one at a time, same as everybody else."

"I'm in a band," the kid blurted. "There are five of us, just like Skeptical Heart." He laughed nervously. "Well, not
just
like Skeptical Heart. We're nowhere near as good as you, and we play Christian rock. We've been all over Minnesota, playing at churches and Christian camps, and we even—"

"Christian rock?" Jeb interrupted. "Listen, uh
 
.
 
.
 
." He glanced at the kid's name badge. "Daniel. So you're a Christian, huh?"

An hour later, Jeb had a new friend and a bag full of Christian rock CDs hand-selected by Daniel, who had earnestly explained that while he loved Skeptical Heart's sound, he was so troubled by some of the songs' lyrics that he had ended up throwing away one of the two CDs he'd bought.

Walking home, Jeb
reflected on
the disquieting fact that people were at th
at
very moment being corrupted by songs he'd written. He had perverted his God-given talent, and no matter how sorry he was about that now, he couldn't stop people from buying and listening to that music.

As he reached Mulberry Street and crossed to his own side, a gust of wind stirred some dried leaves in the gutter. They swirled around his feet like the fans
who'd clamored to see him, touch him, hear him, when he'd never been anyone worth seeing or touching or hearing at all.

Thunder boomed directly overhead. When he looked up at the scudding gray clouds, a windblown leaf smacked his face as though in accusation.

A gentle rain began falling just as he unlocked his kitchen door, reminding him of the drizzly night he'd given his heart to God.

He understood that he was forgiven. He just wished he could somehow repair the damage he'd done.

He went to his music room and spent two hours sampling his new CDs. Most of them were good; Daniel had a decent ear. As for the songs' lyrics, they tugged at Jeb's heart and made his throat swell with gratitude to God.

Before coming home, he'd worried that he'd never write music again. But since his return, he'd written several songs about the new hope in his heart. They were good, but he wasn't planning to share them with anyone. Who'd want to hear "God" songs by the former frontman of Skeptical Heart?

Laney would, he realized. He could play them for her tonight.

His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket to check the display. Smiling, he punched the Talk button.

"Hey, princess. Sorry about your broken china."

He heard a rush of air and pictured her extending her bottom lip and blowing out a breath that ruffled the curls on her forehead.

"Aggie tripped," she said. "She wasn't hurt, but I lost a whole tea set. And Jeb, you wouldn't believe how expensive those are, even when I'm able to find them secondhand. But I guess that's not a problem anymore, is it? Not when I'm going to end up closing this place."

Jeb frowned at her bitter tone, but then he remembered how exhausted she was. "Do you want to order pizza tonight?" he asked.

"That would be good, thanks, but after work I'm planning to buy some flowers and take them to Mrs. Lindstrom. I'm calling to see if you'll come with me."

To inflict his presence on the woman who must be resenting the fact that
he
had
been the one to save her life?

"I don't think so," Jeb said shortly. "But put the flowers on my credit card. Just don't tell her I had anything to do with them, or she'll toss them out the window."

"No she won't, Jeb. She can't possibly hate you now."

"She can hate me if she wants," he said easily. "But say yes to the pizza plan, because I want to talk to you about something."

"Yes to the pizza plan," Laney said obediently. "But as for the talk, Jeb, I'm not in the mood to discuss your matchmaking schemes tonight."