"Great." He smiled. "Call me if you need anything in the meantime. Okay?"

"I will. Thank you, Dr. Abrams."

He placed his hand on her arm. "Feel better."

Josh's timing had been off all night. He couldn't stop thinking about Beth's hospitalization. It was impossible to shake the fear that his own selfish desires had contributed to his wife's current situation-and just when things seemed to be going better.

Their time together had sparked the hope that life had returned to normal. Or would soon. But, with a new crisis at hand, the same nagging doubts plagued him. His baby's life continued to hang in the balance, and Beth's latest scan had shown no improvement.

He had to remind himself that whatever happened would be God's will. Yet that phrase no longer comforted him. How strong did he have to be? How much did he have to be tested, to endure, before God moved in his favor? The spiritual struggles of Job came to mind. Unfortunately, so did his father's failed attempt at reconciling his wife's-Josh's mother's-death. The latter scared him the most. Would he follow in his father's footsteps?

"Thank you for coming tonight," he told the sold-out audience as he stepped up to the microphone. "God bless you all for being here. You are in for a special evening with R. O. S. and Fast Train to Glory coming up soon."

The audience applauded. Their clapping echoed across the multithousand-square-feet building. A sound that used to stir him. He had once felt at home in this situation, but now he felt inadequate to minister.

He was tired, and he feared that neither his faith nor his music had the edge required to motivate others. He needed motivation of his own.

Although most people chose not to admit it, showmanship was as important in Christian music as it was in secular. What set them apart was the reason they performed.

All musicians shared a love for music. But secular acts went onstage each night for personal gratification. Christian musicians performed to draw attention to God. Or at least that was the way it should be.

By Josh's standards, he had violated his own tenet for the past several months, and the very thought of that shamed him. He was not the person he professed to be on stage each night. The spotlight hid more than it revealed. The brightly colored lights masked the jester inside a costume of faith.

He longed for the days before life had become so complicated. But the show must go on, and he kicked into automatic gear.

"Let's worship!" He shouted to the crowd. "He has come. . . ."

Thirty minutes later, Josh walked offstage.

"Good set." Andrew Slaughter of R. O. S., an acronym for Rock of Salvation, slapped him on the shoulder.

"Right."

"What's wrong, man? You sounded great out there."

"Thanks." Josh knuckle tapped his fellow musician.

Maybe he was fooling everyone else, but he wasn't fooling himself.

30.

Present Day Ben Abrams secured his helmet and mounted his Lynskey titanium road bicycle. It was his second excursion since the arrival of his new, custom-made bike from the manufacturer in Chattanooga. The crisp March air reminded him of his childhood.

Even though he no longer raced, cycling had been a lifelong pastime. Riding on a road of glass allowed him to see through his problems in life. And, as he had always said, he could ride faster than his troubles could chase him.

This new bike was lightweight and lightning fast. He couldn't have dreamed of such a high-performance ride when he was a boy growing up. Modern technology had changed the cycling experience. Of course, this bike had cost a thousandfold more than what he had paid for his first Schwinn Manta Ray. Thinking about it always reminded him of his grandmother.

His fingers stung beneath his leather riding gloves when he thought about those days. He'd come a long way in his life. He could only hope his family would have been proud.

But for now, he had little time to spare for such sentiment with afternoon office appointments beginning at one o'clock. He hopped on his mount and steered toward River Road, one of his favorite places to ride. The picturesque hills and curves that snaked for miles along the Cumberland River bottom would help free his mind and calm his spirit. The adrenaline rush from the workout would anesthetize the pain of his emptiness.

Alex pulled her yellow Volkswagen Beetle to a stop in front of Dr. Abrams's office. "Are you sure you're okay going in by yourself?"

"I'm fine." Beth eased out of the car and steadied herself. Although shaky, she was determined to show some independence.

"I'll meet you in the waiting room after I find a parking place," Alex said before driving away.

Taking the elevator to the top floor of the building, Beth located the doctor's office and stepped inside. After signing in, she took a seat in the corner of the waiting room.

Magazines were stacked neatly on the mahogany table next to her chair. She shuffled through the medical and horticultural periodicals. Odd combination. Nothing interested her except the one question burning on her mind. Would her scan show healing this time?

She focused on deep breaths to calm her anxiety and looked around the room. It reminded her of photos she had seen of handsome English libraries or exquisitely decorated bachelor dens. Sienna-colored carpet had been paired with sage-colored grass cloth above and below the mahogany chair rail. The muted tones blended tastefully with the brown leather chairs scattered throughout the room. The understated decor reeked of masculinity with the exception of the extravagant tassels at the end of the gold rope, which restrained brown, gold, and sage paisley-patterned draperies. Beth smiled to herself as she pictured Dr. Abrams giving in to a decorator on that final point. Doctor meets decorator design.

"Bethany." Dr. Abrams's assistant, Rena, snapped Beth back to reality.

Rena was staid, yet pleasant, just like the nondescript surroundings of the doctor's office. Judging from the casual ease with which she went about her duties, Beth guessed she had worked with Dr. Abrams for a number of years.

She wore burnt-orange trousers topped with a white lab coat. Her dark brown hair, which was swept back into a tight French twist, reminded Beth of a character from a vintage movie.

After doing a short physical exam, Rena led Beth to Dr. Abrams's private office, where more mahogany furniture awaited.

"Dr. Abrams will be with you shortly," the physician's assistant said and then disappeared down the hall.

Beth settled into a wing chair, which sat opposite of the doctor's massive desk. The room hadn't changed since the last time she had been here with Josh. She noticed that the paisley draperies, like those from the foyer windows, hung sans rope and tassels. Apparently the doctor had set his limits.

Medical books lay scattered on the desk and filled the bookshelves that lined the interior walls. Beth found the lack of personal artifacts in the room curious. There wasn't so much as a photo of an Irish setter to hint of the doctor's personal life.

A New York bike-a-thon poster, framed and hung on the window wall, was perhaps the most telling clue that he existed outside of his work. Framed diagrams of the human brain and medical diplomas from Vanderbilt and Columbia Universities were scattered among other certifications and awards. He appeared to be a well-educated and respected physician.

Beth trusted Dr. Abrams with her life. He had been the first doctor to reassure her after her initial trip to the emergency room in October. She had subsequently seen glimpses of a charming personality underneath the hardened shell of professional detachment.

"Good morning, Bethany," Dr. Abrams said, as he strolled into his office carrying a large manila envelope. "Let's hope for significant improvement."

He walked straight to the viewer on the wall behind his desk and placed the film into it.

Beth waited, hoping for good news.

After a minute or two, he finally turned to her. "These results show promise. Your dissection shows a slight reduction."

"That's wonderful," she exhaled audibly.

He switched off the light and took a seat at his desk. "How are you feeling?"

"My pain comes and goes."

"Any mood swings?"

Beth felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm all over the place, I'm afraid. I often wonder how my husband can stand me."

"Don't be too hard on yourself. You're not entirely responsible. Your medications are likely contributing to that."

"I tried to wean myself off the morphine a few weeks ago . . . and I couldn't," Beth admitted, hoping the doctor wouldn't scold her.

Dr. Abrams's blue eyes pierced her. "It's too soon. Please, don't do that again without consulting me."

"I'm just-"

"You need those medications right now," the doctor frowned. "We'll get you off them soon enough."

"I wish Josh could hear you say that. I'm afraid he thinks I'll never get off this stuff. He's worried that his wife will be a drug addict for the rest of her life."

Beth stared at a speck of lint on her black pants. Brushing it off, she continued. "I hope he's not right."

"It's not easy, but I have confidence you'll make it." The doctor leaned closer to her. "You seem to be a determined young woman with a strong faith." His expression softened. "I admire your tenacity in keeping the baby. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so quick to recommend against that in the beginning. You appear to be doing well."

Beth was certain she was blushing now. Having the confidence of Dr. Abrams uplifted her more than anything that had happened to her in a while. "Thank you. That means a lot, Dr. Abrams. The strength didn't come from me. It comes from my Christian beliefs."

"Whatever it takes." The doctor placed her film back into its envelope.

"Are you a Christian?" Beth asked.

Her physician raised an eyebrow. "An agnostic Jew."

"I guess I shouldn't have asked that. Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

This time a slight blush colored the doctor's smooth, olive complexion.

"No worries. Religion isn't something I wear on my sleeve. I'll walk you to the foyer."

He scribbled a few notes on a sheet of paper, stood, and handed it to Beth. "Please give this to Debbie at the front desk. Let's do another scan in six weeks. Maybe we'll see enough improvement to completely discount surgery." He looked at her. "When are you due?"

"Ten more weeks."

"I'll stay in touch with Dr. Myers." He walked with her toward the door. "We don't want to risk you going into labor until your dissection is completely healed."

"I'll keep praying, Dr. Abrams."

When he opened the foyer door, Alex was sitting within view, and Beth noticed a change in his posture. "I'll see you in six weeks," he told Beth. Then he walked across the room to stand in front of Alex. "Nice to see you."

"You as well," she said.

They continued their conversation while Beth paid her account. Neither seemed to notice her as she approached. "I need to step out to the ladies' room," Beth mouthed to Alex, who responded with a slight nod.

Beth left through the front door and slipped down the hall. When she returned, Alex was sitting alone.

"Soooooooo?"

Alex walked over to her, and they hurried out to the hallway, stifling their excitement like two giggling schoolgirls.

"He asked for my phone number."

31.

June 3, 1985 Isaac. Isaac Ruben. Is that you?"

The familiarity of the voice, rather than the significance of the words, caught Ben's attention as he walked along the shade tree campus of Vanderbilt University. Fully assimilated, those two words brought back memories he had avoided for a long time.

Ben turned to the source of the voice. No one in Nashville knew him by that name. Who could it be?

"Isaac. It's Wade Martin." The stranger extended his hand and when Ben offered his own the sandy-haired man shook it vigorously.

"I don't-"

"Wade. From Columbia. Remember our statistics classes?"

Of course, how could he forget the most difficult course of his college career? Or the student who had helped him through it. "Wade! What are you doing in Nashville?"

"Been here about a year. Decided to try my hand in the music business." Martin laughed. "And, I emphasize the latter. Business. I'm not a singer. I'm an accountant."

Ben smiled at the thought of his old friend singing for a living. Martin's voice screeched and hawed through spoken words like a young child trying to learn the violin. "It's good to see you."

"What are you doing here, Isaac?"

"I'm finishing up my internship at Vanderbilt. Only three months to go. Can't you tell by the bags under my eyes?" He laughed.

Martin slapped him on the arm. "You look the same to me. I'm sure you're doing a great job. You were always ahead of the class in the medical sciences. I assume you specialized in neurology?"

Ben nodded. "Yes, still enjoying it."

"Hey, call me sometime. I'd love to have dinner when things quiet down for you. Are you in the book?"

"Yes. Yes. Let's get together. I'm living in an apartment in Belle Meade, and I'm listed under Abrams. Ben Abrams. I took my family name when I moved here."