At Every Turn

7/31/2019 At Every Turn

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Anne

MAteer

7



© 2012 by D’Ann Mateer

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division o

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

Printed in the United States o America

All rights reserved. No part o this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval

system, or transmitted in any orm or by any means—or example, electronic, photocopy,

recording—without the prior written permission o the publisher. The only exception

is brie quotations in printed reviews.

Library o Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mateer, Anne

At every turn / Anne Mateerp. cm.

Includes bibliographical reerences.

ISBN 978-0-7642-0904-8 (pbk.)

1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Automobile racing—Fiction. 3. Charity—

Fiction. I. Title.

PS3613.A824A93 2012

813 .6—dc23 2012013124

This is a work o historical reconstruction; the appearance o certain historical

gures is thereore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products o theauthor’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coin-

cidental.

Scripture quotations are rom the King James Version o the Bible.

The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate

at the time o publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group

does not endorse them or vouch or their content or permanence.

Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

Packard Runabout automobile on cover art courtesy o John D. Groendyke,

Enid, Oklahoma

12 13 14 15 16 17 18 7 6 5 4 3 2 1



For Jef

Words cannot express the depth

o my love or you.



7

1

Augus 1916

M y oot pressed the pedal on the oor, shiting the

Packard Runabout into a higher gear. A slight nudge

lited the lever on the steering wheel. Gasoline gushed into the

engine. Already enguled in a cloud o smoke and dust, the

motorcar jumped orward over the rutted dirt road, bounc-

ing me above the leather seat. My hands gripped the steer-ing wheel, keeping my auto on the road and me within its

connes. But even the jolting o my body couldn’t dampen

the thrill that electried me as the world raced past.

My Bible danced on the seat beside me. I imagined the

look o horror that would appear on stodgy Mrs. Tillman’s

ace should I drive into the churchyard at upwards o thirty

miles per hour. Trapping the book with one hand, I slid it

beneath my thigh. My grin ell away. As much as I loved the

switness o the machine beneath me, I owned no desire or



At EvEry turn

8

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scandal. And an overheated engine wouldn’t get me to church

on time, either.

Shiting gears, I pulled back on the gas. The world slowed,and the white steeple o Langston Memorial Church came

into ocus. By the time I pulled into the churchyard, the

Packard was creeping along at the pace o a ast walk. The

rst deep note o the bell tolled across the quiet Indiana

countryside.

A horse munching grass raised its head and stared until I

set the brake and stopped the engine. The mare went back

to her breakast while I pushed my door open and stepped

out among the ew autos dotting the eld beside the clap-

board building.

I shrugged out o my linen duster beore unwinding the

swath o netting covering my head and ace and ung the

short brown curls that peeked out rom under my small hat.Dirt marred the ngertips o my white gloves as I pushed

the door shut, but ew would notice the testament o my

indulgence on the open road. The windscreen and top kept

most o the dust and oil smoke rom my clothes.

“Good morning, Miss Benson.” Mrs. Tillman’s purposeul

stride carried her past me, her amily struggling to keep up.

“It’s Alyce. Remember?” I tried to banish the disapprovingpicture o her I’d imagined and instead hurried to draw even.

She glanced in my direction. “Hmm. Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about ways in which the Women’s Mis-

sion Auxiliary could raise unds to help with missionary e-

orts both at home and abroad. I wrote down some ideas.”

I opened my handbag and withdrew my list as Mrs. Tillman

halted at the bottom o the steps leading into the church.

Her eyes widened a bit as she studied my dress, my hat, my

gloved hands. She tugged at her oor-length skirt and then at



Anne MAteer

9

the high collar o her blouse beore reaching or the paper I

held out to her. My cheeks amed with the realization that

my exposed ankles and square neckline rendered me suspectin Mrs. Tillman’s eyes. What i she noticed the dirt on my

gloves? I whipped my hands behind my back.

“Mrs. Swan said you had ideas.” She skimmed the piece

o stationery in her hand, mumbling as she went. “Bake sale.

Quilting bee. Picnic with games and concessions.” She olded

the paper and tucked it inside her Bible. “O course we can

bring these up or a vote at the next meeting.”

“I would like that very much, Mrs. Tillman. I think we

can—”

“Just remember that this isn’t Chicago, Miss Benson. It’s

Langston, Indiana. We have humble means, though our hearts

are large.”

I rocked orward on my toes in excitement. “Exactly. That’swhy I thought—”

Mrs. Tillman’s lips pressed together, and her eyes nar-

rowed. I straightened my shoulders, eeling altogether like a

schoolgirl again.

Her daughter sidled up next to her. Mrs. Tillman laid a

hand on the girl’s head, her expression sotening just a bit.

“I’ll put your ideas on the agenda. Next Sunday—a weekrom today.”

I wanted to throw my arms around her right then, but the

pinched expression returned. I nodded instead, wondering

i I ought to curtsy, as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Tillman. I’ll

look orward to the meeting.”

Her gaze raked over my attire again. I swallowed down a

ear that she’d change her mind.

She snifed once. “Seven o’clock sharp, Miss Benson.” She

pointed her an at me to emphasize the point.



At EvEry turn

10

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“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there.”

Mrs. Tillman joined the others streaming into church,

but I couldn’t move. Joy surged up rom my toes, tingling allthe way to the top o my head. Using my ideas, the women

o Langston Memorial Church would do something great,

something lasting or the kingdom o God. Pressing my hands

together, I gazed into the cloudless sky and thanked the Lord

or answering the prayer o my heart.

“I saved you a seat, Miss Benson.” A honey-colored mus-

tache twitched a bit on the eager ace o Father’s new book-

keeper.

“Thank you, Mr. Trotter.” I slid in next to him on the

third pew rom the ront. An ache surged into my chest, a

longing or Grandmother—the only person in my lie whospanned the gap between my amily and my church. Until

Mr. Trotter’s arrival.

“How is your grandmother?”

“The same. Her painul joints and aded eyesight keep her

in bed most days.”

“I could have picked you up this morning.” Mr. Trotter’s

quiet words almost missed my ear among the surroundingchatter.

“That would have been quite inconvenient or you.” I

straightened my skirt and crossed my ankles.

“It would’ve been no trouble between riends, Miss Alyce.”

My head jerked in his direction. Friends. I hadn’t imagined

they would be such a scarce commodity when I’d returned

to Langston ater two years at the Chicago Institute o Do-

mestic Arts and Sciences. The riends I’d made growing up

had moved away, gone to work, or caught a husband. Besides



Anne MAteer

11

Father’s mechanic, Webster Little, I had no one my age to

talk to. But perhaps that was changing. New people settled

in Langston every day. Like this man who shared my aith.I smiled.

His color heightened.

I averted my eyes.

Deep organ notes resounded through the room. The con-

gregation rose to sing.

“Number thirty-six,” Pastor Swan called out rom the

ront platorm.

Eyes shut tight, words o a new hymn rolled of my tongue.

“ ‘Had I a thousand lives to live I’d live them all or Thee.’ ”

A thousand lietimes would never be enough to show my

gratitude to my Savior.

We plunged into another song. And another. My spirit

soared like when I let the spark plugs re and the gas ow ree.I ducked my head lest such irreverent thoughts make them-

selves plain on my ace. How dare I think o driving while

in church? Yet perhaps the two experiences weren’t totally

incongruous. In both cases, I submitted to the control o

something so much more powerul than mysel.

The music ended. Pastor Swan invited us to sit. “Brothers

and sisters, we have some very special guests with us today.”His usually placid ace grew animated, his step more buoy-

ant. “John and Ava McConnell have spent the past ve years

living in a British colony called the Gold Coast in western

Arica, sharing Christ with a people who have never heard

His glorious name.”

My breath caught. My body tingled. Missionaries! I leaned

orward, hungry or every word, ignoring the escalating wail

o a child, thankul that it soon aded into the distance.

“Please welcome Mr. McConnell.”



At EvEry turn

12

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A man stepped to the ront o the church, his eyes down-

cast, his wrists extending beyond the cufs o his jacket, a

worn Bible grasped between his large hands.Pastor Swan returned to the ront pew and sat between

his wie and the woman I assumed to be Mrs. McConnell.

I couldn’t pull my gaze away rom her. A aded dress hung

on narrow shoulders. Her bones must have been as ragile

as a sparrow’s. How did that kind o woman live ve years

in such a place as Arica? Had she trekked through a jungle?

Encountered a witch doctor? Seen lives changed by the gospel?

What courage it took to board a ship or the unknown,

to live among the natives o another land! What a thrill to

be entrusted by God with such work! No matter what else

happened this day, I knew I had to meet Ava McConnell.

My tongue whisked over my dry lips as I orced my atten-

tion back to her husband, his long ngers slowly turning thepages o his Bible.

“Mark, chapter six,” he announced.

A amiliar passage—Jesus sending out the disciples by

twos, without money belt or extra clothes. Grandmother

and I had journeyed through the Bible together many times,

her reading to me as a child, me reading to her when her

eyesight aded to black. My toes pressed against the ooras Mr. McConnell read the verses and then began to speak

about his mission.

“Mrs. McConnell and I elt the call o God to go to the

Gold Coast even beore our marriage.” He looked toward his

wie. The love shining rom his eyes twisted my heart. I’d yet

to meet a man my parents and I both approved o, let alone

one whose eyes reected such adoration. Mrs. McConnell

nodded sweetly. Her husband lited his gaze to wander over

the rest o us.



Anne MAteer

13

He talked o men and women mired in superstition and

pagan rituals. O punishment meted out to those who be-

riended the white strangers. One village chie ell ill ater theirarrival. The witch doctor blamed the McConnells or bringing

bad spirits. My lungs reused to draw in air as he told how

none o the witch doctor’s potions and charms brought relie

to the chie. Then he and Mrs. McConnell had entered the hut

and prayed. The chie recovered, and though he hadn’t yet em-

braced Jesus, he’d released his people to do so i they wished.

“Jesus has sent us to proclaim the gospel to the Ashanti

people in Arica. We live trusting God to provide everything

necessary to that work. Money. Food. Clothing. Even the words

to speak in each moment.”

My heartbeat quickened. Oh, to be called to be such a vital

part o God’s work! He wouldn’t even have to send me to

Arica, though the thought sent a shiver o excitement downmy spine. No, I’d be content to work or Him here in Indiana.

I glimpsed Mrs. Tillman closer to the ront. Her ace reected

the same rapture that pulsed through my veins.

“Thanks to a riend who secured some photographic equip-

ment, you can see some o those who are part o our work in

Arica.” Mr. McConnell slipped several photographs rom the

pages o his Bible. He stepped to the ront row and handedtwo to Pastor Swan and two to Mr. Tillman on the opposite

end o the ront pew.

“One picture shows the young man who came to help us

the very rst day we arrived. We call him William. He lives

with us now, though he is almost a grown man. And the little

children playing beneath the banyan tree are Mrs. McCon-

nell’s students. She has learned enough o their language to

teach them English. We hope one day they’ll be able to read

and understand the Bible.”



At EvEry turn

14

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My eyes ollowed the pictures as they passed rom person

to person. Would they disappear beore I could hold them?

My ngers reused to stay still. I clasped them together andpressed them to my lap. For a moment. Then they wandered

again, worrying over the olds o my skirt, the ringe on my

purse, the pages o my Bible.

Finally the photographs landed in my hands. Breathless,

I studied the dark aces. A group o men sat in a semicircle.

A length o cloth draped the shoulder or circled the waist o

each, dangling into a wrapped skirtlike garment. My cheeks

heated. I told mysel to look away rom the scantily clad men

who aced the camera. But I couldn’t. The lack o hope in

their steely eyes clawed at my heart.

I slid the photo to the back o the stack. Two little girls

squatted at the edge o a trickle o water, bodies scarcely

covered, aces serious. And William between them—at least Iassumed so, given the toothy grin, the lie-lled eyes. I swiped

my thumb across his ace, wishing I could see his joy in per-

son. Joy that wouldn’t be his i the McConnells hadn’t gone

to Arica in the rst place. I pushed out my breath, trying to

release the tight band o emotion constricting my chest. But

it cinched tighter, surging into my throat and threatening to

spill out o my eyes.Mr. Trotter nudged my arm. I held out the photos. The

minute they let my hand, I yearned to hold them again.

Mr. Trotter gave them a cursory glance and passed them

along.

My mouth dropped open beore it pulled into a rown.

How could he part with them so quickly? Didn’t he see what

I saw? Didn’t he eel what I elt? I craned my neck to ollow

the progress o the photos, reading other aces to see i their

reactions mirrored my own.



Anne MAteer

15

Compassion cloaked many aces. Others gave them only

momentary attention.

I turned back to the ront, tried to concentrate on Mr. Mc-Connell’s stories o God’s aithulness in their work. But my

thoughts returned to the pictures, to the people. How could

anyone remain unmoved?

Perhaps the images stirred some people so deeply they had

to relinquish them quickly. Perhaps i they gave close attention

to the aces, they’d be unable to mask their emotions. My

spirit brightened. That had to be the explanation.

Satised, I settled back in my seat to listen.

“Will you pray or us as we are away rom our work? It

is dicult but necessary. And by the grace o God, we’ll re-

turn to Arica soon.” He bowed his head, as did the others

around me.

But I couldn’t orce my eyes shut. The earnestness thatclenched his eatures as he talked to God held me ast—at

least until my ocus roamed to Mrs. McConnell. Clasped

hands. Lips moving in silent supplication. Such obvious de-

votion. Such willing sacrice. A lump rose in my throat as

the pictures loomed again in my mind.

Pastor Swan stood beore us again. I blinked my surprise.

Had Mr. McConnell walked rom the stage or been whiskedback to his seat by the Spirit o God?

“What John will not tell you is that he and his wie are

trusting the Lord to raise the money they need to return to

their work among the Aricans o the Gold Coast. They need

money not only or their return passage but also to build a

church or the new believers, to help educate the men who

desire to lead the young congregation, and to eed and clothe

those who have little resources o their own.”

His gaze swept over the entire church, ront pew to back,



At EvEry turn

16

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one side to the other. “Will you commit to support them? Will

you help the gospel go orth in word and in deed?”

My eet danced. My hands trembled. I squeezed my eyesshut, but Arican aces appeared beore me, both the ones

who needed Jesus and the one who had already ound Him.

My eyes ew open. Money. I had money. Or rather, Father

did. Why else would God have placed me in such a amily i

not to use its resources or His kingdom?

Like an automobile leaping into a ull-throttled run, I

sprang to my eet. My ngers clamped the back o the pew

in ront o me. “I can help, Pastor Swan.”

His ace tinged pink as he looked at me. My stomach

somersaulted, but my mouth reused to stop. “I’ll give three

thousand dollars to Mr. McConnell’s mission.” I whirled to

ace the congregation. “Will you join me? Will each o you

give something toward this important work o God? Withour gits together, we could present Mr. and Mrs. McCon-

nell with a total o six thousand dollars to help bring Christ

to the world.”

Gasps sounded rom every corner o the room. Wide eyes

stared back at me, no less startled than i I’d declared an

intention to travel to Arica mysel. My knees shook under

the weight o my words.Three thousand dollars? Six thousand dollars? I doubted

any o these people could athom such amounts, though

three thousand dollars would represent little hardship to

my ather. He’d spent near that amount on my Packard and

his Mercer. Certainly Mother spent at least that much in a

year on clothes and charity events and travel to and rom

Chicago. I peeked down at Mr. Trotter, anxious or his en-

couragement. But his jaw hung open, glazed eyes peering

into mine.



Anne MAteer

17

“Such a . . . generous ofer, Miss Benson,” Pastor Swan

stammered as I spun to ace him again. Mrs. Tillman gaped

back at me, her ace seeming to reect both admiration andconcern. I brushed a cluster o curls rom my ace as I quashed

momentary misgivings.

With a turn o my head, I ound Ava McConnell’s shining

black eyes xed on mine. The gratitude in them weakened

my knees, until a tug at my sleeve drew my attention.

Mr. Trotter cleared his throat, patted my place on the pew.

I eased down, eager or the service to be dismissed. I needed

to meet the McConnells and explain how much I admired

and appreciated their service to the Lord.

“You’ve landed yoursel in quite a quagmire, Miss Alyce.”

Mr. Trotter’s whisper tickled my ear. “Have you orgotten

that your ather despises all things religious?”

I turned in his direction. “Except or his daughter.” I keptmy voice low as my lips curled into a smile. Mr. Trotter ap-

peared unmoved. I shook away his concern. He handled Fa-

ther’s accounts. Yet I knew my ather ar better than he did.

Father supported Mother’s charitable causes without question.

I couldn’t think o a reason he’d reuse to support mine.



18

2

M rs. Tillman beat me to the McConnells. She gushed

out details o her own work acilitating the spread o the gospel through the Women’s Mission Auxiliary. I tapped

my oot. Stared out the window. Blew an errant wisp o hair

rom my orehead.

Mr. Tillman crept up behind his wie, a mask o doubt

covering his pasty ace. When he tapped her on the arm, she

hesitated, her mouth puckering with displeasure or a split

second. Then it smoothed into a smile.“I you’ll excuse me?” She nodded to each McConnell in

turn. “Such a pleasure to meet you.”

I stepped orward beore she’d nished her exit, extending

my hand rst to Mr. McConnell and then to his wie. “I’m

pleased to meet you both.”

Mrs. McConnell’s plain eatures lit with joy as our eyes met

again. Without hesitation, I threw my arms around her slight

body. She chuckled as she pressed her small hands against

my back. When I pulled away, Pastor Swan stood beside me.



Anne MAteer

19

My cheeks heated. “I never meant to disrupt the service.

Will you orgive me?”

“No need to apologize, dear.” The pastor’s eyes wrinkledat the corners. “I see you’ve met John and Ava.”

We all answered yes.

“Good. Good.” His head bobbed a period at the end o

each word. “Then I guess we ought to discuss the details o

your generous ofer toward their work.”

“O course.” I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Trotter hov-

ered behind our group. I stepped aside, motioned him into

our circle o conversation. “Mr. Trotter, please meet Mr. and

Mrs. McConnell.”

While the men shook hands and exchanged greetings, I

gave closer study to Ava McConnell’s ace. Despite her sallow

complexion, her eyes shone with energy and delight.

She inched closer to me. “I pray the Lord will richly blessyou, Miss—”

“Alyce.” I grasped her thin hands as i she and I had already

shared years o riendship. “Alyce Benson.”

“Alyce.” Her smile warmed me to my toes. “But surely you

didn’t intend to ofer such an exorbitant sum.”

I glanced at Pastor Swan, a grin playing at my lips. “Oh,

but I did. How could I not ater seeing those aces?” I pressedmy hand over my heart.

Tears welled in Mrs. McConnell’s eyes. She reached or

her husband’s Bible and slipped one o the photographs

rom its pages. She stared at it or a moment and then held

it out to me. “These are three o my avorite children in

the village.”

I smiled down at them, wishing I could wrap my arms

around their little bodies. “They are beautiul.” I pushed the

photo back in her direction.



At EvEry turn

20

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She held out her palms. “No, please. Keep it. Pray or

them—and or us.”

I dropped to the pew as my heart burst into a millionpieces at such an extravagant git. “Oh, Mrs. McConnell!

Are you sure?”

She perched beside me, nodding. “I’m sure. I would only

give those precious aces to someone I elt cared about them

as I do. And please, call me Ava. We’re riends now.”

I pressed the photo to my chest, unable to voice my grati-

tude on both counts.

Her spindly ngers rested on my knee as she lowered her

voice. “But Alyce, are you sure about the money?”

Laughter spilled out o my ull heart. “Please don’t worry on

that score, Ava. My ather owns Benson Farm Machinery here

in Langston. He’ll be happy to help with your work in Arica.”

Joy radiated rom her ace. “Then we must thank himpersonally.” She pushed up on her toes and stretched her

neck to search the thinning crowd.

My stomach clenched as I rose. “My ather doesn’t actu-

ally . . . attend church.”

Ava’s heels settled back onto the ground, but her smile

never wavered. No pity sprang into her eyes. My twinge o

anxiety ell away.“Be assured, then, that I will pray or your ather, Alyce.

His generosity will accomplish much in our small corner o

Arica. And I know the Lord will reward His aithul steward

or sowing an abundance into the work o the Lord.”

My smile sagged into a rown. She didn’t understand. Fa-

ther wasn’t a steward o the Lord. He didn’t yet recognize his

need or a savior, let alone a Lord and master. I knew mysel

to be a servant o the Lord, but I had nothing o my own to

give. Nothing but what I received rom my ather.



Anne MAteer

21

“How long will it take to arrange the transer o money,

Miss Benson?” Pastor Swan asked.

Mr. Trotter cleared his throat, gave me a pointed look. Itried to dismiss him, but he cleared his throat again. More

loudly this time.

What i it took some special action to retrieve the money—

something I didn’t understand? Was that what Mr. Trotter

was trying to tell me? I certainly didn’t want to look oolish

in ront o these men. “I don’t know. I mean, it might take

a little while.”

Mr. Trotter relaxed. There. I’d read him correctly. I’d speak

with him to understand the details, and then we could move

orward. I sucked in a breath, ready to excuse mysel rom

the gathering to coner with Mr. Trotter.

Mr. McConnell waved one o his large hands. “I can provide

you with our bank’s inormation. I assume there wouldn’t bea problem with a wire transer.” His gaze landed on mine.

I turned to Mr. Trotter. His eyes stretched wide as red

splotched his ace. I stepped in ront o him, blocking his

agitation rom my new riends. As I did, my mind whirled

with other possibilities. A celebration o God’s provision.

A way to expose others to the work o the gospel around

the world. “I’d hoped we could present the money to you inperson. Couldn’t you stay a ew days longer?”

Mr. McConnell wagged his head. “I wish we could. I sin-

cerely do. But we haven’t time to spare. We are expected at

another church, in Illinois, this evening.” He pulled out his

pocket watch. “We must catch the train in less than an hour.”

My excitement wilted. I didn’t want to send the money to

a bank. Not when I’d elt such a connection to the McCon-

nells and the people they served in the Gold Coast. I wanted

to eel the transer o unds rom my hands to theirs.



At EvEry turn

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Pastor Swan’s ace brightened. “Perhaps you could stop

by on your way back to New York, at the end o your visit to

the States. That would allow my congregation time to meetMiss Benson’s challenge to match her generous ofering. We

could boast publicly o the Lord’s aithulness and provision.”

Mr. McConnell’s deep laughter rumbled through the al-

most-empty room as warm breath spewed down the back o

my neck. Fingers jerked my elbow. I turned my head just a bit,

my voice low, my lips barely moving. “Thank you or your

help, Mr. Trotter. I’m sure I can handle things rom here.”

Mr. Trotter’s eyes narrowed as he stepped away, his shoes

echoing up the aisle and out the door.

“I think that’s a ne plan.” Mr. McConnell slapped Pastor

Swan on the back, nearly catapulting him into the ront pew.

I ought back a giggle as the missionary pulled a diary and

pencil rom his pocket. “September twenty-ourth shouldwork,” he said. “We hope to be on a ship back to Arica by

the end o that month.”

“Lord willing,” Ava breathed.

September. I counted quickly. Seven weeks or the people

o our church to raise three thousand dollars. Father would

provide our part and then I’d help the others raise the rest.

How providential that I’d just ofered a list o ideas to Mrs.Tillman that very morning. Bubbles o joy tickled laughter

rom my mouth.

The Lord had obviously prepared me or this day and this

day or me.

Now I just needed to speak with Father.

My heart soared as my oot pressed the pedal on the oor,

urging the car homeward with small adjustments to the



Anne MAteer

23

throttle and spark plugs. Moments later, I turned of the

main road and motored down the brick drive running be-

neath the porte cochere o our Italianate home. The doorso the old carriage house stood open at the end o the path.

I motored inside. Father’s Mercer, silent and clean, sat

to my right, beside a shell o a racing car Webster Little

was building. I parked the Packard between the Mercer and

the workbench attached to the wall. My engine ell silent.

I gathered my things, banged the Packard’s door shut, and

grimaced. Earth clung to the paint o my car, transorming

its gleaming white to the color o my morning toast and mut-

ing the bright red trim. I latched the carriage-house doors

shut with a grin. Webster would likely shake his head and

ask how ast I’d traveled beore scrubbing every inch o the

motorcar and checking it or damage.

Handbag swinging rom my wrist, I sauntered through theornamental gardens at the back o the house. Velvety petals

drew my nose to their sweet scent and reminded me again

that a sacrice o obedience such as I’d ofered that morn-

ing rose as a pleasing ragrance beore the Lord. I hurried up

the steps and into the kitchen, grasped our cook around the

waist, and spun a circle beore letting her ree.

Clarissa shook her wooden spoon at me, but I recognizedthe smile tugging at the corner o her mouth.

“It’s a glorious day, Clarissa!” I dashed into the hall, up

the curved staircase, and into Grandmother’s bedroom, my

eet almost dancing.

I placed my Bible and handbag on a small table and leaned

down to kiss Grandmother’s sot cheek beore thudding into

my usual chair beside her bed. She reached or me. I clasped

her hand tight.

“I wish you could have been at church today, Grandmother.



At EvEry turn

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A missionary came and spoke about his work in Arica. He

and his wie live in the Gold Coast. They teach the people

about Jesus, as well as meet other needs in the remote villages.It was the most wonderul thing I’ve ever heard.”

Releasing her hand, I umbled through the pages o my

Bible or the photograph. “I wish you could see this picture

Ava gave me.” I leaned in, elbows sinking into the mattress.

“Two little girls and a little boy, all sitting in ront o a mas-

sive tree, its arms spread out over them, shielding them rom

the sun. Their aces are dark, but their eyes and teeth gleam

white. There are grass huts in the background. Ava teaches

them. She said these are some o her avorites.”

Grandmother’s mouth curved upward, as I knew it would.

“I’ve never heard such wonderul stories in all my lie. And

the photographs! There were several more. I eel so honored

that they let me keep one. To remember.” With a sigh, I leanedagainst the back o the cane-seated chair, wishing I could

loosen my stays and be more comortable. But sharing my

enjoyment o the photograph eased the pinch o my corset.

“I can just imagine those sweet children, Ally. But your

enthusiasm over them worries me a bit.”

Laying aside the photo, I scooted my chair closer to the bed.

Her head tipped to one side as she stared unseeingly atme. “What have you done?”

I crossed my arms in a huf. “How do you know I’ve done

anything at all?”

She giggled, her wrinkled ace transorming into an ex-

pression o childlike wonder. “Because you’ve been on a des-

perate search or adventure ever since you were a tiny thing.

Remember when we had to get the re wagon’s long ladder

to help you down rom the old oak by the creek?” She shook

her head. “No one ever imagined you’d climb up so high.”



Anne MAteer

25

I smiled in spite o mysel. Mother had swooned right

there under the tree.

“And when you put yoursel between those two ducks,one wing in each hand, and jumped out o the old haylot?

That time you were certainly old enough to know better!”

The doctor had shaken his head, too, as he astened a har-

ness around my arm to keep it still while the bones healed.

But those ew minutes in the air had been worth all the pain.

“Scoot over, Granny. I’ll tell you everything.”

Grandmother elt her way to the ar edge o the bed. I sat

beside her, eather pillows propping us upright, her head not

quite reaching my shoulder.

“As I said, Mr. McConnell explained to us about his and

his wie’s work in western Arica. Such splendid work. Then

he passed around photographs o the people there, and my

heart cracked like an old mirror. I knew I had to help.”Grandmother sucked in a sharp breath. “Tell me you aren’t

going to Arica, child.”

My heart leapt. Would the Lord see t to bring me a mis-

sionary man some day? We might sail ar across the ocean,

to lands I knew only as a spot on the globe. Closing my

eyes, I could almost eel the hot breeze o Arica, smell the

loamy jungle.I rested my cheek against the top o Grandmother’s head.

“I wish God did have some exciting work or me to do. But

no, I’m not going to Arica. Though it does sound . . .”

A lump in my throat halted the words. Tears stung my eyes

as I elt her nod. We sat in silence, as we so oten had, neither

o us needing to speak. Grandmother read my heart like no

one else. She’d understand what I’d done. I drew in as deep a

breath as my clothing would allow. “Pastor Swan asked i our

congregation would give to the McConnells’ Arican mission.”



At EvEry turn

26

At EvEry tur n

Mr. Trotter’s ace appeared in my mind, suddenly leaving

me wary and desperate or air. Grandmother’s tiny hand lay

near mine. I laced my ngers through hers. “I told them I’dgive three thousand dollars.”

Grandmother bolted upright, head knocking my chin,

hands groping until they held my cheeks between them.

“Three thousand dollars?”

I nodded.

“Ally, honey. Where are you going to get that kind o

money?”

I pulled away. “I’m going to ask Father, o course.”

“Your ather?” Her hands released my ace and kneaded

into each other.

I tilted my head, ngers raking through the curls that

bobbed above my shoulders. Grandmother had great aith.

Always. For everything. Most o all, she had aith that herson and daughter-in-law would do the impossible—see

their need o Christ beore their days on earth ended. So

why did she not have the aith that Father would give me

the money?

I hiked up my skirt and olded my legs beneath me. “The

Lord will soten Father’s heart. I know He will. Ater all,

this is or His work.”Her ace didn’t change. Her hands didn’t stop. “I don’t

know, Alyce. I’m not sure—” Her voice aded as I climbed

rom the bed. Touching the photograph now lying atop my

Bible, I sighed. “I might as well tell you the rest.”

“There’s more?” Her voice trilled higher, like the treble

keys on the piano in the drawing room downstairs.

“I asked the church members to match my contribution.”

Grandmother ell back into the pillows behind her, her

unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling. “Three thousand dol-



Anne MAteer

27

lars? Most o those people can barely provide or their own

amilies, Ally.”

A smidgen o doubt wiggled in my belly. “Some will beable to do more than others. And I know the Women’s Mis-

sion Auxiliary will take this on as their special project. God

will provide. I know He will.”

But even I recognized the lack o conviction in my voice.

Three thousand dollars. Most o the amilies couldn’t aford

the three hundred dollars that would buy them a Model T.

What had I been thinking?

Trembling hands pressed against my souring stomach.

I’d done what the Lord had desired me to do. I knew I had.

Or at least I believed I had.

Until now.



28

3

A lly!” Father’s voice boomed up the stairs the nextmorning as I pulled on my shoes, silencing the chirp-

ing birds outside my windows. But in spite o the volume, his

tone conveyed afection, not a ash o temper.

Good thing, too. For I’d opened my eyes at dawn and

reached or the photograph o the Arican children. Sitting

up in bed, I’d pulled my knees nearer to my chest as their

young eyes pierced my very soul.“Draw them to Yoursel, O Lord. Bring light into their

darkness. The elds are white unto harvest and Your workers

are willing.” A tide o emotion shut my lips. I knew John

and Ava McConnell would strive to meet these children’s

physical and spiritual needs. But they needed money to aid

their endeavors. And I could provide that. Had Father ever

denied me anything I’d asked?

But the timing hadn’t seemed right yesterday, during

our customary Sunday drive. So I rehearsed my speech as I



Anne MAteer

29

dressed. I hurried downstairs, met Father in the oyer. His

hand tapped the banister. The minute he saw me, a grin

covered his entire ace.I kissed his cheek. “Good morning, Father. Ready or Cla-

rissa’s good breakast?”

His snif o the air in the dining room as we entered told

me all I needed to know.

“Where’s Mother?”

“I imagine she’ll be down soon.” He took his place at

the head o the table while I lled a plate or him rom the

sideboard beore lling my own.

He tucked a napkin beneath his chin and then sawed of

a piece o steak, stabbed it with his ork, and raised it to his

mouth. His eyes closed as he chewed and then swallowed.

“Clarissa!” His voice echoed through the room, shaking

the crystal droplets on the wedding-cake chandelier abovethe table. Clarissa charged in rom the butler’s pantry, her

reckled ace blazing as red as her hair.

“Somethin’ the matter, Mr. Benson?” Her slight Irish lilt

made her words seem polite, though I recognized her irritation.

“A ne breakast.” He chuckled, his ample stomach shaking.

She pursed her lips, bobbed a curtsy, and returned to the

kitchen.Nothing more than their usual morning interaction. As a

child I’d cried when he shouted her name. But over the years

I noticed that in spite o the abruptness o his tone, not once

did he criticize her cooking. In act, several times he’d upped

her pay on the spot.

I slipped into the chair on Father’s right. My mouth wa-

tered at the sight o the ufy scrambled eggs and strips o

crisp ried bacon on my plate. I bit into a biscuit and let my

napkin catch the butter dripping down my chin.



At EvEry turn

30

At EvEry tur n

“Alyce, did you learn nothing at that school?” Mother

seemed to oat into the chair at the opposite end o the table

rom Father with a grace I could never manage or mysel.She sighed as I reached or the cofeepot and lled her cup.

“And what in heaven’s name are you wearing?”

I shrugged. “I picked it up in Chicago.”

“Really, Alyce. Where on earth did you nd a rock so drab?”

“It’s quite the ashion, Mother.” I smoothed my skirt over

my legs. White crepe with sprigs o pink owers, a pink sash

at the waist, and pink shell buttons up the bibbed ront. I

liked this dress, liked how I elt . . . normal in it. At least

as normal as the daughter o the wealthiest man in town

could eel.

Mother’s manicured eyebrows seemed to rise as high as

the ornate ceiling above our heads. “Fashionable with your

church people, I suppose. I can’t imagine your classmatessuccumbing to such an ordinary costume.” She rested her

elbows on the table, her chin alighting on her clasped hands.

The Venetian lace at her wrists uttered like buttery wings

beore settling on the sleeves o her silk dress.

I ought the downward tug on my lips. What she’d paid

or her dress might eed a Gold Coast village or a month. A

dress she didn’t even deem worthy o a public wearing. Andyet she constantly devoted her time to the charitable eforts o

her ladies’ club, so I had to believe she cared about someone

besides hersel. She’d had nothing when she became Father’s

wie. Couldn’t I excuse a bit o sel-indulgence?

“Leave her be, Winired.” Father spoke rom behind Sat-

urday’s edition o the Indianapolis Star. He reached or his

cofee, took a long draught, and returned the cup to its place

on the table. “We don’t want to run her of ater we’ve just

got her home again.”



Anne MAteer

31

Mother opened her mouth to reply.

“Anything interesting in the paper?” I jumped into the si-

lence as I watched Mother rom the corner o my eye. ThenI popped a bite o scrambled eggs into my mouth.

“War in Europe. Presidential election. The usual.” He turned

another page. “Oh—here’s something you’ll like. They held

an automobile race in Tacoma, Washington, on Saturday.”

I ceased to notice the ood I orked into my mouth. Instead,

images o speeding motorcars and swirling smoke lled my

head and quickened my pulse. “Who drove?”

“Rickenbacker. De Palma. A ew others.”

“Board track or dirt?” I gulped down hal o my tepid

cofee in excitement.

“Board. Cracks lled with gravel instead o let open.”

“Wonder i that was to Rick’s disadvantage.”

Father snorted and turned another page. “Doubt it. EddieRickenbacker’s a natural. Guess the results will be in the

paper today.”

Thanks to the interurban, the Indianapolis Star arrived in

Langston just a ew short hours ater the ink dried.

“Alyce.” Mother sighed my name.

My stomach tumbled, regretting its desire or ood. Why

did her disapproval afect me so?She turned her irritation on Father. “Really, Harry. Do

you think it proper or a girl o her age and station to con-

verse about such things? It’s bad enough that you allow her

to drive. And then keep us in this backwater town with no

eligible men to court her. Must you ll her head with auto

racing, as well?”

I couldn’t quell my grin. I elt sure merriment twinkled in

my eyes, too. So I kept my gaze pinned on Father.

He chuckled. “Say what you will, Winired, but i her



At EvEry turn

32

At EvEry tur n

attention to racing keeps your Chicago dandies away rom

her, all the better.”

My silent mirth gave way to heated cheeks. I pressed mylinen napkin to my mouth. Oh, to escape the conversation

that replayed like a phonograph record in my head. It had

started the day o my thirteenth birthday, Mother insisting

I learn eminine accomplishments and leave of diving rom

haylots and climbing trees—and driving my own motorcar

and talking about auto races. Those things, she insisted, in-

vited scandal, not suitors. Without Father’s indulgence all

these years, I imagine I would have sufocated long ago.

Father olded the newspaper and set it aside. “I don’t intend

to give my girl to just any young swell that comes along. And

I won’t let you oist on her a man who’s only interested in

her inheritance.”

Money. Arica. I olded my napkin and stared into my lap,preparing to make my request. Father had championed me

once this morning—would he do so again? I shot a quick

prayer heavenward beore addressing him.

“Yes, my girl?” He hummed a bit o a tune as he nished

his breakast.

I took a deep breath. “I need some money.”

“Money?” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out his wal-let, and tossed a bill on the table. “Will that do you or a ew

pretties?”

President Grover Cleveland’s ace stared up at me,Twenty

Dollars inscribed beneath his name. “Actually, I need a bit

more than that.”

He chuckled and wagged his index nger at me. “I knew

you’d catch on to your mother’s schemes one o these days.”

Mother rolled her eyes and excused hersel rom the room

as he picked up the money, slipped it back into his wallet,



Anne MAteer

33

and returned the wallet to his pocket. “Just charge what you

need. I’ll cover the bill.”

I jumped rom my seat, my hand restraining Mother’s exit.“Wait, Mother. You should hear this, too.”

She stopped, returned to her chair, and pushed her hal-

empty plate toward the center o the table.

I clasped my hands behind me. “It isn’t clothes, Father. Or

anything like that.”

His let eyebrow rose, giving his ace a lopsided look. “Not

tired o the Packard already, are you?”

I shook my head.

His eyebrows sank into a deep V. “Smashed it up, did you?”

“Alyce!” Mother bolted upright.

Father shook his head. “I always knew you would one

day. Can’t drive as ast as you like to without losing control

at some point.”“My Packard is ne. It’s just that I need . . .” My throat

constricted around the largeness o the number. “I need three

thousand dollars.”

Mother gasped.

“Three thousand dollars?” Father pulled the square o

linen rom its place in his collar. “What in heaven’s name or?”

“Wait here. I’ll show you.” Beore either could protest, Idashed up the stairs, grabbed the picture rom my Bible, and

scurried back to the dining room.

I slapped it to the table. “There.”

Both o my parents moved closer, peered down into the

aces that lived vivid in my memory.

“Why, they’re children.” Concern etched itsel around

Mother’s painted lips.

“What does this mean, Ally?” Father’s grumble stirred the

breakast in my stomach once again.



At EvEry turn

34

At EvEry tur n

“A man and his wie who work in Arica came to our

church yesterday. They live among the people in a place called

the Gold Coast. In Arica. People with little to wear, littleto eat.” I held my tongue beore mentioning their need or

Jesus. “I want to give three thousand dollars to help advance

their work.”

Silence.

Mother dropped back into her chair. Father paced in ront

o the tall windows.

“That charlatan Swan put you up to this.” Tight words,

portending a storm o great orce.

I inched but didn’t retreat. “No, sir. This was my idea.”

He stopped pacing and aced me. “Well, it was a blame-

ool one. I hear what you’re not saying, Ally. They’re over

there touting religion to those unsuspecting people. I won’t

be a party to it.” He stalked toward the door.I hurried ater him. “But, Father, everyone’s expecting it.”

He roze, then turned. “What do you mean everyone’s

expecting it? Who thinks you have that kind o money?”

“Everyone at church.” I moistened my lips. “I told them

I’d give three thousand dollars to help und the work.”

“You did what?” His ace turned the color o a ripe straw-

berry as his voice rose, the ull ury o the storm lashing out.“Let me tell you, missy, not one cent o my hard-earned money

is going toward this oolishness. Do you hear? I you’re so

all-red determined to participate in this scheme, you’ll have

to scavenge or that money yoursel. And don’t even think

about wheedling it rom your mother!”

My mouth dropped open as he charged out o the room.

Not since the day when Grandmother told him o my walk

down the aisle at church had I seen him so angry.

The ront door slammed shut, tinkling the chandelier over-



Anne MAteer

head. I sank back into my chair and groaned as Mother

swished rom the room ater throwing me a disapproving

look, but whether she resented my request or my makingFather angry, I couldn’t tell.

The silence made my thoughts loud. Where in the world

would I nd three thousand dollars? And how would I ever

ace my church again i I didn’t?

The swinging door creaked open.

“You can come in now, Clarissa.” I slumped a bit toward

the table, my chin resting in my upturned hands like Mother’s

had not long ago.

Clarissa bustled into the room, shaking her head and tsking

under her breath. “You barely ate a thing.” She whisked my

plate rom the table and set it atop my ather’s empty one.

“I’ll work up an appetite or lunch. I promise. Maybe

Grandmother will even eel up to coming to the table with me.”Silverware clinked against china. “Don’t you worry, Miss

Alyce. The Lord will provide, especially once your grand-

mother gets wind to pray.” A broad grin lit Clarissa’s reckled

ace as she pushed her backside against the door into the

pantry, hands piled high with dirty dishes.

Grandmother’s prayers. Normally a comorting thought.

But even Grandmother didn’t have the aith to believe theLord would change my ather’s heart this time.

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At Every Turn