"Thanks for coming," he said with a big smile.
"You're welcome. I was bored," Nate said.
"I'm hanging wallboard," he said, waving his arm at the construction. "It's easier if there are two people. Mr. Fuqua used to help, but he's eighty now and his back is not what it used to be."
"What are you building?"
"Six classrooms for Bible study. This center area will be a fellowship hall. I started two years ago. Our budget doesn't allow much in the way of new projects, so I'm doing it myself. Keeps me in shape."
Father Phil hadn't been in shape in years. "Point me in the right direction," Nate said. "And remember I'm a lawyer."
"Not a lot of honest work, huh?"
"No."
They each took an end of a sheet of wallboard and wrestled it across the floor to the current classroom in progress. The sheet was four feet by six, and as they lifted it into place Nate realized that it was indeed a job for two people. Phil grunted and frowned and bit his tongue, and when the piece fit the puzzle, he said, "Now just hold it right there." Nate pressed the board against the two by four studs while Phil quickly tacked it into place with sheetrock nails. Once secure, he drove six more nails into the studs, and admired his handiwork. Then he produced a tape and began to measure the next open space.
"Where did you learn to be a carpenter?" Nate asked as he watched with interest.
"It's in my blood. Joseph was a carpenter."
"Who's he?"
"The father of Jesus."
"Oh, that Joseph."
"Do you read the Bible, Nate?"
"Not much."
"You should."
"I'd like to start."
"I can help you, if you want."
"Thanks."
Phil scribbled dimensions on the wallboard they had just installed. He measured carefully, then remeasured. Before long, Nate realized why the project was taking so long. Phil took his time and believed in a vigorous regimen of coffee breaks.
After an hour, they walked up the stairs to the main floor, to the Rector's office, which was ten degrees warmer than the basement. Phil had a pot of strong coffee on a small burner. He poured two cups and began scanning the rows of books on the shelves. "Here's a wonderful daily devotional guide, one of my favorites," he said, gently removing the book, wiping it as if it were covered in dust, then handing it to Nate. It was a hardback with the dust jacket intact. Phil was particular about his books.
He selected another, and handed it to Nate. "This is a Bible study for busy people. It's very good."
"What makes you think I'm busy?"
"You're a lawyer in Washington, aren't you?"
"Technically, but those days are about to be over."
Phil tapped his fingertips together, and looked at Nate as only a minister can. His eyes said, "Keep going. Tell me more. I'm here to help."
So Nate unloaded some of his troubles, past and present, with emphasis on the pending showdown with the IRS and the imminent loss of his law license. He would avoid jail, but be required to pay a fine he couldn't afford.
Nonetheless, he wasn't unhappy about the future. In fact, he was relieved to be leaving the profession.
"What will you do?" Phil asked.
"I have no idea."
"Do you trust God?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Then relax. He'll show you the way."
THEY TALKED long enough to stretch the morning to the lunch hour, then walked next door and feasted once again on the lamb stew. Laura joined them late. She taught kindergarten and only had thirty minutes for lunch.
Around two, they made it back to the basement, where they reluctantly resumed their labor. Watching Phil work, Nate became convinced that the project would not be finished in his lifetime. Joseph may have been a fine carpenter, but Father Phil belonged on the pulpit. Every open space on the wall had to be measured, remeasured, pondered over, looked at from various angles, then measured again. The sheet of wallboard destined to fill the open space went through the same procedures. Finally, after enough pencil markings to confuse an architect, Phil, with great trepidation, took the electric saw and cut the wallboard. They carried the sheet to the open space, tacked it, then secured it. The fit was always perfect, and with each one Phil seemed genuinely relieved.
Two classrooms appeared to be finished and ready for paint. Late in the afternoon, Nate decided that tomorrow he would become a painter.
Chapter Forty-One
TWO DAYS of pleasant labor yielded little progress in the chilly basement of Trinity Church. But much coffee was consumed, the lamb stew was finally finished, some paint and wallboard fell into place, and a friendship was built.
Nate was scraping paint from his fingernails Tuesday night when the phone rang. It was Josh, calling him back to the real world. "Judge Wycliff wants to see you tomorrow," he said. "I tried to call earlier."
"What does he want?" Nate asked, his voice flat with dread.
"I'm sure he'll have questions about your new client."
"I'm really busy, Josh. I'm into remodeling, painting, and sheetrock, stuff like that."
"Oh, really."
"Yeah, I'm doing the basement of a church. Time is of the essence."
"Didn't know you had such talents."
"Do I have to come, Josh?"
"I think so, pal. You agreed to take this case. I've already told the Judge. You're needed, old boy."
"When and where?"
"Come to my office at eleven. We'll ride over together."
"I don't want to see the office, Josh. It's all bad memories. I'll just meet you at the courthouse."
"Fine. Be there at noon. Judge Wycliff s office."
Nate put a log on the fire and watched the snow flurries float across the porch. He could put on a suit and tie and carry a briefcase around. He could look and talk the part. He could say "Your Honor" and "May it please the court," and he could yell objections and grill witnesses. He could do all the things a million others did, but he no longer considered himself a lawyer. Those days were gone, thank God.
He could do it once more, but only once. He tried to convince himself it was for his client, for Rachel, but he knew she didn't care.
He still hadn't written her, though he'd planned the letter many times. The one to Jevy had required two hours of hard work, for a page and a half.
After three days in the snow, he missed the humid streets of Corumba, with the lazy pedestrian traffic, the outdoor cafes, the pace of life that said everything could wait until tomorrow. It was snowing harder by the minute. Maybe it's another blizzard, he thought, and the roads will be closed, and I won't have to go after all.
MORE SANDWICHES from the Greek deli, more pickles and tea. Josh prepared the table as they waited for Judge Wycliff. "Here's the court file," he said, handing a bulky red binder to Nate. "And here's your response," he said, handing over a manila file. "You need to read and sign this as soon as possible."
"Has the estate filed an answer?" Nate asked.
"Tomorrow. The answer of Rachel Lane is in there, already prepared, just waiting for your signature."
"There's something wrong here, Josh. I'm filing an answer to a will contest on behalf of a client who doesn't know it."
"Send her a copy."
"To where?"
"To her only known address, that of World Tribes Missions in Houston, Texas. It's all in the file."