Free At Every Turn by Anne Mateer Page A

Then he piled tools in the toolbox and clamped the lid shut before securing the box to the back of the race car.
    “I’ll sell your jewelry for you. But you have to give it to me before we leave for Chicago.”
    “I’ll give it to you at the speedway next weekend. After the race. Or maybe before.”
    He straightened. “You aren’t going, Ally. I thought you understood that. Your father made it very clear I wasn’t even supposed to mention it to you.”
    I inched toward the open garage doors. “Thank you, Webster. I knew the Lord would provide.” With the flash of a grin, I tried to dispel the fear clouding his eyes. “And don’t worry. I won’t get you in any trouble about Chicago.”
    No, there wouldn’t be trouble. For either of us. In fact, Mother would be in raptures when I offered to accompany her on another trip to the city.

 9 
    A ll that night I tossed and turned, worrying about the little lives attached to those precious faces in my photograph. Each body housed a soul. A soul with an eternal future. How gladly I’d sacrifice my few semiprecious pieces of jewelry to give them the opportunity to hear the gospel, to experience the love of Christ through the McConnells. Mother didn’t even remember she’d given me those baubles. Besides, unlike my Packard, they were mine to do with as I pleased. And while they wouldn’t raise the entire amount, they might at least replace the funds I’d given away.
    As the birds started their morning conversations, I forced my tired body out of bed, still cataloging in my head what I could sell without Mother or Father noticing. At my desk, I opened my diary, marking off the past few days. Just over six weeks remained until John and Ava McConnell returned. I pressed the blunt end of my pencil to my lips. There were still a few people in town I hadn’t called on to offer my services as a driver. But given the fact that not one person had yet to telephone regarding their need for transportation services, I doubted those conversations would yield anywhere near the entire amount.
    A sliver of fear pricked my heart. Would I face the congregation alone and empty-handed? Would I fail John and Ava McConnell? Watch their joyful faces sink in disappointment? I refused to let trepidation take hold. I would trust God’s provision. His faithfulness. I shut my diary and opened my Bible instead.
    Father’s Mercer chugged out of the garage before I dressed for breakfast. Mother met me in the foyer.
    “Come take breakfast in the garden with me, darling, before you motor me to the train station.” She hooked her arm through mine and led me out the door.
    I inhaled the freshness of the morning, wishing I could linger in its embrace. But my feet had to move to keep up with Mother. And my mind whirled with every step. Mother’s clubs—both the small one in Langston and the larger one in Chicago—supported a number of causes. Even if she wouldn’t lend her name or her effort to raising funds for the Gold Coast mission, she might have some ideas as to how to garner the necessary funds.
    Webster’s whistle cut across the clear morning, lifting my spirits. At least I had one ally. No, two. Mr. Trotter stood ready to help, as well. I ought to call on him again.
    “Alyce?” Mother motioned me to the gazebo as Webster rounded the stand of birch trees, the tune dying on his lips.
    The gardener placed a chair near me, and I sat. Clarissa bustled out of the house laden with a full tray, clucking like an agitated hen. A plate of eggs with a slice of cheese and some fresh fruit appeared in front of me. I let my fork wander through the eggs on my plate but didn’t bring a bite to my lips.
    “Mother, I need your help with something.” Father had ordered me not to ask Mother for money for Africa, but he hadn’t said I couldn’t seek her help in raising the funds.
    “Oh?” Her eyes widened and her face took on an excitement I rarely saw.
    Clearly, she wanted to help me. And I so rarely