Free The Scent of Lilacs by Ann H. Gabhart Page A

the time. Mostly one-way stuff like the dog prayer and “Bless Daddy” and “Help me not drive Aunt Love completely batty since half batty is bad enough” and “Thank you for the mockingbird that sings and dances in the tree beside the house” and “Watch over Tabitha and my mother.” Prayers like that were easy, but she never really expected to hear God talking back, saying do this or do that.
    The idea that he might made her nervous. What if he told her to do something she didn’t want to do? Like be a missionary in Africa, where she might have to eat fried ants or who knows what. She was happy with the way things were. Especially now that God had answered her dog prayer. But what if God expected some kind of payback for sending her Zeb?
    Her father said that wasn’t the way God worked, but fair seemed fair. God had given her Zeb. He might expect her to give him something back. Maybe not socking Ronnie Martin in the nose next Sunday if her father got voted in at Mt. Pleasant. Or actually learning her Sunday school memory verse before she got to Sunday school instead of just reading it over on the way to classand faking it. Or not complaining about Aunt Love burning the biscuits. Or even better, getting up early enough to be in the kitchen to rescue the biscuits before they burned.
    If she promised to work at showing how thankful she was, surely God would let Zeb still be there on the porch. She offered up a silent prayer as they turned up the lane to their house. Please, Lord, don’t let Zeb go find another house .
    It was already dark, but the car lights would hit the porch as they pulled up. She’d be able to see if Zeb was there waiting for her. She scooted up on the edge of her seat again and peered through the windshield toward the house. There was a light on the front porch. Not the porch light. More like a flashlight with the batteries running down. Or a jar of lightning bugs. Or a candle flickering in the breeze.
    “Look, Dad.” She pointed past his head toward the porch. “What is that light?”
    Aunt Love woke up with a little snort. “Light? What light?”
    “It looks to be a candle,” her father said.
    “A candle? How odd.” Aunt Love sat up straighter and peered out of the window.
    “Somebody is on the porch,” her father said.
    “Who?” Jocie asked.
    “I can’t see who. It’s too dark,” her father said.
    Jocie strained to see, but all she could make out was the shape of a person in the rocking chair on the porch. No shape of a dog was anywhere in sight. “I can’t see Zeb. You don’t think he’s gone, do you?”
    “Don’t worry, Jocie. That dog knows a good thing when he’s found it. He’ll be here,” her father said.
    Jocie touched the sack beside her that held the bone she’d begged from Mrs. McDermott, and she suddenly had a terrible thought. “What if it’s Zeb’s owner come to claim him?”
    “Nobody in their right mind would come hunting that dog,”Aunt Love said shortly. “It’s probably just Wes with something about the paper.”
    “I don’t see his motorcycle. And Wes never walks anywhere,” Jocie said.
    “His motorcycle could have stripped a gear or whatever motorcycles do besides make an unholy racket,” Aunt Love said.
    “We don’t have to do the five guesses game. We’ll find out who it is as soon as we get there,” her father said.
    “But, Dad, somebody on our porch this time of night with no car anywhere around and with a candle lit? Don’t you think that’s weird? I mean, who sits on anybody’s porch and brings a candle to light?”
    “Somebody afraid of the dark who doesn’t have a flashlight?” her father suggested.
    “But it’s too late to come visiting or anything normal,” Jocie said.
    “Unless they’re bringing bad news,” Aunt Love said. She too was leaning forward trying to get a better look at the mystery person on the porch.
    “Hush, you two,” her father said as he parked the car in front of the garage. “It’s