Page 97 of Son of a Preacher Man
Regaining his composure, Kodiak reached inside the console. He’d almost forgotten to give it to her. The red moleskin in his fingers, he handed Linnea her mother’s diary. “It’s Grace’s. Found it the day we were going through Jarrid’s closet.”
Opening the cover, she glanced at the first page, then closed it.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“I can’t.” Pursing her lips, she placed the book in her bag. “These are her own personal thoughts. I doubt she intended for anyone else to read them.”
“Probably not, but I think you should.”
It’s there, written in her own hand. She loved you.
Her green eyes glassy, his sister smiled over at him. “Someday, maybe.”
Smiling back, Kodiak nodded. He understood. Grace’s words would be there for her, whenever she was ready to read them.
Finally making it to the interstate, he took the first exit to get some burgers at a fast food drive-thru. Charlotte was asleep, and they didn’t want to wake her by going inside. They parked, eating their lunch in the Tahoe, as they watched the cars whizzing by. Then Linnea glanced down at the black drawstring bag at her feet. It held the contents of the safety deposit box.
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I’m almost afraid to,” he said, taking another bite of his burger.
“Whatever it is, Jarrid wanted you to have it.”
And whatever it is, Jeremy tried like hell to get it.
Kodiak licked burger sauce from his fingers before wiping them on a napkin. Gesturing to Linnea, she placed the bag on his lap. He untied the drawstring, then loosening it, took out a notecard lying on top. In Jarrid’s handwriting, it said:
Any man who does not provide for his own, especially for those of his household, has denied the faith, and is worse than an unbeliever.
1 Timothy 5:8
Passing it to Linnea, he emptied the contents of the bag. “Jesus.”
“What is it?” Glancing at his lap, she did a double take and gasped. “Holy shit.”
Cash. And lots of it.
“Where the hell did he get that kind of money?”
Skimming off the collection plates, no doubt.
His flock provided for him. How else?
Linnea nervously surveyed the parking lot. “God, put it away before someone sees it.”
“I should send them a check,” Kodiak murmured, as he tossed wads of hundred-dollar bills, rolled up in rubber bands, back inside the bag.
“You will do no such thing.” Reminding him of Hazel, Linnea wagged her finger in his face. “Jarrid wanted you to have it.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Donate it then.”
Now there’s a thought.
The Trevor Project came to mind, an organization that provides crisis support to LGBTQ youth. In that small way, Kodiak could honor Jonathan’s memory.
“Yeah.” Feeling better now for taking it, he smiled. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
