Page 157 of Divine Temptations

“Scared.” The laugh he gave was airless. “The righteous are bold as a lion.” Daddy stepped closer, voice dropping into the cadence that worked on crowds. “Have I not commanded thee? Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” Joshua, chapter one. The verse I’d been force-fed so often it had the texture of chalk. “Where is your faith, Jimmy? Where is your spine?”

I tried to answer, but Daddy rolled on.

“This family has a calling. People look to us for guidance and wisdom.” His eyes glittered. “And you think you can walk off the battlefield in the middle of the fight?” He shook his head, almost pitying. “No. That’s not how we run this house.”

Shame and anger fought in my stomach until I couldn’t tell which was winning.

Daddy took a deep breath, then changed keys. “And since the Lord is not the author of confusion, let me be specific.” He put his hands behind his back and sighed. “The ministry is in trouble.”

I looked up. He watched my face like a hawk, satisfied to see me flinch. “Rent on the studio’s going up next quarter,” he breathed, the money talk reserved for when there wasn’t an audience to applaud. “The signal lease is increasing, and the cost of insurance is a nightmare. We’re down dozens of donors because the economy is soft and folks are spending on sin instead of the Lord.” He gave a small, mirthless smile. “Andwe both know your little sabbatical up in Richmond hasn’t paid dividends.”

“I’m—” I started, but the word snapped under his next sentence.

“If you don’t bring me a story,” he said, enunciating each piece like a stone set into mortar, “Tanner Ministries is going under.” He let that hang a beat, then added the hook: “And if it does, it will be because you failed.”

The floor tilted under me. It was the old rhythm, the one he’d taught me so well I didn’t know where it ended and I began: mission, fear, obligation, blame. He didn’t raise his voice the way he had when I was sixteen; he didn’t need to.

“I—” I blinked hard, and hot tears streamed down my face before I could be ashamed of them.

Shockingly, Daddy softened his tone by a hair. “You can fix this,” he said. “You can make me proud. Faith without works is dead.”Another verse, another nail. “Get back in that truck. You go back to Richmond and walk into that den of vipers with the armor of God, and you come back with truth. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, the words tumbling out fast, tripping over each other to get to a place where he wouldn’t say the next thing. “I’ll go back tonight. I’m sorry. I got scared. I shouldn’t have left. I’ll—” I wiped my cheek with the heel of my hand. “Daddy, I’ll fix it.”

He clapped me once on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. “That’s my boy,” he said, and the endearment landed like a bruise. Then, brisk again: “Put your faith in the Lord. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Now go, and do the Lord’s work.”

The conversation was over because he’d decided it was. I stood there another second, breathing in the faint, sweet tang of whiskey he thought I couldn’t smell, and tried to remember how to be big in my own skin.

I couldn’t. Not here. Not with his voice still echoing in the hall like the after-ring of a slammed door.

So I nodded like an obedient son, turned, and walked out of the house. The screen door whispered against its frame behind me. I moved down the steps like a man twice my age and crossed the short distance to my truck on legs that didn’t quite feel like they belonged to me.

My hands shook when I slid the key into the ignition. I set them on my lap and waited until the shaking had passed. In the windshield, the house looked peaceful as a postcard—porch light glowed, curtains still, the shadow of my father pacing in his office.

I’d never felt so small.

I started the truck, and the engine coughed, then caught. I wiped my face with my sleeve. “Back to Richmond,” I sighed.

I pulled out of the driveway and turned toward the interstate. The truck hummed under me as I eased back onto the road, gravel popping under the tires before it gave way to asphalt. The interstate lights shimmered ahead, and my stomach let out a loud growl that cut through the engine noise. I hadn’t eaten since I’d been with Lucien at the food kitchen. My chest tightened remembering it. Maybe food would settle me.

The strip mall sat beside the interstate exit, all the signs glowing in the dark. Cracker Barrel still had its porch lights on, so I pulled into the lot, cut the engine, and hurried inside.

The restaurant smelled of butter and coffee. I stood at the sign in front of the register waiting to be seated when I saw her.

Sheila Wiggins.

She sat in a corner booth, with her hair in a careful bun, and her usual pearls at her throat. When she spotted me, her smile came fast—bright, practiced, polite. A smile that made it impossible to pretend I hadn’t seen her.

I hesitated, every instinct telling me to turn around, grab a to-go order, and disappear. But that would look rude—worse, it would feel rude—and Lord knew what Daddy would say if he thought I’d slighted her. So I forced a smile of my own and walked over.

“Jimmy Tanner,” she said as I came closer. “Well, isn’t this a surprise?”

“Hey, Sheila.” I slid into the seat across from her. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” She gestured at the half-empty cup of coffee. “Mama says caffeine’s the devil’s brew, but I think the devil’s doing just fine without me.”

It was meant as a joke, but something brittle edged her voice. For a moment we just stared at each other, and the air felt too still.

Then, without warning, she dropped her shoulders, exhaled hard, and said, “I’m so fucking sick of this shit.” The pearls at her throat glinted when she said it, like even they were shocked.