Chances Are... Stories of Hope Lara's Tale by Andrea Lena DiMaggio

Gresham, Oregon

Lara stood outside the office, staring at the door. She did a quick inventory; her Charcoal Gray suit was almost a ‘power’ outfit, which seemed out of place for the job she was about to assume. Assumptions….

“No time like the future!”

She laughed, but still pivoted on her heel and went to walk away. As she turned, she stepped right into a young man; a young man with a cardboard tray filled with coffee containers. She fell back and hit her head against the door with a loud bang and a very soft but decided slip into dreamland.

“Miss …Miss? The haze seemed to hover in front of her eyes until she realized her face was covered with a cold wet towel.

“What…what happened?” She went to sit up but fell back quickly against the leather couch.

“I am so sorry, Miss…And your first day? Oh gosh…what was I thinking?” The voice exclaimed.

Lara pulled the towel from her face and saw that she was nearly face-to-face with the young man with whom she had made acquaintance only minutes before.

“Is that a new blouse? Oh gosh…that must have cost you plenty…Is that silk…Oh damn….Oh...I’m so sorry.“ His faced reddened.

She looked down at the blouse, which was indeed, silk and expensive and noticed the dark stain that covered one breast, along with a growing discomfort which she realized was the sensation of pain from the more than tepid coffee that had splashed on her.

“No problem.” She smiled at the young man, who continued to shake nervously.

“I’m so sorry. I can’t manage it this week, but next Friday is payday. I promise I’ll replace it. How much did it cost?” The boy was practically in tears; something with which Lara was all too familiar.

“Oh, this old thing? If I paid fifteen for it last year it would be a surprise. Don’t worry about it…your name?” She lied. She had paid almost a hundred dollars for it, but the cost was the least of her concerns. It was a brief and perhaps ill-advised self-indulgence that did little to justify its purchase. In fact, it only made her feel guilty, but she had bought it and so felt compelled to wear it.

“Oh…I’m sorry…Jimmy…Jimmy Olsen. Yeah, I know…I get it all the time. And especially with helping on the Church newsletter? You wouldn’t happen to be named Miss Lane, would you? Oh…of course not…your name is DiNapoli, right? Miss Lara DiNapoli?”

He had the name right, sort of. Lara was named DiNapoli…a middle name of sorts, and currently she would be regarded as a Miss, but only twenty-some months before she had been a Mister….Cerciera… Dante Cerciera …. Actually Major Dante Cerciera.

“Take it easy, Jim…no, I’m not going to call you Jimmy; you’re far too old and too dark for a cub reporter. How about we start out as friends and take it from there. Would you see if you can find something for this headache?”

Lara shrugged as the boy ran off; a bundle of nervous energy; he seemed as eager to please as a two-year-old beagle. She smiled; he reminded her of her own son… Dante Jr. Taken so soon from her and Nancy by an IED in Mosul… his wife wasted away after their child’s death; finally succumbing to some entirely treatable affliction had she the strength to care. Dante Sr. was the only one left to accept the ‘generous’ offer by the contractor… And why not? Two losses in a year? Two heartaches that still hurt enough to serenade her to sleep with her own weeping. It was her turn… it… should be…shouldn’t it be?

“Miss DiNapoli? She looked up and found Jim had returned with a package of ibuprofen…Midol actually. She laughed at the irony as the young man handed her a bottle of water to wash down the pills.

“Thanks Jim…now where can I find Pastor Decker’s office?” Jim pointed her in the right direction before running off again.

“Hello, Lara. Come in. I’m awfully sorry about your ‘welcome’ just now. Well, you've met Jimmy...he means well...our intern from the seminary.” He smiled oddly at her and she tilted her head as if to ask a question.

“I’m sorry, but you still...you didn’t…you don’t appear at all like I imagined you to be…. When Al Apsche’ had called me with your recommendation, I pictured you being quite a bit older. I know that seems almost sexist in this day and age, but with your experience?”

“If he only knew,” she thought. Al was Dante’s best friend, and he sort of fudged a few details.

“Oh…I’m sorry…It’s so disconcerting…You just seem much…younger than I expected. Given your age.” He repeated; at the mention of the word ‘age,’ both Pastor Decker and Lara blushed.

“Oh, Reverend Decker, I bet you say that to all your associate pastors.” Lara made a marginally close approximation of a Southern accent.

“Only to those who have as much know-how and background as you. Al really sang your praises. I’m glad you’ve come aboard. We’ve been working under-staffed since Jack Ter Hune passed, and I had misgivings all along about hiring someone less…seasoned. The board certainly was impressed with your interview. So you fit the bill.”

Seasoned wasn’t the word; Lara had been an Army chaplain in her other life, and like so many in ministry, Dante had been driven by his ‘call,’ and had sacrificed too much to see the flock fed and clothed. By the time Dante had left the service, his marriage was nearly lost, and by the time he got re-acquainted with his estranged son, the family was on life-support. Nancy never forgave him for the death of their son, and even more importantly, Dante…Lara had never forgiven herself.

“You should fit right in with us, Lara. I’m really glad to see someone of your character and experience on hand to help shepherd the flock.”

“Turn around and walk right out…You don’t have to do this!” The voice…her own self-talk, of course, spoke loudly in one ear while the other voice… the voice of reason and sanity and sacrifice and co-dependency and guilt said ‘You owe it to God!’

“Excuse me, Pastor Decker?” A woman…late-fortyish…called from the open door to his office; a kind and gentle face with fine line etched across her left cheek. She smiled at Jeff Decker.

“Rachael…it’s nearly end of day, you can stop calling me Pastor.” He laughed. She teased him and he teased back.
Lara DiNapoli…Meet Rachael Decker… my erstwhile secretary and sister.

“Pleased to meet you, Rev. DiNapoli.” She said it with such respect that it seemed a shame to correct her, but correct her Lara did.

“I’m not a Reverend; I haven’t been ordained, and my credentials are quite old.” She felt like adding,

“Major Dante Cerciera reporting for duty, Ma’am. I’m a single transsexual and likely would have been divorced if my wife hadn’t died due to my neglect.” Not too self-critical, she surmised, but entirely honest.

“Well, we’ve heard nothing but good things about you…I hope you’ll find us as pleasant as we have already found you.” She smiled and touched Lara’s hand softly before walking over and kissing Jeff on the cheek.

“Tell Callie I’ll be late for dinner.” She sighed and hurried out.

“You’ll find Rachael to be of great assistance.” He said it with little enthusiasm, which garnered a quizzical look from Lara.

“Oh, gosh…I’m sorry…Rachael was engaged…he died a couple of years ago and today would have been their second anniversary...she's stopping off at his grave.”

“I’m sorry.” A typical response for something so personal with someone you don’t know, but Lara knew too much about loss not to be moved.

“Oh gosh, I almost forgot. I meant to invite you to dinner on Sunday…I don’t expect you’ll have quite settled in by then, and Callie does Chicken Paprikash like she got off the plane from Budapest.” He laughed heartily, which surprised Lara.

“I seem to be full of apologies today. Callie and I met in Hungary after my first wife died. She was a correspondent for Radio Free Europe when the Soviet Bloc went south. Please feel welcome, okay?”
Lara nodded.

He stepped closer and smiled.

“Welcome again.” Jeff stood and waited for a moment before looking at Lara’s right hand.

“My mother always told me never to offer your hand to a lady unless she holds out her own first.”

Lara looked down at her hand; something to remember…two things, actually, as she shook Jeff’s hand. First, her expertise in conventional behavior for women was somewhat lacking even after a year RLT and being post surgery for several months. And to be called a lady? She felt like anything but a lady as noticed her reflection in the glass pane of the office door.

"One last thing? Please feel free to come to me if you've got any concerns or questions, okay. Callie and I want you to know that before anything else, we want to be your friends, alright?" Jeff's hand lingered before he patted her wrist and smiled. Lara nodded and forced a smile...

“Faker!”

She heard it, but it didn’t come from without, but within. She bit her tongue softly as she nodded once to Jeff before exiting, trying hard not to cry. She failed miserably and broke down behind the wheel of her Jeep; another ‘luxury’ courtesy of the insurance settlements she had gotten nearly back to back. She looked down at her stained blouse; a blouse that covered a very attractive body for a forty-seven year old woman…if that’s what she could be called.

“Faker!”

The voice grew louder in her head; condemnation, both from her own heart and the lingering words of her late wife, seemed to come easy.

“You can run, but you can never hide!”

Almost like Jonah, but instead of being swallowed by a whale she was being swallowed by guilt and shame. And all she needed was forgiveness, healing, friends, family, self-confidence; a fairly simple combination likely to be found nowhere on earth, but for the parking lot of the Church of the Redeemer…

A knock came at the window of the Jeep, startling Lara. She looked up and saw a friendly face…two in fact, as Jeff Decker stood next to his best friend…and Lara’s…Al Apsche’.

“Lara? We need to talk, okay?” Jeff said and Al smiled and nodded in agreement. Lara just kept crying.

Next: Lara's Chance