Divine Deception

By Judith Shoemaker Hill

Christian Camara and Lee Randolph were both successful San Francisco singles whose paths could have crossed while sipping Irish coffee at the Buena Vista Cafe on the wharf, strolling through the Legion of Honor, or riding the Number 61 cable car. But God chose the most unlikely, unromantic setting for their "chance" meeting""St. Luke's Hospital, where both were reluctant visitors. Their attraction was mutual and immediate and romance inevitable, until their love story was edited by an all-powerful author who chose to introduce into it some devastating twists and one deadly turn. As a result, Chris was forced to reexamine his life, his faith, and his heritage, which led him down a trail of deceit and into an uncertain future. Lee's fate was abruptly placed in the hands of her mother, Evelyn, who had no fear of dying but was horrified by the thought of having the lie she had been living for decades be revealed and reviled. That lie took on new life as Evelyn's ended, and Chris and Lee were forced to embark on a search for truths long kept secret. This one startling revelation changed forever the lives of a revered priest accused of despicable crimes, a doctor who could cure anything but his own broken heart, a lawyer who sentenced himself to a life without the possibility of love, and a devious real estate developer who defiled and corrupted innocents released from the foster care system, and applauded as the once great city of San Francisco fell from glory, much as ancient Corinth had centuries before. Witnessing the lies and liars seek and find sanctuary while truth and truth tellers cowered before the thought police, the star-crossed lovers knew that only divine intervention would save them and the city of their birth. For some there would be no more choices. Only consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645156741

Book preview

Chapter One

Prologue

The sky had darkened to pewter and the rain that had fallen lightly all morning was intensifying, viciously shredding many of the umbrellas encircling the copper-colored casket.

Christian Camara’s head sunk deeper into his wide shoulders, bringing his six-foot frame closer to the freshly tilled earth at his feet. He shivered, hoping to shake off the surreal sense of foreboding. He shifted his weight from one wet shoe to another, angry that his Gucci loafers were soaked and impatient to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

The funeral should have offered some sort of closure, an end to all the speculations and recriminations. It didn’t. If anything, he had more questions, more doubts.

Who were all these people looking at him, searching his face for any sign of sorrow or loss? Were they here to mourn, satisfy their curiosity, or just enjoy a free lunch at the reception? Why was he here? He hardly knew the woman, but he was supposed to be grieving. Maybe he would, one day, once he had processed it all. But right now he felt an insane urge to laugh. These teary-eyed mourners might join him in a chuckle or two if he shared the irreverent memory of Art Brady’s funeral. By the looks on their grave faces—pun intended—they could all use a chuckle right about now.

His old friend’s unforgettable funeral had not only been improper; it had been downright bizarre. Only Brady could manage to pull off one of his legendary capers two days after his own death.

If Chris hadn’t been there himself, he would never have believed it. While the priest and Art’s family and friends looked on in horror, Heidi Golaski, an ex-girlfriend of Art’s, appeared in the back of the church. Dressed all in white, she strolled unsteadily but purposefully down the aisle of St. Ignatius Church. She headed straight for Art’s coffin, paused briefly, then grabbed him under his armpits, lifting his torso out of the satiny folds, and raising his body so high that one arm swung limply over the edge. Ignoring the corpse’s lack of participation, she planted a kiss on his lifeless lips. When he failed to be aroused by her ardor, Heidi pleaded with Art, Wake up, wake up! and shook him so violently that his head flopped around like a rag doll and then dropped like a rock.

Too stunned to act in time to prevent her surprise attack, Art’s younger brother lurched out of the front pew, shoved his way past the incredulous priest, and grabbed Heidi around the waist, gathered her up in a fireman’s carry, and hurried down the aisle and out into the vestibule, while she screamed and flailed her arms in protest. He’s got to wake up! she insisted. Were getting married! He promised!

Half the mourners headed for the door, fearing more of Art’s ex-girlfriends might be lining up to pay their disrespect. The other half sat paralyzed by the spectacle they had just witnessed and waited for the priest’s instructions. Father John Mariani was an expert in crowd control. He had to be. Protesters gathered daily on the street in front of St. Hedwig’s Church, loudly condemning the priest’s judgmental smites and smotes, so was tenured in calming down the masses with his deep, reassuring voice, which now echoed through the church. Let us forgive the distraught woman. She knows not what she does. The priest always knew how to put the right spin on a sketchy situation.

Following the service there had been a reception in the church basement and Chris and his two best friends, Mason Samuels and Byron Cahill, huddled around the processed ham and turkey platter, reminiscing about the greatest of Art’s legendary pranks. Their fun-loving, heart-breaking buddy had enjoyed playing catch and release with the many women he dated and then dumped. The consensus was that God, the Consummate Equalizer, must have considered it only fair that Art be the one dumped in the end.

Chris shook his head, hoping his momentary lapse of attention and reverence had gone unnoticed. He had to give credit to the pastor, Reverend Anderson, for seeing that the ceremony came to as peaceful a conclusion. Appropriately, the good padre’s lamentations at the gravesite complemented the rain that had been tormenting the sky all morning, until it was now as moribund as the woman they had come to bury.

Of course, the ultimate duty of a priest or pastor was to reassure the mourners of the deceased’s fate with the comforting supposition that their loved one was being raised into an eternal heaven rather than being lowered into an earthly tomb. It no doubt made the cold fact of death seem less final to believers. He had once been one of those. But that was before. Before he knew who he was.

Everything about this day was unreal, from the unseasonable May storm to the array of mourners, most of them strangers to him. The good news was that the foul weather had served to keep away the media and the scandal seekers.

Pastor Anderson’s comments were kept to a minimum, and the graveside service ended before the San Francisco natives got restless. Unlike the good pastor, Father Mariani would not have let a little rain cut his homilies short.

The woman who stood beside him was intently watching the coffin being lowered, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She had arranged everything: reserving the church, contacting the pastor, and hiring the caterer for the traditional reception afterward. He should have helped her. He should have done a lot of things.

With the final Amen, the mourners hurriedly departed, relieved to get out of the rain and into their warm, dry cars. Mason and Byron remained at this side, waiting for him to signal whether they should stay with him or head to the reception.

Go on ahead. I’ve got my car here. I’ll be along later, he said in a tone more brusque than he intended.

The woman who had waited too anxiously for his answer nodded and turned away.

The wounded looks on all their faces made him cringe with guilt. They had all been there for him after his suffering the initial shock and remained when the subsequent revelations threatened to take him to the brink.

He wasn’t yet ready to conduct the postmortem. He needed more evidence if he was going to solve the mystery that his life had become.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there alone when the loud hard crunch of hard metal on rocky earth startled him into awareness. An old man wielding a shovel gave him a sideways glance, obviously curious as to why the rain-soaked idiot was still there. The funeral was over and the ancient denizen of this village of the dead was not about to be kept from doing his job. Chris noticed that the man’s shovel served double-duty as a cane, yet his infirmity didn’t stop him from doing what he was being paid to do. His scowl silently scolded, Go along, young man. I have graves to dig, holes to fill.

Christian watched the old man move desultorily from one piece of granite to another, glancing up from under his wide-brimmed felt hat to see if he had taken the hint. Chris finally took it, scanning the grave markers on his way out of the cemetery. Not much marble anymore, he noted. Maybe over the years a new school of thought had emerged: lavish your love and money on the living, not the dead, assuage your guilt in life, not in death. He wished he’d had the opportunity to attend that school. Now it was too late to lavish, assuage, or love.

He shook his head, turning his salon styled haircut into boyish bangs that made him look younger than his thirty-four years. The rain stopped suddenly. He nodded to the felt hat and then tramped stolidly along the muddy path and through the iron gate that separated the dead from those dying to get in—one of his father’s favorite jokes.

His candy-red Porsche looked incongruously frivolous parked so near the venerated and hallowed ground. He reminded himself to fill up the tank with gas before heading back to the city and fighting the bumper-to-bumper traffic. He heard the thud of earth on her coffin just as he was getting into the car, but he didn’t turn around or look back. He would be doing enough of that in the next few days—or years.

The woman buried today had died not once, but twice, and whoever had been responsible for that damned duplication would have to answer for it.

What Christian Camara could not have known was that in finding the one to blame, his life and his very identity would be irretrievably changed.

Chapter Two

Three months earlier

What do you do when you have all the money you can spend, all the pleasure you seek, and all the friends you need? And you still feel like crap. Christian Camara knew what his mother would have said. Put your faith and trust in God, not in things of this world that will never bring you the peace and happiness you are looking for. And for goodness’ sake, stop complaining.

It was a damp and dismal Sunday, and Chris had to admit that was feeling very sorry for himself. He let out a whooping cough and then a rattling sigh that reminded him of when he was a child, breathing in the soothing aroma of the love rub that his mother lavishly smoothed over his chest. Now all he smelled was the house cleaner’s Lysol Disinfectant Spray.

He’d gotten no sympathy from Janine, who accused him of acting like a whiney baby when she phoned him that morning, asking him to water the plants in her new apartment. He could hardly refuse, since he was the reason she needed to start a new life that would sooner rather than later include a new boyfriend. Men would be lining up from the Embarcadero to Union Square to interview for the job.

Janine Rylander was a beautiful, former super model turned successful San Francisco real estate agent who didn’t tolerate malingering, especially when the malingerer had a hacking, phlegmy cough that even nauseated Chris. He was relieved that his former girlfriend decided to attend a real estate conference in Lake Tahoe after their breakup. At least with her gone, he could hack with impunity.

This damnable throat thing was ruining his sleep and his social life. He had cancelled racquetball twice and missed a Warrior playoff game. His whole life seemed to be on hold ever since he and Janine had agreed to go their separate ways. It had been the wisest thing to do, but the old adage was right on: misery loves company, and Janine had been very good company. They had occasionally talked about marriage, but instead of waltzing down the aisle to the beat of her ticking clock, Janine suggested that they just unplug the darn thing.

Chris was in total agreement, but after the decision was made, Janine burst into tears. Both puzzled and mesmerized by her gushing tribute to the end of their affair, he wasn’t sure if he should offer her a handkerchief or sneak out the garage door. He should have chosen the latter because once the sobs subsided, he made the mistake of saying, Janine, you have an Academy Award-winning cry. I’m not kidding.

He completely missed the incredulous look on her face and stupidly continued, Scarlett O’Hara was a piker compared to you, Janine, trust me. Your cry is so melodic and rhythmical that Andrew Lloyd Webber could choreograph a musical around it. It’s so tuneful that I just want to hum along.

Her porcelain complexion turned an I want to strangle you red. We’ve been dating all this time, and that’s what you’ll remember about me? she asked, with a little hiccup and a fiery frown.

Too late he tried to explain. What I meant is, you have a beautiful cry. In fact, it’s so perfect that most women would have to practice it in front of a three-way mirror to get it just right. Your eyes don’t get red, your mascara doesn’t run, and your forehead doesn’t get all scrunched up. It’s fascinating. It’s really loveable, he finished with dwindling confidence, as he watched her expression turn from wonderment to horror. He could understand why she chose to put a couple of hundred miles between them.

The breakup hadn’t surprised his friends. Mason accused him of keeping her not just at arm’s length, but at a football field’s length, and Byron, playing amateur psychiatrist, suggested that the reason he avoided getting too close to her or any woman was his fear of their leaving him, and he had to admit they had a point. His birth mother, his adoptive mother, two aunts, and his favorite cousin were women he had loved. They all left, admittedly for good reason. They died.

He turned away from the long arched window that looked down on Lombard Street and beautifully framed the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz Island, and a vision of what God intended a city to look like. His sigh was loud and sad. Looks were deceiving. His city was in decline.

He could say the same about himself. When had he started to feel old, like life was speeding away from him like a scared jackrabbit? Janine had accused him of skimming along the surface of life instead of diving in, paddling like crazy and staying afloat no matter what or who tried to keep you down. He strode purposefully down the long hall and into his den. He picked up his cell phone, scrolled down, and waited for Mason to answer his distress call. His receptionist answered, Hi, Chris. The doctor’s seeing a patient right now, but when he’s finished, I’ll tell him you called.

Thanks, Sue.

Please say hi to Janine for me.

Sure, will do, he lied.

In less than an hour, his friend returned his call. Chris? What’s up?

Probably my temperature, doc. I’m having that throat problem again.

Uh huh.

Yeah, again, only this time it’s worse. I’m beginning to believe what Janine said is true. I’m either a hypochondriac or a weeny whiner. Whichever it is, I’m ready to put myself at your mercy and accept your diagnosis. How about I come to your office around five o’clock, and if after a cursory examination you don’t find anything that requires more than a placebo, we can get in some racquetball.

Sounds good.

Christian Camara had no inkling that what he would discover as a result of that visit would smash his nicely ordered world into a rock-hard wall specially designed to hit back.

Chapter Three

Lee Randolph took a deep breath and returned the smile the bathroom mirror reflected. She had awakened to the song of a bird that was as happy as she, and a feeling that could only be described as euphoric. It was as if the heavens opened up and God called down, What may I do for you today, Lee?

She had never felt such a stir of baseless excitement and an unfounded certainty that something wonderful was going to happen. Hope was a word that, until today, she had stricken from her lexicon after her last disastrous dinner date. The bald, bearded bore had interrupted his lengthy monologue only to ask her if he could polish off her pepper steak. The theory that one could talk and chew steak at the same time was now a proven fact. She had driven herself home, craving a hot shower and a midnight rendezvous with one of Vince Flynn’s macho heroes. She was done with online dating.

Offsetting her dismal love life, her interior design business was thriving, even though she had been in her Embarcadero office for only two years. After graduating from San Francisco State, she worked out of her apartment on Lake Merced, helping friends decorate their apartments and starter homes. She had lots of friends who had lots of friends, so eventually she earned enough money to rent office space and an apartment, both in an upscale part of the city. Her career had soared, against all odds, so maybe the odds were that her love life would not crash and burn before it even caught fire.

Getting her mother to agree to a checkup with Doctor Samuels was definitely a cause for celebration, and the prospect of dinner that evening with her best friend Bonnie was a guarantee of fun, but this newfound exhilaration was something far more. She could never remember having a premonition, but she knew one when she felt one.

After showering, blow-drying her hair, and applying her makeup, she took stock of the results of her efforts. Her auburn hair shone with burnished highlights, and her skin glowed a lustrous pink, even without blusher. She ran her hands down a belly as firm and flat as the diving board at the YMCA, where she swam twice a week. The new jumpsuit she’d bought on sale from the Neiman Marcus catalogue slipped on easily and made her look taller than her five feet six inches. The over-the-knee taupe leather boots were literally over the top, and just the right combination of naughty and nice. She was ready for the wonderfulness to begin.

She started out early from her apartment in the Marina, knowing how hard it was going to be to find a parking place on Broderick Street. When she found a spot right in front of her childhood home, she knew her premonition was not unfounded. Could this day get any better? Could God be any greater?

She let herself in and announced, I’m here, Mom. Are you ready?

Lee adjusted the blinds and let in what meager light was able to filter through the fog and into the restored Victorian’s bay window. Before her father died, he had the foresight to make the house as problem free as possible, but he hadn’t had the expertise to make it gloom free. Only the hopefully anticipated afternoon sun would remedy that. Whatever the weatherman or Evelyn Randolph had planned for her, she was confident this was going to be a bright day.

She had no specific reason to worry about her mother until recently, probably because the woman was careful not to give her daughter cause to worry. But yesterday she casually mentioned having chest pains and a shortness of breath. Her mother never complained, so this had to be serious. Lee insisted her mother have what was probably her first physical exam since giving birth. The reason for her refusing to see a doctor through the years was not because she feared finding out that she had a rare, incurable disease; it was her irrational fear of having anyone see her naked, including her husband, Lee’s father.

Evelyn had blushed when she first explained the little idiosyncrasy that she had inherited from her mother, Inez Hanson. Her sister Belle had also been so bequeathed. In spite of her peculiar phobia, her mother had agreed to see an ENT, with the caveat that the doctor not require her to reveal any flesh below the ear, nose, or throat. Lee was quite sure that was a promise she couldn’t keep, but once she got her mother into the examining room, it would be the doctor’s dilemma.

I’m almost ready, honey. I’m just looking for my tan gloves and my cloche, she shouted out from her bedroom.

Lee sucked in an impatient breath. Her mother still preferred to remain fixed in the era in which San Francisco ladies wore hats and gloves when they went into the city. Lee didn’t have the heart to tell her mother that the only women who wore proper head coverings now were either Muslims or Quakers, and the latter would never set foot in Bagdad by the Bay.

Do I look okay? she asked, presenting herself to her daughter for approval.

Mom. You look like a million bucks, she assured her as she brushed a coiled ringlet back from her mother’s forehead. Another permanent wave gone amok, Lee decided. Her mother would never desert the aging bee-hived hairdresser who was hard of hearing and blind in one eye, no doubt a result of the toxic eye, ear, and nose burning solutions she had been using for forty years.

That’s probably what this visit is going to end up costing, she muttered.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mom.

I’m not worried, honey, she insisted, pulling on her gloves, one finger at a time. But you are, and you promised me you would stop that. Worrying is an act of rebellion and shows a lack of faith in God. We mustn’t try to figure out the future but focus on today.

Lee was going to tell her about her premonition, but her mother changed the subject by reversing roles and contradicting herself, You have to be careful who you take as a client, dear. There are some people who cannot be trusted.

Meaning?

Meaning Willard Spiven.

Mom, I’m just delivering an armoire to his house, not meeting him in a dark alley in the Tenderloin.

God advises us not to judge anyone, but that man is never up to any good, Lydia. That’s all you need to know.

Her mother’s using her given name meant Lee was in for a scolding.

I’m agreeing to this exam at your insistence, and because I don’t want you to worry, but I have no fear of what the doctor will or will not find. She reached out and wrapped her arms around Lee and held on for long moments.

Lee hugged her back. "Mom, you will be in and out of the doctor’s office before you have a chance to glance through last month’s People magazine. You’ll be home again in no time."

I want to come home again too, but if not, it is God’s will, not yours, mine, or the doctor’s.

Lee had to use all of her willpower to keep her welling tears from overflowing.

Okay, Mom, I get it, but let’s focus only on happy endings.

And beginnings, her mother added with a wide grin. Today may be your lucky day. Who knows? Dr. Samuels might be tall, dark, single, and looking for love.

Dr. Samuels comes highly recommended as a doctor who truly cares about his patients and takes their feelings into consideration, Mom, not as a prospective husband, she explained, not at all sure that Bonnie, who had recommended him, was not up to her matchmaking ploys again.

If he cares so much about my feelings, does that mean he won’t make me undress?

Her mother’s look of concern was akin to a child’s, warily eyeing the long needle heading straight for her.

He will want to find the source of your persistent cough and chest pains, Mom, and I’m not sure what that will entail, but I know he will respect your wishes.

Her mother’s worried look remained throughout the drive to Montgomery Street in the Financial District, and stayed put as they exited the elevator of the medical building and followed the numbered doors until they found the one that opened up to Doctor Samuel’s receptionist’s desk. The nurse couldn’t have been sweeter, as she helped her mother into the examination room and onto the white-sheeted table. When the doctor stuck his head in five minutes later, he wore a look of care and tenderness that couldn’t be practiced. His kind brown eyes and warm smile could put a ranging hellhound at ease, Lee decided.

I’m Doctor Samuels. I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Randolph, he said, offering his hand. Evelyn took hold of it as if it were a lifeline. And you must be Lee Randolph. He subtly pried her mother’s damp hand out of his.

Yes, my friend Bonnie referred you with her highest praise.

Oh yes, Bonnie, he repeated with a little wink. She is my unpaid press agent. Half my referrals come from her, which is a cautionary tale for any of her friends who have no desire or need to visit an ENT, no matter how highly lauded. His smile broadened. She once convinced a woman that her voice sounded nasal, and that her passages might be clogged, so she sent her to see me. Her voice was not in the least bit nasal, and there was nothing clogged up, except my schedule. Bonnie is a regular Dolly Levi reborn. He shook his head and threw up his hands.

Lee laughed, but suspected that Bonnie was again playing Dolly.

I have some forms for your mother to complete, Ms. Randolph, so while my nurse is helping her with those, I’d like to talk with you for a moment or two in my office.

He escorted her into his office and motioned her toward a super-sized tan suede sofa. He sat down in the enormous swivel chair behind