Chapter One

"FREEZING IN HERE again," Gregg Stevens's brother commented, noting the central air unit's ongoing temperature regulation problems, when he entered his office at Wayward Angels. "You've got an appointment at a quarter after twelve?"

Gregg nodded. On his desk was a short stack of files that he closed one by one and set in a pile to the side. One of his own songs came on the radio, and he quickly turned it off. When his songs weren't played, his radio never went off in his office until he left for the day. "I'm hoping to hire someone to fix all the things that keep breaking down around here."

Craig'd come unusually early for lunch, but Gregg knew to expect that, just like he could always expect his brother to end up finding fault in everything he did, everything he said. And, sooner or later, their conversation would turn to Christie Renata Zondervan, Craig's "pet" artist, signed to his Contemporary Christian record label, Mission Records. Gregg had co-produced and co-written her second album—a bestseller that'd won her countless awards. Like an idiot, Gregg had gotten involved with her romantically earlier in the year. As soon as he realized she was falling for him, he broke it off. Despite the length of time since the event and how he and Christie had moved on with their lives, his brother remained fixated on the incident.

"Can the shelter afford that?" Craig asked, his frown revealing a multitude of questions he didn't need to voice. No doubt anticipating that it'd only get colder in the building, his brother opted to keep his jacket on.

Located in Milwaukee's Inner City, Wayward Angels shelters provided services for teenagers. Wayward Angels for Girls helped pregnant and drug-addicted teens learn how to live productive lives through the Jumpstart Program. They were given a place to live and training they could use to make a life for themselves when they left. Almost two years ago, Gregg opened its counterpart, Wayward Angels for Boys, which focused on troubled young males—drug addicts, law breakers, the abused and the lost. It also used the Jumpstart Program to help the boys learn how to live productive lives through adequate training that could lead to a job.

Under Gregg's supervision in the last year, the number of volunteers had tripled and their donations had skyrocketed so he and his friends no longer paid for most of the programs out of their own pockets. In addition to the regular shelter and services, they now offered a full-time medical clinic with psychiatric staff, and an outreach program to the local schools. Colleges and tech schools provided free education programs to the kids checked into the shelter, and local businesses regularly joined the cause by giving generous trial-period jobs to those who completed the training. Gregg's involvement covered every aspect of the shelter, and, as many had said, he'd found his calling in life, apart from the musical career he'd spent a lifetime pursuing without contentment.

Gregg shrugged. "I'll be paying the person I hire out of my pocket. We're only looking at a few hours a day. Volunteer salary."

At 6'2 with dark hair and eyes, the brothers were often told how much alike they looked—and how unalike their personalities were. Gregg wondered sometimes if his older brother wore his always-pressed trousers and fancy, white-button shirts to play raquetball. From the top of his well-trimmed head to his polished shoes, the guy looked elegantly uptight.

Craig pulled out the chair in front of the functional desk, then sat back in a position that conveyed comfort. Gregg knew he qualified as anything but. The drill was about to begin.

"So who is this person you're interviewing?" Craig asked, his tone smooth and unruffled.

Leaning on one padded arm of his cloth-covered chair, Gregg stretched his long legs out in front of him. This next reaction oughta be fun to watch. "Not sure. She said she saw the ad in the paper this morning and called. She's the first who's responded. Probably the last, too. I doubt too many'll be interested in a job like this. Not enough hours and little more than minimum wage."

Craig sat forward, impatiently waiting for Gregg to finish. His eyes all but bugged out when he demanded. "She?"

"Yeah, she." Gregg fought the grin of disbelief he felt rising inside him. "Wrap your small mind around the fact that some women have more mechanical skills than us, big brother."

Onyx eyes narrowed, Craig scolded him in his expression and tone. "What kind of experience has she had?"

"She said she could fix anything."

A hoot of incredulity escaped Craig. "You don't find that vague?"

Gregg couldn't help wondering what made a person set himself against something before he knew anything about it. "I figured I'd interview her in person instead of the phone. That's usually how it's done. I didn't get a chance to call you to tell you we'd have to skip lunch today." He flipped the radio back on.

One of Christie's older songs played, and for an instant, his brother seemed immobilized by the sound of her voice. Then he shook his head as if he'd been in a trance. "Maybe I'll stick around. I have experience hiring mechanics."

After he completed college and seminary in Chicago, Craig had come to Milwaukee and started Mission Records. He owned his own business, yeah, but Gregg knew he just wanted to stick his nose in where it wasn't needed or wanted. Craig did a lot of volunteer work for Wayward Angels himself, but he didn't hold an official position. Not that it stopped him from constantly telling Gregg the best way to run the place. Namely, his way.

You're unbelievable. Nothing I do'll ever make you give me any credit. You'll never see me as anything but a loser who threw his life away until two years ago. Might as well have some fun with ya, if I can't win your approval.

Gregg stood and gathered the files he'd just signed off on. As he opened his office door and dropped them into the bin attached to the door—where Chad, the administrative assistance could pick them up easily as he moved from office to office—he asked casually, "So how are album sales?"

He turned back in time to see the look of uncertainty that always came over his brother's face at the mention of his business. Christie's first album, produced by Craig, had made a minor splash. The rest of his artists couldn't be considered well-known. Christie's second record, with Gregg's help, flew to the top of the charts. Along with Gregg's own first Christian album, Someday You'll Need Me, the two releases put Craig's record label on the map…and made him a fair amount of money. But Christie hadn't made an album since, and Gregg'd withdrawn from music entirely after his first Christian album sent him down paths he'd never wanted to take again. Without Gregg involved, his brother's company declined once more—not that he'd ever acknowledge Gregg's hand in his own success.

"It's a slow time of year for album sales," Craig offered.

Gregg shrugged, flipping through the stack of messages Chad delivered earlier and he hadn't looked at yet. "I wouldn't know. I never had a problem with slow sales."

His first few albums, in the bluesy rock style he loved, had broken just about every record in existence for sales. To date, they still sold in droves, though he'd left behind his music career long ago. He'd walked away at a time when he'd essentially been on top of his game the world over. Craig had tried fruitlessly to get him to make a Christian album for a long time, and, when Gregg finally agreed, his fans seemed to have been waiting anxiously for it. But he'd realized he couldn't serve the Lord and make music. One way or another, the music lifestyle always messed him up.

Copyright © 2005 Karen Wiesner.