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  Praise for The Chair

  “James L. Rubart is one of my new favorite authors. The Chair has the same depth and creativity as Rooms, and it was impossible for me to think of anything else until I finished it. I can’t wait for his next book!”

  —Terri Blackstock, author of Intervention and Vicious Cycle

  “The genius behind Rooms has struck again, leaving his readers hanging on for an extreme ride that rushes to conclude with a surprise, but satisfying twist.”

  —Harry Kraus, MD, best-selling author of The Six-Liter Club

  “The Chair is a compelling story that will draw the reader’s attention immediately and hold onto it until the end. I’ve enjoyed all of James L. Rubart’s books, but this may be my favorite.”

  —Tracie Peterson, best-selling author of the Striking A Match series and Song of Alaska

  “My kind of story: Thought provoking, filled with the truth of humanity and the compassion of Christ.”

  —Bill Myers, best-selling author of Eli and The God Hater

  “James L. Rubart has taken an inanimate object—a chair—and built a page-turning story around it, interweaving romance, danger, mystery, betrayal . . . and most of all, a message of healing and restoration. Taking readers far beneath the surface, Rubart masterfully paints a picture of God’s depth of love and longing for relationship with even those who are running away from Him as fast as they can. A tale of unimaginable sacrifice and unconditional love that will tug at your heart long after you’ve completed the last page.”

  —Kathi Macias, award-winning author of Deliver Me from Evil and A Christmas Journey Home

  Other Novels by James L. Rubart

  Rooms

  Book of Days

  Copyright © 2011 by James L. Rubart

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-7152-4

  Published by B&H Publishing Group

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: SPIRITUAL HEALING—FICTION CHAIRS—FICTION SUSPENSE FICTION

  Scripture taken from the Holman Christian Standard Bible® Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2002, 2003, 2009 by Holman Bible Publishers. All rights reserved.

  Publisher’s Note: The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 • 15 14 13 12 11

  For my Good Buddy, and for the gift of restoration

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Dear Reader

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  Hold a true friend with both your hands.

  NIGERIAN PROVERB

  CHAPTER 1

  On Tuesday afternoon at five thirty, an elderly lady strode into Corin’s antiques store as if she owned it and said, “The next two months of your life will be either heaven or hell.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up a fraction. It was almost a smile.

  “Excuse me?” Corin Roscoe stared at her over the mound of bills in front of him and stifled a laugh.

  White hair, deep smile lines etched into her high cheekbones—she had to be at least mid-seventies. Maybe eighty, but she moved like she was in her forties. She wore a dark tan coat that bounced off her calves as she strolled toward Corin, ice blue eyes full of laughter. She didn’t look crazy.

  “I’ve brought you the chair, you see.” She stared at him as if that statement would explain everything.

  Corin brushed his dark hair off his forehead and slid off the stool behind his sales counter. “What chair?”

  The woman looked around the store like a schoolteacher evaluating a new classroom of students. Her eyes seemed to settle on the pile of precisely stacked books from the 1700s. “I love books, you know.”

  Something about her was familiar. “Do I know you?” He took a step toward the woman.

  “No.” Her laugh had a tinge of music in it. “I hardly think so.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a fortune-teller, right? And think a little heaven and a little hell is coming my way. Can’t I just subscribe to your newsletter?”

  She drew a circle in the air with her forefinger, cherry red nail polish flashing under the halogen lights of Corin’s antiques store. “Probably an interweaving of the two realms. And I believe you’ll discover the hope of restoration. The final outcome will, of course, be your choice.”

  Corin smiled. “You know, people think I’m a little crazy because of what I do for fun, but I don’t think I have anything on you.”

  She didn’t react; only stared at him, utter confidence in her eyes.

  The lady had a sophisticated air about her in contrast with her odd proclamation. Since opening the store in his late twenties, Corin had entertained seven years of the occasional strange customer, but this lady was more than unusual. Her confidence and striking looks made her words almost believable.

  “You need it.”

  “I think this is the moment you tell me who you are or I kindly ask you to leave.”

  The woman gazed out the windows toward Silva’s Ski Shop across the street. “It is with regret that I cannot do that yet, but be assured eventually I will.” The hint of a smile returned. “Now, I must be going, so if you could help me get the chair inside, I will extend you great appreciation.” She motioned toward the front door of the store. “It isn’t heavy, but we will want to be careful. It is priceless.”

  Just outside the door a tan sheet covered what must be the chair the lady referred to.

  She stared at Corin, waiting, as if there were a contest going on to see who would drop their eyes first.

  “I didn’t order a chair.” Corin opened his palms. “Sorry. And wouldn’t you know it? I’m overstocked with them this month already.” He smiled. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Listen to me.” She intertwined her fingers, brought her thumbs up under her chin, and pointed her forefingers at him.

  “Okay.” Corin chuckled.

  “This is a very special chair.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Corin cocked his head and winked.

  “Don’t mock me.” Her eyes locked on to his.

  Corin took half a step back. If her eyes
were lasers, smoke would already be curling skyward above his lifeless body. “My apologies. I’m sure your chair is exceptional, but my warehouse on the east edge of town is full of antique chairs that have collected dust for over six months. There isn’t a big demand for chairs in my store right now.”

  Corin studied the lady. The lines carved into her light skin hinted of joy and pain, both in full measure. Her eyes, fire a moment ago, had softened and spoke of compassion and longing. Would it hurt to help her a bit?

  “If you have any desks, I’ll take a look at those. I could buy two or three, maybe more depending on their condition. And I can take the chair on consignment if you like. No charge whatsoever to display it.”

  She looked at Corin as if observing a small child. “You’ve misunderstood. I am not asking you to buy the chair. I am giving it to you.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “You are to have it.” She motioned again toward the door.

  “I am?” Corin slid his hands into his jeans and eased toward the woman. “Who made that decision?”

  She stared at him and gave a faint smile but didn’t answer.

  “And what if I don’t want this gift?”

  “You do.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head for a few seconds. What was she doing? Praying? “You will.”

  “You seem confident of that.”

  “Most certainly. It is a stunning piece.” She looked down, laid a finger on the edge of a nineteenth-century French walnut side table to her right, and drew her finger slowly across the wood. “It was made by the most talented tekton craftsman the world has ever known.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “You’ll figure it out, Corin.” She looked back up at him, the knowing smile back on her face. “I believe in you.”

  He didn’t need to figure it out. He needed to get back to figuring out how he would keep the bank from saying, “Thank you very much. The few items from centuries past that you still have in your possession are now ours.”

  The lady continued to stare at him.

  It was obvious she wouldn’t leave till she got what she wanted. And what would it hurt? Free? The price was right. And if it was hideous, he could use it in the fire pit in his backyard. Or give it away as a white elephant Christmas gift in a little over two months.

  “Okay, you win.” Corin grinned. “How ’bout I take a look at it and tell you what I think?”

  “Of course.”

  She stepped outside to get the chair, and a burst of cool autumn air swirled through the front door. Colorado Springs was normally in the low sixties this time of year, but it felt more like mid-fifties today.

  Corin followed her out. “Here, let me get it.” Thin twine ran up and over the sheet that covered the chair and around its sides holding it in place. He leaned over, grabbed the arms of the chair, and immediately felt a mild shock, like he’d shuffled his feet double-time on carpet, then touched something metal.

  “Wow!” Corin stumbled back a step and rubbed his fingers.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, just a little, uh, electric shock.” He leaned over and picked up the chair.

  “I see.” She raised her right eyebrow.

  The woman held open the store door for Corin as he carried it inside. She strode to a spot near his picture window that faced the street and motioned toward the floor with her hands in a big circle. “Here. It should go here.”

  Corin set the chair down and stepped back.

  With a miniature pocketknife the woman cut the twine and let it tumble to the floor, then grabbed the middle of the sheet covering the chair. “Ready?”

  “Sure.” Corin held back a smile. He almost expected her to play a piece of classical music before pulling off the sheet. The lady glanced at him, then uncovered the chair as if she were revealing a glass-blown unicorn from seventeenth-century Venice.

  Corin wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Most talented craftsman the world has ever known? Certainly not for this piece. Describing it as plain would be generous. The only thing intriguing about the chair was the age. It looked older than any antique he’d ever seen. Made of olive wood, most likely. He strolled toward the chair, then circled it.

  His first assessment was wrong. As he studied it longer, he realized its minimalism masked a complex beauty.

  Interesting.

  And its finish was . . . he didn’t know. He’d never seen one like it before. Almost a translucent gold.

  He stepped forward and rubbed his finger along its back. Again a tingling sensation ran through his fingers, lighter this time as if he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket with a minimal current flowing through it. But the feeling wasn’t painful. It was almost warm and tinged with energy. An instant later he felt . . . refreshed. As if he’d just taken a twenty-minute power nap.

  He pulled his hand back and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Strange.” He turned to the woman.

  “Did you feel something when you touched the chair?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Like electricity. And energy.”

  She nodded as if she expected his answer and wanted him to continue speaking.

  “What did I feel?”

  “It’s a very special chair.”

  “Why is it special? Why did it do that to me?”

  “I hope you find out, but that will, of course, be your choice.” She eased over to it and placed both her hands on top of its back and slowly slid them down the sides as she knelt. The woman sighed and again bowed her head.

  “Where did it come from? Who made it?”

  She stood. “I told you. A craftsman.”

  “His name?”

  She kept speaking as if she hadn’t heard him. “Who lived long ago.”

  “What was his name?”

  She looked up. “It’s not important right now. In time it will be. So give this the time it needs.”

  She smiled, Julia Roberts wide, then turned and walked toward the front door of his store.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m sorry, Corin. I must.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few more questions about this chair.”

  “I would like that.”

  “Great.” Corin pulled out his cell phone and punched up his calendar. “When can we set a time to—?”

  “I am sorry; I have to go now.” The lady put her hand on the doorknob.

  Corin walked toward her. “Do you have a card?”

  “No.”

  “And if I want to reach you?”

  “Don’t worry, my dear Corin. I will be in touch. I am very curious to see how this whole drama turns out.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You are sharp, aren’t you?” She laughed. “There isn’t much you miss I imagine.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me.”

  “No, not right now.” She opened the door and stepped through it, then turned. “Oh, and Corin?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t worry about sitting in the chair till you’re ready.” She strolled away and faded into the late-afternoon sun.

  Corin closed his front door and stared at it till the bells on it went silent.

  This one deserved a page in the manuscript of his book Strange Antiques, Stranger Customers. Maybe a whole chapter.

  He shook his head and sighed. When he was her age, he hoped his eccentricity would be more self-contained than what he’d just witnessed.

  Corin spun on his heel and eased back to the chair. Had he really felt something?

  No question. And it wasn’t a buildup of electricity on his carpet since his floors were made of ash hardwood.

  He reached out, like he was sneaking up on a butterfly, and stopped with only centimeters between the tip of his forefinger and the chair.

  After sucking in a deep breath and holding it for ten seconds, he let it out slowly as he leaned slightly forward and touche
d the chair.

  Nothing.

  He ran his fingers up and down the sides and along the edges of the seat.

  This time there was no sensation. Did he imagine it? He’d been positive a moment ago.

  Corin trudged back toward his six-by-six-foot office, past the sales counter, which had been sleepy for far too long, and slumped into one of the nineteenth-century black harvest stenciled Hitchcock chairs he’d restored four months back.

  Two years ago the chair would have brought him a fifteen-hundred-dollar profit on a bad day. Now it seemed to be nothing more than a conversation piece for the curious window-shoppers who wanted to dream of older, better days when the world wasn’t filled with chaos but who didn’t feel a need to sacrifice any coin of the realm to acquire it for their homes.

  Better days.

  A distant memory professionally.

  An ancient memory personally.

  Corin opened his desk drawer and stared at the framed eight-by-ten picture resting on top of a thick stack of photos. Two men in their mid-twenties on street luges screamed around a corner at seventy miles an hour in matching black-and-red leather coats, inches from the ground, one thumb up and grins beneath their helmets. At least he thought Shasta had been smiling. Corin had been.

  His brother had signed the shot, just like they signed all of their photos documenting their abundant adventures, and they’d added the caption, “To insanity and beyond!”

  That had been their catchphrase, inspired by seeing Toy Story when they were teenagers. Buzz might go to infinity and beyond; their taste for extreme sports had taken them farther.

  Too far.

  Corin closed his eyes, tossed the photo back into the drawer, and slammed it shut.

  Never again.

  No more riding the thermals up to seventeen thousand feet on their hang gliders. No more flinging themselves thirty feet into the air on their dirt bikes. No more repelling into caves they might never climb out of.