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  Praise for Healing Waters

  “The authors use a mix of humor and grace to tell a meaningful story that many readers will be able to relate to in their own struggles with size and image.”

  —Library Journal

  “Evangelical Christian writing duo Rue and Arterburn collaborate again in this follow-up to Healing Stones, the first of many (one hopes) Sullivan Crisp Novels . . . This well-written tale will move and engage readers in its volatile mix of questionable religious healing claims and the real deal—inner restoration of the soul.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Healing Waters washes over you, leaving you gasping for air . . . an intriguing must-read.”

  —CBA Retailers+Resources

  “The characterization is so complete and compelling, it’s hard to believe any reader can close the cover unchanged . . . Anyone who’s ever questioned their faith because life seemed to reward the wicked and smash the faithful needs to read Healing Waters and recalibrate their beliefs about God’s character.”

  —Titletrakk.com

  “The second book featuring quirky psychologist Sullivan Crisp is as stunning as the first. The shocking, gripping story, coupled with realistically broken characters, adds up to another triumph. The clear spiritual message about God’s love despite our weakness is stellar.”

  —Romantic Times

  HEALING WATERS

  Nancy Rue and

  Stephen Arterburn

  © 2008 by Nancy Rue and Stephen Arterburn

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Published in association with Alive Communications, 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO, 80920, www.alivecommunicaitons.com.

  Page design by Mandi Cofer.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rue, Nancy N.

  Healing waters / Nancy Rue & Stephen Arterburn.

  p. cm. — (Sullivan Crisp ; 2)

  ISBN 978-1-59554-431-5 (trade pbk.)

  1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Eating disorders—Fiction. 3. Aircraft accidents—Fiction. 4. Counselors—Fiction. I. Arterburn, Stephen, 1953– II. Title.

  PS3568.U3595H433 2008

  813’.6—dc22

  2008042008

  Printed in the United States of America

  09 10 11 12 13 RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5

  Sometimes a work of fiction is so achingly real it reads more like a conversation with a close friend than a story. Healing Waters is one of those books. We chose it as Women of Faith’s 2009 Novel of the Year precisely for that reason.

  The main character is like many of us, our friends, and the women who join us every year at Women of Faith events. Lucia is concerned about her weight and her marriage. She has unresolved issues with her family. Her relationship with God is shaky. And she’s desperately trying to keep it all together so she can take care of everyone else.

  Sound familiar?

  Here’s the beauty of Healing Waters: Lucia starts where many of us live. But she doesn’t stay there. Through a series of events—some shocking, some beautiful—Lucia grows into a much healthier woman. Not a perfect woman, by any means, but one who is definitely farther along the road to recovery. She does this with the help of a counselor named Sullivan Crisp, a man who has to do some healing of his own.

  Stephen Arterburn and Nancy Rue have crafted a wonderful book that uses a fictional story to address very real issues. If you’re like me, you’ll be so engrossed in the lives of Lucia and her family you may not realize at first all you’re learning about relationships, about faith . . . possibly even about yourself.

  For every woman struggling with self worth, here’s Healing Waters. I think you’ll find the water is just fine.

  In His Love for You,

  Mary Graham

  For the brave and honest participants of Lose It For Life,

  who have made healing their choice.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  CHAPTER ONE

  I had done everything on my list. Everything but the last item.

  Neat black checks marked the first five to-dos:

  paint bathroom

  put last layer on torte

  redo makeup

  call modeling agency—say NO

  shave legs

  Before the traffic moved again and I made the turn into tiny Northeast Airport, I put a second check beside number five. I’d shaved twice. Chip liked my legs hairless as a fresh pear. Not that I expected him to be interested in them or in any other part of my ample anatomy, but it couldn’t hurt to be prepared for a miracle. In truth, I’d probably broken out the razor again just to procrastinate— because I wasn’t sure I could do the sixth thing on the list.

  I snatched the paper from the seat next to me and folded it one-handed as I pulled up to the gate marked EXECUTIVE AIRPORT PARKING. I was still trying to stuff the thing into my purse when an attendant marinating in boredom slid open the window in the booth. She drew sparse eyebrows together and mouthed something I couldn’t hear. Of course. My car window was still up.

  I pushed the button and felt like I’d just opened an oven door. As the aroma of jet fuel joined the July heat, the makeup melted from my face.

  “Help you?” the woman said.

  “I’m meeting my sister’s private jet,” I said.

  “Name.”

  “Lucia Coffey. Oh—did you want my name or hers?”

  “Don’t
need your name.”

  Staring vacantly at some point beyond me, she smeared her wrist across her forehead and produced a damp cuff. My mascara gathered in puddles at the corners of my eyes. I didn’t even want to think about the damage in my armpits.

  The woman shifted her gaze to a computer screen. “Who’s it you’re meeting?”

  “Sonia Cabot,” I said. “Abundant Living Ministries?”

  The attendant’s colorless eyes met mine for the first time. “She that woman on TV? Does the show for people got somebody dyin’?”

  I gave my watch a surreptitious glance. I would be the one dying if I had to run from the car to the terminal to meet them on time. Just sitting there I was already dissolving like a pat of butter in a skillet.

  “She’s your sister?”

  I looked up, unsurprised at the sudden interest on Apathy Woman’s face. The tinge of suspicion didn’t shock me either. I waited for the usual next question: Are you sure? To be punctuated with: You don’t look anything like her.

  I was tempted to save her the trouble and say, Sonia’s adopted, which wasn’t true. Or, Usually I look more like her than this, but I’m pregnant, which wasn’t true either. The bulge hanging over the elastic in my pants resulted from pure mashed potatoes and gravy.

  “Where do I park?” I said instead.

  She perused the clipboard and, the epitome of servanthood now, pointed. “Just to the left of that building. Door’s on the end. You better hurry. Plane’s due in about five minutes.”

  I resisted blurting out a No kidding?

  She knew who Sonia was, which meant I should be careful not to smudge the image. Besides, as I headed for the small, unimpressive terminal building, I had other things to deal with. Like the fact that my hands were now sliding off the steering wheel and my face felt like I’d baked it in the aforementioned oven.

  When I parked, a glance in the rearview mirror confirmed it. My cheeks were the color of a pair of tomatoes. I pawed in my purse for Kleenex, found none, and grabbed the list. I tamped it against my forehead, my vine-ripened cheeks, my neck, and then viewed the half bottle of L’Oreal foundation I’d spread on them so carefully just an hour before. So much for the ’do as well. Dark curls, the only thing on me that I wanted to be plump, had flattened to my head in strips.

  A jet taxied in already, white and sleek, the sun glinting from it like an insult as it made a ninety-degree turn to come perpendicular to the terminal.

  The hair was hopeless. Ditto for the sweat situation. My black tunic, permanently glued to the Spandex shaper beneath, cooked my skin and did little to keep the fat under control. I dabbed at my raccoon eyes with my fingers, wiped them on my black pants, and climbed out of my PT Cruiser.

  The list dropped at my feet and I would have abandoned it, except that all I needed was for Sonia or someone from her entourage to see it when we got back to the car. Especially the last entry:

  • tell Sonia I want my husband back

  I debated whether to grab the Tupperware of truffles I’d planned for Sonia and whoever to have for the ride to my house. My cookies would be a soup of chocolate and coconut by the time we got back here anyway.

  Oh, let it go, Lucia.

  A guy in one of those sketched-in-with-a-pencil goatees and a dark blue jumpsuit he’d rolled up to his knees and elbows opened the door for me, then pushed it further, as if he could somehow make the doorway expand. He avoided meeting my eyes as he slipped out.

  “Is that the plane from Nashville?” I said. “Sonia Cabot’s plane?”

  He didn’t impress as easily as the lady at the gate. Probably didn’t pause on the Christian Broadcasting Network while channel surfing.

  “Guess so,” he said before he disappeared.

  My heart immediately slammed against my chest wall.

  My husband was home.

  I got through the empty waiting room—a miniature version of any I’d ever been in—to a row of seats that faced the window overlooking the tarmac, and perched on the edge of one. An image of getting stuck and having to Crisco my hips in order for emergency personnel to pry me loose while I watched my svelte sister descend the steps from the plane plastered itself across my mental screen. Behind her would be Chip, shading his eyes with his hand and, I hoped, looking for the wife he hadn’t seen in three months. He’d have a hard enough time disguising his reaction to my recently acquired thirty pounds, layered over the extra fifty he surely hoped I had shed by now, without finding me trapped in a chair, awaiting the Jaws of Life.

  I tried to breathe in the blessed cooled air, tried to erase the screen and form a cheerier picture. One of me running into his arms and finding the grizzly-bear chest and sinking into his smell: Downy fabric softener and spearmint gum and something musky and masculine I could never define. Then he would look into my face in that searching way, trying to memorize it, he always said.

  I wilted further. Would there even be an embrace? Or would I draw back from a peck on the cheek? A backslapping hug with a quick release?

  I opened my purse and groped for my Snickers, then remembered that I’d already polished it off driving down I-95. I was about to look around for a vending machine when the high-pitched whine of the jet engine pierced the glass. The plane made a maddeningly slow turn toward the crew of two that awaited it, almost as if Sonia were sneaking into Philadelphia.

  Her assistant had said she wanted our visit to be quiet. She didn’t have much time before she had to fly out to Pittsburgh, and she wanted us to have some “just family” togetherness—the implication being that I shouldn’t invite any celebrity hounds over. I didn’t tell her that none of my acquaintances were into Abundant Living. I wasn’t even into it. I wanted to see Sonia-my-sister.

  And then again, I didn’t want to see her.

  I stood up as the wheels finally stopped rolling and the engine wound down. Two crewmen, one of them Pencil Whiskers, moved in and placed yellow blocks under the wheels. No one’s face pressed against a window, no hand waved an eager greeting. I tried not to sag. Maybe Chip was too busy grabbing his overnight bag— The thought that my husband might come home after three months with only enough clothes for a weekend brought on a new onslaught of sweat.

  The jet door popped open and began the slow hydraulic fall downward to become the stairs. A girl who looked to be about sixteen scurried out and down the steps like a startled squirrel. Pencil Whiskers swaggered over to her, and she scooped a mane of brunetteness into a handheld ponytail as she chattered at him. He slid his earmuff off one ear and chattered back. So he did actually have a vocabulary beyond “Guess so.”

  The girl hurried toward the building, letting the ponytail loose, and my eyes went back to the jet’s open doorway. No one else appeared. I could feel bubbles of sweat forming on my upper lip.

  Chip hadn’t come. He’d sent this teenager to tell me we were done. She pulled open the door and scanned the waiting area. Her eyes skipped over me at first and then tripped back with unmasked disbelief.

  Yes, believe it or not, I’m Sonia Cabot’s sister.

  “You’re not Lucia, are you?” she said.

  Everything in me wanted to scream that, no, I was not. That the real Lucia Brocacini Coffey stood as tall and slim and poised and stunning as her sister. That this dumpy woman whose waist had long since disappeared, whose chins repeated themselves, whose long sleeves in the ninety-degree heat didn’t disguise the dangles of fat that hung like bags of pudding from her arms—this woman was no relation to the famous Sonia Brocacini Cabot at all.

  “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  “Oh. Awesome.”

  I had to hand it to her: she recovered nicely. She came at me like Mary Lou Retton in her prime and extended a slender arm that flowed from the strap of her sundress.

  “I’m Marnie,” she said, in an accent so Southern I was sure she was putting me on. “Sonia’s personal assistant? We e-mailed back and forth?”

  I skipped the Nice to meet you and looked through the window
at the jet.

  “Where’s Sonia?” I said. “Where’s Chip?”

  She smiled, revealing almost blue-white teeth, and wrinkled her pert nose. “Oh, they’re here. Yeah, they can’t wait to see you.”

  Obviously. That would explain why I saw no sign of them.

  “Sonia wants you to come aboard.” Dusty or Bambi or whatever her name was glanced around the terminal, this time giving her nose a more disdainful crinkle. “Yeah, it’s way nicer on the plane.”

  It was also “way nicer” at my house, but discussing that with this child was pointless. As I followed her to the door, I decided she was at least in her early twenties, but she couldn’t have weighed more than a Big Mac or two, most of which was firmly shaped into her breasts.

  Again she told me that Sonia and Chip couldn’t wait to see me and that it was much nicer on the plane than in the terminal, and I began to wonder if she were actually a robot who had been programmed with only four sentences. She finally varied that with, “So, you’re a nurse. That’s awesome”—but by then I was chugging up the steps behind her and could only grunt.

  Good. Already a soggy mass of sweaty flesh and ruined makeup, now I’d be a soggy mass breathing like a locomotive. By now Perky Patty stood at the top, wrinkling a smile as if I didn’t look and sound about to go into cardiac arrest.

  “Here she comes,” Perky said into the plane, and then, with a waft of her arm, stepped back to allow me to pass. I had to press against her to get through. She flattened herself prettily against the bulkhead.

  Whether it was nicer inside the jet than in the terminal, I couldn’t say. I only saw Chip, ducking his head to emerge from a doorway and still grazing the top with his sparse, spiky, sandy hair. How could I have forgotten how his eyes had faded? Why was I surprised that those square shoulders that used to balance his head as if he were wearing a crown were still slightly slumped? Why had I expected that he would have changed back to the Chip I first knew?

  “Hey, babe,” he said. At least his voice was still a sandpapered tenor.

  With a steaming cup in one hand, he pressed me to him with the other arm.