Let me play prophet. I think Fitch will . . .”

Noah laid out a scenario of what Pearson Furniture might do in the next six months. “If we want to make any profit,” he concluded, “I think we should sell what we have now and then cover our losses by buying this stock to grow.”

The room fell silent. Sweat gathered on Satterwhite’s forehead, and he clenched
his jaw. Lee gave him a somber look. “Respond.”

Then Noah had the pleasure of watching his slick colleague scramble to defend his proposal. He managed to cover his lack of detailed analysis with a recitation of past successes, and the decision on Pearson eventually swung back to his side. That was fine with Noah. The doubt he’d wished to create sat squarely on the table, and no one would forget it.

On the way out, Noah walked by the kid who had taken his parking spot earlier in the morning. He grinned and complimented the kid’s natty tie.

By the time Noah got home that night, he’d forgotten all about the Bible study. He hadn’t even managed to read the first chapter of Ecclesiastes—and he hated to show up unprepared for anything. But he was stuck. He couldn’t even trot out the “you can’t believe the day I’ve had” excuse to keep from going; he had come home way too happy to pull off that one.

They ate a quick dinner at a restaurant near their house. All through the meal, Joan nattered on about Ecclesiastes. “I just don’t understand why God allowed Solomon to do all the things that he did,” she remarked as she forked up her salad. “I mean, how could he have had that many wives?”

Noah wondered the same thing, but for very different reasons. His mind flitted to the power of having a harem and picking a woman to be intimate with as casually as he would pick out a pair of shoes. He felt his breath quicken, but he knew better than to mention his thoughts to Joan. She would never understand.

After a quick supermarket stop, they found the apartment complex where Mark and Suzi lived, then meandered through the unfamiliar maze of driveways and parking lots before finally locating number 204 and snagging a parking space nearby. Suzi answered the door with her usual breathless giggle. “Hi, are you here for the Bible study? Of course you are.” She accepted the proffered bottles of soda and motioned them into the brightly lit living room.

Noah blinked. The whole place was a riot of country kitsch—rag dolls, teddy bears, fake “antique” signs and plaques with cutesy sayings, scented candles with clashing aromas, and painted knickknacks on every conceivable surface. Noah did not know whether to laugh or smirk, so he concentrated on finding a corner where he could avoid having to converse.

Noah hated the first few minutes of small talk when walking into any gathering because he never knew who to be. If people saw him as the expert, he felt he had to be the Wise One and stayed aloof. Or if people saw him as a regular Joe, a nameless face in the crowd, then he endured the loneliness of insignificance and tried to ignore why he felt like a failure. In either case, he felt he could never win.