Losing Faith Read online

  Losing Faith

  By Scotty Cade

  Father Cullen Kiley, a gay Episcopal priest on hiatus from the church, decides to take his boat, T-Time, from Provincetown, Massachusetts, to Southport, North Carolina, a place that holds an abundance of bittersweet memories for him. While on a run his first day in Southport, Cullen comes upon a man sitting on a park bench staring out over the Cape Fear River with his Bible in hand. The man’s body language reeks of defeat and desperation, and unable to ignore his compassion for his fellow man, Cullen stops to offer a helping hand.

  Southport Baptist Church’s Associate Pastor, Abel Weston, has a hard time managing his demons. When they get too overwhelming, he retreats to Southport’s Historic Riverwalk with his Bible in hand and stares out over the water, praying for help and guidance that never seem to come. But Abel soon discovers that help and guidance come in many forms.

  An unexpected friendship develops between the two men, and as Cullen helps Abel begin to confront his doubts and fears, he comes face-to-face with his own reality, threatening both their futures.

  First and foremost, this book is dedicated to my husband, Kell. He’s my true soul mate and has never wavered in his complete encouragement and never-ending support. Twenty-one years later and I still feel just as blessed as I did the day we met. I love you with all my heart.

  This book is also dedicated to anyone who is struggling with sexual identification, loneliness, addiction, isolation, depression, or any other negative thoughts or feelings. The darkest of nights can seem cold and lonely, and you may feel lost and alone, but there is always someone out there who can help you awaken to a brand new dawn. Cullen found Abel, and if you reach out, someone will find you as well.

  And lastly, if you see someone in need, please reach out. Don’t let fear or intimidation hinder your natural instinct to help. Trust me when I say if you don’t, it will stay with you forever.

  Preface

  HI, ALL. Scotty Cade here. Well, I’ve got to say I’m a little nervous about this one. This story deals with religion, faith, and the power of our dreams to help guide us to things that are right in front of our faces.

  I normally shy away from religion as subject matter because it is such a personal thing, but this book called to me so strongly, I couldn’t not write it. The story was inspired by a single moment in time. One instant when two virtual strangers made decisions that altered their lives. A personal encounter that stayed with me for weeks until I had no choice but to write the book.

  The only difference in my encounter versus the one in the book is that the fictional character did the right thing where I lacked the courage—a decision I will regret for the rest of my life.

  Here’s how it went. Kell and I were on our boat on our yearly trek down south and had just arrived in a little town called Southport, NC. It’s really a charming town, and we planned on staying there until December, before we moved farther south to Charleston. So after eight days on the water from Martha’s Vineyard, we were very excited to finally be there.

  On our first morning, at dawn, I went for my usual five-mile run and chose a route that took me along the Historic Southport Riverwalk. It was a beautiful morning, and the sun was just above the horizon, causing the dew on the grass to sparkle like little diamonds. I remember it so clearly.

  I was running along at my usual pace, enjoying my solitude with no one else in sight, when I saw a man sitting on a park bench quite a distance ahead of me. Even from my vantage point, his body language seemed ominous and overwhelmed. His elbows were resting on his knees, and he was staring blankly out over the Cape Fear River. As I got closer, I saw the man was extremely handsome, well-groomed, clean-cut, and very well-dressed in a crisp white shirt, dark slacks, and a tie. The type of guy one might describe as metrosexual. And he was holding a book and rubbing his thumb gently over its cover.

  Then the man moved his book a certain way, the sun reflected off of something gold, and I knew in my heart he was holding the Bible. The man really looked like he needed a friend. All sorts of possibilities ran through my head. Death. Depression. Illness. He was clearly struggling with something. I continued running toward him, trying to decide if I should stop, but I looked around, and there was no one except the two of us in the park. There were plenty of open park benches and swings overlooking the river, so I could think of no good reason to stop at his particular bench. In addition, I was fearful if I stopped, he might think I was trying to rob him—or even worse trying to pick him up. So therein lay my dilemma. Take a chance on being considered a pervert or stop to help someone who might be in need.

  I think you know where this is going. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the courage to stop, and I ran right past the guy. Truly, I don’t think he even saw me as he was so deep in thought. I did greet him as I passed, but if I got a response, I didn’t hear it.

  When I got back to the boat, I told Kell and the friends who were on board with us about my experience, and they seemed unaffected, but the encounter stayed with me all day and night. The next morning, I ran again. The same time and the same route. And I’ve done that every day we’ve been here—over a month. But I never saw the stranger again. Of course, this sent my mind into a tizzy of guilt. Was the guy sick? Or, even worse, was he so distraught he took his own life? All these ideas plagued me and stayed with me. Even after I started this book.

  Just know, although I am a very spiritual person, I’m not a particularly religious one. I have my own personal relationship with the man upstairs, but I’m not a fan of organized religion. In my humble opinion, organized religion sometimes gives a certain group of people the right to discriminate against others who are not like them in the name of their God. Those of us in the LGBTQ community have most recently seen this regarding the right to marry. I won’t give this woman any more publicity by mentioning her name, but you know to whom I’m referring. On the flip side, sometimes organized religion helps people be accepting of others. So there. I’m trying to be diplomatic.

  Anyway, this book focuses on two very different denominations. The Episcopal Church and the Southern Baptist Church. I did a lot of research on both, and apart from their mutual love of the Gospel, they have very little in common. The Episcopalians welcome everyone to worship. They even ordain women and gay men as priests and bishops, while on the other hand, the Southern Baptists do not believe in women as ordained ministers and believe homosexuality is a grave sin. In fact, if you are gay, you will only be welcomed into the church if you denounce your homosexual desires and seek their help to change your sexual orientation through prayer and fellowship.

  Now this is generalizing the denominations, and the last thing I want to do is offend, but for the record, I got all my information from the Southern Baptist Convention’s official website and the Episcopal Church’s official website. Their beliefs are clearly written there, and all you need to do is google either to see what I mean.

  However, the next part of the book delves into the power of our dreams. Many people believe dreams are an open doorway to our souls, a way for our lost loved ones to communicate with us. And… I just happen to be one of those people.

  But many others believe dreams are just our subconscious validating things we want to believe. Things like getting one last look at a lost loved one or simply knowing they are okay and have moved on. Things along those lines. In addition, when some people dream of a tragedy, they take it as a sign and try to avoid a certain situation, while others simply dismiss it as a nightmare triggered by something they saw on television or something someone said. In this book, one character’s dreams are portals, for lack of a better word, for a lost loved one to come back and try to help him move on with his life.

  I hope you take all of this as it is meant. The stor
y is one of loss, identity, hypocrisy, need, and love. Writing it has helped me gain a little closure by giving my characters the happy ending I so hope my stranger enjoyed and easing my guilt a little for not stopping to help a fellow man in need.

  Also, Kell and I loved Southport so much, I thought I would include a few photos so you can get a feel for the town’s charm and the locations I wrote about.

  I hope you enjoy!

  Scotty

  Southport, North Carolina

  Southport Baptist Church

  Southport Historic Riverwalk

  Angels descending bring from above

  Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

  Watching and waiting, looking above,

  Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

  —Fanny J. Crosby, Blessed Assurance

  Chapter One

  WHAT STUPIDITY!

  A Cabo sports fishing yacht had just blown past him at top speed, creating a massive, unpredictable, and potentially devastating wake. Cullen Kiley sucked in a ragged breath and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. While he prepared for the impact of the tsunami-like wave, Cullen said a prayer for the tiny houseboat off his starboard bow, which was surely going to be swamped. He didn’t know why he prayed. Out of habit, he guessed.

  On the Intracoastal Waterway, everyone was responsible for their own wake, so most boaters were kind, courteous, and offered nice slow passes to smaller boats. But not this guy. He was blowing past every boat on the busy waterway, literally leaving pandemonium in his wake.

  Cullen had little time to do anything but cut into the large waves and hope for the best. The first wave smashed against his hull, the impact sending T-Time, his forty-eight-foot Sea Ray motor yacht, rocking and rolling. He could hear objects flying off the shelves down below. He imagined drawers opening and slamming closed and then cringed when he heard one extra loud crash he couldn’t begin to identify.

  As usual, God hadn’t heard his prayer. The small houseboat in front of him nearly swamped, pitching hard from port to starboard and twisting violently in the gigantic wave. The captain was doing his best to keep her steady but not really succeeding.

  “Typical,” Cullen mumbled under his breath. “Thanks again, God.”

  Cullen heard the captain of the houseboat hail Knot Nice, the Cabo yacht, on the VHF radio, and he smiled when the captain called the guy every name under the sun.

  Knot Nice is right. Cullen had half a mind to hail the Coast Guard and report the maniac but figured unless they witnessed him operating his vessel dangerously, they really wouldn’t do anything but give him a warning.

  When the danger passed and Cullen had made sure the tiny houseboat didn’t need assistance, he put his boat in neutral, and breaking his own golden rule, he left the helm and ran down below. He never ever left the helm while underway, but since he’d decided to make this trip alone, he’d have to fudge on that rule a little.

  He just needed a few seconds to make sure there were no real catastrophes belowdecks. The saloon was a mess, with things strewn everywhere, but nothing that couldn’t wait until he docked later that afternoon. Cullen was about to head back to the helm when he spotted a pile of broken glass lying on the galley floor. Dread washed over him. Cole’s vase. Cullen closed his eyes and dropped his head in defeat. Then suddenly he looked up to the heavens and slammed his fist down onto the companionway steps. “Seriously, God? Of all the things to break?”

  Angry and forlorn, Cullen again took the helm, but his mood was now drastically different. So far, his trip from Provincetown, Massachusetts, to Southport, North Carolina, had gone exceptionally well. And if he were being honest, he had enjoyed it more than he’d anticipated, but now he was just ready for it to be over. And luckily for him, today was the last leg. Southport was just about a hundred miles ahead of him.

  He radioed the bridge tender for the Wrightsville Beach drawbridge, made the next opening, and was now cruising along at eighteen knots in an uninhabited stretch of the waterway. He looked at his watch. Six more hours, Cullen. You can do this.

  Diligently paying attention to the other snowbirds leaving the fast-approaching winter behind and making their way south for warmer climates, Cullen wondered about all the people onboard each boat he encountered. Who were they? What was their story? Where were they headed? For a quick moment, he questioned if they wondered the same about him. If they did, he’d bet his life they’d never guess his plight.

  Occasionally someone would radio him, switch to another frequency, and chat about where he was going, along with their own plans, but almost everyone would compliment him on the name of his boat and his logo. T-Time had a unique logo—a T-shirt with a large T across the chest and the word Time next to it. It had been Cole’s idea, and everyone thought it had to do with golf, but it was really an homage to Province T’s, Cole’s T-shirt shop in Provincetown.

  Being on the water had its usual effect on Cullen. His mood slowly improved, and he was finally starting to enjoy the unusually mild late October day. It was hard not to. The skies were bright blue, the winds were mild, and the currents were in his favor. He was even filled with a little anticipation for what lay ahead for him.

  After spending the last winter in P-town, enduring the endless blizzards and blistering cold and navigating four feet of snow on the ground all season, he’d decided he definitely wasn’t doing that again. So he’d closed up the T-shirt shop on Columbus Day and headed south to spend the winter in North Carolina.

  With just an hour to go before reaching his final destination, Cullen passed through Snow’s Cut waterway, and when he made the turn into the Cape Fear River, he was instantly reminded of the movie by the same name. It involved a convicted rapist who spent fourteen years in prison but eventually got out on a technicality and went in search of the prosecutor who put him away. He began to stalk the prosecutor and his family, who fled to their houseboat docked on the Cape Fear River and…. He forced himself to think of something else. That movie had scared the crap out of him and Cole, and he didn’t want to associate that fear or any negativity with his new winter home or with his memories of his and Cole’s time in Southport.

  On the long and very straight stretch of the Cape Fear River, Cullen engaged his autopilot and relaxed a little, recounting his trip. His journey had started at first light seven days ago. He’d crossed the Cape Cod Bay, watching the impending sunrise while sipping on his morning coffee. Eventually the cliffs and white sandy beaches of Cape Cod Bay gave way to the rocky shores of the Cape Cod Canal, which then took him through Buzzards Bay, Rhode Island Sound, and into Long Island Sound, where he spent his first night in Montauk, New York. The next few days brought him to the Atlantic Ocean and eventually to the entrance to the Intracoastal Waterway at Norfolk, Virginia. From there it was smooth sailing toward Southport.

  His mind wandered from his journey to his destination. Why Southport, of all the places he could have chosen? His only rationale was that he and Cole had made this trip two years ago, and the Southport Marina had been one of their stops on the way back up to Provincetown from Key West. While they were there, a production company had been filming the movie Safe Haven, with Julianne Hough and Josh Duhamel, and he and Cole had fallen in love with the charming little town.

  On his and Cole’s last day, they had stopped at a small wine and cheese shop near the marina and picked up a few bottles of wine, several cheeses, and a loaf of fresh-baked french bread. They’d sat on the bow of T-Time and watched the golden sun disappear below the horizon as they consumed their bounty. At about nine o’clock that evening, they were just about to turn in for the night when the crack of fireworks filled the night air and bright colors suddenly adorned the sky. The fireworks continued off and on for almost three hours. They’d found out from a dockhand when they were leaving that the movie crew had been filming a fireworks scene, and they had apparently needed multiple takes. It had been a magical evening, filled with wonder and amazement. Cullen remembered being as hap
py as he’d ever been. Little did he know that night had been the calm before the shit storm.

  Chapter Two

  SHAKING OFF the memories, Cullen rounded the bend where the Cape Fear River ended and the Intracoastal Waterway resumed. To his portside was Bald Head Island and the inlet from the Atlantic Ocean, and directly ahead to starboard was the Southport Marina. The little town of Southport was finally in sight. He slowed to idle speed and radioed the marina for docking information.

  The marina gave him his instructions, and he in turn informed them he was onboard alone and would need assistance at the dock. He put T-Time in neutral and once again left the helm to ready his lines. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not when they directed him to the main dock and a slip directly across from the slip he and Cole had occupied on their previous trip.

  It was nearing three thirty by the time Cullen connected the boat to the power supply, water, and cable television, and checked all the lines, making sure his boat was secure.

  Cullen then ventured down below to clean up the mess left behind by the captain of Knot Nice. He grumbled under his breath as he put all the waterway guides, magazines, books, candles, and the pictures of him and Cole back in their proper places. Then he looked in the direction of the galley. In his shaking hand, he still held one of his favorite pictures of Cole, who was arranging tulips in a small crystal vase and smiling up at the camera. The remains of that vase now covered the galley floor, along with the half dozen red and yellow tulips that always filled the vase when Cullen was onboard.

  Distraught, Cullen dropped to his knees to gather the flowers. He mentally cursed himself for not doing a better job of securing the vase that morning when he’d left Beaufort. But in a moment of anger, he shifted the blame. “No! I wedged it tightly behind the sink where it’s made each leg of this trip unharmed.” He once again looked up. “God! I’m getting really tired of these constant tests. You’ve already turned your back on me, so why can’t you just leave me alone. When is all of this going to end?”