Authors: Francine Rivers
Tags: #FICTION / Christian / General, #FICTION / General
Visit Tyndale online at
Check out the latest about Francine Rivers at
and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 1999, 2006 by Francine Rivers. All rights reserved.
Discussion guide questions written by Peggy Lynch.
Cover photograph taken by Stephen Vosloo copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli
Edited by Karen M. Ball
Scripture quotations are taken from the
, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations in the discussion questions are taken from the
, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rivers, Francine, date
Leota’s garden / Francine Rivers.
ISBN 978-0-8423-3572-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-8423-3498-3 (softcover)
Second repackage published in 2013 under ISBN 978-1-4143-7065-1.
ISBN 978-1-4143-8334-7 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8333-0 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8332-3 (Apple)
Build: 2013-02-15 13:20:38
To my grandmothers, women of strength and faith—
Margaret Eleanor King
Anna Toresia Johnson
No book is ever written without the help of many people. I would like to thank:
May Sandine for sharing her memories;
Jim Ruppert and Cyndi Perez of Exchange Bank in Windsor, for patiently answering my questions regarding banking;
Tim Moore and his assistant, Dianne Moore, at Edward D. Jones in Sebastopol for information about the stock market;
Rosie Sanchez Wagner at Fred Young and Company Funeral Directors for answering some delicate questions;
Patricia Rushford for sharing her expertise on home care for the elderly. Her book,
Caring for Your Elderly Parents
, was invaluable;
and Karen Ball for encouraging while editing.
Corban Solsek’s heart dropped and his stomach clenched tight when he saw the B on his sociology proposal. The shock of it made heat pour into his face and then recede in the wake of cold anger. He’d worked hard on this outline for his term project! He’d checked his information and sources, reviewed the methods by which he planned to present his ideas, and proposed a program. He should’ve received an A!
Opening the folder, he glanced through the perfectly typed pages, looking for corrections, comments, anything that might give an indication of why he hadn’t received what he knew he deserved.
Not one red check anywhere. No comment. Nothing.
Stewing, Corban flipped open his notebook, wrote the date, and tried to concentrate on the lecture. Several times Professor Webster looked straight at him as he spoke, singling him out from the other hundred and twenty students inhabiting the tiers of desks. Each time Corban stared back for a few seconds before looking down and scribbling some more notes. He had great respect for Professor Webster, which made the grade even harder to take.
I’ll challenge him. I don’t have to accept this without a fight.
It wasn’t a
proposal. It was
He wasn’t a mediocre student. He poured his heart and soul into his work, and he intended to make sure he was treated fairly. Hadn’t his father instilled that in him?
“You have to fight for yourself, Cory. Don’t let anybody kick you around. They kick you, kick ’em back harder. Knock ’em down and make sure they don’t get up again. I didn’t bring up my son to take any guff from anybody.”
His father had worked his way to the top of a trucking company through hard labor and fierce determination. He’d done it all, from truck driver to mechanic to sales to administration to CEO, and finally to part owner of the company. He was proud of his accomplishments while at the same time embarrassed by his lack of formal education. He’d never gotten further than the sophomore year of high school. He’d quit to help support his mother and younger siblings after his father died of a massive heart attack.
The same kind of heart attack that killed him the year after he retired, leaving a wealthy widow and two sons and a daughter with healthy trust funds.
“Focus on where you’re going,” his father had always said. “Get into a good college. The best, if possible. Stick it out. Don’t let anything or anyone get in your way. Get yourself a sheepskin from a big-name college and you’re halfway up the ladder before you have your first job.”
No way was Corban going to accept this grade. He’d worked too hard. It wasn’t fair.
“Did you have something to say, Mr. Solsek?” Professor Webster stood staring at him from his podium.
Corban heard several students laugh softly. There was the rustle of papers and the creak of seats as others turned and looked back at him where he sat in the center middle row.
“Your pencil, Mr. Solsek,” the professor said with an arched brow. “This isn’t a percussion instrument class.”
Corban’s face flooded with heat as he realized he’d been tapping his pencil while his mind raced in agitation. “Sorry.” He flipped it into the proper position for writing and aimed a quelling glance at two twittering coeds. How did those airheads make it into Berkeley anyway?
“Are we ready to proceed then, Mr. Solsek?” Professor Webster looked back at him with a faint smile.
Embarrassment melted into anger.
The jerk’s enjoying this.
Now Corban had two reasons to feel indignant: the unfair grade and public humiliation. “Yes, sir, any time you are.” He forced a dry smile and a pretense of calm disdain.
By the end of the lecture, the muscle in Corban’s jaw ached from tension. He felt as though he had a two-ton elephant sitting on his chest. He took his time stuffing his notebook into the backpack already crammed with books and two small binders. Thankfully, the other students cleared out of the lecture hall in quick fashion. Only two or three paused to make any remarks to Professor Webster, who was now erasing the board. Corban kept the report folder in his hand as he walked down the steps toward the podium.
Professor Webster stacked his notes and tucked them into a file folder. “Did you have a question, Mr. Solsek?” he said, putting the folder into his briefcase and snapping it shut. He looked at Corban with those dark, shrewd eyes.
“Yes, sir.” He held out his report. “I worked very hard on this.”
“There wasn’t a single correction.”
“No need. What you had there was very well presented.”
“Then why a B and not an A?”
Professor Webster rested his hand on the briefcase. “You have the makings of an excellent term paper from that proposal, Mr. Solsek, but you lacked one major ingredient.”
How could that be? He and Ruth had both gone over the paper before he turned it in. He had covered everything. “Sir?”
“The human element.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The human element, Mr. Solsek.”
“I heard you, sir. I just don’t understand what you mean. The entire paper is
on the human element.”
“Is that so?”
Corban stifled his anger at Webster’s sardonic tone. He forced himself to speak more calmly. “How would you suggest I make it more apparent, sir?” He wanted an A in this course; he wasn’t going to accept
less. Sociology was his major. He had maintained a 4.0 for three years. He wasn’t going to break that perfect record now.
“A case study would help.”
Corban flushed with anger. Obviously the professor hadn’t read his paper carefully enough. “I incorporated case studies. Here. On page 5. And more here. Page 8.” He had backed up everything he had proposed with case studies. What was Professor Webster talking about?
“Collected from various volumes. Yes, I know. I read your documentation, Mr. Solsek. What you lack is any
contact with those who might be most affected by your proposed programs.”
“You mean you want me to poll people on the street?” He couldn’t keep the edge of disdain from creeping into his voice. How long would it take to develop a proper questionnaire? How many hundreds of people would he have to find to answer it? Wasn’t that thesis work? He wasn’t in graduate school. Not yet.
“No, Mr. Solsek. I’d like to see you develop your own case study. One would do.”
“Just one, sir? But that—”
“One, Mr. Solsek. You won’t have time for more. Add the human element and you’ll earn the A you covet. I’m sure of it.”
Corban wasn’t quite sure what the professor was driving at, but he could sense an undercurrent of disapproval. Was it a personality clash? Did his ideas offend? How could that be? If the programs he proposed were ever put into practice, they’d solve a lot of current problems in government systems.