Читать книгу Their Secret Baby Bond - Stephanie Dees - Страница 15

Chapter Three

Wynn stood outside the attic door in her mom’s house. She’d been walking past it for weeks now, staring at the doorknob, wanting to go in, but not wanting to, just as much.

She shook her head at herself as her hand lingered over the knob. Who was this woman who didn’t have the courage to walk through a door? What happened to the little girl who punched a kid at Vacation Bible School because he was being a bully? Where was the little girl who believed in justice, even if it meant she’d be in timeout for the rest of the afternoon?

That little girl would have the courage to open a door. It was just a door.

She turned the knob and shoved it open, blinking at the swirl of dust in the warm air. Her studio had been the place she’d gone to, as a teenager, when things got rough or rocky. Or sad or happy or confusing.

Her mom hadn’t changed much, if anything, in the tiny room tucked into the eaves of the old house. Wynn’s paints were still haphazardly strewn on the desk and her easel held a small unfinished watercolor. She picked up the sketchbook from the top of a teetering stack of identical books. When had she lost the wonder she’d always had at the world around her?

Probably around the same time she stopped looking at her job as an opportunity to make things better for someone else and started looking at it as a career. She’d lost her ability to dream, to think of others besides herself. Worse, she’d lost her confidence in herself and her faith that God had a plan and kept His promises.

Somewhere along the way, she’d imagined that her plan was better.

Well, she could see how that turned out.

She’d like to blame Preston. And while he definitely shared the blame, it wasn’t all his fault. She was the one who’d let go of her morals and her beliefs. She was the one who replaced her dreams with his—until he replaced her in his life with the newer, prettier, more idealistic model.

Wynn slid her hand down around the very small, almost imperceptible curve of her belly, and whispered, “I promise I’ll do better.”

She had to. She had barely six months to figure out how.

The room was dusty, the paper she had painted on dry and curling at the edges. The whole space looked used up and ready for the trash bin. Fitting. That’s exactly how she felt.

Sweeping the pile of dried-up paints into the trash can, she tried to imagine that she was sweeping out the parts of her that she didn’t want anymore, the parts that didn’t work for her and could never be salvaged. Maybe it all just needed to go.

She caught her breath on a sob.

The watercolor paints—those she could keep. They were dried up and cracking with disuse but...they could be revived with a little tending.

Maybe the vibrant parts of her, the passionate, giving part of her, could be revived with a little tending. She would start by carrying her sketchbook and pencil in her bag again. For a long time, that sketchbook had served as a place for her to record her impressions, ideas and dreams.

Yes, her soul needed tending. The favorite part of what made her who she was had been sadly neglected.

The worst part is that if anyone had asked her as a high school senior if she would ever let a man get in the way of her priorities, she would’ve been so offended.

A slight knock sounded at the doorway to the small studio. Wynn scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. When she turned, her mom was standing in the opening.

“Hey. I wondered when you would come in here.”

“It’s been too long. Mom, I don’t know why I didn’t come home more.”

“You were busy trying to find out who you were.”

Wynn laughed, but the sound wasn’t cheerful. “It’s funny, but I think I had to come home to find out who I really am. I keep saying I don’t know how I got to this point, but I do. I let a man come between me and what I knew was right. I let my desire to make a difference somehow become a desire to be wanted and needed. And he was only too willing to take advantage of it.”

Bertie walked closer and studied the painting on the easel. “He...the congressman?”

“Preston Schofield the fourth, career politician.” She pressed her lips together in a firm line.

“You seem a little bitter, Wynn. Congressman Schofield gave you a great opportunity.”

Once, Wynn had believed that to be true. Now she knew better. “Mom, I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, honey.” Bertie’s face softened in sympathy, but she didn’t look shocked.

Wynn sucked in a breath and, unable to meet her mother’s eyes, whirled around to look out the window. “You aren’t surprised. How long have you known?”

“I didn’t know who—but I’ve known you were pregnant since just after you got home. I’m your mom, Wynn. Did you think I wouldn’t guess?”

Wynn’s eyes filled with tears, the familiar walls of her studio blurring as words she’d been longing to say came pouring out. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t...want you to be disappointed in me.”

Her mom turned Wynn to face her, wrapping her arms around her as she did when Wynn was a child. “I’m not disappointed in you, Wynn. Everyone loses their way once in a while. I used to tell you when you were little that nothing you could do would ever make me stop loving you. It’s still true.”

Wynn took a deep breath and released it, along with some of the tension knotting the muscles in her back. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. Claire and Jordan offered me the cottage.”

“That’s a good thought.” Her mom picked up one of the small paintings and studied it. “I’ve been meaning to clean out in here for years. Why don’t you start by remembering who you were before all this happened?”

A phone rang from somewhere in the house. Bertie put the painting on top of another pile of things. “I’ve got to get that, and then I’m going to make a chocolate cake. Come down to the kitchen when you’re ready for a break.”

Wynn glanced at her watch. “I actually have to go. I promised Latham I’d stay with his pop this afternoon. I won’t be late, though.”

“No problem. Chocolate cake will keep.”

“I love you, Mom.”

Already halfway out the door, Bertie turned back. “I love you, too, baby girl. And I just can’t wait to see what God has in store for you next.”

As her mom disappeared down the hall, Wynn heard the muffled hello as Bertie answered the phone. She turned back to her studio, the room where she’d dreamed and planned and painted. Soon the smell of her favorite chocolate cake would be in every nook and cranny of the house. Each one of Bertie’s kids had their favorite comfort food. For Wynn, it was always chocolate cake. Jules loved bread; Ash, cinnamon rolls; and Joe, chocolate chip cookies. Bertie would bake, and then they would sit at the table with a glass of milk and talk it out.

She stood in the door to the studio, her hand on the knob. Deliberately, she walked away, leaving it open.

Downstairs, she picked up her keys from the counter in the kitchen. Bertie was unloading ingredients from the pantry to the counter. “Mom, Mr. Grant thought I was you when I was filling in at the Hilltop. Does he have some kind of dementia?”

“Something like that, from what I understand. I don’t know the details, but he’s really gone downhill since Mrs. Margenia died a couple of years ago. I’m driving car pool for Claire this afternoon, but I could come out after I get the kids to the farm.”

“No, thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

In the car, on the way to Latham’s place, Wynn’s stomach tumbled with nerves, but she had no reason to be anxious. This wasn’t rocket science. This was being kind to someone who needed help.

She might’ve been in Washington, DC, a long time, but she still remembered how to be kind.

* * *

Latham pushed the back door open silently. He’d gotten called in to sub in one of the freshmen history classes and was an hour later getting home than he’d planned on being.

The house was quiet, the TV murmuring in the background. Wynn sat at the kitchen table, late-afternoon light creating a halo around her hair as she sketched on a pad. She was so pretty. Always had been, but in high school it hadn’t been her looks that drew him to her.

It had been her absolute fearlessness.

He’d known then she was different from other girls, but now that he spent his evenings teaching college students, he was even more aware how rare that kind of self-confidence was. He dropped his backpack and she looked up, a smile in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I was late and you spent your whole afternoon here.” Latham glanced over at Pop, napping in the recliner in the living room, a glass of iced tea at his fingertips on the side table. “He’s been okay?”

“Aside from being a little confused that Fran had to leave and I was here, he’s been totally fine. I hope it’s okay that I raided the garden to cook his supper.”

He shot her a grin and relaxed. “Feel free to raid my garden anytime, especially if you’re going to cook in my kitchen. Are those fried green tomatoes?”

“Yes. Your grandpa really liked them.”

“They’re his favorite and I always make them too soggy.” Latham popped one in his mouth. Even cold, it was delicious.

“The key is the ratio of cornmeal to flour. I’ll email you the recipe, if you promise not to tell Bertie. Trade secrets and all.” Wynn stood and grabbed her sketch pad. “I should probably be going.”

“Join me for some tea on the back porch?” The words were out and hanging in the air before he even knew he was going to say them.

Her eyes, glass blue and crystal clear, met his, and he could see her hesitation. “Please? I could use some adult conversation after the class I just taught.”

She nodded. “So, no one cut their finger off today?”

Confused, he looked up from pouring tumblers of sweet tea. “No, you mean like with a saw?”

“Isn’t that what you do in shop class?” She held the back door open for him to walk through.

He laughed and handed her a drink as they sat down. “I teach Government, although I was filling in for World History this evening.”

Her cheeks tinged with pink. “I’m sorry, I just assumed you’d be teaching carpentry.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. I have a Master’s degree in Political Science, so naturally I build things for a living. Makes sense, right?”

“Hopefully you’re building good citizens as well as beautiful tables.”

He clinked his cup to hers. “That’s the idea. Hey, you should come and speak to my class some time.”

“Me?” Her expression was shocked and just a little horrified. “Why?”

“Most of them have probably never met anyone who worked on Capitol Hill. You could give them some insider info, what it’s really like.”

Her face shuttered. She set the glass on the small table beside her chair. “I don’t think so. Listen, I have to run. I promised my mom I’d be home for dinner tonight.”

Latham got to his feet, aware he’d said something to upset her but not sure exactly what it was. “Sure thing.”

He walked her to the car and opened the door for her. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you staying with Pop. He’s really special to me.”

“I enjoyed it. And I’m looking forward to seeing him again tomorrow. Just let me know what time you need me.” She slid into the driver’s seat, and before he could say anything else, she was driving down his gravel drive toward the highway.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and watched her taillights fade into the distance. The door opened behind him and Pop stepped out onto the porch.

“Hey, old man. I thought you were out for the night.”

Pop settled in a rocker, hanging his cane over the arm of the chair. “I was faking.”

A laugh burst out. Latham stared at his grandfather. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, it’s not like you bring pretty girls out here all the time. And you can’t have meaningful conversation with your old grandpa butting in, now, can you?”

Latham shook his head. “Sometimes I have to wonder which one of us is more with it, Pop.”

His grandfather, who had raised him from the time he was a toddler, chuckled to himself. “So, did you ask her on a date?”

Latham stared at the dusky sky, where the North Star was just beginning to glimmer. “No. I don’t think she’s interested in me like that. I couldn’t even get her to agree to speak to my class.”

“Your gran wouldn’t go out with me when I first asked her. She had her cap set for that moon-face jerk Phillip Stewart. I was persistent, though. I asked her so often that I finally wore her down. She went out with me just to shut me up.” Pop grinned, his laugh nearly a cackle. “That was the last time she mentioned Phillip Stewart.”

Latham laughed. “The rest is history, as they say. Gran knew a keeper when she saw him. She was a smart lady.”

Pop’s eyes clouded. “Margenia?”

The lucid moment was gone. Latham tried to be grateful for it and not sad that it was over. As he held his grandfather’s elbow and helped him into the house, his mind drifted to Wynn. She had come to his rescue with Pop when she didn’t have to, but she sure didn’t seem interested in spending any more time with him.

Pop recommended persistence. It had certainly paid off for him. Latham smiled.

Maybe he would have to give it a try.

* * *

The next Sunday, Wynn sat in a rocking chair under the big oak tree at Red Hill Farm, a two-month-old baby girl, the newest of Claire and Joe’s foster children, in her arms.

This baby was small. Really small. How much smaller was a baby when it was a newborn? That terrifying thought speared through her mind as the baby met her eyes with a serious stare.

Family lunch had been the usual insanity. Kids running everywhere. Adults trying to snag a bite or two of food in between chasing the kids. Today two adoptive families had joined the fray, including the family who’d adopted ten-year-old twins, Jamie and John.

Claire dropped into the chair beside Wynn and handed her a lukewarm bottle. “I was on my way to get this when I heard screaming about blood gushing. Matthew cracked his knee open.”

Wynn stuck the nipple in the baby’s mouth. She’d given Ash and Jordan’s little boy a bottle lots of times. It was no big deal. So why was sweat beading on her forehead?

The baby attacked the food with ferocity. She seemed to know what to do. Wynn relaxed back in the chair, letting out a slow relieved breath. “So was there?”

Claire was staring into the distance. “Was there what?”

“Blood gushing?”

Her sister-in-law grinned, one hand pressing into her back, the other sliding around to rub her very pregnant belly. “Oh, yeah. Everywhere. Luckily, from experience, Ash knew to bring his medical kit to lunch today and he was able to super-glue the cut. No stitches unless Matthew breaks it open again. Which, let’s face it, has a high probability of happening. That kid runs everywhere.”

Latham came loping across the yard in front of them, his hands in the air, a football dropping into them. He was dressed in jeans, a faded red RHS T-shirt and his work boots. He tossed the ball back and held his hands up in surrender. “Dude, I’m old. I gotta rest.”

He fell against the tree beside Wynn. “I really have to work out more.”

Claire laughed. “I’ve been telling myself that for months. No one tells you that raising children is an extreme sport.”

Latham peeked over Wynn’s shoulder. “This one’s new?”

“Yep, she’s just here for respite, though. She goes back to her foster family next week.”

“Cool. Pop’s with a neighbor, but he’ll be back pretty soon. Do you mind if I look at the cottage now?”

Surprisingly, the idea of giving up the sweet weight of the baby girl in her arms wasn’t as welcome as Wynn had imagined it would be. She glanced at Claire.

“I’ve got her. Y’all go.” Claire leaned forward and scooped the baby into her arms. “The cottage isn’t locked.”

Wynn fell into step beside Latham as he rounded the barn and skirted the edge of the pond. “I hope you’re not going to regret this.”

He placed a hand on her back as the path got a little unsteady. “Nah. Tell me what you have in mind.”

“I want to paint the whole thing white, for starters. I love that Joe painted such crazy colors for his twelve-year-old daughter, but I’m a little too old for neon green and shocking pink.”

His deep laugh rolled over her. “I can see that. So far, I’m thinking we could knock this out in an afternoon.”

She glanced over at him as they stepped onto the porch. The little cottage was shabby, but despite that, it had charm. “I want the outside to be painted.”

He studied it, stepped forward and knocked on the outside. “Might be better to replace this worn siding and insulate the walls. It would definitely help with your climate control.”

“That’s a great idea. Now for the inside. Most of the house just needs to be painted. I even love the rustic brick fireplace. But I need a studio. What do you think about opening up the attic space above the kitchen for a loft area?”

Latham scratched his head. “I mean, it could be done, no doubt. I’m guessing that’s where the majority of your HVAC and plumbing is.”

“But...”

He shrugged. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, my granny used to always say. Let me nose around some and I’ll get back with you on that.”

Wynn threw her arms around his neck. “I knew you could do it.”

He gave her an awkward pat on the back, his cheeks red when she stepped away from him. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ll come over here in the morning and do some figuring. We can talk for real tomorrow afternoon when I get home from work.”

“Perfect.” She grinned.

He pushed open the front door. “You coming?”

She was halfway through the bedroom door. “No, I think I’ll stay and make some notes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded. “See you then.”

She heard the door close and stepped back into the main room to watch him go. He was so calm and so steady. She needed a friend like him. She just hoped he would still want to be her friend when he found out about the baby.

Her hand reflexively went to her abdomen. Whatever happened, she and her baby would be okay. She would make sure of it.