Apprentice Father (2 page)

The childish, high-pitched whisper penetrated Clay's light sleep, and he squinted at the illuminated dial of his watch. Four-fifteen. If he didn't get some rest soon, he'd be a zombie in the morning. But the uncomfortable couch that had become his bed since Emily and Josh had claimed his room three nights ago wasn't helping, either.

An odd sound came from the bedroom, and he frowned. What was going on in there?

Swinging his legs to the floor, Clay padded toward the bedroom door, his bare feet noiseless on the carpet. As he eased it open, two heads pivoted toward him and Josh and Emily froze, like startled deer caught in headlights.

The seconds ticked by as Clay tried to make sense of the scene. The two children stood at the far corner of the bed. Emily had taken the blankets off and piled them on the floor. Now she was trying to take the sheets off as well.

“What's going on?” Clay scanned the room again, bewildered.

Josh moved closer to Emily, and she placed a shielding arm around his shoulders. “Josh h-had an accident.”

Shifting his attention to the frightened little boy, Clay gave him a rapid inspection. In his definition, “accidents” entailed injury and blood. But Josh didn't appear to be hurt. However, his pajama bottoms did look funny. They were clinging to him. Like they were wet.

All at once, Clay understood.

“It happens s-sometimes at night, if he's afraid.” A tremor ran through Emily's voice. “I can clean it up. You don't have t-to be mad.”

Clay took a step into the room—but came to an abrupt halt when Josh cowered behind Emily with a whimper.

They were scared. Really scared, he realized with a jolt. Anne had said that Martin had never hurt them, but now he wasn't sure that was true. Softening his tone, he moved slowly into the room. “Accidents happen. It's okay. Emily, why don't you help Josh change into dry pajamas while I put new sheets on the bed?”

She took her brother's hand and tugged. “Come on, Josh.”

The little boy followed, skirting him warily.

After scrubbing and blow-drying the mattress, remaking the bed and tucking a folded towel under the fitted sheet on Josh's side, Clay beckoned the children. “Okay. Good as new. Climb in.”

Emily got in first, then pulled Josh up beside her. She pressed him down on the pillow and lay next to him, taking his hand. Clay tucked the blanket under their chins and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I know everything is new, and that you miss your mommy. But I'll take care of you. You don't need to be scared.”

“How come you didn't get mad at Josh?” Emily searched his face.

“He didn't do it on purpose.”

“I know. But Daddy always got mad.”

With an effort, Clay kept his expression neutral and tried for a measured tone. “What did he do when he got mad?”

“He yelled at Josh. And at Mommy.”

“Did he spank Josh?”

“No. But I think…I think he hit Mommy. He said it was her fault we had accidents. I spilled a glass of milk once, and Daddy yelled at Mommy. She had big bruises on her arm the next day.” Emily's features contorted with misery. “We didn't m-mean to hurt Mommy.” The last word caught on a sob. “We tried t-to be good.”

Clay felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. With an unsteady hand he brushed the hair back from his niece's forehead. It was soft and fine and gossamer.

“It wasn't your fault that your mommy got hurt, Emily. Or Josh's. Your daddy shouldn't have yelled at you about accidents, and he shouldn't have hurt your mommy. That was a wrong thing to do.”

“I wish M-Mommy was here now.”

“So do I.” More than Emily would ever know, he reflected. “But she would want you to be brave. Will you try to do that?”

Emily gave a tearful nod and looked at Josh, who had fallen asleep again, cuddled up beside her. “Josh is kind of little to be brave, though.”

Clay swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Then we'll have to help him.”

“Okay.” Emily snuggled next to Josh, and her eyelids drifted closed.

For several more minutes Clay sat there. Once their even breathing told him they were asleep he rose and headed toward the door, pausing on the threshold. The two youngsters were lost in the queen-sized bed, their bodies an almost indiscernible bump beneath the blanket. They seemed so tiny. So forlorn. So defenseless. And they were relying on him to see to all of their needs.

Their physical needs, Clay could handle. Food, clothing and shelter weren't hard to provide.

But when it came to matters of the heart, he was in way over his head.

 

She was about to hear bad news.

Cate Shepard knew it the minute she walked in the back door of the Dugan home and found both Brenna and Steve waiting for her. In the two years she'd provided in-home child care for their son they'd become good friends, and she'd learned to read their moods.

“Good morning.” She closed the door and summoned up a smile, steeling herself. “Why do I think this isn't my lucky day?”

Brenna sent a quick look to Steve, who cleared his throat and rose.

“It's one of those good news, bad news scenarios, Cate. I've been offered a great position with a new company in Chicago. Starting in two weeks. The bad news is we'll have to leave behind the best child care provider we'll ever hope to find.”

She was out of a job.

Cate managed to keep her smile in place. This had happened before; it would happen again. She'd manage, as she always did.

“I'm happy for you, Steve. But I'll miss all of you.”

“We feel the same way about you, Cate.” Brenna stood and came forward to give her a hug. “You know we'll give you a stellar recommendation.”

“Thank you.” Cate gave her a squeeze, then stepped back. “Now tell me about the new opportunity.”

She listened as the young couple explained Steve's new position, commiserated with Brenna about her angst over finding a new job, and took care of Timmy for the rest of the day when the couple went to work.

Only later, as she drove through the streets of Washington to her condo—with a quick detour for a fudgesicle at a convenience store—did she let herself think about the future.

She always hated her jobs to end. In ten years of providing on-site child care, she'd been lucky to go through this only three times. Now she had to start the process over again. And while she'd never had trouble connecting with a family in need of her services, she usually had far more notice than this to find a new position.

Pulling into the parking place near her condo, she picked up the fudgesicle. It was already softening in the unseasonable warmth of this early March Missouri day, she noted, walking to her front door as fast as her slightly uneven gait allowed.

Once inside, she headed for the kitchen and unwrapped the treat. Leaning over the sink while she ate, she savored the fleeting sweetness as the rich chocolate melted on her tongue. And recalled, as she always did, the day she'd indulged in one after receiving the letter that had offered her a bright and shining future.

But two weeks later, that future had melted away, as surely and irrevocably as her dissolving fudgesicle.

Rinsing her sticky hands under the sink, her gaze lingered on the fingers of her left hand as a melancholy pang echoed through her. Long, slender and graceful, they looked the same as they always had. They just didn't work as well.

Yet dwelling on memories of a time when hopes were high and dreams came true was fruitless, she reminded herself. Her life was good now. She had a satisfying career. A loving family. A solid faith that had seen her through some rough stretches. If she didn't have the one thing she most yearned for—a loving marriage blessed with children—she needed to accept that it wasn't in God's plan for her. And she was working on it.

But it wasn't easy.

 

Securing the pillow under his head with a firm shove, Clay fought off consciousness—and reality—as long as possible. A week and a half into his new role as surrogate father, he was sinking fast.

The kids had been thrown out of day care on Friday because four-year-old bed wetters weren't acceptable, so he had to come up with alternative arrangements by tomorrow. And he had a ton of work to do that he hadn't gotten to last week, thanks to all the changes in his life.

It was not shaping up to a be a good Sunday.

And the sober faces peering at him when he finally pried open his eyes suggested it was only going to get worse. Emily and Josh were already dressed, he noted. In nice clothes.

“It's Sunday.” The pronouncement came from Emily.

She said that like it was supposed to mean something. And Clay had the distinct impression that it did not include sleeping in.

“I know.” He hoped she wasn't heading in the direction he suspected.

“Aren't we going to church?”

His hope dissolved. “Maybe we could skip this week.”

Tears pooled in Emily's eyes. “Mommy told us once that if she ever went away to be with God, we could talk to her in church on Sunday.”

Clay was sunk. He could hold his own with hard-as-nails, give-no-quarter types. But these two little kids, who together couldn't weigh much more than sixty pounds, melted his heart. Meaning his Sundays were about to undergo a radical change.

Forty-five minutes later, as he approached the white church with the tall steeple that he passed on the way to work everyday, he hoped the lot would be empty. That way, he could rationalize that he'd
tried
to take the kids to church.

But no, it was full. And he could hear the muffled sound of organ music. According to the sign in front, the service had begun ten minutes ago.

He was stuck.

Accepting his fate, he helped the children out of the truck, took their hands and headed toward a church for the second time in less than a week. Although he tried to unobtrusively slip into a row near the back, Josh foiled his plan by tripping over the edge of the pew and sprawling in the aisle. Clay was sure every head in the place swiveled their direction as he swooped to pick up the little boy.

After climbing over three sets of feet and squeezing in between a woman with two teenagers and an older couple, all Clay wanted to do was slink out of the church and never come near the place again.

The kids, however, were oblivious to his embarrassment. Emily's hands lay folded in her lap, and Josh was jiggling his feet, which stuck straight out over the end of the pew. Noting that
one of the youngster's shoes was untied, Clay leaned forward to remedy the situation—and discovered another problem he couldn't fix. Josh's socks didn't match.

Risking a peek at the older woman beside him, he saw her inspecting Josh's feet. A flush crawled up his neck. The fact that it had never occurred to him to check the kids' clothes was yet more evidence of how ill-equipped he was for this job.

The woman lifted her head, and Clay braced for disapproval. Instead he saw understanding and compassion in her eyes.

“Kids are a handful, aren't they?” The whispered comment was accompanied by a smile. “I had four. And I had that same problem on a few occasions.” She inclined her head toward Josh's feet.

Relief coursed through him. The woman wasn't judging him. She wasn't trying to make him feel inadequate. She was being kind. He hadn't expected that.

“I'm pretty new at this. I have a lot to learn.”

“Don't we all,” she commiserated with a quiet chuckle before turning her attention back to the sanctuary, where the minister was moving toward the pulpit.

Clay's tension eased. Most of the Christians he recalled from his childhood had been quick to criticize and censure. But this woman hadn't done that. Nor had the members of Anne's congregation. It was a new view of Christianity for Clay.

This minister was also worth listening to. Mid-forties, with flecks of silver in his light brown hair and subtle character lines in his face, he spoke in a down-to-earth style, and his words had practical implications. Though Clay hadn't picked up a Bible in decades, the passage the pastor referenced near the end of his sermon was vaguely familiar. But he'd never looked at it in quite the way that the minister presented it.

“I'm sure most of you know the story about the fig tree that didn't bear fruit,” he said. “The frustrated owner planned to cut it down, but the vine dresser entreated him to give the vine one more chance.

“How often in our lives have we, too, wanted one more chance? One more chance to say I love you. To prove our abilities. To do the right thing. One more chance to be the person God intended us to be. Sad to say, those feelings often surface at funerals and on death beds—when it's too late to change things.”

The minister leaned forward and gripped the pulpit. “My dear friends, God doesn't want us to have regrets. Like the vine dresser, He offers us countless opportunities to put things right. In fact, each day that He gives us is one more chance—to mend a relationship, to lend a helping hand, to welcome Him into our lives with open hearts and minds. Let us take comfort in knowing He is always there to guide us, to console us, to strengthen us. To give us one more chance.”