Sweet Sanctuary (3 page)

“Father couldn't possibly believe such a thing.”

Her indignation was real but misguided. Micah reached inside his jacket and removed the letter he'd received from Allan Eldredge. He handed it to Lydia and watched her read it. Her face slowly drained of color as her eyes scanned the written script. Finally she raised her gaze, her dark eyes wide. She held out the letter as if it were a poisonous snake and shook her head.

“I can't believe . . .” She swallowed, glancing once more at the letter, her face pale. “I had no idea. Oh, Micah, no wonder you came. I'm so sorry.”

Micah took the letter from her unresisting fingers, folded it, and returned it to his pocket. In the brief time he'd visited with N. Allan Eldredge, he'd been given the impression Lydia's father was a man few people crossed. He suspected his daughter didn't cross him, either. He gave Lydia's arm a gentle squeeze, his anger with her completely gone in light of her very real distress. “Lydia, I'm sorry, too. I thought you knew why I was here and that you had told him to contact me.”

She shook her head, her chin-length dark hair lifting in the slight breeze. “No, he didn't say a word to me.” She placed one hand along her jaw as if she had a toothache. “But where would
he have . . . ?” Then her shoulders slumped, comprehension dawning, the hand falling to her side. “About two months ago, I noticed my diaries had been moved. I didn't think much about it at the time—I thought perhaps the maid had shifted them when she dusted my shelves—but now I wonder . . .”

Micah could have made a teasing remark about her writing about him in her diary, but he didn't feel much like teasing right now. “You think he read your diary?”

She flipped her hands outward. “He must have. It's the only explanation. I've never mentioned you in conversation. The only place he could have found your name would be my diaries.” She ran her hands through her hair from temples to nape, sweeping it into appealing wings away from her face. “I can't believe he would violate my privacy this way!” She spun and stomped up the sidewalk, her heels clacking.

Micah trotted to keep up. He had no difficulty believing that her father had read through Lydia's private thoughts. Allan Eldredge struck him as a ruthless man, intent on having his own way regardless of the cost. “Did you write about Nicky's real father in your diaries?”

Lydia stopped again, dropped her head, and gave a slight nod.

“Then he must not have read everything.”

Lydia slowly brought up her chin and looked ahead, giving Micah a view of her profile. He found it just as appealing as he had the first time he'd spotted her across the mess hall at Schofield. Oh yes, he'd been interested. Until he'd discovered she had no interest in Christianity. He wouldn't pursue a faithless woman.

She spoke, her voice flat. “Father has no need to read my diary to discover the identity of Nicky's father. He's known all along.”

“Then why would he—?”

Lydia turned her gaze to Micah. Her eyes appeared much
older than her years. “He's afraid.
I'm
afraid. He did it for me—and for Nicky.”

Micah crunched his brow, completely confused. “Lydia, I don't understand.”

“Of course you don't. You'd have to know the whole story. . . .” Turning away again, she sighed. A tired sigh. A sad sigh. She ran a hand through her hair once more—a thoughtless gesture—then blinked rapidly, biting down on her lower lip. “Micah, you came in answer to a letter that should have never been sent. The least I can do is tell you about Nicky. But not in the open, on the sidewalk where anyone could overhear.” Her eyes begged him to listen and understand. “Can we go somewhere private?”

Micah shrugged. “I'm new in town. You'd need to pick the place.”

“We'll take a drive,” she said. “I have my gas ration coupons for three weeks saved up—we'll drive to Manchester-by-the-Sea, where there's no chance of being overheard.” Such secretiveness set Micah's teeth on edge. “Of course, you'll have to take a walk with Nicky first.” A small smile appeared on her face.

Micah chuckled. “I promised him. I won't break the promise.”

Lydia nodded, giving him an approving smile. Yet her eyes still seemed sad. “Let's head back, then.” She turned, took one step, then stopped. Her expression turned desperate as she caught hold of his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “Micah, what I share with you this evening must stay between us. Nicky's safety depends on it.”

A jolt of fear struck as firmly as a fist to Micah's belly. He nodded, making a silent vow. She began walking, and he fell in step beside her. They didn't speak, but his mind raced, his questions taking on a prayerlike quality.
God, this has got me spooked. What kind of secret does Lydia harbor?

3

T
he sky had changed to a dusky pink by the time Lydia parked her Hudson at a high point overlooking a steep decline to the ocean's expanse. Micah looked out the window, whistling softly at the view. Manchester-by-the-Sea stretched behind them like a twinkling blanket, electric lights shining in countless windows. On the opposite side, stars shimmered in a clear night sky, sending dappled reflections across the gently rolling waves. God had outdone Himself when He created this corner of the world.

He cranked his window open to allow a breeze, and the sound of a cricket singing its night song intruded. The air was a bit cooler here, but certainly not cold. Sweet scents—fruits, flowers, and damp earth—drifted in, competing with the tang of sea air. He glanced at Lydia. Her gaze was turned outward, but he suspected she wasn't really seeing the view. The fingers of one hand ran idly across the steering wheel, and her puckered face indicated she was lost in thought.

“Are you ready to talk?” Although he spoke softly, she gave a start.

Slowly she faced him, her hand stilling on the steering wheel and curling around the varnished wood as if in need of security.
She released a breath, then set her jaw in a familiar, determined way. “Yes.” She shrugged slightly, the shiny fabric of her blouse rippling like the ocean waves with the movement. “But I'm not sure where to start.”

Micah shifted, bringing up one knee to prop his heel on the edge of the seat. He wrapped his arm around his knee in a casual pose he hoped would reduce the tension in the vehicle. “How about starting at Schofield, when you left.”

She tipped her head, seeming to considering this, then nodded briskly. “All right. Do you remember I asked permission to go to Honolulu?”

He nodded. He'd been given instruction to drive her to the train station, and he hadn't been pleased. Her penchant for flirtation made him uncomfortable. But she hadn't been flirtatious that day.

“I desperately needed to get away. You see, for weeks I had been struggling with a problem, and I just couldn't find a solution. I had gotten a letter from a friend, Eleanor . . .” She paused again, grimacing. “Micah, I'm sorry. For all of this to make sense, I'm going to have to go farther back—to when I took the Red Cross classes and agreed to a year of army service at Schofield. Please bear with me.”

Micah reached out and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Take your time.”

She gave him a grateful look, then continued. “Eleanor and I were lifelong friends. Our fathers worked together. Father is in crating—”

Micah frowned in confusion, and Lydia laughed softly before offering a brief explanation. “His business is to make crates. The crates are used for shipping everything from oranges to machine gun parts. It's been a very lucrative business and the war has only made it more so.”

Micah nodded. Considering how many things were being shipped overseas these days, Eldredge had no doubt amassed a small fortune.

“Eleanor's father was the foreman of the plant, so our relationship was multifaceted. Our parents worked together, socialized together. . . . Since we were both only children, we became like surrogate sisters. Eleanor and I practically lived together.”

She fell silent for a few moments, apparently reliving childhood memories. Micah waited, allowing her the time to sort her thoughts. Eventually, she resumed the story.

“About six months before I left, Eleanor's father hired a new worker—a man named Nicolai Pankin. He was missing one arm—the result of an auger accident when he was a teen—but his remaining arm had more strength than most men possess in two good arms. Oh, he was handsome.” Lydia's eyes slid shut, and she drew in a deep breath, as if savoring something sweet. Then she fixed him with a serious look once more. “Despite his handicap, he was very rugged and roguish, which only added to his masculinity. And charming . . . He could coax an apple tree to bear orange blossoms. I found him very attractive, and the first time Eleanor spotted him, she was instantly besotted. But, unlike me, Eleanor was shy. She was too afraid to approach Nic.”

Although the dim light made it difficult to make out Lydia's features, Micah heard a change in her voice. A tightness, an underlying anguish.

“One time when Eleanor and I went to visit with her father, I saw Nic following her with his eyes. It bothered me at first—I liked him, too. But I realized that after I completed my Red Cross training, I would leave for nursing duty somewhere. Time with Nic would be short-lived. Additionally, I knew Nic was below my station—no matter how attractive I found him, my parents would never approve.”

She lifted one shoulder, a flippant gesture that fell short of being convincing. “So I thought, if I can't have him, then my best friend should.” She sighed, crossing her arms across her stomach. “I dragged Eleanor over to where he was working and introduced them. It was my only attempt at playing matchmaker, and it proved to be one time too many. They had a whirlwind romance, and I stood up as Eleanor's maid of honor four months before leaving for Schofield.”

She dropped her chin. “Of course, we didn't know until after the wedding that Nic was addicted to morphine. Apparently, when he'd had his accident, the doctor had prescribed it for the pain, and he grew dependent on it. He'd hidden it well, and afterward, it was too late. When Eleanor got pregnant, Nic was furious. He didn't want the worry and burden of children, he said. He found someone who would terminate Eleanor's pregnancy.”

Micah grimaced. Although he knew only a bit about Nicolai Pankin, he held no respect for the man.

Lydia continued her story. “Eleanor ran away from him. She went to her parents, but they refused to help her. They hadn't been pleased with her marrying a common laborer, and they told her she'd have to deal with the problem herself. So Eleanor wrote to me, begging for help. She didn't know where else to turn. Besides, I had linked her with Nic, which made me partly responsible. It was her letter that created my emergency.

“I wrote and told her to go to my parents and I would be home as soon as I could. My parents were afraid of taking Eleanor in—they didn't know what Nic might do, and they knew it would create a serious rift in their friendship with her parents, which would also affect Father's business. So they arranged sanctuary with a midwife, and they paid for Eleanor's keep until her baby was born.”

Lydia paused, and Micah, now certain he knew Lydia's secret, interjected with a gentle question. “Lydia, Nicky isn't really your son, is he?”

“Not my son?” Lydia choked out a single sob. She pressed a fist against her mouth, gaining control. “Nicky has been mine from the moment the midwife placed him in my arms.” The fervency in her tone pierced Micah. “He couldn't possibly be more mine if I'd given birth to him. He
is
my son, in every way that counts.”

Micah contemplated her answer. He understood Lydia's love for the boy. He'd only just met Nicky, and he already felt the stirrings of fondness. “Why isn't Eleanor raising Nicky?”

“Eleanor died three days before I got back from Schofield.” Deep sadness colored her tone. “Nicky came early. The midwife said there were complications—there wasn't anything she could do because Eleanor refused to go to the hospital. Eleanor had instructed the midwife to give Nicky to me—she trusted me to come. The moment I held him, I knew I would keep him and raise him as my own. With God's help, and the support of my parents, I've been Nicky's mama ever since.”

Micah shook his head in wonder. It seemed the self-centered Lydia had changed a great deal since her time at Schofield. And it was hard to think of that hardheaded man he'd just met assuming responsibility for someone else's baby. “How did you convince your parents to take Nicky in?”

Lydia raised her chin. “I didn't give them much choice. If they wanted me, they had to accept Nicky, too. I was stubborn.” Then she shrugged, her tone softening. “And I was lucky my parents were much more accepting than Eleanor's parents had been. Of course, it didn't take long before they loved Nicky as much as I do. We all think of him as my baby.”

“And where is Nicky's father?”

While Lydia talked, the moon had sneaked high into the sky, painting a golden pathway across the water and sending a soft glow into the car, illuminating Lydia's silhouette. Her chin began to quiver. “Nicky's father is hanging over our heads like a hangman's noose.”

A chill eased down Micah's spine.

“Shortly after Nicky's birth, he somehow found out where Eleanor had been hiding. He visited the midwife, demanding the baby. The midwife told him the baby had died with Eleanor. But Nic didn't believe her. He told her he'd found a family that wanted the baby—a family willing to pay for the baby—and he wanted ‘the kid.' That's what he called Nicky—‘the kid.' Not ‘my son' or ‘Eleanor's child,' just ‘the kid,' like Nicky was nothing.” Lydia's voice quivered with indignation, and anger swelled in Micah's chest toward the unfeeling man. How could anyone see his own child as merchandise to be placed on an auction block?

“For nearly two years, he periodically went to the midwife's home, badgering her for information. With Father's help, she finally moved to escape his constant visits. And it worked. For a while. It's been almost a full year, but recently he found her again. She said he acted wild and desperate. She was afraid—for herself and for us. He wants Nicky.”

Micah stared at her. “Surely he can't still be hoping to sell Nicky?”

“Why not? Nicky is young. Someone would surely take him.” Lydia's voice rose passionately. “Nic moves in circles we would rather didn't exist. If he didn't sell Nicky to a family, he'd find some other way to make money from him. If he didn't have a plan for selling him, he wouldn't be trying to find him. We know he doesn't want to be Nicky's father. If he legitimately loved him and would care for him, I'd probably give Nicky up.
It would be hard, but I would do it because I believe as Nicky grows older he's going to need a father. I won't be enough.” She uttered the last sentence in a harsh whisper. “But I can't let Nic take him only to sell him to strangers, or—or—whatever he has planned. I can't, Micah!”

Without conscious thought, Micah pulled Lydia against his shoulder and rubbed her back. Her muscles quivered beneath his palms and he sensed she battled tears. But she didn't allow herself the privilege of completely breaking down. After a few moments, she pulled away, offering a weak smile.

Embarrassment welled. Why had he embraced her? He didn't need to give her ideas. Years ago, Lydia had harbored affection for him, he knew. It wouldn't do to encourage those old feelings to blossom. Yet, oddly enough, knowing how unselfishly she had turned her world around for her friend's baby had ignited something within his own heart. But he had no time for such thoughts. His patients and Jeremiah needed him.

Micah squared his shoulders and assumed a businesslike tone. “How many people know Nicky is really Eleanor's baby?”

“Four.” Then she grimaced. “Well, five. My parents, the midwife, of course I know—and now you.”

“You're sure the midwife hasn't told anyone?”

“Father pays her well to keep silent. She depends on the income. She won't tell.”

“Eleanor's parents don't know?”

Lydia shook her head. “Shortly after Eleanor's death, they were in an accident. Her father was drunk and ran off the road. Both he and Eleanor's mother were killed.”

So much tragedy. “And no one has ever questioned how you came to have this child?”

Lydia turned her gaze to the lights of the city glittering below. “Father said to let people believe Nicky is my child. Father is well
respected, and since I had been away, the story was plausible. I'm sure there are those who disapprove, believing I had him out of wedlock, and they no doubt whisper about me behind my back, but Father's standing in the community keeps them from being openly judgmental.”

“In other words, you're living a lie.”

“Only to protect Nicky.”

Micah didn't respond. A lie was a lie, and someday—maybe quite soon—this one was going to trip her up. “What does it say on Nicky's birth certificate?”

“He doesn't have one.”

Micah shook his head, certain he hadn't heard correctly. “Doesn't have one?”

“There hasn't been a need for one. Father thought—” She paused for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to trust Micah with the rest. Finally she sighed, threw her hands outward, and said, “Father thought eventually I would marry, and when I did, we'd get a birth certificate made with my husband's name listed as the father. There!”

Micah blew out a breath. “Your father is really full of plans, isn't he?” He couldn't hide his sarcasm.

“I'm sure Father hoped, from what I wrote in my diaries, that the feelings I had for you were reciprocated and perhaps some affection still remained. I'm sure he also hoped once you met Nicky, you'd be taken with him. Nicky is rather hard to resist.”