The Wedding Chapel (36 page)

“It still weren’t right for me not to know, Colette. I can’t believe you’d not demand I step up and do my duty as a father, no matter what I said in a letter. Didn’t you know me at all?”

“All reason was out the window. If I’d considered a way to let you know, those notions left when I went to New York.”

“Well, do tell. How in the world did your sister end up with my boy?” The sharpness in his voice could not be helped.

Tears glistened in Colette’s eyes.

“I tried to keep him, but there were no single moms in New York or day care or help of any kind. I wondered, deep down, if when you came home you might accept us. If not me, then him.”

“You know I would, Lettie.”

She gazed toward the door. “He was born in the Salvation Army Booth House. I told them I was going home, so they let me leave with him. I didn’t investigate adoption. I’d fooled myself into believing I could raise him on my own. But one week after bringing him back to my flat, I couldn’t manage anything but crying. Even if you knew, even if you sent your entire army salary, I could not have managed on my own.” The tone of her memory filled Jimmy with
loneliness. “I wore a cheap wedding band, told people my husband was at war, but I was sinking so fast.”

“Colette . . .”

“I couldn’t get a job because I had no one to watch him. My flatmates were done with me and my little crying chap. My hands were red from washing nappies in the toilet.”

He ran his hand over his face, along his jaw, the sheen in his eyes thick and spilling over. “Dad would’ve helped you.”

“And how was I to know? Even if he agreed to help, was I to go around Heart’s Bend with your bastard child? Ruin his reputation before he even had a chance?”

As she spoke, his understanding grew. He didn’t like it, but he understood. “So you gave him to Peg?”

“Yes. Because I had nowhere else to go.”

COLETTE

N
OVEMBER
1951

H
EART
’
S
B
END

For more than an hour, she sat in Spice’s truck, the engine rattling, heat blasting in spurts from the chrome vents. She held one hand on the door handle, the other on baby James’s belly, sensing his heartbeat through the tips of her fingers. He’d cried these last two hours of the trip from New York. Wanting his dinner, not understanding why his mother made him wait. He was hungry, as was she.

But Colette had no choice. With only two cans of Similac remaining, she had to be wise. She would save one for tonight and one for the morning. Until the market opened.

But that would not be her concern, now, would it?

She’d stopped at a petrol station just north of Heart’s Bend to prepare her little man for his adventure. In the loo, she’d changed his nappy, put on his best outfit, and wetted her fingers and smoothed his fine baby hair.

“You’re going on an adventure, my darling. Mamá knows it will be marvelous for you. You’ll be safe and dry, warm and fed.” He watched her with wide eyes, kicking his feet. “I know that makes you happy. Dinner.”

The nurse at the Booth House had showed her how to bind her breasts to keep her milk from coming in, but how she ached every time James cried. Oh, what she would give now to nurse him until his belly popped round and full!

Perched on the toilet, she cradled him against her, rocked him from side to side, singing him her last song.

“Mamá will miss you, sweet boy / but don’t you cry, it’ll be all right / you’ll have a warm bed tonight.”

Colette’s tears spilled down her dry cheeks. She was tired and weary, at her wit’s end. She had never felt more alone.

James fussed, squirming against his tight blanket, his small cry like a kitten’s mew. She loosened the wrap and kissed his tiny cheek.

“I’ve failed you, baby James. I’ve failed you.” Colette’s tears anointed her son’s face.

Someone rattled at the door. “Anyone in there?”

“Yes, I’ll be just a moment.” Colette stood, legs trembling, shivering to her backbone. The room’s block walls and bare white bulb brought no warmth at all.

But it wasn’t the cold that bit through her and sank into her bones; it was the knowledge of what she was about to do.

She caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She looked
tired and gaunt, a gray hue to her pale skin. She must work to eat, but there was no work for a single girl with a baby.

Exiting the small space, she smiled at the woman who waited with her little girl. “Sorry . . .”

“No worry, I see you’ve got a little’un. They’re so sweet, ain’t they?” She bent for a peek at James. “He’s a runt, now, ain’t he. Well, never you mind, he’ll fatten up when you feed him more.”

Back in the cab of the truck, Colette exhaled, panic trapping her against the seat. She was starving her child. Wouldn’t Peg have something to say about his gaunt wee cheeks? He was so thin and small, even for being only three weeks old.

Colette fired up the engine and moved the heat sliders to high. In the light of the dash, she peeled back James’s blanket and looked at him, really looked. He was so frail.

Hands shaking, she fixed up the last can of Similac and took James in her arms. On his last night with her, he would feast like a little prince.

James winced at the cold formula, then suckled on the bottle with loud, slurping, hungry noises. The formula was gone in no time. Settling him back in the linen basket on the passenger side, Colette shifted into first, the gears grinding.

The road’s rhythms and a full stomach rocked him to sleep for the final leg of the journey.

When Colette pulled the truck up outside Peg’s house, the one she shared with Drummond, she wasn’t sure how to execute her plan.

The small house glowed with lamplight and seemed to beckon Colette inside. Say what she would about Peg, she was not the one who had a baby out of wedlock.

Lord, please, for James, let Drummond and Peg be agreeable.

Hand on the door release, Colette faltered, sobbing. She couldn’t . . . couldn’t.

In the basket, James awoke and fussed, and her reality came into focus. She had no money. No job. No food for her child. Keeping him was only for herself, to ease her pain.

Looking through the streetlights, she peered toward Peg’s home. “Come,” she whispered to James. “It’s warm and cozy at Aunt Peg’s.”

Then she caught sight of her sister passing by the window, taking up a magazine and sitting on the sofa. Drummond followed, a cigarette in one hand, the newspaper in the other.

“’Tis our cue, darling.” Colette drew in a long, shaky breath. “Peg, if you love me at all . . . For Mamá and Papá.”

Scooping James from the basket, Colette cradled him against her one last time, unable to stop the tears and her lips from pressing against his soft cheeks. She wanted to remember how sweet he tasted, how innocent he smelled.

“I’ll never stop loving you.”

Stepping out of the truck, Colette crossed the quiet, tree-lined street, the November chill about her legs as she marched toward the light, an eerie calm gripping her.

Ringing the doorbell, she stepped back, her maternal heart exploding, sending shards of love into every part of her being. She couldn’t. She
just
couldn’t.

Wheeling about, she aimed for the steps as Peg called her name.

“Colette?”

She turned round. “Hello, Peg.”

“What are you doing here?” Peg stepped through the doorway wearing a smart housedress and a string of pearls about her neck. “Is that—”

“Baby James. He’s three weeks old.”

“Peg?” Drummond Branson appeared in the door, his imposing
physique filling the frame and dimming the warm light. “What are you doing out here in the cold?”

“It’s my sister, love.”

“Colette? Well, haven’t you been a stranger. Come in, it’s cold out.” He shoved open the screen.

“Drum, give us a moment, please?” Peg said.

“All right, but—” He paused. “Is that a
baby
?”

“Love,” Peg sighed. “A moment? Please.”

Drummond hesitated, then withdrew, leaving the door slightly ajar so a sliver of light fell across Colette’s boots.

“I can’t manage, Peg.” Tears soaked Colette’s confession. “I’ve no money because I can’t work. My flatmates are weary of me. I’ve not slept—”

“So, what do you want? Money? I’ll not just give you money.”

“I don’t want money.” With one large draw on her shallow courage, Colette jutted forward, shoving James in her sister’s arms.

“Take him. Raise him as your own.”

“What?” Peg reached for the baby, clutching him close, fumbling with his loose blankets. “You can’t be serious.” The tenderness in her voice melted Colette.

“I can’t take care of him,” Colette cried. “I can’t . . . Please, take him. Be good to him.”

James squirmed, his small cry touching Colette so she nearly collapsed to the porch boards, her heart breaking, breaking, breaking . . .

“Well, I should have known it would come to this—”

Colette rose up. “I’ve no choice. Peg, do you hear me? He needs a family.” She ran her hand over her tears, wiping her nose with the edge of her sleeve. “H-he likes to sleep on his back. But don’t wrap him up tight—he likes to kick.” Her voice faltered and she pressed her fingers to her eyes.
Please stop weeping
. “Feed him Similac, warm. He doesn’t like it cold. One can every four hours, maybe
more if he won’t settle down. He’s a good eater, this chap. He won’t cry about a dirty nappy unless he’s really in a mess. He likes singing . . . I-I sing to him every night.”

“Colette, do you know what you’re doing?”

“No, Peg, but I’m doing it.” She turned to go.

“Colette, wait. I-I must tell you something.”

Colette glanced back at Peg. “What could you possibly have to say?”

The front door opened again. “I know it’s been awhile, but you two girls ought to come inside—Peg? Colette? What’s going on?”

“Meet our son, Drummond.” Peg eased the baby into her husband’s arms. He fumbled, trying to hold him with care, his expression a mix of surprise and wonder. He looked toward Colette. “Yours?”

She nodded.

“Who’s the father?”

“A chap you don’t know, Drummond.” Colette shot Peg a glance, silencing her. This was Colette’s decision, and for once, Peg
would
do things her way. “I thought we were in love, but it turns out I was mistaken.”

“And you’re bringing him to Peg and me?”

“If you’ll have him.”

“Drum, we will, won’t we? Please? You know how much I want a baby and we’ve not—”

“Colette.” Six years older than Peg, Drummond was a seasoned businessman, and he sounded like one now. “If you do this, it’s done. You hear me? This will be our boy and not another word will be said. Ever.” Drummond’s big bass commanded Colette.

“I understand.” The inflation of it rocked Colette’s façade. “And you must be a good father and mother to him.”

“I’ll need his birth certificate,” Drummond said. “I’ve a college classmate who’s a lawyer. He can do this up proper and legal like.” The smoke from Drummond’s cigarette curled through the cold air.

“Drum.” Colette reached for the burning tobacco. “Cigarette smoke makes him cough.” One of her flatmates smoked like a chimney, always setting off James.

“No more smoking in the house, Drum,” Peg said. “That’s final.”

Colette retrieved a folded document from her coat pocket. “Here’s his birth certificate.”

Drummond reached for it, handing the baby back to Peg. He glanced at Colette, his expression inquiring. “The baby’s name is James?”

“I think it’s best you stay away,” Peg said as Drummond continued to read the certificate in the porch light. “We’ll tell folks we adopted him from friends out of town.”

“But I might want to see him.”

“Then what? Break down? Want to take him back?” Peg stepped into Colette, her voice low, driving like a spear. “If we take him, you will not come back, you hear me? He will be our son. You will never, ever tell Jimmy.”

Colette jerked with each word, hot tears creeping down her cheeks. “But, Peg, I can’t just—”

“You can and you will. You go on back to New York and make whatever life you can for yourself. Leave us and the boy be. Swear it or so help me, I’ll hand him right back to you.”

“Can’t I come for Christmas?”

“No.”

Colette imploded, the sobs forcing her against the porch post, cracking her very being apart.

“Peg, take it easy. She’s a kid,” Drum said.

“Drum, pardon us a moment.” Peg hooked her arm about Colette, leading her to the side porch. “Just consider this the first unselfish thing you’ve ever done. James will have a good life with us.”

“I’m so sorry, Peg, so sorry. I’ve ruined everything.”

“Just promise me, Colette. You will stay away.”

“What about Aunt Jean and Uncle Fred?”

“Write a letter, just tell them how busy you are . . .”

“Peg, you’re asking too much.”

James squirmed in Peg’s arms, his tiny arm shoving out from under the blanket.

“Then are you prepared to leave with him? Go back the way you came?”

Colette wept, brushing her hand over James’s head. This was her last moment with him as his mamá. Her last with Peg.