Love Inspired May 2015 #2 (4 page)

“If you'll pick up a brochure on the way out, you'll see a listing of Sunday school classes and other small group meetings we have throughout the week. I hope you'll visit around, find a place where you feel comfortable.”

“Ted?” someone called from the choir loft while tapping a microphone that appeared to be dead.

“Excuse me for running off,” Ted said. “I think they're having trouble with the sound system. Again, welcome. We're glad God brought you here today.” He patted her hand, reminding her of her grandfather, and then strode to the front of the church.

Her smile faltered. When she'd left her hometown so many years ago to go to college, severing contact with her parents, she'd hurt her grandfather. Though she'd remained close to him, she'd also disappointed him. On his deathbed, he'd told her he still prayed daily that she would forgive her parents and reconcile. He died having never seen that prayer answered.

And she still hadn't found it in her heart to forgive them for refusing to help her keep her son, for forcing her to give him up for adoption. She hadn't seen her parents since her granddad's funeral, where she'd avoided extended conversation.

Pushing aside the painful memory and the guilt, she steered away from the center aisle and moved to the far left. She inched her way down to about the fourth row from the back and took a seat on the end. As church members entered, they came over to greet her. They were a friendly bunch, making her glad she'd come.

Trying not to be conspicuous, she searched the crowd for Jake in case he'd come in while she was talking. But he wasn't there.

Her shoulders drooped. Had he had a bad night? An infant would certainly make getting ready difficult. Or maybe he didn't attend regularly.

Whatever the reason for his absence, she could still check out possible women in the congregation who could help him with Abigail. As the organist played a prelude, Violet scoped out the room. There were definitely a few young mothers she could try to meet to feel them out, see if they might be available.

Five minutes into the service as the pastor was making announcements, the door behind Violet opened. Maybe it was Jake. Her neck muscles tensed.

She glanced back, and sure enough, Jake was headed down the center aisle wearing khaki pants and a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He carried Abigail's car seat as if it didn't weigh a pound.

Though his beard was neatly trimmed and his hair was freshly washed, the man looked tired. Harried. And he was obviously late.

Had he had trouble giving Abigail a bath? Had they not gotten any sleep last night? Could there be something wrong with Abigail that Violet had missed?

She snapped her attention back to the front of the church and crossed her arms, her teeth clamped tightly together. Jake was a grown man. She shouldn't worry so much.

Jake slid in the other end of her row—
her row
, of all places. As he set the carrier on the seat beside him, she tried not to stare. Had he spotted her?

She needed to face the front and concentrate on worshipping.

Yet part of the way through the service, when they stood to sing a hymn, she found herself looking over to check on Abigail. Once she realized she couldn't get a clear view of the baby, her gaze wandered upward.

Jake's gaze locked with hers. He didn't crack a smile or spare a wave. The man was used to being the boss at the work site, the one checking up on others. He apparently didn't like thinking someone might be checking up on him.

Well, that was too bad. She wiggled her fingers at him in a friendly wave.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and then turned back to his hymnbook, singing along until the song came to a close.

Always good at blocking out distractions, Violet sat and tuned in to the pastor's sermon. When he began to preach about the prodigal son, she stilled.

Seriously?

Had God whispered in Pastor Greer's ear that a wayward believer would show up in need of a good talking-to?

No one in the sanctuary could possibly know how convicted she felt, but Violet's face burned in shame at how she'd tossed aside her faith for more than a decade. Ever since the day fourteen years ago when that little pregnancy test stick had turned positive, when her prayers for help had gone unanswered.

Though Violet wondered if maybe God had been the one to nudge her to come today, she still couldn't bring herself to pray. God probably didn't care to hear from her.

Abigail whimpered. A second whimper cranked up to a good cry, distracting Violet from the message. At the moment, she welcomed the distraction.

Jake looked a bit panicky, rifling through the diaper bag, then popping a pacifier in the baby's mouth.

Apparently, she spit it out because the crying kicked up a notch.

Maybe Violet should scoot over to help.

Jake unhooked the car seat straps and lifted Abigail out, his movements rushed and awkward. Tough to be calm and collected when everyone around was beginning to stare. Even if they were smiling.

He bounced Abigail in his arms, but she wouldn't be consoled.

Violet moved an inch and stopped. Would he think she was interfering?

People turned to look at Jake. He grabbed a bottle and impressed Violet with how quickly he popped it into Abigail's mouth. But she refused it and continued to squall.

With stomach tensing, Violet leaned forward, ready to spring over beside Jake.

Grace Hunt rose from her seat. With her bobbed white hair, she walked up the aisle toward Jake. Smiling, she held out her arms to take the infant. He handed her over along with a pacifier.

As Grace walked away, bouncing Abigail, the crying stopped. Jake heaved a sigh and relaxed against the back of the pew.

Violet had missed her chance. Yet maybe this woman would be the perfect helper for Jake. After the service Violet would suggest Jake ask her for pointers, and maybe Grace could—

Violet's phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from the hospital reporting a five-year-old patient in the ER with dehydration.

On autopilot, she grabbed her purse and slipped into the side aisle, heading toward the exit. Grace stood in the back swaying, holding the pacifier in Abigail's mouth. She smiled and nodded at Violet as she passed. Violet returned the smile, yet couldn't help checking out the baby.

Looking happy and healthy, Abigail sucked on the pacifier while she observed the kind woman holding her.

A wave of disappointment washed over Violet, quickly replaced by irritation. She should not be disappointed that Jake didn't need her help. She should be pleased this woman had offered assistance. Hadn't that been one of Violet's goals for coming today?

Jake had a friend who could teach him to care for the baby. It was time for Violet to return to work mode, to make sure her interest in Jake and Abigail remained strictly professional.

Chapter Three

“Y
ou sure are calling early,” Aunt Edith said on the other end of the phone line. “It's barely 6:00 a.m.”

Jake stood in his kitchen bouncing Abigail in the crook of his arm. She'd been fussy since she woke at five o'clock.

All morning, he'd tried every trick he knew to soothe her, including walking around the yard before dawn and swinging on his childhood swing set while holding Abigail. She would settle for a few minutes but then start fretting again.

Unlike during her nighttime crying jags, at least she was finally taking her bottle this morning.

“What's that noise?” Edith asked. “It sounds like a baby.”

“That's because it
is
a baby.”

“Is there something you need to tell us?” she said with a laugh.

If only the whole thing were a joke and he could laugh along with her. “Actually, there is. Why don't you put Uncle Paul on the other phone?”

Edith called for her husband to pick up the other extension, telling him Jake had something important to tell them.

“What is it, son?” Paul asked.

“Remy came by a couple of days ago.”

Edith gasped. “How is she?”

“She's okay. Looks pretty good, actually. And she's had a baby.”

Silence.

“Sorry,” Jake said. “Wish I could have prepared you better for that bombshell. But she showed up Friday evening, claiming she's been clean for a year now but saying she's not good mother material. She left the two-week-old baby with me and took off.”

“What?” Edith nearly shrieked, probably trying to imagine him taking care of her infant grandchild.

“I don't know what to say.” Paul sounded worn-out, as if he'd taken one too many emotional beatings.

Jake's aunt and uncle had been through a great deal of pain and disappointment with their daughter, who'd lied to them, stolen from them and nearly depleted their savings in rehab programs. They'd had to practice tough love for their own sanity.

Once they'd refused to enable her any longer, Remy's rare visits ceased. Because of financial difficulties, the couple had decided to sell their practice and retire early. They moved south to heal.

Jake hated to be the one to reopen the wound. “I'm sorry to call. I tried waiting, hoping she'd come back in a day or two. But she hasn't. I have no contact information. No license plate number. Nothing with an address except hospital records, and who knows if Remy still lives there?”

“We have a grandchild,” Edith whispered, tears choking off her voice.

With a whimper, Abigail drew her knees in and spit out the nipple.
Not now.

“Yes, and Remy put in writing that she wants me to raise her,” Jake said.

“We have a granddaughter?”

“Edith,” Paul snapped. “A baby isn't going to instantly make us some normal, happy family. She'll come back for the girl, disappear and break our hearts all over again.”

His aunt began to cry. Then the phone line clicked as she hung up.

“Uncle Paul?”

“Yeah, I'm still here. What do you plan to do?”

No offer of help. Jake was on his own.

The baby started to fret. He put her to his shoulder and walked outside. What was wrong with her this morning? Was she sick?

“I'll wait it out,” Jake said. “I'm sure Remy will come back. In the meantime, I had Dr. Crenshaw check her out.”

Paul harrumphed.

“I know we didn't like the terms of the contract, but I think she's a good doctor,” Jake said, looking across his backyard to the doc's house.

She sat at the table on her patio. Had she heard him mention her name to his uncle?

“I'm sure she's a good doctor,” Paul said. “She had impeccable references. I just didn't like her negotiating. Didn't like her evaluation of our business practices.”

Violet stood and started toward him. Great. Just what he needed while his uncle got on a roll.

“Hey, listen. The baby's fussing. I should go.”

“You didn't say whether the baby checked out okay.”

“She's fine.”

“That's a relief. Maybe Remy managed to take decent care of her.”

“I need to go. The neighbor's heading this way.” He wouldn't specify which neighbor.

“Okay. I imagine Remy will turn up soon, unless, of course, she's back on drugs.”

And wasn't that the story of Remy's life? Her problems with drugs had wrecked her life and pretty much destroyed what family Jake had left. “Tell Aunt Edith not to worry about this big clod handling the baby. Doc Crenshaw came over and trained me.”

Paul let out a groan. “Don't get sucked in by the pretty doctor. I'm sure Grace Hunt from the church will be glad to help you.”

The pretty—more like beautiful—doctor stood in front of him wearing running shorts, an Emory Medical School T-shirt and running shoes. Jake's neck heated. Surely there wasn't any way she'd heard their conversation.

“I'll get the situation figured out,” he said to his uncle.

“We can always depend on you, Jake,” Paul said. “I'll let you know if by some wild chance we hear from your cousin. Don't tell Edith or it'll get her hopes up, but I'll do some checking to see if I can locate Remy.”

“Thanks.” They hung up, and he forced a smile for Violet. “Good morning. What's up?”

“I heard Abigail crying earlier when I was out running. Thought I would check on you.”

“Making house calls now, huh?” He stuffed the rejected bottle in his pocket, brought Abigail to his shoulder and then gently patted her back. “Come on, sweet thing. Give a nice big burp for Cousin Jake.”

Abigail complied by spitting up across his shoulder and down his back.

“What's the deal, Abigail?” he said.

“Some spitting up is normal. Here, let me take her.” Violet took the baby and they headed inside the kitchen.

She grabbed a cloth diaper from a freshly washed stack he'd left on the counter. “I'll clean her up.”

“Thanks.” Jake went to his room to change shirts.

When he returned to the kitchen, Violet was sweet-talking Abigail. She'd changed her into a clean onesie—a new word he'd learned since becoming a temporary guardian. Violet also had the child calmed.

“Thanks. I think my laundry has multiplied tenfold with one tiny little gal.”

“Has she acted sick this morning? Is that why you were outside so early?”

“I'm sorry if we disturbed you.”

“No, I'm not complaining. Just wondering if everything's okay.”

“She woke early and has been fussy. Looks flushed.”

Violet placed her lips on Abigail's forehead. “She feels a little warm to me. Did you take her temperature?”

He winced because he had hundreds of dollars of baby paraphernalia but not the equipment he needed. “I apparently missed buying a thermometer.”

“I have one. Be right back.” She handed over the infant and hurried out the door.

Worried about Abigail and not wanting to drag her to the work site again, he decided he would skip going as planned. There wasn't a lot Jake needed to do that morning anyway, other than check on the cabinet installers and hurry up the interior painters. He texted Zeb. When Zeb didn't reply, he called the man's voice mail to check in and leave instructions.

Violet returned with a bag and pulled out a funny-looking gadget. “Here we go.”

“That doesn't look like the thermometers I remember.”

She laughed as she gently placed it against Abigail's temple. “You've got to admit this is much more pleasant than the alternative—which, by the way, is my preferred method to measure an accurate temp.”

The instrument beeped, and she showed him the result. One hundred degrees.
Now what?

He glanced at the doctor, searching for signs of concern. “From what I read online this morning it isn't considered a fever until a hundred point four.”

“That's a good guideline, but we worry more about the young ones.” She brushed back the baby girl's wispy black hair. Felt her neck.

She didn't look too concerned, but his stomach churned anyway. He was not fit to parent a baby. He could set budgets, place orders, coordinate schedules, direct multiple crews of workers and make tough decisions all day long. But throw in a variable like four-tenths of a degree of body temperature and he turned into a bumbling idiot.

Abigail whimpered.

“Why don't we take her temp again?” he said. “Just to make me feel better.”

“Sure. I'll show you how.”

They went to the living room, and he laid Abigail on the couch. Violet gave him the thermometer and directed him on using it.

Ninety-nine point nine. “Should we be concerned?”

“I doubt it. But I brought my bag, so let me check her over.”

His phone vibrated. A new text message.

While she looked in Abigail's ears, he checked the text from Zeb.

Owner said kitchen tile wasn't right color. I checked the order. Is exactly what you told us.

Frustration cinched his gut. Changes cost money and time.
I'll look into it. Baby may be sick,
he texted back.

“Ears are fine.” Violet warmed a stethoscope and listened to Abigail's lungs. “Honestly, she seems fine. Did she cry again last night?”

“From about nine to midnight.”

“Looking more like we're dealing with colic.”

His phone buzzed again. “Excuse me just a minute. I have a problem at work.”

“Go ahead. I'll walk with her outside and see if I can calm her.” Violet swaddled the baby in a receiving blanket, then went through the kitchen and out the back door.

The text was from Zeb again.
Mrs. E says she hopes you won't let babysitting interfere with your job.

Mrs. Emerson was the owner of one of the homes they were building. She tended to walk around the work site in a business suit and three-inch high heels, breathing down everyone's neck. But Jake wanted her to love her home.

He got Zeb on the phone. “Tell Mrs. Emerson not to worry. I want my customers happy.”

“Will do.” Zeb snickered. “Baby is fussy, huh? Sounds like you're a regular Mr. Mom.”

Jake had seen the man with his grandkids. Zeb had a tough-as-nails exterior and a marshmallow-puff interior. “Yeah, you keep making fun. Next time I see you swinging beside one of your grandkids at the park, you'll never hear the end of it.”

“Well, Mr. Mom has a backbone after all.”

Jake snorted a laugh. “The girl has been fussy. Temp is a little elevated.”

“When in doubt, go to the doctor. Another excuse to get cozy with the cute new pediatrician who about chewed your rear off Saturday.”

Wondering how many people had overheard
that
discussion made his face burn. “The doc is actually here checking her now. But I assure you, there's no coziness where Violet Crenshaw is concerned.” A quick glance out the back door gave him a good excuse to avoid the topic. “In fact, I need to go check on them.”

“You do that, Jake.” Zeb was laughing as he disconnected.

* * *

Soft, jet-black hair that smelled like baby shampoo brushed against Violet's cheek, melting her insides. Calm and relaxed, she was pleased her first appointment wasn't until eight-thirty. She didn't need to hurry home.

And Abigail seemed to be relaxing, too. Was getting sleepy.

Jake came out the back door. The sight of him in a T-shirt that molded to his work-toned muscles instantly shot her heart rate up, undoing any soothing from holding Abigail.

“How's she doing?” he asked.

“Better.” She smiled at him, knowing he could use some encouragement.

He held up the thermometer he'd brought with him, then took another reading. “Ninety-eight point seven.” His shoulders dropped. “That's good. I feel stupid for worrying.”

“Don't apologize for erring on the side of caution. Little ones like this can get sick quickly.”

“I was afraid I'd done something wrong bathing her last night. Was afraid she'd gotten chilled. She wasn't a happy camper through that nightmare.”

Violet bit back a smile. “Bathing will get easier.”

“I hope. I think I took too long. She was okay at first, but then the water got cool. She started squalling, all stiff and furious. I bundled her up afterward, making sure she warmed up.”

Violet's chest squeezed. The image of this tall, brawny man doing something sweet like warming a chilled baby battered at her heart.

He held out his arms for Abigail.

Hating to give up the warm, sleeping bundle, she handed her over, willing a steel rod into her spine instead of the gelatin this man had put there. “You're doing fine, Jake. Do you think the fussiness this morning seemed different from the crying she's done at night?”

“Definitely. This morning's fussiness hasn't been as severe. At night, no matter what I do to comfort her, she continually shrieks—which, for the record, is horrendous.”

“I can imagine.”

“I walk the floor, rocking her, singing, cracking dumb jokes, doing everything but standing on my head. It's as if I'm not even there.” He shrugged, his eyes troubled. “I've never felt so helpless in my life.”

Warning, warning! No melting of heart allowed.

“Today, though, I could console her briefly. She didn't all-out cry, just whimpered and whined.”

“Hmm. That does sound more like a baby feeling ill. There's a chance she has a tummy ache or some gas. Are you remembering to burp her after her bottles?”

“Yes. But she has been drawing up her legs as if her stomach hurts. One of my subcontractors mentioned a change of formula curing his grandchild's colic.”

Violet would make a note of the stomach pain in Abigail's file. “Every now and then, I've found changing to lactose-free formula does help. How about I bring some samples to you at lunchtime?”