A Love Surrendered (13 page)

5

T
his is stupid.”

Marcy glanced up from the costume she was stitching for Abby to offer a sympathetic smile to Gabriella Dawn, the foster child she longed to call her own. Her heart squeezed.
If only my husband will comply
. Her tongue glided across her teeth as always when she was nervous, and her hand automatically smoothed the pocket of her belted housedress where a paper lay folded and tucked away. A paper to begin the adoption process so Gabe could be enrolled as an O’Connor for the school year in the fall. Acid churned in Marcy’s stomach.

But only if signed tonight.

The remnants of dusk filtered through the weathered screen door of her cheery kitchen where she, Charity, Lizzie, and Emma finished sewing the costumes for the cousins’ dance recital. A hint of apples and cinnamon lingered in the air from the pie she’d made for supper, and lacy sheers fluttered with a spring breeze heavy with the scent of lilac blooms. Shrieks and giggles drifted in from the backyard where Lizzie’s two children and Charity’s twins played a game of King of the Hill that was obviously more important to Gabe than any “stupid” recital.

Lips in a pout, her foster tomboy seemed too petite for
ten going on eleven, skinny arms tightly crossed over a rose chiffon tutu that nearly matched the uncomfortable blush on her cheeks. Chestnut curls knotted from play spilled over tiny shoulders that appeared to carry the weight of the world rather than satin bows carefully pinned in place. The little girl’s freckles bunched in a frown, tugging at Marcy’s heart as she thought of the hundreds of orphans at the BSCG who might never have a family of their own. Marcy sighed. Not the least of which was the sprite before her who’d stolen her heart.

“And not just stupid,” Gabe continued, jaw thrust as if to emphasize her point, “but it’s not fair either.” Deep brown eyes the exact shade of her hair narrowed as she glared out into the backyard. “Henry doesn’t have to dance in any stupid recital.”

Charity tugged on the pink netting gathered at Gabe’s waist. “Pink’s not my son’s color,” she said dryly. Her lips twisted. “Unless it’s covered with dirt.”

“Why did I have to be a girl?” Gabe moaned, head flung back and brows crimped in pain.

“To keep little boys like Henry in line,” Charity said with a pin tucked in her mouth. She stepped back to eye Gabe’s costume. “Heaven knows I can’t do it all by myself.”

“But you’re such a pretty girl, Gabe,” Emma said with a gentle smile, glancing up at her husband and Steven when they entered the room. “Sean, doesn’t Gabe look pretty?”

Sean ambled over to the icebox to pour some milk for Steven and him, bestowing a quick kiss on Emma en route while his brother made a beeline for the pie. “Like a princess.”

“I don’t want to be a princess.” Gabe scowled, delivering another nasty look to where Henry stood on the picnic table, wooden sword thrust high in his hand. “I wanna be king.”

Marcy bit back a smile, her heart going out to the little ragamuffin as always when the tomboy in her surfaced and battled for control. She thought of the abuse Gabe had been through before finding refuge at the BSCG, and Marcy’s smile faded with a quick sting of tears. Gabe’s suspicion and belligerence toward males was certainly understandable with a monster of
an alcoholic father, and for the hundredth time, the very thought clotted the air in Marcy’s throat. Pushing the painful reality aside, she glanced over at Steven, who was cutting pie for Sean and himself. Worry for Gabe fresh in her mind, an edge crept into her tone. “Please leave some for your father, Steven,” she warned, stomach tightening at the prospect of no pie for Patrick.

Steven squinted at the clock, which registered after eight. “Pop’s running late, isn’t he?”

“I suppose he and Mitch are busy, given the turmoil in Germany right now?” Emma asked, her voice as grave as the threat brewing in Europe.

“I’m afraid so,” Marcy said in a somber tone that matched her daughter-in-law’s. “With last year’s downsizing of staff, several editors out sick, and one of Patrick’s best editors retiring, it’s a skeleton crew. Unfortunately, as editor and assistant editor, Patrick and Mitch bear the brunt.” Marcy heaved a weary sigh. “Although Hitler owns a good part of the blame.”

Charity grunted. “It’s been awful, hasn’t it, Mother, all these extra hours?” She adjusted the pins on Gabe’s shoulder straps, cocking her head to assess. “Mitch is a grouch with an eight-hour day, much less working half the night. He may as well live at the
Herald
for all I see him. Which,” she said with a droll smile, “might be an improvement, given the grump he’s been.” She squeezed Gabe’s waist. “All right, Your Majesty, take it off and be careful of the—”

A blur of pink netting disappeared with a whoosh of the swinging door, prompting a slant of Charity’s lips. “I’d be one happy woman if Henry moved that fast when I issued an order.”

Steven chuckled as he retrieved two forks from the drawer. “I thought you were already a happy woman, sis. ‘Marriage is bliss,’ remember?”

Charity’s almond-shaped eyes thinned considerably. “You might want to refrain from snide remarks, Steven, because you’ll be eating those words someday, just like Sean. Which, I might add, would
also
make me a happy woman.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Steven said, lips tilted in a boyish
smile. “I think your chances for happiness fare a little better with Henry hustling when you call.”

Sean followed Steven to the door, milk glasses in hand and a crooked grin on his face. “What do you mean? Henry hustles,” he said with a low chuckle, “just in the opposite direction.”

“Very funny, you two.” Charity aimed a finger at Sean. “And you best be careful or I’ll pray Emma gives you a houseful of Henrys,” she said with a smirk, pinking Emma’s cheeks.

“Sounds good to me.” Hand to the swinging door, Sean winked at his wife on his way to the parlor. “More than happy to do my part. The more Henrys and Hopes, the better.”

Emma took a quick drink, her face near as burnished as the tea in her cup.

Charity’s chuckle halted midflow as the door squeaked closed. Ducking her head, she peered into Emma’s face. “Goodness, Emma, your face is redder than Henry’s when I slobber him with kisses. Married a half year and you’re still a blushing bride? Or are you just afraid I’ll make good on my threat to pray for a houseful of Henrys?”

Cheeks aflame, Emma rose, avoiding Charity’s gaze on her way to the stove. “Of course not,” she said quickly, focusing on filling the kettle. “More tea, anyone?”

“Oh, me, me!” Charity jumped to her feet. “I’ll help.”

“Sounds wonderful, Emma, thank you.” Marcy studied her daughter-in-law. “Are you . . . feeling all right, dear? You look flushed.”

“I probably just scared the wits out of her, Mother,” Charity said with a chuckle, bumping her hip against Emma’s in an affectionate tease. She tugged cups and saucers from the cabinet. “Right, Mrs. O’Connor? Worried you’ll end up with a houseful of Henrys?”

Emma stilled, her pause hanging thick in the air. A frail sob shattered the silence.

“Emma?” Cups and saucers clanked to the counter as Charity turned to grip her.

“No . . .” Emma’s hand quivered to her mouth. “I’m not
worried about a houseful of Henrys,” she whispered on a heave, “just worried I won’t have any.”

“What do you mean?” Urgency diminished all tease in Charity’s tone.

Emma looked up, tragedy etched in her face. “I m-mean I’ve m-miscarried twice since Sean and I married.”

Abby’s tutu slipped from Marcy’s fingers. “Oh, Emma, no . . .” She hurried to her daughter-in-law’s side, arm to her waist. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I was afraid,” Emma said, eyes swimming with pain. “Afraid voicing it would make it all the more real, all the more true.” Swiping at a tear, she took the handkerchief Marcy pressed in her hand, then sagged into Marcy’s embrace while Charity and Lizzie hovered. “Afraid it’s punishment for my past.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Charity said, shoring Emma up on the other side. “You have nothing you need punishment for. And if you did, Rory Malloy was certainly punishment enough.”

Marcy cupped Emma’s face, heart swelling with love for this wounded soul God brought into their family. “A miscarriage doesn’t mean you can’t have children, Emma,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

Lizzie blinked while Charity gaped. “What?” Charity’s jaw went slack.

“When, Mother?” Lizzie searched her mother’s face, hand fanning her pregnant stomach.

Marcy pressed a palm to Charity’s cheek and then to Lizzie’s. “Once between Charity and you, Lizzie,” she said quietly, “and then once again between you and Steven.”

“I never knew,” Lizzie whispered. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Marcy exhaled, the very memory depleting her strength. “Because there seemed no need, no reason to burden anyone else with the pain I carried in my heart, not even Patrick at first. So I kept it to myself.” Her gaze returned to Emma, heart tugging at the sorrow in her eyes. “Much as I imagine Emma has with Sean. Am I correct?”

Emma nodded, eyes fixed on the floor. “I . . . couldn’t bring myself to tell him, Marcy, nor anyone . . . until now. Sean is so hopeful for a family, so excited about having sons and daughters of his own, that I . . . I couldn’t break his heart like that.” Her gaze lifted to reveal eyes raw with regret. “If ever a man was meant to have children of his own, it’s your son.”

“A miscarriage, even two, is no indication you won’t carry to term, Emma,” Marcy said quietly, stroking her daughter-in-law’s face.

Emma’s chest quivered with a shuddering heave. “No, Marcy, but four miscarriages are.”

“What?” She grasped Emma’s arms, drawing her gaze. “What do you mean?”

The shiver of Emma’s body sent a cold tremor clear up Marcy’s arms. “I mean I miscarried twice before . . . when I was with Rory.”

“But that was Rory’s fault,” Charity said, her voice as harsh as the meaning of Emma’s words. “That lowlife kicked you and beat you till you lost those babies.”

“Yes,” Emma said, hand trembling across her abdomen, “but I miscarried two times after that, Charity, that Rory knew nothing about.”

“No . . .” Lizzie’s denial was little more than a gasp.

Eyes wide and wet, Charity swallowed her best friend in a fierce hug. “Oh, Emma, my heart grieves for you and those babies you lost.”

Emotion swelled in Marcy’s throat, blocking all air.
Lord, no, six babies!
Emma’s pain seared Marcy’s very soul.
An entire family.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
Like mine
.

“You have no idea how good it feels not to carry this alone anymore.” Emma squeezed Charity, then blotted the tears on her face before giving Lizzie and Marcy a tremulous smile. “I’m going to be fine, you know. Sean and I have a wonderful marriage and we’ll continue to try.” Her chin rose. “But if we can’t, God is faithful. He’ll bring us a family of our own.”

“What do you mean?” Charity asked. “Adoption?”

Hope glimmered in Emma’s gray eyes like molten silver. “Yes, adoption,” she breathed. She turned to Marcy, clutching her hand. “So, you see, Marcy, you and I have a common prayer that our husbands will allow us to open our homes and our hearts to the children that God sends us. Be they from our wombs . . . ,” the softest of smiles curved Emma’s mouth, “or from the BSCG.”

“Oh, Emma . . .” Marcy swept her daughter-in-law into a fond embrace. “You are such a joy, and we will storm heaven for God to bless you and Sean with children of your own.” She pulled away to study Emma’s face. “But in the meantime, when do you plan to tell Sean? You know, about the miscarriages . . . and your thoughts of adoption?”

The teapot whistled, and Charity distributed cups and saucers to the table while Lizzie provided cream and sugar. Emma’s smile faded somewhat. “Soon, I hope,” she said, steeping the tea, “but it won’t be easy.” She peeked up, cheeks pink from more than the steam from the tea. “Your son is a very competitive man, given all the sports he plays and the teams he’s coached.”

“So?” Charity said, nose in a scrunch. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Emma poured the tea, eyes focused on the task at hand. “Well . . . it would seem a competition has been waged.” She glanced up with a nervous grate of her lip. “Between Collin, Luke, and Sean . . . as to who will sire the next boy.”

Charity gaped. “A competition? Oh, I’ll just bet that was Collin’s idea, wasn’t it?” Her lips swerved into a dry smile. “Now, there’s a man who deserves a Henry if ever there was.”

Emma smiled. “I think it was. But we all know with three girls, the man’s pined for a son for a very long time.” She released a wispy sigh. “So, I know I need to tell Sean soon, but I just kept hoping against hope that it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“I know what you mean,” Marcy said with a twist of her lips. “I keep hoping against hope that Gabe’ll be good long enough for me to broach adoption to Patrick, but so far it
hasn’t happened.” She released a weary sigh. “And now I’m out of time.”

Emma paused, concern clouding her eyes. “Why do you say that, Marcy?”

Marcy’s gaze flicked to the calendar on the pantry door. “Well, tomorrow’s the deadline, you see, when the paperwork has to be in . . .”