Suddenly Married (2 page)

T
he moment she got home from her meeting with Noah Lucas, Dara phoned the pastor’s office. “If no one has volunteered to take over Naomi King’s Sunday-school class,” she said, “I’ll be happy to do it.”

“Wonderful!” the preacher thundered into her ear. “Stop by the church this evening, and I’ll see that you get the materials you’ll need.”

A little of Scarlett O’Hara’s mind-set, she thought, driving to the church, would go a long way in keeping her mind off her problems. She’d worry about the accusations against her father tomorrow. Meanwhile, in the battered cardboard box the pastor had handed her, Dara found keys that would unlock the church basement, the office and the classrooms. The student roster and Naomi’s lesson plans were inside, as well, along with a teacher’s manual that complemented the workbooks each student had been issued.

She’d taught Sunday school before, but not since her father’s death. Dara’s last class had been a spirited group of junior-high kids whose pointed questions and
heartfelt opinions had left her exhausted yet exhilarated at the end of every class.

Teaching this class of first and second graders would be especially challenging, for Dara would, in effect, be setting down a foundation upon which they would hopefully build a lifetime of spiritual beliefs. In her mind, it was the answer to two prayers: the work involved with preparing for class would keep her from thinking about Noah Lucas’s investigation and the teaching itself would fulfill her personal belief that every parishioner should do his or her share to help the church.

She arrived half an hour earlier than necessary and organized the materials she’d use for today’s lesson. Then, sitting at the small wooden desk near the windows, Dara prayed:
Father, be with me as I help these youngsters learn about Your will and Your way. Open my mind and my heart to Your word and keep me alert so I’ll not miss even one opportunity to glorify You in their eyes. Amen.

Her intent had been to review her lesson plan until the children arrived. To the casual observer, it would appear she was doing exactly that. But church and Sunday school were the furthest things from her mind as she paged through the teacher’s manual on her desk. Rather, Noah Lucas occupied her thoughts. Know Thine Enemy hadn’t become a cliché because it was
bad
advice, she’d told herself. And during the past week, she’d made it her business to learn as much as possible about the man who had seemed determined to prove her father had been a thief. Dara had asked anyone who might have come into contact with Noah why he’d come to Baltimore, if he was married, whether he
had children—surely a good-looking man like that was married.

Dara lurched with surprise when the fresh-faced sixand seven-year-olds, dressed in their Sunday finest, filed into the room, giggling and chattering as they found places to sit. The moment she saw the wide-eyed innocent faces she knew volunteering to teach this class had been the right thing to do.

There was Pete Chapman and little Tina Nelson; Donny Murphy and Marie Latrell. She’d gone to school with Sammy O’Dell’s father, played softball with Lisa Johnston’s mother. She knew every child in the room…

Except for two.

Angie and Bobby Lucas.

Alice, the pastor’s secretary, escorted the children in and in a discreet tone filled Dara in on their background. The Lucas children had come to town a year or so ago when their widowed father decided to make Columbia, Maryland, the headquarters for his CPA and financial services firm. When he’d registered as a parishioner, Noah Lucas had told Alice he hoped being based in the Baltimore-Washington corridor would triple his clientele within two years. Dara knew enough about the area to believe he could accomplish his goal if he attacked everything the way he’d sunk his teeth into that nasty matter at Pinnacle.

She watched his children carefully. The boy, blond, blue eyed, was the spitting image of his father. Would he be tall and muscular someday? With a thick burnished mustache and a barrel chest?

Dara turned her attention to Noah Lucas’s daughter. His wife must have been a dark-haired, dark-eyed, delicate beauty, if her little girl was any indicator.

What must it be like, Dara wondered, growing up without a mother? She’d been twenty-seven when her own mother had died two years ago, and still Dara missed the maternal love that had flowed steadily and easily from parent to child. But to be so small, so young and vulnerable, when death stole a beloved parent…Dara’s heart ached for these two motherless children.

They sat side by side, front and center, and folded their hands on the desktops. They were by far the bestdressed, most well-behaved children in the classroom. But there was something about them that gave Dara an uneasy feeling. Was it their tight-lipped, somber-eyed expressions? Or the way they stared straight ahead, as silent as little statues? Looks as though a serious nature runs in the family, she thought, frowning as she recalled their father’s grim, taut posture.

“Okay, kids,” she called, clapping to get the class’s attention. “Let’s settle down and get to work.”

“Where’s Mrs. King?” Marie wanted to know.

Dara smiled as a moment of warm wishfulness fluttered inside her. If only someone could be making this announcement about me.…“Mrs. King’s baby was born last Sunday afternoon.”

“After Sunday school?”

“That’s right. She went straight to the hospital from here.”

“Is she all right?” Lisa asked.

“She’s fine, just fine,” Dara assured her.

“Boy or girl?” Pete demanded, grinning mischievously. “A boy, I hope—we already got too many girls in this town!”

The boys snickered and the girls groaned in response
to his commentary, while Dara smiled fondly. “I hate to disappoint you, Pete, but the baby is a girl.”

Tina raised her hand. “Have they named her yet?”

“As a matter of fact, they’re going to call her Sarah. Sarah Naomi King.”

“Yuck,” Pete grumped. “What’d they go an’ give her such a sissy name for?”

“Hush,” Tina scolded, frowning. “Sarah
isn’t
a sissy name. It’s beautiful.” One hand on her hip, she bobbed her head back and forth. “It’s from the Bible,” she singsonged, “isn’t it, Miss Mackenzie?”

“That’s right.…Now, can anyone tell me anything about the biblical Sarah?”

“She was Isaac’s mother,” Bobby Lucas volunteered.

“But before she was Sarah,” his elder sister injected, “her name was Sarai.”

“What did she go and change her name for,” Pete teased, “if it was so
beautiful?
”

“Because,” Angie said, lifting her chin, “God told her husband to change it.”

She seemed so pleased and proud to possess knowledge the other children did not have. Was the behavior something her father had encouraged? Or had his straitlaced personality sent Angie the message that this demeanor was required if she hoped to gain his approval?

“Everyone said Abraham was too old and feeble to have more children,” the girl continued, “but he believed he could, and because of his faith, God gave him a child,” Dara reported in a somber, quiet voice.

These were not ordinary children, Dara decided. Did Bobby play with trucks? Did Angie and her dollies have tea parties? Did they splash in their tub, dunk cookies in their milk and make snow angels? Something
told her they did not. Dara could almost picture them sitting inside, noses burrowed in the pages of some edifying book, peeking up only now and again to watch the fun going on
outside.

Of course youngsters should pray and read the Word, she acknowledged. They should respect their elders and do their chores and work hard in school. But they should never be made to forget that Jesus loved the little children,
because
of the innocent playfulness born into them! What kind of parent was Noah Lucas that he had seemingly discouraged his son and daughter from doing what should come naturally to all kids—enjoying life!

“When is Mrs. King coming back?” Tina interrupted.

Dara sent a quick prayer of thanks heavenward for the question that diverted her from her thoughts. “Well, she’s so excited about being a new mommy I don’t think even Mrs. King knows the answer to that question.”

“Are
you
going to be our teacher?”

She inspected the wide-eyed, expectant faces of her students. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Silence blanketed the classroom. “Good,” Pete muttered to the boy behind him, “‘cause she’s really pretty.”

Dara clasped her hands. “Now then, I had intended to talk about the Golden Rule today. Who knows what the Golden Rule is?”

“Jesus said, ‘Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you,’” Angie offered.

“Very good,” Dara said. “Can anyone tell me what that means?”

“Don’t do stuff to other people that you wouldn’t want ‘em doin’ to you?” Pete chanced.

“Absolutely! Someone give me an example.”

The children thought about that for a moment. Then Donny shouted out, “Oooh-oooh! I know, I know! Like…if I don’t want my sister hogging the swing, I shouldn’t hog it, either.”

“And if I wouldn’t like my brother changing the channel in the middle of a show I’m watching,” Lisa added, “I shouldn’t do it to him.”

Dara walked to the supply cabinet and swung open the doors. “That’s right!” She stood in front of shelves that housed colorful stacks of construction paper, bluntedged scissors, bottles of glue and boxes of crayons. “But it can also mean doing good things.”

“Like what?” Marie asked.

“Like helping people finish chores so they can get outside and play sooner, or sharing the last slice of chocolate cake.” Wiggling her eyebrows, she winked and gestured toward the cupboard. “Or making greeting cards that will let Mrs. King know how happy we are that she and Mr. King finally got that baby they’ve been praying for.”

Giggling and squealing with glee, the first and second graders grabbed materials from the cupboard and began working on their cards.

“How do you spell
congratulations?
” Tina wanted to know.

Dara was about to print the word on the chalkboard when Bobby Lucas said, “
C-o-n-g-r-a-t-u-l-a-t-i-o-n-s.
”

“Not so fast,” Pete complained.

How many first graders could even read the word? Dara wondered as Bobby spelled it again. It was beginning
to look like Noah Lucas had the discipline part of fathering down pat. But what about the loving part? she asked herself.

“Thanks, Bob-oh,” Pete said, grinning. “How’d you get so smart?”

Dara thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at the comers of Bobby’s mouth when he shrugged.

“His name isn’t Bob-oh,” Angie corrected. “It’s Bobby, which is short for Robert.”

“You mean
robber,
” Pete stuck in. “Your brother stole my pencil.”

“Didn’t steal it,” Bobby defended. “I only borrowed it” He handed it back to Pete, then crossed both arms over his chest.

“‘Thou shalt not steal,’” Pete teased, wagging a chubby finger at his classmate.

The statement made Dara think of her father. Heart pounding, she looked around the class, saw that Angie was looking directly at her. For an instant, Dara wondered if the little girl had read her thoughts, for her understanding expression seemed far too old and wise for one so young. But she said, “My mother called him Bobby, right up to the day she died.”

Dara wanted to wrap her in a hug—something she suspected her father didn’t do nearly often enough—but Angie had already turned her attention back to the artwork. She glanced at Angie’s younger brother, who shrugged again and in an equally matter-of-fact voice announced, “Don’t pay any attention to her. She says things like that all the time.” He raised one blond brow, looking amazingly like his father when he did. “Father says she does it to shock people.”

Father
says? Dara forced a laugh and ruffled
Bobby’s honey-blond hair. “Well,” she whispered, “it works. I’m shocked!”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. “Pete’s right.”

“About what?”

The smile that lit his face was contagious, and for a moment, she almost forgot there were a dozen other children around her.

“You’re very pretty.”

Angie, who had been hunched over Mrs. King’s card, sat up straight and gave Dara a once-over. “Yes, yes,” she agreed. “You are rather pretty.” Furrowing her brow, she added, “Are you married?”

The enrollment forms clearly stated that Bobby Lucas was six years old and Angie was seven. Because they’d been born in the same calendar year—Angie in January, Bobby in December—the children had been in the same grade since preschool. But surely there had been a clerical error, Dara thought, a typo on their registration forms, because neither child behaved even remotely like first graders.

“Father says ladies can sometimes be sensitive to that question. Since you didn’t answer, it must mean you aren’t married.” Angie tilted her head slightly, as if considering all the possibilities. “Have you ever been married? I mean, you’re not
divorced
or anything, are you, because Father says divorce is a sin.”

Why would his children even be asking such a thing, let alone asking it frequently enough to require adult discussion on the subject? Dara could answer Angie’s questions—questions that would not have seemed overly personal or inappropriate if they hadn’t been asked in that eerily controlled voice—or she could divert the child’s attention. Her father may choose to
speak to her like a miniature adult, Dara thought, frowning slightly, but here in my classroom, she’ll be treated like a seven-year-old!

“The card you’re making for Mrs. King is lovely,” she said in an upbeat, friendly voice. “I especially like the pretty house you’ve drawn there.”

“It’s like the one we lived in up in Pennsylvania, when my mother was alive.” She tucked in one comer of her mouth. “It was a very nice house.”

Angie took a deep breath, then said, “It happened when I was four.” She put the red crayon she’d been using back into the box, and withdrew a blue one. “It was cancer, you know, the kind that eats your blood.”

“Leukemia,” Bobby said. But unlike his sister’s nonchalant tone, the boy’s voice trembled slightly.