Sweet Sanctuary (14 page)

She blinked rapidly, her lips parting in surprise. “You believe me?”

“Certainly. What did He say?”

Lydia leaned forward, eager and intense. “He said, ‘Be patient and wait.' He said I'd know in time—be patient and wait.” She lifted her chin, a hint of defensiveness appearing. “You don't think I was hearing things?”

Micah took a deep breath and linked his fingers together. “To my way of thinking, prayer goes two ways. Most people stop at one way. They pour everything out to God, and then they're done. But prayer is like a conversation. Takes two people talking to have a conversation. Why shouldn't God speak, too?”

“He's spoken to you?”

Micah nodded, allowing his mind to drift backward. “Sure He has. In a variety of ways. In a calmness I feel deep inside, in an idea I know didn't come from my own head, in an opportunity that leads me to places I wouldn't have gone otherwise . . .”

“But I heard a voice, Micah. A
voice.
” Her dark eyes sparkled with fervor. “Have you ever heard His voice?”

Micah shook his head slowly, a disappointment settling in his stomach. “No, to be honest, I haven't. But God spoke to people in the Bible in a voice that could be heard. So I believe it can happen. It just hasn't happened to me.”

Lydia ruffled her hair once more, leaving it lying in beguiling little feathered ridges. “It was so
real,
Micah. I felt so . . . so special when I heard it. I think God needed me to meet those children, needed me to know what you were doing. I think He led me here.”

Micah smiled. “Tell your father about your experience—just like you told it to me—when you get home.”

She burst out with a short laugh. “He'd say I've lost my mind!”

“Then convince him you haven't. Let him know what you heard, and then when God reveals His plan in His timing, you can prove God's existence to your father.”

Lydia shook her head, the humor fading from her expression. “You don't know my father. It will take a miracle to change his mind about God. He thinks God is for women, children, and weaklings—and he is none of those things.”

Micah took Lydia's hand. “I'll pray for your father. You keep praying for him, too. God can work miracles. I've witnessed it many times over in my lifetime. God will find the way to reach your father. Hang on to faith. Just believe.”

“I want to believe. Nicky so needs a Christian man in his life. I'm sure I'll never marry—”

“Whoa, back up.” Micah gave her hand a little tug. “Why wouldn't you ever marry?”

Lydia made a sour face. “Micah, think about it. Everyone believes I bore Nicky out of wedlock. No decent man is going
to pursue a relationship with me. Why, as far as the community is concerned, I'm merely a fallen woman and Nicky is a—”

Anger flashed through Micah's middle. “Don't say it. Don't even think it!” How could she see herself in that manner? Allan Eldredge had done tremendous harm with his misguided lies. “You and I both know you are not a ‘fallen woman,' and Nicky is very legitimate. Someday you're going to meet a man who will see you for what you really are—a beautiful, loving, giving person. And if he chooses to walk away from you, he's a bigger fool than your father.”

Unshed tears glittered in Lydia's eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course I do. Any man would be lucky to claim you and Nicky as his family.” If only Micah could claim them right now. But then what? Ask her to abandon her parents and drag Nicky away from everything familiar? Expect her to wait up while he delivered packages, wondering if something would go wrong? Offer her a small apartment in a brownstone instead of a house in the country where Nicky could run and play? No, the timing was all wrong. He couldn't express his feelings for her now. But he could offer his assistance as a friend, and he could pray for her.

Setting aside his own desires, he spoke a vow. “I . . . I will pray for you to find the man who will love and accept Nicky as his son when he chooses to love and accept you as his wife.”

Lydia's eyes filled, and she nodded a thank-you. Then, unexpectedly, she yawned behind her hand. She glanced at the watch on Micah's wrist. “Gracious! Look at the time. We'll be dragging tomorrow.”

Micah checked his watch and grimaced. “You're right. I'd better get across the hall and into bed.” He stood, scooped up the pouch she'd given him, and headed toward the door.
“Tomorrow morning, we'll start calling these numbers. Hopefully Mrs. Fenwick will answer on one of them.”

“Thanks again, Micah, for all your help.” She stood in the middle of the room, the light bulb over her head bringing out the highlights in her dark hair and gilding her eyelashes in gold.

Micah placed his hand on the doorknob to keep from wrapping his arms around her and kissing her breathless. He patted the leather pouch against his thigh. “Thank
you
for the help. I'll come get you in the morning.” And he scurried out before temptation took control.

17

S
hortly after eight thirty the next morning, Micah tapped on Lydia's door. He expected to find her dressed in the familiar coveralls, but instead she wore a light green suit similar to the yellow one. He whistled, arrested by the sight. “Don't you look nice. I guess this means you aren't going to do any work at the clinic today?” No smile appeared on her face, raising tingles of apprehension. Micah frowned. “Is something wrong?”

She reached beside the door and retrieved her suitcase. “Micah, I'm not going with you to the clinic. I'm going to the train station so I can go home. After talking last night about Father and Nicky, I found myself so homesick I could hardly sleep.” She heaved a huge sigh, tears flooding her eyes. “I have the numbers we found in the newspapers in my purse and I can call them from Boston as easily as I can from here. When I find Mrs. Fenwick, Father can make travel arrangements for her by telephone. So I'm going home.”

Micah took a backward step, a rock of dread filling his stomach. “Oh. Well . . .” He shoved his hands into his pockets and lifted his shoulders. “I see.”

She slumped, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Please don't be angry with me. I . . . I just miss Nicky so, and I—”

Her dismal pose stirred sympathy. He reached out and chafed her upper arms, forcing his lips into a grin. “Hey, it's okay, Lydia. I understand. You just caught me off guard.” Not until that moment did he realize how much he'd come to enjoy her presence. Saying good-bye would be harder than he'd imagined. He gave her arms one more quick squeeze, then reached for her suitcase. “Let me carry that down for you, and I'll help you find a cab.”

She swept away her tears with her fingertips and offered a wobbly smile. “Thank you.”

They descended the stairs in silence, and when they reached the street corner, Micah flagged down a cab. He swung Lydia's suitcase into the backseat, then held out his hand. “Let me have that list. I'll add my telephone number at the clinic. Then you can let me know when you make it home, and also when you've found Mrs. Fenwick.”

Lydia withdrew the crumpled pages from her purse and Micah wrote his telephone number in bold numbers. He pressed the papers into her hand. “You take care. Give Nicky a hug for me, okay?”

Lydia nodded, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I will. Thank you again, Micah, for everything.”

“You're welcome.”

They stood for a moment, two feet apart and staring past each other's shoulders. Then, instantaneously, they seemed to make the same choice, because two pairs of arms lifted, two right feet stepped forward, and Micah found himself holding her against his chest in a warm embrace.

He tipped his head to rest his cheek against her hair, breathing deeply of her scent. Her muscles convulsed once, and he suspected she battled sobs. His arms tightened. How quickly
his affection for her had blossomed.
God, find a worthy man for this woman. She deserves someone special.

The cab driver hit his horn in one short blast. “Hey, could ya hurry up? I got a livin' to make, ya know.”

Reluctantly they separated, and Micah brushed a single tear from Lydia's cheek with his thumb. He opened the door for her. “Go on now, and Godspeed.”

Without a word, she slid into the backseat of the cab next to her suitcase. Micah closed the door and watched the taxi pull away with Lydia's face framed in the window. He watched until the taxi turned the corner and disappeared from sight. He watched for a few more moments, remembering the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her hair in his nostrils, the shudder of her shoulders as she fought tears.

He repeated his internal prayer.
Find a worthy man for this woman.
And then, his shoulders sagging, he turned his steps toward the clinic.

Lydia drew on every ounce of strength she possessed and gained control of her emotions. She kept control while she checked train schedules, purchased her ticket, waited for the number thirty-four to arrive, and settled herself in a private berth. But when the door slid shut on her own personal cubbyhole, she gave vent to heartache and allowed herself the luxury of a cry. A full-blown, full-of-self-pity, sobbing-as-if-her-lungs-would-collapse cry. A cry the likes of which she hadn't allowed herself since the day she'd learned of Eleanor's death, when the midwife had placed little Nicky in her arms.

Her tears then had been for Eleanor, who wouldn't know the joy of mothering Nicky, and for Nicky, who wouldn't know the joy of being mothered by Eleanor. These tears, though the
sound and body-aching fury was the same, were for herself. She recognized the selfishness, but she still allowed it.

The train was well across New York by the time she finished crying. Raising her head from her soggy lap, she cleaned her face with a handkerchief, then blew her nose until she could breathe again. She considered ringing the bell and requesting a cool cloth for her neck—her head throbbed horribly from the force of her tears—but she decided she didn't want anyone to see her in her sodden state. Instead, she closed her swollen eyes and brought up her feet to curl on the tufted bench cushion, allowing her mind to ponder the reason behind the wild crying.

Last night as she and Micah had sat on the floor of her apartment and Micah vowed to pray for her to find a man who would love her and Nicky, her heart had welled up and ached for him to be that man. Back at Schofield when she'd set her sights on Micah, it had been his handsome face and status as a doctor that had attracted her attention. But it was so much more now. Yes, he was still handsome—perhaps even more so as time had honed the boyish edges away and he had developed a mature bearing—and he was still a doctor, but such a caring, unselfish doctor—spending his days in a clinic with patients who couldn't afford to offer payment, caring for them as tenderly and willingly as if they all were the upper crust of Manhattan. Such a giving heart Micah possessed.

Then there was his willingness to assist those little Jewish children, to find sanctuary for them when no one else seemed to care. He was placing himself in danger by reaching out, yet he did it unhesitatingly. And if Lydia had found the teasing, sparkling Micah from Schofield attractive, this new mature, steadfast Micah was entrancing. She had seen the perfect Christian husband and father sitting before her with warmth shining
in his blue eyes, and all she had wanted was to embrace him and claim him as her own.

But she couldn't.

Micah's heart belonged to the immigrants of New York and Jeremiah's orphans. Those two responsibilities were more than enough for any man.

Lydia's heart belonged to Nicky and her parents. She couldn't allow her friendship with Micah to flourish, let alone allow love to blossom and grow. Longing for Micah was as foolish now as it had been back at Schofield. Micah was where God had planted him, and Lydia was on her way to where she was needed. As much as it hurt, that was the way it had to be.

She sniffled, rubbing a fist under her nose, and pulled tighter into a ball.
God, please take Micah out of my heart so I can focus on Nicky. Micah said he'd pray for a good man to come into our lives. Please help me recognize him when he comes. Help me not to compare him unfavorably to Micah. Let him have Micah's heart for right, his tender spirit, and his love for You. And help me love him, because right now I can't imagine loving anyone else besides Micah Hatcher. . . .

Lydia squeezed her eyes tight against the tears that threatened once again, and willed herself to sleep.

“Of all the foolish—” Father paced back and forth in the den, his face mottled with fury. He whirled on Lydia, who sat at his desk, her jaw set firmly against his verbal barrage. “You came home without her. You came home with a list of telephone numbers, one of which
might
be hers. What were you thinking, Lydia?”

Lydia straightened her shoulders, grateful Mother had taken Nicky to the zoo for the day so he wasn't privy to this argument. “I was thinking I wanted to get home to Nicky. I missed him,
and I was worried about him.” She could have added it was becoming too difficult to be in such close proximity to Micah Hatcher, but she chose to keep that to herself. “When I locate Mrs. Fenwick, I can make all the arrangements for her over the telephone—I didn't need to be there.”

“And if none of those numbers turn out to be hers—then what?” Father's sharp voice cut like a whip.

Lydia refused to cower before him. “Then I contact Micah, and he finds some more numbers.”

Father snorted.

Praying silently for patience, Lydia steepled her hands and assumed a beseeching tone. “Father, don't you agree it's our best chance for finding her? It's the same way you found her here in Boston. Does it not follow she would advertise her service? It's her means of supporting herself.” Father stubbornly refused to answer, and Lydia threw her hands outward in frustration. “Fine, don't answer me. But the longer I stand here defending myself to you, the more time is wasted that could be spent trying to find Mrs. Fenwick.”

Father chopped his hand in the direction of the telephone. “Call then.” He spun and pointed his finger at Lydia's nose. “But don't come crying to me when you turn up empty and we're left with no one to tell the authorities Eleanor wanted Nicky to be yours.”

Blowing out a breath of aggravation, Lydia turned and stalked back to the telephone. With her back to her father, she picked up the receiver, checked her list, and dialed the first number. While it was still ringing, she heard her father stomp out of the room, and then the front door slammed, signaling his departure. For a moment her shoulders sagged—
Lord in Heaven, help me find her—
and then she straightened as someone on the other end said, “Hello?”

Nic walked onto the factory floor, wincing at the racket of saws and hammers and boards banging together. When he'd worked here, the noise had assaulted his sensitive ears—the morphine always heightened his senses rather than dulling them—but over the past years he'd forgotten the overwhelming hubbub. He broke into a clumsy trot, eager to reach the open staircase at the back corner and climb to the loft, where the office was located. Up there, he could get behind a closed door. Although no place in the factory was completely quiet, the ruckus was at least muffled up there.