A Love Surrendered

by Julie Lessman

  “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.

&n
bsp; 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 . . .”

  Charity jolted in her chair, fumbling her teacup. “Sweet saints, Mother . . .” Her voice rose several octaves. “You mean for the adoption?”

  Lizzie caught her breath, hand to her chest. “Oh, Mother, finally!” Her breathless tone matched the soft glow in her cheeks. “So you’re going to ask him tonight?”

  A lump shifted in Marcy’s throat. “I’m afraid so, which is why the timing is not the best, what with your father so preoccupied lately and working one grueling day after another.” She sipped her tea, vaguely aware her rib cage felt two sizes too small. “The papers need to be signed and submitted tomorrow so I can enroll Gabe for the new school year—” moisture pricked in her eyes as she chewed at her lip—“as Gabriella Dawn O’Connor.” Blinking to ward off the tears, she straightened her shoulders with maternal resolve. “With all her problems at school, the child needs a fresh start, as an O’Connor, not an orphan simply fostered by a family. And I intend to see she gets it, Patrick’s bullheaded notions or no.”

  Lizzie’s hand lighted on Marcy’s arm. “Please, Mother, don’t worry. We’ve been praying about this for a long time now, and hopefully tonight is the night.”

  “I pray so,” Marcy whispered. Her gaze trailed into a stare.

  “I think it’s wonderful what you’re trying to do,” Emma said quietly. “With all the little ones in orphanages today with no families of their own, sometimes I wonder if adoption isn’t the most noble path to parenthood.”

  Thwack. Swish. Bang. The swinging kitchen door ricocheted off the kitchen wall, rattling its hinges when Gabe darted through. Not missing a beat, she hurled the pink tutu into Charity’s lap before streaking into the backyard as if lit by a fuse. With a loud clang, the screen door slammed behind her, its jarring effect bringing a wry smile to Charity’s lips. “If not the bravest.”

  Marcy’s smile was tentative. “Yes, the child’s a handful, no question, but I truly believe if Patrick would give her a chance, open his heart to her, give her his name, Gabe would straighten out and make the man proud.” She sighed. “All I need is one good mood, be it a favorite pie, a win at chess, or one solitary day where Gabe stays out of trouble, and Gabriella Dawn would be on her way to becoming an O’Connor before the ink could dry.”

  “Sean will certainly do his part to allow a win at chess,” Emma said, eyes twinkling.

  “Allow?” Charity said with a full hike of a brow. “Emma, without Collin here, Sean is Mother’s only hope for a soul-soothing win. Unless she can bribe Steven to throw a game.”

  “Which I have been known to do, I’m ashamed to say,” Marcy said, gaze darting to the clock once again. “But, no, I’m afraid Sean and Collin are my salvation when it comes to softening your father up for an agreeable mood.”

  “Speaking of Collin,” Lizzie said, “where is Faith tonight? I knew Katie had a law seminar, but I thought Faith’d be here, since Brady and Collin have inventory.”

  “Faith is meeting Sister Bernice tonight about the catechism class she hopes to—”

  “Marceline!” Patrick’s unnaturally icy tone boomed from the foyer, freezing Marcy’s heart into an avalanche that slid from her chest into her stomach.

  “Saint’s preserve us,” she rasped, all blood draining from her face. “The man’s in a foul mood once in a blue moon, and tonight has to be it.” Making the sign of the cross, she shot to her feet. “Charity, warm the rolls in the oven, and Lizzie, pour his tea with lots of ice, please.”

  “What can I do?” Emma whispered as Marcy hurried to the door.

  “Marceline??!!”

  Drawing a deep breath, Marcy mouthed one word over her shoulder. “Pray!”

  Moments later the swinging door flew open with a crack to the wall. “I blame this on your coddling,” Patrick shouted, his handsome face mottled with red beneath a shadow of beard that indicated a particularly long day. “Well, I’ve had enough.”

  “Patrick, please,” Marcy begged, “the child will hear you . . .”

  Shrugging her hand off, he stormed to the back door, jerking his tie loose and shedding his coat. He hurled both onto the counter and began rolling his sleeves, not even sparing Emma or his daughters a glance as he glared into the backyard. He slammed a hand to the screen door, wheeling it op
en. “Gabriella? In the house now!”

  “Patrick, you’re tired and hungry,” Marcy reasoned, the plea in her tone as frail as his patience. “Please, can’t this wait till after you eat?”

  He turned, gray eyes glittering like black onyx. “No, Marceline, it can’t. I’ve obviously waited too long as it is when a child under my care borders on expulsion from school.” A nerve flickered in his temple. “I suspect a three months’ absence of her beloved Dubble Bubble will be the only thing she’ll understand.”

  “Patrick, no, please, her Dubble Bubble means everything to her. A week maybe, but not three months.” Marcy worried her lip, stomach roiling.

  “Y-yes, sir?” A greatly subdued Gabe stood at the screen door, eyes downcast and a sea of freckles dark against pale skin.

  Face tight with tension, Patrick let the screen door slam with a loud bang that made the little girl wince. “I understand from Sister Mary Veronica that the youngest Kincaid boy has broken his jaw. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  Dark curls quivered on Gabe’s shoulders as she shook her head, her short, jerky motion betraying her guilt.

  “Well, suppose I enlighten you,” Patrick said, the gray eyes mere slits of charcoal, “and tell you all about my visit with Sister Mary Veronica tonight—”

  “She hates me,” Gabe shouted with a sudden pool of tears, “and she lies.”

  “Something you have in common, apparently,” Patrick said with a clamp of his lips. “Did you break Victor Kincaid’s jaw?”

  “No—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Gabe,” Patrick said, latching on to her arm, “I want the truth!”

  Marcy took a step forward, hand to her throat. “Patrick, please . . .”

  “Did you?” he shouted, lifting her chin with a firm finger.