A Love Surrendered

by Julie Lessman

  Steven rested his arms on the table, the tenderness of his mother’s gaze evident in the slope of his brows. “I’m sorry, Pop. Not just about you losing your father, but that you didn’t have the chance—” he paused, a faint heave rippling in his throat. “The chance to make it right, to earn his trust.” He released a frail breath. “That must haunt you.”

  Patrick glanced up, sympathy softening his gaze. “Not as much as it haunts you.”

  A ridge puckered in Steven’s brow. “What are you talking about, Pop? At least I have the chance to make it right with you, to try and restore your trust.”

  “Steven,” Patrick said quietly, “my trust in you was restored the day you broke up with Maggie. I know what she meant to you, how much you cared about her, and yet you offered me the ultimate sacrifice—you surrendered your love for her to honor me.” He reached out to grip his arm. “Hear me on this, son—there are few men I trust . . . and respect . . . more than you.”

  Steven stared, facial muscles sculpted tight as if he were desperate to maintain control.

  Patrick expended a weary breath, eyes intent as he rested his forearms on the table. “You’ve spent the last three years beating yourself up, convinced you’d broken my trust, your mother’s, and Maggie’s. And, I suspect,” he said quietly, “your own.”

  “But that’s just it—I did!” Steven fisted the table, voice harsh. “I ruined your health and Maggie’s life for my own selfish needs. What kind of man does that?”

  “A man like me,” Patrick said softly, tears glazing his eyes. He paused several moments, silently praying that the pain of his past might somehow free Steven from his. “I’ve never told another soul the burden I carried in my heart after my father died, except for your mother, of course.” He closed his eyes then, reliving the pain of the day he’d fought with his father. The awful words spoken that could never be taken back, the blood on his father’s face from an accidental fall when his eldest son had shoved him away in a defiant rage. He disclosed it all—to a son who was not only one of the few who would understand but to a man who needed to know that God can purge guilt from any man’s soul. Guilt so raw and so deep, that even now, Patrick’s stomach wrenched at the memory. At the finish of his sorry tale, his eyelids flickered open to look at his son, chest constricting as it had so long ago. His words were low and rough with emotion. “Two days later, my father died, Steven, from a heart attack the doctors said, but I’m convinced it was brought on by a broken heart caused by his only son who defied him at every turn.”

  “Oh, Pop . . .” Steven reached across the table, touching his father’s arm while a knot shifted in his throat. “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I.” He patted his son’s hand and leaned back, fingers limp over the arms of his chair. “But through it all, I learned a life lesson that changed the course of my life, Steven, and that is that obedience is a ticket to freedom while rebellion is a ticket to slavery. Not just rebellion toward one’s parents, but rebellion against God.” Patrick sighed, plowing a hand through his hair. “Trust me, I bore the guilt of that rebellion for a long time.” His gaze fused with his son’s. “But I no longer bear it today. Not guilt, not shame, and not a broken heart over what I did to my father. And I owe it all to your mother.”

  Steven cocked his head, brows in a wedge. “How’d she get you over it, Pop?”

  Patrick drew in a careful breath, praying his son would receive the very lesson that had redeemed his life—and his soul—forever. He exhaled slowly. “By introducing me to her God.”

  Creases appeared at the bridge of Steven’s nose as he leaned in, arms folded on the table. “But I thought you already believed in God, Pop, because you went to St. Mary’s, right?”

  “Yes, I believed in God,” he said, nodding his head. “But I didn’t know him, Steven, not like Marcy.” A smile tilted as his mind drifted back to a wonderful memory in his life. “She was something, I’ll tell you, your mother—a woman who knew her mind and her God. To her, he wasn’t just some invisible entity in the sky, he was real and alive and so much a part of who she was that she haunted me.” His lips quirked. “He haunted me through her until I was so desperate to have her, I’d do anything—even give my life to God in a way I never knew I could till Marcy showed me how. Not only as my Savior, mind you, but as my best friend, my confidence, my strength in good times and bad.” He exhaled softly, then cuffed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “And I have to tell you, Steven, something happened I never expected. Suddenly God was no longer a wooden crucifix over an altar, a name in the Bible that may or may not be real. He became my friend as well as my Savior, my hope as well as my God.” He glanced up. “You remember the skit in the third grade where you played King David as a shepherd boy?”

  Steven nodded, lips in a slant. “How could I forget? Sister Laurita made me memorize the Twenty-Third Psalm till I was blue in the face. ‘The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’ ”

  A chuckle slipped from Patrick’s lips. “Yes, well, as King David so aptly put it, God made me lie down in green pastures with a marriage made in heaven, he led me beside still waters that brought peace to my mind . . . and he restored my soul.” His gratitude drifted out on a sigh. “A soul badly battered and bruised, now restored by a merciful and loving God who sent his only Son to die for us, Steven—not only to ‘restore our souls,’ mind you, but our lives as well.” Patrick smiled. “If he did it for King David and me, son, he can do it for you.”

  “I don’t know, Pop,” Steven said quietly. “Sean said the same thing, but it all sounds too good to be true, and even if it is, I have no idea how to get there from where I am.”

  Patrick chuckled. “It is too good to be true,” he said quietly, his tone suddenly softening into serious. “And yet it is. As real and true as the marriage your mother and I share and those of your siblings.” He leaned in then, the intensity in his gaze matching that of his tone. “Ask God to change you, Steven, to become as real to you as he is to your family.”

  Steven peered up, a glimmer of hope behind the glaze of moisture in his eyes. “Even if I do, Pop, how can I ever trust myself to do the right thing again? I have no faith in myself, no trust that I won’t bungle my relationship with Annie like I did with Maggie.”

  “Well now, that’s the beauty of it,” Patrick said, lips pursed as he appraised the position of Steven’s pawn. “You put your faith in him instead of yourself, because without him, we can’t be trusted to do the right thing. But with him?” Patrick moved his queen to capture Steven’s pawn with a gloat of a grin. “We can scale mountains. Checkmate.”

  Staring at the board, Steven shook his head, a slope to his smile. “Mountains, huh?”

  Patrick rose and tugged on his vest, pushing his chair in with a crook of his lips. “Mountains, yes.” His brows rose. “Chess with your father? Not so much.” Stifling a yawn, he extended a hand to his son. “Good game, even though it was difficult to take advantage of my own flesh and blood in such a weakened state.”

  “No,” Steven said with a husky laugh, “ ‘difficult’ would be if you didn’t win.” He stood and gripped his father’s hand. “Thanks, Pop, I’ll give what you said some thought.”

  “I hope you give it more than thought,” Patrick said, tone dry on the way to the door, “or we’ll be forced to call in a professional. I assure you, Charity is quite experienced at handling sour moods such as yours. Douse the lights and lock up if you will, Steven. Good night.”

  “Pop!”

  Patrick turned on the bottom step, eyeing his son through tired eyes.

  Striding forward, Steven clutched him in a tight embrace that thickened the walls of Patrick’s throat. “I love you, Pop, and if gratitude to God means anything, then I’m already halfway where you want me to be. Because I can never thank him enough for sparing your life.�
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  Voice gruff, Patrick slapped Steven on the back. “I love you, son.” Heading up the stairs, he stopped to circle halfway. “You know, you might consider giving that young woman another shot, Steven, because I believe God will help you do the right thing. Good night.”

  ———

  Steven watched his father scale the steps, no way to stop the gratitude that leaked from his eyes. He swiped at his face and headed back to the parlor and then stopped, moving to the front door instead with a purposeful gait. Stepping outside, he sucked in a deep breath, thick with the loamy scent of wet leaves and wood smoke. He found himself surrounded by stillness except for drizzle on the roof, the distant yapping of a dog, and the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Hands braced on the porch railing, he stared up into a sky as thick and foggy as his brain had been over the last month and wondered if it were really true, that God could help him be the man Annie needed him to be. The man Steven had longed to be all of his life.

  “I don’t know, Pop,” he had said, “it all sounds too good to be true . . .” And yet, what if it was true? He trusted his father with his life . . . but what if he could trust God with it as well? Closing his eyes, he thought of Annie and knew she was a woman he could love to the depth of his soul, if only he could trust himself to do the right thing.

  “God will help you do the right thing.”

  His father’s parting words opened his eyes, prompting him to search the heavens. “Will you, God? Will you help me to do the right thing—not just with Annie, but with the rest of my life? I . . .” His whisper broke in the dark, hoarse and cracked and so desperate for change that emotion choked the words in his throat. “I-I’ve made so many mistakes . . . with my father, with Maggie, with you. I’m begging you . . .” A heave shuddered his body. “Forgive me, please . . . and change me like you changed my father . . . and help me to become the man you want me to be.”

  The steady beat of the rain drummed on the roof while the cold air chilled his body, the cool and damp of impending winter heavy in the air. And yet somehow, Steven felt warm, his breathing shallow as his eyes scanned the sky. There were no bolts of lightning to illuminate the dark nor peals of thunder to herald anything new. Only the still small voice of God in his heart, stirring a flame of hope that brought peace to his soul.

  He leadeth me beside the still waters . . . He restoreth my soul . . . He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness . . .

  “I don’t understand,” Steven rasped, eyes brimming with tears. “Why do you even care?”

  Because you are mine, the thought came, and Steven bowed his head and wept.

  Because for the first time in his life, he finally understood.

  He was.

  15

  Heigh-ho, everybody!” Rudy Vallée’s magical voice filled Aunt Eleanor’s parlor while Annie sat Indian-style on the floor, attempting to braid Glory’s hair.

  “Welcome to the Fleischmann Yeast Hour,” the sultry voice continued, and Glory danced her doll on her lap. “Oh, I just love Rudy Vallée,” she said with a giggle, “and Sheba does too.” A little-girl sigh drifted out as she hugged the queen to her chest. “He’s the bee’s knees.”

  Annie’s aunt glanced up from her needlepoint, her tone tender. “Yes, dear, he is, especially tonight with Milton Berle as his guest.”

  “Popcorn and Coca-Cola, miss?” Frailey strode into the room with a tray, dispensing bowls of popcorn and soda, first to Aunt Eleanor and then to each of the girls.

  “Thank you, Frailey,” Aunt Eleanor said with a warm smile. She hesitated, hazel eyes harboring a sparkle as the elderly butler headed for the door. “Frailey . . . why don’t you join us?”

  He turned, back erect and empty tray in hand, as still and pale as the fountain statue in the foyer beyond. Annie grinned when a blush bled into his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “I believe Cook needs my assistance in the kitchen, miss, but thank you.”

  “Oh, come on, Frailey,” Annie teased, “Cook accuses you of being underfoot half the time anyway—listen to the Fleischmann Hour with us, please?”

  “Please, Frailey?” Glory pleaded.

  Frailey’s face appeared as stiff as his back . . . until the barest of smiles lighted on his weathered lips. “As you wish, miss and young ladies. I shall make short work of Cook and return promptly.” He paused, ear cocked as the doorbell rang. “That is . . . after I answer the door.”

  Aunt Eleanor frowned. “Goodness, it’s after seven—who would be calling this late?”

  “It’s just Peggy,” Annie said with a hop to her feet. “She wants to borrow a dress.”

  “Excuse me, miss.” Frailey reappeared at the door, gaze flitting to Annie before he nodded at Aunt Eleanor. “Mr. Steven O’Connor to see Miss Susannah. May I show him in?”

  “Yes!” Glory bounded up so fast Mr. Grump’s eyelids flapped like a window shade. Annie froze, body grafted to the floor as she stared, unable to speak . . . move . . . breathe.

  “Gloria Celeste—halt!” Aunt Eleanor sat up in her chair, chin high.

  Without so much as a crack of his face, Frailey scooped the little dickens up at the door when she shot by, stubby legs dangling as he carried her back to her aunt.

  “But I want to see Steven,” she moaned.

  “I know, darling,” Aunt Eleanor said with a kiss to Glory’s cheek, “but Steven’s here to see Annie, so we’ll head upstairs for a pajama party with snacks and radio, all right?”

  “Really?” Glory squealed. She hopped off Aunt Eleanor’s lap and snatched her doll from the floor before whirling around with excitement in her eyes. “Annie and Frailey too?”

  Aunt Eleanor laughed. “Well, Annie at least and even Mr. Grump, although he’ll sleep on the floor.” She peeked at Annie, gaze soft. “I assume you do want to see him?” she asked.

  Annie stood and nodded, still unable to speak for the shock in her throat.

  Aunt Eleanor glanced up. “Well then, Frailey, I believe you can show Mr. O’Connor in, but I fear we’ll have to postpone Mr. Vallée to next week unless you’re partial to pajama parties.”

  “No, miss,” Frailey said with a ghost of a smile. “I believe my favorite PJs are in the wash. I’ll just show the young man in.”

  “Are you all right, darling?” Aunt Eleanor cupped Annie’s waist, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You look pale, but everything will work out, you’ll see.”

  “Steven!” Glory shot across the room and into his arms.

  She shrieked with joy when he swooped her up in the air.

  “Hey, squirt,” he said with a chuckle, tossing her over his shoulder. His eyes connected with Annie’s, and her pulse took off. The intensity in their blue depths sent goose bumps across her arms. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he said, staring straight at Annie.

  “Hello, Steven,” Eleanor said with ease, prying Glory loose. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Likewise, Miss Martin,” Steven said with a sheepish smile. “Please forgive me for barging in without calling first, but I just got off work. And I can tell you with certainty I’ve missed our games of dominoes and Cook’s meals more than I should admit.”

  “Well, you’ll have to come back soon, then, right, girls?” Setting Glory on her feet, she sent Annie an encouraging smile while retrieving popcorn and soda. “Annie, Glory and I will head up to start our pajama party, and you come along whenever you can, all right?”

  Annie nodded, still unable to speak while her aunt ushered Glory from the room.

  Finally alone, Steven faced her, and Annie could barely hear the radio for the blood throbbing in her ears. He took his hat off and passed a quick palm over dark hair, then fidgeted with the fedora while he stared, smile tentative. “Hi, Annie,” he said quietly. “Can we talk?”

  She nodded nervously, words still not an option, given the emotion swelling in her throat. Spinning on her heel, she quickly moved to the radio and turned it off, shaky fingers fused to the knob as she stood, her back to him wh
ile she attempted to breathe.

  “Annie.” His voice drifted over her shoulder, and she whirled around with a catch of her breath, heart seizing when he steadied her with both hands. His boyish smile melted her on the spot. “I promise I won’t bite,” he whispered, leading her over to the couch. He gently prodded her to sit, then sat beside her, tossing his hat on the coffee table before taking her hands in his. He inhaled deeply. “Annie, I’m a total idiot, and I’m sorry.”

  She blinked several times, eyes wide and tongue so swollen with shock, air could barely pass, much less words. She opened her mouth to speak, but apparently she’d turned off the sound of her voice along with the radio.

  “I don’t blame you for not talking to me, because I acted like a jerk and I apologize for what I said.” His Adam’s apple did a quick dunk. “But . . . I was hoping that somehow you might be able to . . . well, you know, forgive me . . . because I’d really like to see you again.”

  She was nearly hyperventilating now, her breathing shallow and fast, and words failing again, she finally just lunged, pressing her lips to his.

  He groaned and swallowed her up, returning her kiss with a fervor that now left her breathless as well as speechless. Chest heaving, he gripped her arms and held her at bay, his eyes searching hers. “Annie, I don’t know where this is going, but I sure want to find out and you have my word—whatever you say goes, kisses at the door or no.”

  Tears sparked and she kissed him again, luring a husky chuckle from deep in his throat. Weaving his fingers into her hair, he cupped the back of her head and slowly bent to graze his lips against hers before distancing himself with a pained smile. One dark brow angled high. “Not sure, but I’m guessing ‘kisses at the door’ don’t include necking on the couch either?”