His internal temperature rocketed, and his hands turned slippery.
“Here.” He held out the easels to Mrs. Sorenson. She’d been bossing everyone around all afternoon, despite the auction being Mercy’s idea, so he might as well skip straight to letting her decide what to do with the easels. “Mr. Lowe thought these would help display your father’s paintings.”
She looked down her dainty nose as if worried he’d brought her something questionable but then waved her hand toward a corner. “Stick them over there.”
He caught himself backing away as if she were royalty—though she was wearing an awful lot of jewelry for a workday. Dressed as she was, maybe that was how she justified barely working. He shook his head at his attitude while walking to put the easels where she’d indicated. He knew better than to judge someone based on actions alone.
After he put the easels in the corner, he looked across the room. Mercy was still by herself.
He crossed the ballroom, swallowing hard with each step.
Her white cotton shirtwaist was slightly askew as she scrubbed the top of a table seemingly stained with rust. Her navy skirt swished with the action, and he had to look up to keep from watching the movements.
He cleared his throat. “Miss McClain.”
She turned to look up at him, her eyes surprisingly warm.
How could she look at him like that? He hadn’t been able to look at himself in the mirror until yesterday, and then only because Robert had made fun of his hair.
His breath stuttered out. “Mr. Lowe called me to his office earlier, but not for the reason I expected. Could you . . .” His voice disappeared. He cleared his throat to encourage it to return. “Could you tell me why I’m not fired?”
She pursed her lips, her expression hesitant and . . . seemingly compassionate. “Judging by the look in your eye that night with Jimmy and Zachary, I figured you would punish yourself plenty for what happened.”
Zachary? Somehow knowing the young man’s name made the dark hole that had been trying to suck him under all week even bigger. “You knew him?”
She shook her head and looked toward Jimmy, who was standing by the nearby wall, polishing knickknacks. She lowered her voice. “That’s the only information I’ve gotten out of Jimmy since then. And I’m not even sure that’s his real name. Have you learned anything about what the man was doing with Jimmy?”
“No, unfortunately.” He pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck. “I wish I did, but the boy won’t talk to me either.”
He stepped closer. “Jimmy keeping things to himself isn’t new, but the way I acted the other night . . .” Had she seen less of the fight than he’d guessed? But surely she’d seen enough to know he’d been out of control. “I don’t know how you could entrust me with Owen when my actions last week prove little about me has changed.”
“That’s not true. Years ago, you wanted to hurt people because you’d been hurt, but now you don’t. That night, you thought you were protecting Jimmy from the same abuse you’d endured, but the moment you realized you weren’t, you quit.”
A slight bout of something like dizziness hit him. When had anyone paid that close attention to him? Not his parents—or anyone he’d ever known for that matter. He’d been careful to keep everyone ignorant of the pain that had once driven him, lest they guess the details.
He cleared his throat. “I . . .” He cleared his throat again, but he couldn’t continue.
“Hey!” Franklin called from across the ballroom from the stairwell. “Can someone help me with the chair I got stuck in here?”
Robert scurried over to help.
Most everyone else was across the room, but Jimmy wasn’t. And he’d stopped dusting.
Surely the boy wasn’t close enough to have heard what Mercy said—but if anyone else had a guess at what his secret entailed, it would be Jimmy. If he’d paid attention to what he’d said as he beat up Zachary . . . Maybe he hadn’t much of a secret left at all.
What felt like a wet blanket of heat wrapped tightly around him, and his throat closed up.
A waft of cool air blew across his neck, and he turned to see Mercy opening the door to the smokers’ balcony a few feet away. She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head toward the out-of-doors.
He followed her out as quickly as he could, despite his body’s desire to run far, far away.
There was no need to panic over the thought she might already know his secret. After all, he’d come up planning to tell her about his past.
Outside, Mercy leaned against the railing, her heavy navy skirt and dusty shirtwaist doing nothing for her figure. However, the wisps of blond hair framing her face, the blush of hard work, and the dirt smudge underlining her pink lips somehow made her exceptionally pleasant to look at.
He didn’t know whether his breath hadn’t yet returned from his earlier panic or if her beauty had stolen it anew.
Mercy’s eyes grew confused, and he quickly looked away.
Even if she could see something good in him, she’d never care whether he thought her beautiful or not.
He placed his elbows upon the iron railing and looked out over the gentle roll of hills toward Oklahoma. “I know you’ll probably find it hard to believe, but I’ve worked diligently to get a handle on my anger. I thought I’d done it . . . but now we both know I was only kidding myself.”
She stayed quiet, and he slid closer to the wall so no one could see him through the glass doors behind them. What he was trying to hide, exactly, he didn’t know, but staying out of everyone’s way had brought him some solace lately. If he didn’t interact with anyone, he couldn’t cause problems.
He played with his hands, watching his fingers slip through each other. “I talked to a reverend in California two years ago who made me believe I could put on the ‘new man’ if I trusted Christ, that I could shuck my old ways. But it seems I can’t.” He pressed the heel of his hand against the warmth creeping into his eyes. He was a former bully for pity’s sake; he didn’t even deserve his own sympathy. “Seems the nightmare of my childhood will always be deep inside me, ready to erupt. I’ll never be how I want to be.”
She moved closer, and he couldn’t get away unless he wanted to climb the wall.
“I’m guessing you’re talking about the verse that says you’re to put off the old man, which is corrupt according to deceitful lusts?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Do you know the verses after that?”
He shrugged. He’d surely read them, but he couldn’t come up with what they were.
“The next one says, ‘And be renewed in the spirit of your mind.’ That’s how you prepare to put on the new man. Becoming who God wants you to be can’t be accomplished through willpower alone—we all fail at that. It’s letting God change you from within so your renewed mind makes you fit and able to be your new self.”
“But surely God wants me to suppress the old me. He’s not responsible for my failing to do so.”
“God wants you to follow His commands, yes, but Aaron . . .” She put her hand on his arm. His skin suddenly turned cold, but he couldn’t make himself pull away. “You alone aren’t powerful enough to combat the deceitful desires mentioned in that verse. Your flesh will always be at war with the good you want to do, but hope is found in God’s power. You don’t become holy and righteous by mustering it up. You don’t create the new man. God does. Renewing the spirit of your mind is how you put on that new man God created to be righteous and holy.”
He’d not felt anything close to holy and righteous that night in the cellar. “What am I doing wrong, then?”
“It’s a process, Aaron. I’m not always my best either.” She huffed as if displeased with herself. “But I know some of the ways to renew your mind are spending time looking to Him, praying, reading His Word. The more you do that, the more His power changes you from the inside out, because you’re filled with it.”
He looked away from her and toward the bright sky.
So putting on the new man wasn’t completely his responsibility to shoulder? And yet, God wasn’t liable for the evil he’d done or would do. “How do you renew your mind again?”
“Prayer, study, repentance, thanking God for all He’s done—daily, for all our lives.”
He closed his eyes.
A renewed mind is what I want, God. I know I already asked you to save me to go to heaven, but I need the me here on earth to be fixed and saved as well. I don’t have the power to fight myself every moment of every day. I’ve been trying to earn forgiveness, trying hard to be what I’m supposed to be, but nothing I do feels like it even scratches the surface. I can’t do it. I just can’t.
He’d definitely proven he couldn’t, but Someone could.
If he could trust God to get him to heaven, he needed to trust that God could work miracles in him here on earth too—because if he continued to rely on himself, well, he’d only keep proving how ineffectual he was.
He looked over at Mercy. Her grin was warm, and her eyes were . . .
Had anyone ever looked at him like that—like they were proud? Like they cared?
He didn’t deserve it. “I’m sorry for what I did to you as a child—”
“Aaron.” She held out her hand. “You’ve apologized to me enough already.”
“But it doesn’t really mean anything unless you know why I did what I did to you. I mean, of course I can be sorry, but how do you know I wasn’t plain being mean to you?”
“But you weren’t, right?”
“Though I’ll understand if you never want anything to do with me afterward, I want you to know . . .” His voice faded so much he wasn’t sure she could hear him, but he pushed the words out anyway. “If . . . you weren’t able to figure it out from my raving in the cellar, my uncle did things to me as a child . . . that I’d rather not go into. Things no man should do to another. He made me hate myself.”
He turned his face away from her, staring at some nondescript point in front of him. “I couldn’t stand seeing others happy since I believed I never could be, and you . . . you were happy. Without an arm, you were happy.” His voice was beginning to sound desperate, but he had to spit the rest out. “For years, I was bent on destroying everyone’s happiness since I couldn’t have it. My uncle’s abuse grew to the point I figured no woman would ever want me—and maybe no woman ever will. But at some point, I’d realized you were the kind of girl I would’ve wanted to marry. You were always looking out for others, quiet, and helpful. And well, I knew no girl like you would want to have anything to do with me, which made me push you away all the more.” He sniffed back the tears he couldn’t contain any longer.
And for some reason she was crying too.
“I wanted to hurt you so badly you’d turn on me so I could truly hate you. But you never did, and I never could. I didn’t realize until years later why I treated you as I had. If I could go back and tell my twelve-year-old self how my behavior would not get me what I wanted, I’m not sure I’d have believed—”
The door opened, and he clamped his mouth shut, quickly looking down to hide his tears from whoever had come out.
Mercy’s hand took hold of his upper arm and she squeezed. “I promise, Aaron, I forgive you,” she said low enough he barely heard.
“Mercy?” Nicholas’s voice burst through the silence. “Have you seen your brother?”
She quickly turned. “I’m afraid not, but what can I help you with?” She scurried forward and sniffed.
“Are you all right?”
“It’s just the dust. I had to get some fresh air before I cleaned any more tables.” Her voice grew muffled as she crossed the threshold into the ballroom. “What is it you needed my brother for? Surely I can do what needs to be done.”
“He said he’d be here.” Nicholas’s voice was thinly veiled with agitation. “Could you tell me where he’s been? The—”
And then the door shut.
Aaron breathed out a deep sigh and wiped at his eyes with his shirtsleeve.
Dust indeed.
Rather the surety of forgiveness.
For Mercy truly had forgiven him, believing he could and would become a better man. So much so, she’d entrusted Owen to his care.
He didn’t need anything else to be happy. He really didn’t.
24
Polishing what must’ve been her thirtieth vase, Mercy couldn’t imagine selling them all unless the bidders were generous. Now, where was that pretty one with the irises on it? Someone would want that, and yet it seemed to have disappeared. Everything had to sell for them to have any chance of bringing in enough money for Max and Robert.
If this auction wasn’t a success, not only would she have failed the Milligan brothers, but she’d have wasted the moral-society women’s and Nicholas’s staff’s time.
Mercy let herself look about the ballroom to see if Aaron was hauling anything else up. He hadn’t been upstairs for a while now, and she couldn’t help but notice he was missing.
“Now, now.” Mrs. Sorenson rushed over and put her hands under the black vase Mercy still held. “Be careful with this one. My father got it from Belize.”
“Of course I will.” Mercy attempted to look contrite despite the fact she’d been in no danger of dropping the vase. Thankfully, Stella’s mother immediately left to instruct Mrs. Wisely on the best way to display her grandmother’s jewelry box.
Did Mrs. Sorenson intend to visit all the auction winners and tell them what to do with her family’s “junk,” as she’d called it? Mercy couldn’t help but chuckle at how pretentious Mrs. Sorenson was acting, but who was she to look down on someone’s foibles and misdeeds?
She’d hated Aaron her whole life, never stopping to think about the person behind the torment. Her mother had insisted she pray for Aaron whenever she came home crying, to heap blessings upon her enemy, but she’d refused.
What if she’d prayed like Momma had told her to? Would his life have turned around sooner? Would he have hurt fewer people if one victim had proven she’d cared?
A huge whomp from behind her made her jump. Everyone stopped talking and turned to look toward the front of the ballroom.
Franklin held up his hands as if in surrender. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to drop them.” At his feet was a pile of lumber he was using to build the Shakespeare set pieces.
Mrs. Sorenson walked over to him, hands on her hips. “Do be careful. You could’ve frightened someone into dropping something worth more than your annual salary.” She tipped her chin, then headed off somewhere else before seeing Franklin screw up his face as if making ready to spit at her.
Mercy twisted the rag in her hand. Had she made a face as sour as that the day Aaron had returned to Teaville? She probably had.
She picked up the last vase to clean. She should’ve prayed for him when he’d returned to town instead of working against him. If she had, Owen might already be enjoying time with his new father.
“Miss Mercy?”
Mercy turned toward Sadie with a smile. She’d tried to convince the young housekeeper to call her by her first name several times. Seemed Sadie had chosen a compromise. “Yes, Sadie?”
“I’ve finished cleaning the phonograph and the clocks. What should I do next?”
Mercy looked around and frowned. Stella was supposed to have helped her clean the clocks. “Where’s Miss Sorenson?”
“She’s taking a break.”
Mercy tried not to sigh at another of Stella’s breaks. With her mother roaming about the room doing nothing but barking unnecessary commands, the two of them might as well have stayed home. But Stella likely hadn’t wanted to pass up a chance to chat with Sadie. “I’m almost done with this table, so . . .” She looked around at what remained to be done. “Maybe you could inventory the player piano rolls?” She beckoned for Sadie to follow her to the table next to the platform Franklin was building.
Once there, she turned, but Sadie lagged behind, her gaze pinned on Franklin
hammering a brace to the back of a wooden tree, her expression that of a kicked puppy’s.
Mercy looked toward Franklin and frowned. Maybe she could make up for not praying for Aaron by praying for these two. Whenever she caught them looking at each other—when the other one wasn’t looking, of course—they seemed miserable.
Sadie finally stopped beside her.
Franklin had started hammering again, so Mercy braved a question. “Have you two talked?”
Sadie shook her head as if clearing it of cobwebs and tore her gaze away from the young butler. “No, but don’t worry about that, Miss Mercy. You just tell me what to do.”
Mrs. Sorenson charged toward them from across the room. Had some of these piano rolls belonged to her late father? Even if none had, Mrs. Sorenson would likely find fault with how she planned to deal with them.
Mercy brushed dirt off one particularly grimy box. “Unless Mrs. Sorenson has another idea for us, why don’t you check if the right songs are in the right boxes.”
Mrs. Sorenson blew past them in an animated huff, stopping in front of Franklin, hands on her hips again. “Could you please hammer more quietly?”
Franklin looked up, confused. “I’m not sure that’s possible, ma’am. Not unless you want this to take forever.”
“If it takes you longer to do so, then so be it. You’re giving me a headache.”
Before Mercy could cover her amused smirk, Mrs. Sorenson turned toward her.
“I need to talk to you.”
She swiped the smile off her lips. “All right.” Mrs. Sorenson had never bothered to discuss anything with her before.
The older woman rubbed her hands together. “I’ve been making a mental tally of all we have and what’s still to come, and I believe we shall make a splendid amount of money from this.”
Mercy let her smile return. “I certainly hope so.”
Mrs. Sorenson’s face quickly turned serious. “So I’m wanting to discuss the cap for what we’re giving the boys.”
When had they ever talked about a cap? “What are you talking about?”
“A cap, as in how much of the proceeds they’ll be given.”
A Chance at Forever Page 20