His green eyes deepened as his gaze moved over her face, taking in her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. “Elizabeth …” he said.
“Don’t shut him out, Zachary. Don’t let your pain wound those who care about you the most.”
“Are you one of those?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” She swallowed down her own hurt. “I reached out, even though I wasn’t able to touch.”
“Don’t underestimate the power you have over me, Elizabeth,” he said. Then he turned and gave Nick a thumbs-up. “I’d be proud to be the father of the practical son,” he said.
Nick pumped his fist. “Yesss!”
Laughing, Zachary winked at Elizabeth. “That kid is determined to turn me into his father.”
“One way or another,” she said.
SIXTEEN
Zachary eased his lanky frame down onto a miniature plastic chair in the Sunday school classroom. Once he was reasonably sure it wouldn’t collapse under his weight, he focused on the front of the room, where he observed the prodigal son living riotously. Around Zachary the parents of other children leaned forward in anticipation of their little stars’ shining moments. Costumeless and cramped in the small room, the players nonetheless performed to perfection.
In place of money, Nick Hayes was handing out colorful beads in exchange for such vices as apple cider, a kiss from the teacher, and a borrowed jacket. “This is a strong drink,” he informed the class as he held up the cup of cider, in case they were missing the point. “And this is a wild woman.”
At the reference to their sixty-year-old teacher, all the children began to laugh uproariously. Nick didn’t crack a smile. This wasn’t funny business to him, Zachary could tell. If one were going to live riotously, one must do it in earnest.
“And this jacket is my fancy new clothes.” Nick put on the garment, which was a couple sizes too large on the boy’s thin frame. “Oh, dear. I have no more money. What shall I do? I’ll go home to my father and see if he will give me a fat cow.”
“No, Nick, you’re supposed to eat with the pigs first!” Montgomery whispered loudly. “Marnie and Jennifer are waiting for you over in the sty!”
Nick turned to stare at the two girls huddled down on their knees behind a cage made of chairs. “Oops. I forgot to eat with the pigs. Scoot over, pigs.”
Amid giggles, Nick wedged himself down between the girls and pretended to eat. Caught up in the play, Zachary hadn’t noticed Elizabeth seated on another of the little chairs nearby. When his eyes fell on her, she gave him a shy smile. As Nick gobbled pretend pig food, Zachary thought over the previous evening.
He and Elizabeth hadn’t spent long together—just enough time to eat the burgers and a quick bowl of ice cream. She had seemed uncomfortable in his apartment, and he could only assume it was because of their prior discussion. She didn’t want to be alone with him, didn’t want the town to think there was anything serious to their relationship, didn’t want to risk her son’s emotional attachment.
All the same, she had come to see Zachary because she was worried about his reaction to the news about Grace Chalmers. Though they hadn’t discussed the subject of his parentage any further, he was glad she had cared enough to risk driving out to his place.
“I will go home to see my dad,” Nick said. “He might be mad at me because I wasted all his money in righteous … rite-u-ous … riotous living. But even if I can only be his servant, it will be better than eating this revolting and disgusting pig food.”
With that, the prodigal son began his journey home. Zachary stood and pretended to search the horizon. “There’s my long-lost son,” he said, as he had been directed by Nick the evening before. “I’ll bet he has wasted all his money on riotous living. I should make him my servant. That’s what he deserves. But I—”
“Daddy!” Nick cried, throwing wide his arms and rushing toward Zachary. “There you are, Daddy!”
Zachary caught the little boy up in the air and crushed him against his chest. “Nick, I—”
“I love you, Daddy. I missed you.”
“I love you, too, Nick.”
“He’s not Nick,” Montgomery corrected in an even louder whisper. “He’s the prodigal son, Mr. Chalmers, and you’re supposed to give him the fatted calf so I can get mad.”
Nick still in his arms, Zachary looked into the child’s bright olive green eyes. “This is my son who was lost,” he said. “Now—” To his surprise, Zachary found himself choking up with emotion as he tried to say his line. “Now … I’ve found him.”
“Well, I’m his brother, and I say you better not give him that fatted calf,” Montgomery shouted, playing her role to the hilt.
“Moo!” called another of the children, who had donned a pair of empty toilet-paper tubes for horns.
Everyone laughed as Montgomery pretended great indignation at the fact that Nick would be honored by the fat cow. At that, the bovine decided it was time to make a run for safety. Montgomery followed in hot pursuit, which sent the other children into a wild scramble around the small classroom.
“Everybody sit down!” the teacher cried, gesturing for order. “Sit down right now, or I’m going to have to take stars away from those crowns on the bulletin board.”
At that threat, the children stumbled to their chairs, gasping for breath and giggling as though the parable of the prodigal son was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Zachary sat down and perched Nick on his lap. For some reason, the story had rocked Zachary to the core. Never had he considered the events from the father’s point of view.
In the role of father, he hadn’t found it at all hard to forgive the wayward son. Instead, he had welcomed reunion, restoration, and reconciliation.
“God is your Father,” the teacher was saying. “He loves each one of you boys and girls in the same way that the father loved his prodigal son. The son was naughty, just as we can be naughty sometimes.”
“Like when Magunnery and me broke Mr. Fox’s window,” Nick piped up.
“That’s right,” the teacher acknowledged. “The son made some mistakes, and he did some very foolish things. He hurt the father so much—but the father never stopped loving him. And when the son wanted to come home, his father welcomed him.”
“And he gave him the fat cow,” Montgomery added.
“The cow was a sign that the father had forgiven the son. But could the brother forgive?”
“No,” Montgomery said, tossing a red pigtail over her shoulder. “He didn’t forgive. And you know what I think? I think he was the saddest one in the whole story.”
“Not sadder than the cow,” the cow spoke up. “He got eaten.”
Somehow Zachary had lost sight of Elizabeth in the throng exiting the Sunday school room. He’d spotted her later in church, sitting in the balcony with a very wiggly little Nick. But after the service, she had gotten away again.
Instead of driving home or heading over to the Nifty Cafe to join the usual Sunday after-church crowd, Zachary considered walking to Elizabeth’s apartment. He didn’t know why he was still so drawn to the woman, when it was obvious she wanted nothing more than a casual friendship with him. He stood on the sidewalk by the Ambleside Chapel and scanned the street for any sign of her.
Elizabeth had looked beautiful that morning, her long pale pink skirt swishing when she moved. She had pulled her dark brown hair up into a heavy bun near the top of her head, and soft tendrils danced around her neck. This woman, he realized, possessed everything that compelled and fascinated him. She was tender and kindhearted. She loved children, old people, and even glass countertops that reminded her of an era long past. Every time Zachary thought of moving back to Jefferson City and leaving behind his tangled inheritance, he remembered Elizabeth Hayes. And he couldn’t go.
Strolling down the sidewalk, he found himself drawn toward her shop. But it wasn’t just Finders Keepers and the apartment behind it that beckoned to him. It was Chalmers House. Grace had lived there once … his mother.
&n
bsp; The thought of her betrayal slammed him in the gut, as it had repeatedly since he found out about it. He paused to catch his breath. A mother who gave away her son. How could she?
And who was Zachary’s father? His mind had reviewed the list of Ambleside citizenry and had come up with no one to fit the bill. Why hadn’t Grace Chalmers married the man who fathered her child? Why? A hundred thousand whys. And not a single answer.
Though he hadn’t planned on it, Zachary found his feet drawn onto the long front porch of Chalmers House. He slipped his hand into his pocket and located the key to the front door. In a moment, he was inside.
The foyer was deeply shadowed and cool in spite of the noontime summer heat. Down at the end of the open chamber stood the large vase that Boompah and Nick had brought to replace the one Zachary had sold at auction that spring.
As Zachary studied the vase standing alone in the empty, marble-floored foyer, he recalled all the things he had been told about Grace Chalmers. She loved beauty, and she was generous to the poor. She liked to sit out on the back porch with her fan, she wore a well-known red coat in winter, and she donned one of her vast collection of hats each Sunday. She had been a member of Ambleside Chapel, Zachary remembered as he wandered through the front parlors and into the large, empty dining room. He turned to stare out a bay window at the thick forest of Chalmers Park. And she had been unlucky in love.
He leaned his palms on the windowsill and shut his eyes. How could he forgive his mother for the selfish act that had destined him to such a lonely, empty childhood? The bitterness that he once felt for those he’d called parents now slipped away from them and wove a tight cord around the woman called Grace.
But even as Zachary’s resentment hardened, Elizabeth’s words from the night before knocked on the hardened door of his heart. Forgive. Forgive. Grace had made a mistake. She had chosen poorly. But like Nick’s mother, she had tried to do the best she could. At least she had tried.
“No,” he said aloud. Unlike the father he had portrayed that morning in Sunday school, he was a wronged son who found that forgiveness wasn’t so easy. He had no mother. He had no father.
God is your Father, the Sunday school teacher had told the children that morning. Zachary shook his head, unwilling to let the concept penetrate. The son made some mistakes, the teacher had explained, and he did some very foolish things. He hurt the father so much—but the father never stopped loving him. And when the son wanted to come home, his father welcomed him.
Zachary sat down on the sill of the bay window. Without even recognizing it, he had behaved exactly like the prodigal son. Though he had become a child of the Father early in life—and nothing could change that—he had wandered away from that loving home and had spent years following his own willful path. But here in this small town, he had come to realize his emptiness and need. He had returned to the Father, surrendering his life and his daily will.
And God the Father had welcomed him home.
Did that mean he was somehow supposed to forgive Grace? She had walked a path of sinfulness that brought a dire consequence—an unexpected child and an unwelcome choice. Maybe her red-coated visits to him, her gift of the little toy chick, even her bequest of the family mansion were his mother’s attempts to seek his forgiveness. But how could he forgive a dead woman? How could he forgive the pain she had caused?
He didn’t forgive, Montgomery had said of the prodigal’s angry brother. And you know what I think? I think he was the saddest one in the whole story.
Feeling as though a whirlwind was raging through his soul, Zachary strode through the empty house, his footfalls echoing in the silence. Stepping out the back door, he paused on the long porch and sucked down a breath of air. Here his mother had sat, fanning herself on long, hot summer afternoons. Zachary sank onto the steps that led to the expanse of back lawn and rubbed his eyes, wishing he could erase that image.
“Zachary?” Elizabeth stood at the foot of the porch steps. “Nick said he saw you come over here after church. And then I spotted you a minute ago when I was out on the swing. Do you want to come over for some apple cobbler?”
He studied her slender figure, outlined by the noon sun that glistened on her hair. She had taken down the bun, and her hair swung to her shoulders, thick and soft. Though she still wore the pink skirt, she had pulled the blouse loose from the waistband, and its hem brushed against her hips. She was barefoot.
“Will you sit down here with me, Elizabeth?”
Without asking for an explanation, she climbed the steps and settled beside him. Her skirt touched the tips of her toes as she crooked her legs and wrapped her arms around them. Closing her eyes, she rested her head on her knees. The sunshine kissed her cheek in the exact spot where Zachary wished he could place his own lips.
He didn’t want to be bitter. He didn’t want to end up as the saddest one in the story. God had forgiven him, so why couldn’t he forgive? Why couldn’t he let go of the pain?
“Elizabeth,” he said.
She opened her eyes and gazed at him.
He let out a breath of acceptance. “Will you please tell me everything you remember about my mother?”
“This was where she and I used to sit together on Saturday mornings,” Elizabeth began, pointing to the former location of the settee in the Chalmers House front parlor. She wished she could paint for Zachary a perfect word picture of Grace, but how could she ever recapture the quiet kindness of the woman she had known and loved?
“A Regency-era couch used to sit right here,” she explained. “It was upholstered in gold brocade, and Grace kept it covered with fringed pillows. She would sit and spread out her skirts as though she were a sort of Southern debutante. Her parents had brought her up to use elegant manners at all times, she told me. Whenever I dropped by to visit wearing shorts and a T-shirt, she was always gracious. But I could tell that, deep down, she was mortified at my appearance.”
With Zachary following, Elizabeth motioned to another part of the parlor. “Her tea trolley stood right here, oak with brass fittings, and Grace would ring a small silver bell to have the tea brought out. In a few minutes, old Eben Huff, her butler, would toddle out of the kitchen with a tray in his arms. Grace told me that Eben’s ancestors had been slaves but that her father had bought the whole family and set them free. Al Huff and his son, Bud, are descendants of that same family. I think Eben was a great-uncle, or something like that. He never married. He wasn’t much older than Grace, and they were great friends in spite of their different social roles. He died a few years before she did. After that, I’d bring the tea from the kitchen myself.”
“I guess Eben wasn’t a candidate for the role of my father,” Zachary observed with a slight chuckle.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, and I can’t figure out who was. Grace never spoke fondly of any man other than her father and Eben. She just talked about her family and closest friends—and always with such devoted love. That’s how she and I spent our Saturday morning teatimes. Talking.”
She pointed across the room. “Gold candelabras stood on a side table over there, and a gold fire screen right here. Your mother loved to light candles and have Eben lay out a fire. I think she secretly enjoyed the fact that the house was a little drafty. It meant she could snuggle right up close to the hearth.”
Zachary poked his head into the empty fireplace and peered up the chimney. “Drafty is an understatement. The damper’s rusted through. And here’s a bad sign,” he said, lifting a small blue feather from the iron grate. “Birds must be nesting in the flue. There might even be a few bats up there.”
He walked to one of the long double-paned glass windows. When he touched the frame, it rattled. But when he tried to raise it, he discovered that it had been painted shut. Letting out a breath of frustration, Zachary knelt and put his ear to the floor near an outside wall.
“Termites,” he said. “They sound like a fizzing Coke. This floor won’t hold up long.”
He walked around for
a moment, locating one squeaky board after another with his foot. With each creak, Elizabeth felt her heart sink. As his practiced eye roved upward to examine the ceiling, she noted for the first time a series of long cracks that had formed around the hanging light fixture. It was the only thing the auctioneer hadn’t sold, Elizabeth realized. The heavy chandelier hung with dusty crystals, those that weren’t missing. Most of the small, flame-shaped bulbs were gone, too.
“Inefficient heating system,” Zachary said, running his hand over the old radiator that had sung and hissed to Grace all winter. “These things put a lot of moisture into the air, which can be good. But most of the heat will rise up to those tall ceilings. Why they built twelve-foot ceilings in a region where the temperature can hover around zero, I’ll never understand. The floors probably stay ice cold.”
Elizabeth swallowed, recalling the way Grace had lamented her aching feet each winter. Her ankles hurt, she had complained, and her toes were numb. Not even the pair of woolly house shoes Elizabeth had given her one Christmas made much of a difference.
Zachary was peering into a wall switch that had lost its elegant porcelain cover to the auctioneer. “These wires are a fire hazard,” he said. “Look at the way they’re frayed. One spark and—”
“Did you want me to tell you about Grace?” Elizabeth said. “Or are you more interested in inspecting the house?”
His shoulders dropped, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s a little hard for me to hear you talking about her. It’s easier to focus on reality.”
“Reality is that Grace was your mother.”
He studied the floor for a moment. “I’m trying to accept that.”
“Do you need more proof?”
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you talk to Ruby McCann? From the things she hinted about at the church picnic, I have a feeling she knows a lot about Grace Chalmers’s past.”
“I considered calling her, but if she confirms the truth to me, she might decide she doesn’t have to keep her secret any longer. And before I can blink, the whole town will know.”
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