Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads

by Janice Thompson

  “Why, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “I haven’t been able to figure it out. Most people find me very likable.”

  “Oh they do, do they?” He reached to take her hand. “Well then, as one of your many admirers, I was wondering if you would do me the honor of dining with me tonight.”

  “I dine with you every night,” she said with a laugh. “At your mother’s table. Remember?”

  “No, I had something a little different in mind tonight, if you’re up for it.”

  “Up for it? Sounds intriguing. What do you have in mind?”

  “Just leave it to me,” he said with a grin. “I have a wonderful idea.”

  ***

  Monday, September 17th, 5:45 p.m. Galveston Island

  Brent placed the picnic basket in the boat and stepped inside. His fear of the water was momentarily pushed aside as he gazed into Emma’s beautiful eyes. She could make him forget anything, even the pain of the last week and a half. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I suppose, though I still don’t know where we’re headed.”

  “I’m just going to row out into the bay a ways. The waters are pretty calm, and I thought we could sit and talk while we’re eating.”

  “Sounds nice. My father used to take Sadie and me out on the water at sunset when we were younger.” Her voice cracked and she couldn’t continue.

  “To be honest,” Brent said, “I just feel like I need to get off of the Island for awhile.” He knew his voice sounded tense, but didn’t care.

  “I can certainly understand that,” she responded softly, then reached to take his hand.

  He loved the feel of her hand in his, though it did present a rather interesting problem. “I, uh… I’m going to need that hand for rowing.”

  “Ah.” She pulled her hand away.

  He reached to take it once again and squeezed it reassuringly. “Not for long, I promise.”

  Brent rowed until they were about three hundred yards out. The sun continued to put itself to sleep off to his left, its reds and oranges dancing across the shimmering water. Emma’s hair seemed to come alive. Brent’s heart was so full that he could barely contain himself.

  Thank You, Father, he prayed silently. You’ve brought me back home, and given me back the father I never knew existed. Now, about this girl, Lord…

  There he stopped, not knowing what to pray next. He reached to take hold of Emma’s hand, gripping it until he thought his heart would explode.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tuesday, September 18th, 7:52 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  “Son, can I talk to you?”

  Brent looked up from his breakfast as his father entered the room. “Of course.”

  “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to do this for days, but I’m such a coward.”

  “You? A coward?” That made no sense at all to Brent.

  His father’s gaze shifted to the ground. “I have done so many things that I’m ashamed of, son. But there is one thing above all that is unforgivable.”

  Brent began to tremble as he anticipated his next words. “What do you mean?”

  The elder Mr. Murphy raised his head abruptly with a determined look. Brent was almost sure he saw tears forming in his eyes. “I’ve been a hard worker all my life. I’ve done everything I could to make sure you and your mother were well taken care of – lived a good life.”

  No denying that. “We have. A very good life.”

  “I guess what I’m trying to say is this—I stayed so busy trying to give you things that I didn’t bother to give you the one thing you needed most of all.”

  Brent’s heart raced. “You gave me everything.”

  “No son. No I didn’t.” He fought to gain control of his emotions as he spoke. “You see, Brent – the one thing I held back – the one thing I didn’t give you…”

  Brent felt a lump begin to grow in his own throat as his father reached out and grabbed his hand.

  “The one thing I didn’t give you,” his father said again. “Was me.”

  ***

  Tuesday, September 18th, 9:39 A.M.

  “Bishop Gallagher, thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice.” Everett extended his hand toward the elderly man, who took it willingly.

  “I’m just happy to be included in your plans,” the Bishop said with a smile. “Now, tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Well, you know the piece of property on the corner of 40th and Q streets?”

  “Of course.” The Bishop handed Everett a cup of tea.

  He took it willingly. “I happen to know it’s available for purchase. I was thinking perhaps it might be an appropriate place to rebuild the orphanage.”

  “You were, were you?” The Bishop smiled broadly.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve been wanting to move the orphanage into the city for some time now. Am I right?”

  “That’s right. We’ve put it off far too long. Sadly, the storm has taken most all of our children from us.”

  “But there are so many more who need a place now,” Everett said excitedly, “and I’m convinced we can work together to give them one.”

  “We?”

  “Yes,” Everett said with a smile. “We. We owe it to the children.”

  ***

  Tuesday, September 18th, 11:23 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Henrietta knocked on the door of the large Victorian home on Broadway. Mr. Maxwell had willingly given her the address. She only hoped it was correct. Nothing would embarrass her more than soliciting the wrong family for help. The door swung open wide. A stately woman greeted her with a broad smile. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Henrietta Mullins,” she said, extending her hand. “I mean – Sister Henrietta Mullins.”

  “Sister?”

  “Yes. I know I don’t look like one – at the moment, anyway. But I assure you I am!”

  “You’re lovely,” the woman said. “I’m Gillian Murphy. Can I help you with something?”

  Henri was so distracted looking at Mrs. Murphy that she almost forgot why she had come. “Oh, please forgive me,” she said finally. “I’m looking for Brent.”

  “My son? I believe he’s gone up to the station with his father to help with the cleanup on that end of town.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Could I help you with something, Sister? Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

  “Lemonade?” It sounded absolutely divine. “To be honest, I haven’t had lemonade since I arrived on the Island.”

  “Well then, why don’t we remedy that? Come in, please.” Gillian ushered her through the door into the beautiful entryway of the home. It was exquisite. An mammoth portrait of the Murphy family hung on the wall. For a brief moment, Henrietta’s heart leaped within her. A similar portrait hung in the entry of her Virginia home.

  “Let’s go in the kitchen.” Mrs. Murphy lead the way. Henrietta wound her way past the grand stairway and into the spacious kitchen with its tall ceilings and large open window.

  “Have a seat, dear.” Mrs. Murphy gestured toward a massive oak table in the center of the room. Henrietta sat willing. Her eyes grew wide as she watched the older woman pour long, cool glasses of yellow lemonade.

  You know, our kitchen at home is very much like this one,” Henri said, looking about.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but not as long. Perhaps a little wider. But there was a window just above the counter like that one.”

  “I do apologize for leaving it open,” Mrs. Murphy said, “but it’s so hot in here when it’s closed. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Now, what was it you said you needed my Brent for?” Brent’s mother looked curious, even a little nervous.

  “He was so kind to me after the storm,” Henri said. “The little girl I had cared for during the night…” She couldn’t go on. The knot in her throat wouldn’t let her.

  “Oh, my
dear!” Gillian said, as she took a seat. “You’re the one – the one he wrote the article about. And that precious little girl… what was her name again?”

  “Lilly Mae.” Henrietta could barely whisper her name.

  “Yes, Lilly Mae. I have the article right here.” Mrs. Murphy reached across the table to pick up a copy of the newspaper. “My Brent says you were quite the hero.”

  Henrietta said softly. “I’m no hero, but I want to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want to be a hero to the children of this Island,” she said, regaining strength in her voice. “That’s what I wanted to talk to Brent about. He’s such a good writer. I hoped he could help me. Mr. Maxwell has already agreed to print anything Brent writes.”

  “But – agreed to what, dear? I’m afraid this still isn’t making much sense.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Henri wrapped her fingers around the cool glass of lemonade. “You see, I want to start a new orphanage. Though we lost most of our own children from St. Mary’s, there are so many more now that need a home, need a place to stay. It only makes sense that we should give them a place. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do.

  “The infirmary is still standing, and will remain on the current property, but it’s not large enough to house the children – especially now with so many sick and injured.”

  “Of course. But tell me, what are your plans? How will you begin?”

  Henrietta took a sip of the heavenly lemonade before answering. “I’ve already gone to Mr. Maxwell, as I said.” She seemed to gain strength with each word. “And he’s spoken with the Bishop just this morning. The new orphanage will be here – in town. It just makes so much more sense that the children should be here, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course,” Gillian responded.

  “We’ll be looking for people to lend their support, both financial and emotional. That’s where Brent comes in. He’s got such a way with words. I just know he could stir the people’s hearts.”

  “That he could.”

  “I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time with this.” Henri paused to sip her lemonade. “But I’m just so excited at the prospect of doing something for the children. And I’m also learning to live one day at a time – and to make each day count.”

  “It’s a marvelous idea, Sister. I’m so very pleased that you’ve taken it upon yourself to do this.”

  “How could I do any less?” Henrietta spoke passionately. She took a long drink, relishing every delicious drop. “Mrs. Murphy, it was so wonderful of you to invite me in like this. I can’t tell you how wonderful. I miss my home in Virginia so much. It makes me feel very much at home to be here.”

  “Well, you come back any time and sit here. In fact, I insist. You will always be welcome in the Murphy home.”

  Henri leaned back in her chair, content to sit and visit awhile longer.

  ***

  Tuesday, September 18th, 1:25 p.m. Galveston Island

  Gillian put on her best bonnet and headed out of the door. She made her way up Broadway, pausing in front of the familiar green home with exquisite white trim. For nearly an hour she had contemplated the young nun’s words, and knew that she must do something to help.

  “Make each day count.” She spoke the words aloud as she contemplated the days ahead. With so much work to be done on the island, she – Gillian Murphy – would begin to make each and every day count. No more mindless chatter with Galveston’s elite. No more pipe dreams of grandeur. No more cotillions or garden parties – at least not for awhile.

  There was something more important to tend to. Gillian’s years in society had not been in vain. She could return something to the people of Galveston. And she knew just the person to help.

  She traced the cobblestones up to the front door of the impressive home, tucking a loose hair behind her ear as she approached the massive front door. One knock. Two. The door opened suddenly, startling her. There was no turning back now. She took a deep breath and dove in. “Millicent, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  ***

  Tuesday, September 18th, 7:00 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Emma looked across the dinner table at Brent. His hair hung over one eye in a lopsided way. She wanted to run her fingers through that hair, to straighten it out. She wanted to let her fingers rest against his as they had on the boat.

  “Would you like some more potatoes?” Mrs. Murphy peered at Emma curiously.

  “Oh, no ma’am.” She wasn’t the slightest bit hungry.

  “How about some of these rolls?” Mr. Murphy lifted the platter.

  She took one without even looking at it. Her eyes were fixed on Brent’s. His were equally fixed on hers.

  “You two are about to drive me mad,” Sadie spoke suddenly, startling them all.

  “Sadie!”

  “No, I mean it,” she argued. “You’re both so moonstruck you can hardly see straight. And I’m not going to get a decent night’s sleep until you two just come out and tell each other how you feel.”

  “Sadie, I can’t believe you…”

  “No, she’s right,” Brent said with a smile. “She’s right.” His eyes twinkled merrily.

  “Well, it’s about time, that’s all I’ve got to say,” Mrs. Murphy said with a broad grin.

  “Sadie, I haven’t a clue what you mean,” Emma tried to argue. They shouldn’t be talking about this here – in front of everyone, but with every curious eye on her, Emma had no choice but to plow ahead.

  “I mean,” Sadie said emphatically, “you hardly sleep a wink at night. And you must be dreaming about him – unless there’s some other Brent that I don’t know about.”

  “What?”

  “You call his name out most every night,” Sadie said with a shrug.

  “I do not!”

  “Do too!”

  “Do not!” Emma stood. She felt the color begin to rise in her cheeks, but couldn’t control it. Mrs. Murphy had started to giggle, and reached out to clutch her husband’s hand. His lips were tightly pressed together, as if trying to keep himself from saying something.

  “Sadie, you’re just being dramatic,” Emma shook her napkin in her sister’s face. “And I want you to stop it at once.”

  “I’m being dramatic?” Sadie rolled her eyes.

  “It would appear that you have a flare for drama, as well,” Brent said, standing. “But, then again, I’ve always had an interest in the theatrical.” He moved toward her slowly, then reached to take the napkin from her hand. He laid it on the table. Her heart began to race as their fingers locked. His eyes riveted into hers. They were kind, loving eyes.

  “I, uh…” She stammered.

  “Now, if you will all excuse us,” he explained, “I believe Emma and I have some business to take care of out on the porch.”

  ***

  Tuesday, September 18th, 7:06 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent led Emma out of the house and onto the large front porch. His heart guided him toward the swing, where they sat together. She looked frightened, like a young child.

  “Are you still angry?” He gripped her hand.

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” She dropped her head into her hands. “I’m just so humiliated. I can’t believe she said that in front of your parents.”

  “She was right you know.” Brent lifted Emma’s chin.

  “She was?”

  “Well, I don’t know about the dream part, but I can assure you she was right on the money when she said that we are both moonstruck. At least I know I am.” I am, and I love the feeling.

  “You are?” Emma looked up at him for confirmation. Her eyes pooled with tears.

  Brent nodded, suddenly unable to speak. He slipped his arm around her shoulder, and her head instantly found its spot next to his heart. He could feel her tears through the linen shirt he wore. He would be content to stay like this forever, except…

  “Emma, there’s something I must say to you.�
��

  “What is it?” Her hand trembled uncontrollably in his.

  “Could you look at me?” he asked.

  She gazed up into his eyes.

  “All of my life I’ve been a coward,” Brent explained. “I’ve run from my father, run from my faith, run from my home. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye – until now. Suddenly I feel like I could do anything. It’s because of you, Emma. With you, I’m strong. I could do anything.”

  “I’m not strong,” she whispered. “I’m so weak right now, I can barely stand.”

  “Then let me stand for the both of us.” He lifted her face to his. From inside the house, music began to play – softly at first, then growing in intensity. His mother had turned on the phonograph.

  Sly one, his mother.

  Brent used the opportunity to sweep Emma into his arms for a spin across the gallery. She willingly melted into his embrace. Together they turned – dance partners who fit perfectly into one another’s arms.

  As if ordained.

  Emma’s face came alive as the phonograph played on. At one point, tears began to tumble down her flushed cheeks. “Oh, Brent!”

  He reached with a fingertip to brush them away. “No more tears, Emma. Not tears of sadness, anyway.”

  She nodded, but didn’t speak. Instead, she gripped his hands with an undeniable strength.

  Brent smiled, and the words seemed to come naturally. “Let me hold your hand, hold your heart.”

  She squeezed his hand in response, which gave him the courage to continue.

  “The storm is over, Emma, and the winds are dying down. It’s time to start over. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “I think so…”

  “I’m usually pretty good with words, but everything is coming out backwards right now. What I’m trying to say is…” His heart began to pound in his ears. “What I’m trying to say is… I love you, Emma. I love you. I think I loved you the moment I laid eyes on you the night of the storm. My heart has almost turned itself inside out over these past ten days. Just ten days out of one lifetime, but they’ve made all the difference.”