Nobody's Baby but Mine

by Marianne Evans

  Noah’s lips curved. He looked down, shy perhaps, slightly deflecting. “Jen always told me the same thing. She wanted me to know I wasn’t meant to be alone. That I had a lot of love and a family waiting for me. I proved her wrong with every mile I walked away, with every town I temporarily called home, but she was my heart. My family.”

  And Jennifer’s faith had guided her home; Charlotte knew that for sure as well. May Love Find All Who Enter Here. Heart’s Haven had been Jennifer’s perfect spot, full of legendary angels—governed until recent years by a remarkable man named Andrew Hart—who had communicated with those celestial beings on a regular basis before his passing.

  Noah took in the portrait of Andy that was hung in prominence above the mantle of the community room, and Charlotte studied the rendering as well. At that point, Vivian Hart passed by carrying a platter of fresh-baked cookies. Noah nabbed a pair, offering one to Charlotte who accepted the gesture and shared a smile with Andy’s widow. Vivian paused to glance at the portrait and then take in the happy crowd that filled the room. Visibly satisfied, Vivian nodded. Charlotte could have sworn layers of love sparkled through the dear old woman’s eyes.

  “Jen mentioned church in her note.” Noah picked up the thread of their conversation. “I know she attended services at Falls Tabernacle, so judging by the note, I figured you must be a member of the congregation as well. Would you mind if I join you on Sunday? With Dylan, of course. I mean…you know. With Dylan.”

  Signal received. Not a date. No big deal. Church, community, faith. Beautiful in theory, but something inside her wanted more, so a subtle ache thrummed against her chest. She covered the turmoil with a ready and sincere smile.

  “I think that’d be great. I’d love it. And speaking of invitations, I have one of my own to offer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Story hour, tomorrow, at my friend’s sweet shop in town. The store is called Babycakes. Saturday Sprinkles is an event that’s designed for kids, and it’s a really popular spot for families to relax and unwind. Care to check it out? It starts at two o’clock. Dylan’s been a couple times and really likes it.”

  “Sure. That sounds great. Thanks for thinking of us.”

  The door to the rec center came open. In the yard just beyond, a bunch of kids played tag; bathed by moonlight they ran through the yard, calling out with shouts and laughter. Not far from those older kids, Charlotte spied Gracie and Dylan. Dylan stood near the thick trunk of a big, old tree. A rubber tire had been suspended from one of wide, curving branches. At present, Gracie swung, squealing merrily while pumping her legs and elevating her flight.

  “My turn.” Dylan shifted impatiently. Following the children’s voices, Noah and Charlotte crossed the threshold and walked outside, edging toward the tree.

  “OK…just a second. Once more.”

  Gracie cut loose with a gleeful giggle and pumped her chubby little legs a few more times, then started to slow. Meanwhile, exasperation and impatience wrinkled Dylan’s brows.

  “My turn. Now.”

  He grabbed the edge of the tire and yanked the swing to a jarring stop. He stumbled when Gracie crashed into him and squealed with discontented surprise. Charlotte sighed, itching to intervene—this was the kind of rash, abrupt behavior Dylan displayed of late, and it was uncharacteristic. Rather than charge ahead, she looked at Noah, who sagged a touch at the shoulders, but kept a steady, watchful eye on his nephew.

  Dylan toppled to the ground and began to cry. Blood trickled from a split in his lip. At that point, Noah raced to his side. Meanwhile, Gracie hopped off the swing and knelt in the grass, wrapping her arms around him.

  “It’s OK, Dylan. It’s OK. You’ll be fine.” Gracie’s chin wobbled in seeming fear for her newfound friend, and Noah froze, watching the tenderhearted girl as she patted Dylan’s back and held him close. In the light of a moonbeam, Charlotte detected the tell-tale glitter of moisture in his eyes.

  “Be more careful, Dylan, OK? Be nice. You’re my friend. I’ll share. I promise.”

  Dylan didn’t return the hug right away. Instead, he scowled and screwed his face into tight lines most likely meant to quell tears, but tears rushed down his cheeks anyway. He dissolved, going weak while he held on to Gracie.

  “OK. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Gracie.”

  “Oh…” Gracie’s expression softened from censure to love in the blink of her big, brown eyes. “That’s all right.”

  Such sweet, ready assurance. Charlotte hung back while Noah rubbed his nephew’s back and helped him to his feet. Noah tweaked Gracie’s nose. “You’re a princess, young lady, and a really good friend. C’mon, Dylan, let’s get that cut of yours cleaned up, and you’ll be good as new.”

  The irony of those words struck home, beating against Charlotte’s chest as they disappeared inside with a beaming-faced Gracie sticking by their side.

  3

  Positioned amidst a string of parents who lined the back wall of Babycakes, Noah watched while Emmy Lassiter lounged in an over-sized rocking chair and led story time. As part of the Saturday Sprinkles story program, she recited the classic tale The Little Engine That Could to an enthralled group of around twenty little ones.

  Dylan alone fidgeted restlessly. Seated next to Gracie Springer, he squirmed, his eyes darting to the bookshelves that lined the walls, to wall hangings, murals and mobiles. Halfway through the story, he started thumping his feet against a multi-colored area rug that looked thick and plush. Noah studied him and ached, not sure what to do next. Charlotte stood at his side. She leaned close and an enticing aroma of rose and spice ticked against his senses despite a growing disquiet about Dylan’s behavior. “I’m so sorry if this was a bad idea. He usually loves the stories, but he doesn’t seem to be in the mood for—”

  All at once Dylan huffed and scrabbled to a stand. “Y’know, trains don’t talk. And little trains aren’t powerful. They can’t climb great big mountains. At all.”

  His disruption caused a hiccup in the proceedings, so Noah left Charlotte behind in a hurry. He caught Dylan’s arm and led him out of the room as discreetly as possible. Flushed and in a quandary, he found himself in the main seating area of the shop. The space was bright and cheerful; Babycakes was so full of happy vitality he felt completely at odds with his surroundings. Ignoring discomfort, Noah directed the way to a wrought iron table that offered a street-side view of people meandering past, of flower pots bursting with color and lush, green tree branches swaying. If only his outlook could be as tranquil and appealing.

  “Dylan, what was that all about?” Forced to assert his newfound parental role, Noah pushed ahead. “You know that kind of behavior is rude and unacceptable.”

  “Yeah? Well, stories stink.”

  Dylan’s hostility burst through the air. Noah sucked in some air and slow-counted to ten. “Champ, I brought you here because Miss Charlotte told me you like Saturday Sprinkles. What happened today? Why didn’t you have fun this time?”

  Dylan offered no answer to the question. Instead, he kicked his feet against the legs of his chair and stared ahead with a glare that seemed to be directed to the world at large—a glare that masked a world full of loss and irreparable sadness.

  Noah crumbled on the inside, but outwardly he had no choice except to fight and soldier on. “You liked the book we read together last night. Stories didn’t stink last night.”

  “That’s because Where the Wild Things Are rocks. It’s a great story. It’s all about adventure and fun and running away.”

  Dylan’s vehemence struck home. The poor kid prickled and bristled. He craved escape from a present reality that, quite frankly, reeked. Noah understood, but wrong was wrong and a point needed to be made. “Your bedtime story was also about coming home. That’s the important part, right?”

  Dylan’s lips quivered. He cast his gaze to the table top, fussing with a small, clear vase that featured a few low-cut stems of brown-eyed Susan’s. “I don’t have a home anymore.”


  “Yes, you do, and you’ve got me. Always. I want to make a home with you. I love you.”

  The current session of Saturday Sprinkles disbursed. Noah watched the door of the reading room open, and a swarm of kids poured forth and headed as a pack straight toward the candy and ice cream displays. Charlotte brought up the rear, her gaze searching until it landed on the table where he sat. He gave her a nod and a wave, but Dylan’s nervous handling of the flowers increased. Noah worried he might upend the vase, so he reached forward slowly, and rested his hands on top of Dylan’s, stilling the youngster’s agitated movement.

  “I miss my mama.”

  Dragged from Dylan’s depths, those four choked words were a wrecking ball to Noah’s composure. “I miss her, too, Dylan. Very much.”

  A weight pressed against Noah’s chest. So much sorrow and anger beat inside Dylan’s heart. How could he help him conquer those demons? By no means did Noah consider himself to be a wordsmith, but a realization burst free and formed into a truth he needed to share with his nephew. “Missing your mama is why I’m so glad I get to be with you. Missing your mama is why I’m so glad we’re in this, side-by-side, as a family. We need each other, and I promise, I’m always going to be there for you.”

  Dylan’s eyes darted up, frosted by hurt and anger. “My mommy was supposed to be there, too. Always. She’s not.”

  “I know, and I’m so sorry for that. But understand something. I love you. I love you like my own, and we need each other. I think we can work this out as a team. Let’s make a way. Together.”

  Dylan didn’t respond right away. He returned to staring at the table top. But at last he lifted his head once more and those pain-riddled eyes would haunt Noah far beyond the moment they shared. In spite of it all, an ember of hope came alive when Dylan delivered a slow, resigned nod. “OK, Uncle Noah.”

  By now, all Noah wanted to do was leave. He had planned to treat Dylan and Gracie to an ice cream cone after story time, but given the way things had turned out, he opted to take his nephew by the hand and head for the door.

  That’s when he glimpsed Charlotte sitting on a stool near the soda fountains, chin propped in her hand, eyes gentle and full of compassionate understanding. When he passed, she handed him a slip paper and murmured, “Call me later?”

  The paper contained her cell phone number. A lifeline to care…support…understanding. Noah nodded and hoped his grateful glance spoke the words he couldn’t readily find.

  ****

  Back at the apartment, Noah crossed through the great room while Dylan disappeared into his bedroom. Noah collapsed onto the leather office chair positioned in front of the desk. He punched the POWER button on his lap top and stretched back, head spinning.

  By nature, he was a loner. He wasn’t used to twenty-four/seven responsibilities the likes of being a dad. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t trade these times with Dylan. All he wanted to do was find a path to love and stability. For both of them.

  Groaning, he scooted forward in his chair, determined to create something positive out of the day’s chaos.

  Call me.

  Two small words rippled through his mind. Charlotte’s image sang to his turbulent heart in a tempo full of warmth and welcome. Not wasting time on second thoughts, Noah reached into the pocket of his jeans and retrieved the small slip of paper with her phone number. He entered it into his cell, saved her information as a contact then initiated a call.

  While he waited for an answer, he peeled through a selection of children’s books at an on-line retailer, focused on hunting down a copy of The Little Engine That Could.

  He wanted to rail at the sky. Nothing’s impossible, Dylan. Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  Noah returned to the present. “Hey, Charlotte. It’s Noah. Did I catch you at a bad time or anything? You busy?”

  “No, not at all. It’s good to hear from you. How’s Dylan doing?”

  “A little better.” Noah slanted a glance over his shoulder at the doorway leading into Dylan’s room. “He set up a race track in his room, and from what I can hear it seems he has a car chase going on.”

  Low, melodious laughter crossed their connection. “Good for him. Sounds like fun.”

  “And a lot more constructive than the behavior he showed earlier.”

  “He’s struggling, but I have faith. He’s a good kid. How are you holding up?”

  “I’ve seen better days.”

  “I happen to have just the remedy for that.”

  “Which would be?” Her easy nature eased the taut lines of tension that squeezed against the space between his shoulder blades. He even grinned.

  “Apple pie. Why don’t I warm some in the oven, and you and Dylan can stop by for a visit? While he romps around with Yoda, I’ve got an idea to propose to you.”

  Lifelines. Care. Affection. Noah’s spirit cried out for all three, and in a tender, loving package, Charlotte Latherson delivered on all points.

  The tension nearly disappeared—until he heard a rather violent, mega-collision take place between a pack of metal race cars in Dylan’s room. He winced. “That sounds like a great antidote to stress. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “I’d love it. Can you stop by in a half hour or so?”

  “You bet.” A pause slid by. “Hey, Charlotte?”

  “Yeah?”

  He breathed into a moment that soothed his spirit and stilled his nerves. “Thanks. Really. Thanks a lot.”

  “No worries at all, Noah. See you in a bit.”

  ****

  The aroma of warmed apples spiced by cinnamon and cloves welcomed Noah as he stepped into Charlotte’s apartment. Dylan said hello before charging outside again with Yoda chasing his heels and yipping happily. When Charlotte led Noah to the kitchen, he took a few moments to savor the scene. Charlotte’s hair was shaped into a twist that rested against her slim neck. A few curls danced free around her cheeks. A pair of small, octagonal-shaped glasses with black frames looked impossibly appealing against creamy skin and emphasized her large, brown eyes.

  Noah realized he stared, but his hostess simply smiled and swiped a potholder from a hook on the wall. She gestured for him to sit at one of the stools set up at her breakfast nook.

  “Consider yourself the benefactor of a Vivian Hart tradition.” Charlotte spoke, moving with a ballerina’s grace through the space of her kitchen. She slid a pie from inside the oven.

  Noah settled and folded his hands, content to study Charlotte in this bright, cheery space. “What tradition is that?”

  “Well, after all Heart’s Haven gatherings, she sends everyone home with food. She refuses to let a thing go to waste. Especially her homemade pies.”

  “Smart lady.”

  “Most definitely.”

  While she cut a steaming pie into triangular slices, Noah stood and helped by pulling a pair of dessert plates from a stack he spied in a glassed-in cabinet that crowned the space above the kitchen counter. The plates were a deep, golden yellow. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” She peeked through the window above the sink and Noah followed her line of sight. In the yard just beyond Charlotte’s unit, Dylan sat cross-legged on the grass, laughing and tumbling as Yoda pounced at him, licked his face, retreated, then pounced all over again.

  “Dylan seems happily occupied.” Charlotte cast a glance toward Noah. “Why don’t I store his slice in the oven for now? It’s off, but it’s still warm. His pie should keep nicely.”

  Noah couldn’t peel his gaze away from Dylan. Just days into this whole family rebuilding process, he was already overwhelmed by the task of being a surrogate dad. He had quickly forgotten how much joy the boy possessed, how light-hearted and innocent he had been before Jennifer’s death.

  “Dog therapy.” The words escaped him in a marveling tone, prompted by a wish, an ache that pushed at him with regard to his nephew. “Maybe I should consider adopting one.”

  “Would you be comfortable with a commitment like that? With
roots and ties?” Charlotte added dollops of ice cream to the top of both pieces of pie and sat on the stool next to Noah’s.

  “Yeah. For Dylan’s sake? Absolutely.” Tart apple spice accompanied by the cooling sweetness of ice cream danced against his taste buds. He enjoyed a few bites of pie but noticed the way Charlotte studied him.

  “I remember Jennifer telling me you’d be a tough type of guy to pin down. You like your freedom…or so she said. That’s the only reason I asked. It wasn’t a criticism or anything.”

  “No problem; I didn’t take it as such. She was right about me. No sense arguing facts.”

  She watched and waited, silently urging him to continue. Typically closed to personal revelation and analysis of his personality quirks, Noah found himself wanting to open up…at least in part. “I think I spent so much of my life being the leader, the one my sister relied on, the one running interference between her and my folks, that once I had the chance, I embraced independence and followed the itch to wander, to find a pathway of my own. Is that a bad thing?”

  “Not at all. Jen told me your parents haven’t been helpful or supportive at all.”

  “She was right.” That brick wall of confirmation is where he opted to leave the topic, flat tone and all.

  “Is that kind of outlook what’s best for Dylan? Can he afford to be rootless?”

  “No, he can’t, but my intention is to stick around, Charlotte. He’s my family. He needs me and I need him.”

  His firm tone caused her to mellow as she reached out a hand to cover his. “Just asking. I care.”

  “The way I see it, maybe it’s time for roots instead of wings.” He moved close. On impulse he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingertips. “Unless they’re angel wings, of course, since I’m told I’ve landed at one of their residential hubs.”