Faith Hope and Love (A Homespun Romance)

by Kakade, Geeta

  "I'm a medical aide with MRA, an organization that provides medical relief in disaster areas all over the world."

  "And when did you join MRA?"

  "Four and a half years ago."

  "Since then you have not returned to the States, even on vacation. Isn't that right?

  "Yes."

  "You have to look for a job here don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell me, Ms. Carstairs, do you own any property in the United States? An apartment, a condo, anything you can call home?"

  "No."

  "Ms. Carstairs have you ever taken care of a baby, other than in the course of your work?"

  "No."

  Luke shifted uneasily in his seat. Each reply was a nail in her coffin. Myrna's tones dripped honey as she moved in for the kill.

  "Then how do you plan on taking care of your cousin's son?"

  "I can learn." The statement held the punch of a feather.

  "What are your job prospects, Ms. Carstairs? What will you and the baby live on while you get some kind of basic training? Who will you leave the baby with while you go to school? To work?"

  "I have some money of my own."

  "So, your plan is to take the baby from where he is well cared for, from people who love him, leave him with a stranger, or in a day care center while you work. Do you think you can earn enough to rent a place and support yourself and a child, or do you plan on claiming welfare?"

  "I can manage on what I have."

  "Have you resigned from MRA, Ms. Carstairs?"

  "No, I haven't thought as far....."

  "Exactly," Myrna cut in triumphantly, "You haven't thought enough about anything. No further questions your honor."

  Luke expected anger, defeat, frustration. Some shred of emotion. He wasn't prepared for stoicism. There was no expression whatsoever on Rachel Carstairs' face as she stepped down. Who or what, Luke wondered thunderstruck, had taught her that kind of self-control?

  Both lawyers presented closing statements. The judge declared a fifteen minute recess before rendering her decision.

  He heard Jenks ask her if she'd like to step outside, get a cup of coffee.

  "No thank you."

  Her voice bothered him. It didn't go with the rest of her. It was rusty, chipped, oddly husky. It was in his blood, a teasing torment. Like a saloon girl's in a fifties western.

  Her stance bothered him. She could have been carved into Mt. Rushmore. Not once had she looked around the courtroom, shown any interest in her surroundings. He had been curious about her. Damn it, why wasn't she the same way?

  The judge's decision was explicit. "Ms. Carstairs, I'm afraid wanting a child does not assure good parenting these days. Your lifestyle is not suited to an infant. The court feels of the two of you, Mr. Summers will be the better guardian. He will, I'm sure, be more than generous as far as visiting rights are concerned." Something in Rachel Carstairs' expression pierced the judge's formality. Her glance softened. "I'm sure on reflection you will agree with me that what Gordie needs is a settled home. Look at it this way. Instead of one, Gordie now has two caring adults, interested in his welfare. If you could both combine forces with his interests at heart, everyone will be a winner."

  Myrna's stranglehold, the smacking buss on his mouth, caught Luke off-balance. By the time he got away from her, the bench beside theirs was empty.

  He rushed out of the courtroom. The silent corridor yielded no clue to her whereabouts. On the steps of the courthouse he found Dyan Jenks staring at the tail lights of a disappearing cab. Luke caught at the man's sleeve.

  "Yes?"

  "Ms. Carstairs. I need her address."

  Dyan Jenks was not a good loser. "That's confidential information," he said pompously.

  "I have some effects of her cousin's that she might like. Family mementos and so on. Give it to me." Luke was through explanations. Into demanding.

  Dyan hesitated. The man in front of him didn't seem the kind to take no for an answer. Impatience snapped in the navy blue eyes. Irritation crackled from every pore. The clenched fist didn't look as if it could stay in the pocket much longer.

  No one was paying him to be a hero.

  "Are you familiar with State Street?"

  Rachel knew it shouldn't hurt so much to lose something that had never been hers. Looking back now she had done it all wrong.

  Wrong clothes, wrong lawyer, wrong attitude. She was so full of hindsight she could write a how-not-to book.

  A wry smile skimmed her lips as she thought of the hurdles she'd cleared in the last forty eight hours, the final result. She had made it on time against innumerable odds. And lost.

  Losing was a comfort zone, something she had become used to. All her life.

  Leaning against the black vinyl seat, Rachel let the events of the past few weeks race by her.

  The first thing she had done after hearing of the tragedy was send a telegram to the ranch, telling the brother she was arriving to care for the baby. Chris' mother had died two years ago. Her father was in a home for the terminally ill. As far as Rachel knew, she was Chris' only living relative capable of caring for the baby.

  Luke Summers hadn't shared the opinion. His answering telegram had been equally long and explicit. ‘No need to return. Gordie is my responsibility now. Best he grows up at the Diamond Bar. I intend to start adoption proceedings immediately. Very nice of you to offer.’

  Nice hadn't been why she wanted Gordie. News of the tragedy had plunged her into the darkest despair. The one person who had cared for her had been snatched away. In the blackness of her grief a pinprick of light had appeared, illuminating the path she had to take now. By caring for Chris' son she could repay the one bright spot in her life: her cousin's love and friendship. Gordie would receive all the love stored in her heart for so long and finally she would have someone of her very own.

  The brief smile that touched her lips mocked the pain she felt. Judge Wentworth's verdict was a rerun of her life story. Fate had again placed her outside the portal of a loving one on one relationship. The firm reminder that she didn't meet the criteria for membership in that particular club had been issued so often it shouldn't hurt at all.

  But it did.

  She had to admire the skill with which Luke Summers' lawyer had made her look like a stupid, selfish woman. She wasn't entirely ignorant about a baby's needs. Nursing sick children had taught her a great deal about them. Often a really sick infant had been left with them for a couple of days, and it had been Rachel who had willingly played substitute mother.

  Nor was she as destitute as they had made her out to be. Her father had left her a lump sum of money. It would have provided for a place of her own and live in help. Gordie wouldn't have lacked for anything. She would have seen he got the best.

  Acting with the purest of instincts didn't buy one insurance against failure though. The scene in the courtroom had left her with a bad taste in her mouth, a feeling of absolute inadequacy. The sooner she got back to the only work she was good at, the better.

  Rachel bit her lip. By losing the case she felt she had let Chris down and lost the opportunity to have someone to love. Someone of her very own. What was it Chris had said to her in one of her letters after the birth of her son? "I want you to be Gordie's godmother. You're the only one who will fit the role. We'll make it official when you come home."

  Now, she wouldn't even have that.

  The stereo in the cab blared out some discordant sounds. The latest music? She supposed so. The cabbie whistled while he checked the road for any tiny gap to leap into. Not that they made much progress but evidently the man thought weaving was more fun than standing still. As Rachel looked out at the streets of Santa Barbara the scenes blurred. Her mind insisted on re-tracing the events that had culminated in today's defeat.

  When she had shown the telegram to Dr.Tim Atwell, the lead member of the team, he had told her she needed a good lawyer. Dyan Jenks was the result of a long distance telephone call to a frien
d of his. She had hired him to start legal proceedings for custody of Christina's son. Hiring a lawyer long distance hadn't been the best thing to do, but it had been the only option available. Dyan had been chosen by Tom Atwell's friend because he was Dr. Atwell's friend's nephew. No one had mentioned he was still wet behind the ears.

  But blaming him was no use. She had lost on her own account.

  Like a rat on a treadmill, her mind refused to leave dejection alone. The reminder that she was one of those destined to prove a human being could be an island, stung. Rachel wondered detachedly how long it would take her to learn her lesson, stop these futile attempts to have someone to belong to.

  Her whole life was strewn with reminders, if she still needed them. Her mother hadn't wanted her. She had left when Rachel was ten. Her father had had no use for her. At first she'd tried to make him like her. Later she'd known that was impossible and accepted it. There was no doubting it. She'd always gotten a failing grade in personal relations.

  Best stick to what she could do well. Impersonal aid was her forte. Rachel let her mind trace over the last few years. In her last year in high school, a volunteer with MRA had come to Wilson High. The slides he'd shown had been mind boggling, the talk that followed powerful. There was a desperate need for medical aid abroad.

  Rachel had been hooked by the lecture. Medical Relief Abroad had been started in the early seventies, by a group of doctors in America who had dedicated themselves to suffering humanity. From the original nucleus of ten the organization had grown to five thousand and consisted entirely of volunteers.

  While they were working, volunteers were provided with living expenses. When they returned after their tenure they were given a thousand dollars for each year spent abroad, and every assistance in job placement. Colleges offered special scholarships and grants to volunteers who wished to continue their education.

  There had been no hint of glamour about the work. Dr. Steve Hanks, the speaker, had emphasized the rigors of living in undeveloped villages, the health hazards, the backbreaking work. It called, he'd said, for a special kind of personal commitment.

  Rachel had contacted him the following week. At the first interview it had been suggested she was too young, but Rachel had stood her ground. Convincing the selection committee that her slight build and frail looks were misleading, had taken a while. The medical assistant's course she had completed through the high school ROP program had helped. So had her counselor Mrs. O'Brien, who had convinced Dr. Hanks Rachel was mature enough for relief work.

  A thorough medical examination had been followed by an intensive course in basic medical procedures. Her father hadn't objected to her going. If anything he had seemed relieved. The day after she'd graduated from high school, Rachel was on her way to Bangladesh, the stiff, awkward, unemotional parting with her father a frozen island of memory.

  Work filled the void in her life, assuaging the physical loneliness. The gratitude shining out of dark eyes too poor to offer any other payment convinced her she had found her niche. Immersing herself in the people, the work, and the new way of life, Rachel told herself it was all she ever wanted. Very rarely did the thought that there was more to life than caring for others surface.

  Over the years she and Dr. Tim Atwell had been the only constant members of the team. A twelve month stint was the norm for volunteers. Whenever the others had talked of home and plans for the future, Rachel had kept very quiet. Every year she had applied for, and been granted an extension. Her accumulated vacation time she'd spent travelling in neighboring Nepal, and the north of India on cheap railway tickets, and in buses.

  The telegram informing her of Chris and Rob's death had taken fifteen days to reach her. The team had been up to their eyeballs in disaster relief. The floods had worked havoc in a country that had barely learned to toddle. There was so much to do. But for Rachel it had been time to come home.

  Tim had contacted two doctors with private practices in Los Angeles, both of whom had agreed to help her with jobs in their clinics. Now it was no longer necessary to get in touch with them. The money she had left would last till she got on the next plane back to Bangladesh. Back to the only life she knew.

  She was drunk from exhaustion. Lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of spirit. That's what made losing Gordie, seem like the end. After she got some sleep she would be fine. The judge had been right. She was definitely not the best thing for the baby.

  The uncle was that. She tried to remember what he had looked like. Solid. Large. Rich. And very, very sure of himself. The whiplash of his gaze had cut right through her charade of respectability. A shiver crept down her spine. In that instant she had felt wrapped in strength and power. The urge to reach out for some of each had been very strong.

  What was even more bizarre was the powerful surge of response deep inside her wanting to believe her first impression was true. That if she had leaned into his strength she would have found the shelter she had searched for all her life.

  CHAPTER 2

  "Ma'am?"

  Rachel sat up with a jerk. The cabbie was looking at her curiously. They were outside the motel. Dyan had reserved her a room here, earlier. As she took in the peeling paint, the cracked sign, Rachel knew it fit all her prerequisites. Cheap, cheap and cheap. Her lawyer had scored a bull’s-eye on this task at least. Tomorrow she would go to MRA headquarters in Los Angeles, and transfer into their hostel. For tonight this would do.

  Reluctance accompanied her as she stepped out of the cab's dark comforting interior. She still had to go through the ordeal of checking in. The world tilted to a forty-five degree angle. Rachel stumbled, clung to the door. She ought to have grabbed a bite to eat somewhere.

  "Are you alright?" The cabbie looked worried.

  "I'm fine."

  Rachel paid him, added a generous tip. He looked amazed, then overwhelmed. She was glad. Money had never meant much to her. Where she was going, she wouldn't need it anyway.

  "Merry Christmas, ma'am."

  Christmas. That was right. Four weeks to Christmas.

  "And to you."

  Empty, meaningless words. Empty meaningless life.

  The clerk at the desk found her key right away. Yes, her room was in a quiet area. Yes, they would hold all calls.

  Rachel walked to her room in a daze. The corridor seemed never ending, the smells nauseating. The key turned smoothly. The first thing that's gone right today she thought hysterically. Someone ought to make a note of it. Tears trembled on her lower lids, waiting for an excuse to fall. She wouldn't let them. She was past crying. Into agony.

  A shower would be nice. It had been so long since her last one.

  Incongruous thoughts pierced her fatigue like mismatched pieces of different puzzles. She had no other clothes with her. The travel weary pant and shirt she had worn since Hong Kong were left behind in the changing rooms of some department store. The wallpaper in here was ugly. She hated that shade of mud brown, bilious green and jaundiced yellow. Chris' baby would be fine. That man looked like Auld Lang Syne and the National Anthem rolled into one. Imagine using those colors for cabbage roses...if she wasn't so tired she would have insomnia just looking at them. All she had now was the handbag she had transferred her traveller's checks and passport to, and an empty rucksack. Nothing else. It was a good thing she had a return ticket.

  The need for sleep edged out the need to feel clean. Rachel's footsteps changed direction. She could sleep for a week.

  The knock on the door seemed a joke. Cruel, worthless, unnecessary. She wouldn't answer.

  "Ms. Carstairs. Open up. I have to talk to you."

  It was her name that did it. Only Dyan Jenks knew where she was. He wouldn't contact her if it wasn't important.

  "Yes?" Her head was a wedge in the door. Even Emily Post wouldn't insist on courtesy after thirty six hours without sleep. No one was going to get in here without a good reason. Not even the President of the United States.

  "I'm Luke Summers. I have to talk to yo
u."

  Open sesame.

  He walked past her, turned, waited. Swaying on her feet, Rachel put a hand behind her for the couch, sank weightlessly into it. No, sitting would have her asleep quicker than one could say Jack and Jill. She struggled to her feet.

  She had to think straight. She wasn't new to fatigue. They had never adhered to working hours in the places she had been in. Lines of people formed magically at first light. Patient, suffering, hopeful. The team worked till the light faded or the last patient was attended to. Whichever came first. Rachel tapped into that same reserve of sheer will power now. This might be her last chance to win Gordie. Maybe this man would listen. Maybe she ought to tell him what the child represented.

  Rachel looked at him. Strange. He had no face at all. Just shimmering waves. Someone had stolen his face. She had to let him know so he could do something about it. Only her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She looked again. Now his face was just one big blank of silver. Like the floods in Bangladesh. Angry water reflecting cruel sunshine. Hypnotizing. Will sapping. Dominating.

  Her eyelids fell. Rachel crumpled.

  "Damn!"

  He'd caught her just in time. What was wrong? Had his earlier suspicion been correct? Leaning forward, Luke smelled her breath. There was absolutely no trace of liquor.

  She weighed less than a day old foal. Luke strode into the bedroom, placed her on the covers. The little fool. She should have told someone how she felt. What if he hadn't decided to come and talk to her right away? She could have lain here forever.

  A half hour later Luke had the emergency ward of the nearest hospital on their toes. If he had said jump, they would all have executed perfect leaps. He had threatened them with everything from libel to unwanted publicity. He wanted attention and he wanted it now. No, he wouldn't leave the patient and wait outside. For once in their lives they could damn well live up to their category.

  A lion with a sore tooth would have been more amenable.