by Irene Hannon
Because no matter how hard Kristen tried, it wasn’t home.
Maybe it never would be.
A knock sounded on the front door, and she pulled herself to her feet, more depressed than ever as she trudged down the hall and through the living room to answer it.
When she opened the door, Clint slipped past her. He’d changed into jeans and a T-shirt and was holding a box containing a frozen pizza.
“A replacement—for later.” He slid it onto the counter. “How is she?”
“She stopped crying, but she isn’t communicating.”
“Where is she from?”
“Denver.”
“Does she have a favorite hobby or special talent?”
He was looking for a topic that would engage her daughter. How sad that she couldn’t help him out. “I don’t know.” She choked out the words as she led him back to the bedroom.
Clint stopped on the threshold and gave the new decor a once-over as she entered.
“Beatrice, honey, my neighbor wants to say hello. He’s not in his uniform anymore. And he likes boys and girls. In fact, he takes them on hikes in the woods and teaches them all about nature.” She checked with him over her shoulder, not certain she was correctly depicting his interaction with children, but he nodded. “Can you say hello to him?”
The little girl ignored her.
With an apologetic glance toward Clint, she gave a helpless shrug.
“Why don’t you go ahead and dry your hair while Beatrice and I get acquainted?” Clint moved into the room, plucked the slipping towel off her head and handed it to her.
She mouthed good luck as she stepped around him.
Her daughter stiffened when he settled on the bed beside her. But if her landlord noticed the child’s silent go away message, he ignored it.
“My name’s Clint, Beatrice. I heard you’re from Denver. Have you ever been to Rocky Mountain National Park?”
She didn’t respond.
He continued as if she had. “I was there once. I liked the mountains a lot. We don’t have mountains like that in the park where I work, but we have trees almost as tall. They’re so big people call them giants, like the kind the Swiss Family Robinson might have lived in, or that Jack from the beanstalk story might have climbed. You have to tilt your head really far back to see the top. And some of the trunks are hollow at the bottom. You can walk inside without bending over. We have giant ferns, too. They’re taller than you are. And from the beach, you can sometimes see huge whales.”
As he spoke, Beatrice peeked at him over her shoulder.
Interpreting that as a positive sign, Kristen edged into the hall, keeping an eye on the duo as she reached in to grab her comb from the bathroom vanity.
“Is everything in your park big?”
Yes! He’d sparked her daughter’s interest!
Clint chuckled. “Not everything. Banana slugs are on the small side.”
“What’s a banana slug?”
She could see only part of Clint’s profile, but she caught a glimpse of an endearing dimple in his cheek when he smiled. Why had she never noticed it before? “It’s a little critter about this long.” He illustrated with his two index fingers. “And it’s bright yellow. It looks a lot like a tiny banana.”
The tight coil of Beatrice’s body loosened a bit. “Could a person live in one of those big, hollow trees?”
“I expect they could. Some of the trunks are almost as big as this room.”
“That might be fun. It sounds like something from a storybook.”
“It could get chilly in there at night, though. But they’re a lot of fun to play in. When I take children on hikes, I always stop at some of those trees.”
“I’ve never seen a tree that big.”
“Maybe your...Kristen...will take you to see them while you’re here.”
The touch of animation that had brightened Beatrice’s features faded. “I don’t want to go with her.”
The knot in Kristen’s stomach tightened again. She still couldn’t see Clint’s face, but he had to be wondering about Beatrice’s flat repudiation.
“I’m sure we can figure out a way for you to take a trip there. In the meantime, why don’t we eat some of the pepperoni pizza I brought? I’ll tell you some stories about the park if you have a piece.”
Beatrice leaned sideways to look around him, toward the hall. Toward her. Kristen’s heart sank at the animosity on her daughter’s face. “Is she going to eat with us, too?”
Angling her direction, Clint shot her a quizzical glance.
“I’m not that hungry. I could...uh...unpack while you guys have the pizza.”
“I might eat some, then.” Beatrice sank back on the bed, out of sight.
When Clint hesitated, Kristen jumped in. She’d fast for a week if that would get some food into her daughter’s stomach. “I’ll put it in the oven while you two talk some more.”
Before either could respond, she swiveled away and jogged toward the kitchen.
Their voices followed her, one low and deep, the other high-pitched and childlike. Beatrice had talked more in the past ten minutes than she had since Kristen had met her. If only her daughter would do the same with her.
Yet as she set out plates, napkins, drinks and finally the hot pizza, then retreated to the bathroom, she was more concerned about the coming conversation with Clint. He wasn’t going to leave without some answers.
And as she combed the tangles from her hair, she found herself wishing she could comb the tangles from her life as easily.
* * *
Closing the door to Beatrice’s room halfway, Clint found Kristen hovering at his elbow.
“Is she asleep?” Kristen peeked past him into the darkened room, the warmth of her whisper brushing his jaw.
“Yeah.” For the past forty-five minutes, while he and Beatrice ate and he tucked her in—at the little girl’s request—Kristen had kept a low profile. He wanted to know why. Turning toward her, he gestured toward the living room. “Shall we? I saved you some pizza.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. Did Beatrice eat much?”
“Three hearty pieces. Not bad for a nine-year-old girl.”
“Thank goodness.” Relief smoothed some of the tautness from her features as she walked toward the living room. “I haven’t been able to get her to eat more than a few mouthfuls at any one sitting since Sunday. She’s going to waste away without more nourishment—and she’s tiny to begin with.”
He gave her a discerning glance as he followed. “You look like you’ve lost a few pounds in the past week, too. When’s the last time you had a decent meal?”
The sudden creases in her brow gave him his answer even before she spoke. “I don’t know.”
“Eat some pizza.” Without waiting for her to consent, he crossed to the kitchen, pulled open the oven door and drew out a plate with several pieces on it. He set it on the dinette table, added a few napkins and opened the cupboard. “What do you want to drink?”
“Soda.”
“Sit.” He indicated the table.
He wasn’t surprised when she acquiesced without argument. From the slump of her shoulders, it was clear her usual spunk had deserted her.
As she slid into a chair and picked up a piece of pizza, he flipped on the coffeemaker. He had a feeling he was going to need the bracing boost of caffeine once they got into her story—the next item on his agenda.
He fiddled around in the kitchen, leaving her in peace while she finished off two slices, but as she began to nibble halfheartedly on the third he joined her.
“Thanks for doing this.” She gestured to the pizza and toward Beatrice’s bedroom. “I was at my wit’s end.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
She picked at the edge of the crust, scraping off the burnt pieces with her fingernail, leaving the tender dough below exposed. “It’s a long story.”
“I have all evening.”
When she remained silent, he resorted to questions. “Are you related to Beatrice?”
“Yes.” She moistened her lips and swallowed, but offered nothing more.
Okay. He’d come back to that. “How long will she be here?”
She crumpled her paper napkin into a tight ball in her fist and gave him a direct look. “Forever. I’m her...her mother.”
He stared at her, trying to reconcile that bombshell with what he already knew. “I thought you said her parents were killed in a plane crash?”
“Her adoptive parents were. I’m her birth mother. I had her at the end of my senior year in college and gave her up for adoption. I haven’t seen her since the day she was born.”
While her gaze didn’t waver during that admission, fear bloomed in her eyes and she started to tremble.
The reason was obvious.
She thought he was going to judge her. Reject her.
And God forgive him, he was tempted to do both. Having a baby out of wedlock went against everything he believed.
On the other hand, who was he to point fingers, a man who’d made plenty of mistakes himself?
At least her mistakes hadn’t killed anyone.
Wrapping his fingers around the mug, he forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Do you want to hear it?”
No, he didn’t. What he wanted was for life to be simple, uncomplicated and rosy.
But maybe that only happened in the kind of storybook he’d read to Beatrice tonight.
As the silence lengthened, he saw a flicker of anguish in Kristen’s eyes.
You’re blowing it, Nolan.
She started to rise, and he reached out and took her arm. “Yes. I want to hear it.”
For a few seconds, as she searched his face, her posture remained taut.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Didn’t let one iota of censure creep into his eyes.
In the end, to his relief, she sank back into her seat.
“I’m going to have to tell my story—or parts of it—to everyone here anyway. I might as well start with you.” She rested an elbow on the table and massaged her temples. “I’ll give you the condensed version. I met Beatrice’s father in the middle of my junior year of college. He was the big-man-on-campus type, with a lot of big-city glitz, an abundance of confidence and more family money than he knew what to do with. I was surprised he even noticed me—and impressed that he respected my old-fashioned principles about intimacy.”
She took a drink of her soda, then placed the glass precisely back in the ring of condensation on the table. “Once I met him, he became the center of my life. My other campus friends fell by the wayside. I was totally smitten. Young love and all that.” She tried for a smile, but the twist of her lips reflected more pain than pleasure.
Clint sipped his coffee, giving her the space and time she needed to get her story out.
After a few beats of silence, she picked up the tale.
“Everything was fine until we went to a frat party in September of my senior year. He’d had an internship on the East Coast over the summer, and I’d been working in Wisconsin, trying to help my mom pay down my dad’s medical bills. Anyway, we celebrated our reunion with too much liquor. Throw in a few too many pent-up hormones, plus the crushing grief over my dad’s death that sent me looking for escape in all the wrong places, and things got out of hand. The rest is history.”
It wasn’t the first such story Clint had heard. Excess alcohol was notorious for eroding moral standards. It had happened to one of his own buddies in college, a guy whose ethical code Clint had always respected. Except that guy had done the decent thing and offered to marry the girl.
“What did the father say about all this?”
She gave a soft, mirthless laugh. “His exact words were ‘What are you going to do about it?’”
“What a...” He bit back the word on the tip of his tongue and cleared his throat.
“Yeah. My sentiments exactly. So much for true love.”
“How did your family react?”
She traced the trail of liquid left by a bead of condensation on the side of the glass. “I never told them. Or anyone else, except him and the woman I worked with at the adoption agency. I was too ashamed.”
He frowned, trying to get his arms around that. “How did you manage to keep it a secret? It’s not easy to hide a pregnancy.”
“Easier than you think. The only time that year I went home was for Christmas, and I was just four months along. I was hardly showing. Once my boyfriend dumped me, I stayed in my room when I wasn’t in class. No one on campus noticed...or cared...what was happening with my life. I never did get that big, and bulky sweatshirts cover a multitude of sins—literally, in my case. I had the baby before my family came for graduation. It was like it never happened.” She swallowed. Sniffed. “So now you know the whole sordid story.”
As she waited for him to respond, Clint gripped his mug. Whatever he said next could seal the fate of their relationship.
Lord, give me the strength to leave judgment in Your hands. Grace me with tolerance and understanding. Send me the words that will help erase the hurt from Kristen’s heart and heal her soul.
“I’m not certain a mistake of any kind can be classified as sordid.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “You may have used poor judgment by drinking too much, but the choices you made while you were in that impaired condition were compromised. The conscious, cold-sober choice your boyfriend made to leave you in the lurch, however—that’s sordid.” He tamped down the sudden flare of anger that licked at his gut. He’d never believed in physical violence, but if that jerk was standing here now he’d be tempted to punch him out.
She bit her lower lip as she regarded him. “The fact I had a baby out of wedlock doesn’t bother you?”
“Yeah. It does.” He folded his hands on the table. He wasn’t going to lie. “But I admire the choice you made once you realized you were pregnant.”
Her expression grew skeptical. “You think I was right to give away my child?”
“I was talking about the fact you didn’t take the easy way out.”
She sent him a puzzled look. “But I did take the easy way out.”
“I meant abortion.”
The shock and revulsion on her face told him more about the character of the woman across from him than did her words. “That wasn’t even an option.”
“That’s what I mean. You took the high road.”
“No, I didn’t.” She leaned toward him intently, her features taut. “What kind of woman gives away her child for adoption if she has the means and resources to take care of it? And I did. My mother would have helped me, but I couldn’t face the shame. I didn’t want to disappoint my family. I didn’t want to admit I’d made a mistake, that their golden girl wasn’t perfect.” She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her head in her hands. “It was a selfish choice. All I cared about was me, and protecting my pride.”
He knew all about pride—and its tragic repercussions.
But they weren’t talking about his issues tonight.
He shifted gears, taking a moment to sift through all he knew about this woman. And slowly the pieces began to fall into place. She’d told him once she didn’t make friends or put down roots. Now he knew why.
She didn’t think she deserved a husband or family.
That was the price she’d paid for her mistake. Sentencing herself to a solitary life was her way of seeking atonement.
“Kristen.” He touched her
hand, waiting until she lifted her head. “We all make mistakes—and God is willing to forgive those who repent.”
Her eyes were haunted as she locked gazes with him. “I gave away my daughter, Clint, and I didn’t have to. I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
“He thinks you do. That’s why He sent His son to die for our sins. Have you ever asked for forgiveness?”
“No. I was too ashamed. A child is a gift, no matter the circumstances of conception, and I threw it away.”
“That’s a pretty harsh indictment. Are you telling me you didn’t go to a reputable adoption agency?”
“No. The campus chaplain put me in touch with the one I used. They were very professional.”
“Do you think they chose inappropriate adoptive parents?”
“No. I was involved in the process. I read all their background material and helped pick them. They seemed like wonderful people.”
“Did they treat Beatrice well?”
“Very.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s obvious she loved them, and she always looked happy in the photos I received through the agency twice a year. That was one of my requirements for the adoption. I might have given her up, but I couldn’t bear the thought of losing touch completely.”
That explained the album he’d seen on the coffee table.
“So you went through a minister to find an adoption agency, participated in the selection of the couple and followed your daughter’s progress through the years. That doesn’t sound unredeemably selfish to me.”
Her shoulders hunched. “You’re putting a better spin on this than I deserve.”
“I don’t think so. You were young and desperate and your serious boyfriend deserted you to deal with the crisis alone as you were also trying to deal with grief over your father’s death. I think you made remarkably good choices in light of all that. And now you’ve been given a second chance. How did that come about, anyway?”
He listened as she recounted the call from the woman at the adoption agency and her conversation with the attorney who’d shared the wishes Beatrice’s adoptive parents had outlined in their will.
“To be honest, when Connie called I had a lot of the same feelings I had the first time around.” Kristen laced her fingers so tight the blood drained from the knuckles. “Shame and fear and panic and desperation. And once again, my pride got in the way.”