The Children of Main Street

by Merilyn Howton Marriott

  THE CHILDREN OF MAIN STREET BY MERILYN HOWTON MARRIOT

  Published by Firefly Southern Fiction

  an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC 27614

  ISBN: 978-1-946016-60-7

  Copyright © 2018 by Merilyn Howton Marriott

  Cover design by Elaina Lee

  Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: ShopLPC.com.

  For more information on this book and the author visit: http://merilynhowtonmarriott.com.

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “The Children of Main Street by Merilyn Howton Marriott, published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version and Scripture from The Living Bible copyright © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: Eddie Jones, Eva Marie Everson and Shonda Savage.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Marriott, Merilyn Howton

  The Children of Main Street / Merilyn Howton Marriott 1st ed.

  Printed in the United States of America

  PRAISE FOR THE CHILDREN OF MAIN STREET

  In The Children of Main Street author Merilyn Howton Marriott takes the reader where angels fear to tread, giving insight to the neglect of children in a world where they should be loved, cared for, and nurtured. The Children of Main Street’s main character, psychologist Catherine Collier, drives herself to save broken children one at a time at the risk of losing her marriage to the love of her life, Jordon.

  This is a gripping story that will keep you turning the pages, staying up way past your bedtime, and using a scary amount of concealer to cover your dark circles. But, it’s totally worth it. Such a great read!

  ~Michelle Medlock Adams

  Award-winning & bestselling author of more than 80 books

  MichelleMedlockAdams.com

  The Children of Main Street pulls at the heart and reveals the human struggles of balancing professional counseling, Christian compassion and family. Merilyn Howton Marriott, as a psychologist, provides her vast experience in counseling children and weaves a compelling story of a counselor named Katie Collier, the children she guides and the husband she loves. Marriott’s gift to capture her characters voices is evident from the first page, and I fell in love with all the troubled and precious kids in the novel. The struggles between Katie Collier and her husband, Jordan, reveal the costs and tensions of serving others with the compassion of Christ. The story is gripping and the writing is vivid.

  ~Michael Olin-Hitt

  Author of The Homegoing

  and the short story collection Messiah Complex and Other Stories

  The Children of Main Street is a compelling, faith-based story told in the wonderfully accessible narration of Catherine Collier, a mental health clinic owner and counselor dedicated to the welfare of neglected children for reasons both professional and personal. Author Merilyn Howton Marriott has deftly penned a gripping, evocative page-turner. You’ll invest quickly in this gorgeous, multi-faceted story. It will play on the heart-strings of your sense of justice as it lures you down a twisting path where all things work together for good.

  ~Claire Fullerton

  Author of Mourning Dove

  Merilyn Howton Marriott’s The Children of Main Street spits forth truth and sparkles like firecrackers in a night sky. Her writing is fresh and real and soul-stirring, and the characters somehow burrow into your heart until it aches to cradle and comfort these sad, sweet little ones. A truly magnificent read.

  ~Linda P. Kozar

  Author of Babes With a Beatitude

  From the first page to the last, Merilyn Marriott takes your heart on a journey of love, grief, pain, and redemption. Be prepared for a rollercoaster of emotion as Marriott weaves a story of social injustice that makes you want to simultaneously fight all the evil in the world and protect every child in need of a rescuer.

  ~Bethany Jett

  Award-winning author of The Cinderella Rule and Through the Eyes of Hope

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Completing a novel requires so many people, so many encouragers, so many tears, so many hugs, and so many hours of questioning God’s will for my life. Lord, is this what You really want me to do? Did I just have indigestion when I thought I felt the call to write?

  Eva Marie Everson, the keeper of my dreams. I’ll resist the urge to write pages. I met you, Eva Marie, at the Blue Ridge Writers Conference (2015) where I first pitched this book. It was a God moment. You bought into my vision for my manuscript. You grew me from a storyteller into a writer, served as my writing coach, the lifter of my head, and without realizing you would have to teach me how to use a computer, you lovingly did so. And without intending to—and without the time to do it—you became my managing editor. During the process of bringing this book to fruition we became close friends and I will love you into eternity. There is nothing on earth I wouldn’t do for you, no act too small or too large. You listen when I have a bad computer day or are confused about something else I must learn (that I didn’t know about) to launch a book. You have made my career. What can I say?

  Linda Glaz, my agent. You are never too busy to take my call. You are long on patience and short on criticism. You always have suggestions and are able to answer long questions in few words. You are knowledgeable about the Christian book market and always willing to share that knowledge with me. Thank you, Linda.

  Eddie Jones, owner of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, you are publishing my book. I don’t know how to thank you except try to be a better writer and make you glad you took a chance on a first-time author. You have a great sense of humor and I like you. Thank you, Eddie.

  When I first put words to paper in Alliance, Ohio, Michael Olin-Hitt, professor of creative writing was the first to read it, act as mentor, and suggest some edits. Michael, I may never have finished the book had you not been so encouraging and kind. I cried when you told me I had a gift for dialogue. Your friendship has and always will mean much to me.

  After I moved to Houston Linda Kozar, author of Sweet Tea Fiction, was instrumental as a mentor, encourager, and wonderful friend. She read the first few stories about traumatized children and wept. I valued those tears. You helped me see how readers may react to these stories. You explained a one sheet before I attended my first writers conference. You were faithful to answer your phone regardless of how many times I called—especially in the beginning when I had a million questions. I had big dreams with little knowledge of how the writing world works. Thank you.
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br />   Ramona Robinson, my best friend in the whole world, put the first draft on the computer, because I had hand written it on yellow legal pads. Your hard work no matter how many times I unintentionally messed it up will never be forgotten. Now you encourage me to believe in my book and not fear that ‘no one besides family and close friends will read it.’ You remind me that God is the ultimate decider of the book’s final outcome.

  My daughter Dana and my sister Patsy have read the book a hundred times each. No matter how many revisions—including a total rewrite—you gals never flagged in your desire to re-read and help find errors or inconsistencies. I love you both so much. Dana you are a great idea machine. Anytime I got stuck, you unstuck me.

  My son Michael, read the manuscript from its inception. The words meant so much to him personally that I transmitted to his computer at the end of each writing day. While reading, Michael walked through much of his past and found some healing. You pushed me forward, my last-born child. Thanks. If the book serves only the purpose of helping you, I’m glad I wrote it.

  My son Jimmy, who believes in my ability as a writer and tells me often. I love you.

  And to my girls, Chris and Amanda. I love you.

  My entire family, my brother Lewis, my other sisters Brenda and Carolyn have all read, prayed and encouraged. Daily they inspire me to walk forward without fear. I was seriously ill for a couple years and my siblings met together and prayed a literal eight hours to petition God to restore my health. They decided to meet quarterly to pray for each other, our children, and our grandchildren. God raised me from my sick bed and by the second prayer I was present and praying for our family. God is a miracle worker and it’s wonderful to have a praying family. Thank you, siblings.

  DEDICATION

  To my husband Rick

  who loves me, prays for me,

  eats cheese, grapes, and crackers while I’m writing,

  never complains when I shut myself away from him

  and close the door to spend time with my fictional clients,

  and whose life gives mine meaning and purpose.

  His unfailing belief in this book kept me writing.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  A Gift for You

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  Chapter 1

  May

  Main Street Clinic

  Port Arthur, Texas

  On the day Jillian Reynolds came to her first visit at the mental health clinic I owned along Port Arthur’s Main Street, I had arrived only minutes earlier. I’d parked my car, rushed through the back door, and—travel mug of hot tea from home clutched securely in one hand—stood in my treatment room and looked around, making sure everything was in order for the day.

  A four-tiered corner shelf stood to my right. Highlights of my life and love with my husband Jordan filled the first three shelves. The two of us, laughing into each other’s faces. Holding hands along a sun-drenched coastline as foamy gulf water lapped our bare feet. Standing side-by-side on a snow-rich mountain, nearly unrecognizable in our parkas, skull caps, and ski goggles.

  I loved those photos. Once upon a time, they centered me. They spoke of things that were and things to come. Now … now they only reminded me of a happier time. The time before. Before, when we thought we had life all figured out. Before we did not get pregnant. Before Jordan told me I had stopped laughing. Before the middle of every month when a trip to the bathroom confirmed yet again, I was not going to have a baby. Before my middle-of-every-month bouts of depression made Jordan feel he would never be—could never be—enough. Before my fortieth birthday loomed, ready to ring the signal that time was running out. And before doubts niggled at my spirit.

  My relationship with Christ had been a mainstay my whole life. He’d been the one I’d run to with my joy … my laughter … my fears … my requests. But now, He seemed oblivious to my barrenness. Or, if not oblivious, uncaring.

  Wasn’t I important to Him? Couldn’t He see to my being able to add a few more photos to the shelves?

  Get a grip, Katie.

  Words I said almost daily as I watched men and women—their houses full of children—who didn’t know how to parent the gifts God had given them. Who seemed so self-absorbed they missed what they were doing to the little ones who trusted them with their very lives.

  No doubt about it. My longing for a child threatened to consume me.

  I heard the front door open. My new clients had arrived. I glanced again at my husband smiling. He loved me with his eyes. I loved him back. It should be enough.

  I set the travel mug on my desk, then walked up front.

  The mother stood near my assistant’s unmanned desk, her eyes ringed by dark circles and her body weighed down by a broken heart. She wore a dress with a hemline that dropped below her knees and carried an oversized purse I could fit my kitchen in. Her children stood behind her, each one—my notes told me—seeking counseling after her husband left them for another woman.

  “Hi. I’m Katie Collier.”

  “Thought it was Catherine,” the woman said.

  I forced a smile. “It is. But you can call me Katie if you’d like.”

  “All right then.” She turned to the two behind her—a boy and a girl, both adolescents. “These are my kids. Justin … Jacy … Can they sit out here and read until their time to talk?”

  “That’ll work fine.” I looked at both and pointed to the chairs lining the front room. “Have a seat. We’ll be back soon.” They nodded, and I turned to Jillian, then led her to my treatment room. She sat in the first chair she came to and shoved her purse behind her.

  “I read your intake notes last night,” I said, sitting in my chair. “How long has your husband been gone?” I asked, casually crossing one leg over the other, hoping if she sensed my comfort, she’d ease into the session.

  “A few days,” she answered, still crouched on the edge of the overstuffed wingback chair I’d purchased for a song at a secondhand store. It showed some wear, but nothing I couldn’t live with. “He left me for a woman half his age. Did your notes tell you that? Don’t matter. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me.” She took a breath, a gasp for air. “I take my kids to church every Sunday and live like the Bible says I’m supposed to live. My husband and I took them together.” Her shoulders quivered with the bitterness of suffering. “He was a deacon for heaven’s sake.” Trembling fingernails stabbed through nearly threadbare tissues I’d only just noticed she held. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Has God ever failed you in the hour of your greatest need?”

  Depends. “No. But there have been times I thought He had.”

  “Do you think my husband will go to hell?” She bent toward me, her brunette football-helmet hair falling closer to pronounced cheekbones. “You know, for breaking my heart and th
e hearts of our precious children?”

  “I don’t know. No one knows or fully understands the mind and ways of God. I would never try to speak for Him.”

  “I’ve already asked Him, and I believe He said yes. My kids are broken in half. They want to know why they hadn’t known anything was wrong. Oh, God help me. I didn’t know myself.” She started to cry, so I reached for the tissues I kept nearby. She coughed as she pulled one, then two, from the box. “That makes sense to you, doesn’t it? I have no explanation for myself and none for them.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I wadn’t doing nothing wrong, not nothing.” Her voice took on a new strength—the kind that often waxes and wanes in my office—and her shoulders squared. “My husband walked into our kitchen, and there I stood frying up supper. That’s what I was doing when the father of my children said he was leaving for some gal he met at work. Did I tell you that the new girlfriend is half his age, and me just standing there frying up his supper?”

  “Yes,” I said gently. “You told me.”

  After Jillian’s time was up, Jacy came into the treatment room. She was a sixteen-year-old, pretty blonde, with a petite figure and grieving eyes that dripped quiet tears. Her face blanched to a sickly white, and she kept her rigid neck held high above straight shoulders. She never once said so, but I sensed Jacy had known something was wrong. She had been waiting for her dad to leave … someday. Her foot said it; the leather-shod right ankle nervously crawled across her left foot and jerked with the knowledge. Her pink fingernails with the daintiest yellow-and-white daisies painted onto their tips clasped together with full understanding that her father would do exactly as he’d done. Leave.

  I caught her eye. “You weren’t surprised that your dad left.”

  Jacy stared a hole through me, her neck cocked at an awkward angle. She wasn’t surprised, but she sure fought to stay stoic. Fought and lost.

  “Sweetheart, it’s okay to weep. To grieve.”

  “I don’t need to cry.” Her words sounded with an empty thud. “Just make sure my little brother is okay.”