A Love Surrendered

by Julie Lessman

  She stared, heart thudding at the heat in his eyes.

  He extended a hand, jaw hard and tone soft. “It’s important,” he whispered.

  Her breathing shallowed as she tore her gaze from his to Dale’s. “Sorry, do you mind?”

  “Yeah, I do,” he said, glaring at Steven. “But we can finish this later.” Shooting Steven a snide look, he turned and strolled away, leaving Annie to face the wrath of Steven O’Connor.

  And oh, what a wrath it was! Heat fairly shimmered from his look—the same heat that ignited her skin the moment his hand touched hers. With a solid grip that fixed her body firmly to his, Steven took control, his silence as smoldering as the look in his eyes. With a slight tremble, Annie’s eyelids fluttered closed while a warm shiver licked through her at the possessive feel of his arms. Head against his chest, she heard his heartbeat, steady and strong, while the tease of Bay Rum wreaked havoc with her senses.

  “Annie . . .” His voice lost some of its edge, as did his body, which transitioned from a wall of cold granite to warm muscle and flesh, strong and protective. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?” she whispered, too comfortable to move.

  He held her at arm’s length, eyes trailing down and then up. Anger glinted in their dark-blue depths. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. The sweater, the makeup, the hair.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” Her tone sparked. “Or my sweater, for that matter?”

  He cocked a brow, gaze raking her before pinning her with a glare. “Nothing, kid, if you’re looking to be a floozy.” His smile was hard. “But then, maybe that’s your plan.”

  Her breath caught on a gasp and she jerked free. “How dare you presume to tell me how I may dress or whom I may dance with. It’s none of your business!”

  She spun around to return to the table, but he wrenched her back, an arm of steel bolting her to his waist. “Why are you doing this?” he breathed, hovering so close she could almost feel the dark bristle of his jaw. “This isn’t you, Annie, so tell me, please, why are you doing this?”

  The plea in his tone siphoned all anger away. “You know why,” she whispered, lowering her gaze. Her body began to quiver, both from her receding anger and the touch of his body.

  “Annie . . .” He cupped her face, and her heart turned over at the tenderness in his eyes. “I like you a lot, kid, I do, but I’m afraid that’s as far as it goes.” The pad of his thumb caressed the side of her jaw, and she found herself leaning in to his touch. “You’re a sweet kid, Annie, and sure, in a few years, I might be attracted to you that way . . .” His hand glided from her face down to the back of her neck, giving it a playful squeeze. “But . . .” He braced her arms, forcing her to look into eyes that were naked with honesty and a hint of something else. Shame? “Not now, kid. I can’t get involved with you because you’re too young, too innocent.” He exhaled. “Remember those guys I warned you about, the ones who’ll do or say anything to get as much as they can?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I’m one of ’em, kid, and so is Joe for that matter and trust me, guys like Brubaker and Brannock make us look like amateurs. The truth is, I kissed you that time to try and scare some sense into you, to show you what could happen if you let your guard down around guys like us. So I want you to promise me, Annie, that you’ll stop this . . . this . . . ,” he waved a hand at her sweater, a lump shifting in his throat, “thing. Go home and wash your face and be the sweet kid I know that you are, one who doesn’t give me or guys like Brubaker the time of day. And I wish you’d stay away from older girls like Joanie and Erica, and this place for that matter.” Intensity darkened his eyes. “Because I promise you, if you do, Annie, you will thank me someday.”

  She fought the waver of her chin, heart aching to be the woman he not only protected but loved. “B-but I want you,” she whispered, blinking to ward off tears that threatened to rise.

  His lips lifted into a faint smile as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to her brow. “I know you do, kid, but I want you to be happy, and I can’t give you that.” He looped an errant strand of hair over her ear. “But I can be a big brother, at least when you’re here, so promise you won’t get involved with guys like me or Brannock or Brubaker, okay?”

  She lowered her gaze, unwilling for him to see the hurt in her face. No, it’s not okay.

  “Annie?”

  With another stroke of his thumb, her eyes opened to the painful realization that no matter how hard she tried to win Steven O’Connor’s love, he had no intention of giving it.

  Ducking to get her attention, he grazed the tip of her chin with his thumb. “I’ve told you before, kid, you’re something special. Sweet and innocent, you know? With a gentle passion that almost seems pure. Promise you’ll never change,” he whispered.

  She gave him a lifeless nod, and he pulled her near to plant a kiss in her hair. “Good girl.” He hooked her close with an arm to her shoulder while he ushered her from the floor.

  Good girl. Her eyelids wavered closed with a heave. Just not good enough. Before she could escape, a tear leaked out, compelling her to dart for the bathroom so he wouldn’t see her cry.

  Promise you’ll never change.

  Too late. She shoved the restroom door open, the truth as plain as the tears on her face.

  She already had.

  “Ouch!” Annie blinked, her eyes smarting at the sight of blood pooling where a rose thorn had pricked her finger. She glanced up at the trellis she needed to climb to sneak back in and fought the urge to break down and cry right there on Aunt Eleanor’s lawn in the moonlight. Lip quivering, she promptly sucked on her finger, deciding this was the perfect ending to a horrendous evening spent weeping in the ladies’ room of Ocean Pier.

  “I’ve told you before, kid, you’re something special.”

  No . . . she wasn’t. Not really.

  At least not to Steven O’Connor, nor to Aunt Eleanor, and certainly not to God. Maybe to Glory and even Maggie in a long-distance sort of way, but the person who’d made her feel more special than anyone alive was no longer around, no longer able to fill that void in her heart.

  Oh, Daddy, I miss you so much. Against her will, a heave wracked in her chest and she put her head in her hands, a sharp stab of loneliness gouging deeper than any thorn.

  “Did I ever tell you how you got your name?” he’d asked one rainy afternoon when she’d snuggled close in his sickbed, water slithering the windowpane while tears slithered her cheeks.

  “Yes,” she whispered, clutching his hand tightly as if the cancer were about to steal him away. “But I like it when you do.” She heard Glory’s chatter from the kitchen. The smell of Mrs. Baxter’s pot roast drifted into her father’s darkened room, mingling with that of antiseptic and the grape juice their kind neighbor swore would fight her father’s cancer.

  A hoarse chuckle scratched through his dry lips and Annie instantly reached for his water, carefully tipping the glass to his lips. After a few sips he smiled, and she smiled back, though her heart wrenched at sunken eyes that even yet glowed with love. His fingers shook as he caressed her face. “I can’t believe we almost lost you,” he said softly, parched lips tilted equally in affection and a father’s pride that never failed to warm her soul. Except lately . . . Her nose stung with the threat of tears and she quickly lay down, burrowing close while he gently stroked her back. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she clutched his old, striped pajamas, faded blue-and-white material that stirred thoughts of Christmas morning with cookies and cocoa and cuddling in his lap. Oh, Daddy, please don’t leave . . .

  “Well, I wanted to call you Grace after the aunt who taught me about faith in God,” he continued, the strong medicinal scent of his Lifebuoy soap filling her senses with wonderful memories, “but your mama read about this woman named Susannah one day in that Catholic Bible of hers and flat-out insisted that was your name. Claimed Susannah was a beautiful and God-fearing woman with pious parents who raised her
up to serve the Lord, just like we planned to do.” He chuckled, the sound wispy and thin. “ ‘Fine,’ I say, ‘Susannah it is, but then her middle name will be Grace, by thunder, and that’s the way it’ll be.’ ” His weak laugh vibrated in her ear, and a ghost of a smile edged her lips. Dear, sweet Daddy. Stern words forever toppled by a soft heart. “And a mighty good thing, too, ’cause if ever a child needed the grace of God when she came into this world, Gracie, it was you.”

  He shivered, and it traveled through her body like an electric current. She felt his hand tighten on her back, his touch protective as always when he told her the story of her birth. “They tell me you stopped breathing, something called apnea or some such thing, and as God is my witness, Gracie, I knew it. Knew something was wrong even though I was out there in that cold, sterile waiting room. Could feel it, sense it, like the very air had left my own lungs.” His fingers shook as they skimmed into her hair, stroking her, loving her—something that came as natural to her father as breathing. A reverence seeped into his voice that thickened his words, causing a sense of awe to settle on the cozy, little room. “ ‘Pray . . . ,’ the directive came,” he said quietly, and the low cadence of his husky tone merged with the rhythm of the rain, creating the same hypnotic pull as when he preached from the pulpit. “And so help me, Annie, I collapsed to my knees then and there as if the very hand of God had pushed me, tears and prayers streaming, one faster than the other.”

  He’d shifted then, fingers cold as they tweaked the back of her neck. She lifted to smile into his eyes with a gaze as watery as his, and her heart cramped at his skeletal frame. “Don’t ever forget, Gracie,” he whispered, eyes burning in a pale face, “more than any young woman I know, you’re God’s girl, make no mistake. He breathed life back into you that day because he has a job for you to do, hearts to win for him. I know that as surely as I know that I love you.”

  He grazed her jaw with quivering fingers, their cool touch a chilling reminder of the sickness that ravaged his body. “I love all my girls, you know that, but it’s no secret Maggie and I butted heads for years before she left, damaging the closeness I’d hoped to have. And Glory is a joy to my soul, make no mistake. But you, daughter, are appropriately named, a true touch of the grace of God in my life—strengthening me, encouraging me, sharing my deep faith in a God we both hold so dear. Never forget, Gracie, that as deep as my love is for you, he loves you far more, with a love everlasting . . . because you’re the apple of his eye.”

  “No, Daddy,” she hissed, her voice rising harsh to escape into the gloom of her aunt’s backyard, “because one protects the apple of his eye.” Lips compressed, she tackled the trellis once again, ignoring the sting of thorns. Slipping over the windowsill, she kicked off her Keds and tossed the heels tucked under her arm onto the floor. She stripped off her clothes and dropped them without regard, a heave shuddering her chest as she collapsed on her bed. With renewed weeping, she wished she could talk to Daddy just one more time. Hear that slow, husky drawl that always carried a smile. To be comforted by his sage advice and feel his love in the sweet crush of his embrace. The raw pain of missing him rose in sobs that echoed off the walls of her room, but she didn’t care. Nothing mattered if she didn’t have Daddy . . .

  “Susannah?”

  Annie jolted up at the sound of her aunt’s knock. “Y-yes?”

  “May I come in, please?” her aunt asked, voice hesitant and groggy with sleep.

  Tears chilled on her cheeks as her gaze darted to the discarded clothing and shoes, grateful they were hidden from view. Blankets to her neck, she swallowed hard. “Y-yes.”

  The door squeaked open and Aunt Eleanor stepped in, golden hair streaming against a satin robe. “Why are you crying?” she said quietly, a faceless silhouette in the darkest of rooms.

  Annie fought the heaves that rose in her throat. “I . . . I miss my f-father.” The words unleashed a flood tide of grief so piercing, she crumpled to her pillow in a rending of sobs.

  A whimper caught in her throat at her aunt’s awkward pat. “I . . . don’t know what to say, Susannah,” she said softly, tone commiserating even if she could not. “But I know what to do.”

  She left and Annie sat up, eyes fixed on the door till her aunt returned. Satin robe swaying about her feet, she moved forward and silently placed a letter on Annie’s pillow.

  “What’s this?” Annie whispered, eyes straining to read in the dark. Fingers shaking, she angled it to the moonlight, heart leaping at the graceful script she recognized all too well. Gracie.

  “He wanted me to give it to you on your birthday,” Aunt Eleanor said, “so you’d feel like he was here, but that’s more than a month away, Susannah, and I think you may need it more now.”

  She blinked, the bold penmanship she’d seen on reams of handwritten sermons dissolving in a fresh wash of tears. Hand trembling, she stroked the letter to her cheek, craving his scent, longing for his touch, and suddenly realized her tears might dampen it. A gasp popped from her mouth as she jerked it away, staring at the ink that now swam in a blur. A vise crushed within. No! My name stolen away . . . just like my daddy.

  Aunt Eleanor cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you alone, Susannah,” she said, her whisper hoarse and unsure. And without another word, she turned and left, the door clicking behind her.

  Swiping her eyes, Annie lunged for the lamp on the nightstand, and light flooded the room. Her hands shook when she carefully broke the liturgical wax seal, heart thumping at the touch of a single onionskin sheet. Hungry for his scent, she put it to her nose. Oh, Daddy . . .

  My dearest Gracie,

  The day of your birth was one of the happiest days of my life, but only a dim foreshadow of the endless joy you would bring me as a daughter. God chose to call me home, yes, but know that your mother and I celebrate this day with you from above, with a Savior as alive and real as our love for each other. He gave his all, daughter, a love surrendered so completely that we are transformed from the dark into his glorious light. The Light of the World, who in our absence will be a lamp unto your feet and a warmth to your soul, until that glorious day when we can hold you again on streets of gold. And so, as the Father surrendered his Son for us, so I surrender my daughters to him, knowing full well his hands are far more capable than my own to keep you and guide you and fill you with his joy.

  My one request no matter the trials in your life, Gracie, is to hold fast to our God and never let go. For always remember where he is, we are, longing for the day we will see you again. Please love your sisters, your aunt, and serve God with all of your heart while we love and celebrate you from afar—one of the greatest gifts ever received from the hand of God.

  Your loving father,

  Jeremiah Kennedy

  Caressing the parchment, Annie closed her eyes, face slick with new tears wrung from a prodigal heart. All at once, something warm flooded within her spirit like a rush of adrenaline, and repentance spilled from her lips like tears from her eyes. “Oh, Lord, forgive me, please . . .”

  There is joy . . . over one sinner that repenteth.

  Slipping to her knees, she began to weep for a long, long while, only these were tears of joy over a soul set free. She thought of Mama and Daddy, and for the first time, she sensed her anger was gone, replaced by a grief untainted by sin. “Lord, I’ve lost my parents,” she sobbed.

  I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.

  In a catch of her breath, a fountain of joy flooded within, flowing faster and harder than any tears from her eyes. “Oh, God, I’ve missed you so, and I need you . . .” Somewhere far away, an owl hooted just as Aunt Eleanor’s clock in the parlor chimed two, and Annie silently rose, her heart longing for God like she’d longed for her daddy. The same sense of a caress she’d felt earlier drifted over her like the gentle breeze that now ruffled the sheers at the window, and padding to the bureau, she unearthed her Bible buried deep in the lowest drawer.

  Bible clasped to her chest, Annie carried the holy
book to her bed and placed Daddy’s letter on top. Smoothing the cool parchment over the worn leather cover, she closed her eyes, grazing the onionskin one more time before laying it aside. Fingers burning, she opened the Word of God, Daddy’s legacy of love to her and his family.

  Hold fast to our God and never let go.

  A smile as soft as a kiss from heaven lifted the edge of her lips, and the tears that fell were as warm as the peace in her heart.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy,” she whispered, “I won’t.”

  5

  This is stupid.”

  Marcy glanced up from the costume she was stitching for Abby to offer a sympathetic smile to Gabriella Dawn, the foster child she longed to call her own. Her heart squeezed. If only my husband will comply. Her tongue glided across her teeth as always when she was nervous, and her hand automatically smoothed the pocket of her belted housedress where a paper lay folded and tucked away. A paper to begin the adoption process so Gabe could be enrolled as an O’Connor for the school year in the fall. Acid churned in Marcy’s stomach.

  But only if signed tonight.

  The remnants of dusk filtered through the weathered screen door of her cheery kitchen where she, Charity, Lizzie, and Emma finished sewing the costumes for the cousins’ dance recital. A hint of apples and cinnamon lingered in the air from the pie she’d made for supper, and lacy sheers fluttered with a spring breeze heavy with the scent of lilac blooms. Shrieks and giggles drifted in from the backyard where Lizzie’s two children and Charity’s twins played a game of King of the Hill that was obviously more important to Gabe than any “stupid” recital.

  Lips in a pout, her foster tomboy seemed too petite for ten going on eleven, skinny arms tightly crossed over a rose chiffon tutu that nearly matched the uncomfortable blush on her cheeks. Chestnut curls knotted from play spilled over tiny shoulders that appeared to carry the weight of the world rather than satin bows carefully pinned in place. The little girl’s freckles bunched in a frown, tugging at Marcy’s heart as she thought of the hundreds of orphans at the BSCG who might never have a family of their own. Marcy sighed. Not the least of which was the sprite before her who’d stolen her heart.