Who I Am with You

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  As if in answer, the band began to play a familiar Rascal Flatts song. A slow one.

  Ridley drew her into his embrace, and his grin said, Told you so.

  When they started to dance, he didn’t just sway in time to the music or move in slow circles in the same small space. He glided her around the floor with style, his hand on the small of her back gently steering her in the direction she should go. She felt beautiful and feminine and anything but over seven months pregnant.

  “I can’t believe how much I wanted to dance with you, Jessica.”

  She pressed her forehead against his shoulder. How much? She wanted to know. She didn’t want to know.

  “But I didn’t know it until this moment.”

  God, is this supposed to happen? Is it okay for me to feel this way about him?

  Ridley’s mouth was near her ear, and when he spoke, she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. “I know our timing is off. I know things are complicated in both of our lives, and I don’t know what the future holds for either of us. But Jessica, I care about you. Can’t we see what comes next? No expectations, but at least open to the possibilities.”

  That was the moment her mom would have called her foolish. The moment when Jessica drew her head back, met his gaze beneath the twinkling lights, and nodded.

  KUNA, IDAHO

  Saturday, October 8, 1932

  Twelve million Americans were now out of work, according to the newspapers. About 25 percent of the normal workforce, the experts said, couldn’t find jobs. Andrew thought he’d understood the severity of the great depression, already three years gone, that gripped the nation and much of the world. He’d seen neighbors lose their farms, and he’d watched prices for his own crops fall. His family was used to counting pennies and being careful not to waste.

  But reality hit him afresh one October morning when he accompanied his father into Boise to deliver canned vegetables to a church’s soup kitchen. That’s where Andrew saw the long line of people already waiting for what would be their one meal of the day. Men with haggard faces. Women with hair askew. Children with frightened expressions, eyes seemingly too large for their faces.

  He remembered a line outside this very same church that he’d seen on the day he’d become unemployed. Those people had been hungry, too, but the line had been much shorter that day.

  “There’s so many of them,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it?” His father lifted a crate from the back of the truck. “So many without homes. So many without food.”

  “There has to be some way we can make a difference.” Andrew picked up a second crate and followed his father into the church.

  “Your mama and I donate as much produce as possible. Fresh fruits and vegetables in the summer. Preserved the rest of the time. What we can, we give.” He looked toward the door, as if he could see the line that had formed beyond it. “It’s only a drop in the bucket. Never enough.”

  Andrew grew alfalfa on the Greyson farm, as his father-in-law had before him. But hay was a worthless crop to hungry people, and that knowledge made Andrew feel impotent. He’d been so busy trying to take care of his wife, child, mother-in-law, and himself, he’d almost forgotten about those even less fortunate. When he lost his job and couldn’t afford to pay rent, he’d had a place to go for food and shelter, unlike those outside this church. He and Helen had never been homeless. He might have had worn soles on his shoes and pants that required patches, but he’d never gone hungry.

  The director of the soup kitchen came over to speak to Andrew’s father. Leaving them to it, Andrew returned to the truck to bring in the last of the crates. On his final trip in, three kids caught his eyes. They were grouped tightly together, the tallest in the middle, an arm around each of the younger ones. Their blond hair and sky-blue eyes declared them siblings. Their clothes were dirty and ill fitting. The oldest, a boy, was barefoot. The middle child was a girl, the youngest another boy.

  Andrew glanced around, then approached them. “Is your mama or papa here?”

  “No, sir,” the oldest boy answered, gaze averted.

  “Are you here to get something to eat?”

  “We don’t have no money.”

  “You don’t need any money.”

  Glancing up, the boy gave Andrew a skeptical look.

  Andrew set down the crate, then crouched to open it. “Do you like cherries?”

  The youngest boy’s eyes widened at the sight of the jar in Andrew’s hand but didn’t answer.

  “What’s your name?”

  The little guy pressed himself to his brother’s side.

  Andrew glanced at the long line, stretching to the end of the block and turning the corner. “How about helping me take this crate inside?” he said to the older boy. “I’ll pay you a nickel.” He could ill afford to give away a nickel, but he figured it would work better than anything else.

  “A nickel?” The boy’s tone said Andrew was crazy.

  “A nickel.”

  The boy moved his siblings aside and reached for the crate.

  “What’s your name?” Andrew asked.

  “Ben. Ben Tandy.”

  With his hands, Andrew guided the younger two into place behind their brother. He ignored the glances of the folks in the front of the line as he herded the small family into the soup kitchen before its opening.

  When his father saw them, he said, “And who’s this?”

  “Ben helped me with the last crate. This is his sister and brother. I thought maybe they could wait in here until the kitchen starts serving.”

  “I imagine that would be all right.” His father gave him a quick nod before taking the crate from Ben’s hands.

  “Come with me, kids.” Andrew led them to some wooden folding chairs in one corner. Ben sat on one. The younger pair shared another. Andrew looked at the girl. “My name’s Mr. Henning. Care to tell me yours?”

  “Louisa.” After answering, she hid her face in her little brother’s hair.

  “And who’s this guy?” Andrew touched the youngest boy’s knee.

  Ben answered the question. “He’s Oscar.”

  It felt like a victory to have all of their names at last. Andrew reached into his pocket and found the promised nickel. He handed it to Ben. “This is yours.”

  The boy hesitated a few moments before taking the coin and shoving it into his pocket. Andrew could only hope there wasn’t a hole in it.

  Chapter 21

  Daylight had flooded Jessica’s bedroom by the time she opened her eyes the next morning. Her feet hurt from dancing. Her back ached from sitting in the camp chair. And her skin told her she hadn’t used quite enough sunscreen.

  She didn’t care. She felt happier than she’d felt in ages.

  Like a caress, Ridley’s voice whispered in her memory: “Jessica, I care about you. Can’t we see what comes next? No expectations, but at least open to the possibilities.”

  Possibilities. For so long, she hadn’t felt as if they existed for her. And suddenly they did. The possibility that she might take a risk on love. The possibility that a man could make her a promise and she might trust him to keep it. The possibility that she might be able to believe in a whole family of her own again.

  She released a soft groan as she rolled onto her side, then sat up and lowered her feet to the floor. Hopefully a shower would revive her and make her body feel as good as her spirits.

  Her phone rang before she could stand. She glanced at the caller ID, then answered, “Hi, Mom.” Her eyes moved to the clock, surprised to find it was after eight.

  “Good morning, sweetheart. How are you? Did you have a good time yesterday?”

  “I had a great time. Billie Fisher came to get me, and she and Carol pampered me the entire day. I didn’t have to carry anything or get my own food. In fact, except for walking back and forth to the restroom, I didn’t have to get out of my chair unless I wanted to.” She decided against telling her mom about the
times she’d wanted to be out of her chair. Especially when she’d been dancing with Ridley. There might come a time for that discussion, but it wasn’t now.

  “I’m so glad.”

  “What did you and Dad do?”

  “The usual. Neighborhood potluck in the common area. Fireworks at dark.”

  “I think I told you the town council here opted against fireworks this year because of the danger. Except for the safe ones and sparklers for the kids, of course.”

  “But it sounds like their absence didn’t spoil anything.”

  Again she thought of Ridley with his arms around her, turning her around the dance floor beneath tiny white lights, and smiled. “No. It didn’t spoil a thing.”

  “Any chance I can talk you into coming to Boise for Sunday dinner? Or if not Sunday afternoon, then in the evening on Monday or Tuesday. I’ll be flying to Florida on the eighteenth, and I’m not sure if or when I’ll have a chance to drive up to see you before then. So much to organize before I go.”

  Jessica could almost hear her mom’s mind whirring with to-do lists. “Can I let you know tomorrow what day works best for me?”

  “Well . . . yes . . . I guess that would be all right.”

  Now it was disappointment she heard. “I’m sorry, Mom. You know what. Let’s do Sunday. Usual time?”

  “Oh, good. Yes. Just plan to be here before two.”

  “Would you mind if I brought someone with me? I’m getting to the place I don’t want to make that drive by myself.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. Your friends are always welcome.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know who’ll be free at the last minute, but I’ll find somebody.” It was Ridley’s image she saw in her mind. “Can I bring anything for the dinner?”

  “No, honey. Just yourself and your friend. Your dad’s going to barbecue chicken and roast corn on the cob. I’ll make a key lime pie for dessert.”

  “Yum.”

  “Knew you’d like it.”

  Jessica ended the call a short while later and hurried into the bathroom. Half an hour later, showered and dressed for the day, she made her way to the kitchen. Soon after, decaf coffee filled her favorite mug, an egg was boiling on the stove, and bread was in the toaster.

  After breakfast, her coffee mug filled for the second time, she sat at the table with her great-grandfather’s Bible open before her. She had come to love these moments spent in the old King James Bible, reading Andrew Henning’s scribbles in the margins, paying close attention to the words he had underlined. She rarely knew the reasons why he marked certain passages, even when he’d jotted something in the margins. And yet she felt a strange connection to him, as if he were more than an ancestor. Almost as if their lives had converged in some way.

  Flipping the fragile paper, looking for pencil and pen marks, she stopped on a page in Psalms. Along the top of the page Andrew had written a note:

  Our daughter, Francine Madge Henning, was safely born today, July 4, 1932. My first little arrow. May I be deserving of this reward.

  A pencil mark pointed to two underlined verses.

  “Grandma Frani?” Jessica whispered, for some reason awestruck to see the notation. She knew her grandmother’s birthday had been the fourth of July, but seeing it written on that page, eighty-seven years later, seemed both strange and wonderful. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine Grandma Frani’s father sitting at a table much like hers, writing those words, excitement and joy flowing through him.

  She read the underlined verses:

  Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD:

  And the fruit of the womb is his reward.

  As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man;

  So are children of the youth.

  A smile bowed her mouth. Ah. That’s why Andrew had called his daughter his first little arrow. Precious. No wonder her grandmother had been exactly that. Precious.

  She leaned back in her chair and placed her hands on her abdomen. “My little arrow,” she whispered. “May I be deserving of you.”

  Early in her pregnancy, after the shock and surprise, she’d had to work through so many other emotions. Knowing Joe had been unfaithful had made her wonder how she would feel about the baby after its birth. Would she love him or her as much as she’d loved Angela?

  Tears pricked her eyes. As much as I still love Angela. She smiled through her tears, knowing the answer was an unfaltering yes. She would love this baby—already loved this baby—with her whole heart. Although anguish soon followed the moment of its conception, this child was God’s gift.

  Once more Ridley’s image came to mind. Her pulse quickened, wanting something she didn’t quite dare put into words. And yet it forced her to wonder: Was he the sort of man who could love her baby unconditionally? She thought he was. “But how can I know for sure, Lord?”

  “Hey, Steve. It’s Ridley Chesterfield.” Ridley had worked for Steve Knight for five years before leaving to join the Treehorn campaign, but the two men hadn’t spoken in well over a year.

  “Ridley.” He heard the surprise in his former employer’s voice. “How you doin’, buddy?”

  “Okay, now. I had some rough weeks, but I seem to be past the worst of it.”

  “I heard you’d left town.”

  “I did.”

  “You coming back?”

  Ridley looked out the window, toward Jessica’s home. “I’m not sure.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Not yet. Not sure what I’m going to do. Nothing to do with politics, that’s for certain.”

  Steve chuckled. “Sounds wise to me.”

  “Listen, when it comes time for me to look for employment, can I still depend on a good recommendation from you?”

  “You know you can.”

  He didn’t confess that he wasn’t nearly as sure of people as he used to be. “Thanks.”

  “You bet. And make sure you look me up when you come back to Boise.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He said goodbye and ended the call. After setting down the phone, he went into the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee. An idea was trying to solidify in his mind, had been swirling in the background of his thoughts for days. A longing had been growing in his heart. He kept thinking of how wrecked he’d been in those first days after the accusations against him had been made. He’d been caught unawares by how deeply hurt he’d been, for his good name to be besmirched, for his integrity to come into question, for the inability to set the record straight. He’d hated that he had no control over the media, hated even more knowing that once something appeared on the internet, it never actually went away. Search engines were relentless. Now he wondered how he might turn his own experiences to use for good in the lives of others. Because that’s what he’d begun to believe he was supposed to do. Was there a way? And if so, what was it?

  He didn’t know, but it seemed to him that God was trying to tell him something. That the answer was waiting for him to discover it.

  “Rest in the LORD and wait patiently for Him.”

  He nodded, eyes closed. The words from a psalm were good ones to remember. Rest in the Lord and wait patiently. God would direct his path. He believed it more today than ever before in his life. But that didn’t mean he was very good at waiting.

  Kris scratched at the back door, drawing Ridley’s attention. Carrying his coffee, he went to let the dog out. Warmth from the morning sun told him the day promised to be hotter than yesterday.

  Yesterday . . .

  He looked toward Jessica’s house again. Memories of their time on the dance floor washed over him. She’d felt so right in his arms. But he couldn’t forget the warning of her friend either. Jessica wouldn’t be happy away from Hope Springs. If living in this small mountain community was a condition for her happiness, then how could he play a part in her life? Was he supposed to be a part of her life?

  “No expectations, but open to possibilities.” That’s what he’d told her.


  If she was nervous or scared, he understood. He was a little scared himself. Or at least uncertain. After all, sharing her life would mean sharing the life of her unborn child. Was he in the right place to take on a ready-made family? For some reason he didn’t doubt that he could be a good father to Jessica’s baby. He knew in the deepest core of his being that he could—and would—love it. But perhaps loving meant giving up whatever he might want. Did it?

  “God, I need answers about that too. Because I’ve got it bad for Jessica, and I don’t want to do the wrong thing for any of us. Help me know what to do next.”

  KUNA, IDAHO

  Monday, November 21, 1932

  The three Tandy orphans came to live on the Greyson farm the third week of November. Andrew had expected investigations and paperwork to drag out for many weeks, perhaps for months, but he supposed orphans were another depression problem that had overwhelmed government and charitable agencies.

  Helen had been reluctant at first when he’d suggested taking these children into their home. More than a little so. But she’d come around once he showed her where and how they’d been surviving after the death of their parents—first their father the previous winter, then their mother a few weeks before Andrew found them outside the soup kitchen.

  When Andrew brought the children to the farm, Mother Greyson took one look at them and said, “Well, we’ll need to fatten you all up.” Then she headed to the kitchen to cook something that would do just that. That was the sort of woman she was. No point wasting a minute when she could do something to help.

  Helen, cradling Francine in her left arm, held out a hand to Louisa. “We’re glad you’ve come to stay with us.”

  The little girl glanced at her older brother, as if for permission, then shyly took Helen’s hand.

  After giving the children time to get their bearings, Andrew led the way to what had been Francine’s nursery. Their daughter was now in residence in her parents’ bedroom. Two beds, recently purchased at auction, had been moved into the small room, one for the two boys, the other for Louisa. Clothes—not new but newer—had been laid out for each of them on the beds. Clothes that would fit better than what they wore now.