Family

by Karen Kingsbury

  Ashley ran her fingers over Devin’s hair and surveyed her husband. Landon was making coffee. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, and he was humming something by Casting Crowns. She would forever be grateful that he had come back from New York, that he had pursued her without ever giving up. “Have I told you lately—” she kept her voice low so she wouldn’t wake Devin—“that I’m in love with you?”

  He flipped a switch on the coffeemaker and turned to her. “Yes . . .” His eyes were tender, full of a lifetime of emotion. “Every time you look at me.” When he reached her, he framed her face with one hand and brought his lips to hers.

  The kiss reminded her of everything she felt for him, for the way he’d stayed by her and waited for her, refusing to walk away even when he’d been crazy to stay.

  “Hey—” she pulled back and searched his eyes—“I love you.”

  “I love you back.” He ran his finger along the top of Devin’s hand. “I’ll go lay him down if you want.” He gave her one more kiss, tender but quicker than before. Then he straightened and stretched. “You might have time for a nap.”

  Cole was already off to school, and Landon had a late shift at the fire station.

  Ashley looked up at him and smiled. “You like being a daddy, don’t you?”

  He pointed at the photograph of Cole hanging on the closest wall. “I’ve been a daddy for a long time. And, yes—” he touched his finger to Devin’s nose—“I love every minute of it.”

  Ashley adjusted herself so she was facing him. “Luke must be there by now.”

  “In Los Angeles?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded to the folded newspaper. They were both being careful not to wake Devin. “He told Dad he’s supposed to be at Dayne Matthews’ beck and call. Whatever the guy needs.”

  “Should be interesting.” Landon went to the cupboard and took out two mugs. “Your friend Katy’s there too, right?”

  “Right.” She looked at the paper again. “There was nothing in the article about her. Katy wants to keep it that way.”

  “You’ll probably have to read something other than our local paper to get the real scoop.”

  “I know.” Ashley glanced at Devin. He was proof of God’s love for all of them, this tiny boy, their precious son. She watched him take a deep breath and felt him press in more tightly against her chest. She looked up at Landon again. “Are you serious about taking a turn with Devin?”

  “Of course.” Landon moved back a few steps. “He’ll probably sleep in his crib for a few hours, anyway.” He crossed the kitchen and checked on the coffeemaker. “You thinking about the nap?”

  “Not really.” She looked outside. The morning was cloudy, but it was supposed to clear up later. For the past week she’d wanted to get out, spend a few hours at her father’s house. She turned to Landon. “I’d sort of like to paint.”

  A smile lit his face. “That’s a great idea. Over at your dad’s?”

  She nodded. “My easel’s still set up there. I have a picture in my head, one that won’t leave me alone until I put it on canvas.”

  “Hmm.” The coffee was ready, filling the room with the smell of morning. Landon poured both mugs and added creamer to Ashley’s. He brought them to the table and set hers far from their little son. Balancing his own cup, he pulled out the chair and took the seat across from her. “What’s the picture?”

  She thought for a moment. What would she do without Landon, without his love and concern? He was her best friend, the person she could tell anything to. “My brother.”

  It took only a second for the realization to show in Landon’s expression. “Your older brother.” His response wasn’t a question. Landon knew, same as he’d always known, what she was thinking.

  “Yes.” She looked out the window again. “I think about him all the time.”

  “Any news from your dad?” Landon held his coffee mug with both hands and leaned back in his chair.

  “Nothing.” She turned to him. “Dad says he’ll tell the others next spring at our next reunion.” She stopped and pursed her lips. “That’s too long. I think everyone should know sooner. Maybe we could . . . I don’t know . . . write to him, tell him what he’s missing.”

  Landon was quiet for a moment. He blew at the steam coming off his coffee. Finally he drew a long breath. “Is this about you, Ashley?” He angled his head. “Or about your mother?”

  It was a fair question. Her mom had wanted to know her oldest son, wanted to meet him and introduce him to the Baxter family. But she hadn’t gotten the chance. She’d died of cancer too young, too soon. Ashley felt the familiar sadness. “A little of both, maybe.”

  “I thought so.”

  Ashley stood and carried Devin to his bassinet they’d set up in the living room. She returned to the table and looked deeply into her husband’s eyes. “I miss her so much.”

  “I know.” He looked into the next room, to the place where their son was sleeping. “She would’ve loved Devin.”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes and took a long drink from her mug. “I like what my dad said that day in the delivery room after he was born.” She blinked. “‘Mom’s here. She can see little Devin somehow.’” A smile pulled at the corners of her lips. “Some days it’s like I can almost feel her near me, hear her voice. Her memory’s that strong.”

  They finished their coffee, and Ashley kissed Landon good-bye. Their home was only seven minutes from the Baxter house, and Ashley called her dad at his office on the way. “Come home for lunch, okay? I’m going to paint for a couple hours.”

  Her father agreed, and Ashley wasted no time. The moment she was inside her father’s house she made her way up to the small bedroom that had once belonged to her. She opened the window and inhaled the cool air that filled the room. It smelled of fresh-cut grass and newborn roses and something sweet and distinct that always marked the Baxter house in late spring.

  Ashley studied her old room. Flowered wallpaper still hung on the lower half of the walls, and the corkboard she’d used as a high schooler still spread out across the space above her bed. It was a guest room now, and when family wasn’t visiting, it was where she loved to paint. Her father had put her supplies away for the reunion last month, but after everyone left, he hauled them out again.

  “You need to paint, Ashley,” her father had told her the last time he stopped by to visit. “Your easel’s up; the paints are ready. When Devin’s old enough, come over and get to work.”

  Her father was right. She needed to paint like some people needed sunshine.

  She checked her colors and found a fresh canvas. Some artists sketched first, careful to draw out exactly what they wanted to bring to life. Not Ashley. The picture was so visual, so alive in her head, she had only to dip her brush in the paint and touch the paint to the canvas and suddenly, amazingly, God would help her breathe life into the image.

  And this image was stronger than any she’d painted in a year. In her mind, she had a picture of her older brother. He would have Luke’s build, Luke’s and her father’s. He’d have dark blond hair and broad shoulders and eyes that had the ability to see into a person’s soul. It was his face she wasn’t sure about. Whenever she pictured him she saw him the way she saw him now, with his back to her—a Baxter but a faceless one.

  The soft symphony of robins and finches and bluebirds and the rhythmic croak of frogs in the stream behind the house filtered through the open window. The sounds soothed Ashley’s soul and provided the perfect background for everything she felt in her heart.

  Over the next two hours she put the big strokes down, and when she stepped back the streaky colors and defining borders showed her exactly what had been in her mind all these weeks. The foreground shadowy figure of the back of a man, hands in his pockets, leaning against an old oak tree, staring across a grassy field at a house that could never be anything but the Baxters’.

  He could’ve been Luke or her father in another decade. But Ashley knew him as surely as she knew she wou
ld never rest until she had the chance to meet him. The man was her brother, her older brother. The one who had recently rejected the Baxter family in exchange for a life of anonymity.

  After she washed her brushes, she inspected the painting again. A few more sessions and it would be complete, a tribute to the feelings she had for a brother she had never known, probably never would know. She ran her finger along the edge of the canvas. Lord, You know where he is, what he’s doing now. Please work on his mind, change his heart. We don’t have to be close, don’t have to get together with him several times a year.

  A breeze stirred the air in the room and bared her emotions. You know how much he mattered to my mom, Lord, and You know him—whoever he is. Please . . . I just want the chance to meet him.

  There was a sound downstairs, but before she could walk away, before she could close the door on this moment with God and her imagination, an image came to her mind: Dayne Matthews and along with it the image of Katy Hart. She didn’t think long about why they were suddenly on her heart. God must want her to pray for them too. Katy had become a close friend, and before she left on Sunday, Ashley had promised to pray for her.

  “My brother will be there,” Ashley told her. “Tell him I said hi. Tell him I’ll be praying for both of you.”

  So, as easily as she drew her next breath, Ashley left her prayers about her older brother in the hands of the Lord and silently lifted to Him Katy Hart and the media man of the hour.

  Dayne Matthews.

  John Baxter was glad for the diversion. Until Ashley’s call, all he could think about was the trial on the West Coast. In what could only be a divine appointment, the proceedings would place his two sons together for an entire week, maybe more. Dayne and Luke would work together, sit together, and present a united front to the media and courtroom authorities.

  And all the while no one—not even Luke—would know the truth. That Luke Baxter and Dayne Matthews were brothers.

  John tossed his keys on the kitchen table. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Ashley . . . I’m home.” She would be down in a few minutes after she had the chance to put away the paints she’d been using. He smiled as he headed for the refrigerator. It was a good sign, Ashley being here, getting back to her painting. Life at home must be good for them if she could allow herself this time.

  “Hi, Dad . . .” Her voice traveled down the stairway. “Be right there.”

  He took a dish of cold salmon from the fridge, separated the filet into two pieces, and put them on separate plates. Ashley loved salmon. He placed one plate in the microwave and set the timer.

  The most wonderful thing had happened in the weeks since his meeting with Dayne. The two of them had begun to build a relationship. After their meeting, he had considered calling Dayne but decided against it. The oldest Baxter son had a lot to think about, many decisions to make. Better to let him make the first move if they were to develop more than a passing interest in each other.

  Dayne’s call came two days later when John was at work between patients.

  “Hi . . .” The cool confidence that so clearly marked Dayne’s on-screen performances was missing. In its place was an uncertainty, a hesitation. “I wanted to talk about the trial.”

  John didn’t hesitate. “I’m glad you called.” His heart thudded against his chest, and his mind raced. What should he say? How should he react? But as the conversation continued, he allowed himself to relax. This wasn’t Dayne Matthews the movie star, and it wasn’t a man angry because he’d been adopted. It was his son. He could talk to him the same way he might talk to Luke. They didn’t have a history, but that didn’t matter. Dayne was his son, all the same.

  The conversation was the first of several since then. Every few days, without pressure from John, Dayne called. And every time he started the conversation the same way: “Hi.” Dayne didn’t call him John or Dad; he simply started talking.

  Gradually, one conversation at a time, he began seeking John’s advice, sharing his feelings about Katy, his position in Hollywood, and his concerns about the paparazzi.

  One thing had become clear to John, and this was the part that had John giddy with the possibilities. The more Dayne opened up to him, the more he seemed practically desperate for a relationship with him.

  On one phone call, he talked about Katy Hart. “I think I love her.” He chuckled. “We couldn’t live in more different worlds, but how do I tell my heart that?”

  A few days ago, Dayne explained how he hoped to keep Katy out of the media as much as possible. “The weird thing is that I’ll probably need Luke’s help to do it.” A longing sounded over the phone line. “He’s my brother, and there we’ll be. Working side by side. But if I say anything, if the media finds out, the avalanche will start, and nothing on earth will ever stop it.”

  Then they talked about God and His plans for their lives. John took a slow breath. “The Lord led you to Luke and to your birth mother and to Katy. I have to believe, Dayne, that when the time is right He’ll somehow lead you to make contact with your brother and sisters.”

  “I don’t know.” The struggle in Dayne’s voice was obvious. “They don’t deserve to have their lives turned upside down.”

  “I know them.” John didn’t push, but he didn’t want there to be any mistake here. “I’ve prayed about it, and I’m sure about this: they’d gladly give up their privacy for the chance to connect with you.”

  When Dayne was hesitant, John only prayed longer, harder. He had told Ashley that next spring he would tell the others the truth—that they had an older brother. But how much better, how much happier everyone would be if he could also introduce them, give them the opportunity to get to know Dayne—the real Dayne, the one he was learning more about with every phone call.

  He was right about his kids—at least he hoped he was. Brooke and Peter . . . Kari and Ryan . . . Luke and Reagan . . . Ashley and Landon . . . Erin and Sam . . . None of them would mind a little scrutiny, not if it meant fulfilling their mother’s dream and getting to know their older brother.

  John took out the first plate of hot salmon, popped the second one in, and set the microwave once more. Dayne’s words ran through his mind. “They don’t deserve to have their lives turned upside down.”

  But would that really happen? John stared at the plate of fish making slow rotations inside the microwave. He broke away and grabbed a bowl of salad from the fridge. What media push would there actually be? The press would be excited at first—Dayne Matthews finds his biological family. And maybe for a little while paparazzi would cloister around Bloomington looking for a better story, a different angle. But eventually they’d have to go home. Hollywood photographers couldn’t make a living here.

  Okay, so maybe they’d find some dirt on John and his kids. But it wasn’t the sort of dirt that would stick. The paparazzi would sniff out the next story, and the Baxters—Dayne’s birth family—would be old news.

  “Can’t you see it going that way?” he’d asked Dayne.

  Dayne was slow to answer. “You can’t tell about the gossip rags.” He sighed, and the sound of it rattled John’s soul. “The Baxters would always be fair game—no matter how much time passed. If you got a speeding ticket or visited the hospital or were caught in a public place in Los Angeles or New York, anytime any of you spent time with me, you’d be subject to the click of the cameras.” His voice faded some. “As long as I’m at the top of their list, you would be too.”

  The view Dayne had presented was sobering, and it made John understand why Dayne had kept his distance. Still, he couldn’t help but think it was possible. Once he told his kids, they would be flexible enough to make it work.

  Whatever Dayne decided, nothing could take the edge off the joy John was feeling for one single reason—he had found their firstborn son. If Elizabeth could see him now, if God allowed His people a window from heaven, then she had to be rejoicing with him. The boy they had prayed for and longed for and missed with every
passing year was found.

  The microwave beeped three times. John pulled out the plate and placed a small heap of salad on it. “Lunch is ready.” He raised his voice loud enough for Ashley to hear.

  “Coming.” There was the sound of feet bouncing down the stairs and Ashley appeared, her face taken up with a sad smile. She hadn’t lost all her baby weight yet, but she had never looked more beautiful. She stopped and held out her hands. “I love it.”

  “Salmon?” John looked at the two steaming plates, then back at his daughter.

  She giggled and came to him. A quick hug and a kiss on the cheek and she stepped back. “My painting.” She took one of the plates to the kitchen table and sat down.

  He joined her at the table with his plate. “Let me guess.” John loved this, the easy banter he shared with Ashley. Especially after so many years when she’d kept her distance, years before she let God and Landon into her life. He stroked his chin, teasing her. “It’s a painting of the world’s most precious baby. This wonderful couple is holding him between them, and the sunlight can’t spill enough gold on their faces.”

  “Hmm.” Ashley grinned. “That might be next.” She poked her fish with a fork. For a while she looked at him, a knowing look, as if maybe that would be enough to convey the details of her current painting. When she spoke, her voice was softer than before. “It’s of him, our older brother.”

  John felt his jaw go slack, and adrenaline raced through his veins. How could this be happening? How had Ashley once again found out the truth before anyone else? He searched her face. “You . . . you know him?”

  Surprise flashed in her eyes, then an understanding. “No, Daddy. Of course not.” She sat up straighter in her chair. Her expression slowly took on a faraway look. “But I see him.” She touched her finger to the place above her heart. “In here I feel like I know him.” Her voice held a familiar longing, familiar tone. She sounded like Elizabeth, the way Elizabeth had talked whenever she spoke about Dayne.

  “I understand.” Maybe it was time to give her a little more information. He set his fork down and felt his expression grow more serious. “I’ve been talking to him. Your brother.”