A Chance at Forever

by Melissa Jagears

  He opened his cabin’s door and preceded Jimmy into his bare-bones parlor. He pulled open the curtains, in case Mercy wanted to glance in, and headed for the bookshelves. He gathered the books the gardener had left and handed them to Jimmy.

  The poor boy’s eyes widened at the height of the stack. His face turned a little stormy.

  How could he keep Jimmy from backing out? “Maybe it’s too much for someone your age? I should probably ask Max or Robert.”

  That barb stuffed the haughtiness right back into the boy. “No, I can do it. I’m just not sure I trust you to pay.”

  Aaron pulled out a piece of paper and wrote out their agreement. How might his life have turned out better if an adult had followed through with what he or she had promised him—or at least done as they ought? “Here.” He pushed the paper across the table. “If you agree, I’ll sign it.”

  Jimmy quickly read it and nodded.

  “Good.” Aaron signed his name and placed it atop the stack of books. “I hope your work impresses me.”

  Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “I don’t exactly have the nicest penmanship.”

  He shrugged. “As long as I can read it. Start with instructions for roses.”

  “All right.” Jimmy turned for the door.

  A corner of Mercy’s skirt fluttered into the doorway, the wind betraying her position.

  Aaron quickly followed Jimmy out and grabbed her by the upper arm. She squeaked.

  “Eavesdropping?”

  Mercy pulled from his grasp. “Part of my job is to make sure you’re not mistreating children.”

  “Of course, mama hen, but you don’t have to sneak around to do so.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  Seemed teasing her even a little was a misstep.

  Mercy shook her head. “If you knew when you were being watched, you’d act differently.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. Seemed Jimmy might have learned his stubbornness from somewhere other than his past. “Mercy—”

  Her eyes narrowed more. “Miss McClain.”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me, Miss McClain.” He swallowed his smile. He didn’t want her to think he was belittling her feelings. Her wariness was indeed merited.

  “What are you doing with Jimmy?” She peered past him into the cabin, as if she could figure that out by seeing inside. “He’s not your responsibility.”

  “Actually, your brother asked me to start working with him. I decided having him help in the garden might be a good way for him to learn self-control and earn some well-deserved pride.”

  “What?” Her green eyes lost their sparkle.

  Was she questioning what he was doing or why he was doing it? “If someone had shown an interest in me, given me a job to do, and a chance to earn a little money, I would’ve—”

  “No, I mean my brother.” She shook her head and backed up as if confused. “He asked you to watch over one of the orphans?”

  “Yes.” He wouldn’t bother to tell her it was also the only time Timothy had bothered to talk to him at all. It must feel like a betrayal to have her brother already trust him when she felt so strongly he shouldn’t be alone with children. “I truly am sorry about how I treated you when we were growing up. I wouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t bother making excuses.” She held up her hand and took another step away, her face hardening. “No reason could excuse your merciless taunting.”

  He wouldn’t tell anyone but God about the darkness of his childhood, even if it might gain him sympathy. He would’ve kept it from God himself, if possible. “I . . . I agree. There really isn’t a satisfying reason.”

  He’d taken solace, though, in the fact that the reverend in California had insisted no one was entirely good, even if one had lived a better life than another. No matter how good someone was, they didn’t live up to God’s standard, but thankfully, everyone could be forgiven. “I know that what caused me to bully others doesn’t justify my past behavior. But I promise, I don’t want to hurt people anymore.”

  “See that you don’t.” Her lips trembled enough that her hard expression failed to sting.

  “I won’t, and I welcome you to follow me around, but there’s no need to hide. If you get to know me, I think you’ll trust the new me.” It would take her far longer than it did her brother, but to be honest, he wouldn’t mind having her beside him all day long. What man would? He closed his eyes and shook his head. What was he thinking? A working relationship where neither of them had to walk on eggshells was all he could hope for. “You don’t happen to know anything about roses, do you? Jimmy’s planning to help me by reading some books, but I’m—”

  “I don’t think”—something in her expression indicated she was having an argument with herself—“that it’d be wise for me to spend time with you.”

  He knew people from his past would likely want nothing to do with him, but for some reason, having Mercy refuse to give him a chance made his insides feel like lead. “Without time together, how can I earn your trust, if not your forgiveness?”

  She only shook her head as she took a step back and turned away.

  As she headed back to the mansion, he pulled out the worn list from his shirt pocket and rubbed his finger over her name. If there was nothing he could do to earn her forgiveness, should he scratch her name off? Was there anything he could do to come close to making up for what he’d done?

  He was probably lucky anybody had answered his requests to make restitution. He pulled out Iris’s letter and reread it. She’d made a request he didn’t want to fulfill, shouldn’t even, but how could he not attempt to do something to make up for how badly he’d belittled her?

  Mercy had been a good-looking girl and had grown even more beautiful. But little about Iris as a schoolgirl had indicated she’d grow out of the gangly figure and awkward personality he’d tormented her about.

  For if those days of torment were behind her, she would not have asked him for something so drastic.

  7

  Aaron slowed the pony cart that sagged under his weight and stopped on the side of Willow Street.

  He retrieved Iris Baymont’s letter and looked around. This couldn’t be the right place. Nothing but soda fountains here . . . if the signs were to be believed. But true soda fountains wouldn’t be this quiet around the lunch hour.

  Maybe he hadn’t heard the postman right.

  The mailman hadn’t known of an Iris Baymont on Willow, just the Baymonts on Second. But the man had suggested he check south of Eleventh.

  Aaron blew out a breath and shook his head. Willow stretched from the far north side of town to the far south. He couldn’t knock on every door.

  He double-checked to make sure Iris hadn’t written anything more about her whereabouts, then reread the last paragraph, which he could practically recite.

  If you want to do something, then come take my son. I doubt you’ve grown up to be the sort of man who’d make a good parent, but you have to be better than me. So if you truly want to make up for what you put me through, come get him.

  No mother with small children would live in this section of town. Was it possible she lived in a run-down apartment above a saloon? If she was desperate enough to contemplate handing over her child to him, then perhaps living in this part of town was only one in a long line of poor decisions. He’d reread this letter for months now. Such a bizarre request . . . but what if this child was in danger and he did nothing?

  He surely wasn’t the right person to help, but if she was crazy enough to think it a good idea to give him her son, the boy likely needed someone to step in. If his mother didn’t want her child, why hadn’t she taken him to the orphanage? Why offer the boy to him?

  He couldn’t help at all if he couldn’t find her. He scanned the street again. It’d be easier to go to the Baymonts’ old house, since that’s where the mail carrier had delivered the first letter. Iris’s sister, Ivy, had returned her letter unopened, a mean-spirited message scrawled across the back,
so someone was living there, be it Ivy or her parents.

  He flicked the reins. “Come on . . . you . . . pony.” How could he call himself a man and holler “Giddap” to a creamy pony named Buttercup? It was bad enough he had to drive a pony instead of a horse.

  Starting off down the street, Aaron uncurled his fists. He’d not be beating up anyone ever again—whether they made fun of him for driving a pony or not. With purposeful deep breaths, he kept his eyes glued to Buttercup’s rump so he’d not see any amused glances from passersby.

  He should’ve walked.

  Off Maple, he turned onto Second. The neighborhood was full of kept lawns, window boxes, and a stillness that contrasted with his heartbeat’s slow crescendo as he got closer to the little white house at the end of the street.

  Was he only kidding himself to believe this quest for forgiveness was for anyone’s good but his own?

  Ivy had made it clear she didn’t want to see him again. He’d disturbed Mercy’s schedule since she was trying to keep an eye on him. Tutoring for less than a month would not be enough to make up for what he’d done to Fred. And though he’d paid Jason Montgomery a hundred dollars, as requested, it likely hadn’t made Jason feel any better about the past than it did him.

  And Iris’s request? He could fulfill it, but it would just be . . . wrong.

  Perhaps he should simply live the rest of his life drowning in all of the shame and guilt he deserved.

  Aaron stopped across from the Baymonts’ house. A set of wind chimes sounding from somewhere down the street felt too light and cheery to accompany him on his walk to the house.

  But it was a walk he would take. For he had to chug along and do what he could—he’d feel worse if he did nothing. It might be hard, but it was right.

  He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers as he walked toward the house. If Ivy answered, hopefully she’d tell him where Iris was before she slammed the door in his face.

  Please let their mother answer so I can comply with Ivy’s request to never contact her again.

  He knocked and stepped back.

  A few moments later, a woman with a worn apron, thick glasses, and mussed hair answered. Her eyebrows lowered as if she was trying to figure out who he was, or maybe the thick glasses weren’t helping much.

  If she had gapped teeth, she’d look exactly like what he’d have expected a grown-up Iris would look like with glasses. But she didn’t smile, just stared.

  “Iris Baymont?”

  She shook her head, her expression turning wary. “Who’s asking?”

  “Aaron Firebrook, though I went by George years ago.” The first thing he’d done when he left Teaville was shuck that name forever. A cruel name in light of what he’d endured. Too bad he had to keep mentioning it.

  The woman stiffened, and the broomstick in her right hand crossed in front of her until the top was gripped firmly in her left. “Did you not get your letter back? What I wrote on that envelope should’ve made it clear I didn’t want you showing up at my front door. Michael!” She hollered over her shoulder. “Get down here! I need you to escort someone off our property.”

  Aaron put his hands up, hoping he looked non-confrontational. “Ivy, then.” The sisters had looked nearly identical, but Ivy’d had crossed eyes. The thick glasses must’ve helped uncross them.

  She stood glaring at him, broomstick at the ready.

  “I’m here because of your sister.” He didn’t deserve civil conversation—he wouldn’t even flinch if the woman cussed him out—but he needed to find Iris. “I know I don’t deserve your cooperation, but your sister answered my letter, and I’d like to talk to her.”

  Ivy’s eyes got harder, if that were possible. “She’s dead.”

  His heart plummeted. Dead? “I’m so sorry.” He’d planned to convince Iris to give her child to a relative, but perhaps that wouldn’t be necessary. “I assume you’ve been given custody of her son, then?”

  “No. Don’t want him anywhere near our young’uns, considering his origins.” She looked as if she was barely containing the urge to spit.

  His heart dropped further. His plan of convincing Iris to give her son to family didn’t sound so smart now, but maybe everything was already taken care of. “Who has him, then?”

  She shrugged. “We told the cops to drop him off at the Lowes’ mansion. They take the likes of him.”

  The Lowes? Had the child already been adopted out? “How long ago did she die?”

  “Last month sometime. Don’t remember exactly when I was called in to identify her. A john roughed her up.”

  “Her husband beat her to death?” Hopefully the torment she’d suffered at Aaron’s hands hadn’t been the reason she’d stayed with a man who physically abused her.

  The eyes behind Ivy’s glasses grew round. “Are you stupid?”

  That made him blink. He might be, but what had he said to make her think so?

  “I said, ‘a john.’ She was an upstairs girl.”

  An upstairs girl? He pulled out his letter. Had he missed something? “But she has a son.”

  “Yes. And your point is?” She called over her shoulder, “Michael!”

  “Wait.” He held out his hand.

  She tightened her grip on the broomstick.

  Wrong thing to do. He brought his hand back. “You said the boy was taken to the mansion a month ago? What was his name?”

  Her lip curled a bit. “Owen, after our father. Iris ruined a perfectly good name on him.”

  Owen? His heartbeat went up. “Is he blond? Five years old?”

  “Likely.”

  This whole time Iris’s son had been right in front of him!

  A dark-headed man just large enough to be intimidating came up behind Ivy. He shoved her behind him and opened the door wider. His hair was tousled, his nose red with illness, but his eyes were serious and his voice rattled out, “You wanting trouble?”

  Aaron held up his hands again. “No trouble. I only came to town in hopes of apologizing to the people I once treated poorly.” He looked to Ivy. She hadn’t even read his letter. “Is there anything I can do to earn your forgiveness?”

  “Get off my property, then follow that up with never coming back.”

  Michael jerked his chin in the direction of the street. “If I see you anywhere near her, I’ll break your neck.” The man kept his glassy eyes locked on him until Aaron stepped back. The door slammed a moment later.

  Aaron winced as the impact ricocheted through the quiet neighborhood. He’d known he’d feel like scum when facing the men and women he’d hurt—even believed he ought to feel like scum. But how much more would he have to endure?

  He returned to his pony cart, blinking repeatedly as he walked, since the world had grown fuzzy.

  Iris had intended to give him Owen, a shy little five-year-old. He deserved to raise a hellion like Jimmy.

  He’d never expected to marry, so he’d never given the idea of raising a child a thought—at least not until he’d received Iris’s letter, but he’d hoped to talk her out of it.

  But how could he go back to the mansion and do nothing for Owen? To let Iris’s only request of him be sloughed off onto others?

  The boy had already been there for a month . . . and no one had adopted him.

  When making his plans to return to Teaville, working as a gardener at an orphanage was the last thing he would’ve considered doing. After failing to get the teaching job and with Mercy shutting him out, he’d begun to wonder whether he should’ve bothered coming back at all.

  But it seemed God had put him here for a reason.

  Oh, God, I’m so worthless. I know you’ve forgiven me, but I don’t know why you’d choose me for something like this. I can see you’ve put me here, so I pray you’ll help me do what you want me to do.

  Somehow Buttercup got him home, though he hardly remembered the drive. Once he made it into the carriage house, he was surprised to see Mr. Lowe’s driver dithering about.

  “Is Mr.
Lowe here?”

  The old man’s white-haired head popped up. “He is. Told me he’d be about an hour.”

  “Great.” But his nerves belied his response. Should he truly ask for custody of Owen? Wouldn’t whatever parents the Lowes found for the boy be better than him?

  With Owen’s quiet demeanor, dimples, and big blue eyes, someone good would surely adopt him.

  Aaron left the carriage house and pulled Iris’s letter from his pocket. If he read between the lines, she’d blamed him for how her life turned out. Did that mean he was also the reason she was dead?

  He stopped walking and swallowed. What kind of pressures had Iris been under to make her want to give up her son? Had anyone offered to help her? Clearly her own sister hadn’t. Would he have offered a soiled dove his support if guilt wasn’t threatening to bury him and he’d not been asked outright?

  He had to try to fulfill her wish. If he got to see her in heaven, he wanted to let her know he’d done his best to make up for how he’d treated her.

  Once inside, he turned left down the hallway, vaguely remembering the office being next to the enclosed stairwell. The door was shut and had no placard, but since the other entrance was the pantry, this had to be it. He rapped on the beveled wood panels.

  “Come in.”

  He opened the door but stopped short at the sight of Mercy standing beside Mr. Lowe’s desk.

  She likely wouldn’t encourage their boss to grant this request. And with how his insides quaked at the thought, he didn’t need a deterrent.

  Or maybe that meant he shouldn’t ask.

  If he wasn’t doing this to right his wrongs, he wouldn’t think it a great idea either. But then, the reverend had told him he was a new creation, a new man. Didn’t God ask His children to sacrifice for and love the least of these? “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No.” Mr. Lowe gestured toward the couch.

  Aaron considered the dainty piece of furniture. It was too fragile for an oaf like him. He fingered the worn letter in his hand, but Mercy didn’t seem inclined to leave.

  He could ask for a private audience, but she’d find out what he was about at some point. Besides, she was more likely to listen to the entire story with Mr. Lowe present than not. “I received a letter from a Miss Baymont before I returned to Kansas.” He swallowed hard. If he kept going, he’d be committing himself to this for . . . forever. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “I knew God forgave me my past, but that didn’t help the people I’d wronged, and Miss Baymont was one of them. I’d started going down a list, writing each one, asking what I could do to earn their forgiveness. Most haven’t answered, but she sent me the strangest letter, telling me if I wanted to help, I needed to come take her son.”