His Daughter's Prayer

by Danielle Thorne

  “What? I pay four hundred dollars a month more,” he said, unable to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice.

  Darla’s brows furrowed. “That doesn’t sound right, but you are bigger. Y’all have more floor space, and you’re dead center in the middle of the block.”

  He shook his head slowly and thought. “No, actually, I’m pretty sure your building has more square footage. It goes back farther.”

  “But you have two floors.”

  “That’s just attic space,” Mark said. “I mean, my grandfather converted a small corner of it into a bathroom, but there’s attic space up the whole block.” He exhaled in a slow, shaky stream. Why would the bank charge more for his store’s rent than everyone else?

  “It looks bigger.” Darla shrugged and shouted at her oldest to stop throwing shoes. “So, maybe there’s been a mistake,” she added. “You’re probably right.”

  Mark’s pulse was pounding, but he responded on automatic, even leaning over and catching Hadley as she ran by chasing Logan. “Good luck then, I better get this child off to bed.”

  “Me, too,” Darla agreed. “Goodbye, Hadley. See you at school.”

  “No, you won’t,” called Hadley, and Mark shushed her. It came out a little too sharply, but he didn’t mean it. All he could see was Matt McIntyre’s face and dollar signs.

  After giving Hadley her bath and putting her to bed, Mark sat in the dark on the couch. She’d prayed for a mother again. Every time she did that, he thought of Callie, and then the disaster of leaving her to go to Florida, marrying a girl he hardly knew and not straightening up until his parents passed and he was suddenly a father.

  Darla’s news about how much she paid for rent was right there, too. It’d shocked him.

  He concentrated on the crickets and cicadas playing their staccato notes outside over the sound of his heavy breathing. Something inside him felt ready to snap. He couldn’t believe that all of the stress and worry he’d had to deal with the past few months had been intentional and dishonest—and if not dishonest, at least dishonorable.

  McIntyre’s smirking face seemed to glow right in front of him like a holograph. The bank had sent him a letter in January about the raised rent; no one had told him about the increase to his face. He tightened his jaw. They’d raised his rent on the store. They wanted to buy his land because a developer was looking at properties in his area. It came to him like a lightning bolt. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

  It was as clear as glass. He wouldn’t sell the lot across the road, so they were trying to make things tight, to force him into another sale so he could make ends meet at the Market. They were betting he would give up more land before the Market—or both. The understanding felt like a fiery punch to the chest.

  He could have managed all these years without selling anything off, but there was no reason to keep all the extra acreage. He didn’t need it; he didn’t farm it, and it really was for the benefit of someone who would do right by it.

  Ragland was growing. The bank would be thrilled to see a new neighborhood with potential mortgages go in. Mark tried to be fair. It was progress. Things were changing. In many ways, they were getting better, but it didn’t mean all of the old ways had to go.

  He slammed his fist down onto the cushion next to him. Not the Antique Market. There was always room for the old with the new. That was what made life beautiful. Mark didn’t want to lose the Market—or his home.

  He suddenly couldn’t see himself anywhere but in Ragland. Even if he could buy a second house in Florida, this was where he belonged, and he wanted to stay—for Hadley. For himself. Maybe even someday with a woman like Callie.

  Chapter Eleven

  Callie sat in her office Monday morning with the door shut to hide her misery. Her phone buzzed, but she left it in her purse. The calls for help from Realtors trying to persuade clients to paint over their purple walls could wait. She studied the email showing the time and location of the first real estate class her boss had signed her up for without even asking for her approval. Thursday was the Fourth of July, and she’d hoped to sleep in, then head over to the parade on the square before Amanda’s picnic. If she was up all night on Wednesday, she’d be tired and probably cranky.

  Callie sighed and flagged the email to look at again Wednesday morning. The weekend had felt dreary, too, except for seeing Mark and Hadley at church. Amanda made a remark that it was nice to see him there regularly again, but they’d only said hello in passing. Things had felt a little weird since the mention of Hadley’s prayer list.

  When Amanda had to remind her about their Sunday dinner tradition, Callie dragged herself over with little enthusiasm. She wasn’t sick, she was just tired, and in a lot of ways. It felt like she’d hit the ground running the day she arrived in Ragland and hadn’t slowed down. Now, she had to brace herself for another fight. She didn’t want a real estate license. She didn’t want a long-term job at Martin Realty. Her dream was still the boutique, but she’d made zero progress on that.

  The computer chimed, and two more emails came in. One was a reminder about the autopay to her credit card. She grimaced. She’d be lucky if she could get the bank to lease her a cardboard box. A second denial came in for her adjusted offer on the empty storefront on the square.

  Her phone buzzed again, and she groaned, threw up her hands and reached back for her purse to dig it out. She froze when she saw the text from Mark.

  She stared at his name on the screen. It was too late to ask him to the picnic at Amanda’s. It’d be awkward now since Hadley announced she was praying for a mommy. Mark clearly wasn’t interested in that. Was she?

  Realizing her hands were damp, Callie made herself click on his waiting message.

  Can you talk?

  Her stomach roiled. That wasn’t a line every girl wanted to hear when she was in...love? And she’d heard it once before from him.

  Uneasily, Callie typed in Yes and waited. A few seconds later, the phone in her hand rang, and she answered.

  “Hey, Callie.” Mark sounded like he was almost out of breath.

  “Hi.” She started typing on her computer like she was super busy. The notes were just a jumble of words and numbers for her to-do list.

  “Are you busy this afternoon? I’m just closing up for lunch.”

  “Oh, I, ah...” She sat up straighter in her chair. “It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, well, I thought I’d run past the Pierce farmhouse and see the hutch, if you were free. Did you get it done?”

  “Yes, and moved in. I meant to tell you about it on Saturday.” She didn’t mention she’d decided not to text him late that night. He had a child, and the little girl had made a public announcement that she wanted a mother.

  “Did you get the hardware on?” he asked.

  “Yes, Todd helped with that.”

  “Nice. Want to go have a look at the farmhouse and then get a milkshake?”

  Callie glanced at her watch. “Sure. I can meet you up at the store.”

  “I’m already pulling into the depot parking lot in case you said it was okay.”

  She asked him to give her a minute and shut the computer down, then dashed out the door.

  Mr. Martin stood in the office foyer with his hands on his hips, talking to his secretary. He nodded at her. “We have two showings tomorrow. You did a great job on the farmhouse. I think it’s going to move fast.”

  Breathless, Callie thanked him. “I’m taking an early lunch, and then I have to meet Amanda out in Taylorsville at a new listing.”

  He waved as she hurried out the door. She was glad he hadn’t mentioned the real estate license class; maybe she’d get some fast cash if the farmhouse sold quickly.

  Mark was waiting in his green pickup truck. She opened the passenger door with gusto and jumped in. “Let’s go. I’m starved.”

>   He chuckled. His hair looked combed back, and he wore his usual denim Oxford shirt.

  “I don’t think I’ve eaten all weekend,” Callie admitted.

  “Same. I did drink one of those packaged cold smoothie drinks this morning, but it didn’t go far.”

  “Ah, I see,” she teased. “So you’re going to ruin that with a burger and fries.”

  He glanced at her, then back to the road. “I’ll skip the fries.”

  “You didn’t eat yesterday?” She wondered if she sounded too motherly. “Amanda always has me over for dinner on Sunday nights, and it’s usually pot roast. Pretty good stuff.”

  “Wow.” He went quiet for a moment. “That sounds like what my mother would make.” He paused again. “I miss that.”

  “Not the same as Grub ’n’ Go?”

  “Not quite,” he agreed.

  Callie wondered if she should mention Hadley’s prayer. He glanced over at her, and she figured they might as well tackle the elephant in the room.

  “So...” she said, trying to sound casual as she looked out the passenger window. “About the other day...”

  “I guess you heard about McIntyre?”

  Surprised at his response, she shook her head.

  “I found out the bank, Matt McIntyre really, is charging me more rent than any of the other stores on the block.”

  Callie looked at him with concern. “When did you hear this?”

  “One of the other preschool moms at the softball field told me. She works in the salon.”

  Interesting. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed Hadley’s faux pas.

  “She mentioned how much rent they were paying, and I put two and two together,” Mark continued.

  Callie sat back in her seat. Their eyes met, and she could see how upset he was. “What do you mean?”

  “They’ve raised my rent to try to back me into a corner. The bank wants to buy my land across the street and sell it to a developer so they can put in a subdivision. I told him I wouldn’t sell.”

  Callie felt her mouth drop open. “So are they trying to blackmail you?”

  “No, not like that. I’m behind with the rent being so high. If he can get me indebted to him, he knows my only other resource is my land. I sold a lot of it off years ago, but I didn’t have any intention of selling more.”

  “Oh, I see.” Callie folded her arms. “What a snake. Can he do that? You should get a lawyer.”

  Mark shook his head. The truck slowed as they approached the farmhouse, and Callie saw the giant for-sale sign in front.

  “There’s really nothing I can do. He can charge whatever he wants for the building. He owns it. His family has owned it for generations. My grandfather and my father both tried to buy it from them.”

  “But McIntyre doesn’t want to sell. Ironic,” Callie said.

  “I’m going to have to confront him about this, but I’m not sure what I’m going to say.”

  “Just be direct. You can do it.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  “If he’s in the wrong, you have a right to call him out.”

  Mark said nothing, evidently soaking in her advice, so Callie hopped out of the truck, and he followed her into the farmhouse. “You should see this hutch, Mark. It looks great. I’m really proud of it, even if it is plain white.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” he chided.

  “You have no sense of adventure,” she teased. “I wanted to paint it yellow and blue.” He groaned, and she laughed as they walked through the house.

  “This place looks fantastic,” he said.

  “Thanks. I think it’s one of my favorite houses I’ve ever done. I love it out here. It’s quiet, but it’s not too far from town, and the lake is just up the road. I’m smitten with the place, to be honest.”

  He stood in front of the hutch.

  Callie watched him examine it. She’d stacked the shelves with mismatched china she’d picked up at his shop.

  “This looks great, Callie. I bet I could sell it for twice now what I sold it to you for.”

  “All it needed was some TLC and a coat of paint.” She walked up beside him and to her surprise, he put a hand on her back.

  “I think I made a big mistake letting Brett Martin hire you first.”

  She grew quiet. She loved the idea of going to work at the Antique Market every day. It made her heart soar. If he was serious...but no. She eyed him. “I would love to get a hold of some of the pieces in that shop of yours.”

  He grinned. “Something to think about?”

  She forced herself to laugh but didn’t hide the bitterness. “Buy me a milkshake, and we can talk. Let me tell you all about the real estate class I start taking Wednesday night.”

  With one last glance at the hutch, Mark grabbed her hand. He held it while they walked out of the house together. “Callie, if you don’t want a real estate license, tell him you aren’t going to do it.”

  She nodded, his encouragement calming and empowering her. “You’re right. He’s not going to like it, but I’m going to have to stand my ground. Be honest with him.” She realized she would. She’d put it off long enough.

  They went back out to the truck and made it to Grub ’n’ Go in time to beat the lunch crowd. Callie found the courage to ask Mark about watching the parade from his shop, and to her surprise, he agreed. She mentioned Amanda and Todd’s picnic at noon, and he seemed excited to join them.

  His good company and attention made her quit worrying about Hadley’s prayers and the Wednesday night class, so she hoped he’d forgotten about his problems with the Market, too, by the second round of French fries.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning, Mark planned to make an official visit to McIntyre’s office. He found him in the parking lot, standing beside his sleek, silver sports car, grumbling into his phone.

  Mark hopped out of the truck and tried not to slam the door. Just seeing the man made his blood run hot.

  “How’s business, McIntyre?” he called.

  McIntyre looked up in surprise, mumbled something into the phone, then put it in his pocket. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see I was on the phone?”

  “I just found out how much my neighbors are paying for rent on the square.” Mark watched McIntyre’s eyes widen. “That’s right. It seems like I’m the only one with the big price hike this year. Would you care to explain that to me? Do I have extra square footage that I don’t know about?”

  “It’s not the square footage,” McIntyre retorted, clearly unsettled about where the conversation was going.

  “You’re right, it’s not. I don’t even have the same square footage as the Grub ’n’ Go or the salon, so what gives?” Mark stepped up close so they were eye to eye.

  “I don’t set the rates for your contract. Take it up with the board.”

  “You’re the chair, so I’m taking it up with you,” Mark retorted. He glared into McIntyre’s eyes. His home was at stake. “Why’s my rent gone up so much? You must want me to sell you some land pretty badly.”

  “It’s just business,” the banker said in a cold voice.

  “Oh, I think it’s much more than that.” Mark pinned him with a hard look until McIntyre glanced away. “Would you like to talk about plans for the new development?”

  “No, I would not,” McIntyre snarled, but his eyes shone with guilt. “I told you, it’s just business.”

  “Let’s make an appointment,” Mark suggested. “I’d love to hear more.” He spun on his heel. Behind him, he heard McIntyre head inside the bank.

  This time, Mark did slam the truck’s door. The confrontation had been fruitless. McIntyre hadn’t admitted to anything.

  Slowly, his heart resumed its normal pace, but he clenched his fists. He’d never sell his land. No matter what it came down to, he wouldn�
�t give it up—or the store if he could help it.

  Mark drove calmly out of the parking lot. The bank was one step ahead of him, but he knew how to play the game.

  Driving back to the Market, he knew there was no way he would win a lawsuit in court. He could certainly let the whole town know what the banker was doing, though. McIntyre wouldn’t take too kindly to everyone knowing he was ripping off the Chathams.

  If that didn’t work, well... Mark swallowed and glanced at the spoon rack hanging behind him on the wall. From what he had figured, he needed about five thousand dollars to get caught up to July, and he would hopefully be fine for August.

  The idea he’d dropped on Callie at the farmhouse lingered in his mind. It wasn’t a bad idea. He couldn’t afford to pay her right now, but if Callie would come in and redo some of the pieces he had that wouldn’t sell and help him clean the place up to make it look like a nice home store instead of a dusty old junk shop, he’d fit right in with the other businesses around the square. That is, if she didn’t hightail it back to Nashville.

  He did brisk business that morning, stayed through lunch and sold Jake Barton an old Victorian washstand in the middle of the afternoon. As he left, the front door rattled again, and Mark looked up with hope. It wasn’t a customer, but one of the sheriff’s deputies.

  “How’re you doing, Patrick? You come to share a doughnut?”

  The short-haired deputy laughed and tried to look bored, but the apples of his cheeks flushed. “No, I’m not here to shoot the breeze.” He glanced around the room, then back at Mark. “You got a minute, Chatham?” He looked serious.

  Mark nodded, mild concern tingling in his chest. “Come on back,” he said and motioned toward the office.

  The two men walked back, and Mark dropped into the chair behind his desk and motioned for Pat to sit down across from him. The deputy wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead and sat while folding an envelope in half in his hand.

  “Hot outside?”

  “Yeah, it’s hot outside,” Pat complained. “Have you been out there? It was seventy-eight degrees at nine this morning.”