Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads

by Janice Thompson

  “We were praying the same thing for you.” Gillian pressed against her beloved husband as tightly as she could.

  “My life is nothing,” he said stubbornly. “But you and Brent…” Here he dissolved into a puddle of tears. “If anything had happened to either one of you, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “You… you knew Brent was back on the Island?”

  “I knew. And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I found out the day before I left. Remember old man Spencer down at the station? He’s been with the GH&H for years. He used to let Brent help clean the station as a child.”

  Gillian nodded. Of course she remembered him.

  “Well,” Douglas continued, “he told me he had seen Brent earlier in the week – on the Tuesday run from Houston to the Island. He was there in the station when Brent stepped off of the train. Our son was actually on the Island when I left, Gillian. On the Island when I left. And I never said a word. I didn’t even try to find him.”

  Gillian gazed at her husband curiously. His eyes were misty with tears. Douglas had never shown this type of tenderness before. If the storm had brought this out in him, then there was truly something to be thankful for.

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, 5:42 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent entered the house, finding it amazingly quiet. Now that most of the houseguests had moved on, an eerie tranquility hung in the air. Regardless, it was still far better to be inside than out. With the odor that now seemed to permeate the Island, Brent was more than happy to remain inside for hours at a time.

  What a day it had been. His mind raced back to all that Everett had said. A new orphanage was going up, and Pulitzer was coming. If that didn’t beat all.

  “Brent?” He looked up to see his mother standing in the stairwell. There was something rather mysterious about the look on her face, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “Mother. I was beginning to think no one was home. Is Emma here?”

  “Yes. She had a long morning at the hospital, but she’s up in her room with Sadie, having a little nap now.”

  “That’s nice.” Somehow just thinking about Emma made him feel good. He looked at his mother once again and tried to read the expression on her face. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact it is,” she said with a smile. “But I don’t want to talk too loudly.” She put her finger over her lips and gestured toward the rooms upstairs. “I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s any fear of that,” he reassured her. “From what I’ve been able to gather, Emma could sleep through a storm. And Sadie’s still on enough medication to keep her from being bothered for awhile.”

  “No, not the girls,” his mother whispered.

  “Then who? Have you taken in more stragglers?” He grinned.

  “Just one more,” she said with a smile. “But I really don’t think you’re going to mind this one.”

  They made their way into the parlor, where Brent sat next to his mother on the sofa. At that very moment, a voice rang out, shattering the silence in the house. “Gillian? Gillian, have you seen my spectacles? I’m having a devil of a time trying to find them!”

  Brent’s heart immediately went to his throat. Father. My father is home.

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, 6:00 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Emma stood silently in the stairwell trying not to move. A stair creaked underneath her as she shifted her position slightly. She wasn’t trying to be nosy, exactly. However, she couldn’t help but overhear – and what she heard only increased her curiosity.

  Mr. Murphy had returned. Such amazing news! He was in the parlor with Brent and Mrs. Murphy even now. Emma she knew his return would surely upset Brent. The two men didn’t get along and this meeting could hurt Brent.

  Emma didn’t want anything to hurt Brent.

  She strained to hear. Mr. Murphy’s words to Brent were soft, kind. This was not the man Brent had described. He was no tyrant. He was a saint.

  “Brent, there are so many things I want to say to you.” Mr. Murphy’s voice was gentle, loving. “I’m afraid I’ve waited too many years to say them.”

  “Say them, Father.” Brent’s voice was nervous, almost skeptical.

  Emma wished she could see his face, judge his expression. “This is none of my business!” she whispered, then leaned a little closer so that she could hear every word.

  ***

  Sunday, September 16th, 9:59 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent scribbled frantically, tears flowing –

  Who is this man in my home? He resembles my father, and yet he is nothing like him. His once-stern face appears far more relaxed, even soft at times. His voice is laced with a tenderness I’ve never before known. His entire countenance is changed, altered. It seems too wonderful to be true. And yet I want to believe it.

  I must believe it.

  This stranger of a man embraced me. For the first time in twenty-six years, he actually put his arms around me and held me like a father holds a son. My silence must have been deafening in his ears, but there seemed to be no words to convey what I felt in that moment. Joy? Relief? Confusion? All of those things and so much more!

  I want to understand him. He is a new man, transformed—and yet I have not discovered the secret behind this transformation. Can such a change be lasting? Can such a change take place in my heart, as well?

  Do I dare trust my feelings? I am still at arm’s length, but the arm grows shorter as the minutes tick by. It is just a matter of time before we are truly father and son. I feel it in the evening breeze. We are almost family.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Monday, September 17th, 8:05 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Brent looked across the backyard at his mother. She hummed loudly as she pulled sheets from the clothesline. Wasn’t that Pearl’s job? He shook his head in confusion.

  She suddenly had the demeanor of a carefree schoolgirl, something he had not yet grown accustomed to. More unusual still, she sang incessantly. Hymns. They had become her source of strength and strengthened him, as well. Brent made his way across the stretch of yard to meet her.

  “Could you hand me that sheet, son?” She pointed to the clothesline. He reached over to pull the bed sheet down, handing it to her carefully. His mother began to fold it rapidly, talking almost as fast. “God has truly blessed us, hasn’t He, Brent? I can’t remember ever feeling this blessed. Your father is home. And he’s so different, so completely different. It’s amazing, really.”

  “You’ve known him for nearly thirty years, Mother,” Brent said hesitantly. “Has he ever been like this before?”

  She smiled and her eyes began to glisten. “Oh my, yes. The first few years, he was gentle, loving. It wasn’t until after, well, after we discovered that we couldn’t have children that he changed.” Her expression changed greatly and Brent tried to read from them.

  “I see.” That made sense, at least to some extent.

  Gillian went back to work, but never stopped talking. “You see, he always wanted a son,” she continued, “but it was starting to look like we would never have one. Your father is the last one in his line of Murphy’s. He needed a son to carry on the family name.”

  “I’m not quite what he was looking for,” Brent mumbled. That had always been made obvious.

  “Let me see if I can make you understand, honey,” his mother said carefully. “Your father is a very proud man. It was humiliating to think he hadn’t been capable of producing a child of his own. And then, once we made the decision to choose a little boy from the orphanage, I thought he had resigned himself to the inevitable. But apparently he still struggled with the decision. He kept it hidden for years. In fact, when you were really little, he would have done anything for you. Anything.”

  Brent vaguely remembered his years as a young boy. There had been a tender side to his father at one time. At least his somewhat confused memory now tol
d him so. “What happened?”

  “When you were about five or six, your father became very ill. Do you remember that?”

  Brent shook his head. “Not really. What happened to him?”

  “Scarlet fever,” his mother said with a sigh. “It was a really bad case.”

  Her comment triggered a memory. “Scarlet fever?”

  She nodded.

  “I had it too,” he said, remembering. “When I was five.”

  “That’s right. It was a terrible year. Terrible.” She took a deep breath and seemed to slip away into some unknown place again.

  Suddenly Brent understood. “Are you saying I made him sick?”

  “Well, you did develop symptoms first,” she answered quietly. “Though, of course, no one could blame a sick child for infecting someone else. But your father became very ill – deathly ill. For several weeks we thought we might lose him.”

  Lord, I remember! I remember walking into his room as a young child and finding him in bed in the middle of the day. He was sick, Lord! I made him sick!

  “His illness progressed,” Gillian continued, “developing into Rheumatic Fever. The doctor said it weakened his heart, and the scarring would remain for the rest of his life. He was never the same after that.”

  “He has a weak heart?” Brent could hardly believe it. His father seemed so strong.

  “He had always worked for the GH&H as a lineman,” she said, “but had to resign himself to office work after that. Every move he made had to be carefully monitored by the doctor.”

  “I can’t believe you kept this from me all these years,” Brent said softly.

  “I’m not sure why we never talked about his illness in front of you, Son,” she said gently. “Perhaps I was just afraid you might feel the weight of it too strongly.”

  He felt it now and it nearly drove him to his knees. “I tried so hard to show him how much I loved him.” He felt a catch in his throat and knew tears would follow.

  “I know.”

  Brent brushed away tears and took a deep breath. There was a question he must ask, even if it hurt. Even if she didn’t understand. “Mother,” he said finally, “this still doesn’t explain why he’s always accused me of being lazy. That’s the one thing that still doesn’t make sense. I’m not lazy.” His chin jutted forward defiantly.

  She reached to cradle his face in her hands. “I know you’re not. But don’t you see, Brent? You recovered. You were young, strong. You could have done anything with your life.”

  “I did exactly what I wanted to do, exactly what I felt I was supposed to do,” he argued.

  “He always thought you would follow in his footsteps and work on the line. It was a pride issue.”

  “Ugh! I would have been awful at that,” Brent said, looking down at his hands. “These fingers were meant to write.”

  “I know that now, honey – and I think your father does too. Speaking of which, I showed him your piece in The Courier.”

  Brent’s heart began to beat wildly. “You’re joking.”

  “No I’m not. He thought it was very good. There were some parts of the story that were difficult to read, naturally, but he made it through – even told me that he was proud of you.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me himself?” Brent felt a lump begin to grow in his throat.

  “Perhaps he will,” Gillian responded. “Perhaps he will.”

  ***

  Monday, September 17th, 10:00 a.m. The Courier

  “Could I speak with you, Sir?” Everett looked up to a see a young woman standing in the doorway. Her faded yellow dress was tattered and torn, her wispy hair pulled back loosely at her neck. Perspiration beads shone across her face—a rather young face.

  “Sure. Come on in.” Everett gestured to a chair nearby. She entered, rather hesitantly it seemed. Nerves seemed to have the better of her.

  “I’ve wanted to speak with you ever since I heard the news,” she said, a smile suddenly lighting up her face.

  And what a pretty face. She had delicate features, which complemented her petite frame. Everett smiled in her direction. “What news would that be?”

  “About the orphanage,” she answered breathlessly. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Henrietta Mullins. I mean ‘Sister’ Henrietta Mullins.” She stuck out her hand. He reached to take it, shaking it gently.

  Everett couldn’t seem to hold back a chuckle. So this was the rugged nun he had heard so much about. “Well, we meet at last, Sister. Brent Murphy has told me much of your story. I was so impressed that you took such pains to care for that precious little girl.”

  “Lilly Mae.” She spoke the name with a solemn reverence. “I was just doing my duty.”

  “I daresay you went beyond the call of duty on the night of the storm,” Everett said. “As did so many. Now, what was it you were saying about the orphanage?”

  She squirmed a little in the chair, clearly anxious about something. “I know I’m young,” she said finally. “And I’m not the most spiritual person I know.”

  Everett bit his lip and tried to control the grin threatening to escape. He didn’t wish to poke fun at her, after all, but she was charming.

  “But I know I have a call on my life to work with the orphans on Galveston Island. I guess I’ve known it for some time now. I’m sad to say it took this storm to convince me that I really belonged here. Until then, all I wanted to do was catch a train back to Virginia.”

  “Your home?”

  She nodded. “It was my home. But this is my home now. And even though we’ve lost so many children, there are many more needing a place to stay. The Ursuline Convent School is near full to bursting. I’m convinced the orphanage must be rebuilt, and I want to be a part of that.”

  “And you’ve come here because…” Everett gazed at her curiously. She had a lot of spunk, this young nun.

  “There’s a rumor you can help me. I’ve been told Clara Barton is here, along with a host of reporters from around the country.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Mr. Maxwell, I want to meet them – to tell them about the children I’ve been caring for these last few days.” She spoke firmly, with conviction. “I’m convinced that I could be a help in some way, and I feel compelled to try to do something.”

  “Do you now?” He smiled at her warmly. She returned the smile, hope etched on every curve of her young face. She’s quite the crusader. Somehow, just looking at her encouraged him. Everett had the feeling this was just the beginning of a new and very exciting friendship.

  ***

  Monday, September 17th, 12:45 p.m. The Murphy Villa

  Gillian looked across the room at her husband, who paced up and down in front of the bay window. “Anxious about something, dear?”

  “I’m just worried about Brent. He’s been gone quite some time.”

  Gillian smiled. This was the first time Douglas had ever expressed concern over their son’s whereabouts and she wanted to savor the moment. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” she said. “He was up at the newspaper earlier, but I believe he’s gone over to the hospital to pay Emma a visit.”

  “Ah, Emma,” Douglas said, nodding. “I see.”

  “I believe I’m beginning to see something there too,” Gillian responded with a wink. “I think she’s a lovely girl.”

  He turned toward her. “I agree, though not half as pretty as you.”

  Tears instinctively sprang to Gillian’s eyes. She rose, crossing the room to stand next to her husband. “I’ve thanked the Lord a hundred times at least,” she said. “He’s brought you back – really brought you back.” Her words held a deeper meaning, and she hoped Douglas would understand their depth.

  “I’m here to stay.” He pulled her close. “That’s a promise.”

  “Here to stay, eh?” she teased. “Does that mean you’re not going back to work this afternoon? I can have you all to myself?”

  “I’m afraid I have no control over th
at,” Douglas said with a sigh. “There’s so much to be done, and they need every man they can get.”

  “But you’ve hardly touched your lunch.” She pouted. “Egg salad is your favorite.”

  He smiled and reached to take another bite of the sandwich. “There. Happy?”

  “I suppose. But I’d be happier if you stayed put today. You need your rest.” She rose to her feet and he stood alongside her.

  “There will be plenty of time for rest later. I need to do my part, Gillian. There’s so much left to do, but if we all work together, Galveston can be restored to her former self. I know it.”

  With her husband’s loving arms wrapped tightly around her, Gillian Murphy felt more hopeful than she had in many years. “I believe our little island will be better than ever,” she whispered.

  ***

  Monday, September 17th, 4:00 p.m. John Sealy Hospital

  “Where are you going in such a hurry?” Emma turned as she heard Nurse Phillips’ stern voice.

  “I’m… My shift is over. I even put in an extra hour. I’m going home.”

  “Hmmm. So it is.” The older woman looked up at the clock as she spoke. “Well, just be sure you’re here on time tomorrow. You were three minutes late today.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Emma shook her head in disbelief. In spite of everything, Nurse Phillips still hadn’t lost her touch.

  “Three minutes late? Heaven forbid!” Emma looked behind her to see Brent with a broad grin on his face. “What do you get for three minutes tardiness?” he asked.

  “Knowing Nurse Phillips, I’ll be docked a half an hour’s pay,” she said with a shrug. “But I don’t care. And besides, I wasn’t even late. She’s just looking for a reason to dislike me.”