For the first few years after her husband’s abandonment, Sally provided for her family by taking care of children in her home during the day while their mothers were at work. Once her own children were in school full-time, she cleaned houses, something she continued doing to support her family even after she began work with Mother/Child. She was also a foster parent for a while, but although she says this was a natural role for her—she loves children and always wanted a large family—she worried that too often the children were not getting the individual counseling and care they required because information on their backgrounds was not provided to foster parents. Still, the experience made her realize that she had a contribution to make in helping other families. “I felt that someone should be taking care of the parents, as well as the children,” she says.
Sally has always had strong ties with her church, serving for many years as a Sunday school teacher and taking part in a weekly Bible-study group. A friend who was her pastoral counselor following the breakup of her marriage and who also worked as a counselor for the Mother/Child shelter for several years was a member of that group. She remembers Sally getting the Bible-study group involved in helping young, pregnant women and women abandoned with small children, counseling and supporting them through prayer, and offering practical help and advice. Out of this grew the realization that safe houses were crucial in keeping families together.
With financial help from the West Jersey Presbytery, they were able to rent the bottom floor of a small house—“We had just enough for the security deposit and one month’s rent,” Sally says, “but luckily, the landlord trusted us.” They operated a counseling center on the first floor, until they were able to rent the upstairs apartment in 1981. Then they started sheltering three women and their children. A really big breakthrough came in 1987, when after a long application process, they received a five-year Housing and Urban Development grant, which enabled them to buy the property, expand it with a three-story addition, and begin to operate it.
Everyone who knows Sally says this kind of effort is typical of her. A colleague who uses words like true grit to describe her says, “Sally will make lemonade out of any lemon you hand her. We just shake our heads—there she goes again!” Dedicated and persistent, she won’t give up. She will always find a way.
In the twenty-five years since Mother/Child’s modest beginning, the enterprise has grown, so that now twenty-eight families can be helped at one time, in several buildings. The women—who must be over eighteen and able to live independently—come from a variety of backgrounds, where some of the most common problems have been domestic violence, abandonment, drug and alcohol abuse. All are homeless, and pregnant or coping as a single parent. Often there is a history of rootlessness, a lack of a sense of place and direction in life. Many have embarked on destructive paths in the quest to get their needs met.
The women receive counseling and—since an important aspect of the program is the prevention of child abuse—parenting courses to help them understand what to expect of children at different ages. It is important for the families to learn how to care for one another, and respect one another. They must all learn how to change the way they have made choices in the past. They are also taught health and nutrition, shopping and meal preparation, job search and computer skills, and how to apply for housing vouchers.
In 2005, Sally merged her agency with the Center for Family Services to ensure the continuance of Mother/Child and some of its special services. Two such causes are the Mother’s Arms Infant Care, which provides child care so that mothers can complete their education or get job training, and the GodMother’s Blessing Shop, where program participants and community members can shop for gently used clothing and shoes, toys, strollers, housewares and other items donated by the caring members of the community.
Sally always wanted a large family, and most of her life has been spent building one. The many families she has helped, and people who have helped her along the way in achieving her dream, are truly her family. She values the appreciation expressed by so many of the young women she has helped, but most of all she rejoices in their success, especially when they, in turn, use it to help others. “One young mother, homeless with a two-year-old when she first came to us, went with a church delegation last year to help build houses in Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina,” Sally says. It is stories like this that make her profoundly happy.
Sally readily acknowledges the help she has received from her own and other churches in her area, as well as from many other individuals and organizations: schools, the local Scouts and other volunteers, including her own children and grandchildren. Two of Sally’s children now work with her full-time, one as her program supervisor, the other as her administrative assistant. But her biggest support is her faith. She believes that God enables people in the humblest circumstances to do great works. “You trust Him, and He empowers you—and sure enough, you find that you can do it!”
For more information visit www.centerffs.org or write to Mother/ Child Residential Program, 682 North Broad Street, Woodbury, NJ 08096.
KATHLEEN O’BRIEN
STEP BY STEP
KATHLEEN O’BRIEN
Kathleen wrote her first book in grade one. It was a shamelessly derivative story about Dick and Jane, and was at least seven pages long. Her mother loved it. Her first-grade teacher, Sister Anna Mary, loved it. But it would be almost three decades before Kathleen attempted another novel.
In the meantime, though, she never stopped writing. She wrote some poetry in high school, then took a newspaper job after college. She eventually worked her way up to the position of television critic before throwing it all over to follow her heart, and her husband—a fellow journalist—to make a home in Miami.
When her first child was born, Kathleen decided she had to go back to writing. As a born sentimentalist and a great believer in romance, she decided to try to write for Harlequin Books. The decision was a good one—to date Kathleen has penned more than thirty novels and is a five-time RITA® Award finalist.
Today, Kathleen lives in Florida, is still married to the same extraordinary man, and has two children she adores, though they no longer qualify as children anywhere except in her heart.
CHAPTER
ONE
It was after midnight, and Beth Dunnett was worn out. She’d spent the past fifteen hours moving furniture, boxes and crates into her new apartment, and every square inch of her body was begging for rest.
She should go to bed. Daniel almost always slept through the night now, thank goodness, but he’d be up at dawn, bellowing with a five-month-old’s absolute certainty that his needs were the most important thing on earth.
And they were, at least to her. Her whole world revolved around meeting Daniel’s demands for shelter, for food, for love. He was her mission, her reason for living a life that had almost stopped feeling worthwhile.
So she should sleep, to be ready for him when he called.
But though it had been an exhausting day, it had also been terrifying. Someday this apartment, built above the three-car garage of a large Elmhaven Acres estate, would feel safe to her. Like home.
But not yet. She’d spent the past week visiting, first with Tilly and then alone, for longer and longer periods of times. She’d walked the rooms, planning where to put furniture, carefully getting used to the place, doing all the cognitive-therapy work she’d learned.
It had helped. So did the sight of Daniel, peacefully sleeping, like a blessing on the house. Still, it wasn’t one of her safe spots yet, and her heart raced slightly at the thought of getting into her own bed.
Instead, she remained curled up on the window seat in the spare bedroom, which during this hectic day had somehow been transformed into a nursery, and watched the snow fall in the moonlight, transforming the landscaped backyard of the main house.
She’d never seen anything as lovely as this house. Made of pale gray stone, the same as the garage, it wasn’t quite a mansion, but it wa
s large. Three stories with a tower at the north end and large, arched windows. All around it the snowflakes sprinkled like glitter onto the branches of the fir trees and turned the little rounded shrubs to sparkling snowballs.
Elmhaven. It was one of the most elegant suburbs in Middlefield, New Jersey, an address she couldn’t ever have afforded if it hadn’t been for the generosity of the man who owned the house. According to Tilly Argent, who ran the shelter where Beth had been living, Middlefield businessman Scott Mulvaney owed her a favor. Tilly had done a little arm-twisting, and he’d agreed to lower the rent and give one homeless mother a chance.
So far, Beth had seen her landlord just once. This morning, as she’d been lugging the crib up the stairs, double-teaming it with Tilly, who always found time to help her “graduates” move into their new homes, she’d seen him across the yard, climbing into his car.
A brief glimpse, no time for more. She’d had to focus on the tricky steps, or she might have tripped and broken the crib to bits, not to mention her own skull.
But he’d looked like a nice man. Tall, fit, brown hair, easy smile as he waved hello and goodbye together, then zoomed off, probably on his way to work. Beth had been conflicted. She wanted to thank him, but the idea of approaching a complete stranger was enough to send a shiver through her, from head to toe.
Almost one in the morning now. She shut her eyes and tried to feel sleepy. From up here, it seemed as if the whole world was sound asleep, completely at peace. No roaring traffic, no drunken arguments, no sirens close enough to make your heart race.
Nothing but the whisper of fairy-dust snow. The silence was beautiful—and yet, at the same time, so unfamiliar it was disturbing.
The truth was, she couldn’t remember a single truly silent night in her whole life.
Not when she was a child, when her mother had kept the television going to drown out her father’s tempers, brought on by liquor madness. Not when she was with Tony, who would laugh with his friends into the small hours, then stumble back to their bedroom and shake her awake, just to accuse her of cheating on him.
And not even when she was at Loving Life, the shelter she’d lived in for the past year. It had been heaven, compared with the rest. But she’d shared her quarters with three other mothers and their children, and someone was always awake, colicky or feverish or crying. Mourning a lost dream, or an absent daddy.
Tonight, the only sound in the entire world was the occasional breathy sigh as Daniel wriggled against the teddy-bear-printed sheets and settled back down into his dreams.
She slipped off her shoes, then went over to the crib and reached in to adjust his blue blanket. It was so soft beneath her fingertips, almost as soft as Daniel’s velvety cheek. She had a blanket just like it in her own room. And the amazing thing was, she’d made them both herself. Mary Michaelson, who taught knitting to the mothers at Loving Life, had refused to listen when Beth protested that she was all thumbs.
She’d picked up Beth’s hands and held them to the light. “Nope,” she said. “Just as I thought. Perfectly normal. So turn off the self-destructive tape you’re playing in your head, sweetheart. Pick out a color and let’s get started.”
Knowing Daniel was a sound sleeper, Beth allowed herself the luxury of brushing her fingertip against his cheek. His full pink lips pursed once, dreamily obeying the instinct to nurse, and then relaxed.
“We’ll be okay here, duckie,” she whispered. “Somehow, we’ll make this work.”
Finally, she yawned. Surely she could sleep now. She turned on the baby monitor, repeating Mrs. Akers in her head as she flipped the switch. She’d done that all day, with everything she placed in the apartment. She’d said the name of the person who had donated it to her, so that she wouldn’t ever take it for granted. So that she wouldn’t ever forget that, no matter how cruel or violent some people could be, there were many, many others who were gentle and generous, tolerant and kind.
Starting with her landlord, Mr. Scott Mulvaney.
She was halfway out the door when she heard an odd sound. She turned, glancing toward the crib. Had Daniel cried out in his sleep?
But the baby was as peaceful as ever.
Her skin prickled. She listened, unmoving.
She hadn’t imagined that sound.
There it was again. A muffled cry. Not in the apartment…but not too far away, either.
Heart pounding, she walked into the kitchen quietly, slid open the drawer next to the sink and extracted a steak knife. Mrs. Breadlow, she thought instinctively. A very nice woman who had taught cooking at the shelter.
She returned to the nursery and tugged the night-light from the outlet, plunging the room into complete darkness. Then she returned to the window and peered out into the snow-covered yard, holding the knife at her side.
Mrs. Breadlow might think she was foolish. Danger wasn’t supposed to intrude on any place as safe and orderly as Elmhaven Acres. Beth knew better. Danger wasn’t supposed to intrude on a little girl’s bedroom, in the form of her own drunken father, either.
But sometimes it did.
She scanned the moonlit snow, which seemed as pristine and undisturbed as ever. But after a few seconds she heard the sound again, louder this time.
It sounded like someone crying for help.
Finally her searching gaze found the right spot. Maybe twenty yards from the big house, at the bottom of a sloping stretch of grass, a dark, tangled form pushed the snow into lumps of moonlight and shadow. It looked like a man. A large man, lying in an odd position, as if he’d been knocked down.
She reached up to twist the window lock, then inched open the glass. She shivered as snowflakes landed on her fingers.
“Hello?” The man lifted his face to call out again. “Can anyone hear me?”
The moonlight caught his features for an instant.
It was Scott Mulvaney.
“I’m here,” she called tentatively. She leaned her head as far out the window as she could, hoping that she could be heard by the man in the snow, but not by her son, sleeping behind her. Even a sound sleeper might be disturbed by the sound of Mommy yelling.
“I’m Beth. Beth, your tenant.”
The form writhed, seemed to half rise but fell back onto the drifts. A groan, and then a heartfelt curse rang out across the snowy air.
“Thank God.” His voice was tight, straining. “I need help, Beth, my tenant. I think my leg’s broken.”
Beth gripped the windowsill, ignoring the cold air that snaked up the long sleeves of her pajamas.
“I’ll call 9-1-1,” she said.
“Yes. But I need to get inside. Right now. I’m freezing. Can you help me?”
She felt herself go numb. It sounded like a reasonable request. After all he’d done for her, surely this was not much to ask in return. Anyone would do it. Anyone would help a man in pain. No one would even think twice.
But Scott Mulvaney was asking the wrong woman. Leaving the shelter of this apartment right now…going out into a strange night to help a strange man…
That was the one thing Beth Dunnett would find almost impossible to do.
CHAPTER
TWO
Beth knew she probably looked like the abominable snowman as she picked her way across the lawn. In her hurry, she’d thrown her puffy, hooded coat straight over her flannel pajamas. She’d stuffed the portable baby monitor in one pocket and a flashlight in the other. She’d even grabbed her blue blanket at the last minute, in case he needed warmth.
But at least she’d found the courage to come. He probably wouldn’t ever understand how hard it had been to leave the apartment. Tilly might have told him Beth was an agoraphobic, but unless you’d lived with the pounding heart, the weak knees, the tingling hands, you couldn’t imagine the struggle. He probably thought “agoraphobia” just meant she was shy.
A stiff breeze had picked up, and the snowflakes, so gentle before, now circled frantically in the air and dashed themselves against her face. Wit
hin two minutes, she was cold to the bone. If he’d been out here long, he must be miserable.
One look at his face confirmed that. The genial good looks she’d seen this morning had vanished, replaced by a tight, grim, pale face with icy eyelashes and blue lips.
“Thanks for coming,” he said. He was leaning back on his elbows, with his legs stretched out in front of him. “God only knows how long it’ll take an ambulance to get here in this weather.”
“They said they’d get here as soon as they could, Mr. Mulvaney. It shouldn’t be more than five or ten minutes.”
“Call me Scott,” he corrected. He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work. “Five more minutes out here, I’ll lose my toes. Ten, and they’ll have to amputate everything from the neck down.”
She knelt beside him, dragging the blanket from her shoulders. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “Maybe you should put this on.”
“Thanks. Could you do the honors?” He held up his hands. “One of these is broken, I think, and they’re both numb to the wrist. I’m not even sure I could find my shoulders right now.”
She looked at his hands, which were bare and did look alarmingly pale. She wondered why he had been out here, so late at night, without gloves or a suitable jacket.
She didn’t articulate her questions, focusing instead on getting the wrap around his shoulders, which were so broad that her blanket suddenly seemed much smaller. He didn’t have to explain himself to her. All that mattered now was getting him into his house, where he could begin to thaw out.
“Your hands are so small.” He caught her gloved fingers and squeezed lightly, clearly trying to detect the bones beneath the leather. He eyed her with a frown, as if he’d just noticed how slight she was under the bulky coat. “Do you think you can hold my weight? I need something to grab onto so that I can get my feet under me.”
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