“I am, but this whole adoption thing could be something we do in the background, while we take a break from the medical stuff.”
Which made the chance of an adoption decision coming up all the greater. “I’ll think about it. But in the meantime, I think maybe you need to find something else to pour your passions into. Aren’t there still things you wanted to do to the house?”
He hated mentioning it. She’d already spent a small fortune on “necessities”—things she claimed they needed for the house just because they’d moved into a place three times the size of the one they’d lived in before.
She blew out a sigh. “I’m sick of the house. Besides, those empty bedrooms are just a big fat reminder that they are empty. Maybe I should look for a job. We could use the money.”
“If you want to work, I’d totally support that.” He made enough money that she didn’t need to work. Yes, their bank account had taken a hit with the purchase of this house and the bills from her fertility treatments, but they were managing.
He felt her eyes on him.
“You really wouldn’t care if I got a job?” she said, finally.
“Danae, if that’s what you want, I think that would be great. It’s not like I haven’t wanted you to work before.” Granted, he’d been proud that his wife didn’t have to work, but if a job would take her mind off of the whole baby thing, then sign her up. Yesterday.
“What would I do?”
“Do you think Franklyn’s would hire you again?” She’d worked part-time for an accountant before they moved.
“Maybe. But I think I’d rather find something different.”
“Like?” He smiled in the darkness of the car, wanting to encourage this new tack.
“I don’t know.”
“What if you volunteered somewhere? Weren’t they looking for someone at the church nursery?”
She looked at him like he’d just grown a second head. “Seriously?” She shook her head.
“What?”
“I don’t think embedding myself among forty babies is a very wise solution.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Their neighborhood came into sight and he turned onto their street.
“But I’ll think on it. You’re right about one thing—something has to change.” She was pensive as they wound through the streets, then pulled into their garage. He was encouraged to realize that the expression on her face was the closest he’d seen to a smile in a very long time.
He only hoped it wasn’t because he’d given her a morsel of encouragement about the idea of adoption. Because he’d only tossed her the crumb to keep from having to discuss it.
* * *
The worship team left the stage and Danae took her husband’s hand. She hadn’t wanted to come this morning, but as always, she was glad now that she had. There was something about singing and praising God surrounded by people she loved and cared for. Something about getting her mind off herself and her problems even if only for an hour.
Despite the conversation she’d had with Dallas after Corinne and Jesse had made their big announcement, she’d been in a funk all week. Worse, she’d avoided talking to her sisters or her parents for fear they’d put on their sympathetic faces and ask her how she was handling the news. She hated it. Hated the feeling that she’d somehow spoiled her sister’s joyful announcement. Hated that infertility had put this invisible mark on her forehead that seemed to make her a target for pity—or even avoidance.
One of the elders took the podium for announcements, and she settled into the cushioned chair. Her mind wandered, but a moment later something turned her attention back to what the man was saying.
“. . . might take you out of your comfort zone a little, but it’s a wonderful cause and we need your help. Many of us don’t realize this kind of need even exists in our state, let alone in our own county. But those who’ve already gotten involved will tell you that the need is, sadly, very real. While domestic violence is a reality that, thankfully, not many of us will ever have to face, that is all the more reason to get involved. These women need someone who cares. Someone who will take the time to make a difference. If you feel God tugging at your heart, we invite you to come to an informational meeting tonight here at the church. You’ll find more details in your bulletin.”
Did she feel God tugging at her heart? Or was it just Dallas’s appeal making her feel obligated to find something else to occupy her energies? Something else to be passionate about.
Still, she couldn’t quit thinking about it. After the service, while he talked to a couple of guys about a basketball league the church was trying to put together, she went into the foyer where there was an information table set up for the women’s center. She waited until the woman at the table was occupied talking to another church member, then slipped one of the brochures into her purse. Cape Haven, the shelter was called. At least she could think and pray about it. Taking the pamphlet wasn’t a commitment.
She came across it again that afternoon while rummaging in her purse for her phone. She fished out the brochure and put it on the kitchen counter. A few minutes later, Dallas picked it up while he waited for his popcorn in the microwave. “Where’d this come from?”
“It’s what the elder at church was talking about this morning. Jason, I think his name is.”
“Jason Felder?”
“Yeah. That’s him. I thought I’d see what’s involved in volunteering at the women’s center.”
He folded and unfolded the pamphlet, his frown deepening.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just don’t know that I want you getting mixed up in something so”—he shrugged—“so risky.”
“Risky?” She gave a humorless laugh.
“I don’t know how involved you were thinking of being. I guess if you’re just helping them raise funds or making phone calls or something like that, it might be OK.” He creased the brochure and tossed it back onto the counter. “But I sure wouldn’t want you getting in the middle of a domestic dispute.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. The man was about to have a domestic dispute of his own if he didn’t watch it. “It was your idea, Dallas! You’re the one who said I should find something else to focus on.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of fundraising for the building committee, or maybe helping stock the food pantry.”
“So you want me to volunteer for something just as long as it’s completely risk-free and as long as I don’t come in contact with any humans?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying. If I’m just going to be a fundraiser or stock boy, I’d rather get a job and do something halfway rewarding, not to mention get paid for it.”
“Correction. You’d be a stock girl,” he said.
She threw the dish towel at him, earning a tentative grin. She didn’t return the smile. She knew he was only trying to smooth things over and avoid a fight, but he’d started it. And she didn’t appreciate his condescending attitude. “I think I’d like to go to the informational meeting tonight.”
“Have you thought about the fact that there might be kids there?”
“So?”
“So how is that different from working in the church nursery?”
“Dallas, I’m not going to join a monastery just so I don’t ever have to come in contact with a child again.”
“Hey, you’re the one who jumped all over me for suggesting you volunteer in the church nursery.”
She held up a hand. “I know. You’re right. I’m sorry. Can we not argue, please?”
The microwave dinged. She removed the steaming bag and opened it, releasing a mouth-watering fragrance into the kitchen. She popped a few of the warm, fluffy kernels into her mouth before pouring the popcorn into the bowl he had waiting. She handed it to him.
“You want some?” He offered the bowl back to her.
“No thanks. I’m good.”
“You sure? Last chance.” He cra
dled the bowl in the crook of his elbow like a football and started for the keeping room where a game was on the TV.
“I’m sure. Hey . . .”
He turned to face her, cramming a fistful of popcorn in his mouth.
“Are you OK with me going to the meeting tonight?”
He started to say something, then glanced up at the ceiling looking thoughtful. “I guess it can’t hurt anything just to find out what’s involved.”
“Do you want to go with me?”
“Babe.” You’d have thought she’d asked him to wallpaper another bedroom. But he sighed. “What time is the meeting?”
“It starts at seven.”
“Oh, man. That’s right when my game starts.” He gave her those puppy dog eyes that always made her smile.
“Your game? As opposed to the one that’s on right now?”
He had the decency to look sheepish.
“It’s OK. I really don’t mind going by myself. I can report back.”
“Whew.” Relief dripped from his voice. “That was close. Thanks. But please don’t join the Peace Corps or anything without at least saying good-bye first, OK?”
She rolled her eyes and waved him away, laughing.
But a frisson of excitement rose in her. She was committed to going to the meeting now. It had been a long time since she’d done anything outside her comfort zone. Anything unrelated to their infertility struggles anyway.
Maybe it was about time.
6
Audrey pulled the last load of sheets out of the dryer in the second-floor laundry room and carried them down the hall to the boys’ room. She stopped herself. The plaque over the door read The Brunswick. It had taken them a full year after opening the inn to finally name the rooms. Landyn had come up with the loosely connected chicory theme. But even though they’d remodeled—and despite the plaques clearly spelling out The Brunswick, The Leroux, The Orleans, and so on—she still thought of each of the bedrooms by which of her children had last occupied it.
And The Brunswick was Link and Tim’s room. Tim. It had been more than four years since that dreadful day when Marines in dress blues had knocked on their door and delivered the unthinkable news that Tim was gone.
She deposited the pile of warm sheets on the bed and flung the windows open to air the room. A wood thrush sang its heart out in the branches of a tall poplar just outside the window. Smoothing the expensive fitted sheets over the pillow-top queen mattress, she smiled, remembering Sesame Street sheets and Star Wars bedspreads on little secondhand twin beds. How many times had she changed sheets in this room? Tim and Link had both been bed-wetters well into their toddler years, long before big-boy “diapers” and Pull-Ups were staples in every grocery store. Young mothers today didn’t realize how easy they had it.
And yet, she’d do it all over again if it meant getting another chance to hold her boy in her arms.
She wondered what the magic time marker was that would render the mere whisper of Timothy’s name powerless to wound her. Five years? That anniversary was looming closer than she could believe, and she couldn’t imagine any date on the calendar that might suddenly heal their pain. Couldn’t imagine that it would ever again be easy to answer the innocent question, “How many children do you have?”
Because to name Tim meant reliving his death all over again through someone else’s eyes. But to not name him was akin to treason.
Still, she was grateful for so many small things where Tim’s death was concerned. That she and Grant had been the ones to answer the door instead of Tim’s young wife. Bree had been staying with them while Tim was deployed and she’d been out with friends that night. Not that it had been easy to deliver the news, but at least she’d been spared that nightmare of the military vehicle rolling slowly up the driveway.
As if bringing the memory to life, the crunch of tires on the gravel drive sounded below her. Unexpected tears stung her eyes and she went to the window, almost afraid of what she would see. Before she saw the car, Huckleberry’s friendly yips told her it was just Grant, home from a morning of running errands.
She gave the decorative pillows one last plump and hurried into the room’s small bath to check her makeup. It wouldn’t do for Grant to know she’d been crying. He worried about her too much as it was.
He met her on the stairs, loaded down with Walmart sacks. He kissed her over the pile of bags. “I think all this stuff goes up here.”
“Thanks. Did you find out how to get rid of your little friends?”
He’d been to the county extension center on a mission to figure out how to eradicate a family of moles that had invaded the meadow and were, he felt sure, working their way up to the backyard.
“Well, for one thing, the agent said Huck here might be a deterrent.” He patted Huckleberry’s head. “You do your job, Huck, you hear? Don’t you let those rascals tear up my lawn.”
Huckleberry looked up at Grant with what looked for all the world like a smirk.
Audrey laughed.
Grant lifted a Walmart sack. “Where do you want these?”
Audrey had talked him into picking up a few supplies for the inn while he was in town since they were booked solid through the weekend starting tomorrow. And she’d agreed to cater a light supper for a group coming in on Thursday. All good for the inn’s bottom line, but not so good for her stress level.
She took an armload of bags from him and started unpacking paper towels, toilet paper, and tissue boxes. “I think we are single-handedly keeping Kimberly-Clark in business,” she grumbled. Stacking everything in the hall closet, she wondered—not for the first time—if recent guests had helped themselves to the closet supplies. Frustrating. Now they’d probably have to start keeping the closet locked. She emptied another sack and held up a four-pack of square tissue boxes. “Grant? What’s this?”
“You said we needed Kleenex.”
“Not like this.” She gave a little growl, took off the outer wrapping, and handed him a box emblazoned with school buses and cartoon characters.
His shoulders slumped. “You said to get whatever was on sale.”
“Honey, I don’t think our guests will appreciate the addition of SpongeBob SquarePants to the decor.” She let loose a sigh. “I guess I can hide them in the tissue holder in the hall bath. Or give them to Corinne.”
But Grant had already disappeared downstairs. He returned a minute later with another load of department store bags. “I saved you the trouble of buying me new skivvies.”
“That was thoughtful of you.”
“But can you wash these for me?”
“Sure. Just pile them on top of the washer.”
He inspected a wrapped bundle of briefs, frowning.
“What’s the matter? Did you pick up the wrong size?”
“It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. He held up the package and pointed at the muscular male model pictured on the front. “I just hate it when they put my picture on the front of these things.”
She swatted his backside, laughing. “If that’s your biggest problem, I can’t feel too sorry for you, buster. I can send them a cease-and-desist letter, if you’re that upset about it.”
“No, I guess I’ll just have to live with the fallout.”
“No pun intended?” she said wryly, which earned her a chuckle.
Oh, how she loved this man. She could weather just about anything as long as Grant Whitman was by her side.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly serious. “I ran into Dallas at Walmart, and he said Danae’s planning to volunteer at some women’s shelter. Do you know anything about that?”
She frowned. “It’s news to me. But I do remember reading something about the shelter in the Missourian. I wonder what got her interested in that. I’m glad though. She needs something to think about besides all this fertility stuff.”
Grant’s eyebrows formed a V. “What do you think volunteering means?”
“I don’t know. They probably just need people to
man the shelter. Maybe prepare meals or at least supervise while the women fix meals. We’ll have to ask her Tuesday.” She gathered up the empty shopping bags and started down the stairs.
“I don’t like it.”
She stopped and turned from halfway down the stairs to look up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think she should be getting involved with something like that.”
“Why not?”
“Isn’t that a place where women go to escape their abusive husbands?”
“Something like that. It might be for homeless women too. I’m not sure,” she said as she slowly made her way back up the stairs. “What does Dallas say?”
“He’s worried too. Rightly so. What if some desperate guy tracks down his wife and comes in with a gun? Do you want Danae involved in something like that?”
She sat down on the top step. “She’s a big girl, Grant. I imagine the chances of her getting in a fatal car crash are a lot better than the chances of getting caught in the crosshairs of some lunatic husband.”
“Why would she want to take a chance like that at all?”
“I’m sure Dallas will talk her out of this if he thinks for a minute that it would put her in danger.”
* * *
“And this is our intake office.” The social worker, Renee Marin, pulled one of about twenty keys from a lanyard around her neck and unlocked a door.
Danae followed Renee through the door along with two other women who, like her, were volunteers in training.
Once they were all inside the small office, the social worker locked the steel door behind them. “We keep this door locked at all times, whether we’re in the office or out in the house. This may also serve as a safe room should you ever have need of one.”
Dallas had ended up going with her to two training sessions besides the introductory meeting, but Danae was glad he hadn’t come with her tonight. The mere mention of need of a safe room—that, and the fact that they’d met at the church and been driven to the secret location of the safe house—would be all Dallas needed to change his mind about her going through with this. And she had to admit she was still on the fence herself. There was so much to learn, and she felt very much out of her comfort zone—as the social worker had warned during the training sessions that she would.
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