Sweet Sanctuary

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Lydia leaned forward and assumed a conspiratorial air. “Father and I went to see Mrs. Fenwick—the midwife who delivered Nicky—as you suggested. We intended to ask her to testify that Eleanor wanted me to take Nicky. But she wasn’t there. A neighbor said she had packed her bags and left out of fear of Nic Pankin, who had been coming around and threatening her.”

  A swell of sympathy tightened Micah’s chest. “Poor lady. It must have been awful for her.”

  Lydia grimaced. “She left without leaving word for Father. The neighbor told us Mrs. Fenwick has no husband or children, but she does have a sister. And the only clue to this sister’s whereabouts was a picture of the Statue of Liberty on a postcard she had sent to Mrs. Fenwick.”

  “So you came here hoping to find Mrs. Fenwick?”

  Lydia nodded eagerly. “Yes. I know it will be rather like hunting for a needle in a haystack—”

  Micah gave a brief snort of laughter.

  “But the Bible says that if we have faith like a grain of mustard seed, nothing will be impossible for us. So I’m stepping out in faith that I will find Mrs. Fenwick, and I’ll be able to take her back to Boston. Then, with her help, I’ll gain legal custody of Nicky.”

  Micah peered into Lydia’s flushed, expectant face. “What is the name of Mrs. Fenwick’s sister?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “In what borough does she live?”

  She shrugged, lifting her hands in a gesture of defeat. “I don’t know that, either. I’m not even completely sure she’s in New York. The sister might have just visited and sent the postcard. But we have to start somewhere.”

  Micah whistled through his teeth. He wasn’t one to stomp on someone’s faith, but this plan of Lydia’s seemed doomed to fail. Lydia’s reference to a needle in a haystack was accurate. He didn’t even know where to begin looking. But with Lydia’s dark-eyed gaze aimed hopefully in his direction, he couldn’t find the heart to voice his gloomy thoughts. “I suppose we could ask around. Make some phone calls to apartment buildings—”

  Lydia’s face lit. “Then you’ll help me?”

  “Sure I’ll help, but I can’t guarantee we’ll be successful. How long were you planning to stay?”

  Her expression clouded. “Not long—no more than a week, if possible. I miss Nicky terribly.”

  Micah’s heart turned over. “Well, then we’d better get started right away.” He dropped two crumpled bills and a few coins on the table and stood. “You’re done getting your hands dirty for the day. I’ll sit you down with the telephone and a number directory. You can start calling apartments.”

  Lydia dashed around the table and threw her arms around Micah’s neck. “Oh, thank you, Micah! I knew I could count on you.”

  For a moment, Micah stood with his arms at his sides, stunned by the impulsive embrace, but then he awkwardly patted her back and nudged her aside. He smiled into her upturned face. “It’s just a telephone, Lydia. I’m not sure it warrants this much gratitude.” His gaze darted across the curious café patrons.

  She looked, too, at the number of people watching, her cheeks turning a becoming shade of pink. She brushed nonexistent crumbs from her thighs in a self-conscious gesture. “Sorry. I forgot myself for a moment.” An impish grin climbed one cheek. “I bet you’ve never been hugged by Rosie the Riveter before.”

  Micah guffawed, but then quickly stifled it. “Not in broad daylight.” He winked, and he and Lydia shared a laugh. The joined laughter felt good. Warming. Then she locked her gaze on his once more. A soft smile tipped up the corners of her full lips, and a desire to lean forward and place his lips against hers rose from deep within.

  The busboy hurried over and began to clear the table with a noisy clattering of silverware. The desire scooted for cover. Micah breathed a sigh of relief as normalcy returned. He held out his arm. “Let’s head back.”

  Lydia slipped her hand into the curve of his elbow, and he escorted her in proper fashion back to the clinic. Without talking. Without looking at her. But very aware of her presence.

  14

  Mr. Pankin, I am very quickly losing my patience with you.”

  Although the woman spoke softly, her tone even and mild, Nic bristled. Rich or not, she had no business talking to him the way she would a snot-nosed child. He balled his hand into a fist inside his jacket pocket. “Yeah, well, I’m getting pretty impatient myself. Don’t you think I’m eager to get my kid settled here?” Until he accomplished it, he wouldn’t receive his promised payment. “The delays can’t be helped.”

  Mrs. Bachman crossed her legs. Her skirt inched up, revealing her silk-covered calf. Nic had a hard time not staring. She dressed so nice, and the way she smelled—a floral scent filled his nostrils every time she moved. When was the last time Nic had enjoyed the pleasure of a quality woman? Not since Eleanor.

  “Mr. Pankin?”

  He gulped, his body jolting. “What?”

  The woman pressed her lips into a tight line. She rested her linked hands on her knee. “How much longer?”

  Nic threw out a guess. “Another week.”

  Her lips pressed so tightly they nearly disappeared.

  He blurted, “Could be sooner if I had some cash. My old truck, it needs repairs. So I’ve been afoot. Or I hafta hire a cab. Slows me down.”

  Mrs. Bachman drew in a slow breath, her nostrils flaring slightly. She peered at him from beneath the fluff of yellow bangs. For long seconds she held him captive with a penetrating stare while the ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticked out each second. At last she sat upright, curling her hands over the carved lions’ heads on the chair’s armrests. “If I give you funds to repair your truck, you’ll deliver the child to me within a week’s time?”

  Nic swallowed, then bobbed his head in a brusque nod.

  “One week?” She held up a slender finger, its nail painted the same pale pink color as the suit that fit her frame as snugly as a potato wore its skin. Oh, she was a woman of quality. Too bad she’d chosen to spoil herself by spending her day sipping spirits. Of course, if he ever caught her fully soused, he might be able to have some fun with her.

  Caught up in his daydreams, he missed what she said. He scowled. “What?”

  “You’ll deliver the child by August fourth. Is that correct?”

  Nic licked his lips, gathering his thoughts. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Very well, then. Wait here.” She rose and strode from the room, leaving Nic in the middle of the parlor sofa with his hand twitching inside his jacket pocket and his scalp tingling. Anticipation sent his pulse into hopeful gallops. How much would she give him? Enough for half a dozen packets? If he didn’t have to spend his nights pilfering items to pawn to feed his habit, he’d be able to put his full attention on getting his kid. In no time at all, he’d be rolling in money. Five thousand dollars! As much as he could make in two years at the packing factory. Saliva pooled in his mouth as he thought about the freedom the money would bring.

  Footsteps alerted him to her return. He stood and turned, but instead of Mrs. Bachman, the butler—a dour-looking man with thick gray hair and a handlebar mustache—approached. He stopped several feet from Nic and extended a crisp fifty-dollar bill between two fingers. Nic stared at it, nearly groaning in disappointment. He’d hoped for at least twice that amount.

  The man’s gaze traveled from Nic’s uncombed hair to the worn toes of his boots and back again. Disdain twisted his lips. “The mistress wishes me to remind you the delivery is due no later than August fourth.”

  Nic snatched the bill and jammed it into his pocket. “I know.”

  “And you shall be here as expected with delivery in tow?”

  Nic narrowed his gaze, glowering at the man. “Yeah.”

  “Then allow me to see you out.” He spun on the heel of his highly polished black lace-up shoe.

  Nic charged past him, deliberately brushing the man’s shoulder and pushing him off-balance. “I can see myself out.” He gave the door
a slam behind him.

  Crack!

  Micah jumped when the front door slammed into its casing. He raised his head from the order blank he’d been completing. Lydia stormed into the clinic and flopped into the chair facing his desk. She slumped forward, her dark hair hiding her face, and rested her forehead on the desktop. He rose and rounded the desk. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he asked, “No luck?”

  Lydia sat up straight and ran her hands through the silky strands of her hair, leaving it looking disheveled. “I feel like I’ve visited every apartment manager in Queens, Manhattan, and Brooklyn. No one has a Mrs. Fenwick on their resident list.”

  Micah crouched beside her chair. “Well, you didn’t expect to find her quickly, did you? Searching out a needle in a haystack is a rather cumbersome prospect.”

  Lydia gazed in his direction, and it grieved him to see two bright tears glittering in her dark eyes. “I suppose I need to be patient. But it’s been three days. I miss Nicky so much. And I’m worried about him. Finding Mrs. Fenwick is so important. What if I never find her?”

  “Whoa, hold up a minute there.” Micah fixed a stern look on his face, although he really wanted to wrap his arms around her and offer sympathetic comfort. “That’s a defeatist attitude if I ever heard one. And I never thought I’d hear it from you. What happened to the brave lady who chased me through the dark streets of New York a few nights ago?”

  Lydia’s lips quivered as she considered Micah’s question. “She’s tired, I suppose.”

  Micah squeezed her shoulder, resisting the urge to lift his hand and smooth her hair. “I think I know what you need. You need a dose of Nicky.” He picked up the telephone receiver and placed it in her hand. “Call him. Talk to him. Remind yourself why you’re here and how much he’s worth all this fuss and bother. Then when you’re done, we’ll have a little chat about that mustard seed of faith you mentioned, okay?”

  “Oh, Micah, calling Boston would be so expensive!” But she didn’t put the phone aside.

  Micah offered a grin. “Dial. Doctor’s orders.” He returned to his order forms while Lydia followed his direction. He tried not to listen, but he couldn’t help smiling when she laughed over something Nicky said. Hearing the joy in her voice gave his heart a lift. He rose to locate an envelope for his order, but Lydia interrupted.

  “Micah? Nicky would like to say hello to you. Do you have a minute?”

  “I sure do.” He reached across the desk and took the telephone from her. “Howdy, partner. What are you up to?”

  “Micah-my-friend!” Nicky’s high-pitched voice came through the static on the line and straight to Micah’s heart. “Guess what! I was lonesome for Mama, so Poppy buyed me a pet! A bird! It’s a yellow bird and it sings when it wants to! I named it Buggy!”

  Micah laughed. Nicky’s animated face appeared in his memory, bringing forth a rush of affection. “That’s a wonderful name for a bird, Nicky. I hope I get to meet him sometime.”

  “When Mama comes back, you come, too, an’ you can meet him. He’ll sing for you, prob’ly.” While Micah searched for a way to respond, Nicky rushed on with a change of subject. “Can I talk to Mama?”

  “Sure, Nicky, I’ll hand you over. You take care of Buggy, okay?”

  “Okay, Micah. Micah?”

  Micah paused. “Yes?”

  “I love you.”

  The simple, honest, innocent statement created a warmth that moved from the center of Micah’s chest outward until his whole body felt aglow. He clutched the telephone receiver with two hands and managed to answer in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Right back atcha, partner. Now here’s your mama.”

  Micah handed the telephone to Lydia and settled back in his chair. He might have been floating on a cloud rather than seated in a warped, slatted wood chair. His heart beat hard and his chest tightened with pleasure. The little boy’s sweet voice played itself again and again in his mind. I love you. Were there any more beautiful words than those?

  God, I thought I had too much to do to be lovin’ this child and his mama. But Lydia’s seen what I’m doing with Jeremiah, and she accepted it. Even offered to help. Do You reckon she might be willin’ to be my permanent helpmeet?

  His breath came in little spurts as he considered where his prayer had just led him. Nicky and his too-pretty mama, whose inner beauty was becoming more apparent each minute he spent in her presence, had already wormed their way into Micah’s heart. He shifted to watch Lydia as she finished her conversation with Nicky. A reluctant smile teased his lips. How he would miss her when she headed back to Boston. Because she’d have to go back. It was her home, and Nicky waited for her. She would only be here for a short time on this visit. But maybe . . .

  He made a snap decision. It might not be a sensible decision, but sometimes love overstepped the bounds of being sensible. As soon as she finished her conversation with Nicky, he’d ask.

  15

  Lydia sighed as she placed the receiver on its hook. “I sure miss that little scamp.”

  Micah smiled, and something lingering in his eyes set her heart aflutter. “Bet you do,” Micah said. “I hardly know him, and I think I miss him, too.”

  Lydia forced a light laugh, seeking a grasp on her emotions. “Nicky does have a way of growing on you.” Then she paused, puzzled. “Why do you suppose he chose the name Buggy for a canary?”

  Micah threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I know, but I’m not tellin’. You’ll have to ask him yourself when you get back.”

  Lydia sent him a chastising look intended to get to the truth, but he was in one of his teasing moods—he winked at her and pretended to lock his lips. She pushed up from the table and shook a finger in his direction. “Sometimes you’re as much a little boy as Nicky, Dr. Micah Hatcher.” But the smile in her voice ruined the insult. Micah just grinned back at her, and her foolish heart set up such a clamor she thought she might swoon.

  “Lydia, did you bring a dress-up outfit with you?”

  Lydia had reached to shift the telephone back into its original position, but Micah’s question stilled her hands. She angled her head, meeting his gaze. Her emotions turned so topsy-turvy she wasn’t sure she could form an answer. So she drew on her own teasing as a cover and threw her arms wide. “You mean dressier than my Rosie the Riveter coveralls?”

  Micah offered the expected chuckle. “Yes, somewhat dressier than coveralls.”

  Lydia lost her ability to tease. Something in his eyes . . . She swallowed. “Yes. The traveling suit I was wearing when I arrived. Why—” Her dry throat made her voice husky. She coughed delicately and tried again. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged, moving away from the desk and taking measured steps in her direction. Her pulse increased its tempo with each inch closing between them. “You’ve had a few rough days, and I thought I’d take you out this evening for a little relaxation.”

  “Y-you don’t have to do that.” Her tongue became clumsy in response to her racing heartbeat. Such an effect this man had on her senses! She thought she’d set aside her infatuation with Micah Hatcher when she left Schofield, but apparently those feelings had lain dormant beneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity to come to life. And now they burgeoned beyond reckoning.

  “But I’d like to. We could drive into Manhattan to the Plaza Hotel. Have you seen it? It’s a masterpiece of architecture. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  Lydia tipped her chin downward and raised her eyebrows. “The Plaza?”

  “Yes.” He advanced one more step, bringing himself close enough to touch if she stretched out her hand. “They have a tea room—called the Palm Court.” A grin crept up one cheek. “Palm trees—Hawaii. Might make you feel less lonesome.”

  Memories flooded her mind, all of which included Micah. Lydia drew in a steadying breath. “But I don’t miss Hawaii. I miss my son.”

  He shrugged, a sheepish gesture. “Well, I don’t know of any ‘Nicky’ tea rooms, but I can do my best to get your mind on other things
so you’re not so homesick for him. Would you like to go?”

  Lydia licked her lips. Yes, she wanted to go. Not to see the Palm Court Tea Room and the Plaza Hotel as much as to spend time in Micah’s company. Which, of course, was folly. But how could she look into his handsome face and expressive blue eyes and refuse? She gave a quick nod before common sense took control. “Yes, I would like to go.”

  Micah clapped his hands together. “Good! I’ll lock up. We’ll clean up at the apartment, and I’ll find us a cab. It should be fun.”

  Lydia watched him remove his smock, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Fun? She shook her head, stifling a self-deprecating huff. Fun to fall helplessly, hopelessly, foolishly in love with you?

  Lydia sat across from Micah at a small, round, linen-shrouded table. A young woman in a long Grecian-style dress ran her fingers expertly across the strings of a harp, creating soothing background music as flickering candlelight illuminated his face and brought out the deeper rim of his irises. Without asking her opinion, he had ordered orange pekoe tea and a variety of sandwiches—watercress and egg salad on rye, salmon on ficelle sprinkled with fresh basil, and prosciutto on carrot bread. The waiter also delivered a plate of fresh fruit. Lydia’s mouth watered as she gazed at the neatly arranged melon slices, grapes, and strawberries, and without warning a memory surfaced.

  “Oh, Micah, remember the little café at the beach? Where was that?” She wrinkled her brow, pressing her memory. Then she brightened, holding up one finger in a gesture of success. “Haleiwa! Remember they brought out an arrangement of fruit so pretty we hesitated to eat it?”

  “I remember that evening well.” Micah picked up a bright red strawberry between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it to his mouth. “It was the first time Holden and I spent time with you and Callie away from the hospital.”

  Lydia nibbled a skinless grape, replaying the evening in her mind’s eye. Did Micah recall how childishly she’d behaved when Micah chose to escort her roommate, Callie, and she’d been stuck with Micah’s friend, Holden? She decided not to ask.