The Breath of Dawn

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “Here’s my little girl.”

  Livie transferred her hold, and Celia took over. “We’ll be in the kitchen, Erin.” The light touch on her shoulder could have been an invitation or dismissal.

  Morgan took her hand. “Everyone, this is Erin. Erin, my sisters Tiff and Steph. You met Tara, and that’s Therese over there with her husband, Stephen, and their twins.” The twin boys looked about three.

  “Don’t know those two guys.” He indicated the young men who appeared to be connected to Tiff and Steph. Luke and Danny introduced themselves.

  Erin got handshakes and hugs, some more exuberant than others. Therese, who looked like Rick, seemed to reserve judgment, and Erin guessed she and Celia had close communication. Then Noelle came outside with Liam, and those hugs were heartfelt.

  “Thank you for being here,” Erin whispered.

  Noelle squeezed her hands. “You look beautiful.”

  “I do?”

  Noelle’s smile glowed. “And happy.”

  Erin drew a shaky breath. “That part, yeah.”

  “Morgan even more.”

  Erin nodded, warmed again by what she felt for him.

  Liam tugged her jean leg, and she crouched down. “Yes, Liam?”

  “Where’s Livie?”

  “In the kitchen with your grandma.”

  “Come on.” To her surprise, he took her hand and tugged.

  She raised her brows to Noelle. “I guess we’re going in.”

  As the family moved inside, Morgan moved with them. Watching Erin bear up reminded him of Thanksgiving, how she’d not only prepared the meal but celebrated it with four virtual strangers, with such good humor and compassion. She’d awakened dead feelings, feelings that now came as naturally and essentially as breath. He hoped his mother would see Erin’s substance.

  Not a harsh woman, Celia simply loved with a ferocious love, not cast in a broad net but endowed individually, unwaveringly. She needed to know the ones who mattered would not be injured. And if they were threatened, she made no excuses for her defense.

  The house smelled of cinnamon and roast meat, probably his mother’s pork chops with spiced apples. Her down-home cooking was different from Consuela’s, hearty and nourishing without the sizzle. He moved into the family room, where the tree looked like a commercial lot specimen, more evenly shaped than the ones they’d cut themselves. Adorned in mostly homemade ornaments, its pine scent mingled with the kitchen aromas.

  “You look good,” his dad said.

  Morgan nodded. “I am.”

  “Praise God.”

  “I am.”

  They shared a shoulder hug. Hank eyed him. “The marriage is working.”

  Working seemed an understatement. “It’s working.”

  “Well, Morgan. You’ve never done things typically.”

  “Orthodox I’m not.”

  “You always land on your feet.”

  “This was a long drop.”

  Hank sobered. “I know it, son. For all of us.”

  Morgan nodded, looking around. Jill hadn’t been a part of enough family gatherings that he saw her in everything, but a little of her lingered, especially the grief of last Christmas. He’d spent so much energy the past week encouraging Erin, he hadn’t shored himself up.

  Celia called her brood like the Little Red Hen who made no bones about who would share her bounty. Seating Erin, he checked her for damage. So far so good on that front.

  She told Livie, “Fold your hands, sweetie.” And when Livie’s little voice joined in the blessing, he looked over. “We’ve been practicing,” she said.

  “I say grace, Daddy.”

  “I heard you, punkin. You were perfect.”

  When she beamed her chipmunk smile, he realized another tooth was coming in. Before he’d noticed every minute detail, his life in orbit so tightly around his child, she had her own gravity. Now Erin had done something with her he hadn’t realized, and a physical—albeit tiny—change had escaped his notice.

  “Morgan.”

  “Thanks.” He took the bowl of mashed potatoes from Tiffany on his other side. He put some on his plate and Livie’s and passed it on to Erin. A savory gravy followed, then Brussels sprouts and cauliflower. He doubted Livie would eat either but gave her a portion anyway. At the ends of the table, his parents each started a platter of pork chops that would be moist and tender and delicious.

  Tara had commandeered Erin’s other side and plied her with questions about Paris. Like Tiffany, the kid was a Francophile.

  Erin said, “We were only there a day and a half.”

  “But you went shopping.” Tara touched the sleeve of Erin’s blouse, the layered vest. “I know this didn’t come from Macy’s.”

  “We went to some boutiques, but you’d have to ask Morgan where. It was a blur to me.”

  He let the names of the couturiers slide from his tongue, and Tara squealed. “I’m dead. You stabbed me through the heart.”

  He didn’t tell her he planned an extended tour of France for her college graduation gift. Three years in the future would be painfully long for her to anticipate. Maybe his parents would consider a semester abroad for their youngest, but he doubted it. She was too impulsive, too driven by emotion, too much like their oldest son. He didn’t think her small college had an overseas program anyway. He gave her an indulgent smile. Someday.

  Seeing him across the table, Noelle hardly recognized Morgan. There was a lightness in him, as though the leaden grief had lifted. And Erin had a confidence and ease with him and Livie that was heartwarming to see. She’d been so worried about their rash marriage, but it had become this. What wondrous ways God had.

  After the meal, Celia and Therese handled food storage, Tiffany and Tara cleared, and Steph loaded the dishes. Knowing they’d be extraneous, Noelle took Erin into the family room. “Have you settled into Santa Barbara?”

  “Getting there. Morgan loves the place, and it’s hard not to.”

  “I was afraid the memories . . .” She paused, not wanting to make Erin uncomfortable but imagining the awkwardness of Jill’s shadow.

  “Of course they’re there. In the house. In his eyes.” Erin looked into the fire, then back. “We went to Jill’s grave.”

  She raised her brows. “He asked you to?”

  “I asked him. I thought it would help both of them. Consuela came too. It rained.”

  “It rained at her funeral.” She pictured them there, and the images overlapped, Morgan as gray as the rain, insubstantial as a ghost himself. “Did he grieve?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did Livie do?”

  “Remarkably well. For such a tiny elf, she has amazing gravitas.”

  Noelle smiled. “I could say that about you. I don’t think either of them would be doing too well out there on their own.”

  “Well, we’ve found a fit. I just hope it doesn’t all blow up.”

  “You mean Markham?”

  Her brow furrowed. “And the FBI.”

  “What?”

  She listened, dismayed, as Erin explained. It was so much worse than she’d known. “What does Morgan say?”

  “He’s hoping your father will keep me out of jail.”

  “Oh, good. I was going to suggest it, if he hadn’t already asked.”

  “I don’t know that he’s asked. But he plans to. Morgan’s going to interview a potential client in New York, and while he’s out there he’ll discuss my situation with your dad.”

  “You’ll be in good hands.”

  Erin sighed. “It’s so humiliating. What was I thinking?”

  “You were only twenty-three.”

  “Still . . .”

  Noelle pressed a hand to her mouth and laughed softly. “I wish I’d seen Morgan’s face when you took off running.”

  “It was not fun when he pinned me to the ground and threatened wrestling moves.”

  Again she laughed.


  Erin braced her hips. “You heard Markham. How would you like being accused of partnership with that rat?”

  “It would be appalling.” But then she sobered, picturing the woman in exactly that position. “I’m so sorry for your sister.”

  Erin’s face fell. “I know. I think, maybe I should call, maybe try again to help her see. But I’m the last one she would listen to.”

  “Why is she like that?”

  “I really don’t know. I told you before she didn’t accept my arrival. I guess it’s worse than I even knew.”

  “Well, I’m very glad we’re sisters now.” She reached and Erin clasped her hands.

  “You have no idea how glad I am.”

  Morgan gazed at them, aglow with firelight. Even though Noelle’s beauty was epic, it was Erin’s that caught him in the throat. He hadn’t intended to love like this again. He knew the potential for loss, his fragile ability to prevent it. And yet like spring, it came, breaking through the frost.

  He approached and hugged her from behind. “Surviving?”

  She laughed. “So far.”

  He glanced at Noelle. “Thanks for guarding her flank.”

  “She holds her own.”

  That she did. “I came to say Hank and Rick and I are going out.”

  “Now?” Noelle raised her eyebrows.

  “We’re picking up something Hank didn’t want around too early.” He nodded his head toward the kitchen.

  “Oh,” the women said together.

  He squeezed and released his wife. “Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  As he started out, Livie ran in and hesitated, confused to find both Erin and Noelle. He crouched, scooped her up, and said, “Have a hug for Auntie Noelle?”

  Livie lunged into Noelle’s arms, tucking her head into the crook of her neck. She should have been Auntie all along, but he’d never planned on another mommy for her. Again the pang of love and fear. Maybe they’d always mingle. Maybe they always did. He walked out into the cold, frosty night.

  Hank unlocked the truck and said, “I’ll keep it in the barn until Christmas morning. But the Turners are leaving town so I have to get it tonight.”

  The new range and rotisserie oven would thrill Celia, who was eking every last breath from her old one. Rick climbed into the front, so Morgan got in next to Livie’s car seat. He noted it with a jolt. What if she had an emergency? If they transported her unsecured—Boom. The pounding heart, the beading sweat, his airway constricted. How long had he gone without this?

  “Wait, Dad.” Forcing strength into his voice, he disconnected the base and carrier parts.

  “Morgan?”

  “Let me take this in.” He hoisted the seat with slippery hands. Where could his daughter be safer than in the heart of this home on a still winter night? But the panic came hard, not driven by reason. He practically stumbled.

  Erin met him at the door and grasped the seat. “Good thinking,” she said, ignoring his shaking hands. Her eyes reflected him, pale and terrified, but she leaned over the carrier and kissed him. “She’ll be safe.”

  Their gazes locked. He took her assurance like a drug. “Thanks.”

  From the first attack she’d witnessed at Vera’s, her nonjudgmental, sometimes humorous responses were more of a tonic than any sedative. His shoulders relaxed. His hands released the seat. Panic subsiding, he went out.

  Setting the car seat by the door, Erin turned and saw Celia in the entrance to the dining room. “He’s leaving the seat for Livie, just in case. Is this okay?” She indicated its position by the door.

  “That’s fine.”

  She started back to Noelle and Livie, but Celia said, “Would you have tea with me?”

  No. Thanks. Really. “Sure.” She turned to Noelle. “Are you . . .”

  “We’re fine. Go ahead.” She settled into a chair and lifted a children’s book from the table. Liam must have been somewhere with his cousins, and Livie would like alone time with the woman she still missed.

  Erin entered Celia’s lair. The scents of dinner had been replaced by the steamy, soapy scent of the dishwasher, the water whooshing inside.

  “I already heated the kettle,” Celia told her. “I have a loose-leaf British tea, or would you prefer a caffeine-free herbal?”

  “Herbal’s probably better before bed.”

  Celia held out a basket with choices. Erin fingered through them and selected chamomile, which she didn’t really like but hoped would work its calming magic. Celia prepared and handed her a mug, then motioned her to a seat at the kitchen table. Erin breathed the steam, willing the herb to dull her senses.

  “Would you like anything to sweeten that?”

  “Nope. Thanks.”

  Celia took her seat on another well-worn wooden chair. Her cup released a matching scent of chamomile. Calming her own nerves? Holding the tag, Celia gently swished the bag in her mug, and said, “I haven’t seen the Morgan at the table tonight in many, many years.”

  Confused, Erin said, “I thought he always came for Christmas.”

  “Not always.” Celia looked up. “But I didn’t mean he wasn’t present. Although essentially that’s true. Tonight he looked the way he used to when everything was possible.”

  Erin removed the tea bag and set it on the holder. Celia must have seen him with Jill, happy at last to have the woman he’d longed for.

  “You’re thinking of Jill.”

  Erin raised her eyes, startled.

  “Jill was a warm and caring woman, but what they went through in high school, and all those years later with Kelsey, impacted everything.” Celia sighed. “With time, they might have overcome it.”

  “They didn’t have enough,” Erin murmured, raising her cup. Steam dampened her nose and lip as she carefully tested the temperature.

  “A year and a half”—Celia sat back in her chair—“of brittle love.”

  Though not spoken harshly, the descriptor still grated.

  “A dream,” Celia said, “they’d held on to because they didn’t know what else to do.”

  “It survived fifteen years of separation.” How could she not see the power in that?

  “Much of what they had,” Celia said gently, “was what they imagined they might have had.”

  Erin didn’t want to contradict, but she’d sat in Jill’s room, seen the pictures of their life. Yet snapshots couldn’t show it all. And maybe losing the potential could hurt as much as losing Jill.

  “It’s a terrible loss. I’m not minimizing it.” Celia set her cup aside. “But what I saw just now, what passed between you and Morgan at the door, the way you took his fear inside yourself, the way he let you . . . That’s something not even I can do.”

  Her heart quickened.

  “I want you to know”—Celia reached over and squeezed her hand—“this family is blessed to have you.”

  Amazed, Erin blinked back tears. “I’m blessed to have you.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  Hannah would not stop crying. Even though they were far more comfortable and she should be content, from the time they’d moved into Quinn’s other house, his every move, every word made her cry. It corroded his self-control until ungodly thoughts filled his mind. Biting, cutting words caught in his mouth. He held them back, and still she cried.

  “It’s almost Christmas. I’ve never spent Christmas without my family,” Hannah sobbed.

  He paced the living room. Stop it. Stop it. Stop her.

  “My mother needs me. She’s calling every day.”

  Take the phone. Break it. Smash it. Smash her.

  He couldn’t. He needed her. If anything could make Quinn come, it would be her poor, poor sister.

  “Oh, Markham,” she wailed. “Just for Christmas.”

  Only one thing would make that happen. “Will Quinn go home for Christmas?”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Did she last year?”

 
Hannah shook her head.

  “The year before?”

  “Not since she went away. No one’s seen her since she left.”

  “Then why would we go?”

  She burst into fresh tears.

  He shot a burning glance into the kitchen. Saw the cabinet. Maybe there was something, something to make her sleep. Make her stop, make her sleep, make her stop.

  He walked stiffly in, tugged the knob. Locked, still locked. Moving as though something else animated his arms, he gripped a chair and drove the ladder-back knob through a milky pane of glass. Hannah shrieked. Make her sleep, make her stop.

  Reaching through the hole, he cut his arm. Blood pearled and streamed. He grabbed a bottle, a teeny tiny bottle. He read the label, one part standing out. LSD. Yes . . .

  Standing on the large wraparound porch with a mug of hot chocolate braced between her gloved hands, Erin swelled with gratitude. All the Spencers, plus three spouses, four grandchildren, and two significant relationships had stretched the Spencer hospitality to breaking. Squeezed with Morgan in the music room’s sofa sleeper, Livie’s portable crib right beside them, and surrounded by all the other guests and family, last night had felt like Livie’s storybook about a mitten stuffed with so many animals the seams finally popped.

  But gazing through the lacy icicles jeweling the eaves and banisters, to snow-covered shrubs and laden tree boughs, snowfields stretching to an icy pond rimmed in sugared cattails, she thanked God Morgan hadn’t given in to her concerns and stayed in Santa Barbara. How could it feel like Christmas on the beach with soft sand and gulls? Although she supposed they’d make it Christmas wherever they were.

  Sipping her chocolate, she looked toward the large white-and-gray stable and saw a man with a horse. Morgan. With a dim concern starting inside, she lowered the mug to the rail. He approached sedately, leading an animal larger than himself with no more than a word and a rein.

  Six feet from the porch, he stopped. From her raised viewpoint, it seemed she looked eye to eye at the horse, a brown mare with a white blaze, two white socks, and a black-tipped tail.