Take Four

by Karen Kingsbury

  But what if it didn’t?

  What if her little boy was in middle school some day and his friends found the film? How could she subject him to that sort of ridicule—especially if he found out the filmmaker was his father? Andi leaned over her knees, fighting off the nausea, looking for a position that would help her lungs take in enough air. That was the other thing, of course. If she kept her son, he would want to know about his father. All little boys did. A friend of hers back in high school had been raised by a single mom, and the kid searched and searched until he found his father. Didn’t matter that the guy dealt drugs or that he’d been in and out of prison. Never mind that his mom had a respectable job and had poured her whole life into loving the boy. In his junior year he moved in with his father. When Andi asked him why, he said, “Because…he’s my dad.”

  She straightened and tried to draw a full breath. Could that happen? Her little boy, growing up and finding Taz…leaving her for him? She pursed her lips and blew out, staring once more at the trees across the lake. God…I know you don’t want me to be afraid. But I’m not sure I can do this…

  Lean not on your own understanding, my precious daughter. Lean on me, and I will make the path straight for you.

  The answer spoke to her through the late autumn breeze, drifting over her soul with a certainty that God was here. He loved her and he loved her son, and He would walk her through the coming months—whatever she chose to do.

  For a long time, she sat utterly still, her face turned to the sun. As she did, an answer began to come to her, slowly at first and then with the sort of clarity that comes after the morning fog burns off. She knew her baby because of the pictures, and knowing her baby had caused her to love him. She loved him with all her heart, more than anything in her life—even herself. She could walk away from her dreams of acting, walk away from the possibility of finding a guy like Cody Coleman, and even let go of the hope that her child might have a father.

  But she couldn’t do any of that unless she was absolutely certain God wanted her to keep this baby. And with a clarity she hadn’t known before, she was suddenly and positively certain that her precious baby boy wasn’t hers…he didn’t belong to her. He belonged to the adoptive family she’d found in the photolisting book four months ago.

  Tears filled her eyes, and though she didn’t cry out or weep, they fell in hot silent streams along her cheeks, dropping onto her jeans and leaving tiny wet circles. She would miss her baby, her little boy. And it would take a courage from God Himself for her to hand him over to another family. But this was what God was calling her to do. This new truth took root and filled her heart and soul.

  For half an hour she grieved the loss and reckoned with all it would cost her, both now and in the coming years as her little boy grew up without her. She would feel his loss every day for the rest of her life, but she would feel it knowing this was God’s plan, and it was the right decision. Her sacrifice would be best for her baby. By the time she stood and headed back down the path to her car, she could feel a different sort of sunshine on her shoulders and emanating across her soul. A warmth and peace that could’ve only come from God, because here on this beautiful October morning she had listened to His voice, and she knew—without a doubt—she was about to make things right. She would tell her parents tonight, and then there would be just one thing left to do.

  Call the adoption agency.

  Nineteen

  LUKE BAXTER WAS HOME THIS WEEK, since his clients were all in town filming Unlocked, which was a wonderful change from the weeks leading up to the shoot. Dayne had asked him to be on-call, but only in case a legal matter arose on the set.

  “Spend the week with your family,” Dayne told him Sunday when they met for dinner at Ashley and Dayne’s house. The Baxter house. “Come by the set for fun, but be with them.”

  Now it was Thursday, and Jeremiah Productions was nearing the end of the second week of filming. Luke and Reagan had enjoyed every minute of their time together, letting the kids stay up late and sleeping in each morning. This morning Luke had promised to make breakfast for the family, so while the rest of them slept he found the Bisquick and poured most of the box in a mixing bowl. He hadn’t made pancakes in a while, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t forgotten how. Sort of like riding a bike, he told himself. Once you’ve made a batch, you can pretty much whip up another batch any time.

  Luke docked his iPod into a set of kitchen speakers and found his favorite playlist—the one with Matthew West and Mandisa and several other Christian artists he loved. The first song was the one he most wanted to hear this morning. “When God Made You” by Newsong. He and Reagan had danced to it at their wedding, and ever since then—always at key times in their lives—Luke went back to it.

  This was one of those times.

  He and Reagan were closer than ever, and their children Tommy and Malin were healthy and happy, but their family was at a crossroads. Luke had to keep reminding himself that God had given him Reagan and the kids, and that He still had good plans for them. Plans, they prayed, that would include more children. But the sad news from the adoption agency last week had hurt more than either of them had imagined.

  “Birthmothers change their minds,” their caseworker at the agency had told them. “Don’t feel defeated. There’s a baby out there for you.”

  Luke wanted to believe that, and because he was busy with the whirlwind of activity surrounding Dayne and Keith and Jeremiah Productions, he could mentally move on more quickly than Reagan. But when he came home Sunday after another week in Los Angeles, he knew instantly she’d been crying.

  “I felt like I knew him. I was already making a place for him in our family,” she told him that night when the kids were in bed. “It’s like…like I lost him.”

  Luke understood, and since he’d been home this week he had come to feel the same way. Why did the birthmother change her mind? Was it something about their family or their profile? Was she making the right decision? Luke had never known her name or circumstance, but he had to wonder if she was acting on impulse or if this was really the best choice for the little boy. Since then, he and Reagan had prayed often for the birthmother and the baby…and for any other child God might bring into their lives instead. Tommy wanted twins—so maybe that was the reason. Somewhere God had twins for them. But even that idea didn’t sit right. He still wanted the baby boy they had planned for—same as Reagan.

  He sang along quietly to the song on his iPod. “When God made you…He must’ve been thinking about me…” He looked at the back of the Bisquick box. The words were smeared—someone had gotten butter or syrup on the box and tried to wipe it off. Whatever happened, the recipe was unreadable. He frowned for a few seconds, still trying to make out the words. Then he shrugged and put the box back in the pantry. Water and eggs, milk and oil. Something like that, right? He stared at the mostly full mixing bowl of powdered Bisquick. Hmmm. A half a cup of water? Yes, that sounded good.

  He pulled the measuring cups from the baking drawer, and then…just in case, he grabbed the spoons too. What else did he need? He rummaged through the contents of the drawer until he found a wire whisk and a sturdy mixing spoon. Pancakes coming up.

  “He made the stars, He made the moon…to harmonize in perfect tune…” His voice cracked and Luke chuckled. Good thing he was a lawyer. He definitely couldn’t make a living singing.

  Over the next couple minutes he added half a cup of water, a cup of oil, and six eggs to the mound of powder. For good measure, he poured in a quarter cup of milk too, so they’d be light and moist. But as he tried to work the whisk through the ingredients, the batter felt stiffer than he remembered. A little more stirring, more muscle, he told himself. Or maybe more oil. He added another cup. Then he switched to the mixing spoon and worked the batter, round and around. The longer he mixed, the more the feel and texture started to look right. Slippery, but familiar.

  He found the skillet, buttered the bottom, and brought the batter closer
to the stove. His memory told him pancakes needed to be poured into the pan, but his batter wasn’t about to pour. It had formed a nice solid ball—smooth and soft-looking. Maybe he was supposed to shape the pancakes in his hands like hamburger patties? Yes, that had to be it.

  The song changed and became Matthew West’s “The Moment of Truth.” Luke loved the words because it reminded him to look at mile-markers along the journey of life—moments of truth that needed to be remembered so that when trouble came he would remember that God was still in control, He still worked miracles, and He loved His people too much to comprehend.

  “Go back…go back…to the moment of truth.” Luke used the spatula as a microphone. This was another great one to sing along with, as long as the rest of his family didn’t wake up. Tommy liked to tease him about his singing, not that Luke minded. Musically speaking, the two of them were strictly a no-talent father-son outfit, whether they sang together or separately. Reagan and Malin would give them pained sorts of smiles and nod along, as if to say, Please, can you hurry and be done?

  Luke laughed to himself. He formed two pancakes, nice and round, and set them in the sizzling butter. He stared at the two patties and paused for a moment. Something didn’t seem right. He turned down the heat. He couldn’t cook them on high, otherwise they’d burn on the outside and be raw on the inside. Again he stared at the white round circles. Wasn’t he supposed to see little bubbles forming? Maybe the heat was too low now. He turned the flame back up again.

  Ten minutes later Tommy burst down the hallway and into the kitchen, a toy fire-truck in his hands, one his uncle Landon had given him for his fifth birthday. He made shrieking siren sounds as he raced into the kitchen, and his footie pajamas slid, causing him to wipe out against the kitchen cupboards. “Where’s the fire, Daddy? I’m ready to put it out, so where is it?”

  Luke raised an eyebrow at his son. “There’s no fire.”

  “Ah-huh,” he scrambled to his feet and looked around, his eyes big as he tried to peer up at the stove. “I smelt it in my room.”

  “It’s just the butter. Butter smells like smoke sometimes.” Luke smiled patiently at his son and flipped the pancakes. Only then did he see maybe he’d been a little overzealous on the heat. The cooked side wasn’t black, but it was a very deep shade of brown. He winced and cast a quick side look at Tommy. “These are well-done.”

  Tommy hurried to the pantry, found a step stool, and placed it next to Luke. As he did, he giggled. “Those are burnt, Daddy. That’s why it smelt like smoke.”

  “No, no.” Luke pressed his spatula against the two pancakes in the skillet. “They’re well done. There’s a difference.”

  Reagan walked into the kitchen just as Luke was stacking his first two finished pancakes on a plate and starting to shape the next two. She wore a pink silk robe and she looked young and beautiful, her long blonde hair hanging in tousled ringlets. But as she walked into the kitchen, her eyes began to dance with unreleased laughter. “What’s burning?”

  “The chef gets no respect.” He stretched out his arm and gave her a side hug as he settled the next two pancakes onto the skillet. “A little too much butter in the pan. No big deal.”

  She squinted at the contents of the skillet, and a ripple of laughter came from her. “Luke…what are those?”

  “Lemme see, Mommy!” Malin reached her hands up, dancing around the three of them.

  Tommy was still on the step stool, and now he looked at Reagan and shook his head, as he’d tried to tell Luke there was a problem. “Daddy says they’re pancakes. But they don’t look right, and plus I smelt a fire.”

  “Yes.” Reagan pulled the bowl of batter closer. “Honey…this isn’t pancake mix. It’s…it’s oily cement.” She looked at him, still laughing. “How much oil did you use?”

  “Two cups…two or so.” He cleared his throat. “Which is healthy, because it’s olive oil.”

  “Two or so cups?” She was giggling harder.

  “That’s a lot of oil, Daddy.” Tommy nodded, his expression serious. “Just a little oil for pancakes, right, Mommy?”

  “Now…” Luke still wanted to redeem himself. He turned the heat down and picked up the plate of well-done pancakes from his first batch. “These are just how we like ’em. Cooked all the way through, and light and airy.”

  “Light and…” Reagan laughed again. She picked up one of the pancakes and made an exaggerated motion as if she could barely hold it. “Honey, this is a paper weight. You could tile the floor with these.”

  Luke was about to explain how in the olden days people liked their pancakes to have a little substance, when the phone rang. He looked at the time on the microwave and saw it was already after nine in the morning. Hopefully nothing was going wrong on the set. He held up his pointer finger to Reagan and Tommy, indicating for them to wait for the rest of his explanation about the pancakes. Then he answered the phone. “Hello?”

  Tommy jumped off the stool, slid a little, and grabbed a dishtowel. “I’ll clear away the smoke, Mommy…I’ll do it!”

  On the other end, the woman must’ve heard Tommy because she uttered a quick laugh. “uh…is this Luke Baxter?”

  “Yes, it is.” He gave a shush sign to Tommy, while Reagan took the bowl of batter and began spooning it into the trash.

  Malin stayed by her side, her thumb in her mouth, and Tommy waved the towel around the room. “There…” he was making an effort to talk more quietly, but Tommy was loud even in a whisper. “See, Daddy? Now I’m a fireman like uncle Landon! A quiet fireman!”

  Reagan took one of the first pancakes and hit it hard against the sink. Only a few crumbs chipped off, but otherwise it stayed steadfastly intact.

  The woman was saying something, but Luke missed it. The entire scene was suddenly too funny for him to keep his composure. Luke began to laugh, and he had to turn his back on his family to find his composure. “I’m sorry…I missed that. We’re having a wild sort of morning here.”

  Again the woman’s laughter filled the line. “That’s okay. Sounds like fun.” She took a breath and tried again. “I’m calling from the adoption agency. I have good news, Mr. Baxter. The birthmother we told you about?”

  Luke pressed the phone closer to his face and covered his other ear. He closed his eyes, so he could focus on every word. Something about the birthmother. “Go ahead…”

  “The birthmother has thought about her decision, and she’s changed her mind again. She says God convinced her this week that the baby doesn’t belong to her.” Tempered emotion filled the woman’s voice. “He belongs to you. She’d like to start the paperwork as soon as possible.”

  Luke spun around and looked at Reagan, but she was working what looked like a gallon of milk into a fresh bowl of pancake mix. Tommy was still bounding about in his footie pajamas, swinging the towel, clearing the kitchen of smoke. And now Malin was following him, giggling and waving her hands in the air as if the two of them were performing some kind of tribal dance.

  Joy surged through Luke, and he thanked the woman for calling—assuring her he and Reagan would come in as soon as possible for their part in the process. Then he hung up and, for a long moment, he took in the scene playing out before him. The birthmother could change her mind again, of course, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t, that this was the answer they’d been praying for all week. An answer that had come far sooner than they dared hope. The little boy would be theirs, and as long as Luke lived—he had a feeling—he would look back on this morning the way he looked back on other pivotal times in his life. Moments of truth. The day he learned he had a son with Reagan. Their reunion after a year apart. Their wedding day. And the day they brought home Malin. And now this very special morning of burnt pancakes and oily cement and children dancing in the kitchen.

  The morning they learned God was going to give them a new baby boy.

  Twenty

  CODY MOVED ALONG THE SIDELINE of the Clear Creek High football field with the other coaches and half the
team. Connor Flanigan had the ball and he was running it, evading one tackler, then another and heading for the open field. “Run…keep running!” Cody waved his arm, and the other coaches did the same thing. “Keep running,!”

  Connor never slowed down, and seconds later he scored with just a minute left to play. The touchdown put the game out of reach and Cody high-fived the other coaches, cheering and celebrating a win in what was their toughest game of the season. As Connor ran off the field, Cody grabbed him and hugged him. “Thata boy, Connor! This is your team!”

  Connor thanked him and joined his teammates in a huddle of cheers and congratulations. Cody watched the clock run out, grateful that at least this part of his life was going well. He almost didn’t come today, because he wouldn’t put this team in danger any more than he’d risk Bailey’s life. But police in Columbus had spotted Benny, and they were about to move in for an arrest. At least that’s what the detective told him earlier that afternoon.

  As the buzzer sounded, and after the players had walked the line with the other team, the guys gathered around Cody and the other coaches. “Who are we?” Coach Taylor bellowed.

  “Clear Creek!” The guys answered with a deep guttural sound, more like a battle cry than a response. They had formed a tight group, their arms around each other’s shoulders, and now they began jumping, the intensity building.

  “Who are we?” Again Coach shouted the question.

  “Clear Creek!” From there the guys took over the chant, asking the question and answering it half a dozen times, jumping higher, pounding each other on the shoulder pads and getting fired up for the biggest game of the season.