His Secret Child

by Lee Tobin McClain

  She opened Mercy’s door and walked over to the child’s bed. She was staying in Xavier’s room, so the surroundings were pure boy: race-car sheets, soccer trophies, toy trains and a big container of LEGO blocks.

  Even in that setting, Mercedes glowed with girliness in her pink nightgown, her long curls spread across the pillow.

  Fern’s heart caught inside her. She’d never loved anyone so much in her life. And if she could save one child, maybe more, from the pain she’d been put through as a ward of the state, she’d have done a lot.

  Mercedes was sleeping hard. For better or worse, she was a late riser. Well, Fern would take advantage of the time and the light to do some artwork.

  She grabbed a diet soda out of the refrigerator, not wanting to take the time to make coffee, and headed right toward her worktable. Sat down, got out her paints and immersed herself in capturing the snowy scene out the window.

  A while later—minutes? Hours? She couldn’t tell—she smelled something that plunged her straight back to her own childhood. The memory was mixed, and she painted awhile longer, taking advantage of her own heightened emotions to evoke more feelings with her art.

  “Breakfast’s ready!”

  The deep voice startled her, making her smear a stroke of paint. She jumped up and turned around. The sight of Carlo with a spatula in hand disoriented her.

  “Whoa,” he said, approaching her with concern. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Fern pressed a hand to her chest. “It’s fine. What’s that smell?”

  “Bacon. I hope it’s okay...”

  “You got in the fridge and took out bacon and cooked it?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “Really?”

  “Yeah, well, I figured Angelica would have some. Actually, it was in the freezer. But I also stole some eggs, which may have been yours. And they’re getting cold. Where’s Mercedes?”

  Fern was still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that this...this man was cooking in her kitchen. Well, her friend’s kitchen, but still. She’d never had a man in her home. She didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t want to know.

  “Mama Fern?” Mercedes’s plaintive voice from the top of the stairs gave Fern a welcome focus.

  She hurried up and wrapped her arms around the child. “Hey there, sleepyhead. What’s going on?”

  “What’s cooking? It smells yummy.”

  “Um...bacon.” Up until this moment, Fern hadn’t intended to eat any; she wanted to get this man out of the house quickly, not break bread with him.

  But if Mercedes liked bacon, then bacon it would be. “Our guest cooked breakfast,” she explained. “Let’s wash your face and hands and you can come on down and eat.”

  Minutes later, the three of them sat around the wooden table. Carlo had served up plates of bacon, eggs and toast, and he’d even poured orange juice and set out fruit on the side.

  “This is good,” Mercedes said, her mouth full, jam on the side of her face.

  “It sure is good, Mercy-Mercedes.” He made a funny face at the little girl, and she burst out in a torrent of giggles.

  Fern’s breath caught.

  Amazing that Mercedes could still be so happy and trusting, given the difficulties of life with her mother and then the loss of her. Amazing that she, Fern, got to raise this incredible child.

  And it was amazing to be sitting here around the table with a child and a handsome, manly man who knew his way around the kitchen and could joke around with a child.

  Thing was, Carlo was trouble.

  Oh, he’d been questionable when he showed up here on her doorstep, sick and wild looking. But that man, that kind of trouble, she’d been able to handle.

  Now, seeing him feeling better and being charming and domestic, she felt the twin weights of longing and despair pressing down on her heart.

  She wanted a family.

  She’d always wanted a family, wanted it more than anything. She hadn’t had one, even as a child.

  But there was no way she could form a family with any man worth the having. She just wasn’t the type. She was shy, and awkward, and unappealing. She wore thick glasses and read books all the time and didn’t know how to flirt or giggle.

  So the part of her that looked around the table and wished for something like this, forever, just needed to be tamped down.

  She couldn’t have it and she needed to stop wanting it.

  Abruptly, she stood up. “I’ve got to go feed the dogs.”

  “But, Mama Fern, I want to come see the dogs.”

  Fern hesitated. The animals were generally good, but they were just so big and strong. The idea of having a four-year-old—her own precious four-year-old—in their vicinity was a little too scary.

  Carlo put a hand on her arm and she jerked away at the burn of it, staring at him.

  His eyebrows went up and he studied her. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m jumpy.” Awkward, awkward.

  “Let’s finish breakfast, and then we can all go out together.”

  “Yeah!” Mercedes shouted.

  Oh, great. More pseudo–family togetherness. “That’s fine,” Fern said. “I’m going to start the dishes.”

  “But you haven’t finished your—”

  “I’m not hungry,” she interrupted, and it was true. Her appetite had departed the moment those feelings of inadequacy and awkwardness and unlovableness arose in her.

  She carried her dishes to the counter, fuming. Why had he shown up? Why hadn’t he left her there in peace, to do her art and create some kind of family, even if not the real or the best kind?

  You couldn’t have handled the dogs alone, a voice of logic inside her said. Maybe God’s looking out for you. Maybe He sent a helper.

  But did He have to send a helper who was so handsome, who woke those desires for something she could never have?

  She scrubbed hard at the pan that had held the bacon and eggs. Looked out the window toward the kennels, and breathed, and tried to stuff her feelings back down.

  “What were you working on in there?” Carlo asked.

  “What do you mean?” On the defensive.

  “Your easel. Your art.”

  “I...I do some writing and illustrating.”

  “Really? Can I see?’

  “No!” She grabbed a towel to dry her hands and hurried toward the easel, bent on covering her work.

  Carlo scooted his chair back to watch her from the kitchen. “Hey, it’s okay. I wouldn’t have looked without your permission.”

  “I’m just... It’s silly. I...I don’t like to show anyone my work before it’s done.” Truth to tell, her stories and illustrations were the one place she felt safe to delve into her own issues, to the challenges of her past. Sometimes, she felt it was all too revealing, but she was so driven to do it.

  She could do her children’s books and raise a family just fine. But to have a handsome man looking through her stuff, making fun of it maybe, asking questions—that she couldn’t deal with. No way.

  The wall phone’s ringing was a welcome respite. She tucked the cover over her easel and hurried over to it.

  “Hello?”

  “Fern, it’s Lou Ann Miller. From church?”

  Fern vaguely remembered a tart, smiling, gray-haired woman who often sat with Troy and Angelica. “Hi, Lou Ann.”

  “Listen, I had an email from Angelica waiting for me this morning, and she let me know you have some unexpected company. Are you all right? How’s Mercy?”

  “We’re doing fine.” Fern looked at Mercedes. Carlo had found a clean dishcloth, wetted it and was washing off the child’s messy face and hands, making silly faces to keep her from fussing about it.

  “That’s great. And don’t worry about your new helper. He has a good
heart.”

  “You know him?” She heard her own voice squeak.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve known that boy most of his life.” Lou Ann chuckled. “Pretty rough around the edges, isn’t he?”

  Fern looked at the man who’d invaded her safe haven. Even playing with an innocent little child in front of the fire, he looked every inch a mercenary: thick stubble, bulging biceps, shadowy, watchful eyes. “Yes,” she said, swallowing. “Yes, he is.”

  * * *

  Carlo sat on the floor building a block tower with the child he was almost certain was his daughter. He studied her small hands, her messy curls, her sweet, round cheeks.

  His daughter’s foster mother was talking to someone named Lou Ann on the phone. Probably Lou Ann Miller, who had to be getting old these days. He remembered stealing pumpkins from her front porch with a big gang of his friends. She’d chased after them and called all of their parents.

  All the other boys had gotten punished. Not him, though. His parents had thought it was funny.

  As he’d grown up, he’d realized that their neglect wasn’t a good thing, especially when he’d seen how it affected his younger sister. When he’d had to take up their slack. He’d judged his folks pretty harshly.

  But they’d been there at least some of the time. Unlike him, for his own daughter. How had it never occurred to him that Kath could have gotten pregnant during their brief reconciliation?

  He wanted to clasp Mercedes tight and make up for the previous four years of her life. He wished he could rewind time and see her first smile, her first step.

  But no. He left his wife pregnant and alone, and even though she’d kicked him out without telling him the truth about the baby she carried, had pressured him into signing the divorce papers, he should have tried harder. A lot harder.

  Kath’s letter, which had apparently languished for a couple of months before reaching him, had just about broken his heart. She’d found the Lord, and moved to Rescue River because she’d liked the way he’d described it and wanted to raise their daughter there.

  Apparently, she’d even thought there was a chance they could remarry and raise Mercedes together. Sometime later, after he’d sown his wild oats and come back home to the States.

  But it had turned out they didn’t have the time for that. Kath had found out she was dying, and that was when she’d written to him, telling him about Mercedes and urging him to come home and take care of his daughter. She’d kept his identity secret from her social worker in case he wasn’t able to come home—warped Kath logic if he’d ever heard of it. So until the social worker received the copy of Kath’s letter he’d mailed and verified the information, even she wouldn’t know there was an interested, responsible father in the picture.

  Which was how Mercedes had ended up with Fern, apparently.

  Carlo ran his hand through his hair and almost groaned aloud. He shouldn’t have given up on their marriage so readily, but the truth was, he’d realized there was no more love or connection between them. Kath had been deep into a partying lifestyle she hadn’t wanted to change. Reuniting would have been such an uphill battle that he hadn’t minded when she’d kicked him out after just a week.

  He was no good at relationships, never had been. But he hated that he’d left her to struggle alone. And even more, he hated that he’d left this innocent child to be raised by an unstable mother.

  So now he was going to try to fix what had gone wrong. Maybe he’d failed as a husband. He’d failed at getting Kath into rehab. Failed as a father, so far.

  But now that he knew about her existence, he was determined not to fail Mercedes. No, sir, never again. Though he was horrible at intimate relationships, he got along okay with kids. Even had a gift for working with them, according to his friends in the missionary field. Ironic that he, the guy who scared off most women and a lot of men, seemed to connect effortlessly with kids.

  When Fern got off the phone, he stuffed down his feelings and made his face and voice bland. The first step in getting his daughter back was to find out what had been going on in her life. “Everything okay?”

  Fern nodded, biting her lip. That was a habit of hers, he noticed. And it was really distracting, because she had full, pretty lips.

  “Who was that?”

  She gave him a look that said he’d overstepped his boundaries.

  “Miss Lou Ann, from church,” Mercedes said. “She gave me a toothbrush. Want to see?”

  “Sure,” Carlo said, and watched the child run toward the stairs, his heart squeezing in his chest.

  “Lou Ann Miller gives all the children toothbrushes. Musical ones. She doesn’t believe in candy.”

  “That figures. I remember her.”

  Fern cocked her head to one side. “She remembers you, too.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He studied Fern and risked a question. “How’d you end up taking care of Mercedes anyway?”

  She hesitated.

  Easy, easy. “No need to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just curious.”

  Fern perched on the hearth and started stacking blocks absently. “It’s okay. I need to get used to talking about it. But it’s a sad story.”

  Carlo’s stomach twisted with shame. He was, at least in part, responsible for the sadness.

  “She’s my friend Kath’s little girl. Kath wasn’t in town that long, but she made a huge difference in my life. We got...super close. And then she died.” Fern’s voice cracked just as Mercedes came trotting back down the stairs, musical toothbrush in hand.

  “Look, mister! It makes a song!” She shook it vigorously and then looked up and touched Fern’s face. “Why you sad, Mama Fern?”

  “Just thinking about your mama.”

  “Oh.” Mercedes nodded. “Bye!” she said suddenly, and ran across the room to a pink case full of dolls and doll clothes.

  Fern chuckled. “Kids. When they don’t want to talk about something, you know it.”

  Carlo had to know. “What...what did she say about Mercedes’s dad? Was he ever in the picture?”

  “She didn’t talk much about him. Said he had issues. But what kind of guy would leave a terminally ill woman to cope with their little daughter alone?”

  That was the question.

  He had a lot to make up for, and it started with helping his daughter right now, stranded in the storm.

  Given how fiercely protective Fern seemed, he didn’t think he could explain his role in the situation without arousing her ire and getting kicked out. And then how would the pair cope, given that the snow was starting up again?

  No, better to wait out the storm without revealing his identity. Once it was over, he could see about paternity tests and get advice from a lawyer about how to proceed.

  Meanwhile, he could help out a vulnerable child and foster mom. Maybe start to absolve himself of some of his misdeeds. Get to know little Mercedes.

  Redeem himself. If that was even possible.

  Chapter Four

  For Carlo the late-morning trip out to the kennels was completely different from the night before.

  It was daylight, and snowing hard.

  And he was carrying Mercedes.

  Just the feel of those little arms curled trustingly around his neck as he fought his way through thigh-high snowdrifts made his heart swell. He wasn’t worthy, he didn’t deserve it, but God had given him this moment, a blessing to cherish.

  “You doing okay, sweets?” came Fern’s voice from behind him.

  Was she calling him sweets?

  “I’m fine, Mama Fern,” Mercedes piped up, and Carlo realized his mistake. Oh, well, it had felt nice for that one second. He shook his head and kept moving steadily toward the barns.

  As soon as they got inside, Mercedes struggled to get down and ran to see the d
ogs. Carlo sank down on the bench beside the door, panting. Mercedes was tiny, but carrying her while breaking a trail had just about done him in.

  “You’re still sick,” Fern scolded, standing in front of him. “You should probably be resting, not working.”

  “I’m fine, I just need a minute.” Carlo wiped perspiration from his brow and staggered to his feet, calling to mind all the time he’d spent in battle under less than ideal physical circumstances. “What’s the drill? Same as last night?”

  Fern put a hand on her hip. Man, was she cute! “The drill is, you sit there and rest. Mercedes and I will feed the dogs.”

  “I’m a good helper,” Mercedes called over from where she was squatting in front of a kennel, fingers poking in at the puppies inside.

  “That’s right, honey. But we never put our fingers in unless we’re sure of our welcome.”

  Mercedes’s lower lip poked out. “These ones are fine. You said.”

  “That’s right. You’re doing it just right.”

  Sunshine returned to the little girl’s face and Carlo marveled at her mood shifts. Was that normal, or a product of losing her mom and changing homes? Or of whatever lifestyle Kath had put her through?

  In any case, Fern seemed to handle his daughter beautifully. He wondered if he could do half as well.

  “Oh, before I forget.” Fern snapped her fingers and hurried over to the cage just next to the one where Mercedes was squatting. “We’re supposed to check on this one mama dog. I got a text this morning.”

  “Pregnant?” Carlo asked. He was starting to catch his breath. Man, his stamina was totally gone after just a couple of weeks of this wretched tropical fever. But he needed to pull himself together and show he was a hard worker, a man who could protect and care for others. That was how he’d get custody of his daughter, not by wheezing on a bench like a ninety-year-old with lung disease.

  “No, she’s not pregnant. She had puppies and all but one died, so they put the one in with another litter to socialize it and...aw, Mama, you’re lonely, aren’t you?”

  Carlo walked over to where Fern was kneeling and peered into the kennel. A large chocolate-brown dog lay in the back corner, head on paws.