His Secret Child

by Lee Tobin McClain

  Now she knew it made sense; she’d gone into foster care grieving the loss of her parents, and so any ability she had to attach would have needed to be gently drawn out. She could hear echoes of her own history in Mercedes sometimes, how touchy grief was when the loss of a mother was involved, how it kept reemerging with different events and reminders. From her reading, she knew that the cycle would continue throughout Mercedes’s childhood: good months, and then plunging back into sadness again as she reached a new developmental stage.

  Fern hadn’t had a consistent, understanding caregiver in childhood, so she’d gone inside herself. And yeah, it had damaged her, to the point where she was terminally awkward with people and had only a few friends. Though some part of her longed for love and connection, she knew a warm family life wasn’t in the cards for her.

  Books had been her consolation and her friends, sometimes her only friends. They still were.

  And thinking of books, she needed to concentrate on hers, she scolded herself. She’d been looking forward to this vacation time for ages, as an opportunity to work on the book she was contracted to do. Things hadn’t gone as planned, at all, but right at this moment, she had a caregiver for her child and she had time to work. She’d best take advantage of it.

  But the scene outside kept tugging at her.

  Carlo and Mercedes were working together to lift the second giant snowball on top of the first one. Actually, Carlo was working and Mercedes was being more of a hindrance than a help, like any self-respecting four-year-old. She grabbed the snowball too tight and a big chunk broke off.

  But Carlo didn’t get mad. He laughed, set what remained of the snowball on top of the first and showed Mercedes how to pack extra snow into the hole she’d created.

  He was a patient man, surprisingly patient. In her experience, most dads couldn’t handle the antics and illogic and roller-coaster emotions of a preschooler, not as well as moms could. And someone like Carlo, obviously accustomed to the world of men, should have been totally out of his element.

  Instead, he seemed amazingly comfortable with Mercedes. He seemed to truly care about her.

  Watching them together, seeing their laughing faces, Fern frowned. There was something...some connection...

  She shook off the thought, forced her attention back to her work and managed to get an illustration finished. And then, when her thoughts drifted once more to the scene outside the window, she gave up. Gathering a few supplies, she pulled on her warm jacket and went out to help them with the snowman.

  “Mama!” Mercedes screamed when she saw Fern. “Look what we did! He’s the biggest snowman in the whole state!”

  “I think you might be right,” Fern said, because the snow giant did indeed stand as tall as Carlo. “But I think he needs eyes and a nose, don’t you?”

  When she produced a carrot for a nose and chocolate sandwich cookies for eyes, Mercedes was ecstatic and of course, she had to place them herself. So Fern lifted her up while Carlo steadied the snowman. “How about a scarf?” he offered, and removed the plaid one he’d taken from the closet.

  His coat was open and his head bare, and he wasn’t shivering; he looked white toothed and handsome, and Fern’s heart gave a little lurch. This was dangerous stuff. Dangerous, and not for her. She couldn’t trust a man like that, and she certainly couldn’t interest him. She turned away, feeling suddenly awkward.

  And was rewarded with a snowball smacking her in the leg.

  “Mama Fern, he threw a snowball at you!” Mercedes cried. “I want to do that, too!”

  “No way!” She spun, not wanting...something. For Mercedes to play rough. For Carlo to tease. For them to have fun together as the family that they weren’t.

  “C’mon, Mercy, I’ll help you,” Carlo offered.

  Fern opened her mouth to protest, but Carlo silenced her with a look. Which was a great trait for a military commander, but supremely annoying in a houseguest.

  “But,” he continued, “you have to follow the rules of snowballs. Do you know what they are?”

  “I didn’t know there were rules,” Mercedes said, wide-eyed.

  “There are. You can’t throw a snowball at a person’s head or face. And when they say stop, you have to stop.”

  Yeah, yeah, Mr. Controlling. Fern took advantage of his distraction to land a snowball in the middle of Carlo’s back.

  “Hey!” In a flash he’d leaned down, scooped and formed a snowball and lobbed it at her. “Don’t mess with a soldier, lady!”

  “Me, me, I want to do it!” Mercedes cried, jumping up and down, and Carlo helped her form a snowball and throw it.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. Fern wasn’t going to be able to stop the battle, so she worked out her mixed feelings toward Carlo with a fierce barrage of snowballs, tossing the occasional lob in Mercedes’s direction to keep the child happy. And she was happy; Fern loved the pink of Mercedes’s cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes.

  Mercedes hadn’t had a man in her life, not much. According to Kath, there had been a few boyfriends, but no one who’d lived in or stuck around.

  Seeing the way Mercedes acted with Carlo, her excitement, her tiny flirtations—and seeing the confident, physical way he played with her—Fern realized the benefits a male influence could provide.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t in the cards for her to marry and provide that influence. She was just too shy with men.

  Unless... Except...

  No. This was temporary. God had provided her with so much, giving her Mercedes. She couldn’t expect, didn’t deserve, any more. She’d have to solve the problem of a male influence for Mercedes another way.

  * * *

  Carlo hated to do it, but he turned on the television when they got inside. They’d been out of touch with the outside world for the better part of the day, but it was only right that he check and find out the weather forecast. They needed to know how long they’d be stranded and, if necessary, ration the supplies that were starting to run low.

  “Looks as if we’ll get some winds and drifting tonight,” the local weatherman was saying, “but the winter storm itself seems to be over. And around Ohio, the hardest-hit rural communities are starting to dig themselves out.”

  “Good news,” Carlo made himself say to Fern. “Looks as if we may have one more night, max, before the plows get through.”

  “That’s...great,” she said with enthusiasm that sounded forced. Making him wonder if she was enjoying their isolation, at least the slightest little bit.

  “Can we have hot chocolate?” Mercedes asked. “And more cookies?”

  “Sure,” Fern said, smiling at Mercedes.

  Trust a kid to stay in the present and remember what was important: hot chocolate after a stint of playing outdoors.

  And trust a woman like Fern to know how to do hot chocolate right: in big mugs, with leftover Christmas candy canes for stirrers and big dollops of marshmallow crème.

  “Let’s watch TV!” Mercedes cried as Fern carried the mugs toward the front room, where the fireplace was.

  Fern narrowed her eyes. “Let’s read a book and watch TV,” she proposed. “Which do you want to do first?”

  “TV, TV,” Mercedes begged, and Fern frowned, cocking her head to one side.

  “You can take the woman out of her library, but you can’t really take the library out of the woman,” Carlo said.

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Showing my true colors.”

  “You’re good for her,” Carlo said. “But there’s nothing wrong with a movie now and then.”

  “Not if we all watch together,” Fern said. “And not if it’s—” she studied the shelf of DVDs “—March of the Penguins!” She held up the case triumphantly.

  “Not a documentary!” Carlo scanned the shelf, knowing his sister wou
ld have his favorite movie. “How about A Christmas Story? I always wanted a Red Ryder BB gun!”

  “Let me see that. A gun? And a PG rating? I don’t think so.”

  And though he fake begged and pleaded, Fern wouldn’t back down. And she got Mercedes to vote with her by challenging her to walk like a penguin. And pretty soon they were all doing it, and laughing, and Carlo was giving in.

  Truthfully, he didn’t much care what movie it was, when he could watch it with this woman and this child and a delicious mug of hot chocolate.

  And pretend the world outside wasn’t really waiting for them.

  Chapter Seven

  Hours later, Fern came downstairs after putting Mercedes to bed. It was dark outside, but way too early to fall asleep, and she felt a sudden sense of trepidation.

  The scene in front of her felt scarily intimate. Like one of a million old movies she’d seen.

  Slowly, she walked into the room. Fireplace...check. Furry hearth rug...check. Low light...check. Snowstorm outside...check. Handsome man smiling at her...check.

  It was a setting for romance, and she knew exactly what was supposed to happen next. Even she herself was a stereotype: the shy librarian who’d take her glasses off and let her hair down and become a beautiful, passionate, at-ease woman.

  Except that was where the movie shut down; that was the page missing from the romance novel. She wasn’t a secretly passionate and beautiful woman waiting to be unleashed.

  She stomped in and sat down on the fur rug. It was itchy, and the fire felt hot. She couldn’t see anything in the low light. “I can’t wait to get out of here,” she said, and looked at Carlo defiantly. If he had some other expectation, just because there’d been a few sparks between them, he was going to be disappointed.

  Carlo looked at her strangely. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” She knew she sounded hostile, but it was better than pathetic. “Don’t you want to leave?” She figured he was dying to. He’d been kind to stay, but a man like Carlo had a million more exciting things to do than hang with the likes of her.

  “No, I don’t.” He shifted onto his side and propped his head on his elbow. “I’m in no hurry at all for the plows to get through.” He leaned back on his elbows and smiled at her.

  That smile warmed her face and chest, making her wish for things that women like her never got. She looked away. “I can’t wait,” she repeated. “I’m going crazy stuck in here.”

  “Because...”

  “It’s too hot!” She scooted away from the fire.

  Carlo raised an eyebrow. “Take something off.”

  “Oh, please.” She tried to sound casual, sophisticated, like the women he must be used to. Inside, his suggestion made her heart flutter like a caged bird.

  He reached out and touched her arm and she jerked violently away.

  “I just meant you have about six layers on.” He regarded her with a cryptic expression.

  Heat rose in her cheeks. She’d misinterpreted his remark as flirting, thinking he might be a little bit attracted to her, especially since there was no one else around.

  She reached for safer ground, a change of subject. “So since we have some time,” she said, “why don’t you tell me about your adventures in Central America?”

  His eyebrows lifted, and he looked surprised and a little uncomfortable. So there, buddy, I’m turning the tables on you.

  “That’s not very good entertainment.” He sat forward and poked at the fire. “Maybe we should just turn on the game.”

  As if to disallow that possibility, at that moment the power snapped off again. The room, suddenly dark, seemed to shrink to the circle of two in the fire’s low light.

  “Must be the rising temperatures,” Carlo said. “Makes for heavy snow on trees and power lines.” He stood and fumbled for the matches and lit the lamp, which cast its soft glow over the room.

  “Hopefully, it won’t stay off for as long this time,” she said. In reality, she welcomed the dim light, where Carlo couldn’t see her embarrassment, or whatever other feelings he stirred in her. “Guess that rules out TV, and you’ll have to entertain me.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “By telling me about your adventures.” She was back on steady ground now; she’d turned the tables and felt in control. The romantic situation was firmly squashed down, and she could do what she did best: listening.

  “Why don’t you tell me about you?” he asked, flopping down on his back with a kind of pleading in his voice.

  “Nope. Nothing ever happens to me. How come you decided to go to Central America?”

  He was silent for a minute, but she let him be, sensing the reason was complicated. Finally, he spoke. “I was looking for a way to use what I’d learned in the army, and make money, and get away from Rescue River. And I was kind of an adrenaline junkie.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” But she smiled. She could imagine a younger Carlo, restless, wanting to do big things.

  “I heard about an outfit that was helping out down there. Found out I had some sharpshooter skills they needed. The rest...” Through the dim room, she could see him lift his hands. “The rest just played out.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “What, Central America?”

  “Fighting. Being a soldier.”

  Firelight flickered across his face, and a log shifted and burst, sending out sparks and a crackling sound. Fern grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it under her head. Now the fur rug didn’t feel scratchy to her, just soft and warm. “Was it...fun? Exciting?”

  He let out a dry laugh. “Aah. No. Nobody really likes being a soldier.”

  “But that’s not true. A lot of people are proud of being in the military. Or...paramilitary, whatever it was with you.”

  “It was both, and being proud of it and liking it are two different things. I’m proud of some of the things we were able to accomplish, but...” He shook his head and shifted, a rustling movement in the dark room. “There’s a lot you don’t want to know about.”

  “People do want to know. At the library, military memoirs are getting more popular all the time.”

  “Especially if they sugarcoat the truth. The only audience that can take the true story are other vets.”

  “Maybe.” She waited, but he obviously wasn’t going to talk any more about that. And as a sheltered American who’d benefitted immensely from all that the armed forces had done for her, who was she to argue?

  On the other hand, she did want to keep him talking, so things wouldn’t go all romantic. So she could stay in control. And most guys loved to talk about themselves. Carlo didn’t seem to be fitting that stereotype, but maybe she just hadn’t found the right topic. “So why did you become a missionary?”

  “Can’t we talk about something else? Why did you become a librarian?”

  “Because I love books. Why’d you become a missionary?”

  He lifted himself up onto his side again and even in the dim light of the fire, she knew he was looking at her. “You’re a persistent little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been called...stubborn. Why don’t you want to talk about it?” Oh, she was on a roll now. If she could just keep him on edge and talking about himself, he wouldn’t try to make some horribly awkward or obligatory move on her. They could both be spared that.

  “I can talk about it,” he said, “if you’re really interested.”

  “I am.”

  “Okay, then,” he said. “I found Jesus, or rather, He found me.”

  She leaned toward him, curious. “No atheists in foxholes? Or was it more than that?” She’d had her own, quiet moment of conversion, but a part of her wished for fireworks.

  He gave her a wry smile. “I’m sure that’s part of it, but no. I thi
nk God chases us all our lives. I think He wants us to live His way.”

  Had God sought her? Fern tucked that away for further consideration. “And being a soldier wasn’t His way?”

  “Well.” He sighed. “Let’s just say there was a better way.”

  He was glossing over the story, she could tell. “I don’t believe you.”

  He sat up straighter. “What?”

  “You make it sound all pretty,” she said, “but I suspect there’s a lot more to the story. And that it’s not all cut-and-dried.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  “No, no. Just a...a whitewasher. Like, why’d you have a knife and practically battle armor in your bag if you’re just a sweet innocent missionary now?”

  His eyes narrowed just a little. “Being a missionary doesn’t mean having life easy. I’ve probably been in more dangerous situations as a missionary than I was as a soldier. But as long as we’re making accusations... I think you’re a distractor. I think you want to keep me talking so I don’t think about and talk about you.”

  She picked at a spot on the wooden floor, not looking at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, “that you sit over there on the other side of the fireplace with your arms wrapped around your knees, telling me I’m not truthful enough. It keeps the focus off you, and you like it that way.”

  She couldn’t help smiling at how well he’d read her. “Touché. It’s working, isn’t it?”

  His eyes glowed in the firelight, holding hers, and suddenly there was a whole lot more tension in the room. So much so that it felt overwhelming.

  “Tell me about your call to be a missionary,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...” She thought about it. “Because God hasn’t called me and I want to know what it’s like.”

  “Okay.” Apparently satisfied by her answer, he leaned back and cradled his head in his arms, staring up at the ceiling. “It was as if...I couldn’t get away. I didn’t have peace. I felt Him telling me He wanted to use me. Not in words, but...in thoughts. It was weird.”