His Secret Child

by Lee Tobin McClain

“He wants a lot more than that,” she said, her voice low and furious. “But he’s not going to get it.”

  “Come on, my man,” Chief Kenny said, clapping an arm around his shoulders. “Probably best to leave.”

  Carlo could tell from the fire chief’s watchful expression that the man thought he was going to do something dangerous. Carlo was the bad kid by reputation, and maybe that wasn’t just in the past. No one trusted him, and why should they? He hadn’t exactly earned anyone’s trust.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Carlo had gotten a room at the cheap hotel at the edge of Rescue River and was kicking himself for not doing that in the first place. Better to have braved an accident than to have ruined everything with his daughter.

  But the roads were closed. And they needed your help.

  When he thought of Fern and Mercedes out there alone at the rescue, what it would have been like for them to take care of the dogs and deal with the electricity going out, he had to be glad he’d been there.

  He should have told the truth as soon as he’d realized it, that was all. He’d been an idiot.

  After an hour of beating himself up, he pulled himself together, as he’d done so many times before. He called the social worker, Daisy Hinton—Sam Hinton’s little sister, whom he remembered vaguely from his school years, and had seen most recently at his sister’s wedding—and made an appointment to see her the next Monday. And then he took a shower and shaved and put on clean clothes. He had to get out of his miserable state of mind so that he could function, could get on his game and figure out how to play this right.

  Somehow he’d envisioned returning to Rescue River a little differently. He’d thought he would come stay with Angelica and Troy, get his feet under him and get their take on the situation. When he was ready, he’d go to work on getting his daughter back.

  His illness and the snowstorm and Angelica’s absence had wrecked his plans. Not to mention that he’d met a woman who’d softened his jaded heart, who touched him in a way no one ever had...and then hurt her terribly. Now he had total chaos on his hands.

  He tried to pray, but his thoughts kept circling back to all the ways he’d screwed up. He kept picturing Fern’s hurt eyes and Mercedes’s worried expression. He had a whole weekend to get through before he could move on this and fix things, and if he spent it in this tiny motel room, he was going to be in no shape to stand up and fight for his child.

  Air, he needed air. He pulled on the down coat he’d picked up at the discount store on the way into town and headed out on foot into the little town where he’d grown up.

  It wasn’t five minutes until he ran into someone who knew him.

  “Well, as I live and breathe, it’s Carlo Camden,” said a woman with gray hair peeking out from a furry hat. She wore a fur coat that reached to the top of her boots and she walked with one of those rolling walkers.

  He squinted at her. “Miss Minnie Falcon?” Automatically, he straightened his shoulders and stuck out a hand to his old Sunday-school teacher. “How are you, ma’am?”

  “Doing well for eighty-nine. What are you doing back in town?”

  Of course she’d ask that, and of course he didn’t have a ready answer and couldn’t find one, not in the sharp light of those piercing blue eyes.

  “I’m, uh, just visiting.” He stuck his hands into his pockets, feeling as if he were fourteen.

  “Visiting whom?” Her eyes were sharp with curiosity.

  Did he have to answer her out of respect for her age? “A few people,” he said vaguely, and turned the tables. “How about you? Are you still living in the same big place on Maple Street?” He remembered being invited to Miss Minnie’s home as a Sunday-school kid, dragging Angelica along because there was no one else to care for her, and being petrified with fear that she’d put a dirty hand on the wallpaper or break a china figurine. But to his surprise, tart Miss Minnie, who’d seemed ancient even back then, had been kind. She’d taken one look at the rapid pace with which Carlo and Angelica were eating her cookies and made them sit down in her kitchen for a full lunch—sandwiches and fruit and milk.

  “I sold my home to Lacey Armstrong two years ago. She’s making a guesthouse out of it, although why she would do that, I don’t know. She wants to redecorate it in all kinds of modern styles, make it artsy, whatever that means.”

  In his old teacher’s voice Carlo heard sadness and loss. “Where are you living now?” he asked gently.

  Her mouth twisted a little. “I’m in prison over at the Senior Towers. My nieces and nephews insisted.”

  “Accepting visitors?”

  She looked surprised. “Why would you want to visit an old lady like me?”

  “Because,” he said, “I learned about missionaries in your Sunday-school class, and now I’ve become one. I remember how you made missionary life sound so exciting. Thought you might want to hear a bit about mine, see a few pictures.”

  “Are you trying to raise money?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  He laughed outright. “No. I’m not sure what’s next for me.”

  “All right, then. You come and see me, and we’ll talk.”

  She turned toward the Chatterbox Café, and when Carlo saw the table of gray-haired ladies waving, he figured the place was aptly named. The story of his being back in town, a missionary and planning to visit her, would give his old teacher a little bit of news to share.

  He continued on down the street with a marginally better attitude toward the town of his youth.

  He passed the bar where his parents had spent a fair amount of time. He was familiar with the place, having gone in to find his folks multiple times, especially when they were neglecting Angelica. On occasional visits back to town, he’d stopped in and seen some of his old high school cronies. But he’d given up drinking, not liking what it did to him or to others.

  Across the street was his brother-in-law’s veterinarian’s office, and he wondered who was staffing it while Troy was traveling. An answer came when a man in scrubs walked out, helping an older woman carry a large dog crate. It looked like Buck Armstrong, a guy Carlo vaguely remembered as being in Angelica’s class at school. He stopped and watched the pair walking toward the lone SUV parked in front of the clinic as he remembered what Angelica had said about Buck’s struggles with alcoholism.

  Apparently, before Troy and Angelica had gotten back together, Buck had asked Angelica out and then showed up too drunk to drive. He was a veteran, so Angelica said, and as he watched the man hoist the crate into an SUV, speak briefly to the owner and then stride back into the vet clinic, Carlo figured he might like to get to know him. Nobody understood a vet like a vet, and if the guy was drying out, he might welcome a friend who didn’t socialize exclusively at bars.

  Up ahead was the church. Carlo noted it for future reference and then turned down Maple Avenue.

  Inside a building that he remembered as a dress shop, he saw decorations and renovations going on for what looked like a restaurant. Past that, he could see the Senior Towers, so named because, at six stories, they were the tallest buildings in town. Just visible was Miss Minnie’s massive old Victorian, which apparently was being renovated, as well. What must that be like, for the old woman to look out the windows of her Senior Towers apartment and watch the innards of her old home being ripped out?

  Yes, he’d visit her soon.

  He turned the corner and there was the library, a squat brick building that had been something of a haven for him and Angelica growing up. Fern’s workplace now.

  Fern. He drew in a breath and let it out in a sigh, wondering how she was doing, whether she and Mercedes were enjoying some solitude or had gotten out for shopping or visiting.

  Funny how a few days together had let him in on their routine. It was late afternoon, so Fern was probably fixing dinner, letting Mercedes h
elp her, talking to the child in her serious way about measurements and kitchen safety.

  He missed them with an awful, achy, scraped-raw feeling. Before he could sink into more sadness, he hurried past the library and came upon the park.

  Every kid in town was there, it seemed, sledding on the small hill, enjoying what was left of a Friday’s daylight. Whoops and shouts came from bigger boys on saucer sleds. He looked more closely when he noticed that several kids were sliding on cardboard, just as he and Angelica had done. Worked almost as well as a sled, maybe a little more adventurous.

  He walked closer and noticed a couple of parents watching the sledding hill, calling out cautions to their kids in Spanish. On impulse, he greeted them in their native tongue, asking about their kids. It turned into a conversation, and Carlo learned that they were new in town, living on the same so-called Rental Row where Carlo had lived as a kid. They were from Guatemala, where he’d spent some time, and they shared a few stories. By the time he left, he had an invitation to their home for enchiladas—real ones, not the taco-joint kind.

  He headed back toward the motel in a thoughtful frame of mind. There’d been a time when he wanted to run as far as possible away from Rescue River. The place held too many bad memories.

  What he hadn’t counted on was that he himself had changed. He’d grown up. And the town was changing, too, getting some new business, opening to some new kinds of people. Given its background on the Underground Railroad, it had always been a little more diverse than the average midwestern farm town, but it looked as though that diversity was increasing. The family he’d just met had said there were a number of people from Mexico and Central America in their neighborhood.

  All of a sudden, Rescue River didn’t look half bad. The problem was that his own ineptness had probably ruined his chances of building a home here.

  Chapter Ten

  On Sunday morning, Fern was dishing scrambled eggs onto Mercedes’s plate when the farmhouse doorbell rang.

  Her whole body tensed. Was he back?

  Friday had been a rough day, with her own emotions so raw and Mercedes upset about how she’d kicked Carlo out. Yesterday, she’d managed to cocoon with Mercedes all day, reading stories, watching movies and playing in the snowy yard. Through it all, she’d tried to convey all the love and caring she felt for the little girl, sick at heart that their time together might come to an end soon.

  She just hadn’t wanted to face the world, not with her own humiliation about Carlo’s betrayal so raw, and her fears about losing Mercedes so intense. But now Mercedes scooted out of her chair and ran to the door, clearly joyous about company.

  “Wait, don’t open it without Mama,” she called, setting the egg pan down on the stove and hurrying after Mercedes. For all she knew, Carlo could have come to sweep the child away, legally or not.

  He wouldn’t do that, said a voice inside her. The voice that knew Carlo as an honorable, even heroic man.

  You don’t know him as well as you thought you did, said a rival voice. He might.

  But when she opened the door, slender, silver-haired Lou Ann Miller stood there with a napkin-covered basket in hand. “Hello! I tried to call but couldn’t get through.”

  “Spotty reception,” Fern apologized. No need to mention she’d turned her phone off.

  “Anyway, I made way too many of these rolls, and I wanted to share them with you and Mercedes. You like cinnamon rolls, honey?”

  Mercedes squealed. “Mommy used to cook them. She let me pop the can and it made a bang!”

  Lou Ann chuckled. “These are made the old-fashioned way, but they’ll be almost as good as the canned ones. May I come in a minute, Fern?”

  At that, Fern realized then that she was keeping a seventysomething woman on the porch in the cold. “Of course! We were just sitting down to breakfast. Would...would you like to join us?”

  “Now, that’s an offer I can’t refuse,” Lou Ann said. She handed her big puffy coat to Mercedes. “You find a place to put that, dear. Maybe right over there on the banister. No need to hang it up.”

  As she led the well-dressed woman toward the kitchen, Fern resigned herself to a lecture, probably an effort to get her to attend church. After all, it was Sunday morning, and only nine o’clock. There was plenty of time to get there for the ten-thirty service.

  Normally, she would go. She’d been extra meticulous about churchgoing since she had Mercedes to care for, a young soul to raise up right. Today, though, she felt hopeless about that and unable to face the friendly, curious, small-town congregation.

  “What a good breakfast you cook for that child,” Lou Ann said as they approached the table, and the older woman’s approval warmed her. She was glad she’d fixed a big pan of eggs, plenty to share.

  She finished dishing them up, took the plastic wrap off the fruit she’d cut up earlier and whisked away the loaf of raisin bread, replacing it with Lou Ann’s rolls. They all sat down, and Mercedes reached her hands out trustingly. “Can we sing my prayer, Mama Fern?”

  “Of course.” But Fern’s own voice broke a little as Mercedes belted out the preschool blessing, backed by Lou Ann’s deep alto. How long until she lost custody of Mercedes?

  “You know the prayer!” Mercedes said to Lou Ann as she grabbed for a cinnamon roll.

  Lou Ann helped her to serve herself. “Of course. I learned it from Xavier, right here in this kitchen.”

  So they chatted about Xavier and Angelica and Troy, how Lou Ann had helped Troy around the house when he’d broken his leg, how she’d watched them become a family. “There’s something about this place,” Lou Ann said, looking around the cheerful kitchen. “It just seems to lend itself to people coming together.”

  Fern kept her eyes on her plate. It hadn’t worked in her case, though for a brief, unrealistic moment, she’d thought it had.

  “Mr. Carlo stayed here with us during the blizzard,” Mercedes announced. “And I asked if I could get him for a daddy, like Xavier got Mr. Troy, but...” She shook her head, her face worried. “Him and Mama Fern had a fight.”

  “Mercedes!” Fern looked quickly at Lou Ann, expecting harshness and judgment.

  But the older woman just nodded and helped herself to more fruit without looking at Fern. “Sometimes that happens.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mercedes seemed to take Lou Ann’s calm reaction as evidence that nothing was wrong.

  Fern got a tiny flash of the same feeling herself. Maybe this was just a fight. Maybe there was still a chance.

  Mercedes lifted her hands in a comical, palms-up gesture. “Whatever.”

  Both women laughed, Fern blushing a little, and Lou Ann patted Mercedes’s shoulder. “As far as having a daddy goes, any man would feel blessed to have you for his little girl.”

  The child’s expression faltered. “I’m probably not gonna get one. Can I go watch TV?” Without waiting for an answer, she darted from the table and into the TV room.

  “Mercedes!” Fern started to stand up.

  Lou Ann touched her hand. “Let her go. You have to choose your battles with little ones, and I must have upset her with my comment. I’m sorry.”

  Fern sighed. “She’s sensitive about her lack of a father, and I think her mom told her some negative things before she turned her life around.”

  “That’s tough. Plus, she’s recently lost her mother. And she may not feel quite secure with you. It’s only been a few months, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, and the adoption isn’t finalized.” Fern felt an uncharacteristic urge to pour her heart out to Lou Ann, but she stopped herself. “There’s a lot of uncertainty. A lot to worry about.”

  “I’m sure.” Lou Ann stood up and started carrying dishes to the counter before Fern could stop her. “You sit. I know this kitchen better than you do, and a single mom doesn’t get man
y breaks.”

  The unexpected kindness warmed Fern, giving her a safe, cared-for feeling she wasn’t used to. “But you’re a guest.”

  “My offer comes with a price. I want you and Mercedes to come to church with me.”

  Of course. That was why she’d come. Fern had guessed as much. “Did Chief Kenny put you up to this?”

  “Kenny told me you could use a visit,” Lou Ann admitted. “It was my idea to do it Sunday morning. You could ride in to church with me.”

  “And be trapped into staying for the social hour, too?” Fern blurted out the words before she thought and then clapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry! It’s a generous offer and I really appreciate it. I’m just...having some trouble right now, and I don’t think I can face everyone.”

  “Then, drive yourself and sit in the back. You need the message,” Lou Ann said bluntly. “And so does that little girl.”

  Mercedes came in then, carrying the puppy, with Brownie trailing close behind. Fern opened her mouth to scold Mercedes for picking up the puppy without an adult present, but she clamped her mouth shut. Choose your battles, Lou Ann had said, and she was right.

  “Well, isn’t that a little cutie!” Lou Ann bent over to pat the puppy’s head.

  Brownie let out a low growl.

  “Brownie, it’s okay.” Fern moved to comfort the mama dog and make sure she didn’t lunge at Lou Ann. “She was separated from her pup for a while, and she’s protective.”

  “That’s how mothers are,” the older woman said comfortably before turning back to load dishes into the dishwasher.

  Feeling a sudden rush of sympathy for Brownie, Fern knelt beside the big dog and wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her ears. Mercedes set the puppy down beside Brownie and they all laughed as its legs splayed out on the slippery floor. For the first time since Carlo had dropped his bombshell, the pressure in Fern’s chest eased a little.

  Lou Ann was kind. And she was also right. Both Fern and Mercedes needed to get out, and they needed a good dose of spiritual comfort. “I think we’ll take your advice and go to church,” she said to Lou Ann. “I’ll drive so you don’t have to come back out here, but thanks for the push. We needed it.”