Stephanie Dees - Their Secret Baby Bond

That little girl would have the courage to open a door. It was just a door.

She turned the knob and shoved it open, blinking at the swirl of dust in the warm air. Her studio had been the place she’d gone to, as a teenager, when things got rough or rocky. Or sad or happy or confusing.

Her mom hadn’t changed much, if anything, in the tiny room tucked into the eaves of the old house. Wynn’s paints were still haphazardly strewn on the desk and her easel held a small unfinished watercolor. She picked up the sketchbook from the top of a teetering stack of identical books. When had she lost the wonder she’d always had at the world around her?

Probably around the same time she stopped looking at her job as an opportunity to make things better for someone else and started looking at it as a career. She’d lost her ability to dream, to think of others besides herself. Worse, she’d lost her confidence in herself and her faith that God had a plan and kept His promises.

Somewhere along the way, she’d imagined that her plan was better.

Well, she could see how that turned out.

She’d like to blame Preston. And while he definitely shared the blame, it wasn’t all his fault. She was the one who’d let go of her morals and her beliefs. She was the one who replaced her dreams with his—until he replaced her in his life with the newer, prettier, more idealistic model.

Wynn slid her hand down around the very small, almost imperceptible curve of her belly, and whispered, “I promise I’ll do better.”

She had to. She had barely six months to figure out how.

The room was dusty, the paper she had painted on dry and curling at the edges. The whole space looked used up and ready for the trash bin. Fitting. That’s exactly how she felt.

Sweeping the pile of dried-up paints into the trash can, she tried to imagine that she was sweeping out the parts of her that she didn’t want anymore, the parts that didn’t work for her and could never be salvaged. Maybe it all just needed to go.

She caught her breath on a sob.

The watercolor paints—those she could keep. They were dried up and cracking with disuse but...they could be revived with a little tending.

Maybe the vibrant parts of her, the passionate, giving part of her, could be revived with a little tending. She would start by carrying her sketchbook and pencil in her bag again. For a long time, that sketchbook had served as a place for her to record her impressions, ideas and dreams.

Yes, her soul needed tending. The favorite part of what made her who she was had been sadly neglected.

The worst part is that if anyone had asked her as a high school senior if she would ever let a man get in the way of her priorities, she would’ve been so offended.

A slight knock sounded at the doorway to the small studio. Wynn scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. When she turned, her mom was standing in the opening.

“Hey. I wondered when you would come in here.”

“It’s been too long. Mom, I don’t know why I didn’t come home more.”

“You were busy trying to find out who you were.”

Wynn laughed, but the sound wasn’t cheerful. “It’s funny, but I think I had to come home to find out who I really am. I keep saying I don’t know how I got to this point, but I do. I let a man come between me and what I knew was right. I let my desire to make a difference somehow become a desire to be wanted and needed. And he was only too willing to take advantage of it.”

Bertie walked closer and studied the painting on the easel. “He...the congressman?”

“Preston Schofield the fourth, career politician.” She pressed her lips together in a firm line.

“You seem a little bitter, Wynn. Congressman Schofield gave you a great opportunity.”

Once, Wynn had believed that to be true. Now she knew better. “Mom, I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, honey.” Bertie’s face softened in sympathy, but she didn’t look shocked.

Wynn sucked in a breath and, unable to meet her mother’s eyes, whirled around to look out the window. “You aren’t surprised. How long have you known?”

“I didn’t know who—but I’ve known you were pregnant since just after you got home. I’m your mom, Wynn. Did you think I wouldn’t guess?”

Wynn’s eyes filled with tears, the familiar walls of her studio blurring as words she’d been longing to say came pouring out. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t...want you to be disappointed in me.”

Her mom turned Wynn to face her, wrapping her arms around her as she did when Wynn was a child. “I’m not disappointed in you, Wynn. Everyone loses their way once in a while. I used to tell you when you were little that nothing you could do would ever make me stop loving you. It’s still true.”

Wynn took a deep breath and released it, along with some of the tension knotting the muscles in her back. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. Claire and Jordan offered me the cottage.”

“That’s a good thought.” Her mom picked up one of the small paintings and studied it. “I’ve been meaning to clean out in here for years. Why don’t you start by remembering who you were before all this happened?”

A phone rang from somewhere in the house. Bertie put the painting on top of another pile of things. “I’ve got to get that, and then I’m going to make a chocolate cake. Come down to the kitchen when you’re ready for a break.”

Wynn glanced at her watch. “I actually have to go. I promised Latham I’d stay with his pop this afternoon. I won’t be late, though.”

“No problem. Chocolate cake will keep.”

“I love you, Mom.”

Already halfway out the door, Bertie turned back. “I love you, too, baby girl. And I just can’t wait to see what God has in store for you next.”

As her mom disappeared down the hall, Wynn heard the muffled hello as Bertie answered the phone. She turned back to her studio, the room where she’d dreamed and planned and painted. Soon the smell of her favorite chocolate cake would be in every nook and cranny of the house. Each one of Bertie’s kids had their favorite comfort food. For Wynn, it was always chocolate cake. Jules loved bread; Ash, cinnamon rolls; and Joe, chocolate chip cookies. Bertie would bake, and then they would sit at the table with a glass of milk and talk it out.

She stood in the door to the studio, her hand on the knob. Deliberately, she walked away, leaving it open.

Downstairs, she picked up her keys from the counter in the kitchen. Bertie was unloading ingredients from the pantry to the counter. “Mom, Mr. Grant thought I was you when I was filling in at the Hilltop. Does he have some kind of dementia?”

“Something like that, from what I understand. I don’t know the details, but he’s really gone downhill since Mrs. Margenia died a couple of years ago. I’m driving car pool for Claire this afternoon, but I could come out after I get the kids to the farm.”

“No, thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

In the car, on the way to Latham’s place, Wynn’s stomach tumbled with nerves, but she had no reason to be anxious. This wasn’t rocket science. This was being kind to someone who needed help.

She might’ve been in Washington, DC, a long time, but she still remembered how to be kind.

* * *

Latham pushed the back door open silently. He’d gotten called in to sub in one of the freshmen history classes and was an hour later getting home than he’d planned on being.

The house was quiet, the TV murmuring in the background. Wynn sat at the kitchen table, late-afternoon light creating a halo around her hair as she sketched on a pad. She was so pretty. Always had been, but in high school it hadn’t been her looks that drew him to her.