Loree Lough - An Accidental Mom

Lily smiled at the young boy. “She’s absolutely right, Nate.”

“I’ve been asking God for a mom forever. And when you found that dog? I talked to Him about that, too. No mom, no dog. ’Nuff said.”

“God doesn’t always answer with a ‘yes,’ Nate, but He always answers,” she explained. “Maybe he’s saying ‘Wait.’ When the time’s right, if it’s His will…”

“His will? What’s that?”

“Well, will is…it’s like a plan. Long before you were born, God knew you, knew what was best for you, too. And for as long as you live, He’ll do everything in His power to see that you have what you need.”

“What I need is a mom.” And under his breath, “Dog would be nice, too.”

Oh, if only she could fill that role! He was adorable, big-hearted, smarter than any four-year-old she’d ever met. And he was part of his father. No wonder she was crazy about him!

A full-time writer for many years, Loree Lough has produced more than two thousand articles, dozens of short stories and novels for the young (and young at heart), and all have been published here and abroad. The award-winning author of more than thirty-five romances, Loree also writes as Cara McCormack and Aleesha Carter.

A comedic teacher and conference speaker, Loree loves sharing in classrooms what she’s learned the hard way. The mother of two grown daughters, she lives in Maryland with her husband and an old-as-dirt cat named Mouser (who, until she caught and killed her first mouse, had no idea what a rodent was).

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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I will sing the mercies of the Lord forever; with my mouth I will make known thy faithfulness to all generations.

—Psalms 89:1

To Larry, without whose patience and understanding my writing wouldn’t be possible;

to Elice and Valerie, my daughters and best friends.

Dear Reader,

Some of my all-time favorite poems and stories were composed by Henry van Dyke (1852–1933). The words of this gentle Pennsylvania-born man, who spent his life pastoring in New York and teaching English literature at Princeton, have been touching readers’ hearts since his first works were published.

I wish Max Sheridan, my hero in An Accidental Mom, had discovered van Dyke’s writings earlier; maybe then he wouldn’t have slipped so far from his Father’s guiding hand….

For the poet’s guileless words remind us how simple it is to invite God into our lives, how very eager He is to accept our invitation. Perhaps a word, a phrase from the quiet, thought-provoking verses would have spared Max years of cold, lonely searching.

If you, like Max, find yourself a little lost, a little too far from the restful solace of the Almighty’s embrace, do yourself a favor and read as many of Henry van Dyke’s poems and stories as you can get your hands on. I promise, you won’t regret it!

If you enjoyed An Accidental Mom, drop me a note c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. I love hearing from my readers, and try to answer every letter personally.

All my best,

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

The four-year-old wrapped an arm around his father’s leg. “Daddy,” he said, tugging at the pocket of his father’s sports coat, “why do people come to the simmy-terry?”

The day was as gray as Max Sheridan’s mood, and Nate’s questions did nothing to improve it. He looked into the innocent, brown eyes and smiled despite himself. Oh, but he loved this kid! “To visit loved ones, Nate. To pay our respects to people who have died.”

Nate knelt in the damp grass. One by one, he placed the white roses he’d chosen at the flower mart at the feet of the marble angel guarding his mother’s grave. “Mommy isn’t in there.” He spoke with conviction. “Only her bones. Her soul is in heaven with God.”

He stood and pressed close to his father. “Right, Dad?”

Max inhaled deeply. “Yes, Nate.” He’d told bedtime stories to soothe the boy to sleep; how different was this white lie? He’d tried believing in God, in miracles. Well, if God truly existed and He could perform miracles, he and Nate wouldn’t be here at Melissa’s grave, now would they?

For a long time, Nate merely stared at the tombstone. “She isn’t cold, you know….”

Nate had been too young when Melissa died to have any real memory of her. He seemed to have no recollection of those bleak days in the funeral parlor, when friends and relatives speculated about why a beautiful woman with so much to live for would take her own life. If there had been a God to thank for that, Max would have prayed himself hoarse. Max had only brought Nate to Peaceful Gardens twice, and each visit inspired new curiosities—and childlike observations about death, dying and the afterlife—in his son.

“…because the tempa-chure in heaven is always a pleasant seventy-five degrees.” Nate’s beaming face told Max how proud he was to have remembered that tidbit of information.

Max chuckled. He was something else, this kid of his. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Gramma Georgia tol’ me so, on the phone yesterday when I tol’ her we were coming here to say goodbye to Mommy. She said Mommy will always be warm and happy, ’cause everything is perfect up in heaven.”

If God didn’t exist, then neither did heaven. But Max smiled. He saw no point in tarnishing the boy’s image of…things.

Even Max didn’t understand why, when in all other areas he’d been a no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is parent. Fairy tales were stories, nothing more. Santa and the Easter Bunny were invented to put money into the pockets of the greeting card manufacturers. The tooth fairy? The lazy parents’ way of coaxing their kids to brush and floss. Far better to extinguish his son’s belief in fantasies like that than to let him grow up and find out how painful and unrelenting the real world could be.

Strangely, though, he was less rigid when it came to matters of religion, spirituality and faith. If Nate wanted to attend Sunday school with his school chums, fine. If he wanted to tag along when the neighbors attended services, so be it. Nate got so much out of the whole “church thing” that Max couldn’t bring himself to put an end to it. Something, though, told him that the longer he waited to teach the boy the truth as he saw it, the more difficult it would be.

“Is Gramma full of beans?”

Laughing, Max took Nate’s hand. Where did the kid come up with this stuff? “’Course not, son.”