Janet Dean - Wanted - A Family

No, she refused to worry. Just because her parents and Martin had died tragically didn’t mean disaster lurked around every corner. Countless women had children and managed fine.

But alone?

She knew very few who’d handled that responsibility without a husband. She laid a hand on her abdomen. Please, God, keep my baby safe. Help me be a good mother.

If only she could talk to her mother, to ask advice, to share the specifics of motherhood. Her throat clogged. She didn’t have her mother, but she did have a mother-in-law and the ladies at church to advise her. She’d have support.

As she fingered the soft blanket, visualizing cuddling her baby swathed in its folds, filling her arms and her heart with a family of her own, tension drained out of her.

“Small, aren’t they?” Commodore’s gentle, almost reverent voice startled her. “Takes me back to Martin’s arrival.”

Surprised by this sentimental side of Commodore, Callie met his moist gaze and smiled. “From the pictures I’ve seen, Martin was a beautiful baby.”

“Sure was. And strong. Why, he held up his head that first week.” His voice sounded gruff, thick with emotion. “If you want material to make our grandbaby anything, I’ll, ah, wrap it up.” He shifted. “No charge. Get some dresses, too.”

“Thank you. That’s most generous.” Callie had no idea how she’d manage it, but somehow she’d find a way. “I’ll work here on Saturdays to repay you.”

“Nonsense. We want to help. We still have Martin’s crib, high chair, baby carriage. Dorothy saved everything he touched.”

Commodore’s effort to build a bridge between them softened Callie’s wariness. “I could put the crib in the small bedroom.”

His gaze hardened. “If you’d move in with us, we’d see to your and the baby’s every need.”

At the familiar argument, a constant sting between them, Callie sighed. Could she make Commodore understand? She had to try. She took a fortifying breath. “I need a place of my own to raise my child and make a life. Not to shut you and Dorothy out, but to have my own traditions, my own routines.”

“You can do all that at our place. Why are you being stubborn? You used to be reasonable, someone we could talk to.” He exhaled impatiently. “Why not be honest? All you can think about is housing that Langley girl.”

“That’s part of it, but not all. I wish you could understand.”

“I understand, all right.” He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “You’d rather remain in a house that caused Martin’s death than move in with us. My son would want you and his baby with us.”

As if Commodore had known Martin’s mind. They’d been at odds for years. Fighting to control her emotions, Callie inspected several baby things.

“Commodore, I appreciate your concern about the house, but I want to assure you I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile. “I know the house’s every flaw and will be careful.”

“I can’t stomach the sight of it.” Commodore’s tone was harsh, condemning. “If not for that eyesore, my son would be alive today, not laid out in Walnut Grove Cemetery. But no, you had to have this house. Nothing but that monstrosity would do.”

Callie wrapped her arms around herself. Did he blame the house for Martin’s death? Or was he dancing around the fact that he blamed her? “I’m heartsick about Martin’s fall, his death.” A sob tore from her throat. “But leaving my house won’t bring him back. Nothing we do will bring him back.”

Her nagging had cost Martin his life. If only Callie had asked someone with experience to replace the shingles, instead of fussing about the cost, about yet another bill they couldn’t pay.

Perhaps living with Martin’s parents would be her penance. But she couldn’t cope under Commodore’s accusing eyes. Decrepit or not, she had to keep the house, the one place where she felt at home. The one place she could recreate the family she’d lost.

And fulfill the promise she’d made to Nell. The promise she’d made to God to provide for unwed mothers.

“Commodore, please. Martin saw our home as a perfect place to raise our children.”

“It hardly makes sense for Dorothy and me to rattle around in that big house of ours, while your place drains you dry. From where I stand, you’re going to lose it anyway.”

His words tore through Callie and ricocheted in her chest. How would she provide for Elise and two babies, once they arrived? “I’ve got to go.” She whirled toward the door.

If God wanted her to give Elise a home and others like her, He’d show her a way to handle the expense, just as He’d brought her a carpenter to make the repairs.

It would all work out.

She was sure of it.

Sporting a new haircut and a surly attitude toward the barber who’d shorn him like a spring lamb, Jake returned to demolishing the porch. Elise’s father had bombarded him with questions. No doubt suspicious of a newcomer. Or, if Jake chose to think the best of people, perhaps Langley merely was making conversation.

In any case, Jake admitted that he was renovating the Mitchell place and had met the barber’s daughter. Neither spoke of Elise’s condition, though obviously her father had her on his mind. He’d had the gall to suggest that Callie Mitchell had persuaded his daughter to move in with her. Jake had leaped to her defense, raising Langley’s ire. The man used his scissors to emphasize his points. Jake was fortunate to still be in possession of his ears.

Mrs. Mitchell opened the screen door. “Do you need the fruit jar refilled?”

Did this woman never stop thinking of others? “I’d appreciate it.” He carried the jar to her, promptly getting lost in the depths of her dazzling blue-green eyes.

“Did Mr. Langley say anything about Elise?”

“He’s not happy she’s living here.”

Her eyes dimmed. “I know.”

An urge to teach Langley a thing or two for upsetting Mrs. Mitchell this way gripped Jake. But what did he know about being a father? About dealing with an unwed daughter in a family way?

“Yoo-hoo! Callie!” A twig of a woman, white hair frizzing around her face like a windblown cloud, lurched up the walk pulling a loaded wagon, impressive for someone surely approaching eighty.

“Mildred, whatever are you toting in that wagon?”

“Memories, dear. Births, deaths and everything in between.” The lady’s hand swept the stacks of newspapers and scrapbooks crammed to overflowing. “Some of this memorabilia dates back to the town’s beginnings.”

“That’s nice but…I don’t understand why you’re bringing all that here.”

“You will as soon as I explain.” She tilted her head toward Jake. “You’re that fellow who stopped at my place looking for work. I’d have hired you, but I’m not sure of my plans for the house.” Jake nodded.

“It’s about time you got help, Callie, before this house falls down around your ears. Not an easy way to get them pierced.” She gave an unladylike snort.

“Mr. Smith’s already replaced the roof shingles.”

“Ah, a hard worker and easy on the eyes.” The woman winked. “I may be old as dirt, but I can still appreciate a good-looking man. Not why I wed my dear husband, but I enjoyed that handsome face of his more than dessert after a meal.”

At Mrs. Uland’s perusal, Jake’s neck heated. The feisty older woman merely grinned, as if enjoying his discomfort.

“This old Victorian sat empty too long. All it needs is someone who cares like Callie here and someone with the know-how to give it life.” Her approving gaze rested on Jake. “Appears that’s you, Mr. Smith.”

“Sitting empty isn’t good for a house,” he said.