Margaret Daley - Second Chance Family

“On occasion I’ve been considered determined,” Shane admitted. “I just feel bad about what happened.”

“Well, don’t. It won’t change anything.” She hopped out of the SUV and leaned back in when Shane and Jason stayed put. “Are you two coming in?”

“In a while. We’ll walk around here first. Visit the playground.”

Whitney grinned at the child and walked toward the main entrance. Once there, she peered back at the SUV. She glimpsed Shane’s attention directed at her, and a shiver of awareness shimmied down her back. He was an attractive man, but their worlds were vastly different. She’d promised herself she was going to start over, make something of herself. Finally get her plans in place. And they certainly didn’t include getting involved with a man. Especially not Shane…

feels she has been blessed. She has been married more than thirty years to her husband, Mike, whom she met in college. He is a terrific support and her best friend. They have one son, Shaun. Margaret has been writing for many years and loves to tell a story. When she was a little girl, she would play with her dolls and make up stories about their lives. Now she writes these stories down. She especially enjoys weaving stories about families and how faith in God can sustain a person when things get tough. When she isn’t writing, she is fortunate to be a teacher for students with special needs. Margaret has taught for over twenty years and loves working with her students. She has also been a Special Olympics coach and participated in many sports with her students.

For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

—Matthew 6:14–15

To my husband, Mike, who I love dearly

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

Epilogue

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

“This is not negotiable. My son will attend your school, starting this Thursday.” After dealing with a suicidal teenage girl most of the night, Dr. Shane McCoy didn’t need this.

“We aren’t equipped to deal with him. Jason should go to Eisenhower Elementary where there’s a class for children like him,” the principal said in a tight, highly controlled voice.

The woman’s last sentence shredded what composure he had. Pacing his bedroom, Shane plowed his fingers through his hair and tried to remain calm. He gripped the phone. “You’ve known he would attend for months.”

The rumble of thunder in the distance drew him toward an upstairs window at the front of his house. Jason didn’t do well in thunderstorms. Please, Lord, don’t let it rain—not today. He drew back the drapes and searched the sky. Dark clouds raced toward the east, away from his house.

“We’ve tried to find the right staff to handle your son, but…” The woman paused, taking a deep breath.

Jason appeared on the sidewalk leading from his house. What was he doing out front? Going to get the newspaper for Aunt Louise?

“But there aren’t—” the woman continued on the other line.

When his son ignored the paper lying in the grass, concern shot through Shane. He hurried toward his door. “I’ll be there for the meeting this afternoon. I’ve got to go,” he said, and clicked off the cell phone.

Am I making a mistake?

As the question intruded into Whitney Maxwell’s mind, her long hair whipped across her face, momentarily obstructing her view of the street she drove down.

“Jason! Stop!”

To the right of her someone’s frantic tone pierced the early morning air. Whitney fought the wayward strand, finally managing to hook it behind her ear at the same time her gaze riveted to a sudden movement. A child disappeared between two parked vehicles ahead of her, a second later reappearing in the path of her car as he raced across the road.

Clenching the steering wheel of her convertible Volkswagen vehicle, she jerked to full attention and slammed on the brakes. Not soon enough.

Without thought Whitney swerved her VW to the right. Into a big SUV. The sound of crunching metal drowned out the thundering of her heartbeat in her ears. When she was thrown forward, her seat belt halted her progress. The strap cut into her chest, disrupting her shallow breaths.

Almost to the other side of the street near a yellow trash can, the little boy stopped, pivoted and came straight toward her. When he reached the crash, he slid his hand over the smashed hood of her car, his gaze glued to it.

“Jason! Jason!” the woman screamed, her view blocked by the big SUV.

The little boy looked up, cocked his head, then whirled around and ran back the way he came—straight into the arms of the older woman who rushed between the parked vehicles. Whitney stared into the lady’s pale face as she quaked and hugged the child to her.

Everything happened so fast—only seconds—that Whitney’s head spun. Her hands shaking, she fumbled for the handle. She shoved the door open, swung her legs to the pavement and stood.

The thought of the near miss shuddered through her. Her legs weak, she started to sink and clutched the car to steady herself. She needed to check on the little boy and the older woman, but her whole body quaked. Drawing in several stabilizing breaths, she made her way to the pair now on the grass between the sidewalk and the street.

The older woman, tears in her eyes, held the child away from her. “Jason, you cannot run out into the street.”

“Like yellow.”

Yellow? What’s the child talking about?

“Wanted to touch. So pretty.”

Whitney glanced toward the trash can then at her yellow Volkswagen car. Her steps faltered at the implication of what could have happened. Thankfully she’d only been going twenty-five miles per hour because the child had been oblivious to the danger involved, and yet he appeared to be at least six or seven years old.

The sounds of a slamming door and pounding footsteps nearby drew Whitney’s focus toward the house in front of her. A large man, over six feet tall, jogged across the lawn toward them. His intense gaze first took in the child and woman, then slipped to Whitney hovering a few feet from the pair. It skimmed down her length before moving away. When his appraisal connected with her Volkswagen bug, a frown carved hard lines into his face.

“Aunt Louise, what happened?”

“Jason—” the older woman whimpered the name, tears streaking down her face as she clung to the child. “He—he…”

After patting the woman and whispering, “It’s okay. I’ll deal with this,” the man fixed his gaze on Whitney and strode toward her. “What happened?”

His question frosted the air between them. She straightened, her hands clenched at her sides. “The little boy ran out into the street from between these two parked cars.” She gestured toward the vehicles. “I had to swerve to avoid hitting him.”

His color drained from his face. He glanced over his shoulder at the boy and the older woman. The child tried to pull from her embrace, his arm outstretched toward Whitney’s VW.