Page 1 of A Whim and a Prayer

Prologue

The Boston Society for the Care of Girls,

Boston, Massachusetts, September 1933

“Ewww … get away from me, you frog-eyed frea—”

Whop! Before the insult could even part from Harold Mertz’s lips, five-year-old Winifred Doe’s worn leather shoe aimed dead center on his patched corduroy pants, eliciting a harsh grunt that doubled the eight-year-old orphan over with a loud groan.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Winifred “Fred” Doe launched onto Harold’s head like a rabid monkey, slamming him to the black-and-white linoleum floor with a loud thud, pummeling away like her life depended on it.

Because it did.

“Help! Get h-her off m-me,” Harold sobbed while attempting to crawl away, fear straining his tone as tears streamed from his eyes. “Stop!”

But Winifred couldn’t. Not until she felt the firm pull of a familiar tug, dragging her kicking and screaming backwards across the scuffed cafeteria floor as wide-eyed children and adults stared in shock, crowding around Harold like he was the one in need.

“Let me go—I’m gonna kill him!” she hissed, bucking and thrashing while someone quietly hauled her into the dim coatroom. “Let … me … go … now!”

But she knew he wouldn’t. Once inside the dark, away from the mumbles and murmurs, he’d just swallow her up in his skinny arms and gently rock her back and forth like she was some sniveling snot baby.

“Shhh … it’s all right, Winnie,” he’d whisper, the scent of the Hershey kisses she shared only with him drifting against her cheek as he held her close, “he’s not worth it.”

“I tell you, she’s not worth the air that she breathes …”

Winnie shivered, and those skinny arms only held on tighter while his voice sought to soothe. “Trust me—they’re the freaks, not you …”

“… oughta drown the little freak in the river like a rabies cat …”

“I promise you, Winnie, you’re worth more than the whole lot of them …”

And somehow, with those softly spoken words from the lips of the only boy she trusted, she knew that she was worth it—in his eyes, at least, if not anyone else’s.

Chest heaving, Winnie leaned into the solid embrace of the only real friend she had at The Boston Children’s Aid Society. An orphan like her, Beckett had taken a shine to Winnie at a BCAS function last year when some boys were making fun of her crossed eyes. He had defended her from their taunts, he said, because she reminded him of his little sister who had died—same petite size, same blond curls, and same blue eyes. That alone had sealed her trust because heaven knows she always wanted a big brother. The tight press of her lips silenced the rise of a grunt. Or any family at all …

She only saw Beckett during mass on Sundays and social events like this—meet-and-greets to showcase orphans that nobody really wanted, least not while a depression was going on. After all, who wanted another mouth to feed?

“Did Sister Margaret Ann see it?” Winnie asked guardedly, well aware that Mother Superior had issued her final warning: any more fights, and Winnie would lose the privilege of the Hershey kisses Mrs. D brought her every week. Winnie swallowed a thick gulp. And even worse, she thought with a shiver, possibly the affection of Mrs. D herself?

Mrs. D—Mrs. Charity Dennehy. A volunteer who, like Beckett, didn’t seem to mind Winnie’s crossed eyes nor troublesome ways, but somehow appeared to actually like her in spite of them.

“Not this time, Winnie,” Beckett continued, expelling a quiet sigh. His lanky ten-year-old frame slowly sank against the cold wall as he pulled her along, the scent of mildew strong amid the musty cover of winter coats. “But next time, you might not be so lucky.”

A grunt popped from Winnie’s lips. Lucky. Yeah, right. Hang it all, no one could ever call her that! Not after being abandoned on the stoop of The St. Mary’s Home for Unwed Mothers at the age of two, and cock-eyed to boot!

Tears immediately burned at cruel words she would never forget, spoken by an older girl named Lucinda who not only worked in the office, but whose little sister, Mary Lou, Winnie had clocked in a scuffle.

“Hey, you cross-eyed creep,” Lucinda had said with a sneer, “I saw your file, and you’re not only mean and ugly, but your mama was a whore too.”

Winnie’s eyelids sagged closed as she clutched Beckett all the harder, her voice barely a whisper.

“Beck?”

“Yes, Winnie?”

“Will you …”—a knot jerked in her throat—“tell me again?”

A long, wavering sigh drifted from Beckett’s lips that carried a trace of a smile as he gently brushed curls—or “ringlets of gold,” as he called them—out of her eyes. “You’re not ugly, Winnie—you’re beautiful.”