Page 89 of A Whim and a Prayer

“Oh, Mama, you know what I mean.” Winnie slumped back on the bed with a whole new batch of tears. “Boys are s’posed to be that w-way, but girls are s’posed to be like Hope and Julia and Abby, which I’m n-not ....” Her congested voice trailed off into a mournful moan.

“No, you’re not,” Charity said with a slow nod of agreement as she adjusted the pillow against the headboard and patted the space beside her. “You’re my precious Winnie, the answer to ten long years of prayer for a child of my heart.”

Winnie grunted as she shuffled over to sit next to her mother. “No, that would be Julia.”

“Yes, Julia is a child of my heart, as are Hope and Henry—”

Winnie peered up through swollen eyes. “Henry?”

Charity chuckled. “Yes, even Henry because all three are children of my heart biologically, darling, since I gave birth to them. But you see, Winnie, the beauty of being adopted is that you were actually chosen—hand-picked by God and by me to be loved and protected as part of our family. And you know why?”

She shook her head.

“Because I knew from the moment I met you at the age of five, darling girl”—she cocked a brow in tease—“in that bathroom at the orphanage when you lied about stealing my chocolate bar, that you were destined to be a child of my heart emotionally.”

Those blue eyes did a slow blink awash with tears. “What do you mean, Mama?”

“I mean, Daughter of my Heart,” Charity said as she tucked an arm to Winnie’s waist to draw her closer, “we were two peas in a pod, sweetheart, emotional twins if you will, and the only one in this family with whom I could share a deep bond of connection—not only as a female, understand, but as a daughter, as a sister, and even as a Dennehy.”

“W-What?” Winnie’s head swiveled to stare at her mother like she was crazy, and Charity couldn’t help but shake her head. Not an uncommon look between them for sure, she thought with a twist of a smile as Winnie blinked once more in confusion, her tone skeptical at best. “What d-do ya mean?”

Charity stroked Winnie’s curls. “Well, I think both of us can agree that neither you nor I are anything like Hope and Julia.”

A second grunt popped from Winnie’s lips. “Ha! Who is?”

“Well, not you and me, certainly, sweetheart, because you and I are cut from a different cloth, so to speak, different personalities that are a little more adventurous, a little more stubborn—”

“A little?” Winnie said with a hint of a smile, some of her drowsiness apparently wearing off.

Charity gave her waist a playful pinch. “Okay, a lot more stubborn, but that’s both of us, Winifred Marie, whether you like it or not, and we’re more willing to take risks and go off on a whim—”

Winnie scrunched her nose. “I prefer spontaneity, Mama …” she said with a wide yawn, appearing to settle in with a cross of her legs.

“Yes … ‘spontaneity’ can be good,” Charity said slowly, careful to measure her words, “unless, of course, it’s prompted by rebellion, which generally leads to trouble.”

Winnie huffed out a sigh. “You sound just like Abby and Beck.”

“Which,” Charity said with a quick side hug, “is why I’m so grateful they are your best friends because they do for you what Aunt Emma always did for me when I was close to your age. So you see, Winnie, you and I are connected in a way no one else in this family is—two mavericks who are so much alike, my younger years actually mirror yours.”

Winnie gave her a squint. “How you figure?”

“Well, for instance I bucked authority so much and did so many things on a wild whim, that it drove my parents—mostly Grandpa, of course—right up the wall.”

Winnie pulled back to study her mother through narrowed eyes, voice tinged with doubt. “You … were a rebel?”

Charity rolled her eyes. “Oh, honey, your grandparents could write a book on the trouble I gave them.”

Winnie shook her head, the barest trace of a smile on her face. “Pop told me that a while back, Mama, but I didn’t believe it.”

“Did he give you details?” Charity asked with a tip of her head.

“No. He just said it was your story to tell.”

“Ha! I suspect the poor man didn’t want to relive the trauma of those years,” Charity said with a commiserate shiver, not really wanting to relive them either, but painfully aware that if she was going to connect with Winnie, her past was the key.

“And your father?” Charity issued a grunt that would make a truckdriver proud. “He could write a whole library, God bless his grumpy soul, because heaven knows I sure kept him on his toes before we were married.”

Winnie actually grinned, a welcome sight on a face ravaged by tears. “Like I do you?”