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“We’ll stay here as long as she needs us,” the pastor offered. “Why don’t you take the children home and let them get some rest?”
The idea had merit. After the long, exciting day, they were all dragging. “We’ll bring Macy back tomorrow.”
Reverend West clapped Gabe on the shoulder. “You’re a blessing. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
Under the circumstances, Gabe thought, it wasn’t enough.
Late the next morning, with A.J. at his side carrying a sack of boxed juices, Gabe knocked twice at Brooke’s back door and then slid the glass doors apart and entered the homey den. She knew he was coming. He’d phoned her the moment his eyes opened this morning after a surprisingly restful night. He’d expected to toss and turn and worry. Instead, he and Brooke and Macy had prayed together and he’d gone home and slept like a rock, with the added bonus of a very pleasant dream starring Brooke Clayton in a wedding dress. Funny how a dream could start a man thinking irrational, impossible thoughts.
“Country breakfast delivery,” he called. “Compliments of the Hicks brothers, finest chefs in Clayton.” Granted, Gerald and Jerome were the only chefs in Clayton, but anyone with taste buds would appreciate their breakfast fare. “Hash browns and biscuits. Bacon and eggs. Jelly and butter. And a giant side of cream gravy.”
When neither Macy nor Brooke responded, he and A.J. went into the kitchen. Voices came from the adjacent living room. He deposited the white carryout boxes on the kitchen table and went on through to find the ladies.
His first clue that all was not well came from Macy. She was crying, hands over her face. She and Brooke sat on the floor. A hairbrush and a bunch of girly hair gadgets lay on the rug next to them. Brooke ran a soothing hand over the child’s long, blond hair. Sitting close together that way, Gabe was struck by how perfectly their shades of blond matched.
“Tender-headed?” Gabe asked hopefully.
Brooke shook her head at him. “Meltdown.”
He was afraid she’d say that. He’d dealt with plenty of meltdowns from Tara. He preferred to avoid these outbursts at all costs. But at least Macy had valid reasons for falling apart—unlike his late wife’s fits of temper, which were brought on when she didn’t get her way.
Gingerly, he lowered himself to the floor next to the little girl. “Hey, Miss Macy. How can I help?”
“My mama’s going to die,” she blurted and then burst into a fresh round of aching sobs.
Sweet A.J. patted her head. “Don’t cwy, Macy. I give you juice.”
Gabe swept his son onto his lap. “I can take him outside if we’re in the way.”
“Stay,” Brooke said simply. “We need you.”
We?
With a face wreathed in compassion, Brooke said, “Macy, I know how you hurt. I know how scared you are.”
“But I said that really mean stuff to her and after that she got sick again. I didn’t mean it. I was just mad because she can’t ever play.”
“What did you say, Mace?” Gabe asked gently.
Macy covered her face again and sniffed. “If she dies it’ll be my fault. She thinks I don’t love her anymore, but I do.”
“Macy, listen to me and listen good.” Expression darkening, Brooke took Macy’s arm and forced her to look up. “Your mother’s illness has nothing to do with you. Nothing.”
“She knows you love her,” Gabe added.
“That’s right and she would be heartbroken to think you blamed yourself for this flare in her lupus.”
“But I said I needed a new mama who could take me places like you do. And she started crying. Then she got sick again.” The child’s guilt and misery were palpable. She removed her glasses and scrubbed at cheeks puffy with crying.
Brooke sat very still for several seconds studying the broken child. Then in a quiet, determined voice, she said, “Can I tell you a secret? One that I almost never share with anyone?”
Macy interest was piqued. So was his.
“When I was eight, my baby sister died. She was two and a half, the most precious little girl.” Tears gathered on Brooke’s eyelids.
