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As she sat at the large wooden table Kevin had built for her, the steaming tea cooling in one hand and her other hand fingering those memories, Helen paused, shut her eyes, and turned her heart toward gratitude. Because on this side of the album, Helen of the present knew what frightened and tired Helen of the past didn’t.
She knew the rest of the story.
Chapter Twelve
(in which God provides)
Theboysranaroundthe front yard, piling sticks they’d gathered from the trees, determined to make a fort. Matthew directed as usual, and Jacob countered, as usual. The younger two carried out orders from both. Three cute little dark-haired mischief makers and one blondie, ages seven to two.
Ah, but she did adore them, even if she spent her days mostly trying to keep them alive while not losing her sanity.
From the window over the kitchen sink, Helen stopped peeling potatoes and watched her boys at work. As she did, she lowered the peeler and covered the small bulge of her womb.
She needed to tell Kevin. At this rate she’d be showing soon and he’d figure it out on his own. Likely, he’d be hurt that she’d kept it from him. If she could just find the measure of peace about another baby, maybe she’d be able to let the small inklings of joy tucked in her heart grow, and then she’d be able to tell him without crying.
What was wrong with her anyway? Children were a blessing.
But this cabin was so small—and their budget was smaller still. How would they make this work?
The phone rang, jarring Helen out of her melancholy. She set the wet, half-peeled potato in the sink, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and moved to answer it.
“How’s the love of my life?” Though he often would call before leaving the mill to ask her if she needed anything from town, Helen wondered what was going on. Kevin sounded particularly happy that early Friday evening.
“I’m good. Getting supper going.”
“Well, stop.” His voice was firm command. “The boys are going to the Claytons’ tonight. Uncle Dave is making his homemade pizza.”
“Oh.” Huh. That was odd. Not that the Claytons would invite them over—that happened often—but that it was so last minute. “But the potatoes are almost all peeled.”
“Bag them. Or whatever.” Now Kevin sounded all eager boy. “My lovely wife needs a break, and I’m whisking her away for the night.”
“What?”
“Pack something for the coast.”
“Kevin. We can’t afford that.”
“Woman, don’t argue.”
“Kevin.”
“I mean it, Helen. You’ve been off lately. You need a break, and I’ve already made the arrangements. It’s only for one night.”
Such a kind and thoughtful gesture from her husband, who over the past several years had grown into a tremendously kind and thoughtful man. Kevin was a hard worker, a good provider, and more and more a godly leader of their home. Though when she’d married him, she done so with tremendous fear, because that version of Kevin had been unstable and captive to a budding addiction, now Helen was ever thankful for the man she called her own.
The last thing she wanted was to disappoint his obviously eager plans. But an urge to cry and to simply spit out what had been weighing on her was nearly overwhelming.
“I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. Can you have the boys’ stuff packed? I’ll take them straight over to the Claytons.”
“Kevin, I really don’t think—”
“Helen, please don’t spoil this.”
How could she let him down when he sounded like that? So sweetly determined, with that undertone of longing. Helen had no idea how he intended to pay for a night out—food, hotel, gas? They had zero free-spending money. And with baby number five on the way . . .
Kevin didn’t know about that yet.
Perhaps after he had the boys settled with George and Elizabeth, she would be able to talk Kevin into a stay-over at home. It’d be sort of the same—just the two of them.
