Masquerade (35 page)

“No biggie. I’ve got plenty.” He lowered the box to the ground and pulled out a couple plants. After tugging on work gloves, he handed Celeste a container. “Maybe group a few around the headstone.”

They worked in silence for a while, the sun rising in the sky, beating down on their backs.

Joe sat back, draped his arms on his knees. Easing off his gloves, he massaged his hands.

Celeste winced. “I don’t mean to intrude, but do they hurt?”

“Not much. The exercise is good for the muscles, but I do need to pace myself.” He wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Can I help you plant at your parents’ site?”

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble.” She shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I need the diversion.” This kind man held no threat. She sensed an odd safety in his presence, perhaps stemming from the fact that he’d worked alongside Joe at Schreiber Metal Works. Maybe that was it.

He lifted the box and moved to the next plot.

She walked past him, then turned. “Are you coming?”

“This is where my parents are buried.”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s impossible. Those are Joe’s parents.”

He set the box on the ground, folded his hands at his waist, and stared at her.

Had Randall lost his mind? Maybe the explosion damaged his brain. A wave of fear swept over her. She stepped up and pointed to the names carved in the stone. “See? Oscar and Julian Tatem. Perhaps you’re disoriented. This is a pretty big cemetery. It’d be easy to get lost.”

“I’m not lost, Celeste. I’ve never been clearer about that than I am at this moment.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He lowered to the grass. “Sit with me.” He patted the ground.

She shook her head and backed away. “You’re scaring me.”

“Please don’t be afraid. I need to explain some things to you.”

“What things? Are you going to tell me you and Joe were long lost brothers?”

“No, as far I know—as far as anyone knows—Randall had no living relatives.”

Her eye twitched, and she reached up to press her cheekbone. “Randall?
You’re
Randall. Aren’t you?”

He sat quietly gazing at her.

“Who are you? Tell me who you are.” She stamped her foot.

“I’m the man who proposed to you by the lake. Who ate a heart-shaped pizza with you on our fifth anniversary. Who planted mums in front of our new house. Who painted the spare bedroom celery green.”

Her head began to swim. Had Joe told Randall these things? Her knees threatened to buckle, but she dug her heels into the ground. Was this guy some sort of sick . . .

“The man who left pink and white roses—your favorite—on your door stoop. The man who promised to love and cherish you forever.”

Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “You’re not Joe. You don’t look anything like Joe. Besides, he’s dead!” She inched toward her bike.

Randall tracked her, longing in his eyes.

Celeste released the kickstand, hopped on, and pulled away. The apple rolled around in the basket. She hadn’t eaten anything all morning, but she didn’t care. She felt like throwing the thing against a tree, or better yet, at

this strange man.

“The wedding ring quilt—the one your grandmother gifted to us on our wedding day,” he yelled after her. “Remember? I placed it on the floor with the mums grouped around. Do you remember, Tater Tot?”

She skidded to a stop. No one except Joe knew her nickname. He’d never called her Tater Tot in public.

The last thing she felt was a hand on her shoulder, and then the world dissolved
into nothingness.

###

In the backyard, Sonya gazed at her children as she and Lily sat Indian-style on the ground. Tommy played in the sandbox, sifting grains through his tiny fingers. Hannah and Mia pumped their legs, trying to see who could swing the highest. Beyond them, Anthony tossed the softball into Matthew’s pitcher’s mitt. Inside the house, Sam worked on lunch—everyone’s favorite, macaroni and cheese. Not from a box. Homemade.

From all appearances, they were a normal family doing normal things on a sunny Saturday. Not sitting around on edge wondering, waiting, afraid to get on with life. No one would detect Sonya’s inner turmoil. And that was exactly how it would remain until Social Services worked through this mess with Lily’s birth mother. Surely, the woman would relent. Come to her senses and realize the child belonged with the Miller family.

Lily plucked at the grass. “Make a chain, Sonny.” She pointed to a pile of clover.

Smiling, Sonya knotted two clover stems. By the time Sam stepped outside with a tray, she’d fashioned a necklace and eased it over the child’s head. She cupped Lily’s face in her hand. “Fit for a princess.”

Freckles dotted the little girl’s cheeks as she gazed into Sonya’s face. She puffed out her chest. “Princess Lily.”

“All right, everybody, time for lunch.” Sam arranged paper plates, utensils, and an assortment of food—steaming macaroni, tomato slices, carrot sticks, applesauce, and muffins—on the picnic table.

Anthony and Matthew darted over, dropping the ball and mitt beside the table.

Sam scowled at them. “Hey, put that stuff where it goes and wash up.”

“Yes, sir.” The boys grabbed the items and scampered into the house followed by Sonya, Tommy, and the girls.

“Slow down, boys.” Sonya approached the kitchen sink where Anthony and Matthew fought for the soap. “You might think you’d never eaten before.”

“We’re starving!”

Sonya jostled Tommy in her arms. “Go get the stool, Hannah.”

By the time Hannah returned, the boys had disappeared outside.

After the rest of them washed their hands, they moved to the picnic table. Sam thanked the Lord, then started the food around.

Lily peered at her full plate, then at the bowl of macaroni sitting between her and Sonya. “The macaroni

doesn’t have room.”

Across from them, Sam chuckled as Sonya scooped Lily’s applesauce to one side. “There. Is that better?” She placed a spoonful of macaroni on the child’s plate.

Nose close to her food, Lily breathed in the cheesy aroma. “Way good.”

“Why, thank you, Lily.” Sam tugged on his jeans. “An old family recipe.”

Lily’s eyes grew wide. She shook her head. “I don’t wanna eat an old family.”

Anthony spewed lemonade across the table, splattering Hannah’s tee shirt.

“Mama!” Hannah wiped at the mess.

Sonya glared at Anthony.

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He gripped his sides, trying to stifle his laughter.

“Apologize to your sister.”

“Sorry, Hannah,” he said, eyes watering, face red. He cupped a hand over his mouth.

Hannah shrugged and smoothed her shirt. “Okay.”

“Oh, look, a yellow coat!” Lily pointed to a yellow jacket buzzing around Anthony’s head.

Batting at the intruder, he fell backwards off the bench.

“Well, you’ve had quite a time, Son.” Stifling a laugh, Sam offered him a hand.

“Yeah, Mr. Dork bites the dust.” Matthew swept his hands out in a dramatic gesture.

“All right, all right. If you’re done eating, help clean up.” Sonya placed the empty tomato plate on the tray.

Lily scrunched her nose. “Matty doesn’t hafta eat dust, does he, Sonny?”

“I think he already has.” Sam clapped a hand on his leg. “But it’s all right. It’s good for him.”

“Sam.” Sonya pressed her lips together. “Girls, you done?”

“Yes, Mama. Can we go play?” Mia tugged on Lily’s hand.

“Help clean up first.”

A gaggle of arms flying this way and that resulted in a pile of wadded napkins and piled up paper plates on the tray. An unorganized effort, for sure. But the job got done. That’s all Sonya cared about at the moment. That and hearing from Charlotte. The caseworker had told her and Sam to continue doing what they did best—making a happy home for Lily. In the meantime, she’d work on their behalf.

Questions hounded Sonya’s mind. What did Charlotte mean by unusual circumstances that might affect the birth mother’s claim to Lily? What if those circumstances didn’t hinder the mother’s ability to take Lily? What then? This whole thing could get really nasty.

Acid burned her stomach. She and Sam couldn’t afford a lengthy legal battle. And that’s likely what it would take to fight this if the birth mother refused to sign the adoption release.

Sonya stood and continued collecting items, all the while searching her heart. She feared for Lily and the child’s uncertain future. What if the woman who abandoned her once got custody and then abandoned her

again?

Still, one question haunted her the most. Could she find it in her heart to surrender a little girl she’d come to love so dearly, and who she knew loved her in return?

###

Joe gently nudged one cheek, then the other. “Come on, Celeste, wake up.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, and a tremor passed through her body. She gasped, staring at him with wide eyes. 

How it pained him to see his wife afraid of him. This very reaction was one of the chief reasons he’d avoided Hutchins’ advice in the past. Celeste should remember him healthy, strong, and physically attractive. Not some shriveled up shell of the man he used to be. 

He held a water bottle to her lips. “Here, drink this.”

She pushed up on her elbows and took a sip, never taking her eyes off him.

The grounds keeper strode toward them, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. Nearing, he said, “Everythin’ all right over here?”

Joe remained quiet, anxious to hear how Celeste would respond. Would she cry out for help, claiming this freakish man tried to assault her? The ball was in her court, and by the pitiful look in her eyes, she knew it.

“I’m fine. I seemed to pass out there for a minute. No breakfast this morning.” With his help, she struggled to a sitting position.

“Aye, well, get somethin’ in ya, missy. Don’t want ya joinin’ the holy saints above. Not just yet anyway. You’ve got the bloom of youth in those cheeks with many miles to travel before the sun sets on your soul.” He stuffed the handkerchief in his back pocket and turned to leave.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The scruffy man nodded and walked away. 

Joe retrieved the apple from Celeste’s bike basket and handed it to her. She rubbed it on her shirt and crunched into the flesh. Juice dripped from her mouth. How he longed to kiss those sweet lips.

“Mmm.” She pressed her stomach.

“I heard that.” He sat in front of her, elbows resting on his knees.

“What?”

“Your stomach growled.” He grinned.

“I haven’t been hungry for so long.” She studied him, her gaze working its way from the top of his head down to his feet, then back to his eyes. A slow assessment, sorrow etched on her face at every turn. “Your eyes. I see Joe in your eyes. But how can this be? Maybe I simply want to see him.” Her teeth ripped into the apple. “If this is some outrageous prank . . . I’m not sure why you would be so cruel. What do you want?”

He wanted her. He wanted their marriage back, except not the relationship they shared before. A better one. A life together with Jesus at the center. He took a swig of water. “Ask me a question.”

“I just did.”

“No, a question that only Joe would know the answer to.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She scanned the sky, her neck long and graceful like the stem of a field poppy. Blue highlights shimmered in her black hair.

“Come on, give it a go.”

“Okay, what was I wearing the night you proposed by the lake?” She chewed another bite and swallowed.

“Ooh, tough one. You play hardball.” His mind sorted through Celeste’s outfits, pushing hanger after hanger across the steel rod of the closet they’d shared not long ago. He’d have to guess, even though he was fairly certain about the color since she wore a lot of it. “That pretty purple dress. I remember because I’d never seen anything, anyone, so beautiful in all my life. The way the moonlight illuminated your skin and blended with the material, giving it a pearl-like effect with subtle shades of pink undertones.”

“Quite the description.”

“I’m into color, you know, flowers and all.”

“Yes, Joe loved colors.” She squinted at him.

Please, Celeste, see me.
So, was I right?”

“Yes.”

“See there.” He folded his arms. “Shoot me another question. Anything.”

She twitched her nose. “What was the name of my first pet?”

“Snuggles, of course. Your first and only pet. A dog. The family sweetheart.” He punctuated each statement, hoping she’d see the humor and know beyond a shadow

of a doubt that Joe sat before her.

She sat like a deer, unflinching, caught in the beam of his headlights. His heart hovered between life and death, the outcome dependent on her next words.