Sweet Sanctuary (27 page)

32

L
ydia sat at the foreman's desk, which was set at an angle on the loft so the person seated in the creaky wooden, wheeled chair could easily survey the work floor of the Eldredge Crating Company. Pounding hammers, buzzing saws, and muffled thuds of wooden boxes being stacked together mingled with the voices of the workers, creating a familiar thunder in her ears. The only difference from her childhood remembrances was the number of female voices in the throng—the women far outnumbered the men. And among the men, one stood head and shoulders above the rest.

Resting her chin in her hand, she watched Nic grab a three-foot-square slatted box and swing it into place on the stack, his movements as smooth as if he were performing in a ballet. Just as he had been five years ago, Nic Pankin was a man who garnered notice. A smile pulled at her lips. Nic was still handsome. Still strong. Still commanding. But now he glowed. His eyes sparkled with an inner light. He carried himself with his shoulders held back and his chin held high as if he had the world by the tail.

From shift start to end, he never slowed. When things got hectic, Lydia counted on Nic to keep an even temper and a
sensible head. She found herself depending on him more and more as Father relinquished responsibility to her. Although he never verbalized it, Father was priming her to take over the company. Before the war, Father probably never would have considered allowing a
woman
to run the plant—not even his own daughter—but having so many trustworthy, hardworking women on the floor had altered Father's viewpoint.

She doodled in the margin of the work order on the desk as she thought about last Sunday's dinner. For the first time, Father had addressed Nic in conversation. On previous occasions, he'd tolerated his presence but studiously ignored him. But suddenly, in the midst of consuming his roasted potatoes and boiled carrots, Father had looked directly at Nic and asked what he thought about changing the wood in their largest crates from pine to cedar. Lydia could still remember the startled look on Nic's face and the way his gaze darted around as if to ascertain Father was asking him. Then he leaned back and expressed not only his opinion but the reason for it. Although Father hadn't disputed or agreed with Nic's words, Lydia had seen it as a turning point.

“Lydia, is that order finished?” Father's voice behind her shoulder startled her into dropping the pencil.

“Almost.” She snatched it up, her cheeks flaming, and quickly turned it to the eraser side to remove the incriminating squiggles. Father moved to the railing and scowled down at the floor. Lydia shook her head, releasing a soft huff of amusement. “He's doing fine, Father. You needn't drill holes through him.”

Father sent Lydia a chastising look. “I'm hardly drilling holes through him. I told him I would watch him.” He shifted his gaze to the work floor again. “If he looks up, I want him to see it still holds true.”

Lydia pushed from her chair and joined her father. Below,
Nic strode from the stacking area to the scrap pile, conversing with one of the other workers. He picked up a length of wood and gestured toward the saws, his forehead creased in concentration. Even from this distance, she noted his skin glistened with perspiration, the muscles beneath the sleeve of his work shirt bulging. Why couldn't Father see how hard Nic worked?

“It's been almost three months, and he hasn't made one error.”

“Not yet.” Father's tone was grim.

Awareness dawned in Lydia's mind. She spun on Father. “You want him to fail, don't you?”

Father's scowl deepened. “What do you mean by that?”

Lydia placed her hand over her father's and spoke gently. “Nic tells everyone his change is due to his relationship with God. If you acknowledge Nic is no longer the man he used to be, then you have to acknowledge God makes a difference. And you can't bear to admit you might be wrong about God.”

“Nonsense.” Father yanked his hand free. “Hanson's Shipping is awaiting confirmation of their order. Make sure it's taken care of this morning.” He stomped across the loft and slammed himself into his private office.

Lydia sighed. Had she really thought Father was softening?
God, what will it take to help Father see You? So many of the people I love have embraced Your Son
—
Mother, Nicky, and even Nic. But the circle won't be complete without Father. Help me find a way to break through his hard shell and open his eyes to Your love and grace.

A shout from the floor captured her attention. She looked over the railing. Nic cupped his hand beside his mouth and hollered over the general din. “Lydia, the truck from Manahan Orchards is here—bring down their packing list, would ya? Gotta get it loaded!”

Lydia waved in acknowledgment, retrieved the list from the file on her desk, and turned. She ran smack into Father, who had stepped behind her again. “Uff!”

Without apologizing, he snatched the list from her hand. “I'll take care of this. Finish your paperwork.”

Lydia stood at the railing and watched her father thump down the wooden staircase that led to the floor. He flapped the order list in the direction of the wide doorway at the opposite side of the floor, and Nic fell in step with him. The pair exited the building together.

She sank back into her chair, dropped her chin to her hand, and released a long sigh. Sometimes when she looked down from this angle and watched Nic going about his business with a determined stride, shoulders held square, her heart skipped a beat. Not because it was Nic, but because it reminded her of another man who moved with such confidence. Micah.

Closing her eyes, she pushed the sights and sounds of the factory aside and allowed herself to relive moments with him. The feel of his arms around her back, the scent of his aftershave caught in the fabric of his shirt, the pressure of his cheek against her hair . . . Three months had passed since she'd seen him, yet the remembrances were as crisp and clear as the reality had been. Her heart began its familiar ache. How she missed him.

Of course, she'd received letters from him, although he didn't write as frequently as she did. Receiving one was a treat, and when she held his scripted pages, she imagined his hand—the slight curl of the coarse hairs on his knuckles, the curve of his tapered fingers around the pen, his blunt-cut fingernails, the movements of the tendons on the back of the hand shifting as he penned the words.

She gave herself a little shake and popped her eyes open.
If the vision of his hand could send her stomach into flutters of pleasure, she was badly smitten. But she must set wistful daydreams of Micah aside. He was caught up in his work. She was caught up in hers. However, his work was ordained by God and hers was assigned by her father. Although earning Father's trust gave her a sense of satisfaction, it wasn't the same type of satisfaction Micah must experience in his work. When would she discover what God planned for her?

The words she'd heard uttered that night in New York whispered through her mind again.
“You'll know in time. Be patient and wait.”
She lifted her gaze to the thick overhead beams. “Lord, I've been waiting. When are you going to tell me the rest?” Impatience sharpened her tone, and she hoped God would forgive her. But an urgency rested in her chest—the desire to be doing more, to be helping more. She believed God had a plan. She only wished she knew what it was.

The squeal of tires followed by a truck's blaring horn sounded from outside and brought an abrupt end to her ponderings. An explosion of voices—some outside, some from the factory floor—immediately followed. Concerned, Lydia hurried to the railing and peered down. Machines wheezed into silence as workers left their posts and raced to the doorway leading to the loading area. Their jabber filled the air, nearly as loud as the saws had been moments ago. The noise became confused and disordered, prompting the bitter flavor of fear on the back of Lydia's tongue. And then an uneasy quiet settled over the group clustered at the doors.

A truck's engine still rumbled, but it was as if every other sound—machinery, voices, even the shuffling of feet—had been silenced. Lydia stared at the workers. Some held their hands over their mouths. Others clung to a neighbor. Their shocked, stiff poses made Lydia's blood run cold. She knew she should
go down and investigate, but her rubbery legs refused to cooperate. The blood pounded in her ears, and waves of gooseflesh attacked her body.

Then one of the women nearest the door leaned forward, the knotted kerchief on her head bobbing with the movement. “Is . . . is he dead?”

Although she'd spoken in a raspy whisper, her words carried to the loft and penetrated Lydia's fear-muddled brain, spurring her to action. She dashed down the wooden stairway, her heels clattering in a deafening beat. In her haste, she missed the bottom riser and fell, scuffing the heels of her hands and banging her knees. Unmindful of the pain, she leaped up and rushed toward the doors.
Who is “he”?
The question echoed in her mind, but she couldn't find the courage to speak the words. Contemplating the answer was too frightening.

Heart pounding so hard she feared she might collapse, she pushed through the workers, her voice shrill in her own ears. “Step aside, please. Let me through.” They shifted, creating a path, and Lydia staggered into the graveled yard. A scream formed in her throat, but she clamped both hands over her mouth and held it inside. There, on the hard ground below the back fender of the rumbling truck, lay two crumpled forms resembling rag dolls tossed aside by a child after play.

The truck driver leaned over them, partially hiding them from view. Lydia gasped, and the driver turned, his face a ghostly white. He fluttered his hands toward the fallen men. “It . . . it was an accident. I swear to you, I didn't see 'em.” He lurched toward the building and slumped against the wall, allowing Lydia a full view of the men on the ground.

Her knees went weak. Her hands stretched toward her father and the man Nicky now trustingly called Daddy. A moan rose from her chest. “Oh, God, please . . . no . . .”

33

M
iss Eldredge?” One of the floor workers shook Lydia's arm. The woman's pale face and wide eyes reflected the terror spinning through Lydia's stomach. “What should we do?”

Lydia glanced across the sea of shocked faces.
Oh, dear Lord, please help me.
Even while her knees trembled and her stomach rolled so violently she feared she might become ill, she drew upon the strength that was so much greater than her own. She commanded, “Call for an ambulance!” The woman scurried away, and Lydia forced her wobbly legs to carry her to her father and Nic.

She dropped to her knees beside their still forms. Dust rose, clinging to Nic's hair. Father lay on his back with Nic sprawled facedown across him with his head nestled in the crook of Father's right arm. Two workers approached and reached in as if to lift Nic off Father, but Lydia yelped, “Get back!”

Snippets of her nursing training flitted through her mind. No matter how ungainly the two appeared, stacked together like discarded lumber, they shouldn't move them. The wrong movement could cause more damage. If they were still alive. Lydia gulped.

The truck driver inched forward, wringing his hands. “Miss, I'm so sorry . . .”

Lydia barely glanced at him, her focus on Father and Nic. “What happened?”

His voice shook as he replied. “I . . . I'm not altogether sure. I was backin' up so the crates could be loaded from the loading ramp, and I heard a shout. I thought I hit my brakes, but I must've hit the gas, 'cause the truck lurched backward and . . . I must've hit 'em.”

Bile filled the back of Lydia's throat. She pressed her fingers to Nic's neck. A faint pulse. Hope ignited in her breast. She shifted her attention to Father and, after a moment of fearful hesitance, placed her fingers against his carotid artery. “Oh, praise the Lord!” The prayer whooshed out with the breath she'd been holding. She addressed the workers who remained motionless in the doorway. “Did any of you see what happened?”

A woman in stained blue coveralls and short red hair scuttled forward. “I saw, Miss Eldredge. Mr. Eldredge was standin' there”—she pointed to the spot of ground in front of the loading ramp—“when the truck started backin'. He went to move out of the way, but it looked like he got caught on somethin'. He was pullin' his foot, but it wouldn't move. Nic looked over an' gave a shout to the driver, then he dived at Mr. Eldredge to knock him out of the way.”

Lydia clutched her chest. “Did the truck hit them?”

The woman's eyes flooded with tears. “I'm sorry, Miss Eldredge. I got so scared, I closed my eyes. But I guess it did.”

The woman Lydia had directed to call for help ran from the plant. “I called the hospital, miss. They're sending an ambulance.” She knelt beside Lydia, her presence comforting. “We're all praying for your father and for Nic.”

Lydia shifted her attention to the gathered workers. Each
stood with clasped hands, closed eyes, mouths moving in silent petition. Tears gathered in her eyes. She grasped the woman's hand. “Thank you.” Then she bowed her head and added her prayers to those being uttered by the workers.

Micah awakened midmorning, stiff from his awkward position. Very carefully, he slid the little girl onto the sofa cushions and stood. He enjoyed a lengthy stretch before padding to the telephone and calling the clinic. Stan answered on the second ring.

“Stan, I've got a conflict today and can't come in. Can you manage things there?”

“Sure, Micah. Pretty quiet so far—only person to come in was an old geezer with pink eye.”

Micah chuckled. “Well, if anything requiring more than a bandage or an aspirin crops up, give me a call. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow.” He set the receiver back in its cradle, nibbling the inside of his cheek. His gaze fell on the sleeping child. Sunlight flowing through the window showcased the grime crusting her skin. Oh, how she needed a bath. But cleanliness could be met much easier than the other aspects of her daily care. What would he do with her while he was working? The clinic was no place for a little girl to spend the day. He flicked a glance toward the ceiling, silently requesting suggestions from the heavens. No answer came.

With a sigh, he scuffed to the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl containing three eggs. By the time he'd scrambled the eggs and toasted the bread in the oven, the little girl was sitting up, rubbing her eyes and looking around in confusion.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Micah greeted.

The child jabbered something in Polish and trotted to the
table. She climbed into a chair and gave him a look of expectation.
“Jedzą?”

“Yes, we'll eat,” Micah responded, grateful for his understanding of her simple query. He scooped half the eggs and a piece of toast onto a plate and set it in front of her. Before he'd even served himself, she'd wolfed down every bit. His appetite fled. He dumped his eggs and toast onto her plate. Without hesitation, she began shoving food into her mouth.

He clicked his tongue on his teeth. “We're going to have to learn manners, but that can wait for another day. Right now, it's more important to let you eat your fill.”

She curled her arm around the plate, her furtive gaze fixed on him.

Micah held up both hands in a sign of surrender. “I'm not taking it. Go ahead and eat.
Jedzą.
”

Hunkering over the plate, she followed his directive. While she ate, he returned to the telephone and called Mrs. Flannigan.

“Good morning, me darlin',” Micah singsonged, and his landlord chuckled in response. “Might you be willin' to come up to my apartment for a few minutes? I need your assistance with something.” The little girl would probably take to a woman bathing her more readily than a strange man. He only hoped Mrs. Flannigan wouldn't mind performing the task.

“Lemme finish my morning tea, an' then I'll be up,” she said.

Micah thanked her and disconnected the call, then dug through the clothing boxes. The little girl, apparently full at last, climbed down from the chair and pattered over to watch him. Her face lit when he removed a pink-checked dress and ruffled pinafore from a box. She reached for it, her fingers wiggling, but Micah shook his head. “Not yet.”

Micah led her to the bathroom and turned on the tub spigots. She pinched her fine brows as the water spattered against
the porcelain, but by the time Mrs. Flannigan knocked on the door, the child was sticking her fingers in the water and giggling. Micah quickly explained what needed done, and to his relief Mrs. Flannigan didn't ask questions. She bustled into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a firm
click.
A half hour later, she emerged with the shiny-faced little girl, who wore the pink-checked frock. It fit her loosely, the hem hanging well below her knees, but the pastel color was perfect for her golden hair and blue eyes.

Mrs. Flannigan plunked her fists on her hips. “I'm supposin' she's one o' the immigrant urchins you're so fond of.” Although the woman's words were brusque, the look she aimed at the child held tenderness.

Micah wished he could tell her the whole story, but he didn't dare. He drew in a deep breath. “Yes. But this one . . . she's mine.”

His landlady's jaw dropped. She spluttered for a few seconds. “Y-yours?” Wagging her finger in his face, she scolded, “Micah Hatcher, you scalawag, I—”

Micah held up both hands. “No, no! Not . . . what you're thinking.” Heat seared his face. Mrs. Flannigan fell silent but her scowl didn't melt. Micah explained, “She was abandoned. And she needs a home. So . . .” He looked down at the little girl who stood beside him, damp tangled curls framing her sweet face. Her big blue eyes—so wide and innocent—held confusion. He placed one hand on her head and sent Mrs. Flannigan a sheepish grimace. “You think I've lost my mind, don't you?”

The older woman's eyes twinkled. “Micah, Micah . . . you are full of surprises, aren't you?” She stepped forward and put her wrinkled fingers beneath the little girl's chin. Her lips puckering, she examined the child's face for long seconds. “Takin' on one so young . . . especially you bein' a single man an' all . . .”

Lydia's face flashed in Micah's memory. He swallowed hard.

“But if any man's got the wherewithal to do it, you'd be my first choice.” She clicked her tongue on her teeth and stepped back, folding her arms over her ample chest. “I'd have a hard time resistin' this'n meself, an' that's a fact.” She reached for the doorknob. “Be lettin' me know if you're needin' anything else. Me an' my mister never had the pleasure of raisin' young'uns, but I reckon I can still lend a hand. If you're desperate.” She breezed out the door.

Micah chuckled. He shifted his gaze to the child. “Mrs. Flannigan's a nice lady, yes?” The little girl blinked in reply. He sighed. “All right, sweetheart. We've got to get something figured out here.” He led her to the sofa and lifted her onto his knee. He bounced his thumb against his chest. “I'm Papa. Papa.”

She nodded somberly. “Papa.”

Micah gave her a quick hug. “That's right. I am Papa. My name is Papa.”

“Papa,” she repeated.

Sucking in a hopeful breath, Micah lightly tapped his finger to the center of her chest and raised his eyebrows. “What's your name?” He searched his memory, then blurted, “
Imię.
”

Her little shoulders jolted. Her eyes flew wide. A string of Polish spilled from her rosebud mouth, ending with, “Shustina.”

Micah's heart skipped a beat. “Justina? Your name is Justina?”

She nodded.

Micah swept her into another hug. “Well, hello, Justina!” She snuggled into his neck, her little fingers coiling in his hair. He repeated her name several times, and with each utterance her little-girl giggle rang in his ear.

Finally he set her on his knee again and tweaked the end of her nose. “You are Justina,” he said, “and I am . . . ?”

A smile lit her face. “Sweet-heart!”

With one word, she wrapped herself completely around his heart. Micah burst out laughing. He hugged her again, rocking side to side as he laughed. She laughed, too, her infectious giggle warming Micah to the center of his soul. Rising, he scooped her up to ride on his forearm and crossed to the telephone.

“I have to tell Lydia about you, sweetheart. She'll be at work right now, but I bet she won't mind a short interruption.” A stamp cost much less than a call, but sometimes expense shouldn't matter. He set the telephone receiver aside and dialed the factory number. With Justina balanced on one arm, flicking his earlobe with her fingers, he held the receiver to his other ear and listened to the rings. After the eighth ring he hung up with a sigh of disappointment.

He caught Justina's hand and pulled it away from his ear, wrinkling his nose at her when she grunted in protest. “I guess she's away from her desk right now. We'll call her later. For now, let's go see Mrs. Flannigan again.” The woman had indicated a willingness to help, and there was something else he needed.