Sweet Sanctuary (30 page)

Justina's big blue eyes locked on Micah's. “Sweet-heart.”

He patted her little back. “That's right. I'm surprised she hasn't written to ask about you. I signed your name to the Christmas card I sent her. Lydia's usually full of questions.”

He slapped a hand to his forehead as understanding smote him like a club landing on his head. Justina sat up, stared at his hand for a moment, and then imitated his gesture.

Micah groaned, gently pulling her against his shoulder. “Yes, sweetheart, Papa did a dumb thing.” How could he have been so foolish? He'd signed the card “Micah & Justina”—with no explanation of who Justina was. It had seemed so natural he hadn't given it a second thought. The signature painted a clear picture in his mind of himself and this beautiful little blond-haired girl. But what must Lydia have thought?

“I know what she thought,” Micah railed aloud, shaking his head. Beside him, Justina shook her head, making her curls bounce. Micah hugged her, laughing at the ludicrous idea that must be planted in Lydia's mind. “She thinks I married someone named Justina!”

“Sweet-heart!” Justina crowed.

Micah pressed his nose to Justina's. “Well, I'll just have to set her straight, won't I? And when I tell her the truth about you, I'll tell her the truth about me at the same time. I'll come right out an' tell her I love her. Is that a good idea?”

Justina grabbed Micah's nose. He shifted his chin, trying to catch her fingers between his lips. She giggled wildly and then began bouncing on the bed. Realizing she was getting wound up,
he scooped her into his arms and carried her back to her bed. “It's nighttime. You need to sleep. No”—he gently pressed her back against her pillow and kept his hand on her chest, shaking his head—“not play, sleep.”

He closed his eyes and let his head flop to the side, pretending to snore. One more little giggle escaped. Opening his eyes again, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sleep now, darling girl. And in the morning, I'll call Lydia and set things right.”

36

T
he next morning, while Justina sat at the table munching her breakfast toast, Micah crossed to the telephone, ready to call Lydia. A clamor on the street captured his attention. Brow furrowed, he moved to the window and pushed it open, allowing in a cold blast of air that swept the curtains out on either side of him. A newsboy stood on the sidewalk, waving a paper and bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“German atrocities exposed! Death camp liberated by Russian army! Jewish victims of German cruelty set free!”

Micah cupped his hands beside his mouth. “Boy! What are you talking about?”

The youth looked up. His wind-chapped cheeks glowed red. “Someplace called Auschwitz—the Russians released a bunch of Jews who'd been kept prisoner there. They tell some awful things.”

Micah gasped. Exactly what Jeremiah had described! And it had become front-page news? He hollered to the boy, “Stay there. I'm coming down.” He turned to Justina and held up his palms, a signal she had learned. “Sit still, sweetheart. Papa will be back.” Micah ran down the stairs and onto the frigid porch. Frost stung the bare soles of his feet, and he danced in place while
he traded a dime for a newspaper. Back in his apartment, he read the article so many times he nearly memorized it, and certain passages painted images in his head that pierced his heart.

For the next week, everyone who entered the clinic buzzed about the place called Auschwitz. “Can you imagine?” one woman gasped. “I would never have thought such things possible in this civilized world!”

Of course, Micah knew Auschwitz was just the tip of the iceberg, but he kept the knowledge to himself. The nations' leaders would need to fully divulge the horrors inflicted on innocent people during this terrible war. He wondered if any article would incite greater indignation in his neighborhood than the one about Auschwitz.

And then, almost a month later, the news turned to Yalta. Although the information was kept hushed, rumors spread that the three Allied leaders—President Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Joseph Stalin—were meeting to discuss Europe's postwar reorganization. Though no one knew the details of this meeting, it seemed clear to Micah that if agreements were being made for a postwar time period, then the war must surely be coming to an end. The idea almost made him giddy.

Every day from the morning the news article of Auschwitz hit the front page, Micah dialed Lydia's number first thing in the morning. But each time, Allan Eldredge answered and agreed to ask Lydia to return the call. Yet she never called. Micah could only assume she was refusing to speak to him, and his frustration grew. But he didn't give up. He wouldn't give up. He couldn't.

Valentine's Day arrived—a day for cupids and romance. And someone had sent Lydia a dozen red roses. Nic paused in the office doorway, absorbing the sight of Lydia seated behind her
father's massive desk. She knew the business—she'd grown up around it and she handled things as well as her father ever had, in his opinion—but somehow she just didn't look comfortable in Allan Eldredge's chair.

He watched her pinch a rose petal between her fingers, her brow puckered in either confusion or disapproval. He couldn't be certain which. Or maybe the crunch of her brow had something to do with her reason for calling him to her office. He wouldn't know until he asked.

Clearing his throat, he took a forward step. She spun toward him, the wooden chair creaking noisily with the sudden movement. He chuckled. “Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.” He bobbed his chin at the roses. “Somebody thinks you're special.”

“And you just confirmed for me that it isn't you.”

Nic drew back in surprise. “Me?”

Lydia sighed. She rocked back in the massive wood chair, the spring popping, and crossed her arms. “I'm fairly certain these came from Father, but the fact that there's no card tells me he wants to keep it a secret.”

Nic smirked, shaking his head. “You know, I've come to like your old man. Cagey. Knows how to get things done.”

Lydia scowled. “If he'd limit himself to business dealings I'd admire his caginess a bit more. But I resent his intrusion into my personal life.” She gestured toward one of the chairs along the wall, assuming a professional air. “Thank you for coming up. Sit down for a minute, would you, Nic?”

Nic settled himself in the chair closest to the desk and peered at Lydia. “You look awful serious. Are we talkin' boss to employee, or is it somethin' else?”

“I realize we're on company time, but this is important. And it's something else.” Lydia leaned forward, cringing when the chair released another loud pop. “Now that the office is
officially mine”—did unhappiness flash in her eyes with the statement?—“I intend to shop for a new chair.” She drew in a deep breath, blew it out, then pinned him with a frown. “Nic, do you love me?”

Nic jolted. “
Love
you?” He whistled through his teeth. “Whew, Lydia, you're right. That
is
somethin' else!”

Her expression remained serious. “Answer me, please.”

Nic scratched his chin, stretching his lips into a nervous grimace. Did she realize how much she was putting him on the spot? “Well, now . . . you mean a lot to me, Lydia. You've taken care of my son, taken care of me, helped me get my feet back under me so I can live a halfway decent life. All of that matters a lot. A whole lot. So naturally I have feelings for you. . . .”

Lydia snorted. “You're very good at tiptoeing around the issue. I'm going to take your ambiguous evasion as a no. Would my assessment be accurate?”

Nic shrugged. “Yeah. I s'pose it would be.”

Finally she smiled. “Good. That puts us on even footing.”

He couldn't resist teasing, “Awww, you mean you don't love me?”

Her eyes flashed. “Careful there. We could have this turn into a boss-employee conversation.”

He laughed, not at all threatened. “Why are you askin' me this?”

“Father has been after me to marry you ever since you knocked him out of the way of that truck.”

Nic threw back his head and laughed—one brief, raucous blast of laughter. Then he brought his chin down and wiped his hand across his face, trying to remove the humor. “Well, you know, Lydia, there are some cultures where you offer yourself as a slave to a person who saved your life. Maybe Allan figures I'd rather have you.”

“Nic, it isn't funny.”

The look on her face let him know the conversation wasn't an easy one for her. He tried to curb his amusement.

She went on. “I feel as if I'm being thrown out as a . . . a sacrificial offering! I've done everything I can think of to convince him neither of us is interested in making such a commitment, but he insists I'm not looking at the situation logically. He reasons we've developed a good working relationship, so therefore—to his way of thinking—we'd also make an excellent married couple.”

Nic snatched his hat from his head, bounced it twice on his knee, then set it back in place. “I can see his point, Lydia. I mean, we get along good. We both love Nicky. From a logical standpoint, it would make sense for us to marry. We'd probably do just fine together.”

Lydia dropped her jaw. “Are you suggesting—?”

“No!” He held up his palm. “'Course not! I'm just tryin' to help you see it from your father's way of thinkin'.”

“Well, what I need from you is some help making my father see it from
our
way of thinking.” She tipped her head, giving him a pleading look. “Will you come to dinner this evening and talk to him? I've given up on making headway on my own.”

Nic shrugged. “Sure. I'll try to set him straight. Besides . . .” He winked. “I've been meanin' to talk to you about somebody. You know Myrna Todd, the new gal you hired a couple weeks ago?”

A slow grin crept up her cheek.

Heat filled his face, but he continued. “I've been thinkin' about askin' her out for dinner Saturday night, but it's my weekend with Nicky. Do you suppose . . . ?”

Lydia laughed. “No, I won't babysit. Ask my father. Maybe it'll give him a strong message that you aren't interested in me.”

He grinned and pushed to his feet. “You got it, boss. Oh, and by the way, I'll find some oil and fix that chair for you.” He paused, frowning. “Funny. It never popped when Allan sat in it.”

The remainder of the day, Nic's comment about the chair rolled in the back of Lydia's mind, taunting her. No, the chair hadn't popped for Father. But he hadn't wiggled in it as much as she did because he was comfortable in it. Why couldn't she settle in?

She understood the business. She was good at running it. The employees accepted her as their new leader without question. Father savored his newfound freedom. Everyone seemed happy with this arrangement. Everyone except Lydia.

As she drove home, a prayer rose from the center of her being.
Lord, I long for my place of service. If I'm meant to operate the plant, will You please give me peace?

When she entered the front door, Nicky came sliding down the hardwood hallway in his stocking feet and collided with her thighs. She caught her balance on the doorjamb. “Nicholas Allan Eldredge, you are as wild as a March hare!” Laughing, she bent down to bestow a hug.

Mother appeared at the opposite end of the long hallway, her hands on her hips. “He's been a mischief-maker
all day.
I told him if he didn't settle down, he'd have to sit in his room.”

Nicky stuck out his lower lip. “Grammy's been grumpy.”

“Sounds like she has good reason.” Lydia took Nicky by the hand and sat on the bottom riser of the staircase. “Why have you been naughty today, Nicky?”

The little boy blew out a mighty breath. “Nobody will play with me. Poppy went to town. Grammy had to clean. Buggy flied away from me when I took him out to play.”

“You took him out?” No wonder Mother was frustrated. Lydia drew Nicky beside her and put her arm around his narrow shoulders. “Nicky, sweetheart, it isn't safe for Buggy to be outside of his cage. You shouldn't take him out.”

Nicky propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands. “I know. Grammy told me.” He peered at her with sad brown eyes. “She told me, an' told me, an' told me . . .”

Lydia gave him a quick squeeze. “Did Buggy make messes?”

“Yes. Seeds and feathers and”—he dropped his voice to a barely discernible whisper—“poop. But Buggy didn't mean to.”

Lydia swallowed a smile. “I'm sure he didn't.”

Nicky dropped his arms, sitting up straight, his expression brightening. “But can you play with me now?”

Lydia slumped against the railing. “Oh, I've just worked so hard today, I don't know if I have the energy to play.”

Nicky recognized the teasing in her voice. He bumped her with his shoulder. “Mama-a-a-a-a . . .”

She grinned. “I bet I have time for a quick game before supper. Daddy is coming over to eat, so maybe he'll play horsey with you then.”