Sweet Sanctuary (31 page)

“Goody.” Nicky stood and grabbed her hand. “C'mon, Mama, let's go play.”

Lydia rose to follow Nicky upstairs, but the telephone rang. Mother called from the kitchen. “Lydia, my hands are dirty. Could you answer that?”

“Yes, Mother.” She turned to Nicky, who flopped down with a disgruntled sigh, and ruffled his hair. “When I'm done on the telephone, we'll play, okay?” She hurried into the den and picked up the telephone receiver. “Hello?” From the other end came a series of soft scuffling noises followed by whispers. And then a small child's voice uttered the most unexpected word.

“Sweet-heart!”

37

W
hen Lydia answered the phone, Micah could hardly believe his luck. After weeks of calling, he finally heard her voice. But instead of answering her “hello,” he quickly put the receiver in Justina's hand and whispered, “Talk, Justina! Talk, sweetheart!”

As expected, Justina chirped her favorite word. “Sweet-heart!”

“Good girl!” Micah took the receiver back in time to hear Lydia ask, “Who is this?” Confusion colored her tone. Micah's heart pounded so hard he felt short-winded. “It's me—Micah.”

Her sharp intake of breath carried from across the miles, and he imagined her at the other end with a delicate hand on her chest, her hair falling sweetly around her high cheekbones. “M-Micah?” She sounded as out of breath as he felt. “But who was that a moment ago?”

“My little girl, Justina.” The tremble in his hands threatened to dislodge the receiver from his ear. He took a two-handed grip on it. “Lydia, I have so much to tell you.” Justina picked up her rag doll and toddled to the sofa, where she put the “baby” to bed. He smiled, watching her. But his smile faded when Lydia spoke again.

“Yes, I imagine so. It's been several months.”

Her chilly tone stirred defensiveness in Micah's chest. “It isn't as if I haven't tried to speak to you. You wouldn't return my calls.” Nic Pankin flashed through his mind, and the defensiveness melted, replaced by anxiety. “Is it . . . is it because you were . . . otherwise engaged . . . with someone else?”

“What do you mean I wouldn't return your calls?” Although she still spoke sharply, he sensed a hint of bewilderment beneath her bluster. “Micah, the only contact I've had from you since I telephoned you to talk about Nic is a Christmas card that had your name coupled with some woman's.”

“But that's what you need to understand. It wasn't ‘some woman.'” He released a frustrated sigh. If only they could have this conversation face-to-face. Long-distance telephone calls were a marvelous invention, but some things needed to be said while holding the hand and looking into the eyes of the listener. “Lydia, Justina is three years old. She's one of Jeremiah's packages. I took her to Rabbi Jacowicz, but he refused to place her because she's got blond hair and blue eyes. He said she wouldn't be accepted in the Jewish community.”

“You must be joking.”

“I assure you I am not joking. Ludicrous, isn't it? She's been with me since September.”

“Why haven't you told me about her?”

“I told you, I've been trying to reach you by telephone. I've tried dozens of times and left messages each time.”

“With whom?”

Micah paused. A thread of anger wavered in her voice, and he didn't want to create problems.

“Micah, who took the messages?”

Micah ran a hand through his hair. “Your father, Lydia.”

“I see.” A pause. “I think I understand.” Her voice had lost its edge. Micah sighed with relief.

Justina scampered over and handed Micah her doll. He pretended to rock the baby as he continued his conversation. “I have more to say, but I don't want to say it over the telephone. Would it be possible . . . I don't want to intrude, but . . . If I arranged for someone to fill in for me at the clinic, could I bring Justina to meet you?” Micah held his breath, waiting for Lydia's reply. She hadn't answered his question about her time being filled by someone else. His heart raced as he waited to find out whether his attention would be unwelcome.

Finally, her soft voice came through the line, as tender as a kiss. “Yes, Micah, I would like that very much. I—” He heard her throat catch. “I've missed you.”

He wished he could reach through the lines and embrace her. His voice turned husky as he admitted, “I've missed you, too.” He grasped the receiver tightly, willing his pulse to slow. “I'll call you tomorrow when I know what I can arrange at this end. Until then, give Nicky a hug for me, and I'll talk to you again soon.”

“I'll be here.”

“Oh! And, Lydia?” He swallowed, gathering his courage. “I love you.”

Lydia nearly reeled. Three little words. Just three little words. But what an impact they made on her heart. Her head spun, her pulse pounded, her smile nearly split her face. She found enough voice to whisper, “Oh, Micah, I love you, too. Good-bye.”

Nicky appeared in the doorway. He plunked one hand on his hip. “Mama, are we gonna play a game or not?”

“What?” She felt as if she floated somewhere near the ceiling. She blinked twice at Nicky's disgruntled expression. Reality returned. “Oh, Nicky. Thank you for waiting so patiently. Yes, we can play now.”

Upstairs, Nicky and Lydia sat cross-legged on the floor and Nicky laid out the checkerboard, but Lydia found it difficult to concentrate. Now that the sweetness of Micah's words was wearing off, she found herself battling a mighty anger. How dare Father keep secret Micah's calls? She thumped the checkers across the board—
clack! clack!
Father and his infernal interference would have to stop immediately. He might think he had her best interests at heart, but he had no right to manipulate her life. At supper, the minute after Nic made his announcement about wanting to date the new girl at work—what was her name? Myrna?—Lydia would make it very clear that her father was to allow her to make her own choices concerning her future.

Nicky looked up expectantly. “Your turn, Mama.”

“Oh. Thank you, sweetheart.”

The voice of the child speaking the word “sweetheart” replayed in her memory. Micah had said she had blond hair and blue eyes. The opposite of Nicky, she realized, reaching out to brush Nicky's dark hair away from his eyes. Why had the child said “sweetheart” instead of “hello”? Imagined images of the little girl forming in her mind, Lydia inwardly applauded Micah for giving her a home. What a difference he was making in one small life.

It's time. You'll soon know.

She recognized the Voice, so she didn't startle as she had the first time she'd heard it, but she lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “It's time?”

“It's time for what, Mama?”

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until Nicky asked the question. The doorbell chimed. Lydia smiled, rising to her feet. “It's time to wash up for supper. Daddy's here.”

“Daddy!” Nicky leaped up and raced down the stairs.

Lydia followed more slowly, pondering the miraculous
relationship that had developed between Nic and Nicky after their shaky start. God knew Nicky needed a dad, and He'd provided a very loving one. What joy to see God's plan for Nic and Nicky fall into place. Her heart sang as she thought about the message she'd been given. God's plan for her was about to be revealed.

“I was wonderin' . . .”

The note of teasing in Nic's voice alerted Lydia. She looked up from her bowl of beans and bacon in time to catch the wink Nic aimed in her direction. Then he turned to Father, his handsome face innocent. “Would you folks keep Nicky this weekend instead of next? Then I can take this girl I know on a proper date.”

Father's smile turned smug. He looked from Nic to Lydia to Nic again. “A proper date, hmm? Sounds serious.”

“Oh, not yet.” Nic chuckled. “I think she's nice. Pretty, too. Might not amount to anything. But there's no harm in askin', right?”

Father nearly beamed—more jovial than Lydia could remember seeing him in ages. “No harm at all.”

From the other end of the table, Mother smiled sweetly. “Who is she, Nic?”

“Myrna. Myrna Todd.”

Father gave a jolt. “Did you say Myrna?”

“That's right. She's new at the plant. The boss here”—he bounced a smirk at Lydia—“hired her a couple weeks ago. I trained her. She's a nice girl.”

“But—but—” Father's fork dropped to the table with a clatter.

“What's wrong, Father?” Lydia knew the answer, but she asked the question anyway. She supposed she should feel guilty about making Father uncomfortable, but after what he'd done, he deserved a bit of discomfiture.

Father took a grip on his fork. “Nothing.”

Lydia curled her hand over her father's wrist, preventing him from dipping into his plate. “I understand what you were trying to do. But you can't control people's hearts.” She waited until Father raised his head and met her gaze. “Nic and I care about each other. We've become good friends, and I think we always will be.” She sent a soft smile in Nic's direction, and he answered with one of his own. Then she turned her attention to Father. “But it would be wrong to try to manufacture more than friendship just for Nicky's sake. Neither of us would be happy.” She leaned forward, tipping her head. “You
do
want me to be happy, don't you, Father?”

A bit of Father's old bluster returned. “Of course I do. You're my daughter.” He clamped his lips together for several tense seconds, and then he sighed. “I only did it because . . . I love you.”

Tears welled in Lydia's eyes. Father so seldom spoke tenderly. She savored the sound of those words from his lips. “And I love you. But when you push me into places I'm not comfortable going, or hide things from me— things that should be shared—I don't feel loved. I feel manipulated.”

Mother looked at Father with lowered brows. “What is she talking about?”

Lydia sat up straight and shook her head. “It isn't important, Mother. Father knows.”

Father flushed crimson. “I suppose you're speaking of the telephone calls from Dr. Hatcher.”

Mother interrupted again. “Dr. Hatcher? From New York? Has he been calling?”

“Micah-my-friend!” Nicky twirled his spoon through the smear of gravy left on his plate. Nic captured Nicky's hand before he made a mess.

Father glared across the table at his wife. “Yes, that doctor
from New York has been calling and asking for Lydia. Almost every day! But Lydia's been busy learning how to manage the plant. She didn't need the distraction.”

Mother plunked her fork on the tabletop. “Allan! I'm shocked. Keeping messages from Lydia? What were you thinking?”

Lydia gawked in amazement. Across the table, Nic and Nicky fell silent. She'd never heard her mother challenge Father. For reasons she couldn't understand, she rushed to Father's defense. “It won't happen again, Mother.” She slanted a look at Father. “Right?”

Father lowered his head. The defeated slump of his shoulders pierced Lydia, sending any hint of anger far away. “I suppose I'm just a foolish old man. I thought by giving you the plant, finding you a man who was interested in working at the plant with you, I'd keep you . . . and Nicky . . . close by.” He sighed, lifting his gaze slightly to look into her eyes. “I . . . I like having you near.”

Tears flooded her eyes, distorting her vision. “Oh, Father . . .” She rose and crossed behind his chair. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she rested her cheek against his. “I like being near you, too. But I have to grow up sometime.” She moved to his side, knelt, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Father, you're a wonderful businessman, and you have wonderful ideas for making things work. But there are some things we have to allow the hand of God to control.”