Sweet Sanctuary (6 page)

“Do you really think Nic would be arrested and Nicky would be free of him?” Lydia hardly dared to hope that Micah could be right.

Micah shrugged. “Obviously, I can't guarantee anything. I don't know the laws of the state of Massachusetts. But it only seems logical that if you go to an attorney, armed first of all with the midwife's verification that Eleanor wanted you to have Nicky and secondly with the proof Nicky's father only intends to use his son—a child who has been in your care his entire life—in a money-making scheme, I can't imagine the law turning its back on you.”

Lydia shifted to Father, who sat with a frown of concentration on his face. “What do you think? Should we try Micah's idea and contact an attorney?”

Father leaned back in his chair, examining Micah, his brows lowered and his chin thrust forward. “I suppose we could approach an attorney—I know one who would be discreet. We'll need to ascertain Mrs. Fenwick has all of her facts straight before we make an official visit.”

At Micah's puzzled look, Lydia explained, “Mrs. Fenwick is the midwife who cared for Eleanor and kept Nicky for me until I arrived.”

Micah nodded. “Yes. Hopefully she will have a written record of the babies she delivers to prove the date of Nicky's birth. A note written by Eleanor giving you custody would be best, but even the midwife's testimony as to what was said before Eleanor died will be important.”

The pitter-patter of little feet carried from the corridor, and
all eyes turned toward the intrusion. Nicky pounded into the kitchen, his stocking feet slapping the floor and his hair bouncing across his forehead. Mother followed closely, her face twisted into a disapproving moue contrasting with Nicky's beaming smile.

“Micah-my-friend is still here!” Nicky threw himself into Micah's arms. Micah scooped him up and settled the little boy in his lap. Nicky leaned against Micah's chest, crossed his arms, and beamed triumphantly at his grandmother. Lydia suspected a battle of wills had taken place upstairs, and Mother had lost. But looking at Nicky snuggled in Micah's lap, she couldn't find the means to scold him. Strange how quickly Nicky had taken to Micah. Nicky was a very personable little boy and he liked most people, but he had seemed to form an immediate attachment to Micah—much more quickly than he'd ever attached himself to anyone before.

It pleased Lydia yet saddened her at the same time. Nicky's affection for Micah solidified the knowledge that Nicky needed a father, but what man would willingly marry a woman who had given birth to an out-of-wedlock child? Carrying the stigma—a stigma she and her father had intentionally perpetrated—would make it nearly impossible for her to provide what Nicky needed.

Despite her gloomy thoughts, a smile tugged at her lips as she watched Nicky engage Micah in a finger game.
God, have our deceptions created a situation that will someday hurt Nicky more than it helps him?
She recalled Micah saying that the courts would be more willing to name her parents as Nicky's adoptive parents, and as much as it pained her, perhaps she should consider allowing them to assume the roles of mother and father. At least then Nicky would have a father in his life.

“Mama?”

Lydia gave a start. Nicky and Micah were looking at her
strangely. She released a light, self-conscious laugh. “I'm sorry, sweetie, Mama was daydreaming. What did you say?”

“I
said,
” Nicky repeated slowly, “Micah-my-friend has time for one more walk before he has to go be a depend. Do you want to come, too?”

Lydia looked at Micah. His blue eyes, expectant, pulled at her heart. She knew it wasn't a good idea to spend time with Micah—it brought back memories of a time when she wanted him to be much more than a friend. But he'd be leaving soon, and there would be no more opportunities. She should grasp this brief happiness while she could. She offered a warm smile, answering Nicky but addressing Micah, “Yes, I would like to come.”

Micah stood, scooping Nicky from his lap and swinging the giggling boy to his shoulders. “Up and down the street we'll go, partner, and then Micah-your-friend must catch a train.”

Nicky grabbed two handfuls of Micah's hair as Micah headed for the door. The boy called out, “C'mon, Mama!”

Lydia fell into step with Micah, and they ambled along the sidewalk under the morning sun. From his perch, Nicky waved and called greetings to neighbors. So this, then, was how it felt to be a family. For one brief moment, she believed her heart smiled. And then a tightness built in her chest. She should memorize the moment, because it could very well be the only time this pleasure would be hers.

6

M
icah leaned back into his seat, still shaking his head.
That Allan Eldredge does enjoy managin' things for people. . . .
What a surprise to check out from the hotel and be told the bill was already paid in full. Then to receive his train ticket with the message that Mr. Eldredge would be billed for the expense. Of course, Micah wasn't unappreciative of this interference—to be truthful, this little side trip was a stretch for his budget. He sent every spare nickel he earned to Jeremiah in the shape of food staples and articles of clothing.

The train chugged into motion, creating an uncomfortable rolling in his stomach. As always, thoughts of Jeremiah brought an instant prayer to his heart:
Lord, watch out for that brother of mine.
After contracting polio as a young boy, Jeremiah depended on braces and crutches to walk, and his heart was weaker than most, but he didn't allow any of it to slow him down. Jeremiah had more determination than the other four Hatcher boys put together. Which is precisely why he had willingly placed himself in the path of danger in Russia and Poland.

Micah released a sigh. Oh, he was proud of this brother. Jeremiah was making a difference in the lives of war's most
vulnerable victims—the children. But pride didn't keep the worry at bay. Micah closed his eyes, his heart groaning another silent prayer.
Lord, why must the innocent suffer?
He continued to ask the question, even though he knew there was no real answer for it. Man's sinful nature would always create sorrow.

He had witnessed man's sinfulness too vividly when the Japanese dropped their bombs on Pearl Harbor. Micah and the other medical personnel had worked around the clock on those victims. His heart still carried a burden for the men and women who had died. But God had opened his heart to a ministry in the midst of the attack. Micah's lips twitched as he recalled the biblical admonition that “all things work together for good to them that love God”—there was a rainbow after the storm, his mother always said, if one would only look for it. Still, the sorrow of the storm itself was hard to accept.

He shifted slightly in his seat, folding his arms across his queasy stomach—how he wished the train wouldn't rock so—as he remembered Nicky's sorrowful face when he'd hugged the little boy good-bye. Funny how that tousled-haired imp with the drooping socks had worked his way into Micah's heart. This morning, walking with the boy's weight on his shoulders and those small hands on his hair, he'd felt . . . fatherly.

His thoughts flitted to Lydia, who hadn't appeared any happier than Nicky at his parting. He'd enjoyed having her walk beside him in her graceful, feminine way, smiling up at Nicky on his perch and then letting her smile drift to Micah. He bit the inside of his cheek, recalling how
she
made him feel. It sure wasn't fatherly.

He squelched the thought immediately. Micah had committed himself to serving the immigrant population of New York and to helping with Jeremiah's cause. There wasn't time for anything more than those two commitments. Besides, Lydia
lived in one state while he lived in another. A relationship was out of the question.

Micah remembered berating Lydia for her deception where Nicky's parentage was concerned, and guilt twined through his middle. Though he had never been forced into telling deliberate lies, he had intentionally kept secret his involvement in Jeremiah's work. Secrecy was necessary—the more people who knew, the more likely Jeremiah's life would be in danger. The posters hanging in most public buildings—“Loose lips can sink ships”—weren't displayed as a tool for amusement. Information overheard by the wrong ears spelled trouble. He supposed, in a way, he was also living a deception.

Lord,
I reckon there's a fine line between the truth and the whole truth. Help me find a way to do Your service without breaking any of Your commandments. Help Lydia find a way to be open and honest in her relationship with Nicky, and keep a watch over both of them as they try to put to rest this threat from Nicky's dad. Please don't let anyone ever ask a question that might tempt me to lie. I want to be honest in all of my dealings. But I am pretty worried about my brother. . . .

Lydia stood aside as Father knocked on the apartment door. No one answered. She waited until he'd knocked again. Then she braved a question. “Are you sure this is the right address?”

He blew out his breath and shot her an impatient look. “I have been sending monthly payments to this woman for almost four years. I chose this apartment for her myself. Yes, I'm certain it is the correct address.”

Lydia experienced a twinge of resentment at her father's brusque tone. “Well, apparently she isn't home. We may need to come back another time.”

“We don't have the luxury of coming back another time. If we're to convince a lawyer our claims are not manufactured, we need her testimony.” Father raised his fist and pounded on the wood door once more, the solid booms echoing through the hallway.

“Father, perhaps we should—” Lydia began, but an irritated voice interrupted.

“Hey, why don'tcha stop that racket? Those of us who work nights need our sleep.”

A woman, her hair hidden by a knotted kerchief, peered out from a doorway down the hall. Father strode briskly toward her, and at his commanding presence she withdrew slightly, clutching her ratty robe closed at the throat.

“Madam, we are seeking Mrs. Fenwick. Do you know where we might find her?”

The woman shrugged. “Had ya asked a week ago I'da said right there.” She pointed to the apartment. “'Cause she didn't go no place much, just waited for ladies who needed her services to come to her. But she took off a couple o' days ago—had a suitcase in hand. Ain't seen her since.”

“Suitcase?” Lydia's heart raced with alarm. “Did she say when she'd be back?”

Again, the woman gave a shrug, the worn fabric of her robe pulling across her chest with the movement. “I don't figure she'll
be
back. That feller finally run her off for good.”

Father scowled. “What fellow?”

The woman lowered her voice to whisper. “Don't know that I should say—don't want him comin' after
me.
”

“Madam, I can assure you no one will come after you.” To Lydia's relief, Father also tempered the volume of his thunderous tone. “Please explain your meaning.”

After giving a furtive glance up and down the hallway, the
woman spoke, her voice so soft both Lydia and Father leaned forward to hear. “Some feller—big, wild-eyed man missin' one arm—came round and said he wanted his kid. Mrs. Fenwick kept tellin' him, ‘I don't know nothin', leave me alone,' but he wouldn't believe her. He come by here three days in a row”—she held up three fingers to emphasize her words—“and each day he was more wild than the one before, hollerin' he was goin' to the cops and they'd make her talk.” The woman nodded her head, the knot in her scarf bobbing with the movement, her eyebrows high. “She was real scared, I can tell you that.”

Father asked, “How long ago was this?”

“Week. Maybe week an' a half.” The woman bit her lower lip, her gaze zinging up and down the hallway as if she expected Nic Pankin to step out of the shadows. “He come back here yesterday, too, banging on the door just like you done. But I didn't tell him nothin'.”

Lydia's stomach rolled. Just as Micah had feared, they were already too late. She clutched her hands together. “Do you have any idea where Mrs. Fenwick might have gone? Perhaps to the home of one of her children or another relative?”

The woman crunched her brows. “Well . . . I know her man was killed in the Great War. She an' him didn't have children. S'pose that's why she liked helpin' bring other people's babes into the world—always glowed for a day or two after the births. 'Cept if somethin' went wrong. Oh, how she'd mourn if somethin' went wrong. . . .”

Father drew in a deep breath, his warning sign for an imminent explosion. Lydia stood poised, ready to stave off her father's verbal attack if necessary, when the woman's face brightened.

“Say! She got postcards now an' then, from her sister, she said. She was right proud of those postcards—always showed me the pictures on the back.”

Lydia's heart rose with hope. “Did you ever see an address? Do you know where this sister lives?”

“She never showed me the word side, an' I didn't ask,” the woman said, a rather defensive edge creeping into her tone. Then she shrugged once more. “But the last one that come had a picture of the big statue France gave the U.S. of A.—the Lady of Liberty, I think it's called.”

Father and Lydia exchanged a glance. Lydia's mind raced. The Statue of Liberty—might Mrs. Fenwick have gone to New York?

“Thank you for your time, madam,” Father said, and the woman closed the door. His hand on Lydia's back, he steered her toward the staircase leading to the lower floors.

Halfway down the hallway, Lydia glanced at her father. “Why do you suppose Mrs. Fenwick left without any word to us?”

“My guess is she was afraid if she contacted us, somehow Pankin would find out.” Father practically growled, “Imbecile! If I get my hands on that man—”

They stepped out of the dim apartment building onto the sidewalk and made their way to Father's waiting vehicle. Tears pressed behind Lydia's eyelids. So much of Micah's plan hinged on Mrs. Fenwick's validation of why they had Nicky. “How will we be able to prove Eleanor wanted me to have Nicky if Mrs. Fenwick isn't here to verify it?”

Father pulled his door shut and started the engine with a vicious twist of the key. His mouth formed a grim line. “We can't.” He clasped his hands around the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles appeared white. Then he slammed his palms on the steering wheel twice and released a mild oath. He turned an accusing gaze on his daughter. “So much for your prayers.”

“Father, you aren't giving up, are you?” To her own ears, her voice sounded unnaturally high.

Father's brows came down in a fierce scowl. “I'll not give up.
I'll locate Mrs. Fenwick if I have to go to New York myself. I'll not let Pankin have Nicky.”

“Maybe,” Lydia said pensively, “we won't have to worry about it since he can't bother Mrs. Fenwick anymore. How will he find out where Nicky is living?”

Father released a huff of irritation. “Lydia, think! Pankin is a raving lunatic, but he isn't
stupid.
He knows Eleanor and you were best friends. I'm reasonably certain he suspects Nicky is with you, but he has been too fearful to approach us. Instead, he terrorized a defenseless old woman, figuring she would ask for help from whoever had the child if he finally frightened her enough. Now that she's gone, he's left with no choice but to come after us.”

Lydia's breath came in short, frightened spurts. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, I really think so.” Father pulled into the traffic.

Lydia gazed straight ahead, her pulse racing. “What I can't understand is why Nic's interest in Nicky seems to come and go. He allows months to pass between his inquiries to Mrs. Fenwick. He bothers her for days or weeks on end, then disappears for even longer periods of time. There's no pattern.”

Another snort made Lydia feel foolish. “Obviously he only needs the money that can be made from his son when he's between jobs. My supposition is while he is able to hold a job, he can fund his own vile habit. But eventually the habit costs him the job—just as it cost him the job at my plant—and then in desperation he seeks his son.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Lydia mused. For long moments they rode in silence through the busy streets, the whine of rubber tires against the winding street and the occasional ring of a cable car's bell the only intrusions.

As he turned the Studebaker onto the avenue that would lead
to their home, Father spoke again, but Lydia had the impression he was thinking aloud rather than addressing her directly. “We have no legal standing now to go to the police. They won't help us. Mrs. Fenwick may or may not be in New York, among a milling throng of residents. No doubt Pankin will eventually show up on our doorstep, demanding his son. . . .”