“Let me see it.” Her father took the envelope from her hand, opened it, and pulled out the letter. He seemed put out, frustrated.
Strange, Ashley thought. Okay, so he’d caught her looking at letters in his closet. Still, she would’ve thought her dad would be more gracious about it. She watched him as he looked over the letter. His expression eased, but there was something new in his eyes. A nervousness, maybe. As if whatever the letter held troubled him.
Suddenly Ashley had the distinct feeling she’d violated something secret or sacred.
Her father folded the letter, slid it back into the envelope, and mixed it into the middle of the letters in the box. Then he lifted the box back onto the shelf and gave Ashley a disapproving look. “The things in there are very special, Ashley. Things only your mother and I have shared.”
Guilt hit Ashley hard. She hadn’t thought of it that way. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t think.”
His eyes softened, and he pulled Ashley into a hug. “I didn’t mean to sound gruff about it.” He released her but kept his hands on her shoulders. “I could put together an album, if you’d like. Some of the letters your mother has written over the years. Maybe it’s time to share them with all of you.”
She gave him a weak grin. “Just not here on the closet floor?”
“Right.” He looked at his watch. “Besides, I need to change clothes for the—”
“Oh.” She covered his hands with her own. “That reminds me. Landon’s at the fire station with Cole, and he’ll be back in a few minutes. Wanna go on a picnic with us?” She gave him a once-over. “You look fine.”
“Actually . . .” He began browsing through a stack of lightweight sweatpants. “I already have plans.”
Ashley maneuvered around him and backed just outside the closet. “You do?”
“Yes.” He pulled a blue pair of sweats from the stack and turned to face her. “I’m going walking with some friends down by Lake Monroe.”
Friends? Ashley bristled. “What friends?”
“Some of the friends your mother used to volunteer with at the hospital. You don’t know them.”
Warning lights flashed in her mind, and Ashley took another step back. “How come you weren’t in church this morning?”
“I was.” Her father smiled and walked past her toward his dresser. He looked over his shoulder. “I went to the nine o’clock service.”
“You never go that early.” Ashley spun around, watching him. She hated the accusation in her voice. But why did she feel like her father was hiding something?
Her father stopped and turned so he could see her straight on. “That’s the service your mother’s volunteer friends attend.” He shrugged. “I thought it’d be nice to sit with them for once.”
“Mom’s volunteer friends?” Ashley took a few steps closer, but she could do nothing to hide the alarm in her tone. “When did you become chummy with them?”
“Ashley, this is ridiculous.” Her father gave a light laugh and turned back to the drawer. He pulled out a pair of white socks and looked at her again. “It’s okay if I spend time with people my age once in a while.”
His words calmed her, and she felt her shoulders ease back into place. He was right. Maybe she was overreacting a little. Up until a few months ago, he’d done little more than go to work and come home. Her sister Kari had worried that he might never find a life outside that.
She took a quick breath and thought of something. “Elaine Denning isn’t part of that group, is she?”
“Elaine?” Her father was sitting on the edge of the bed now, slipping off his black dress socks. “Sure, she’s part of it.”
“Dad!” Ashley put her hands on her hips and came closer still. “Elaine’s a widow.” She made the word widow sound like an infectious disease. “She wasn’t at church this morning, was she?”
He pulled one white sock on as his eyes found hers. “Yes, she was. So what, Ashley?” When his second white sock was on, he stood up. “I didn’t sit by her, if that’s what you want to know. I sat next to Bill and Eddie. For all I know, she’s seeing one of them.”
A wave of embarrassment washed over her. “Oh. Sorry.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “I just . . . you know . . . It’s too soon to be . . .”
Compassion filled her father’s features. He came to her and brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “I’m not dating anyone, Ash.” He looked toward the closet. “Did you see the chair in there?”
“No.” Ashley glanced at the spot near the window where her mother’s recliner had sat. It was missing. Her eyes found his again. “You put Mom’s chair in the walk-in closet?”
“Yes.” He stooped down and kissed the end of her nose. “I read my Bible in there every morning, and that’s where I sit.” He paused. “You know why?”
“Why?” Ashley’s voice was thick. She had no idea.
“Because in there, with the clothes she used to wear, it still smells like her. At least in my mind.” His voice grew strained. “Sometimes when I can’t take missing her another minute, I go in there, sit down, and breathe her in, the smell of her, the memory of her. And I beg God to give me the strength to go on.”
Ashley hesitated. Then slowly she embraced her father, burying her face in his chest. Of course her father wasn’t dating; the idea was ludicrous. He was still missing Mom as much as they all were. She looked up and hoped he could see the sincerity in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She motioned toward the closet with her head. “Sorry about snooping around too.”
“That’s okay.” He hugged her again. “Why don’t you go on out and wait for Landon. Thanks for the offer about the picnic. Maybe next week, all right?”
“All right.” Ashley pulled away, and with a last little wave, she turned and headed down the stairs toward the kitchen. As she passed the living room, she saw the Durango turn into the driveway. Her father probably thought she was crazy, sifting through her mother’s personal belongings, sitting on the floor of his closet. And then putting him through an inquisition because he wanted to take a walk at the lake with some friends.
It wasn’t like her father had something to hide. What had he said? That he’d be willing to make an album of their mother’s old letters, right? That would be perfect, something she could look forward to. And of course he wouldn’t be interested in Elaine Denning.
She sighed as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. Good thing she didn’t have many plans for the day. She could use a few hours of playing with Landon and Cole in the sunshine.
It wasn’t until she spotted the two cold cups of tea on the counter that she was struck by something. Her father was willing to make them an album of their mother’s letters, but what about the one she’d been reading when he walked in? She had been right in the middle of it when he called her name. Why hadn’t he simply handed it back to her so she could finish it?
When her father did make the album, it would be hard to find that specific letter because he hadn’t placed it on top. Rather he had buried it in the middle. Ashley dumped out the tea, grabbed her purse, and looked one last time at the old kettle on the stove.
As she left through the side door and greeted her husband and son, Ashley made a mental note. If the album didn’t contain the letter she’d been reading, she’d ask her father for permission to find it. Whatever it said, she had the feeling there was much more to it.
And that she hadn’t quite gotten to the good part.
John watched Ashley leave the room, and for the first time in ten minutes he allowed himself a full breath. Of all the letters in that box, how could she have found one of the few that mentioned him—the brother none of the Baxter children knew existed? And what about the other letters on the top shelf of the closet? Had she looked through them?
He stared out the window and felt his heart return to normal. No, she couldn’t have looked through them. Ashley was far too outspoken. If she’d come across an envelope with Firstborn written across the front of it, she certainly would
have asked questions.
The time to do something about the letter was now. Otherwise Ashley would stumble across it some other time, when she was looking for one of her mother’s sweaters or putting away laundry. He crossed the room, opened the closet door, and reached up for the manila envelope, the one that contained only three letters—one for him, one for the kids, and one for their firstborn—the son they’d never known.
He took the large envelope and slid it under a stack of folded T-shirts in a bottom cubby near the back of the closet. No one would ever find them there. Then he reached up again and lowered Elizabeth’s box of letters down to the floor. He easily found the letter he’d skimmed over earlier.
With greater care than before, he took it from the envelope and opened it. He had no idea how far Ashley had read, but if she’d gotten very far, she would’ve said so. His written comments about their firstborn son came fairly early on in the letter. He allowed his eyes to move more slowly this time, savoring every word, every feeling that had been his all those twenty-four years ago.
My dearest Elizabeth,
We have a son! A son we can call our very own! Can you believe it, my love? God is so good, that after all we’ve been through, after four lovely daughters, He has seen fit to complete our family this way—the way it should’ve been completed from the beginning.
I am sitting here in our house, anxious for your return, to have you and our son home where you belong. But I can’t keep myself from thinking of your words earlier today. You said that seeing Luke made you remember what you felt when you held our firstborn, the child I never met.
Now I understand the pain you must have suffered, the way you still hold on to his memory. Because after seeing Luke, after letting my hands and heart hold him, I can only imagine what it would be like to give him away, how hard it would be to hand him over to a stranger.
John’s hands trembled. No matter how many times he thought about it or willed himself to believe it had never happened, it had. Elizabeth had gotten pregnant, her parents had sent her away, and on the saddest day of their lives, she’d been forced to give up the child.
No question Ashley hadn’t read most of this letter. Otherwise there would be no more secret to keep. He steadied his fingers and found his place again.
I believe God has given us this boy so that I wouldn’t have to wonder any longer what it might’ve been like to meet our first son. For that, I will be thankful all the days of my life. I’m glad you agree—that we need to put all talk and mention of our firstborn out of our minds as much as possible. We have five beautiful children, Elizabeth. More than I could’ve asked or imagined. Wherever our firstborn is, he has a family who loves him—we have to believe that.
And so I will close, but please know that as often as I rejoice over this day—the birthday of our little boy—I will take a few minutes and feel your pain: the pain of giving up a child like this one. Thank God that He brought you into my life, Elizabeth. I will cherish you all of my days. I love you.
Forever yours,
John
He stared at the letter a little longer, the pieces of paper Elizabeth had cherished and saved all these years. Then, with a sigh that blended with the afternoon sounds of robins and fluttering leaves, he folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. For a moment he held it against his heart, a reminder of the man he’d been back then, the life he’d known with Elizabeth when their family was still young.
She’d wanted to meet the boy so badly. In the end it was the only thing she’d prayed for—a chance to hold her firstborn son one more time. Tiny arrows of guilt and regret pierced his heart. Maybe he could’ve done more to help her find him. Certainly he’d tried harder the first time—ten years earlier—when Elizabeth wanted to locate him. But this time . . . this time he’d been too caught up trying to save her. There hadn’t been enough hours to contact private investigators or social workers or any of the people who might’ve known something about where the boy wound up.
A warm breeze brushed against him and stirred something sad in his soul. Elizabeth’s desire to see the boy had been so strong that on the day she died she’d actually convinced herself he’d stopped by, come to her hospital room to see her. What was it she’d said back then?
She’d met their firstborn. His name was Dayne and he was an actor. Something else, something about his parents being dead and him not having siblings. It wasn’t until she was a few minutes into her story that she paused and asked if maybe she’d only been dreaming.
That’s when John realized what had been happening. The medication had caused her to hallucinate. The person she had talked with must’ve been Luke, who had sat with her earlier that day. And the mention of Dayne, an actor, must’ve been Hollywood’s very own Dayne Matthews—a client at the New York law firm where Luke worked.
The details must’ve become jumbled in her final, desperate attempt to believe her prayers had been answered.
It was so sad, really. Their firstborn son was somewhere out there—providing he was still alive—and there was no reason to think otherwise. He would be thirty-six years old now, maybe raising a family in Indiana.
John stared at the contents of the box. Later he’d sort through the letters and pull out anything that even remotely referred to their oldest son. He looked again at the envelope in his hand. For now, he could at least take care of this one. He pulled the manila envelope from the shelf beneath his T-shirts, slipped the letter inside, and hid it once more.
For a fleeting moment he wondered why he was working so hard to hide the truth, anyway. Did it really matter if the kids found out now, if they were faced with the fact that their parents hadn’t been perfect? But almost as quickly he remembered having this discussion with Elizabeth a dozen times over the years. He could hear her adamant thoughts on the subject even now.
“We can never tell them, not unless we find him.” Her expression would be strained by the seriousness of her statement. “It’s enough that we spend a lifetime missing him, wondering about him, without them doing the same thing.”
John mulled over her words in light of all that had changed. The kids were old enough now. They wouldn’t be devastated or grieve for an older brother the way they might’ve when they were younger. And it would be easier revealing the truth. That way he wouldn’t ever worry about what his kids might find in his closet. But there was one reason he would never tell his children about their oldest brother.
He reached the conclusion in as much time as it took him to set the box of letters back on the closet shelf. The reason was simple: Elizabeth didn’t want him to.
And he would protect her wishes as long as he drew breath.
A series of thunderstorms hit Bloomington Sunday evening, and Katy thought it fitting. Perfect symbolism for her life. She still hadn’t connected with Jenny Flanigan, and tensions seemed at an all-time high between them. The CKT cast was off to its slowest start yet, and in twenty-four hours she’d be in Los Angeles, preparing to audition for a part that could change her life.
With so much to think about, she didn’t want to sit around the Flanigan house. Instead she made dinner plans with Heath Hudson at Sully’s Subs, not far from the university.
Katy pulled her car into the parking lot, found a space near the entrance, and put the car in park. What was she doing meeting Heath for dinner? Sharing a meal with him would only lead him on, and what was the point of that? She wasn’t interested in him.
She checked her look in the mirror and replayed their conversation in her mind.
“If you’re leaving Monday, let me treat you for dinner before you go.”
Katy must’ve looked hesitant because Heath had chuckled and said, “We need to talk about the sound plans for Tom Sawyer, remember?”
He was right, but now as she got out of her car and darted through the door, she wasn’t so sure. She took a booth near the front and stared out the window. She was half an hour early, enough time to think over all that was going on in
her life.
Still, maybe she should’ve spent the extra time at home, talking to Jenny, coming clean with her about the trips to California. Only Rhonda knew the reason for her Hollywood visits. But when she mentioned earlier that morning that she’d be leaving for LA, Jim and Jenny had both given her curious looks.
“Two trips so close together?” Jim asked her. The Flanigans had been on their way out the door to church, same as Katy. Jim grinned. “What’s going on? You got a secret guy out there?” He was teasing; his eyes danced the way they did when he played with his kids.
She only shook her head and made something up. “It’s research. Nothing more.”
As a director for CKT, research was part of the job. Often she needed to fly to a different city to check out a performance by another CKT group. It was up to her to decide which plays CKT performed, what classes would be taught, and what off-season activities they might attempt. Nearly all of her decisions were based on the research she did in other cities.
So the story was believable. But it wasn’t truthful, and now, her elbows anchored on the table, that bothered her. It bothered her enough to make her want to head straight home and tell the Flanigans the truth.
If the audition led to a part in the movie, she’d have to tell them, and then what would they think? Even if she didn’t get the part, lying wasn’t her style. Katy folded her arms and rested them on the table. Her mother had raised her to believe that lying was one of the worst things a person could do.
God, I’m sorry. Lying to the Flanigans, having dinner with Heath when I don’t have feelings for him . . . why am I making a mess of everything?