Blessings of The Heart

Brianne smiled. “Actually, I don’t. I never had any brothers or sisters.”

“Who’d you play with?” The eight-year-old looked astounded. Mimicking her motions, he turned down one edge of the embroidered coverlet while Bree did the same on the opposite side of the double bed.

“I had a few friends I used to hang out with,” she said. “We’d jump rope or swim or maybe go shopping together.”

“Girl stuff. Didn’t you ever wrestle or play ball on a team or nothin’?”

“Afraid not. My father tried to teach me to play baseball like a boy, but I never managed to please him.”

“Bet you didn’t even have a dog, huh?”

“No. My father didn’t like animals very much, either.” She grew pensive. “There was a stray cat I made friends with once. It was gray, with white paws and a white star on its chest. By being very patient, I finally managed to get it to trust me enough to take food out of my hand.”

“What happened to it?”

“I don’t know. It disappeared.”

“Probably died,” he said sagely. Pausing, he lowered his voice and added, “So did our mother.”

“I know. Your father told me. I’m sorry.”

The boy opened his mouth as if to speak, then quickly shut it and looked away.

Brianne helped Bud climb into bed. She stood aside so Ryan could join him before she carefully pulled the sheet over them both. Bud curled into a ball around his teddy bear, his eyes tightly shut. Ryan looked at her.

She tenderly stroked his damp hair off his forehead. “If you ever decide you want to talk about your mother, I’ll be glad to listen.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about. She’s dead. That’s all there is to it.”

Bree could see his lower lip quivering in spite of his tough-guy affectation. Of course he was hurting. He was a little boy who’d spent the past few years of his short life mostly with his mother. And now she was gone. Forever. There must be some way to comfort him.

“Maybe you’ll see your mother in heaven some day,” she offered. To her chagrin, Ryan’s eyes began to fill with tears.

“That stuff’s for suckers,” he said, swallowing a sob.

Perched on the edge of the bed, Brianne took his small hand and gazed at him. No matter how lost, how far from God she’d felt since her mother’s death, she knew she should try to give the child some semblance of hope. “Oh, honey, Jesus said heaven was real. Who told you it wasn’t?”

“My mama.”

“How about your daddy? What does he think?”

Ryan shook his head. “Mama said he was stupid ’cause he believed all that ch-church stuff.”

“I see.”

Brianne’s vision misted with tears of empathy, of sympathy, for everyone involved. She wished mightily for the words to reassure the grieving child but found none. There was no way to go back and change things for Ryan and his brother, any more than she could change the painful facts of her mother’s demise, no matter how much she wanted to. All she could do at this point was continue to offer honest compassion and hope for the best.

She leaned down to kiss his cheek, then stood. “Go to sleep, honey. You’ve had a rough night. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

The child sniffled and nodded.

“Good. Sleep tight.”

Fleeing the room, Bree barely made it to the hallway before tears spilled out to trickle down her cheeks. She leaned against the wall and dashed them away.

“Those poor children. What can I do? How can I help them?”

Thoughts of turning to prayer immediately assailed her. She disregarded the urge. All the prayers in the world hadn’t helped her come to grips with her mother’s suicide. Where had God been when she’d been a lost, grieving twelve-year-old, weeping for the one person who had truly loved her? How could she hope to help anyone else cope with tragedy when she hadn’t been able to help herself?

The only positive thing was what Ryan had said about his father. If Mitch Fowler was committed to Christ enough to raise his late wife’s ire, that was a definite plus. At least he’d be able to counsel his children based on his personal faith, which was a whole lot better than the self-centered reactions she’d gotten from her father in the midst of her despair.

Bree didn’t see the Bible as a magical cure-all the way some people did, as in, “Take two verses and call the doctor in the morning,” but she did believe it could be useful for sorting out life’s problems, including how best to raise kids. And judging by what she’d learned so far, Mitch was going to need all the help he could get, human or otherwise.

Bree pushed away from the wall and straightened. Though she didn’t understand what her part in the children’s healing might be, she felt included somehow.

That, alone, was a miracle.

A rather disturbing one.

Chapter Four

D eep in thought and barely watching where she was going, Bree almost crashed into Mitch at the base of the stairway. “Oh! You startled me!”

“I didn’t mean to,” Mitch said. He grinned amiably and propped one shoulder against the archway leading into the kitchen. “I heard the buzzer on the dryer. Nobody seemed to be around so I fished my clothes out, got dressed and came looking for the boys.”

“They’re upstairs, asleep.”

“Which is where you’d be, too, if we hadn’t showed up. I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bree said.

The only clear thought she could muster was that it should be illegal for any man to look as casually appealing as Mitch Fowler did at that moment. His dark hair was tousled. His jeans were snug from the clothes dryer. And his clean short-sleeve pajama top left altogether too much arm muscle showing.

“I still feel responsible. At least let me clean up the mess we made by the front door.”

“That’s not necessary. I already soaked up the water. I have a woman who comes in twice a week to clean. She’ll polish all the floors when she comes on Thursday. Nobody but me will see them till then.”

“You live here all alone?” He was frowning. “In this great big house?”

“Yes.”

Bree hurried past him into the kitchen, knowing without a doubt that he’d follow. She opened the refrigerator to check her food supplies, using the door as a convenient physical barrier between them. “Do you think you’ll be staying for breakfast?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Are we invited?”

“If you like pancakes, you are,” she said, leaning in. “I usually eat an omelette, but I seem to be a bit short of eggs.”

“You’re sure we won’t be a bother?”