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A Family To Share
Arlene James
“Larissa, please listen. Listen a
minute. Daddy’s talking to you,”
Kendal Oakes said, trying to
comfort his screaming daughter.
Connie walked in, and all heads in the daycare center turned in her direction. Larissa stopped wailing long enough to see that someone new had arrived. The next instant the child launched herself, literally, out of her father’s arms and straight into Connie’s.
Grappling with the sudden weight of a flying body, slight as it was, Connie staggered slightly, as Larissa leaned her head against her and sobbed inconsolably. The sound of it tore at Connie’s heart, and by the look in Kendal’s cinnamon-brown eyes, it ripped him to shreds.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, but she shook her head and instinctively stepped back as he reached for his daughter.
“It’s all right,” she told him with a soft smile.
ARLENE JAMES
says, “Camp meetings, mission work and the church where my parents and grandparents were prominent members permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time, which sustains me yet. However, only as a young, widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity, He blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic, it still feels like courtship!”
The author of over sixty novels, Arlene James now resides outside of Dallas, Texas, with her husband. Arlene says, “The rewards of motherhood have indeed been extraordinary for me. Yet I’ve looked forward to this new stage of my life.” Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her, as she’s been at it since the eighth grade!
A Family to Share
Arlene James
For we do not have a high priest who cannot
sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who has
been tempted in all things as we are, yet without
sin. Let us therefore draw near with confidence to
the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and
may find grace to help in time of need.
—Hebrews 4:15–16
For the Stines, with much affection.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Letter to Reader
Chapter One
“Lovely,” Sharon pronounced, backing away from the trail of ivory satin ribbon that she left curling around a tendril of ivy on the floor, the finishing touch to a canopy of cascading ribbons and greenery.
“It is beautiful,” Connie said, gently tugging on her left earlobe as she pictured her older sister, Jolie, standing beneath the canopy beside Sharon’s brother, Vince.
Jolie met tall, good-looking Vince Cutler after she’d moved into his old apartment. He’d forgotten to have his personal mail forwarded, and the two had met after he’d dropped by to pick up what the post office had sent to his old address. One thing had led to another and now the two were about to be married.
Connie couldn’t have been happier for her sister. God knew that Jolie needed someone like Vince, especially at that point in her life. The whole thing was terribly romantic. Every wedding was romantic, Connie supposed, but especially on Valentine’s Day when the couple were as much in love as Jolie and Vince. The wedding was still hours away, but there were already tears in Connie’s eyes.
Helen, one of the youngest of Vince’s four sisters, folded her arms and nodded decisively.
“I think it’s the prettiest wedding we’ve ever done.”
“Ought to be,” Donna, the youngest, cracked, “considering how much practice we’ve had.”
“And you know that if we’d left it up to Vince,” Olivia, the second-oldest sister, drawled, “he’d have hauled in a couple of hay bales, stuck a daisy in one and called it done.”
Everyone laughed, but it was good-natured teasing. All of the sisters were married and seemed delighted that their adored only brother had found his life mate, even if Jolie had decorated his house in Western style, or something between Texana and cowboy chic, as she put it. For the Cutler women, chintz and kitsch seemed to be the height of home fashion, but Connie certainly couldn’t fault their wedding decor.
In fact, Connie couldn’t have been happier with Jolie’s soon-to-be in-laws. They had even helped mend the rift that had existed between Connie and Jolie, a break that had resulted from a custody battle over Connie’s young son, Russell. Vince had pushed Jolie to reconcile with her family, and for that, Connie would be forever grateful. According to Marcus, Connie’s and Jolie’s brother, that just went to prove that God does indeed move in mysterious ways.
Marcus, who was the pastor of this endearing old church where the wedding would take place, had been accorded the happy privilege of performing the ceremony, and Connie knew that he treasured the very idea of it. No one had regretted the break with Jolie more than Marcus had, but since the family had been mended, he’d have the joy of officiating at his sister’s wedding ceremony. Wanting to look his very best on this momentous occasion, he had gone to the barber shop that morning for a professional shave and cut.
“Just think,” he’d said as he kissed Connie’s cheek before walking out of the door of the house they shared, “one day I’ll be doing this for you, too.”
Connie doubted that very much. Marcus, bless him, was so good that he couldn’t understand that most men would hold her past against her, at least the sort of man that she would even remotely consider as a father for her son. Jolie, on the other hand, deserved a kind, caring, upright man like Vince. Connie had cheated herself of that privilege, but she couldn’t be too maudlin about her situation; if she hadn’t made certain mistakes, she wouldn’t have Russell.
Thoughts of her eighteen-month-old son woke a quiet yearning for the sight of his sweet little face, and Connie glanced at her wrist to check the time. If she hurried, she ought to be able to give Russell his dinner in the kitchen at the parsonage before she had to start getting ready for the wedding.
As if she could read her thoughts, Sharon announced, “I think we’re finished here.”
“Better be,” Olivia said, gathering up her decorating supplies. “Mom’s hair appointment is in thirty minutes.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Helen gasped. “We’d better swing by the fellowship hall and pry her out of there ASAP.”
“I don’t know what she’s been doing over there all this time anyway,” Donna said. “All she had left to do was arrange a few relish trays.”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “That’s like saying all Genghis Khan had to do after he conquered Asia was ride a horse across it. She’ll have rearranged the serving tables and had the baker redecorate the cake by now.”
“She’d better not,” Olivia declared, heading for the door.
Olivia had spent hours that morning arranging those serving tables just the way she wanted them, but Connie wasn’t fooled into thinking that anything but the most best-natured arguments would ensue. The Cutler clan loved and treasured one another. They teased mercilessly, but since Jolie and Vince had gotten engaged at Christmas, Connie had not witnessed a negative expression stronger than a grimace from any member of the Cutler family. Nevertheless, Olivia made a hasty retreat in the direction of the church’s fellowship hall.
The other sisters followed her in rapid succession, waving at Connie and saying that they’d see her in a little while. Connie smiled, genuinely admiring the Cutler sisters, each in her own way. As the last one hurried off, Connie took a final measure of the chapel.
The white of the antiqued walls had aged to a soft butter-yellow, which complemented the gold carpet and pale, natural woods in the room. Tall, narrow stained glass windows glowed vibrantly in the afternoon sunlight, while brass gleamed overhead.
The altar had been draped in an ivory satin cloth and topped with a basket of bloodred roses and a gold cross. The canopy of ivory ribbon and greenery elegantly draped the brass kneeler before it.
A tall, heavy glass pedestal decorated with twining ivy stood to one side, holding an ornately carved unity candle. The Cutler sisters had crafted unique bouquets of greenery with lengths of red satin cloth gathered into soft, billowy clumps, which now adorned the ends of the pews. Connie found them especially appropriate for Jolie, who, though very pretty, was not, as Olivia put it, the “girly” type.
The final touch was an artful scattering of almost two hundred tiny votive candles in simple, clear glass containers, which Vince’s older nephews would light at the beginning of the ceremony.
The attendants’ dresses were a shade of pale yellow trimmed with green ribbon, which, oddly enough, brought the whole scheme together perfectly. When Jolie had first chosen that particular shade, all of the sisters had protested, but it hadn’t taken long for everyone to realize that Jolie had not only her own distinctive style but also a gift for putting colors together.
It truly was going to be a beautiful wedding.
Smiling, Connie went to pick up her son at the church’s day care, situated on the back corner of the grounds.
Rather than erect a shiny new building, the congregation had opted to purchase houses surrounding the historic old church, link them with covered walkways and renovate them for administration, education, fellowship hall and day care spaces. In doing so, they had created a quaint campus reminiscent of a gingerbread village with the chapel at its center. The result felt more like a community than a church, and Connie would be forever grateful for the haven she’d found here.
Snagging her tan wool coat from a peg in the foyer, Connie shrugged it on over her straight-legged, brown knit slacks and matching turtleneck sweater. She felt that the monochrome color scheme made her look taller that her mere five-foot-three frame and balanced her top-heavy figure.
In actuality, her neat, curvy shape was well proportioned to her height, giving her ultrafeminine appeal that her taller, leggier older sister had often envied. Connie, however, remained unaware of this fact, just as she remained unaware that her wispy, golden-blond, chin-length hairstyle often garnered more appreciative glances than her sister’s long fall of straight, thick, golden-brown hair.
The one trait that the two sisters shared, other than their jade-green eyes, was a simplicity of style. In Connie, that translated into an almost-elfin elegance that made her seem vulnerable and quintessentially female, as opposed to Jolie’s earthy, Amazonian womanhood.
Unfortunately, like many women, Connie tended to concentrate on her shortcomings. When she gazed into the mirror, she saw not a pert nose but a childish one, not a classically oval face but a too-sharp chin and wide cheeks, not a full, luscious mouth but a mundane one, not arresting, gold-fringed eyes like jade glass but odd-color eyes and lashes that were too pale.
As she tugged open the door and stepped onto the covered walkway, a cold gust hit her with the force of an icy slap. The wind had a wet, chilly feel to it, but the sky remained blue and clear overhead.
February usually yielded an ice storm that would paralyze north central Texas for at least a day or two, but so far so good. It could ice up tomorrow, she thought, right after Jolie and Vince head off to a beach in Mexico for a honeymoon.
She was thinking how lovely that beach was going to be as she walked up the ramp to the day care center and pulled open the door.
A late-model, domestic luxury car was parked beneath the drive-through cover, but Connie thought nothing of it. Parents came and went all day long, and from the sound of wails in the distance, some little one had either fallen ill or gotten injured. Of course, if it had been serious, an ambulance would have beaten the parent here.
Connie smiled at Millie, a spare, quiet, attentive woman whom everyone referred to as “The Gatekeeper,” and jotted her name down on the pickup sheet beneath that of Kendal Oakes.
Ah, that explained a great deal, she thought.
Mr. Oakes was a new member of the church, having just recently moved to the community, although he did not reside in Pantego itself. Sandwiched between Arlington and Fort Worth, Pantego, along with Dalworthington Gardens, was regarded as a small bedroom community. Landlocked by its larger neighbors, it had little opportunity for growth. As a consequence, many of the church’s members came from outside the community.
Unfortunately, Kendal Oakes’s young daughter had already earned a reputation as a problem child, and it was no wonder considering what she’d been through, poor thing. Connie felt deep compassion for the troubled toddler and her father. Marcus told her that Mrs. Oakes had died suddenly months earlier and that the child, Larissa, had suffered great trauma as a result.
Connie knew Mr. Oakes only in passing, but she’d had dealings with Larissa that past Sunday when she’d stopped by the church’s day care to check on Russell and found herself calming the shrieking child. The day care attendants—most of them older ladies—were beside themselves when she happened along, and their relief was painfully obvious when Larissa unexpectedly launched herself at Connie and held on for dear life. It took several minutes for the sobbing child to exhaust herself, but she was sleeping peacefully against Connie’s shoulder when her father arrived to gently lift her away.
Recognizing a deep sadness in him, Connie supposed that, like his daughter, he must still grieve his late wife dearly. He had whispered his thanks, and in truth Connie hadn’t minded in the least, but she’d come away from the experience more grateful than ever for her son’s placid—if somewhat determined—nature. It was a trait, or so Marcus insisted, inherited from Connie. It certainly hadn’t come from his biological father.
She pushed thoughts of Jessup Kennard to the farthest recesses of her mind as she walked along a hallway toward the toddler area. No good ever came of dwelling on anything to do with Jessup. She prayed for the man regularly, but she couldn’t help but feel relieved that he would very likely spend every day of the rest of his life locked behind bars. And yet, she’d have done much to spare her son the shame of carrying the name of such a father.
Wails of protest had turned to angry screeches by the time Connie turned the corner and came on the scene. Kendal Oakes was doing his best to subdue his child above the closed half door of the room, but while he attempted to capture her flailing arms and twisting little body, Larissa was alternately bucking and clutching at her teacher, Miss Susan.
For some reason, all of the day care workers went by the title of “Miss.” Only twenty and still a college student, the young woman looked as if she was near to tears herself, while Miss Dabney, the day care director, hovered anxiously at her shoulder.
Tall and whipcord-lean, Kendal Oakes looked not only agonized but also out of place in his pin-striped suit and red silk tie tossed back haphazardly over one shoulder. One thick lock of his rich nut-brown hair had fallen forward to curl against his brow, and the shadow of his beard darkened his long jawline and flat cheeks. He was speaking to his daughter in a somewhat-exasperated voice.
“Larissa, please listen. Listen a minute. Daddy is taking you to play with Dr. Stenhope. You like Dr. Stenhope. Larissa, Dr. Stenhope is waiting for us. Come on now.”
“Is she ill?” Connie wondered aloud, and for one heartbeat, everything froze.
All heads turned in her direction and Larissa stopped screaming long enough to see that someone new had arrived. The next instant, the child propelled herself out of her caregiver’s arms and straight into Connie’s, clapping her hands around Connie’s neck and grasping handfuls of Connie’s hair and coat.
Grappling with the sudden weight of a flying body, slight as it was, Connie staggered slightly. Larissa lay her head on Connie’s shoulder and sobbed inconsolably. The sound of it tore at Connie’s heart, and by the look in his cinnamon-brown eyes, it ripped Kendal Oakes to shreds.
For a moment, Connie saw such despair in those eyes that she mentally recoiled. She knew despair too well to wish further acquaintance with it.
The next instant, compassion rushed in. The poor man.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, but she shook her head and instinctively stepped back as he reached for his daughter.
Connie noticed that he had quite large hands, with wide palms and long, tapered fingers.
“It’s all right,” she told him softly, hefting the child more securely against her.
Larissa felt warm, her tiny chest heaving, but whether it was with exertion or fever, Connie couldn’t tell.
“Has anyone been able to take her temperature?”
Kendal shook his head grimly. “It’s not a physical ailment. Dr. Stenhope is a pediatric psychiatrist.”
