CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ch-fig

THE TICK OF THE CLOCK echoed through the empty bedroom closest to the one Zara shared with Chad. She understood the caseworker being busy first thing in the morning, but two days had passed since Zara left a message, and still no word. They were making a huge sacrifice here. Was a call back really too much to expect?

Zara released the lock on the original double-hung window and watched the pane slam down, the glass crack, and huge shards hurl toward the overgrown flower beds below. For a moment, she just stood and stared at the open space. There was no way this room would pass inspection with half the glass poking out of the ground like daggers. Great. Even before adding this project to the list, she had more tasks than humanly possible lined up for the day.

Her phone chimed, alerting her to an email, a distraction Zara was more than happy to have.

It was from the caseworker, though Zara had no memory of giving out her email address.

Zara opened the first attachment and scanned the list of home requirements. And here she thought she’d simply needed to clear out a room . . . and replace a broken window. Not even close. To think there were people who volunteered for this, ones who weren’t thrust into the system because of a family connection. Out there in the world, some people chose to make this their lifestyle. Those kinds of people were better than she was. She hadn’t thought of herself as suffering from low self-esteem, but she also knew when she’d been beaten. Zara had major doubts she’d make it through this process.

She looked up at the stained ceiling with no smoke detector. They were going to need a lot of those, and she was guessing they’d also need to paint, and get beds, and—did Samuel sleep in a bed or a crib? Diapers. They’d need diapers and a place to change him. And bottles.

The floor felt unstable. She was still staring at the ceiling, but when she looked down, there was definitely movement. Zara sank onto the carpet. Was the earth going to open up and swallow her along with this house she loved so much?

“Hellooo?” Her mother-in-law’s voice wove up the stairs. “Are you up there, Zara?”

“Yes.” She pushed against the wall, but the effort was too much, and she sank back into the faded shag. “Come on up.”

“Well now, it looks like you’re making great progress.”

Zara looked around. Only Sharon would say something like that. This place was straight out of The Money Pit, an old movie she’d seen once. “It’s a lost cause.”

At nearly seventy, Sharon hadn’t slowed down a bit. She sat next to Zara. “I can see why you’d feel that way. This is a big project.”

“It’s too big.”

She patted Zara’s leg. “Nothing’s too big for God.”

Zara buried her face in her hands. Now she had the guilt of being faithless on top of everything else. “I don’t know, Sharon. There’s no time, yet there’s so much work, and we have nothing for kids. I don’t even own a doll.”

“What children need more than anything else is love. You and Chad have that.”

The puppy woke from his nap in the corner of the room and pounced on a pile of old wallpaper Zara had stripped away.

Sharon stood and offered her a hand. “Let’s get a list going, and I think I know where we can get some help.”

As Zara rose, she was overwhelmed by what Sharon was suggesting. Help from strangers? She wasn’t that kind of girl.

“Don’t look like a cobra just slithered in. We have a group of people at church who are dedicated to helping foster families. I think this would be a good time for you to learn to let others lend you a hand.”

She stared at her fingers, still wrapped in Sharon’s. “Maybe just a few things.”

“We’ll make a list.” She bent, rustled through her oversized purse, and came out with a tablet with a pen tucked inside the wire binding. “I have an extra twin-sized bed with a pretty good mattress.” She wrote twin on the right side of the page. “You’ll need a crib for the little guy.” On the left she scribbled crib. “Of course there’s crib sheets and all that too.”

“Yep. Of course.” The room had a different feel. The emptiness was overwhelming. “They need clothes, and I guess Samuel needs diapers.” She remembered changing a few of her brother’s when he was tiny, but that was a lifetime ago. His lifetime.

“You might want to put screens on the windows.” Sharon stepped closer, her eyes growing wide. “And maybe glass.”

“I didn’t realize the weights weren’t attached, and it dropped.”

“I know a guy. He’s good at this kind of thing.”

Zara took a step back from her mother-in-law. She was sure she’d just seen a twinkle or sparkle. “A guy?”

“A friend.” She turned away, acting like Zara’s half-stripped wallpaper held great fascination. “I’ll text him.”

Before Zara could ask anything else, Sharon had taken out her phone and her thumbs were tapping like a teenager’s. Then, as if he were waiting for her contact, the phone buzzed. “Aw. He said he’d be glad to fix the window.” Another buzz. “He can be over this morning for the measurements.” She smiled and walked out of the room, leaving Zara with the odd feeling that she was supposed to follow.

In the kitchen, Zara picked a box up off the counter and set it on the floor, then turned on the stove to warm some water. Sharon loved tea. She’d learned this over the last couple of years and found herself thrilled to have a basket of options and an actual teakettle to serve her mother-in-law, like a real wife. The thought made her grin. Hopefully, she’d find a way to feel like a real mom, or at least like an aunt, for the sake of Charlotte and Samuel.

But for now, she was a fraud.

Fake it till you make it. This was the phrase she’d told herself all through college. There weren’t many places she’d felt like she truly belonged—aside from with Chad—and Zara wondered if her place in his life was selfish. He wouldn’t have to worry about genetic diseases and dying children or becoming a foster parent overnight if he’d stayed with that woman he was dating when they’d first met. If only Zara hadn’t sat next to him in their writing class.

“I have all sorts of teas to choose from.” She handed the basket to Sharon, who was staring out the back window.

“Thank you. I can’t believe how much progress you and Chad have made on this farm already. It’s beautiful. The perfect place for my grandchildren to grow up.”

Alarms sounded in Zara’s brain. “We’re not adopting Eve’s kids.”

She turned toward Zara, taking in a long inhale of a tea bag, then handing it over, the chosen one. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t intend to grandma them. I assume this is an open position in their lives?”

Zara shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.” Any number of things could have happened to Zara if she hadn’t had grandparents. Somehow, the thought of not having them was more shocking to her than being taken from a mother. Technically, the kids had a grandmother, but the woman who raised Zara and Eve had been incarcerated for the last few years. She was sure Sharon knew this, though the information had not come from Zara’s mouth. “That means a lot to me. Grandmothers—good ones like you—they’re important.”

The kettle whistled like it must in all good homes, sending steam jetting into the air. Zara showered the blackberry sage tea bag in the cup with scalding water. The scent that rose to her nose was like medication for a worried soul. After handing the cup to Sharon, she made one for herself, then sat at the breakfast bar, her hands wrapped around the hot mug.

“I’ll help in any way I can.” Sharon took the seat next to her. “What you’re doing is going to be a blessing for all four of you.”

Outside the window, the breeze picked up some of the newly turned soil, sending it into a miniature tornado that danced over the uneven surface of the garden. “I don’t have anything to offer them.”

“You have love. I’ve seen the way you and Chad are together. You have plenty of love. Just give it a chance.”

Her words floated in the air and settled, not like the weight Zara had let the situation become, but like hope.

“I’m scared.”

Sharon’s arms reached around Zara. “Of course you are. That’s natural. But so is faith.”

Zara let Sharon comfort her the way only her grandmother had done. Faith—the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen—one of the first verses she’d learned when she became a Christian. She’d thought she’d chosen faith when she married Chad and they bought this farm, but it turned out faith was something that must be committed to over and over again.