Tiny Grace Hopper possessed a miniature version of her mother’s face, framed by board-straight, light red hair cut raggedly just below her ears. That and her mother’s rich blue eyes made for an adorable combination. Phillip couldn’t help being entranced, just as he couldn’t help being dismayed that Carissa Hopper was the mother of three kids.
Children had never figured into Phillip’s life. He didn’t have anything against them, he just didn’t feel any particular need to have them. Plus he knew less than zilch about them, even though his mother was a well-respected pediatrician. Still, he knew cute when he saw it, and Grace Hopper was cute with a capital C. He laughed when, upon spying a small basket, Grace hopped up and down, clapped her dainty hands and squealed, “Muffins!”
Her brother, the one without the glasses, ran across the room and tore into the ginger muffins with all the finesse of a starving hooligan. Before Hilda could stop him, the older boy did.
“Stop it, Tucker! That’s rude.”
“Ginger muffins. Mmm...” Tucker argued, his mouth full of the same.
Phillip watched as Hilda quickly parceled out the muffins then shook his head as she trundled toward him.
“You,” he teased, “are a woman of mystery. I know you have a son and daughter and grandchildren, but no one ever said anything about nieces.”
The fiftysomething cook waved a hand. “Silly man. Chester’s brother Marshall has two girls. Carissa is the oldest.” Hilda sobered then, quietly confiding, “No one has a clue where the youngest, Lyla, is. Crying shame. Marshall isn’t well. Lung cancer,” she whispered.
“Sorry to hear that,” Phillip murmured.
“I’m going to tell!”
The pounding of small feet accompanied the threat. First one small head then another dashed past Phillip and out the door.
“Tucker! Nathan!” Hilda scolded. “You come back here.”
Phillip stepped out of the way, but before Hilda could squeeze past him, the boys shot through the central corridor and into the back hall. Huffing, Hilda sent Phillip an aggrieved look that he read too well. Wryly, he went after the boys. They had caught Carissa Hopper before she’d even made it out of the house and were arguing loudly about a stolen muffin.
Phillip broke into a jog as Carissa ordered, “Lower your voices. Now.”
“He stole my muffin!”
“You weren’t going to eat it!”
Arriving on the scene, Phillip quickly intervened. “There’s plenty for everyone. No need to argue.”
The older boy whipped around, snarling, “It ain’t none of your business.”
His mother gasped. “Nathan Alexander Hopper,” she rebuked firmly. “You apologize this instant.”
Sullenly, the boy dropped his head, but after a moment he muttered, “Sorry.”
“I expect you to look after your brother and sister, not misbehave,” Carissa went on. “You know I depend on you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Tucker, you mind your manners,” she instructed the younger boy.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Go now, both of you.”
After some grumbling, the two boys reluctantly started back down the hallway toward the sunroom. Carissa gave Phillip an exasperated look, as if he were somehow to blame, and spun sharply on one heel.
“Now, wait a minute,” he began, piqued.
“I’m sorry,” she snapped as he fell into step beside her. “It’s just that I have to work.”
“And that,” he said, as they reached the door, “makes me the bad guy?”
“No,” she answered drily, drawing out the single syllable even as she reached for the doorknob.
“Great,” Phillip said, putting up an arm to block her way. “Then maybe you’ll tell me what sort of work do you do.”
“Telemarketing,” she answered succinctly, folding her arms but refusing to look at him.
Phillip waited. She glanced up and huffed.
“My husband was a software engineer. He taught me everything he knew. He believed that good computer skills would ensure anyone a job. Unfortunately, in a lousy economy, without the diploma to back up those skills, no one will give me the time of day, even if I can write code better than anyone, which is why I sell tech support over the telephone rather than perform it.”
“So you’re good with computers, then,” Phillip said.
She tossed her head, fixing him with a narrow stare. “If by ‘good’ you mean I can tear down a computer to its most basic elements, fix any problem, put it back together again and write the software that operates it, then yes, I’m good with computers.” She parked her hands at her hips. “Now, what about you?”
“Oh,” he answered cheerfully, “I can turn on a computer, click a mouse, even type, if you’re not in a hurry.”
One corner of her mouth curled in a reluctant smile. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”
“Ah. Nothing, at the moment. I used to climb mountains, but I am, as they say, between jobs.”
“And I am trying not to be,” she said pointedly.
He dropped his arm, opened the door and stepped out of the way. She swept out onto the redbrick stoop and went quickly down the steps. He had closed the door behind her before it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her vehicle parked beneath the porte cochere.
Suspecting that Hilda had told her not to park there for fear of blocking his car, he hurried through the house to the front door, stepping out onto the deep front porch in time to see Carissa Hopper climb into a battered little minivan with a missing rear hubcap and rusty passenger door handle. She drove away without so much as a wave of farewell. He wandered back into the foyer and leaned against the curled banister at the foot of the marble staircase, thinking about what she’d told him. The sound of a distant crash had him breaking into a run as a plaintive cry rose from the vicinity of the sunroom. It would only be the first of many.
Over the next two hours, Nathan and Tucker would manage to knock over a table, two chairs and a potted plant the size of a grown man. After the first altercation, Phillip decided to pitch in with the kids. Otherwise, he feared that no one would get lunch. Hilda’s husband, Chester, his aunts’ houseman, had driven Aunt Hypatia—or Auntie H—into town. Kent, Aunt Odelia’s husband, had gone down to his pharmacy to help out his young partner, while Odelia—Auntie Od to her adoring nieces and nephews—was taking a “spa day” in their suite, and Aunt Magnolia—affectionately known as Mags—was puttering around in the flower beds, as usual. If Hilda was going to get into the kitchen, Phillip had no choice but to watch over the scamps.
The boys kept him so busy that he didn’t realize Grace was missing until they did.
What could he do then but take them to look for her?
* * *
Humming to herself, Odelia Chatam Monroe swanned through the lovely mauve-and-cream sitting room of the suite that she shared with Kent, her husband of almost a year, and on into the purple bedroom, where the silk bed hangings, drapes and spread provided an appropriately romantic theme. They’d waited fifty years to marry, and they meant to enjoy every moment left to them. Pausing beside the antique Queen Anne dresser, she twitched a few gladiolus blossoms in a tall crystal vase into perfect position, before continuing into the enormous fuchsia-and-yellow bathroom to remove the cold cream from her face. After tossing aside the cucumber slices that she’d placed over her eyes, she next applied a judicious layer of makeup on her face. Finally, she removed the curlers from her thick, white hair and combed it out.
True, she was no girl, but Kent thought her beautiful. How she adored him. She took a moment to thank God for blessing her with such a husband in the twilight of her long, happy life before venturing into her closet, her favorite room in the whole house.
She noticed that she’d accidentally left the light on, but the crystal chandelier gave her such pleasure that she didn’t dwell on it. Of the many material gifts that Kent had given her—this gorgeous suite, the ostentatious ring on her finger, the pool in the backyard, to name a few—the closet was her favorite, for he’d had the walls painted in color-coded stripes so that her eclectic wardrobe could be stored in a somewhat orderly fashion. She did so love clothes. Giggling, she wondered what she ought to wear for lunch. Wouldn’t a gladiolus theme be fun?
An answering giggle surprised her. Odelia considered the possibility of an echo, but common sense—oh, yes, she did have some, no matter what others might say—told her that could not be so. For one thing, the racks were stuffed with clothing. For another, the room simply wasn’t large enough. That meant she must not be alone.
Looking around, she said brightly, “Hello?”
To her surprise, a little head wreathed in the aqua chiffon of one of her favorite skirts popped out from a row of dresses. “Hello.”
For a long moment, Odelia could do nothing but stare. The little one clomped into view, wearing a pale green knit short set, as well as a pair of Odelia’s pumps over her own canvas shoes and anklets. At second glance, she also wore other bits and pieces of Odelia’s wardrobe, including a gold belt worn sash-style over one shoulder and a feathered boa.
“You got snappers on your ears,” the little one said.
“Snappers?”
“Turdles. Snappers turdles.”
Odelia touched her earlobes, feeling her earrings. They had seemed appropriate after her gardening-mad sister had complained at breakfast that a box turtle had been snacking on her rhododendrons. “You mean, snapping turtles, I think.” She had forgotten about them.
“Yep. You got ’em on your ears.”
“So I do, and you have on my things.” Odelia recognized a scarf and a pair of old gloves that she’d given Hilda earlier. Puzzle pieces tumbled into place. “Ah. You’re Hilda’s great-niece.”
The girl nodded. “We’re playing dress-up.”
Odelia smiled, recognizing a kindred spirit. “What’s your name, child?”
“Grace.”
“Grace is not a full name,” Odelia admonished gently. “For instance, I am Odelia Mae Chatam Monroe.” Frowning, she pressed a finger against the cleft in her chin. “Or should that be Mrs. Kent Monroe? Mrs. Odelia Monroe?” Hypatia would know. Odelia waved a hand. “You may call me Miss Odelia. Now then, your name? Your full name, if you please.”
“Grace Amanda Hopper,” the imp said, wobbling in the shoes.
“So, you like to play dress-up, do you, Grace Amanda?”
“Best of anything.”
Odelia grinned and clapped her hands. “So do I!”
Just then, a frantic male voice cried out, “Grace! Grace, where are you?”
“In here,” Odelia trilled.
Phillip arrived, breathless, one boy in hand and another trailing behind with a scowl on his bespectacled face.
“Thank You, God!” Phillip gasped, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Slumping against the doorjamb, he huffed out a breath and sucked in another before fixing Grace with a baleful glare. “Young lady, you scared the life out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” Grace said contritely, going to take his free hand in hers.
Odelia watched all six foot four inches of her nephew melt like so much marshmallow over a campfire. Interesting.
“Just don’t take off like that again,” he scolded before looking to Odelia. “I’m sorry. She got away from us.”
“You are so in for it,” chortled the freckle-faced, gap-toothed boy being physically restrained by Phillip.
“No, she is not,” Odelia decreed, smiling down at her little guest, “but perhaps next time, she will seek permission before she goes exploring.”
“Yes, ma’am,” coached the older boy with glasses. Reaching around Phillip, he poked the girl.
“Yes, ma’am,” little Grace echoed dutifully.
“Very well,” Odelia said, waving them all out. “We’ll make formal introductions at luncheon.”
As Phillip towed the children away, he said, “I’m not sure what Hilda has planned for lunch.”
“Whatever it is,” Odelia told him brightly, following their ragtag little group into the sitting room, “I’m sure it will be lovely.”
After a season of weddings, they had experienced a tranquil period at Chatam House. First had come the marriage of Phillip’s older brother, Asher, and Kent’s granddaughter Ellie, whose newborn daughter the family had recently welcomed. Chatam House’s gardener, Garrett Willows, and his Jessa had married almost immediately afterward, with Odelia and Kent’s wedding following just one month later. Shortly after that, Phillip’s oldest sister, Petra, had married Garrett’s friend Dale Bowen.
Two other nephews, Reeves and Chandler, and a niece, Kaylie, had met their spouses here at Chatam House. It had been months since the house had hosted company, however. Then Phillip had arrived, for no apparent reason, and here he remained, much to the disgust of his parents and the concern of his aunts. The boy just did not seem to want to work. Oh, he wasn’t lazy; he just had no direction. He seemed to be waiting for some sort of inspiration to strike—or for some grand adventure to present itself.
Hypatia was of the opinion that they had been more than patient with him. Certainly she and her sisters had been praying for him. Watching him now, Odelia couldn’t help wondering what God had in store for Phillip. One thing she knew without doubt was that God always had a plan for His children.
She suspected that Phillip was about to find that out.
* * *
When Carissa Hopper did not return as expected that evening, Phillip was ready to climb the walls. He had scaled mountains less challenging than dealing with three kids! While little Grace beguiled everyone into getting her way, Tucker treated the mansion like his personal playground, haring off without warning. Nathan, meanwhile, remained solemn, suspicious and openly hostile, especially toward Phillip. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it bothered Phillip. People usually liked him. Then again, he didn’t have much experience with children. In fact, if anyone had told him that he’d have to work so hard to keep three youngsters from tearing the house down, he’d have scoffed. How Carissa Hopper had somehow managed to shelter, feed, clothe and survive this trio all alone for years was a mystery to him.
Hilda and Chester insisted that it wasn’t like Carissa to lose track of time or forget to call, but their phone calls to her went unanswered. Someone—Hypatia probably—alerted Phillip’s baby sister, Dallas. She showed up with her short, curly, carrot-red hair held back by a wide headband. She looked a little thin to him but oddly serene. A second-grade teacher, Dallas waded right in, taking control of the children and leaving Phillip free to enjoy his dinner. When Chester came into the dining room immediately after the meal, everyone knew that something was wrong. Dressed as always in a white shirt, black tie, black slacks and black lace-up shoes, Chester looked worried, a hand smoothing over his nearly bald head.
“Carissa has been at the emergency room with her father. Now they’re back home. I’m going to take some food over to them and try to convince Carissa to let the children stay here for the night.”
He and Hilda lived with Hilda’s sister, Carol, the aunties’ maid, in the converted carriage house behind the mansion. Grace, Chester explained, could bunk with Carol for the night, leaving the small attic room, once occupied by the gardener, for the boys to share.
“Phillip can drive you over to your brother’s,” Odelia suggested to Chester. “I think you’re too worried to go alone.”
“Be glad to,” Phillip said, rising from the table.
Chester didn’t argue and merely nodded his head, an indication of just how worried he was.
They left a few minutes later and drove across town to an older apartment complex that had seen better days. Chester led the way to a ground-floor apartment that opened onto a depressingly bare inner courtyard. It never occurred to Phillip that he might have waited in the car until Carissa opened the door. The dismay on her face when she saw Phillip standing behind Chester left no doubt as to her thoughts on his presence there.
“Come inside,” she said unenthusiastically.
The tiny vestibule opened on one side into a narrow living room and on the other into a dining room, with space large enough for only a small table and two chairs. Both rooms were strewn with toys and packed with boxes and wobbly furniture. The place seemed barely large enough for two people in Phillip’s estimation, let alone five.
“How is Marshall?” Chester asked, handing over the bag filled with containers of Hilda’s food.
“They wanted to keep him in the hospital,” Carissa said, “but he wouldn’t have it.”
“All I needed was a breathing treatment,” grated a raspy voice. Phillip saw a wheelchair roll into view from the dining area.
“Dad, you should be in bed.”
Marshall braced his skeletal elbows on the arms of his old manual wheelchair and shook his head, wheezing with effort. “And you should be in a nice three-bedroom brick house in Dallas, but here we both are in this two-bedroom dump. Introduce me to this young man.”
Carissa sighed and beckoned Phillip forward. “This is Phillip Chatam. Phillip, my father, Marshall Worth.”
Phillip reached out a large, strong hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Marshall’s thin, veined hand trembled. “You must be a nephew of those sisters, the triplets, that my brother works for.”
“Yes, sir, I am. One of many.”
Marshall waved a hand at his daughter, saying, “Sugar, put that food in the kitchen. Chester, take a load off.” He pointed to a dining chair. Niece and uncle traded looks and did as instructed.
“Phillip, I’m dying,” Marshall Worth said bluntly, “and this cancer’s taken everything I ever had. I’ll have nothing but rags and sticks to leave my daughter and grandchildren.”
“Daddy,” Carissa said, zipping back into the room, “that’s not important.”
“Chester and Hilda will do everything they can,” Marshall went on, as if she hadn’t even spoken, “and Carissa’s a hard worker, but she barely makes enough to feed them all.”
“Daddy, don’t worry,” Carissa pleaded.
“I can’t die without knowing you’ll have help,” he told her tiredly.
“Daddy!”
“Don’t concern yourself, sir,” Phillip interjected, leaning down to place a hand on the man’s rail-thin shoulder. “She won’t be alone or without help. You have my word as a Chatam.”
Tears filled Marshall Worth’s rheumy eyes, and he nodded with relief.
“Chatams are good people, so if you say it, I believe it,” he rasped.
“Believe it, sir. Your daughter and grandchildren will be fine.” He smiled. “I’m told that Carissa has strong computer skills, after all.”
“That she does,” Marshall agreed with a chuckle. “Not much business sense, though.”
“Dad!”
“But she’s a good mother and a fine daughter,” he added, “and she’s not hard on the eyes, either.”
“You slight her, sir,” Phillip said, just to rankle her. “She’s a rare beauty.”
Her back stiffened, then she relaxed again and swept through the narrow kitchen to the other bedroom. There couldn’t be another in the apartment, which meant that she probably shared it with all three of her children. Phillip realized just how blessed he was to have Chatam House as a haven in his time of trouble.
“I’m tired, brother,” Marshall said, sounding it. “Help me to bed.”
Chester rose and took his brother’s chair by the handles, saying, “Afterward, we’ll have a word of prayer together. Then I want you to eat.”
“I’d like that,” Marshall told him, seeming to shrink before Phillip’s eyes. “Prayer and Hilda’s good food. Nothing I’d like better. Goodbye, young man.” Not good-night but goodbye.
“Goodbye, sir.”
Phillip stood awkwardly for a moment before Carissa came back through the kitchen. “Walk me to my car?”
She didn’t want to. He knew it by the way she hesitated, but she couldn’t find a graceful way to decline. “All right.”
As they strolled along the inner courtyard, Phillip couldn’t help noting the buckling concrete of the sidewalk, the overgrown shrubbery, the disintegrating fence around the trash Dumpster and the flaking paint on the metal stairs at the corner of the building. There he paused and turned to face her, his hands tucked into his pockets.
“My aunts want to keep the children at Chatam House tonight. They can stay in the carriage house with Chester, Hilda and Carol. When your father is better tomorrow, you can pick them up and bring them home.”
Carissa took a deep breath. “Well,” she said, “that might work, except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“My father’s not going to be better,” she said softly.
Phillip couldn’t resist the urge to slide an arm across her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said.
She slowly slipped out from beneath his embrace, saying, “I’d better go pack a bag for the kids.”
He was surprised that she’d given in so easily and wondered if she had done so just because she was anxious to get away from him. The thought pinched in a way he hadn’t expected, but he reminded himself that her father was gravely ill. And that he had given his word to a dying man.
He would keep his word. Whether Carissa Hopper liked it or not.
But obviously, Carissa Hopper was not the woman for him. Or rather, he was not the man for her.
She needed a solid, serious, responsible man, the kind his parents had always wanted him to be. But that wasn’t him, had never been Phillip Chatam. And never would be.