Sweet Sanctuary (13 page)

The man chuckled lightly. “That will be easier for you if you step all the way in.”

Lydia laughed at herself, flashing an embarrassed look in Micah's direction. With his warm fingers anchored on her spine, he propelled her forward. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, then abruptly muted as she stepped onto a large Oriental rug. The rug created an island in the center of the room, so she remained there, turning in circles until her eyes had drunk their fill of the gilt-touched plaster moldings decorating the walls and front of the desk. The white-and-gold décor offered eye-pleasing elegance.

Chinese urns larger than Nicky stood sentry at the sides of every doorway, feather-like fronds splayed from the open tops. Unique arrangements of Louis XIV furniture upholstered in wine velvet invited one to sit and bask in the hotel's beauty.

“You're right, Micah. This is quite something.” She shook her head, awed by the grandeur of the hotel. “I'm so glad New York hasn't been bombed. I imagine many fine buildings like this have been destroyed in Paris.” The thought tarnished the edges of her pleasure.

Micah's hand returned to her back. “Let's not talk about the war tonight, Lydia. Tonight is for . . . well, for building happy memories. Okay?”

Lydia stared into his eyes. Building happy memories. What a
wonderful idea. Yes, she wanted happy memories to carry away from here. She nodded.

He raised his brows. “Are you ready for a walk through Central Park now?”

“Oh yes.” She turned toward the door, but before leaving, she lifted her hand to wave at the man behind the counter. “Good night, sir. And thank you.”

“You're welcome, miss. Enjoy your time in New York.”

Lydia took Micah's arm as they stepped out of the hotel and moved to the curb. They waited for a clearing in the traffic, then dashed across the street, their feet clattering against the pavement. Once on the other side, she giggled. “Thank you for checking your stride to match mine! It's very hard to take big steps in this skirt.”

Micah looked her up and down, causing her cheeks to heat again. How she hoped the falling dusk hid her blush. When he'd finished his perusal, he grinned. “I didn't mention this earlier, but you're quite fetchin' in that yellow suit. Probably as pretty as Nicky's canary.”

Lydia burst out laughing. “Oh, Micah, what other man would dare to compare a woman to a canary and think that he was paying a compliment?”

“Do you mean I insulted you?” He assumed a hurt air, a hand on his chest.

Lydia shook her head, her hair lifting in the light breeze. She smoothed the strands back into place with her fingers. “Of course not. You just have your own brand of speech. Frankly, I find it refreshing.”

“Good.” Micah took her hand and slipped it through his elbow. He began moving her forward at a snail's pace. “Let's enjoy a leisurely stroll around the park. I'm sorry you missed the lilacs in bloom. Stunnin' to see. And the perfume of those blooms! Quite heady.”

Lydia found it heady enough simply walking beside Dr. Micah Hatcher.

“But I do believe a few peonies might be hanging on, and the roses should be in full bloom, as well. So we'll see flowers.”

Ahead, a bench waited beneath an arbor laden with thick vines covered in an abundance of deep green leaves and red roses in various stages of bloom. Micah pointed to it, and Lydia nodded in approval. Her sling-back white pumps, though stylish, were a far cry from walking shoes. Her aching feet welcomed the opportunity to rest.

Micah sat sideways on the bench, laying his arm across the back so his fingers rested right above her shoulder. His fingers didn't touch her, but her awareness of his presence was so acute she felt a tingle in her flesh. They sat in silence, breathing in the scent of the roses and listening to the traffic noises and the soft-toned conversations of other people walking through the park.

Lydia rolled her chin to face Micah, who gazed upward, seemingly admiring the darkening night sky. How handsome his profile appeared in the soft light. Micah's strong features gave an appearance of self-assurance. And he had such a giving heart. Admiration swelled in her chest, but then collapsed against a feeling of insignificance. She examined her own life. Still living with her parents, no real plan other than to learn her father's business, her only responsibility to care for Nicky . . .

As she recalled Micah's question concerning whether she'd prayed for God's plan for her life to be revealed, the words she'd heard the night after returning from the parking garage winged through her mind. She'd been clearly directed to be patient and wait—she would know in time what she was to do. She held no doubt the message came from God, and she also knew she needed to continue to pray and listen for God's leading. If she
shared her experience with Micah, might he pray for her, as well? She turned to ask, and at the same time his head swiveled to meet her gaze.

“Lydia!” His eagerness dispelled the question quivering on the tip of her tongue. “I think I know how you can find Mrs. Fenwick!”

16

M
icah caught hold of Lydia's shoulders, excitement coursing through him with such force he had a difficult time staying seated on the bench. “How did your father locate Mrs. Fenwick in the first place? When Eleanor needed help.”

Lydia blinked a couple of times, as if awakening. “I believe—if I remember correctly—he found an advertisement in the newspaper, offering her services as midwife.”

Forming a fist, Micah punched the air and let out a hoot of elation. “Of course! So doesn't it make sense that she will need to support herself in New York, if she's here?” He bounded to his feet. “She's probably still working as a midwife.”

A slow smile crept up Lydia's cheek. “Her neighbor told Father and me how Mrs. Fenwick got a ‘glow' from helping bring babies into the world. It does seem reasonable she would try to continue that work.”

“And if she advertised in a newspaper before, it's logical she would choose the same means of alerting people to her services here.” Micah slapped his forehead, laughing. “Why didn't I think of it before?” He held out his hand to Lydia. “Come on.
Let's go purchase every paper printed in New York and look through the advertisements.”

Lydia bounced up, placing her hand in his. As his fingers closed around hers, his happiness suddenly dimmed. Once they found Mrs. Fenwick, Lydia would have no reason to remain in New York. The realization weighted his heart with sadness. Her responsibilities were in Boston, and his were here. The world was at war. This was no time for romance.

“This is no time to be squeamish.” Nic held tight to Bosco's soiled shirt collar, their noses inches apart. Sweat dribbled down his forehead despite the late hour and the coolness of the dark alley. “I can't show my face over there again after that copper spotted me the other night. He'd recognize me right off.”

Bosco's watery eyes crinkled with his grin. “Yeah, you're pretty hard to miss with that empty sleeve flappin' in the wind.”

Nic gritted his teeth, battling the urge to release his pal's shirt long enough to plant his remaining fist in the middle of Bosco's whiskered face. “Never mind about that. Will you go or not?”

Bosco rubbed his hand up and down his cheek, stretching the skin and sending his oil-smudged corduroy cap askew. His callused fingers scraping across two days' growth of whiskers made the same sound as sandpaper on a board. “Dunno, Nic. Like I already told ya, it's a mighty big risk. Somebody sees me a-gawkin' in them windows an' calls the coppers? I end up in the clink for bein' a peepin' tom. Ain't too keen on spendin' another night on one o' them cots. Hard on my arthur-itis.”

Nic rolled his eyes. “Didn't I say I'd bail you out if you got caught?” Not that Nic had money to squander for bail. But Bosco would turn yellow and run if he knew all Nic had in his pocket was the five dollars he'd promised in return for the
alley rat's help. “So don't worry about sleepin' on a jailhouse cot. You'll be warm in your own bed no more'n an hour after you've done the job.”

Bosco squinted at Nic. “An' you'll pay me five dollars? Just for peekin'?”

“Five dollars for five minutes of work. Just look for anything that would tell me if a kid lives in there. Toys. Little shoes, or a small-size jacket.” Desperation crawled like lice across Nic's scalp. He was running out of time. If his kid wasn't with the Eldredges, he'd have to set his sights elsewhere. Maybe even kidnap someone else's kid. And he'd do it, if it came to that. He gave Bosco's jacket a yank. “You game?”

Bosco's lips stretched into a foolish grin, exposing yellowed teeth. “I'm game. Let's go.”

“How many do you have on your list?”

Micah finished writing the last phone number and looked up at Lydia. He squelched a grin. She must have run her hands through her hair one too many times—it was a disheveled mess. Upon their return from dinner, they'd changed into comfortable clothes and met in her apartment to search the newspapers he'd purchased. In a wrinkled, untucked shirt and faded trousers, her hair flying wild, she was still too pretty for good sense to prevail.

He shifted to a seated position on the floor so he could look eye to eye with her where she lay on her stomach across the end of a swaybacked cot. “I have nine so far. How about you?”

“Nine, too.” Lydia bent the corner of her list up and down with her thumb, her forehead creasing. “Do you really think Mrs. Fenwick will be one of these midwives?”

He reached out and tapped her knuckles with his pen. “Hey, what happened to that faith you were telling me about?”

She bounced to her knees, the cot springs complaining with the sudden movement. Her lips pursed for a moment, then she sighed. “I'm sorry. You're right. It's a good idea to search for her here. Of course, it would be simpler if they would put their names in the advertisement!”

“Ah, but I do enjoy a good challenge.” Micah sent her a crooked smile intended to lighten the mood. To his pleasure, she grinned at him in response, then turned back to her paper.

Micah flipped to the front page of the
Long Island Daily Star
and checked the lead articles. An update on Operation Cobra caught his eye, and he eagerly scanned the columns of print. Germans had been forced to retreat as Sherman tanks and the armored infantry of the U.S. Second Armored Division broke through their defenses southwest of St. Lo. His heart tripped in excitement at the news. Anytime the Germans had to retreat gave reason for celebration. Micah prayed daily for the Germans' defeat, for liberation of the Jews held in captivity, and for Jeremiah to come home.

On the cot, Lydia tossed aside her paper and gave a loud huff. “There is nothing here about Jews being killed. Nothing! Wouldn't you think the murder of innocent civilians would warrant front-page coverage? Micah, I don't understand this situation at all.”

“Neither do I.” Micah lowered his paper to his lap. “My sincere hope is our government leaders honestly don't know the extent of Hitler's madness. If they know, and have chosen to ignore it, I'm not sure I could reconcile myself with the truth.”

Her face crumpled into a grimace. “Micah, the other evening I said I didn't want you involved. I'm so sorry. You're my friend, and it frightened me to think of you being caught up in something that could bring harm to you.” The genuine contrition shining in her eyes touched him deeply. She went on quietly.
“But I want you to know I'm proud of you. You and Jeremiah are risking everything to save those children. I admire you very much for what you're doing.”

Micah remembered his disappointment at her initial reaction, and now pride swelled at her turnaround since she'd seen firsthand the little ones affected by the war's horror. “Thank you, Lydia. Maybe if more people came in contact with these innocent victims, more would be willin' to get involved.”

She pushed off the cot, knelt, and pulled her suitcase from beneath the bed. With a flick of her fingers, she flipped it open and rummaged through it. Puzzled, Micah watched as she removed a leather pouch from the bottom of the bag and spun on her bottom to face him. Cross-legged on the floor, she cradled a flapped pouch in her hands and looked at him.

“Micah, Father gave me a significant amount of money to help in my search for Mrs. Fenwick.” She extended her hands toward him, the pouch balanced on her open palms. “I want you to use it to purchase supplies for the children Jeremiah is helping.”

Micah drew back. “Your father gave that to you for—”

“Father would understand, if he knew the situation. He won't ask for it back, so you don't have to worry about me talking about what you're doing.” She jiggled the pouch, her fingertips nearly brushing his knees. “Take it, Micah. Let me help Jeremiah's worthy cause. Please?”

When she looked at him with her brown eyes glittering with hope, he didn't possess the strength to say no. His fingers trembling, he took the pouch. It was weighty in his hand, and his thoughts raced, considering the things this money could provide. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.” He shook his head, blowing out a mighty breath. An amusing thought tripped through his mind. “You know, I have to tell you, when you were at Schofield, I thought you were spoiled and selfish.” When she ducked her
head, toying with a loose thread at the toe of one of her socks, he caught her chin with his fingers and lifted her face. “I'm glad I've had the chance to get to know you now. You're a wonderful person, Lydia. I'm glad you're my friend.”

Warmth glowed in her eyes. She leaned back slightly, removing herself from his light touch. “I'm glad we're friends, too. One can't have too many of those, you know.” She rested her weight on her palms, her head tipped to the side as she continued to fix her steady gaze on him. “You know, Micah, if I've changed, it's thanks to you and my roommate at Schofield. Yours and Callie's prayers, and your Christian witness, helped me find my way to God's Son. Having Him in my life has made such a difference.” She paused, a scowl creasing her forehead. “But I must not be as good a witness as you two were. I can't seem to get through to my parents.”

Micah set the pouch aside, crisscrossed his legs, and leaned his elbows on his knees. “What do you mean?”

“When I talk about God, or praying, or religion in any way, Father dismisses me. Mother listens, and I think if Father weren't so adamant against it, she would go to church with Nicky and me. But Father . . .” Sadness tinged her tone.

With what little Micah knew of her father, he could understand Lydia's frustration. Allan Eldredge wasn't a man who listened—he was a man who gave orders. How difficult it would be to witness to a man like that.

Lydia continued in a soft voice heavy with sorrow. “I told him we needed to pray about the situation with Nicky, and he turned off his light to go to sleep without addressing it. Then, when we discovered Mrs. Fenwick was no longer in Boston, Father acted as if it were my fault. He said something like, ‘See how much your prayers helped?'” She licked her lips, her forehead puckering. “But if we'd found Mrs. Fenwick right away, I wouldn't
have come to New York, and I wouldn't have met those little children. They touched me, Micah, deep inside, and that night after we came back—” She stopped and turned her face away.

Micah waited in silence, admiring the sweet turn of her jaw and full sweep of her thick lashes. Her chin trembled, and it took all of his self-control not to brush his hand across her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. After several seconds ticked by, he prodded gently, “What about that night, Lydia?”

Slowly she brought her gaze around. Two bright tears hovered on her eyelashes. “That night, when I prayed for those children and asked to do more to help, God . . . He answered me.” She looked deeply into his eyes as if waiting for him to refute her claim. When he remained silent, she repeated, “God answered me, Micah.”

Micah lifted his shoulders. “What did He say?”