A Family for Christmas. Kate WelshЧитать онлайн книгу.
almost no walls! What had they been thinking to call this mess a paradise. It sure didn’t look like Paradise Found to him! It was more like Paradise Lost!
Trent closed his eyes, then slowly opened them again. Nothing had changed. Studs. Subflooring. Exposed pipes. Then he remembered the kitchen Mike had mentioned finishing. A bathroom and a room he’d created as a family room from two smaller ones at the back of the house. Mike had begun the project shortly after Maggie walked out on their marriage. How could nearly nine months have gone by since he visited Mike and Sarah at their own house?
He’d seen them often, but at his place. He’d met them at the zoo one day. Had taken them to a lake in Jersey another. But he hadn’t come to their home. Mike had told him the place was torn up, and Trent had used it as an excuse because he was afraid to run into Maggie. Afraid he’d weaken, take her back. Afraid he’d pull her into his arms, kiss her senseless and beg her to forgive him for denying her the children she needed, then never let her go.
Trent shook his head and picked his way through the entrance foyer, past the remnants of a sweeping staircase, and down the hall to the kitchen for which Mike had been so full of plans. He pushed open the leaded-glass swinging door, and stood spellbound.
The room stood like a monument to his brother’s talent. For so long Mike had been told that to work with his hands would be unseemly. Trent didn’t know Mike’s Lord, but he thanked Him just the same, because somehow He’d given his brother the courage to be who he was meant to be. And now Trent understood why Mike and Sarah had named the house Paradise Found.
Black granite counters gleamed. Oak cabinets shone. It was…overwhelming in its beauty. He ran his hands over the cabinets and the frosted leadedglass inserts. He recognized the cabinet doors that framed the glass. On his last visit, just after a particularly nasty fight with Maggie, Mike had shown Trent the prototype he’d just finished. Sarah’s art—bordered by Mike’s.
Tears flooded his eyes. Trent made his way to the kitchen table and dropped his head onto his forearm where it rested on the table. Some minutes later he found himself stroking the surface of the big round oak table. Lifting his head he noticed that it sat in a large alcove with tall windows affording a wonderful view of the woods that bordered the back lawn. Wainscoting, painted taupe, came up to the sill of the windows, and Victorian print paper graced the small amount of wall space left by the windows.
Trent looked back at the surface of the table. He ran his hand over it again, marveling at the smoothness of the hand-rubbed patina. His brother again. Trent had seen it months ago, in pieces and stripped to its nicked surface in Mike’s workshop.
He looked out the window and realized that his brother had created the alcove by bumping the walls out into the back porch. Curious, he went to the door and out onto the porch. The porch hadn’t suffered, but now followed the four walls of the interior alcove. The bump-out caused the porch roof to form a mini turret. Like most of the house, the porch wasn’t finished. But Trent could visualize exactly what Mike had planned.
And plans reminded him of Mike’s workshop in the old carriage house. He jumped down off the unfinished back porch and headed that way, but he hesitated once he reached the threshold, not sure he could take many more haunting memories. Trent looked back at the house and the new, unpainted wood of the porch. Resolutely he turned and unlocked the workshop door.
The memories came at once. Painful, poignant and wonderful, they flooded in. The odor of newly planed wood. The smell of Sarah’s soldering gun. Mike, his safety glasses perched on his head, grinning over the floor plans. Sarah, tossing a wad of paper at Mike in retaliation for his incessant teasing, her sweet loving smile shining in her eyes.
He glanced at those same sparkling eyes in the picture on one of the shelves above Mike’s workbench. It was a candid shot of the four of them that had been taken on Mike and Sarah’s wedding day. A day that had almost not happened, thanks to his parents.
They’d been horrified when Sarah had innocently revealed that she wasn’t Maggie’s neighbor but that they’d lived on the same property—Maggie in the main house and Sarah as the daughter of the maid in the apartment over the carriage house. Seeing Sarah as a lower-class influence on Michael, they’d tried to pay her to get out of Michael’s life.
Trent would never forget the day he’d opened his door to find Sarah, pale and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, the check still clutched convulsively in her hand. Trent had shouted for Maggie immediately and had called Mike to come to their apartment. And nothing had been the same between either the two sons and their parents since.
Mike had moved in with him and Maggie for a while, and later Trent had become Mike’s silent partner in an auto garage that catered to luxury cars and their owners. It had been a great joke between him and his brother that growing up with parents like theirs had ensured the business’s success by teaching Mike exactly how to deal with the finicky demands of many of the Main-Line’s wealthy residents.
Trent shook his head as he stared at those four smiling faces. They all looked so happy—and they had been. But now everything was different. It was hard to think of them as gone. The workshop felt as if they were still there.
And so did the house, he realized, and glanced at the slot next to the picture. The floor plans Mike had drawn up were where he’d always kept them. Pulling them out of the cubbyhole, Trent watched his hand shake. He unrolled them and found more there than just the blueprints he’d seen before. Every idea and plan Mike and Sarah had decided on was cataloged. Wallpaper swatches, paint colors, quantities needed and estimated costs—all were there.
An hour later the house had taken shape in Trent’s mind.
The monstrosity no longer seemed that, he realized, but another page in the unfinished book that his brother’s life had become when an overtired trucker had driven on into the night instead of pulling over. And like the raising of Mike’s kids, it was another thing Trent knew he would see through to its finish. He owed that to Mike, the one person who had loved him unconditionally.
With that thought, another devastating one occurred to him. “Maybe I should have given him a chance. Maybe if I’d told him I wasn’t really his brother, he would have loved me anyway,” Trent said aloud. “Maybe he still would have wanted to be my brother.”
“Aunt Maggie,” Rachel said, “are we really going to leave Mickey here? Why can’t he come home with us?”
Maggie glanced at Rachel in the rearview mirror of the rental van she’d picked up at the airport. “Mickey’s going to be fine at Shriners. You saw all the other kids. He’ll have lots of company and get the therapy he needs. We can come visit, and before you know it, he’ll be home with us, driving you crazy the way he used to.”
“I love you, Aunt Maggie, but I wish it could be like it used to be. I even prayed for it a few times, but I know it can’t happen.”
You aren’t the only one praying for the impossible, Maggie thought. “I love you, too, sweetheart, and I understand how you feel.”
Two weeks had settled the two younger children into a secure routine with her, but Rachel and Mickey were having a tougher time adjusting. Rachel, at least, talked about her grief and loss. Not so Mickey. He was still silent and deeply depressed.
“Will Uncle Trent be at our house?” Rachel asked from behind her.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” she said, and forced what she hoped was a confident-looking smile. In truth, she had no clue where Trent was. She’d been unable to reach him to tell him they were returning. She’d left message after message on his answering machine at home and on his voice mail at work but he hadn’t gotten in touch with her. By late yesterday she’d swallowed her pride and called his secretary’s extension. Ellen told her that he’d taken a few days off, that her orders were not to disturb him