Upon a Midnight Clear. Gail Martin Gaymer
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His abruptness struck her as arrogant, and Callie could almost sense his arched eyebrow.
“Yes. I’ve been blessed working with the older patients, but I’d like to work with…a child.”
“I see.” A thoughtful silence hung in the air. “You’re a religious woman, Miss Randolph?”
His question confounded her. Then she remembered she’d used the word blessed. Not sure what he expected, she answered honestly. “I’m a Christian, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She waited for a response. Yet only silence filled the line. With no response forthcoming, she asked, “What do you mean by ‘special,’ Mr. Hamilton? In the ad, you mentioned you needed a caregiver for a ‘special child.”’
He hesitated only a moment. “Natalie…Nattie’s a bright child. She was always active, delightful—but since her mother’s death two years ago, she’s become…withdrawn.” His voice faded.
“Withdrawn?”
“Difficult to explain in words. I’d rather the prospective caregiver meet her and see for herself what I mean. Nattie no longer speaks. She barely relates to anyone. She lives in her own world.”
Callie’s heart lurched at the thought of a child bearing such grief. “I see. I understand why you’re worried.” Still, panic crept over her like cold fingers inching along her spine. Her heart already ached for the child. Could she control her own feelings? Her mind spun with flashing red warning lights.
“I’ve scared you off, Miss Randolph.” Apprehension resounded in his statement.
She cringed, then lied a little. “No, no. I was thinking.”
“Thinking?” His tone softened. “I’ve been looking for someone for some time now, and I seem to scare people off with the facts…the details of Nattie’s problem.”
The image of a lonely, motherless child tugged at her compassion. What grief he had to bear. “I’m not frightened of the facts,” Callie said, but in her heart, she was frightened of herself. “I have some personal concerns that came to mind.” She fumbled for what to say next. “For example, I don’t know where you live. Where are you located, sir?”
“We live in Bedford, not too far from Bloomington.”
Bedford. The town was only a couple of hours from her mother’s house. She paused a moment. “I have some personal matters I need to consider. I’ll call you as soon as I know whether I’d like to be interviewed for the position. I hope that’s okay with you.”
“Certainly. That’s fine. I understand.” Discouragement sounded in his voice.
She bit the corner of her lip. “Thank you for your time.”
After she hung up the telephone, Callie sat for a while without moving. She should have been honest. She’d already made her decision. A position like that wouldn’t be wise at all. She was too vulnerable.
Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted to work for David Hamilton. His tone seemed stiff and arrogant. A child needed a warm, loving father, not one who was bitter and inflexible. She would have no patience with a man like that.
David Hamilton leaned back in his chair, his hand still clasping the telephone. Useless. In two months, his ad had resulted in only three telephone calls. One courageous soul came for an interview, but with her first look at Nattie, David saw the answer in the woman’s eyes.
He supposed, as well, the “live-in” situation might be an obstacle for some. With no response locally, he’d extended his ad further away, as far as Indianapolis. But this Miss Randolph had been the only call so far.
He longed for another housekeeper like Miriam. Her overdue retirement left a hole nearly as big, though not as horrendous, as Sara’s death. No one could replace Miriam.
A shudder filtered through him. No one could replace Sara.
Nothing seemed worse than a wife’s death, but when it happened, he had learned the truth. Worse was a child losing her mother. Yet the elderly housekeeper had stepped in with all her love and wisdom and taken charge of the household, wrapping each of them in her motherly arms.
Remembering Miriam’s expert care, David preferred to hire a more mature woman as a nanny. The voice he heard on the telephone tonight sounded too young, perhaps nearly a child herself. He mentally calculated her age. She’d mentioned working for four years. If she’d graduated from college when she was twenty-one, she’d be only twenty-five. What would a twenty-five-year-old know about healing his child? Despite his despair, he felt a pitying grin flicker on his lips. He was only thirty-two. What did he know about healing his child? Nothing.
David rose from the floral-print sofa and wandered to the fireplace. He stared into the dying embers. Photographs lined the mantel, memories of happier times—Sara smiling warmly with sprinkles of sunlight and shadow in her golden hair; Nattie with her heavenly blue eyes and bright smile posed in the gnarled peach tree on the hill; and then, the photograph of Sara and him on his parents’ yacht.
He turned from the photographs, now like a sad monument conjuring sorrowful memories. David’s gaze traversed the room, admiring the furnishings and decor. Sara’s hand had left its mark everywhere in the house, but particularly in this room. Wandering to the bay window, he stood over the mahogany grand piano, his fingers caressing the rich, dark wood. How much longer would this magnificent instrument lie silent? Even at the sound of a single note, longing knifed through him.
This room was their family’s favorite spot, where they had spent quiet evenings talking about their plans and dreams. He could picture Sara and Nattie stretched out on the floor piecing together one of her thick cardboard puzzles.
An empty sigh rattled through him, and he shivered with loneliness. He pulled himself from his reveries and marched back to the fireplace, grabbing the poker and jamming it into the glowing ashes. Why should he even think, let alone worry, about the young woman’s phone call? He’d never hear from her again, no matter what she promised. Her voice gave the tell-tale evidence. She had no intention of calling again.
Thinking of Nattie drew him to the hallway. He followed the wide, curved staircase to the floor above. In the lengthy hallway, he stepped quietly along the thick Persian carpet. Two doors from the end, he paused and listened. The room was silent, and he pushed the door open gently, stepping inside.
A soft night-light glowed a warm pink. Natalie’s slender frame lay curled under a quilt, and the rise and fall of the delicate blanket marked her deep sleep. He moved lightly across the pink carpeting and stood, looking at her buttercup hair and her flushed, rosy cheeks. His heart lurched at the sight of his child—their child, fulfilling their hopes and completing their lives.
Or what had become their incomplete and short life together.
After the telephone call, Callie’s mind filled with thoughts of David Hamilton and his young daughter. Her headache pounded worse than before, and she undressed and pulled down the blankets. Though the evening was still young, she tucked her legs beneath the warm covers.
The light shone brightly, and as thoughts drifted through her head, she nodded to herself, resolute she would not consider the job in Bedford. After turning off the light, she closed her eyes, waiting for sleep.
Her subconsciousness opened, drawing her into the darkness. The images rolled into her mind like thick fog along an inky ocean. She was in a sparse waiting room. Her pale pink blouse, buttoned to the neck, matched the flush of excitement in her cheeks. The murky shadows swirled past her eyes: images, voices, the reverberating click of a door. Fear rose within her. She tried to scream, to yell, but nothing came except black silence—
Callie forced herself awake, her heart thundering. Perspiration ran from her hairline. She threw back the blankets and snapped on the light. Pulling her trembling legs from beneath the covers, she sat on the edge of the bed and gasped until