Their Secret Baby Bond. Stephanie Dees

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       Chapter Three

      Wynn stood outside the attic door in her mom’s house. She’d been walking past it for weeks now, staring at the doorknob, wanting to go in, but not wanting to, just as much.

      She shook her head at herself as her hand lingered over the knob. Who was this woman who didn’t have the courage to walk through a door? What happened to the little girl who punched a kid at Vacation Bible School because he was being a bully? Where was the little girl who believed in justice, even if it meant she’d be in timeout for the rest of the afternoon?

      That little girl would have the courage to open a door. It was just a door.

      She turned the knob and shoved it open, blinking at the swirl of dust in the warm air. Her studio had been the place she’d gone to, as a teenager, when things got rough or rocky. Or sad or happy or confusing.

      Her mom hadn’t changed much, if anything, in the tiny room tucked into the eaves of the old house. Wynn’s paints were still haphazardly strewn on the desk and her easel held a small unfinished watercolor. She picked up the sketchbook from the top of a teetering stack of identical books. When had she lost the wonder she’d always had at the world around her?

      Probably around the same time she stopped looking at her job as an opportunity to make things better for someone else and started looking at it as a career. She’d lost her ability to dream, to think of others besides herself. Worse, she’d lost her confidence in herself and her faith that God had a plan and kept His promises.

      Somewhere along the way, she’d imagined that her plan was better.

      Well, she could see how that turned out.

      She’d like to blame Preston. And while he definitely shared the blame, it wasn’t all his fault. She was the one who’d let go of her morals and her beliefs. She was the one who replaced her dreams with his—until he replaced her in his life with the newer, prettier, more idealistic model.

      Wynn slid her hand down around the very small, almost imperceptible curve of her belly, and whispered, “I promise I’ll do better.”

      She had to. She had barely six months to figure out how.

      The room was dusty, the paper she had painted on dry and curling at the edges. The whole space looked used up and ready for the trash bin. Fitting. That’s exactly how she felt.

      Sweeping the pile of dried-up paints into the trash can, she tried to imagine that she was sweeping out the parts of her that she didn’t want anymore, the parts that didn’t work for her and could never be salvaged. Maybe it all just needed to go.

      She caught her breath on a sob.

      The watercolor paints—those she could keep. They were dried up and cracking with disuse but...they could be revived with a little tending.

      Maybe the vibrant parts of her, the passionate, giving part of her, could be revived with a little tending. She would start by carrying her sketchbook and pencil in her bag again. For a long time, that sketchbook had served as a place for her to record her impressions, ideas and dreams.

      Yes, her soul needed tending. The favorite part of what made her who she was had been sadly neglected.

      The worst part is that if anyone had asked her as a high school senior if she would ever let a man get in the way of her priorities, she would’ve been so offended.

      A slight knock sounded at the doorway to the small studio. Wynn scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. When she turned, her mom was standing in the opening.

      “Hey. I wondered when you would come in here.”

      “It’s been too long. Mom, I don’t know why I didn’t come home more.”

      “You were busy trying to find out who you were.”

      Wynn laughed, but the sound wasn’t cheerful. “It’s funny, but I think I had to come home to find out who I really am. I keep saying I don’t know how I got to this point, but I do. I let a man come between me and what I knew was right. I let my desire to make a difference somehow become a desire to be wanted and needed. And he was only too willing to take advantage of it.”

      Bertie walked closer and studied the painting on the easel. “He...the congressman?”

      “Preston Schofield the fourth, career politician.” She pressed her lips together in a firm line.

      “You seem a little bitter, Wynn. Congressman Schofield gave you a great opportunity.”

      Once, Wynn had believed that to be true. Now she knew better. “Mom, I’m СКАЧАТЬ