“I don’t know, Ash.” Landon linked his hands at the small of her back. “I think your dad should tell you.” He kissed her once more and then pulled away. “Call him again while I’m out. If he doesn’t answer—” he angled his head, encouraging her—“I think you can wait until tomorrow.”
Ashley sighed. “All right.”
As soon as he was gone, she checked for missed calls on their home phone. There were none. Maybe her father hadn’t gotten her messages. She tried his cell and the Baxter home number one more time, but he answered neither of them. “Fine,” she muttered.
Landon was wrong. She couldn’t wait for tomorrow or the next day to find out. She couldn’t wait another minute. Whatever had kept her father so busy, she needed to know about Dayne.
She slipped out the kitchen side door, down the hall, and into the small bedroom that doubled as a home office. It was the place where Ashley handled the business associated with her painting.
The house was quiet, so the sound of her tapping fingers on the keys of the computer filled the room. She was online in seconds. In the Google search window she typed, Dayne Matthews birth date. Then she hit Enter.
A list of sites popped up, but the first one gave her all the information she needed without even having to click it. Ashley pushed her chair back and stared at the age on the screen. She did the math in a hurry, and any doubts she had dissolved like summer dew. Dayne was born less than a year before her parents were married—which would make the timing perfect.
So why hadn’t he wanted to meet them? If Dayne was the firstborn Baxter son and if her father was in communication with him, then the reasons had to be noble. Certainly if Dayne had a bad attitude, if he was worried about the Baxter family tarnishing his Hollywood image, then her father wouldn’t have wanted a relationship with him.
If their brother was Dayne, if he really was the missing Baxter sibling, then maybe the reason had more to do with them, with their privacy. If that was the case, no wonder he hadn’t made contact with his siblings. Not because he was ashamed of them but because if he did, the entire world was bound to find out, and once they did—there wouldn’t be a moment’s peace for any of the Baxters. They would wind up gobbled and spit out across the tabloids, same as Katy Hart.
Ashley picked up the phone and dialed her father’s cell one more time. But again the call went to his voice mail, and this time she didn’t leave a message. She didn’t want to sound desperate, but she needed to know. The clock on the wall ticked, and the ticking grew louder, louder. As if the second hand was reminding her that every tick, every passing minute and hour were one more bit of lost time where she and her siblings were missing out on knowing their parents’ firstborn son.
Should she call Dayne? Landon hadn’t exactly asked her not to call. He just didn’t think it was a good idea. And the thought had never been more than a heartbeat away since Jenny Flanigan mentioned the news. Did she owe it to her father to talk to him first? Would he mind if she simply called Dayne and asked? Her father wouldn’t get upset at that, would he?
Her purse was in the kitchen, and she darted back down the hall, scooped it up, and carried it to the office. She rummaged through it, found her cell, flipped it open, and scrolled through the phone book until she found Dayne’s number. She stared at it, each digit another hurdle in a small line of hurdles that maybe were all that remained between not knowing and finally having the information she wanted.
No. She exhaled hard and closed her phone. She couldn’t call him. She needed to talk to her father first. She sat back in the computer chair, defeated. Patience, Ashley, she told herself. Be patient. God, give me patience, please.
She looked at the screen. The Google list still displayed the Web sites listing Dayne’s birth date. Get to know Dayne Matthews, one said. Dayne Matthews: America’s Heartthrob . . . everything for the fanatical Dayne Matthews fan! boasted another.
Fourth on the list was a site that claimed to be an official gathering place for fans. Ashley clicked it, and the screen filled with a full-size photo of Dayne Matthews, a publicity shot from one of his recent films.
Ashley leaned in and scrutinized the photo, studying the way he rested against an old brick wall, his hands behind his back, one knee up. The pose was strikingly familiar. Hadn’t she seen Luke stand that way against the garage door when any of them were outside playing basketball and he was waiting for his turn? She looked at Dayne’s eyes, as deeply as she could.
“Are you my brother?” Her whisper hung in the air and blended with the soft whirring of the computer.
She pictured Dayne, the way he’d looked that night when he’d given her a ride home from CKT practice. She’d felt so at ease around him, so aware of how his mannerisms reminded her of Luke. At the time she could only make a mental note, a reminder to herself to talk to Luke about the resemblance. His coworkers were right, she told Luke later. No question, he looked just like Dayne Matthews.
But now . . .
How could she let another day go by without knowing the truth? Did they look like brothers because of an uncanny coincidence? Or because of an uncanny coincidence had she made the discovery of a lifetime?
That they looked like brothers for one reason alone—because they were.
John pulled into his driveway at ten that night, tired but with a lighthearted feeling he’d missed over the past two years. The day had been a full one, meetings at the hospital, board reviews, and committee gatherings.
Afterwards, he and several of his colleagues had gone out for what had become a quarterly dinner on the town. Wives were invited, and this time he didn’t want to sit alone at the table. He had taken Elaine, and he didn’t regret it. Having her beside him made him feel normal again, less lonely. He introduced her the same way to everyone, “This is my friend Elaine. She and Elizabeth did volunteer work together for years.”
There was no hand holding or flirtatiousness between them. What he told people was the truth. She was his friend, nothing more. But as such, she was a wonderful companion, adding her thoughtful and sometimes humorous comments at just the right moments in the conversation. The other doctors and their wives had been kind to her, accepting her into a circle where once Elizabeth had fit so well.
Only when he was in his kitchen, when he’d set his keys and his wallet down, did John pull his cell phone from his pocket. He had three missed calls from Ashley and one phone message.
He moved to the living room, sank into his recliner—the one that faced the fireplace and the mantel where the framed graduation photos of five of his kids stared back at him. He kicked the footrest out and crossed his feet. Once he was comfortable, he tapped his code into the phone, put it to his ear, and listened as Ashley’s voice filled the line.
“Dad . . . it’s me.” There was a pause, but her tone told him this wasn’t merely another call, not just Ashley fishing for facts about her older brother. “I have a question about our older brother. I found out something today, and I think . . . maybe I know who he is. Maybe not, but maybe.” Another pause. “Call me, Dad. Please.”
Slowly, John pressed the footrest back into the base of the chair and sat up straighter. Ashley found out something? His heart kicked into a double rhythm. What could she have possibly found out? Unless Dayne had talked to her, how could she know who her older brother was?
He looked at the house phone on the table beside him. The message light was blinking, and this time trepidation made him move faster than before.
Again Ashley’s voice sounded in the speaker. “Dad, where are you? I need to talk to you about our brother. Please, Dad . . . call me.”
He swallowed hard. Whatever her question, it was serious. If she knew about Dayne, then it was only a matter of time before the others knew also. Which meant change was coming. Either the finality of Dayne’s decision to walk away from them or the glare of scrutiny from the paparazzi. He set his cell down next to the home phone and eased back against the headrest. He had no idea what to tell Ashl
ey. He’d have to deal with her in the morning.
Heaviness settled in his chest as he stared at his kids’ graduation photographs. The frames had always been there, the picture inside each frame updated by Elizabeth every year until graduation. Countless nights when the kids were growing up, he’d find his way to this spot, this chair, the place where he could look at their faces and pray for them—sometimes one more than the others. More times than John could remember, he’d wake up at one or two in the morning, pad down the stairs, and settle into his chair. Sometimes Elizabeth would find him, and she’d know. One of the kids was on his heart.
He’d sat here praying for Kari when her close friend Ryan, the man who was now her husband, suffered what could’ve been a life-threatening spinal injury. He’d prayed for Ashley from this chair, monthly, weekly through practically a decade, when she seemed to have lost her way. And after 9-11 he’d prayed for Luke in this spot. Night after night some weeks, begging God for his return to the family.
Always God brought everything together. Not without pain or process, not without consequences and repercussions. But even through great trials and tragedies, they’d survived. The Baxter family. Closer than ever before. Closer to God and closer to each other.
So what about this? If Ashley had found out the truth—that Dayne was their brother—then what would come next? Was he supposed to go against Dayne’s wishes and let the others know? Should he call Dayne and tell him that Ashley might have figured it out?
For a moment, John’s tension eased and a slight chuckle echoed in the silent room. Of course Ashley would figure it out. Who else? And what did that mean? That somehow she’d overheard a conversation between him and Dayne? Or that someone had told her? He studied the faces on the mantel. Wouldn’t they be fine if they knew the truth, if they had to watch their steps and avoid the press? Photographers might come around for a while, but they’d back off in time, wouldn’t they?
Besides, maybe Dayne could make contact with them, and no one would ever find out. It was possible, wasn’t it? Dayne had never gone public with the fact that he was adopted, so maybe the press would merely think he’d connected with the Baxter family because of his time in Bloomington. Nice people he’d met at the park or some other such thing.
Either way, the situation was reaching a boiling point. Dayne was their oldest child, and he had no parents, no family. Yes, he was a man in his own right, and he’d be fine without family. But how much better off would he be with them? How much happier and better connected? How much fuller would his life be?
Family was what living was all about, wasn’t it? God created families so people would have a place of connection, a haven of rest, a group who would accept and love one another no matter what.
A Scripture flashed in John’s mind. Jesus reminding His followers that He had not come to bring peace, not in every situation. Rather, His teachings would in some cases cause divisions between parents and children, brothers and sisters, and even extended family members. John could think of a dozen quick examples where people he knew—because of various issues—were either shunned by their families or busy shunning family members.
He exhaled and tried to rope in his emotions. Maybe that was the hardest part of all. The Baxters weren’t that kind of family. They were the kind of family people longed to have, the kind where the members were allowed to mess up or make mistakes, and still the net of love and faith and forgiveness remained intact. The kind of family that would make Dayne’s life stronger, richer in every way—no matter what sort of worldly wealth he’d acquired.
God, it was Elizabeth’s dream, her hope, that we’d find our firstborn and that he might at least know what the Baxter family was all about. You brought about a miracle in letting us find him, especially for Elizabeth. And here we are . . . so close to having him be part of our family. I guess I just don’t want to blow it. I don’t want Dayne to run and close us out of his life—all so we’ll be safe from an enemy that might not even exist. Please, Lord . . . give me wisdom. This battle isn’t one I can fight on my own.
And then John heard the answer. Son, this battle is not yours but God’s. Stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you.
Chills ran down John’s spine and his arms. He had barely finished praying when God’s words resounded in his heart. How long had it been since he’d thought of those words? He’d relied on these verses as a young man; they had helped him through years of uncertainty. The passage was from chapter 20 of 2 Chronicles, a section about God helping people in times of battle. John had used it when he felt defeated about Elizabeth’s first pregnancy, later when he was discouraged and ready to quit med school, and again in their early years of parenting when finding a plan and sticking to it felt all but impossible.
The battle belongs to the Lord. John would tell himself that over and over back then, but he hadn’t thought much about the verses in years. And now, just when he needed them, God breathed the words into his soul.
He looked at the cell phone. Elaine would know what to do. They’d shared just about every stage of his search for Dayne, and now he could share this as well. Her number was programmed on speed dial now. He pushed a few buttons, and her phone began to ring.
She answered just when he thought she’d already gone to sleep. “Hello?”
“Elaine, it’s me.” He sighed. “You still awake?”
She laughed, and the sound eased his loneliness. “Silly . . . you know me. I’m never in bed before eleven.”
“I know.” He felt himself relax. This was what he needed. A friend, someone to talk to, the friend who at this time in his life knew him better than anyone else except his kids. “So I get a call from Ashley on both phones, home and the cell. She wants to talk, thinks she’s found out the identity of her brother.”
Elaine’s hushed gasp sounded over the phone. “Who would’ve told her?”
“This is Ashley we’re talking about.” John looked at the photo of his middle daughter. She had been beautiful even back then—during her awkward flower-child stage. But she’d always been a challenge. “She finds a way, Elaine. If she thinks she’s found out who he is, then she probably has.”
“Okay.” Elaine’s tone became more thoughtful. “I guess that means it’s time.”
“Time?” He was getting used to the way Elaine communicated. She wasn’t nearly as talkative as Elizabeth, but what she said was almost always profound. “To tell them, you mean?”
“Yes.” He could almost hear her gentle smile through the phone line. “I’ve been praying that God would show you. Between you and Dayne, it feels like the truth might never get out. He’s afraid, and I understand that. But if Ashley knows the truth . . .”
“It’s time for the others to know too?”
“Yes, John. I think so.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine Dayne, the life he was living and the insanity of his being chased by cameramen everywhere he went. “What if Dayne’s right? What if the paparazzi latch on to us and never let go? We could . . . we could lose what we’re about, Elaine.”
That was the hardest part, the part that made him almost agree with Dayne at times. If his other kids were so affected by the change that it altered their lifestyles, altered their family dynamic, then it would probably be better for them never to know Dayne at all. Something that could threaten his family, the way they lived? His heart skipped a beat at the thought.
Elaine took her time answering, and when she did, her voice was serene with a practiced peace that marked who she was at the very core, the faith that meant so much to her. “Nothing could make the Baxters stop being the Baxters. Not even if the whole world gets a front-row seat for a season.”
There it was. The reason he’d called her. She had a way of setting his world back on its axis, even when it was tilting wildly to one side. Her words echoed in his mind. “Not even if the whole world gets a front-row seat for a season.” He smiled and opened his eyes. “Elaine . . . I’m glad you??
?re in my life. Have I told you that?”
“Yes, John.” A knowing slipped in as she paused. “I’m glad you’re in my life too.”
Not until the call ended did John wonder if maybe he’d given her the wrong impression. He cared about her, yes. They spent more time together every week, it seemed. A trip to the farmers’ market, a dinner out at their favorite Mexican restaurant, a visit on his porch swing. But the idea of anything more than friendship still felt terribly wrong, a betrayal to everything he knew to be good and right with Elizabeth, a stab at her memory. He was grateful for Elaine, but he had to be careful with her heart. With both their hearts. She’d been without her husband for more than a decade, and maybe she was more willing to move forward, to consider him more than a friend.
He chided himself as he set the phone down on the table beside his chair. The situation between them needed to be handled carefully because he truly enjoyed Elaine. Maybe more than he wanted to admit. But there was no way she could ever replace his Elizabeth.
A breeze blew in through the open window and rustled the sheers, the ones Elizabeth had hung just after Cole was born. It was the sort of night in early summer when he and Elizabeth would’ve taken a walk around their property, checking on her rose garden and what perimeter areas needed weeding or fertilizing or pruning. The sort of night when he could almost hear her in the next room or feel her sitting beside him.
John stood and stretched. She would’ve found a way to talk Dayne into meeting all of them by now. That was the way Elizabeth had with people, especially her kids. She could make every problem feel small and inconsequential, and she would convince Dayne that nothing would be better for him—for all of them—than to be a family.
Finally.
He wandered up to their bedroom and closed the door behind him. Something about the night made him long for her more than he had in months. If there were a door or a window into heaven, some way to spend an hour with her, he would’ve found it. Just an hour.