Elissa Ambrose - Journey Of The Heart

“I don’t think you need correction at all,” she said, tears welling up behind her eyelids. Maybe a little attention, she thought. No, make that a lot of attention. An idea began to take hold in her mind. “I could sure use some help around this place,” she said, wiping the moisture from her eyes. “Look at this pigsty! I know you’re busy with homework and friends and your paper route, but maybe you could come over once in a while and give me a hand. I’d even pay you.”

“Like a real job?”

“Exactly.”

“I’d have to ask my dad. I can’t do anything without asking him first.”

She looked at him with squinted eyes. “Does he know you’re here?” She dreaded the thought of calling Jake, dreaded hearing his voice.

“Oh, yeah, sure. I told Rose. She must have called him. But she’s really old. Maybe she forgot. Dad says I have to tell her where I’m going. He treats me like a baby. He thinks I’m going to have an accident and die like my real mother.”

“Fathers worry,” she said, trying not to appear shocked at Cory’s words. Stepmothers worry, too, she thought. As a parent, she had been just as protective as Jake. She remembered how she had felt after moving in. What did she know about being a mother? Even though Rose Halligan, Jake’s longtime housekeeper, had been there to guide her, Laura had been plagued with anxiety.

“Where have you been all this time?” she said, frowning. The elementary school was only two blocks from her house, and school had let out an hour ago.

“I went to the park. You know, to mess around.” He stared down at his hands. “So is it true what Tommy’s grandmother said? Did you steal my father from my mother?”

“No. Tommy’s grandmother was wrong.” A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she added, “Your father must have told you that your mother and I were friends when we were kids. Would you like to see some pictures?”

“You have pictures of my mother?” he said, his face lighting up. “Dad doesn’t keep any around the house.”

Laura wasn’t surprised. Jake had never wanted mementos of his first wife. You’d think I would have been happy, she thought. A second wife doesn’t need constant reminders of the first one—a face on the mantel in the living room, next to the bookcase, on the desk in the den…. But the lack of any pictures had had a reverse effect. It had confirmed what Laura had always feared, and apparently, nothing had changed. After all this time, Jake still hadn’t recovered from the pain of losing Cynthia.

“You don’t have any pictures of your mother?” she asked, thinking about her own parents. It had been terrible growing up not knowing what they looked liked. It was still terrible, not knowing.

“I have some in my room, but she was all grown-up when they were taken. It would be cool to see what she looked like when she was a kid.”

“Come on, Cory, you’re in for a treat,” she said, taking his hand. “I have loads of pictures. Your mother and I weren’t just friends, we were best friends.”

“I guess it’s not true then. I mean, best friends don’t steal from each other, do they?”

“No, Cory. Best friends don’t steal.”

Jake sat at his large rectangular desk, surveying his office. On the wall to his right hung a watercolor of the town center, painted by Laura before they were married. The painting showed five young children building a snowman in the town square. It reminded him of when he was young, and he often imagined he’d been one of those kids. He liked to stare at the painting for long stretches of time. It gave him inspiration.

The folder containing the plans for the new community center lay unopened on his desk. But no matter how long Jake stared at the watercolor, inspiration evaded him. He couldn’t seem to summon up any enthusiasm for work.

The board had accepted his proposal only last week. This was more than a coup on his part; it not only added another supporting column in the structure of his financial security, it also served as a concrete affirmation of his integrity. Jake’s bid had not been the lowest, as he had been unwilling to compromise his standards in any way to secure the contract. He’d always taken pride in his work, refusing to sacrifice quality and safety by cutting corners. Having lived in Middlewood all his life, he was interested in more than just profit; he’d invested his heart.

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