Page 67 of Home Body
It was after sunset when Dalia pulled up to the farm to find Brody already there. He sat alone on the porch swing. As quietly as possible, so as not to wake anyone in the house, she joined him.
“Hi, sweetie.” He spoke softly, putting an arm around her shoulder.
She rested a hand on his thigh and they kissed.
“I’m so happy to see you,” she said. “I’ve had quite a shocking day. And I’m not sure how I’m going to tell Mama about it. In fact, I’m not sure of anything. It all started the other day when I landed in jail.”
“Oh yeah?” He reared back slightly to look at her. Good naturedly, he said, “It wasn’t my jail. I assure you I would’ve noticed.”
“No, it was in Amberton. So much has happened since then, it’s hard to comprehend.”
He listened in silence, stroking her shoulder from time to time, giving her comfort as she let it all out. When she finished, he kissed her hair and said, “Honey, that’s all so tragic. It’s hard to know where to begin to handle it. What can I do to help?”
She gazed into his handsome face, totally smitten with every inch of him. “Nothing, my love. There’s nothing that can be done. Kenyon’s going to talk to her mom tomorrow to see if it is her. I’ll have to tell Mama tomorrow, too, and we’ll take it from there.” She rested her head on his shoulder and within minutes fell sound sleep.
Brody McIntyre let his love get the rest she needed, holding her near until the moon had risen high in the night sky. She didn’t stir when he picked her up like a fragile doll, carried her into the house, and laid her on the couch. A hand-knitted afghan over the back of the couch provided cover and he put a throw pillow under her head.
He stared down at her, wanting desperately to lie down with her, to hold her. But he was in her mother’s house with her young daughter upstairs. They weren’t married. He didn’t know how these things worked and had no idea how complicated that might be if they were found together on the couch. He supposed he should leave. But he couldn’t force himself to go.
He chose the rocking chair and covered up with another afghan, no doubt made by Mamie. Watching the woman he loved sleep, he mulled over what had made him fall so madly in love with her so quickly. He hadn’t been in love with Scarlett Blaze at the strip club because he hadn’t known her. No one there had known her, for good reason he now understood. But he’d been intrigued by Scarlett Blaze, fascinated that she was so independent from the others and so creative with her numbers. When he’d discovered she lived right in his town and was the sweet woman at the Farmers’ Market, well, that had done it. Fascination turned to passion. He loved her big heart, her devotion to her family, and her feisty independence.
He'd been called a womanizer before meeting Dalia, admitting he was a serial dater. His friends had teased him that no woman would ever get past the third date. He’d go out with agal a few times then break it off. He’d left a string of women in Detroit who hated his guts for that, but none had ever felt right to him.
Dalia felt right.
It struck him that what he loved most about her was that she didn’t need him. She didn’t need anybody to take care of her. He didn’t want her to need him. He needed her to want him.
That one difference from the other women he’d known made all the difference in the world. He was in this for the long haul, never womanizing again.
He fell asleep knowing his life had taken the most momentous turn he would ever experience. And he was glad.
CHAPTER 39
Kenyon quietly slipped into the house so she wouldn’t wake up her parents. Even though exhaustion loomed over her body, her thoughts had become so innervated by all that had transpired she couldn’t sleep. She made no effort to go upstairs to bed, instead going to the fridge and pulling out the milk to make hot chocolate. While that heated on the stove, she rummaged through the liquor cabinet to find the Irish Creme. If ever a time called for whiskey in one’s drink, this was it.
Hot mug in hand, she went out to the patio with Bitsy and Sally following behind. Sally hopped onto her lap as soon as she sat down at the patio table and Bitsy curled up at her feet. Instinctively or accidentally, they comforted her in her time of need.
She sipped her cocoa, marveling at the balmy night. Frogs could be heard off in the distance sharing their bedtime stories. The yard with its manicured flower beds, flowering bushes, and majestic hardwood trees slept peacefully in the moonlight. The waning moon still demanded attention, a bright crescent in a clear, star-studded sky. It was a perfect Michigan summer night.
But soon nothing would be the same.
Of course, she didn’t know for certain that L. Robertson who had a baby on May 27, 1970, was her mom but something deep within her, all the way to the marrow of her bones, said it was. She jumped when the patio door opened.
Her mother, in a summer nightie, silky robe, and barefoot, somehow managing to look pretty even in the middle of the night, came out and sat down. “Honey,” she said, “what’s wrong.”
Kenyon studied her mother. Had she ever really known the woman? Like many kids, she’d selfishly assumed her parents’ lives didn’t start in earnest until their children arrived on the scene. What secrets did her mom hold close to her breast?
“Mom, I have something to tell you that is astounding. Nothing life-threatening. I’m not sick or anything. It’s not that. It’s what I discovered while tracking down information for a news article.”
“Oh my. Is it disturbing?”
“I, well, I don’t know. That will depend on you.”
Llayne hesitated. “Okay. What is it?”
“Dalia has been trying to find her biological parents. As you know, Mamie and her husband unofficially adopted her. The woman she thought was her biological mother died and told Dalia she wasn’t hers. That was quite a shock. You know that part. But the other day Dalia found a lockbox with a piece of paper that had a doctor’s name and town on it. She thought if she went to that town, which is where her birth certificate is from, she might learn more.”
“This sounds like one of those long-lost family stories I report on from time to time.”
