Beneath a Southern Sky - By Deborah Raney Page 0,117
and reporters began jockeying for position again, launching questions. “Will Dr. Hunter get legal custody of the children?” a young reporter shouted above the growing din. “Will you tell Natalie who her birth father is?” another queried.
Nate winced, wondering how to respond to the delicate questions. Beside him, his father tightened his grip on his arm. “May I?” the older man whispered.
Nate nodded, and Jack Camfield stepped in front of him toward the phalanx of microphones. With the sonorous voice of a lawyer, he reiterated the judge’s decision. “Because of the way Kansas law reads, Daria’s marriage to Colson Hunter was recognized as valid by the law even after my son was found alive. In this state the presumption of validity of a subsequent marriage is stronger than and overcomes the presumption of a previous marriage. And as Dr. Hunter said, the judge today affirmed that the first marriage is dissolved under the law without necessity of divorce. The decisions that have been made—and that will be made in the future—are understandably very private and extremely sensitive, and we respectfully request that you honor the privacy of all involved. But we do want to note for the record that there is mutual agreement and deep mutual respect among all parties involved. Obviously there are no easy answers in a case such as this, but it is our desire—and we feel assured—that every decision will first and foremost take the children’s well-being into account.”
Reporters were scribbling furiously, dialing cell phones, tinkering with tape recorders. Jack Camfield held up a hand, and for the first time, his confident demeanor cracked. “I believe that is all we have to say.” As Nate had, he looked to Cole and Daria for affirmation. They both nodded, gratitude in their eyes.
Inexplicably undisturbed by the press, they all continued down the stairs to the parking lot.
Using the keyless entry on his key chain, Jack Camfield unlocked the door to his black Intrepid while they were still several hundred feet from the car. Nate hurried ahead of his father and climbed into the passenger side. The car was an oven, and the strength he had felt moments earlier as he gave his statement to the press—as he testified to God’s hand in unraveling their dilemma—drained from him. He felt as though his bones had turned to liquid. Trembling and overcome with a sadness too deep to be expressed, he put his head in his hands and moaned.
His father climbed into the driver’s seat beside him. Jack Camfield put the keys in the ignition and then dropped his head and began to weep. Nate put a scarred hand on his father’s shoulder. The older man looked up at him with such love in his eyes. And it occurred to Nate that, perhaps for the first time, his earthly father had begun to understand the father-heart of a God who watched his only son suffer an anguish that only the hope of heaven could assuage.
The July sun was blistering, but the Camfields’ yard offered a cool haven with its ancient shade trees and striped canvas awnings. Daria sat on a formal wrought-iron bench, Nicole napping in the infant carrier at her feet, and watched Natalie romp in the sunshine on the grounds’ lush acres of grass.
The back door opened, and Nate came out carrying a tray of drinks. He handed Daria a frosty glass of iced tea and took one himself. Natalie came running when she heard the ice tinkling in their glasses.
“Mommy, I’m thirsty,” she hinted, eyeing the juice box that remained on the tray.
“I brought you some apple juice,” Nate told her, holding out the container. “Does that sound good?”
“Yeah!” she crowed, then cocked her head. “Do I hafta stay here with it?”
Daria looked to Nate.
“Would you like to take it into the garden?” he asked her.
She nodded vigorously and scampered across the lawn, disappearing behind the gate to Vera Camfield’s rose garden.
“Just bring the empty box back,” Daria called after her. “And don’t pick any of Grandma’s flowers!”
“She’s all right,” Nate reassured her. He watched Natalie run across the lawn. “She’s beautiful, Daria. So beautiful.”
Her throat tightened. She didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing.
They sat sipping iced tea, not looking at each other, an uncomfortable silence between them.
“What time does your flight leave?” she asked gently.
He glanced at his watch. “It’s a four-thirty flight. Mom and Dad will be back to pick me up about three.”