Beneath a Southern Sky - By Deborah Raney Page 0,19
good care of our baby. I promise. He’ll know how much you would have loved him.”
The tears of grief that flowed were mingled with honest gratitude that God would give her this one last part of Nate. She turned toward the farmhouse and knew by the lights flickering in the windows that her parents were home again. They would be worried about her.
With the warm evening breeze in her hair, the heat of a Kansas August still lingering, she started back toward the house, toward a new life that was strange and unknown. A life that God had not abandoned.
Five
Daria blew a wayward strand of hair from her forehead, putting a hand to her aching back as she surveyed the kitchen. Chocolate jimmies, silver shot, and dollops of pink frosting sprinkled the countertops, and an array of fudge and heart-shaped cookies fit to dress the showcases of the finest bakery lined the oak table in the middle of the room.
With the corner of a checkered dishtowel, Margo Haydon reached up to wipe a smudge of flour from her daughter’s face before slumping wearily into a nearby chair.
“You’d better get off your feet for a while, honey,” she scolded. “I can finish up here. We don’t have to take these to the church until five o’clock.”
“I’m okay, Mom. I’ll go lie down in a little bit, but I can at least wash up these dishes first.”
Her mother started to protest, then waved a hand in resignation. “Do what you want. You will anyway. But don’t blame me if your ankles swell up like balloons.”
Daria was annoyed by her mother’s remark, but she tried to ignore it, realizing that just about everything annoyed her these days. She filled one side of the sink with hot soapy water, and leaned her swollen belly against the counter’s edge. The baby kicked hard in protest. Almost overnight she had gone from barely showing to looking every day of her eight months. The baby was resting low in her womb and her back was killing her, but she took comfort in knowing that she had only a few weeks to go.
Daria had begun searching for a job her second week back in the States. She did not want to be a burden to her parents, nor did she wish to raise her child under their overly watchful eyes. But when her parents discovered her intentions to move out on her own, they begged her to at least wait until after the baby arrived. “Nobody would hire you in your condition anyway,” Margo pointed out.
Daria had allowed herself to be persuaded, and now she was grateful for the reprieve. Staying with her parents had allowed her time to grieve her great loss, to plan for a future that didn’t include Nate, and to enjoy her pregnancy.
As the baby’s birth drew near, it was sinking in that, despite her mother’s offer to baby-sit while she worked, her life was not going to be easy. There had been a small insurance check through Gospel Outreach, and Social Security provided a meager monthly check, but it was going to take a full-time job to make ends meet.
She rinsed the last mixing bowl and set it on the counter to dry. She stood on tiptoe, stretched, and kneaded her back with her fingertips.
“Daria, please go lie down.” It was obvious that her mother had been studying her closely.
“Yes, Mother, whatever you say,” she singsonged, failing in her attempt to make her mother laugh. She dried her hands and gave Margo a smile meant to appease. “Don’t let me nap too long, or I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”
“A long nap wouldn’t hurt you one bit. You seem to ignore the fact that you’ve got this baby to think of.”
Daria put a hand on her bulging stomach. “This baby is kind of hard to ignore, Mom,” she snapped. She left the room before Margo could respond. She knew she was behaving like an ill-tempered child, but she couldn’t even bring herself to care.
She had tried so hard to get through this day—her first Valentine’s Day without her sweetheart—without being maudlin. But her heart was breaking. Everything reminded her of Nate—the love songs on the radio, the frosted sugar cookies he’d loved so much, even the roses her father had bought for her. It was a sweet gesture, but it was also a painful reminder of the flowers she would never again receive from her husband.