A Promise for His Daughter, page 1
“May I help you?” Claire blurted out.
Round dark eyes in a long face glimmered with interest. One or two loose strands of silver highlighted his hairline at the temples. She stared in surprise.
He dusted himself off, then shot her another look laced with curiosity. “Can I help you?” His voice had a deep Southern drawl that made him sound like a sheriff. Something about him was familiar, although she was sure she wouldn’t have forgotten him if she’d met him before.
“Well...this is my house,” Claire explained, feeling her cheeks warm and wondering why she was blushing.
The man studied her as if she were making it up. “You’re the owner?” he mused in a tone mingled with doubt. “Are you the one selling the house?”
Claire gave her head a small shake. “I was, but I changed my mind and decided to move in.”
The stranger’s jaw softened, and it made him look crestfallen over the news. “You’re not selling.” The man’s face clouded. “But I thought—”
“No.” She bit her lip, oddly disheartened to be disappointing him. She wasn’t sure why...
Danielle Thorne is a Southern girl who treasures home and family. Besides books, she loves travel, history, cookies and naps. She’s eternally thankful for the women she calls friends. Danielle is the author of over a dozen novels with elements of romance, adventure and faith. You’ll often find her in the mountains or at the beach. She currently lives south of Atlanta with her sweetheart of thirty years and two cats.
Books by Danielle Thorne
Love Inspired
His Daughter’s Prayer
A Promise for His Daughter
Visit the Author Profile page at LoveInspired.com.
A PROMISE FOR HIS DAUGHTER
Danielle Thorne
Yet setteth he the poor on high from affliction, and maketh him families like a flock.
—Psalm 107:41
To my mother, who knew no family yet sacrificed everything to have her own.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Excerpt from Forever on the Bay by Lee Tobin McClain
Excerpt from The Amish Twins Next Door by Vannetta Chapman
Chapter One
The rickety roof of a covered bridge emerged out of the morning mist as the Georgia highway narrowed. Claire Woodbury slowed the compact car before the blacktop gave way to the clackety wood planks under the vaulted tin roof. “We made it,” she cheered to Emily. But there was no response. Claire glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw the precious two-year-old had slipped off into dreamland in time for the arrival to her new home.
Henny House. No more apartments. No more court visits. The quaint town of Kudzu Creek would be the fresh start they both needed even if Miss Henny was no longer with them. A tender lump made her throat ache. She could hardly believe Miss Henny had willed her the family home. It would make caring for Emily easier, and the small town of Kudzu Creek would be a wonderful place to bring up a child.
Sunshine pierced lingering tendrils of fog and lit the ivy-tangled roadside. The peaceful picture it made boosted Claire’s faith. Leaving Birmingham after so many years had been tough, but Kudzu Creek was as close to a home as she’d ever known even if she’d only lived there a few years. Miss Henny had been the best foster mom in the world, and Claire wanted something like that for Emily. Since Emily’s mother, Dori, had died, Claire was all the little girl had. It’d been easy to promise her best friend she would raise her little girl right.
Claire opened a window. The morning breeze mingled with wildflowers and flooded the car. She glanced back to watch Emily’s snow-white locks flutter around her precious face. She looked like the angel her mother had been.
A Welcome sign emerged from the hazy early morning summer humidity and announced they’d officially reached the town limits of Kudzu Creek. A smile curved Claire’s cheek. Not far from where Dori grew up, and just an hour’s drive to the Florida panhandle, Kudzu Creek’s outskirts were as lush as Claire remembered.
A few sprawling houses, straggling pines and moss-dripping oaks lined the highway into town like Georgian sentinels. Soon, the homes became more modest and sidewalks and iron streetlamps took over. A converted shotgun-style house was now a dentist’s office, and just past its blue sign, the street became cobblestoned with well-preserved brick buildings on either side. Passing Miss Henny’s church, Claire watched for the town center where a flagged mast stood at attention with bushy pink azaleas at its feet.
The car trundled around the flagpole and past the coffee shop. It’d been reestablished as a kitschy-looking diner called Southern Fried Kudzu. “Interesting,” Claire murmured. She spotted a gift shop she’d looked up online then reached Maple Grove Lane and made the familiar left-hand turn onto Miss Henny’s street.
The older homes on Maple Grove Lane were a mix of styles that evidenced the slow growth of the town through the centuries. Most had immaculate yards with enormous maple trees and gardens along the sidewalks. Claire’s pulse danced as she neared her old address. Like her foster mom, the eccentric Henny House was a mishmash of opinions that did not fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. The old Victorian house had a low roofline that hovered over two asymmetrical gables. Stunted roman columns perched along the rail of a long white porch. At the far end, a gazebo looked like it’d been shipped in from a Gatsby movie set. Architecturally, the structure was a hot mess but, charming and unique, it was Miss Henny in a nutshell and that was what had brought Claire back.
She narrowed her eyes as she slowed the car along the sidewalk in front of the house. Paint was peeling everywhere, and the porch leaned oddly to the left. The roof looked sunken in. Claire’s floating heart suddenly dropped like a stone. A few repairs she’d expected, but not this much damage. A black-and-white For Sale sign was planted in the front yard beside a fire ant mound. Why hadn’t the real estate company removed the sign after she’d informed them she’d changed her mind?
She looked down the street toward Ms. Olivia’s red-brick house. Miss Henny’s quite elderly and well-informed neighbor always had the answers to what was happening on Maple Grove Lane. She’d bet Ms. Olivia would know.
With a sinking feeling, Claire eyeballed the noxious ivy that had grown around the porch columns and up to the gutter. One end of the rusting drain pipe was drooping like it’d given up. She swallowed down a ripple of panic. The place was in worse condition than she’d thought. She knew Miss Henny had intended to do updates, but she’d grown old too fast after her foster daughter had left for college. It was up to Claire to follow through now that Miss Henny had passed on. The unconventional house had real potential and room to build the pottery studio she’d always dreamed of. Running a ceramist business was her plan to bring in income to care for Emily. She braced herself. With a lot of hard work and imagination, it could be the gem of Kudzu Creek. Miss Henny had left some money, but time had caught up with the house, too, and that meant dollar signs.
Claire made a mental note to remind the real estate agent she’d decided not to sell. Climbing out to stretch, she estimated how much the work needing to be done outside would eat into her budget. She stared at the forlorn two-story and tried to imagine it with gleaming windows, an onyx door and a fresh coat of eggplant-purple paint. She pictured a bronze plaque beside the door: Artist in Residence.
Gathering her courage, Claire reached into the back of the car for Emily, who folded easily over her shoulder without stirring. They’d left before daylight and the little toddler had been chatty and giggly the entire trip. Claire knew Emily didn’t understand the momentous occasion, but soon her best friend’s daughter would have her own space and all the things Claire had never had moving from one foster home to the next. If she could salvage this house and start a successful at-home business with her pottery studio.
She juggled her purse with the toddler while she climbed the cracked cement driveway. Moss was creeping over the edges of the slight incline. Some of the steps to the front door were rotting in various places. Claire eyed the length of the porch in dismay as she fumbled for her keys. She inserted the house key into the tarnished handle of the faded front door. It pushed ajar before she turned the lock.
Her heart fluttered in surprise. The key box that allowed real estate agents to show the house was gone. Claire opened the door the rest of the way with her shoulder, and it groaned on its hinges. The last person inside must have forgotten to lock it, she decided, unless they were still here. They were probably going to remove the sign today.
She looked around. The foyer was empty, and its wooden floors smelled musty. The uncarpeted staircase crept up to the second floor. In the stillness, she tried to imagine she could hear Miss Henny in the kitchen listening to her favorite radio talk show, but Miss Henny, like Dori, was gone and it seemed she’d taken the soul of the house with her.
A bang echoed from somewhere in the back. “Hello?” she called.
“Hello,” called a friendly v
Claire slipped into the parlor and laid Emily down on one of the sheet-covered sofas.
She glanced across the foyer to the empty study then walked down the hall as something rattled again from the kitchen.
Claire peered around the doorframe with curiosity. The eighties-era cabinets were still there. So were the green-laminate countertops that had once been stylish. A large bay window over the breakfast nook was fogged and several panes needed replacement. Faded ivy wallpaper border curled above it like ribbon. Beside the table, a pair of dark khakis stretched up to the ceiling.
Claire froze. The tapered legs were planted on a stepladder that belonged in the pantry. A blue chambray shirttail draped over the top of the slacks. “Hello?” Claire realized she’d spoken in almost a whimper and took a deep breath. Before she could repeat herself, a hammer struck a ceiling tile with a bang.
Showers of white crumbs rained over the intruder and down to the floor. A head of short hair trimmed along a sunburned neckline cocked back toward the ceiling, and so did the hammer, ready to strike another blow. Horrified, Claire blurted, “May I help you?”
A man twisted around to look, and she sucked in a breath so hard she felt it reach her toes. He fanned the cloud of plaster in the air and stumbled down the ladder, almost landing in a pile at her feet. Instead, he caught himself on the counter with a tanned hand and splayed fingers. Round, dark eyes in a long face glimmered with interest. One or two loose strands of silver highlighted his hairline at the temples. She stared in surprise.
He dusted himself off then shot her another look laced with curiosity. “Can I help you?” His voice had a deep Southern drawl that made him sound like a sheriff. Something about him was familiar although she was sure she wouldn’t have forgotten him if she’d met him before.
“Well...this is my house,” Claire explained, feeling her cheeks warm and wondering why she was blushing. Was this the Realtor from Coates and Coburn she’d spoken with six weeks ago?
The man studied her as if she were making it up. “You’re the owner?” he mused in a tone mingled with doubt. “I didn’t know Miss Henny personally, but I’m pretty sure you’re not family.”
Claire stiffened. Just because she was fair didn’t mean beautiful, dark-skinned Miss Henny could not have been family. “I’m her...” Claire wavered before saying “foster daughter” and explaining the whole story. Not many people would remember her except for a few neighbors or older members of the local church congregation. She’d kept to herself in school. “I’m Claire Woodbury.”
“Are you the one selling the house?”
Claire gave her head a small shake. “I was, but I changed my mind and decided to move in.” She didn’t mention her apartment roommate had asked her and Emily to leave. A toddler had been too much, but it was fine because Miss Henny had left Claire the house in Georgia. Emily and she didn’t have a lot, but they had each other.
The stranger’s jaw softened and it made him look crestfallen over the news.
“So why are you here then?” Claire tried to sound friendly and not suspicious.
“You’re not selling.” The man’s face clouded. “But I thought—”
“No.” She bit her lip, oddly disheartened to be disappointing him.
He looked up at the holes he’d punched into the ceiling. She could have sworn his cheeks reddened. “Leaks,” he explained with an upward motion. “There’s insect damage outside the window, and there’s been a leak, too.”
Claire realized the ceiling tiles were stained in several different spots. Her enthusiasm for renovations took another swan dive. “The roof’s leaking and there’re termites?”
“I think so.” The man dusted himself off and offered a hand. “Bradley.” His hand looked friendly, and his muscled arm was...
“Claire,” Claire repeated, and their fingers tangled in an awkward clasp. He grinned like he didn’t feel a tingle shoot up his arm the way she did. It forced a dimple into one of his tanned cheeks. She jerked herself back to attention and returned to his steady gaze that reminded her of milk chocolate.
“This is going to cost a pretty penny,” he warned. A light five-o’-clock shadow on his chin made him look like a rascal.
At least Claire tried to think of him that way and ignore the fact his dark good looks and boyish dimple made her heart skip at first glance. Her heart was still skipping, she realized with dismay. She forced herself to think about pennies instead.
Henny House was looking more and more expensive, and she needed a roof over her head. That meant the pottery studio would have to wait, although she had to have it if she was going to create a comfortable and secure life for Emily. Suddenly her throat swelled with remnants of grief. She’d made it to Miss Henny’s funeral but not the house, because she’d had to get back to Emily and to work. Ms. Olivia had taken care of locking up, but Claire had never imagined that Henny House would fall into disrepair in such a short time.
She eyed the stranger and tried to hide her surprise and growing unease. The first thing she needed to do was to get him out of her new home.
* * *
Bradley Ainsworth realized he was staring at the pint-sized woman who’d snatched away his ticket to a position on the local historical preservation board. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he insisted, reminding himself not to ramble like he did when caught off guard. “I work with Parker and Associates Construction and viewed the house a couple months ago. I’ve always admired it, so I decided to come over for another look before making an offer.”
Brushing slanted bangs behind her ear, he watched Claire Woodbury swallow before looking him straight in the eye. “Well, I’m Miss Henny’s heir, I guess you could say. I lived with her until I graduated high school. She was the only real mother I ever had, although it was only for a few years.”
“She must have appreciated that.”
“I always kept in touch with her,” Claire assured him. “I loved her. Stray cats, dogs and wounded birds all found a home here. So did kids from the state foster system.” Her face reddened.
Bradley thought he had detected cats but didn’t mention the odor. He hadn’t known the previous owner had been a foster parent.
Claire looked at the fresh holes in the ceiling, and Bradley knew he would have to fix them whether he bought Henny House from her or not. She likely had a long renovation list by the looks of things. He crinkled his forehead with feeble hope. “So will you sell this place after you fix it up?”
“No, I intend to settle here for good.”
Bradley felt his face cloud with emotion at her reply. He reminded himself that Henny House was hers, and he should accept it even if she was as charming and attractive as she was determined, but he couldn’t resist. “I’d still like to make you an offer. This house will be a lot of work, and it needs to be done right.”
Claire raised a brow. “Yes, but I have plans to completely gut this wonder and bring it into the modern age. New drywall, new floors, and that’s just for starters. The weird gazebo on the porch will definitely go, and the exterior needs a coat of fresh paint.”
“Not the gazebo.” Bradley cringed at the thought. The little imp had the nerve to smile at him. “What color paint?” he asked with trepidation.
“Eggplant,” she announced.
His mouth wrenched in horror. “Are you sure I can’t buy it from you?” he blurted.
“I’m sorry, no.” An apologetic frown touched Claire’s lips. “I didn’t realize anyone wanted it so badly.”
Bradley took a resolute breath. “I restore and sell properties for the company I work for, and like I said, I’ve always wondered about this place. It’s different. Quirky. Being a contractor, I want to return it to its original glory—which means no new flooring or purple paint.”
“Eggplant,” Claire corrected him. “You’re a contractor?”
“Yes, for historical homes. Did you know the local historical preservation board would love to see this house restored?” Bradley folded his arms, hoping he looked like a world-renowned expert and forced himself not to cross his fingers. “How much would it take to convince you to sell, Claire? Why don’t you give me a number, and I’ll see what I can do?”
