Maybe the vibrant parts of her, the passionate, giving part of her, could be revived with a little tending. She would start by carrying her sketchbook and pencil in her bag again. For a long time, that sketchbook had served as a place for her to record her impressions, ideas and dreams.
Yes, her soul needed tending. The favorite part of what made her who she was had been sadly neglected.
The worst part is that if anyone had asked her as a high school senior if she would ever let a man get in the way of her priorities, she would’ve been so offended.
A slight knock sounded at the doorway to the small studio. Wynn scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. When she turned, her mom was standing in the opening.
“Hey. I wondered when you would come in here.”
“It’s been too long. Mom, I don’t know why I didn’t come home more.”
“You were busy trying to find out who you were.”
Wynn laughed, but the sound wasn’t cheerful. “It’s funny, but I think I had to come home to find out who I really am. I keep saying I don’t know how I got to this point, but I do. I let a man come between me and what I knew was right. I let my desire to make a difference somehow become a desire to be wanted and needed. And he was only too willing to take advantage of it.”
Bertie walked closer and studied the painting on the easel. “He...the congressman?”
“Preston Schofield the fourth, career politician.” She pressed her lips together in a firm line.
“You seem a little bitter, Wynn. Congressman Schofield gave you a great opportunity.”
Once, Wynn had believed that to be true. Now she knew better. “Mom, I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, honey.” Bertie’s face softened in sympathy, but she didn’t look shocked.
Wynn sucked in a breath and, unable to meet her mother’s eyes, whirled around to look out the window. “You aren’t surprised. How long have you known?”
“I didn’t know who—but I’ve known you were pregnant since just after you got home. I’m your mom, Wynn. Did you think I wouldn’t guess?”
Wynn’s eyes filled with tears, the familiar walls of her studio blurring as words she’d been longing to say came pouring out. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you. I just didn’t...want you to be disappointed in me.”
Her mom turned Wynn to face her, wrapping her arms around her as she did when Wynn was a child. “I’m not disappointed in you, Wynn. Everyone loses their way once in a while. I used to tell you when you were little that nothing you could do would ever make me stop loving you. It’s still true.”
Wynn took a deep breath and released it, along with some of the tension knotting the muscles in her back. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. Claire and Jordan offered me the cottage.”
“That’s a good thought.” Her mom picked up one of the small paintings and studied it. “I’ve been meaning to clean out in here for years. Why don’t you start by remembering who you were before all this happened?”
A phone rang from somewhere in the house. Bertie put the painting on top of another pile of things. “I’ve got to get that, and then I’m going to make a chocolate cake. Come down to the kitchen when you’re ready for a break.”
Wynn glanced at her watch. “I actually have to go. I promised Latham I’d stay with his pop this afternoon. I won’t be late, though.”
“No problem. Chocolate cake will keep.”
“I love you, Mom.”
Already halfway out the door, Bertie turned back. “I love you, too, baby girl. And I just can’t wait to see what God has in store for you next.”
As her mom disappeared down the hall, Wynn heard the muffled hello as Bertie answered the phone. She turned back to her studio, the room where she’d dreamed and planned and painted. Soon the smell of her favorite chocolate cake would be in every nook and cranny of the house. Each one of Bertie’s kids had their favorite comfort food. For Wynn, it was always chocolate cake. Jules loved bread; Ash, cinnamon rolls; and Joe, chocolate chip cookies. Bertie would bake, and then they would sit at the table with a glass of milk and talk it out.
She stood in the door to the studio, her hand on the knob. Deliberately, she walked away, leaving it open.
Downstairs, she picked up her keys from the counter in the kitchen. Bertie was unloading ingredients from the pantry to the counter. “Mom, Mr. Grant thought I was you when I was filling in at the Hilltop. Does he have some kind of dementia?”
“Something like that, from what I understand. I don’t know the details, but he’s really gone downhill since Mrs. Margenia died a couple of years ago. I’m driving car pool for Claire this afternoon, but I could come out after I get the kids to the farm.”
“No, thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
In the car, on the way to Latham’s place, Wynn’s stomach tumbled with nerves, but she had no reason to be anxious. This wasn’t rocket science. This was being kind to someone who needed help.
She might’ve been in Washington, DC, a long time, but she still remembered how to be kind.
* * *
Latham pushed the back door open silently. He’d gotten called in to sub in one of the freshmen history classes and was an hour later getting home than he’d planned on being.
The house was quiet, the TV murmuring in the background. Wynn sat at the kitchen table, late-afternoon light creating a halo around her hair as she sketched on a pad. She was so pretty. Always had been, but in high school it hadn’t been her looks that drew him to her.
It had been her absolute fearlessness.
He’d known then she was different from other girls, but now that he spent his evenings teaching college students, he was even more aware how rare that kind of self-confidence was. He dropped his backpack and she looked up, a smile in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. I was late and you spent your whole afternoon here.” Latham glanced over at Pop, napping in the recliner in the living room, a glass of iced tea at his fingertips on the side table. “He’s been okay?”
“Aside from being a little confused that Fran had to leave and I was here, he’s been totally fine. I hope it’s okay that I raided the garden to cook his supper.”
He shot her a grin and relaxed. “Feel free to raid my garden anytime, especially if you’re going to cook in my kitchen. Are those fried green tomatoes?”
“Yes. Your grandpa really liked them.”
“They’re his favorite and I always make them too soggy.” Latham popped one in his mouth. Even cold, it was delicious.
“The key is the ratio of cornmeal to flour. I’ll email you the recipe, if you promise not to tell Bertie. Trade secrets and all.” Wynn stood and grabbed her sketch pad. “I should probably be going.”
“Join me for some tea on the back porch?” The words were out and hanging in the air before he even knew he was going to say them.
Her eyes, glass blue and crystal clear, met his, and he could see her hesitation. “Please? I could use some adult conversation after the class I just taught.”
She nodded. “So, no one cut their finger off today?”
Confused, he looked up from pouring tumblers of sweet tea. “No, you mean like with a saw?”
“Isn’t that what you do in shop class?” She held the back door open for him to walk through.
He laughed and handed her a drink as they sat down. “I teach Government, although I was filling in for World History this evening.”