“She’ll be too cold. It’s not even fifty degrees yet,” Greg fussed. He reached for another blanket and handed it to Tara. “Just in case.”
“No one’s going to notice her pretty little Easter dress if we have her bundled in seventeen blankets. She’s got the cute pink coat Kathy made her and a hat from my mother. She’s fine, honey.”
“You think?”
Tara resisted the urge to laugh at him, because one look at his face said he was sincerely concerned. “Yes. But if you want to carry her over to church for the Easter service, she can snuggle in with her daddy.”
That thought brightened his eyes and relaxed his jaw. “Come on, Laynie. Daddy will cuddle you all the way to the church.”
He bent and lifted the six-month-old little girl. She smiled up at him, patted his cheek, then nuzzled into his neck.
“She’s got your number.” Tara laughed as she tugged her coat on. “Daddy’s little girl.”
“Daddy’s two best girls,” he corrected her with a lingering kiss. “Who’d have thought two years ago that my life would be like this now?”
“Knee-deep in diapers and representing women’s shelters and soup kitchens instead of entertaining international clients on Wall Street?” Tara teased. “We are so blessed, Greg. Who’d have thought that saving the Old City Mission would lead to being the contract attorney for an international Christian outreach?”
“Amazing and good.” He settled Laynie along his hip as he pulled open the door. The baby grabbed his ear, babbling something adorable. “Elena Michelle Elizondo, Daddy can’t close the door if you’re doing that.”
“Let me.” Tara pulled the door shut, then stepped into the cool, midspring morning as neighbors along the way came out of their homes. “Laynie, look. It’s your first Easter parade.”
“It is.” Greg kissed the baby’s soft brow. “What do you think, Laynie? Everybody’s all dressed up and going to church together.”
Folks waved from across the street. Mission clients called greetings to neighbors as they positioned donated flowers along the mission’s steps.
Another young couple came out of a high-rise at the corner pushing a little boy in a stroller. As the church bells tolled, people filled the streets, walking toward the old brick house of prayer.
Another church rang in, and then another, a chorus of resurrection and joy, a new day. As Greg’s hand clasped Tara’s, she raised her gaze to his.
They’d both lost loved ones over the years, but God had given them a brand-new beginning. New jobs, a cozy home, a baby girl, and a strong neighborhood community. Old buildings, vintage stores, rustic stoops, and new love.
An older woman passed them and smiled. “He is risen!”
Greg answered the way his mother had no doubt taught him long years ago: “He is risen, indeed!”
And Tara walked beside him up the broad steps of the historic church, knowing she could never ask for anything more.
Award-winning author Ruth Logan Herne is the author of over a dozen novels for Love Inspired and Summerside Press. The mother of seven children, she loves kids and pets. She is married to a very patient man who is seemingly unthreatened by the casts of characters living in her head. Visit her website at ruthloganherne.com, e-mail her at [email protected], and visit her on Goodreads or at www.seekerville.blogspot.com
This book is dedicated to my Nana—Aileen Millsap Longfellow—because I think she’s pretty happy I turned out to be a writer.
“You really are obsessive, you know that?”
April stifled a sigh. She was so tired of people saying that same thing to her—from Brenda the waitress to Daniel the night manager and now Jack the bartender—and that was only tonight. She’d heard this line at least a hundred times since she moved from Chattanooga into her sister’s Nashville apartment last month and started working here.
Besides, who cared if she liked to write? Was it really that strange a hobby?
True, not everyone wrote lyrics on gum wrappers and bar napkins like she was currently doing. And then maybe there was the occasional roll of toilet paper she pilfered from the men’s room because the women’s room was always out when she needed it most, and what was up with that? And maybe it was a bit weird when she ripped the tags off new bar aprons and used them to jot down notes, but when a girl was out of toilet paper and napkins and gum wrappers, what was she supposed to do?
But obsessive? That was ridiculous.
“I am not obsessive. Just thorough.”
“Last Friday you wrote eight words in Sharpie on my arm.”
April rolled her eyes. Jack could be so petty with details. “They were the perfect rhyme, and I didn’t want to forget them.”
“Then next time write on your own arm.”
“I was wearing a white sweater with really tight sleeves.”
“I was wearing a white shirt too! I had just gotten in from performing in a wedding!”