He saw Rev squeeze her hand, and the tickle in his belly moved higher, a burning now in his throat. She’s not okay. He’d have to go to foster care now, and it was all for nothing. Everything was for nothing, and now …
Rev cleared his throat.
“What Marla means is we think she’s too old to handle some of the responsibilities of raising a young boy.”
Devon squeezed his eyes shut. Don’t cry. Just breathe.
Marla took a breath. “Rev and I were wondering, well … if you’d maybe like to come live with us.”
He opened his eyes. Was he hearing right?
“With you?”
“With us.” She smiled at him, her voice stronger now, looked straight into his eyes. “I mean, for good.”
“A family.” Rev shifted closer so his face was right next to Miss Marla’s.
“I know we can’t replace your mama, or Memaw, but you’re like a son to us,” Marla said quietly. “The child we couldn’t have. And we’d love to be your parents, for real.”
Tears flooded his eyes in earnest, began to roll down his cheeks.
“You don’t have to decide now or anything.” Rev held up a hand. “We already talked to social services, and for now it’ll be foster care until they get the paperwork all squared away, do what they can to try to locate your biological father, but they said if you’re open to the possibility of adoption—”
“You want me?” Devon’s voice cracked a bit at the end, but he didn’t care.
“Oh, baby. We want you,” Marla said.
And as they gathered him close for a hug, he almost thought he heard singing. Mama’s singing.
Joyful and deep and true.
CHAPTER 42
Rebecca
Outside the hospital room, Granny hugged her and held up a cup of coffee.
“Figured you’d need this.”
“Do I ever.” Rebecca chuckled, took a sip.
“I brought you something else, too,” Granny said as they walked together to the small waiting room, a pretty space with soft shafts of sunlight here and there and calming gray carpet and blue-green walls.
Granny slid the latestDahlia Weeklyfrom her pocketbook.
Rebecca scanned the headlines, a five-column photo front-and-center of a blanket-wrapped Devon in her arms outside the drain, rescue crews all around. She flipped through, shaking her head in admiration at what she’d authorized but had yet to see. Her staff had stepped up and done the entire paper in her absence, Tiff taking the lead in layout with heavy backup from Dinah. They’d done a remarkably good job—the front page was strong, the calendar layout exactly as Rebecca liked, and the high school football pre-season page was exceptional.
She didn’t even realize Tiff knew her way around layout, butwhen the young woman confessed over the phone last night that she’d taken a few courses in college and had been sharpening her skills on the side, Rebecca decided to chance it, let them try their hand.
“Sounds like you might be underutilizing that reporter of yours,” Granny said with a wry grin, and Rebecca laughed.
Granny was right. Tiff had grown a whole lot more than she’d ever expected. Perhaps she’d pegged the girl wrong from the start. Behind the stilettos, the mousy features, and the breathy voice, perhaps there was a small-town version of Rebecca, the kind of person who’d finesse her page design skills on the sly to wow her boss when she least expected it.
They reached a quiet corner in the waiting room, stood looking out the window. From the fourth floor of the hospital, they could see some of the damage the storm had done—a couple of washed out roads, a handful of trees on houses, a bit of flooding. Granny’s church was taking the lead in storm recovery, and Rebecca thought she’d join in on Saturday, help some of the crews muck out the homes closest to the river that had been affected. It was nowhere near the damage they’d seen on the coast; while the hurricane had passed them by, tornados and flooding had left their mark. But it had certainly done damage.
She bit her lip as she thought of Devon in the hospital bed, beyond grateful that he’d escaped the worst of it.
“How’s he doing?” Granny asked softly, looking over at her.
