“I would really appreciate it if you guys would dance with her. If you think you're too damn good for her then never mind. It's your loss, definitely not hers,” Bailey said, the heat of embarrassment morphing into anger.
“Hey Bailey, no problem, man. I'll ask her to dance.” Grant patted his shoulder, reassuringly.
“Yeah, I'm in. I like Fern. I'd love to dance with her,” Paulie agreed, nodding.
“Me too. I love Fern,” Beans chimed in, his eyes gleaming with mirth. Bailey decided to let it go. It was just Beans. He couldn't seem to help himself.
“You know I got your back, Sheen. But if I dance with her, she's going to know something's up,” Jesse said regretfully. “Marley's my girl, and everyone knows it.”
“That's okay, Jess. You're right. I don't want to make it too obvious.” Bailey heaved a sigh of relief.
“So what you gonna do while we're keeping Fern busy?” Beans teased.
“I'm going to dance with Rita,” Bailey said without pause.
The four wrestlers immediately burst into whoops and laughter as Bailey smirked and pivoted his chair around. Fern had just walked back into the gymnasium and was turning this way and that, looking for him.
“You guys take care of Fern. I'll take care of Rita,” he called over his shoulder.
“We'll take care of her. Don't worry,” Grant reassured, waving him off.
“We'll take care of her,” Paulie repeated. “And I'll take care of Ambrose. He needs someone to look after him too.”
“Can I stay?” Ambrose cleared his throat. It was so hard to ask. But he couldn't leave. Not now. They had all been up most of the night, and dawn was only an hour away. Elliott Young had taken over at the bakery and Joshua and Rachel Taylor had rushed to their daughter's side when they got the call. It had only been two weeks since they were awakened and told to come to the hospital not knowing what had happened to Bailey. It was clear by their panic-stricken faces followed by their grateful tears that they had expected the worst.
Fern and Ambrose were questioned at length by the responding officers, and Becker Garth was taken to the hospital in an ambulance and then remanded into police custody. Fern had refused to go the hospital but had allowed the police to take pictures of her injuries. She was bruised and scraped, and she would be sore in the morning, but now she slept in her own bed, and Ambrose was standing by the front door, his hand on the knob, asking Joshua Taylor if he could stay the night.
“I don't want to leave. Every time I close my eyes, I see that bastard dragging her away . . . sorry, sir.” Ambrose apologized, although he really wasn't sure what other word he could have used to describe Becker Garth.
“That's okay, Ambrose. My sentiments exactly,” Joshua Taylor smiled wanly. His eyes roved over Ambrose's face, and Ambrose knew it wasn't because of his scars. They were they eyes of a father, trying to ascertain the intentions of a man who was clearly in love with his daughter.
“I'll make you a bed down here.” He nodded once and turned, walking away from the door, motioning for Ambrose to follow. He moved as if he'd aged ten years in the last week, and Ambrose realized suddenly how old Joshua Taylor really was. He had to be twenty-five years older than Elliott, which would put him at seventy. Ambrose had never really thought about Fern's parents, never really looked at them, the way he'd never really looked at Fern until that night at the lake.
They must have been fairly old when Fern was born. How would it feel to discover you were having a child when you never thought you would? How the pendulum could swing! Such immeasurable joy at welcoming a miracle into the world, such unfathomable pain when that child is taken from the world. Tonight Joshua Taylor had almost lost his miracle, and Ambrose had witnessed a miracle.
The Pastor took a flat sheet, a pillow, and an old pink quilt out of a linen closet, walked into the family room, and began making up the couch as if he'd done it a hundred times.
“I've got it, sir. Please. I can do that.” Ambrose rushed to relieve him of the duty, but Fern's father waved him off and continued tucking the sheet securely into the cushions and folding it in half so Ambrose could tuck himself inside like a taco.
“There. You'll be comfortable here. Sometimes when I've got a lot on my mind and don't want to keep Rachel awake, I come down here. I've spent a lot of nights on this couch. You're longer than I am, but I think you'll be fine.”
“Thank you, sir.” Joshua Taylor nodded and patted Ambrose on the shoulder. He turned as if to leave, but then paused, looking at the old rug that snuggled up to the couch where Ambrose would sleep.
“Thank you, Ambrose,” he answered, and his voice broke with sudden emotion. “I have often worried that when Bailey died something would happen to Fern. It's an illogical fear, I know, but their lives have been so entwined, so connected. Angie and Rachel even discovered that they were pregnant on the same day. I worried that God had sent Fern for a specific purpose, a specific mission, and when that mission was fulfilled he would take her away.”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away?”
“Yes . . . something like that.”
“I've always hated that quote.”
Joshua Taylor looked surprised, but continued on. “Tonight, when you called . . . before you even spoke, I knew something had happened. And I prepared myself to hear the news. I've never told Rachel about this. I didn't want her to be afraid with me.” Joshua looked up at Ambrose, and his large brown eyes, eyes so like Fern's, were filled with emotion.
“You've given me hope, Ambrose. Maybe restored my faith a little.”
“Restored mine too,” Ambrose admitted.
Joshua Taylor looked surprised once more and this time he sought clarification. “How so?”
“I wouldn't have heard her scream. I shouldn't have. I had the radio on. And the mixer. Plus, I don't hear all that well to begin with,” Ambrose smiled, just a wry twist of his lips. But this wasn't a moment for levity, and he immediately became grave once more. “I heard Paulie, my friend Paulie. You remember Paul Kimball?”