Christmas Homecoming. Lenora Worth

because he’d been denied ever knowing he had a grandson. Chester had tried, but in the end, his silence and his condemnations of Thelma’s quiet faith, had only caused the gap between Jeremy and him to widen.

      “We’ll go fishing next time,” he’d said to Jeremy. “Maybe on a Sunday. I fish while Thelma does her church thing.”

      Jeremy had figured that was Chester’s way of saying he’d like to see him again. And it had also been his ornery grandfather’s way of telling Jeremy that he wasn’t a believer like his wife.

      So Jeremy had left, his doubt and his confusion scattering out into the balmy Florida breezes. Not even a vast ocean had helped him find the answers he’d needed.

      And here he stood, different but hoping to be the same. He’d come full circle, and yet he was still very lost. He’d come home to find all his siblings either getting married or falling in love. Hoping to find some strength in his family, Jeremy had discovered that he was as alone as ever. That feeling of isolation echoed through his mind over and over, causing him to stay away from his ailing father’s bedside. He wasn’t ready for another confrontation, and he certainly couldn’t take any more revelations.

      He could see now what he hadn’t been able to pinpoint growing up—he’d always had a feeling of being set apart from his brothers and sisters, a feeling of somehow being different, of not quite measuring up. Maybe because he wasn’t really their flesh and blood. He even looked different, more like his real father, based on the pictures his grandmother had shown him. He was the half brother. He had no claims to the Hamilton empire. Except those he felt deep inside his heart.

      Alone, aloof and isolated, he’d come home, hoping to find solace with his family, but he’d never felt more lonely. He shouldn’t have come back, and yet, he’d needed to do that very thing. In spite of his doubts and frustrations, the road, and maybe God’s gentle voice, had brought Jeremy home.

      He had to wonder at the irony of being here now, inside the Northside Community Church, since he hadn’t been very faithful lately. Maybe the Lord was trying to remind Jeremy of his real roots right here in this church and this town. Roots that ran deeper than blood or birthrights.

      “By allowing me to waste paint and ruin my favorite old shirt?” Jeremy asked, his hushed words echoing out over the empty room. “You sure do have a strange sense of humor, Lord.”

      Jeremy slapped paint onto the wall, thinking he wasn’t being entirely fair in thinking the worst of his parents. Wallace had married Jeremy’s mother, first to protect her, but mostly because he loved her. And Wallace still loved Nora. Jeremy knew this in his heart, but that fact didn’t soften the feelings of betrayal and distrust he’d experienced the day Wallace had called Jeremy into his hospital room to tell him the truth. He could still hear his father’s weak, harsh words.

      You have no right, Jeremy. No right to go against my word on how things should be run at Hamilton Media. Do you understand me?

      No, Dad, I’m afraid I don’t understand.

      Jeremy remembered his mother’s pale face, her shaking hands. Her pleas. “Wallace, now is not the time—”

      But Wallace had found the strength to come up off his pillows. “It’s the perfect time. I might not make it, Nora. Things might change for good. And I won’t have someone who isn’t even my own blood ruining what I’ve worked so hard to build.”

      The shocked silence that had followed still haunted Jeremy’s mind, silence that stretched out with only the beeping of machines to keep it from seeming like a bad dream.

      “What did you say?”

      Wallace had looked stunned himself, then embarrassed, his eyes went to his wife’s face. “I’m sorry, son. We should have told you years ago—”

      “We only wanted to protect you,” his mother had interrupted, tears in her eyes.

      “Protect me from what, Mother? What’s going on?”

      “You’re not my son,” Wallace had blurted, his words turning into a wheezing cough.

      Nora had urged her husband back on the pillows. “Your biological father was a man named Paul Anderson. He died in a motorcycle accident, before I could—” She glanced at Wallace. “I was pregnant when your father—when Wallace married me.”

      You’re not my son.

      Those words had echoed over and over in Jeremy’s mind, screaming to him until he’d lashed out at his parents. “How could you? How could you do this to me?”

      The scene that had followed hadn’t been Jeremy’s finest hour. He’d told Wallace in no uncertain terms that he quit; he wouldn’t work for a man who’d lied to him all his life.

      Jeremy had walked out of the hospital and, other than a few short conversations with his siblings and his mother, hadn’t made any effort to be a part of the Hamilton family since. Until Thanksgiving. The holiday traditions had pulled at him, bringing him home.

      Now, as he stood painting over the old, battered wall of the daycare room, Jeremy couldn’t help but feel as if he were painting over all the flaws in his own life, too. Maybe there was something to be said for a fresh canvas.

      “You know, the paint is actually supposed to go on the wall.”

      Jeremy turned at the soft, feminine tone, and managed to sling paint out in an arc all over his blue broadcloth shirt. Holding the dripping paintbrush, he smiled sheepishly. His smile felt strained and out of practice, but he tried to keep his voice light. “Really?”

      The woman stepped into the room, careful to avoid the corner where Jeremy was working, her dark eyes inquisitive and full of mirth. “Really.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said as he slowly lowered the brush over the bucket. Then he waved a hand toward the wall. “Does it look that bad?”

      She gazed up, looking around the room. “No, it actually looks pretty good, considering all the crayon marks and dents and pings we’ve had to endure. We’re going to paint a mural of Noah’s Ark over most of it anyway, so I think it’ll be just fine.”

      Jeremy held up his hands. “I’m certainly not going to sign up for that particular job, so don’t even ask.”

      She laughed at that, the sound as soft as a melody. “I heard you talking to yourself,” she said, advancing another step. “Thought you might need some company.”

      Jeremy grinned, some of the tension leaving his body. “Thanks, I think. That makes me feel much better about things. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t disturb you with my groans and rantings.”

      “Not at all. I just came by to gather some papers— I teach Sunday School here.” Then she smiled again. “I heard all this noise, and thought maybe someone had unleashed an old bear in the nursery, so I came to inspect. I’m the nosy type.”

      Her vivid smile brought a ray of light into the open, airy room, immediately pushing away the winter chill. She was petite and olive-skinned with big hazel eyes and long brown hair that reminded Jeremy of an antique doll his sister Heather had received for Christmas long ago. He caught a whiff of a light, exotic scent that had somehow gotten past the paint fumes.

      “I’m not a bear,” he said, his hands braced on the ladder. “Just a frustrated artist, I think.”

      “I’m Gabriela Valencia,” the woman said, her smile still intact as she stared up at him. “Gabi. And we do appreciate your efforts, believe me. We’ve been hoping to remodel this part of the building for months now. We need all the help we can get if we want to have it done by Christmas.”

      “Well, Gabi, I’m just a volunteer,” Jeremy said, not ready to tell her who he really was, even though she had an expectant look on her pretty face. He didn’t want to see her smile vanish just yet. And he figured it would the minute she heard his name.

      “We like volunteers,” she replied. “They