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ONCE UPON A MOMENT
HEATHER BURCH
 CONTENTS

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
DEDICATION
TO NEVAEH, OUR NEWEST ADDITION TO THE FAMILY. I’M

ALREADY CRAZY IN LOVE WITH YOU, PRECIOUS ONE.

Once Upon a Moment

A Wishing Beach Novel
By Heather Burch

C opyright 2021 by H eather B urch

T his is a work of fiction . N ames , characters , places ,

organizations and events are either the product of the author ’ s

imagination or are used fictitiously .

 PROLOGUE

Ellendale, Missouri
2003
When John Baldwin first saw twenty-two-year-old Cassandra
Vinelli, his best friend’s wife was sitting on a tractor. From beneath a
bright pink hardhat, the Ozark Mountain wind tossed the runaway
strands of her golden hair behind her. The spot she was clearing was
for a shopping center. John had to smile. She looked as out of place
as a movie star on a pig farm.
His best friend Tony owned the excavation company—a business
left in Cassandra’s capable hands when Tony’s national guard unit
was called to active duty.
John met Tony in the sand and sweat of Afghanistan, and the
two had quickly become best friends.
Cassandra handled the tractor like a pro causing John to wonder
what on earth he was doing there. He should have stayed away.
Away from Tony. Away from Cassandra—the woman he felt like he
already knew even though they’d never actually met.
“That’s my Cassandra,” Tony said switching to Italian. “Mia bella.
Have you ever seen a more gorgeous woman?” The words oozed
with emotion. Both men stepped out of the truck and walked toward
her, Tony using his crutches to brace his body.
 “You didn’t lie. She’s beautiful.” The rumble of the tractor filled
John’s ears, even from the distance.
Tony beamed. “Let’s go introduce you. You and Cass have a lot in
common.”
Tony and John had left the Army within a few months of each
other after two life-altering things happened. First, John had gotten
news his stepdad and his mother had been killed in a boating
accident, leaving John no reason to return to Wishing Beach, Florida.
Second, and only days after hearing about his mom, the Hummer
John and Tony were in was hit. Life-altering was an understatement.
He cast a quick glance to the place where Tony’s leg should be.
Tony continued to talk. He was always talking. With loud, life-of-
the-party Tony, one got little quiet time. His extreme extraverted
personality had John wondering how well he was coping with the
new debilitating injury. If this was any indication, Tony was the
same.
John’s focus shifted to Cassandra. The tractor’s frontend loader
lifted another mound of dirt and rock. Dust pooled as she dropped it
into a trench nearby.
When she saw the two of them, a broad smile spread across her
face.
John watched her pivot, shoulder dipping down as she
maneuvered the beast into submission. Radiant sun glinted off her
exposed shoulders. Her tank top had a sweat stain down the front,
and John couldn’t ever remember seeing a woman who looked more
beautiful.
Behind them, the loudspeaker amplified the ringing phone in the
portable construction office. “Go introduce yourself,” Tony said, and
he turned toward the small rectangular building. He walked away
mumbling about the phone, the crutches, and how he’d never make
it in time.
John continued toward her as her legs alternated positions, her
hand rattling the gearshift back and forth. The slender arms looked
too delicate to be handling the huge yellow tractor. She turned a
switch, and the ogre grumbled and died.
Cassandra hopped out of the cab and slapped her suede work
gloves against her thighs. Dust clouded for a moment then
disappeared. Her smile was warm and inviting as she made her way
over. “You must be John.”
“What gave me away?” he asked, matching her smile with one of
his own.
Her pale green eyes narrowed. “I’d know you anywhere. Tony’s
told me everything about you.”
“So, you didn’t recognize because he left an hour ago to pick me
up at the airport?”
Her fisted hands landed on her hips. “Hmm, that is what he told
me, and he said it was just about everything.”
He smirked. “You must be Cassandra.”
She tilted her head. “What gave me away?”
“Tony talked about you, too.”
“And what did he say?”
Innocence masked his face. “He said you had a smart mouth.”
She laughed and folded her arms across her chest. “Is this the
kind of treatment I can expect while you’re working for us?”
He rubbed a hand over his chin. “It can only get worse. I’m on
my best behavior right now.”
The toe of her work boot kicked at a clump of dirt. “Well, for too
long I’ve been dealing with men who weren’t on their best behavior.”
She narrowed her gaze, sizing him up. “I think I can handle you.”
 His chest tightened.
Cassandra offered him a tender smile. “John, I’m so sorry about
your folks. Tony said they were killed in a boating accident?”
“Yes. Thank you,” he mumbled. He didn’t want to talk about it.
She fumbled with the snap on one of her gloves then shoved
them into her back pocket. “So, is Wishing Beach as magical as
people claim?”
He couldn’t deny the rumors. “The beach is a place where
strangers leave their heaviest burdens. A place where the pounding
of the surf is like a drum calling to you, a heartbeat reminding you
you’re alive, whispering that there is always hope. The water
sparkles with its own inner light. It’s more than the reflections of the
sun. Wishing Beach is not like anywhere else in the world.”
For a very long time, they were both quiet. The silence stretched
but they didn’t rush to feel the void with words. Cassandra’s eyes
saddened as she looked toward the building just as Tony worked his
way slowly up the steps. John nodded toward his best friend, his
gaze trailing once again to the spot where Tony’s right leg should be.
“How is he?”
“Good,” she said, nodding, but he could hear the lie.
He tilted down so he could see what was going on beneath her
shield of a hardhat. “How is he, really?”
“It’s hard on him,” she admitted, gesturing toward the tractor.
“He thought he’d come home and rescue me. Now he can’t even
operate a tractor. This isn’t really the way he planned for his bride to
spend her days.” Her hands were caked with dirt. She absently
picked at it.
“From what I understand, you’ve done a great job.” He tried to
encourage. When she remained silent, he shrugged. “Honestly, it
doesn’t sound like you need me.”
 “We need you, desperately,” her voice pleaded, but she tilted
away, pink hardhat covering her bare emotions. Midwest dust
swirled around their feet. It was a long time before she spoke. “Tony
says you’re a good man, honorable, and we can trust you. We need
someone willing to work as hard as we do.” A little clump of dirt
rested on the neckline of her tank top. “He said you wouldn’t mind
working alongside a…”
“Pretty blonde?” he finished for her.
She peered at him. “I was going to say a smart-mouthed
woman.”
He pretended to concentrate. “She thinks she can handle me.”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Tony says you’re the best—”
“At driving tractors?” His eyes widened. “Did he happen to
mention the only tractor I’ve been on is a glorified lawn mower on
my uncle’s farm? Oh, and I wrecked it?”
She brushed a hand through the air. “The tractors are easy to
learn. I wasn’t talking about that, anyway. Tony says you’re the best
man he’s ever known.”
The words slammed into his heart. When he couldn’t speak,
Cassandra moved closer. “He nearly died. You saved him.”
No. Cassandra had it wrong. John shouldn’t have been the one
behind the wheel. Tony had wanted to drive and he’d told him no.
Tony lost a leg because of him. Almost died. Because of him.
Slowly, Cassandra reached up and placed her hand flat against
his heart. “I can never thank you enough. You’ve already given me
more than I can ever repay.”
John swallowed hard, a thick clump of regret stalling in his
throat.
 CHAPTER ONE

Present Day
Baden-Baden, Germany

C assandra V inelli ducked into the darkened pub at the end of

Sophienstrasse in Baden-Baden. Germany’s Black Forest anchored
the tiny town known for its mineral springs. Tipping her head to the
side, she blew the hair from her face and waited for her eyes to
adjust to the dim pools of light cast from soft overhead bulbs.
She drew no interest from the smattering of patrons—mostly
locals, if her information was correct. For Cassandra seeing the local
hangouts was paramount to getting a real feel for a place. Tony had
been the opposite. He wanted to find the tourist spots and sit—front
and center—to all the boisterous noise that made up any tourist
mecca.
But she wasn’t Tony. A fact she was only beginning to unpack
and understand—crazy as that sounded.
A brass lined bar stretched along the main wall of the pub and
Cass stopped nearby, trying to decide if she’d take up a table or not.
After all, there was only her. Always just her. She swallowed past the
pain that threatened to surface and painted on her cheery smile—
the one she’d practiced since the day Tony died and left her utterly
alone in the world. “Stop it!” Cassandra uttered.
Now this, this drew the attention of a few pub patrons. She
pressed her lips together and ignored the curious stares.
Since Tony’s passing, she’d gotten into the habit of talking to
herself. Well, who else was there? Ugh. She was doing it again.
Cassandra refused to fall into a pity party. She had stepsons,
daughters-in-law, and two rambunctious and adorable grandchildren.
She would not … WOULD NOT … dive into the cesspool of sorrow
that had taken her captive at will for the past two years since Tony
died. She needed to snap out of it. This trip was part of her
snapping.
Lost in her own thoughts, she was barely aware of someone
moving into her personal space. When Cassandra glanced over and
down, she was surprised to see an old woman at her side gazing up
at her with expectant albeit watery eyes lined with years of age and
—well, wisdom—if she wasn’t mistaking.
“Who do you love?” The old woman’s cold, bony fingers clamped
around Cassandra’s wrist.
Momentarily dazed by the stranger’s behavior, she glanced down
at the pencil thin limb. “I beg your pardon?” she finally uttered,
gently tugging free and using her hand to smooth her crop of
shoulder length hair.
“Who do you love?” the woman rasped again, the faintest smile
appearing on her craggy face.
Cass couldn’t place the European accent. And hadn’t a clue how
to answer the stranger—a thought that surprised her. After all, the
answer was simple.
“Here,” the older woman said, and shuffled a few steps toward
the bar. Patting the seat beside her, she climbed onto a barstool. “Sit
here with me.”
Cass shot a look, first right then left, searching for rescue from—
well, from no one in particular. When the strangers conversing at
various tables failed to rush to her assistance, Cassandra lowered
herself onto the stool. Moments later, a bartender arrived, and Cass
ordered a spring water. She was ever so thirsty and needed to catch
her breath before attacking the next street of quaint shops in Baden-
Baden. Shopping. It didn’t really mend the heart. But it was a nice
distraction. For the past two years, she’d distracted herself from
actually dealing with the loss of Tony. For the last few weeks, she’d
forced herself to do just that. Tony would be proud of her. If only he
were there.
She’d spent two weeks in Italy, just as she’d promised him on his
death bed. Another week in Switzerland, three days so far in
Germany, and she vowed to end her tour in France before returning
to the rolling hills of Ellendale, Missouri where memories were strong
and her desire to live on without him were weak.
Sometimes, life just felt over. Like she was a shell of who she had
been. Honestly, Cass didn’t really know herself. And that was a
terrifying revelation for a forty-two-year-old. Soon she’d return home
with the long Missouri winter stretching forever before her. The
ticking time-bomb of that long winter alone in the house she built
with Tony squelched her budding hope of a life—any life—without
him. The thing was, Tony had made Cassandra who she was. He’d
been older than her. Smart, streetwise. Already divorced at twenty-
seven and with two small boys. Cass was barely eighteen when they
met and married. Suddenly, she wasn’t a young woman discovering
herself, she was a wife and a fulltime stepmother. Not that she’d
ever complain. No. She loved raising the boys when Tony’s ex-wife
went AWOL. Those boys and the grandbabies were her world.
 “You look far away.” The old woman’s clouded gray gaze left
Cassandra and studied her dark beer before she took a long gulp.
“It’s in your eyes,” she said, dabbing at the froth caught on her
upper lip. Her skin looked like folds of material draped over shrunken
bones. But something in her voice commanded attention.
Cass realized the accent was French. No wonder she wants to
talk about love. Fine, Cass thought. Fine then. Let’s talk. After all,
the plastic handled shopping bags had sliced deep grooves into
Cass’s arms, and she needed a few minutes recovery time. So she’d
relax, sip her spring water, and tell this woman about Tony. The life
they’d had. The love they’d shared. Why not? Cass had spent too
many months—twenty-three to be exact—not talking about him
because it was just too painful. She dropped her purse and sacked
treasures on the dark tongue-and-groove floor and faced the
woman. She opened her mouth to speak but was silenced.
The lady held up one finger. “You see, there’s a spark of life in
the eyes of a woman who’s truly been in love.” Arthritic fingers
pushed through wiry white hair. “Love you feel to your very soul.”
She regarded Cass. “Do you know this love?”
Her gaze fell beyond the woman to the street outside the
window. A strange wind had pushed against her before she’d
entered and dwelling on it chilled her now. It was a bossy wind
stirring up emotions within her that had been dormant for many
years. Emotions that must stay buried. “I do,” Cass whispered.
“So, tell me, who do you love?”
Cass felt tears puddle in her eyes. One threatened but didn’t fall.
How could she reduce to mere words the incredible life she and Tony
shared? From the time he’d returned from active duty, they’d known
to appreciate every day and live it like the gift it was. His combat
injury was a constant reminder of the frailty of life. More prone to
infections and with an immune system that could easily be
compromised, they never gave complacency a chance.
The years had been good. Golden, even. They had two beautiful
sons, forged a thriving business, and created a life most only
dreamed about, knowing somewhere in the back of their minds they
were on borrowed time. She still missed Tony. Every single day.
When she opened her mouth to answer the woman’s question,
she heard herself saying, “His name was John.”
“John,” the woman repeated quietly, as if sampling a delicate
pastry. She leaned her weight on the bar in front of her. “And did
John love you with this same fire?”
A lone tear abandoned her, sliding down her cheek, pulling
memories with it. “I don’t know. We never got the chance to find
out.”
“Forbidden love or two ships that passed in the night?”
A humorless chuckle slipped from Cass’s lips. “Both,” she said.
The woman nodded, knowingly.
Cass tilted her chin up a degree. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Ah,” the woman rasped, pointing a crooked finger. “Destiny
always catches its prey.”
A sense of foreboding fell over Cass stifling her, making her next
breath laborious. A change of subject was in order. She blinked away
the heaviness of the moments before. “What about you? Who do
you love?” she asked cheerily, gesturing to the woman.
Age splotched hands tugged her wool coat around her where the
edge of a delicate red scarf peeked from under the rough cloth. It
seemed out of place there, soft shimmering material against
scratchy wool and a haggard neck. “Oh, he comes back,” she
mumbled into her beer.
 Cass swallowed and began scanning for the bartender so she
could pay and exit.
“He always comes back.” The woman turned and began to gaze
out through the window as if watching and waiting for someone.
It was her cue. As Cass stood, she gathered up her purse and
shopping bags. She scrounged a few Euros out of her jacket pocket
and slid the money across the bar catching the bartender’s attention.
He acknowledged her with a wink and a nod, and Cass turned to
the door just in time to see the rickety old woman disappear with an
equally old man cradling her arm.
Stopped in her tracks, Cass stared after her. A group of men
were laughing at a table nearby, but she barely heard.
“She’s harmless.” The words came from behind her, and Cass
looked to see who spoke.
The tall bartender tossed a checkered towel over his shoulder
and nodded toward the door. “The old woman. We call her Gabby.
Guess you can imagine why.” His eyes were pale blue and friendly.
Cass smiled. “Is it crazy to say she made me want to tell her all
of my deep dark secrets?”
“You wouldn’t be the first to say that.” He winked again and
disappeared with her empty bottle.
Cassandra made her way to the hotel with the strange
conversation on her mind. The ancient elevator took its time
reaching her and seemed in no hurry to alleviate her discomfort.
Shifting the sacks, she wished she’d stopped her spree before ever
entering the bistro. A shiver trickled down the length of her spine.
Changing her focus, she examined the hotel around her to take
her mind off other—more scratchy things. The amazing place where
she stood had been a monastery for more than two centuries but
was converted to a hotel half a century back. From where she
waited for the elevator, she could see the doorway to the spa.
Frosted glass hid the treasure waiting beyond. Baden-Baden was
famous for its mineral springs that bubbled from the ground at
varying temperatures. She’d visited the world-renowned Caracalla
Spa but was saving Fredricksbad for last. However, the mineral water
treatments in her hotel were none too shabby. A bubbling geyser
gurgled water from underground into a pool that was as inviting to
the touch as to the eye. People from all over Europe traveled here to
soak in the mineral rich liquid and curl up on lounge chairs by the
outdoor/indoor pool with the fairytale trees of the Black Forest as
their backdrop.
The elevator stopped a few floors away, and Cass’s aching
muscles cried out for a visit to the healing pool. She glanced at her
watch. Still an hour before the spa closed. Tempting. But if she
reached her room quickly, she could call home and talk to Ryder and
Missy, her two grandchildren. Forcing the spa from her mind and
concentrating on the six and eight-year-old voices she longed to
hear, she willed the elevator to hurry. Fumbling for the key in her
pocket, the post card fell out onto the floor. It gazed up at her like a
challenge. Luring her, just as the spa had moments ago.
Never one to back down first, Cassandra Vinelli drew a long
breath. Though her own fairytale was over, life didn’t stop. Cass ran
her finger over the words. The postcard had been forwarded by her
son. The gold embossed note was from Tony’s Army Company. They
got together every year. Even with Tony gone, Cass had been
invited. A handwritten note explained that they wanted to gather all
the photos from the soldiers. She could almost hear Tony’s voice
coaxing her. And because Tony was still that alive to Cass, she’d go
to the reunion. It’s what he would want.
 P resent D ay
Wishing Beach, Florida

J ohn B aldwin flipped through the junk mail quickly and almost
missed the invitation. Still trying to grow accustomed to his cane and
wishing he’d put off the knee surgery just one more year, he
grumbled as he maneuvered his way back into the house.
“Looks like somebody woke-up cranky,” his twenty-nine-year-old
son Conner teased, tossing a duffle bag onto the kitchen table.
“I woke up the same way I always do,” he croaked through a
morning rough voice.
Conner nodded, dark green eyes sparkling. “I know, Dad.
Cranky.”
“I’m not used to being laid-up, that’s all.” John used his fingers to
smooth his cap of brown hair.
“Whatever you say.” Conner grinned. Hands on hips, he studied
his dad’s demeanor.
John scowled back at him. The boy was a morning person.
Actually, a night person as well. John had always thought his son
would grow out of his extreme amount of energy, but at twenty-nine
he still hadn’t. Due to this fact, he never thought the two of them
could cohabitate.
John woke up feeling like death and wasn’t fit to talk to until a
cup of coffee washed away the sleep. Conner embraced this and
took every available opportunity to exploit it. Humming, singing,
telling jokes as they sat over coffee…
Maybe it was time for John to return to his own house. He
brushed that thought away quickly. He’d lived with Conner for the
last three years. While engaged, Conner had bought the house for
his new bride. But they never made it down the aisle, and the
payment was slightly more than his firefighter’s salary could handle.
Rather than lose the home, John suggested he move in, rent out his
house which was on the beach, and use some of the rent money to
offset the loan. It was only supposed to be for a short time because
Conner had a nice raise coming, so in a few months he could handle
the payment alone.
Besides, his son had needed him emotionally after the break-up.
That had been three years ago. The raise came and went, and
neither man discussed moving. But mornings when Conner was
home, John wanted to escape, fish off the pier at Wishing Beach,
take one of the dirt bikes to one of their favorite off-trail spots,
anything to escape his son’s boundless morning enthusiasm and live
in peace.
Conner came around the table and faced his father. He took an
index finger and scrubbed between his dad’s eyebrows. “When we
frown, we get grumpy lines,” he mocked, pushing his lips out in a
pucker. “And then we have to get Botox.”
John growled and smacked at his son’s hand. “No more needles
for me. After the one they used on my kneecap—”
Conner winced. “Dad, don’t.”
John smiled, deviously. “When we don’t take care of our bodies,
we have to get big needles to drain the fluid from our joints.”
Conner sucked air between his teeth and placed a hand on his
stomach.
John wouldn’t relent. His voice oozed. “What’s the matter with
the big, strong, firefighter? Scared of a little needle?”
Conner laughed. “Nah, I’m scared of that nurse with the hairy
mole on her neck.”
 John winked. “Just so you know, I gave her your cell number.”
Savoring his dig, he maneuvered onto the kitchen chair and
thumbed through the mail.
“What’s that?” Conner gestured to the postcard when the table
light caught the gold trim.
“Oh,” he muttered. “My Army company is having a reunion in
Branson.”
“Branson, Missouri?”
John peered at him. “That’s the only Branson I know.”
“When?”
“Next month.”
“Let’s go.”
John took a long drink. “No.”
“You lived near Branson after Afghanistan, right? For a year or
something. Where was it? Ellendale, Missouri?” Conner zipped the
last of his stuff into his duffle bag. “When you worked for Tony.
Wasn’t that near Branson?”
John sat his cup down a little too hard, ceramic clinking against
glass. “Yes, it was near there, and no I don’t want to go.” He shoved
the postcard under the stack of letters.
Conner grew quiet and sank into the chair across from him.
John instantly felt bad. His son couldn’t understand. No one
could. But Branson was just too close to Ellendale where he’d
collected every painful memory since Afghanistan.
Of course, it held some good memories too. Really good. But
with Tony gone he couldn’t bear going there.
Conner fumbled with the silver zipper on his bag.
John smiled, softly. So much a man, and so much a little boy, and
for a moment he wondered what his life would have been like if he
hadn’t rescued Conner twenty-four years ago. He’d fought nearly a
year to become the boy’s adoptive father. But he never gave up.
He’d prayed every night, asking for a chance, just one chance to
give Conner a new life. Tenacity won, and after eleven months,
Conner became his boy, and he was the only thing John ever did
right.
“Conner,” his voice softened. “I’d love to see my friends. But,
having to deal with this thing…” He raised the cane. It was a lame
excuse. He knew it, but it was all he could think of. It had been five
years since he’d made it to a reunion.
Conner followed his dad’s gesture to the cane. “Well, it’s still
several weeks off,” he encouraged. “Maybe you won’t need the cane
by then.”
John pressed his lips together. “Maybe,” he mumbled.
A silence stretched around them. “Is it because of Tony?” Conner
asked, tentatively.
John could feel moisture around his eyes. Not enough that
Conner noticed, but enough to remind him his feelings were still raw.
He focused on the corner of the room. There was a little pile of dust
there on the kitchen floor. He’d need to sweep today. It seemed the
two of them were constantly trailing dirt of some sort into the house.
Sand, red clay, dust from the dirt bikes, more sand. He usually swept
once a week. At least. Since coming home from the knee surgery, he
probably hadn’t done it in two or three. He could feel Conner’s green
eyes burning into him. “Yes. It’s because of Tony.” But not for the
reason you think, he added silently.
Conner opened his mouth to speak, but the grinding of John’s
chair against the hard wood floor drowned him out. “What’s on your
agenda for the day?”
“Elementary school.”
 John poured a fresh cup at the coffee pot. “Aren’t you a little
old?”
“Apparently not. I’m going to talk about fire safety. I was elected
by a group of my peers.”
John nodded knowingly. “Ah, you weren’t at work the day the
arrangements were made, right?”
“Bingo! So, I guess you could say I was volun-told to do it. But I
figure, if I have to, I’m gonna make it fun.” He nodded to the duffle
bag. “Got some of my gear inside.”
“If you’re going to do something, do it with…”
“Excellence,” Conner finished for him. “You taught me good.”
“Your kung-fu is strong,” John said, mimicking old martial arts
shows. “Now if we can just work on that English!”
Conner left the house, and John wandered up to his bedroom.
The photographs were on the top shelf of the bookcase that held
everything from editions on how to fix a motorcycle motor to the top
one-hundred places to visit. Veering toward the window, he looked
out at the world beyond. It was a sunny day in beautiful Wishing
Beach, Florida. The kind of weather Wishing Beach was known for.
John watched two squirrels battling on a tree limb. The pines
that anchored the backyard were tall and wide. Lots of privacy.
Or a prison, his mind whispered.
Drawing a breath, and knowing he’d put it off long enough, he
moved to the shelf and pulled the box of photographs from the top.
He sat down at the small table where sunlight spilled through the
large picture window. John opened the lid and set it aside, letting
the memories flood him like rain.
 CHAPTER TWO

“A puppy, really?” Cassandra gushed, releasing the window latch

and letting the Black Forest air awaken the room. She’d gotten in the
habit of sleeping with the window open wide and loved the earthy
scent of forest life that reached in and rumpled the bed as she slept.
Six-year-old Missy jabbered into the phoneline at a phenomenal
speed. “And we love the presents you sent us.”
Cassandra smiled. “Even the pillows?”
Missy giggled, “Especially the pillows! I took mine to school for
show and tell, and nobody there had ever seen a pillow that big.”
Cassandra glanced at the bed. These particular European pillows
were square, filled with down and were the softest most comfortable
thing she’d ever rested her head on. As soon as she saw them, she
knew she’d be sending some back.
“But, Mom says I can’t put my princess pillowcase on it.”
Cassandra could hear Ryder in the background. “It won’t fit, you
dufus.”
Missy must have hit at him because a scuffle was heard through
the phoneline. “Grammy, Ryder called me a dufus.”
“I heard that,” Cassandra said. “Tell Ryder it’s not nice to call
names.”
She could hear Missy’s little hand over the receiver. “Grammy
says she’s going to spank you when she gets home.”
 Cassandra stifled a laugh. “When I get back, we’ll go pick out
some pretty material and sew you a pillowcase, okay?”
Missy squealed and plunked the phone into her mom’s hand.
“Trip still good?” Melodie asked.
“Wonderful. Maybe in a year or two we can all come back. You’d
love it here, Mel. It’s beautiful, very artistic. Your kind of place.”
“That would be great.”
“And the kids would love Caracalla.”
“The spa? Doesn’t Europe have a pretty clothing optional attitude
when it comes to their spas? I’m not sure my kids are old enough for
an education like that.”
“Not all of them are like that. Caracalla is a family place. Bathing
suits required. It’s not like any spa I’ve been to in the States. It’s
more like a glorified water park. There are different swimming pools
and hot tubs. The big draw is that all the mineral water flows from
underground, no chlorine. Just pure water. My favorite part was the
small rock pools with water shooting out from the walls, like a hydro-
massage.”
“Ah. I could use one of those. Sounds like heaven!”
“One pool has a waterfall. It’s like being in a fairytale. I spent the
whole day.”
“And what about Friedrichsbad? Have you been there, yet?”
“I’m going tomorrow.” She and Melodie had researched Baden-
Baden on the internet and found a site dedicated to the world-
renowned spa, Freidrichsbad. Built thousands of years ago, it had
been frequented by the ancient Romans.
“What about swimsuits there?” Mel asked.
“No suits.”
“And you’re going?” She could hear the surprise in her daughter-
in-law’s voice.
 “Yes, I’m going. You know, it’s different here. Nobody looks.
Nobody cares. Besides, the women and the men are in separate
areas. So, I’ll only be naked in front of other women.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be brave enough to do it. But good for you!
When in Rome…”
“I can’t imagine that it will be better than Caracalla, but we’ll
see.”
“You’ll see, all right,” Melodie teased. “Oh, did you get the mail
we forwarded?”
Cassandra’s mind went to the postcard about the reunion. “Yes,
thanks for sending it.”
“Paul didn’t figure you would go to the reunion but wanted you
to have the card in plenty of time to decide.”
“I am going.”
“Cass, that’s great. Do you want Paul and me to go with you?”
She considered this. It would be easier. Paul was their oldest son
by two years and had always played the role of protector where Cass
was concerned. He had gone with her and Tony to gatherings
before. He loved hearing about his father’s bravery in combat.
But she needed to do this on her own. “No, you guys are busy
enough. I’ll go alone.” As an afterthought she added, “Unless Paul is
looking forward to it.”
“No, he said he really needs to concentrate on the two bids he’s
working up for the highway department. But if you need us, you’re
our first priority.”
How had she raised such remarkable boys? Paul had been ten
when Cass entered the boys’ lives. But within days, he felt like her
own flesh and blood. Within a few weeks, she’d become mom to a
ten and seven-year-old. All at age eighteen. They’d grown into
amazing young men. “This time, I’m on my own.” A cold wind swept
through the window. She forced aside the idea her statement had
drawn it.
Traveling to Europe was one thing. It had its own kind of danger,
sure. What if she took a wrong turn and ended up in another
country? What if she were mugged and lost all her money and
passport? What if she got sick and couldn’t get home? These were
all honest concerns.
But what might be waiting at the reunion was something darker.
Something that just wouldn’t die, continually clawing its way out of
the grave she’d put it in years ago. Then again, chances were, he
wouldn’t even be there. He almost never came to the reunions.
After discussing a few business details with her daughter-in-law,
Cassandra hung up, settled into her soft chair by the window, and
attacked the plate of fresh fruit that was brought into her room
every afternoon.
Hearing the wind slip through the trees, she thought about how
much she liked Europe. Why hadn’t they done this while Tony was
alive? They’d traveled, sure. But always to beach areas. Cozumel,
Jamaica, Grand Turk.
Tucking her feet under her, she watched the sun dip on the
horizon beyond the woods. Shadows overtook the trees, and the
breeze cooled.
This trip had changed her. And that’s what she’d prayed for, a
glimpse of the road ahead. She’d had a different expectation of the
first night of her journey, instead she’d been plagued with
nightmares. She’d dreamt she was in a sea so thick her body
wouldn’t carry her. In the dream, Tony was watching over her—she
knew he was dead. Far on the other side of the water, she could see
John. But there was no way to reach him. And no boat to carry him
to her. She’d forced the nightmare from her mind and chalked it all
up to too much late-night dessert.
A few days after the nightmare, things began to change. Her
European adventure became a renewal. Emotionally, physically, even
spiritually. She hadn’t known how depleted she was until Europe as a
scalpel, began to cut layer upon layer off of her. Layers that needed
to go. Layers that had to go. She would return home with a new
freedom and liberty—the kind of liberty that says, “Yes, I’m going to
the spa, even if I have to go naked.” That was something she’d
never experienced. Even during her years with Tony. This new
perspective was also something she’d have to struggle to maintain.
After all, the long Missouri winter was waiting for her, and last year it
nearly killed her.
From the time Cass was eighteen and married Tony Vinelli, all
she’d lived for was him. Still, if she had it to do over again, she
wouldn’t change a thing. Tony needed an audience. Even if his wife
was the sole person applauding.
In many ways, she’d died with him. It was only in the last few
months she’d realized just how screwed-up her thinking really was.
Since then, she’d done her best to bury the emptiness rooted in her
soul. Now there was a new her trying to emerge.
Cassandra slid out of her chair and reached for the velour throw.
Committed to leaving the window open, she tucked the blanket
around her, letting its warmth remove the chill from her bones.
During her lifetime, she weighed every decision by how it
affected those around her. Whatever caused the least amount of
tension and stress was what she wanted to do.
Here, there was no one to consider. Only her. Only Cassandra.
And Cassandra wanted to go to Freidrichsbad. Cassandra wasn’t
afraid to prance around nude in front of other women, and
Cassandra wanted to go to the reunion. Drifting off to sleep in the
floral print, overstuffed chair with the Black Forest breeze pushing
through the window and onto her skin, Cassandra dreamed.

“D on ’ t let those crumb crunchers bite your ankles,” Scotty

McBride said, as Conner tossed his duffle bag onto the table in the
firehouse.
Conner unzipped it, making sure everything was in place. “Yeah,
well, if you’re that concerned with my safety, maybe you should go
instead.”
McBride’s eyes darted to the duffle. “They requested you.”
“Right,” Conner threw back, knowing he was lying.
“Captain McGinnis wants to see you,” McBride said, leaning over
the table to peer into the bag.
Conner paused. “Why?” He couldn’t remember doing anything
lately that would get him into trouble.
McBride shrugged. “Who knows, but he said you better not leave
here without checking in.”
Conner’s eyes rolled on the exhale, and he walked toward the
hallway. He heard the scuffling of chairs moving behind him as he
left, but he thought nothing of it.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked, stepping into the office.
Captain McGinnis dropped the papers onto his desk and scowled.
“Not especially,” he grunted.
“McBride said you wanted to talk to me.”
Bushy eyebrows rode high on the man’s forehead, almost
disappearing beneath a blanket of disheveled bangs. “No.” His voice
oozed with sarcasm. “If I wanted to talk to you, I’d have wanted to
see you. And I don’t.” He gave his full attention back to the papers,
snapping the stack up in front of his face. “So, get out of my office.”
 Conner leaned his weight against the doorframe, wondering if
McBride had lost it.
“Shut my door on your way out, Baldwin,” the captain growled.
Conner made his way back to the table and noticed the stifled
laughs as he entered. “Funny,” he said toward McBride and snatched
up the duffle bag from the table. Maybe this practical joke thing had
gone on long enough. As he got into his truck, he remembered the
bumper-sticker he’d placed and smiled. No, it can go on a bit longer.
From a quarter mile away from the middle school, Conner
noticed the group of boys on the field and immediately sensed they
were up to no good. It was their demeanor. Eight or nine elementary
boys encircling one, chests out, faces tilted in defiance. Some
laughing, some with their eyes narrowed, hands crossed in front of
them. Conner couldn’t stop his foot from pressing on the gas. He
drove past the school driveway and stopped at the secondary lot
where a gate and security guard waited. Conner flashed his
credentials as he chatted with the guard, keeping one eye on the
escalating scene of childhood mean unfolding before him.
He slung the duffle bag on his shoulder and quickly made his way
through the soft grass to the group.
The smallish boy stood in the middle, his face was smeared with
dirt. One long streak suggested a renegade tear had escaped,
abandoning any attempt at bravery. The poor kid stared at the
ground with his head down and his lips pressed in a tight line.
“Hey, guys,” Conner said, determined to keep his tone
conversational. Inside his heart was pounding with compassion for
the little boy with the mop of blond hair and a dirty face. “What’s
going on?”
For a moment, guilt splashed across their young faces. But the
ringleader quickly spoke up. “We were just gonna play monkey in
the middle,” he said, the words spilling out of him easily as he ran a
hand over his Hulk T-shirt. He was a little bigger than the other boys
and radiated bully.
Conner cringed. He’d always hated that game. It usually ended
up with the kid nobody liked being the monkey.
The bully continued, “We would just toss the ball around, but …”
he leaned toward the blond boy and raised his voice, “Some of us
don’t know how to throw a football.”
There were snickers around the group. Blondie sank a little more.
Conner snatched the ball from the bully—aka Hulk, which made
the kid jolt. Towering over him, he gave Hulk an exaggerated smile.
The bully blinked, started to take an unsure step back, but seemed
to fight himself on it.
“I bet you five bucks none of you know how to throw a football.”
“My dad played football in college,” the bully threw back at him.
“Well, I bet I can teach—" He pointed to Blondie, “What’s your
name?”
One bright blue eye peered up at him from under the carpet of
blond hair. “Zachary,” he whispered.
Conner nodded and gave him a wink. “I bet I can teach Zachary
how to throw a football farther than any of you.”
“Five bucks?” The bully countered, tugging on his green T-shirt.
Conner nodded. “Five bucks. You have that kind of money?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling a wallet with a skull and a chain from his
back pocket and waving it in the air.
“Fine. You’re on,” Conner said. He sent the group of boys to the
sidelines to wait and kept the football and Blondie at his side. They
both watched the boys stomp to the edge of the field. “You okay?”
he asked, studying the smeared little face.
Zachary nodded. “Sure, I’m used to it. I get picked on a lot.”
 Conner’s heart melted.
The boy squinted at the sun. “Can you really teach me how to
throw farther than any of them?”
Sliding an arm around the small shoulders, Conner ignored the
twinge of guilt resonating in his heart. Shreds of remorse seemed to
strike at the oddest times. Like when a grown man tried to win
money from a pre-teen bully. “I better, or I’ll lose my five bucks,” he
said, knowing full well he’d take the kid’s money. That boy needed to
be taught a lesson.
And this boy needed a win.
 CHAPTER THREE

From across the playground, Emily Douglas watched them. Her

heart was beating harder than it should, but seeing this man come
to her son’s rescue was more than any mom could take. Poor
Zachey. She tried to separate Emily Douglas teacher from Emily
Douglas mother, but in situations like this it was nearly impossible.
The tall, tan firefighter stood by her little treasure. He’d somehow
coaxed the other boys to the edge of the field and seemed to be
instructing Zach on how to throw a football. A thick ball of emotion
lodged in her throat. This should be a common sight. But her ten-
year-old was as clumsy with a ball in his hands as was his mother.
She forced her attention away from them and to the group of
girls playing basketball. The girls seemed to be getting along fine.
Why was there always trouble with the boys?
She did a double take when she realized the firefighter was
making his way across the field to her, million-dollar smile on his
handsome face. She figured that’s who he had to be—the firefighter
who would instruct her class on fire safety.
His hair was dark and cut short. It framed a tanned, chiseled
face. His shirt was stretched over him like a blanket pulled too tight
and was emblazoned with the fire department logo. It showed every
ripple of his upper body. His legs were long, tucked into jeans, and
she could see his thighs move beneath them as he made his way to
her. It seemed like it took an eternity, but her focus stayed on him.
Gloriously, deliciously on him.
She clutched her clipboard to her chest when he finally closed
the gap.
He stopped at her feet.
Emily smiled and pushed herself to say something. “That was a
nice thing you did.” She gestured to the group of boys now including
her son.
He tossed the duffle bag onto the ground at his feet. “Oh, it was
nothing. Maybe if the kid’s dad had taught him how to toss a
football, it would have saved the kid the embarrassment.”
She bristled, glad her eyes were hidden by sunglasses. “So, I
assume you’re here to teach us about fire safety?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, reaching down to the bag.
“I’ve got everything I need in here.” He propped the bag up onto
the bench she was leaning against. “Even brought stickers.”
This motion brought him terribly close to Emily. Close enough to
smell his after shave, or cologne, or whatever it was that filled her
nose and made her want to burrow into his neck.
“Do you think they are too old for stickers?” He questioned,
shifting to look her eye-to-eye.
Oh, the intensity in those dark green globes. “Uh, no,” she finally
said. A frown tugged at her. “It’s just that usually, the firefighter
simply comes and talks—”
He nodded. “Oh yeah, I know. But when I was in school, when
people just talked, I got really bored. Sometimes so bored I’d fall
asleep.”
“That’s always reassuring for a teacher to hear,” she teased.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. If I’d had teachers who
look like you, I’m sure my attention wouldn’t have waivered.”
 A smile nipped at the corners of her mouth. “In that case, you’re
forgiven.” It was fall in Wishing Beach, Florida but even the slight
ocean breeze couldn’t cut the glare from the direct sun that heated
their skin. Again, she caught his scent as it trailed on the humid air.
“So, what’s in the bag?” She slid the sunglasses to the top of her
head, trapping layers of her blonde hair. She’d forgotten a ponytail
holder today, so the glasses would have to suffice.
When he didn’t answer her, she cleared her throat and repeated
the question. “The bag?”
“Oh, some of my gear.” He pulled the handles apart and began to
unzip. “We use some Kevlar. I thought the kids would think that’s
cool.” He reached in and must not have noticed the glint of pink and
red as he opened the bag.
Emily’s eyes widened in surprise at the same moment his hands
fell on the contents.
He pulled one item up slowly, confused by the wad of women’s
lingerie. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. The
wind kicked up and sent red satin ribbon trailing around the handful
of lace and silk. His eyes flashed to hers. “This isn’t mine,” he said,
looking as guilty as a puppy chewing on a new shoe. He quickly
shoved the underwear back into the bag.
She reached down and read the identification tag. “Conner
Baldwin,” she mumbled.
“It’s my bag.” His face was the color of ripe strawberries. “But it’s
not my…”
“Panties?” she finished for him.
He reached deeper, catching a finger on a bustier. He shook it off
as if it were poison. Conner shuddered.
Emily swallowed and bit back a smile.
 “I just loaded this with my gear this morning,” he mumbled
scrounging through the bag. “It’s been with me the whole time
except when I stopped by the fire station.” His hands finally clasped
a note in the bottom. “It’s from Scotty McBride, a fellow fire fighter.
No wonder Scotty diverted me to the captain’s office. He needed the
time to sabotage my bag. He shook the note at her. “But this is
really not funny.” His words were an angry growl. He huffed and
stared out over the playground. “See, there’s this sort of practical
joke thing going on between me and McBride.”
She nodded. “So, taking a bag full of women’s underwear to an
elementary school is a joke?”
His face was ashen. “No, this isn’t funny.” He shook his head
almost violently. “This is—he went too far.”
She peered at him. “And what did you do to him to deserve such
retribution?”
Conner shrunk a little more. “I put a bumper sticker on his car.”
“That sounds harmless enough.”
“Well, it said, Honk if you think I’m pretty.” Conner tried to re-zip
the bag, tugging hard when one of the garments got stuck in the
zipper. He finally gave up. “He drove around for a week thinking girls
were flirting with him because they would honk and smile so big.”
“Ah, sounds like you did have it coming.” She watched the muscle
in his jaw flex.
He turned his focus back to her, his eyes wide, shockingly,
uncomfortably wide. “What if I’d opened this in front of the whole
class?”
She tilted her head, curious at the level of his seriousness. “Well,
you didn’t. So don’t worry.” Emily bit the inside of her cheek. “Your
—” she reached her hand into the bag and ran a finger along one of
the garments, “secret is safe with me.”
 After what seemed like an eternity, a brilliant smile spread across
his face. It was intoxicating. “My name is Conner Baldwin.” He
stretched out a hand.
She slid hers into his. “Emily Douglas.”

“A nd did you know he has saved over a hundred people?”

Zachary asked, shoving too much macaroni and cheese into his
mouth. Emily sat with her son at their kitchen table, Zachey a ball of
energy wound so tight he could explode at any moment.
“Yes, Zachey. I heard.” She’d been listening to story after story
about Conner Baldwin’s heroic life since the final bell rang at school.
Zach apparently forgot she’d heard it firsthand.
But in all honesty, her mind kept trailing back to the afternoon
fire lesson as well.
“And, Mom, I’m pretty sure he lives in our neighborhood.”
Yes, in fact, he did. Her son’s new hero lived in the big gray
house with all the trees in the back yard. It was a nice home, but
not inviting. She’d always thought the place needed a woman’s
touch. No flowers in the yard, no wreath, no cushions on the porch
swing or plants on the deck. Just good sturdy furniture lacking
personality.
Zach shoveled scoop after scoop into his mouth and before he
could even swallow, grabbed his plate from the table. “And
Firefighter Baldwin won five bucks off of Joey MacAfee because I
threw the football farther than any of them!”
“What have I told you about gambling?”
“I know, Mom, God doesn’t like it, but come on Joey MacAfee!
He beats up everybody. He was savin’ his money for brass knuckles
and nearly cried when he had to give it away. I bet even God would
have taken the money just to teach him a lesson.”
 “Zachary Aaron Douglas. He most certainly would not!” she
snapped.
His head fell in shame for a moment, before popping right back
up. Zach wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Can I go
ride my bike?”
Yes, she thought. Anything to get you to shut-up about Baldwin.
“Sure, honey.”
The screen door slammed as he exited. All the energy left the
house with him, and Emily was suddenly aware of the deafening
silence. Behind her, the refrigerator hummed. But it was little
company. From her seat in the kitchen, she could see the fireplace
mantle. She scanned the photographs. Zach when he was two, Zach
on his first bike, Zach and her on a rare vacation, Zach and her
standing beneath the Banyan tree on Wishing Beach making wishes
that would likely never come true. She heaved a breath and used
the tip of her fork to roll a pea around on the plate. Her and Zach.
Always her and Zach. Not one other picture. Not one other person.
Taking a long swallow of iced tea, she washed down the self-pity,
and Emily Douglas finished dinner alone. Just as she always did.

I t was an eleven-hour flight back to Missouri, and Cassandra

shifted in the uncomfortable airplane seat. Tony would have bought
first class—but she wasn’t Tony. She was prudent. Even if it meant
temporary discomfort. Tension seeped into her shoulders. She
couldn’t blame the seats. She was going home. Going home meant
confronting some monsters she’d kept imprisoned for a long time.
The steward passed her and asked if she needed anything. “No,” she
said.
Cassandra’s mind trailed back to the summer John Baldwin
helped them in their business.
 “We’ve got room in the house, if you want to stay here instead of
the cabin.” Tony ushered him through the doorway, showing him the
place.
They had converted the guest house into a suitable home for
John, and when Tony asked about him opting for the main house,
Cassandra froze. It’s not that she didn’t like John. She did. But he
was everything Tony wasn’t which gnawed at her comfort level. Loud
and exuberant, Tony was always the life of the party. And frankly,
she’d just gotten him home, all to herself, and she didn’t want to
share.
Where Tony loved to fill the silence with words, John seemed
happy to embrace the quiet, cherishing its voice.
“No, if it’s all the same, I’d rather stay in the guest house.” He
slipped into the kitchen behind Tony.
Cassandra stood at the sink and breathed a sigh of relief. John
and Tony sat down at the table. “The boys will be at their mom’s
house for the next several weeks, so John feel free to think of this
place as your home.”
He offered a slow smile, almost sad in its beauty, sitting there at
the edges of his mouth.
After dinner, and after giving John time to settle in, she walked to
the guest house with linens. The scent of fabric softener mingled
with the aroma of freshly mowed grass and the roses she’d planted
last fall.
From the front door, which hung open, she could see the whole
place. Off to the left through the doorway, his suitcase was open on
the bed. She scanned the rest of the rooms, leaning against the
doorjamb. It already felt, smelled like someone lived here. The small
structure they’d converted to a guesthouse had been little more than
a log cabin when they bought the estate, but Tony had worked hard
to update everything. A back deck ran the length of the cabin and
framed a breathtaking view of the hollow. Table Rock Lake snaked
through the hills drawing a curvy line around trees and disappearing
in the distance. A box of books on the kitchen counter waited to be
unpacked.
John stood on the deck, his arms outstretched on the rail.
Apparently, he hadn’t heard her when she knocked. So, she knocked
again, harder, and watched as he turned.
He motioned for her to come out.
Tentatively, Cass set the linens down by the books before she
pulled the screen door open and stepped out beside him. His
attention had already returned to the valley where evening mist
formed and rested, a soft cotton blanket covering the lowest portion
of the hollow. “This is unearthly beautiful,” he said, pivoting and
looking straight into her.
She nodded. His eyes were an artist’s blend of deep blues
specked with tiny droplets of silver, the mix holding a well of
emotions.
“There’s nothing like this in Florida,” he nearly whispered. “I love
it there, its home, but the sheer vastness of this place is
overwhelming.” For a moment his eyes closed, and he drew a long
breath, head tilting back slightly. “Can you hear that?”
She shrugged.
“Can you hear the earth breathing?”
Cassandra closed her eyes, mimicked his posture, and tried. But
all she heard was the buzz of insects and the croak of frogs. “There’s
an eagle’s nest on one of the mountain tops,” she murmured, not
wanting to disrupt his encounter.
His head snapped toward her, his cobalt eyes intense. “Really?”
John’s face was a foot from hers.
 She leaned away slightly and nodded but couldn’t help but notice
the starburst of light that flashed into his irises. “Over there,” she
pointed. “You’ll be able to see the clearing tomorrow morning. There
are chicks in the nest right now.”
“I love eagles,” he said. “There’s no other creature like them.”
“Really?” She’d never given them much thought.
His attention went back to the hollow. “Yeah, I’ll tell you about
them sometime.”
The flight attendant stopped by her again offering drinks.
Cassandra shook her head. Outside, cotton-white clouds cradled the
airplane. The puffy bubbles shot past her window as the plane
leveled off. Cassandra twisted the air flow knob above and watched
the billowy white outside her window. While she did, she thought
about eagles.
 CHAPTER FOUR

Wishing Beach, Florida

John and Conner were in the front yard when Zachary screeched
to a halt, leaving a black mark on the driveway. “I knew this was
your house,” he said, all exuberant and full of life on a Schwinn with
racing stripes and reflective tape. “I knew it. I told Mom she can feel
really safe now knowing a hero lives in the neighborhood.” He
dropped the kickstand on his bike.
John shot a curious glance to his son. “Hero, huh?” he mumbled.
Conner shuddered at the term. “Dad, this is Blondie, oh, I mean
Zachary.”
This made Zachary giggle, then straighten. “It’s nice to meet you,
Firefighter Baldwin’s Dad.” Apparently, his mom had taught him
about proper introductions.
“It’s nice to meet you to, Mr. Blondie, oh, I mean Zachary.”
He giggled again and beamed, arms swinging at his sides. Zach
watched the two men struggling with a dirty motorcycle. “So,
whatcha doing?”
John stopped and leaned on his cane. “Well, hero here—” He
hitchhiked a thumb toward Conner. “—decided to take his bike
through Carter’s woods.”
Zach was all eyes. His mouth fashioned into a silent O.
 John continued. “And the bike wasn’t thrilled about the idea and
fought him all the way to the other side.”
“Is it ruined?”
“Nah, this bike’s been beat up worse than this before.”
Zach nodded, chewing on the inside of his mouth. “Well, since
I’m here, could I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Conner said, leaving the bike and wiping his sweat on a
towel. He towered over the boy.
“I was thinking about…” he slid his hands deep into his pockets.
“What you said today about having a fire route.” Zach brushed baby
fine hair from his eyes. “We don’t. Have one. And I been working on
the best way since school, but I think it’d be better if you could
come to my house and take a look.” The young boy heaved a heavy
breath, weight dropping off his shoulders.
Conner tried not to frown. The spiel had caught John’s attention
as well. He rested against the back of the truck, a half-smile tugging
at his cheek.
“Come to your house?” Conner repeated.
“Yeah,” Zach said, excitement beginning to dance in his clear blue
eyes. “My mom won’t mind, you met her today…”
Conner’s lids closed slowly. Now he saw the resemblance
between the pretty schoolteacher and her young son. And to top it
off, he’d slammed her husband for not teaching the boy how to
throw a football. Great, just great.
“Since it’s only me and her…”
Conner could feel a slow burn forming in his stomach.
“You know, the two of us. Live there alone.” Zach’s hands went to
his handlebars where he fumbled with a peeling rubber cover. But
his eyes stayed focused on Conner.
 “Your mom would have to okay that.” Conner scrubbed the towel
over his hands. “How about if you tell me how your house is set up,
and I can tell you the best route?”
But Zachary was already on his bike and turning toward home.
“Nah, I’ll just get her okay, and let you know tomorrow or
something. She’ll probably want to tidy up the house if company’s
coming. 423 Maple.” And in a cloud of dust, he was gone.
Conner stared after him, mouth slightly askew.
John joined him at the driveway’s edge. “What was that all
about?”
“He was getting picked on when I drove up at the school. Guess
he’s a little star struck.”
“A little?” John slapped his boy on the back, “Come on, hero.
We’ve got work to do.”

M ost boys meet their fathers in the most traditional of ways.

Wrapped in soft blue blankets they are placed gently in the arms of
the men who will raise them.
Not so for Conner Baldwin.
His father had exploded into his room bursting through the wall
of flames that had surrounded his little bed. His biological parents
lay dead from smoke inhalation in the next room—which Conner
later would come to appreciate. They hadn’t suffered. No pain. No
screaming.
Like a Samurai warrior, John Baldwin, who would become his
father, appeared in the black smoke, grabbed him up, and cradled
him in strong arms.
Conner had buried his five-year-old face in the man’s chest and
burrowed into the blanket tossed around him. It wasn’t blue or soft.
Not warm or cuddly. It was flat and scratchy against his flannel
Spiderman pajamas, and rather than soft material, was made of
Kevlar. Conner Baldwin was a second-generation fireman.
Why he always seemed to think of that night as he stood, staring
at the beast he didn’t know. She currently consumed a downtown
building that bordered three others. She’d stay contained. He was
sure. Like his dad, he had a sixth sense about these things. The
other buildings had been evacuated, and everyone inside accounted
for. So it was only him against her. The firefighters operated as a
team, of course, working with precision. But it was Conner who
knew how she thought. It was he who could second guess her
whims, and so, in his mind, it was the two of them in an epic battle.
Sometimes she was relentless. Tonight, she seemed tired of the
exchange, and her interest began to wane. When she belched a ball
of flames toward the building’s west side, Conner was already
pointing it out to others on his team. They snuffed it out easily. He
breathed relief. The five-story building next door contained a
laboratory that could be filled with any number of flammable and
explosive materials. His Aunt Kay used to work there, and he’d spent
many afternoons racing up and down its halls and stairwells as a kid.
He’d always thought it was a cool building. Only it had shrunk as
he’d grown, and now held little of the mystery it had back then.
Even the mermaid fountain that anchored the courtyard had lost its
intrigue. She sat, aged and tired perched on the same rock she’d
known for decades.
Forgetting his fire breathing date, his eyes trailed to the lab.
When she threw long, strips of flame at him, he remembered what a
jealous girl she was. His attention went back to the fire. White
smoke followed gold and orange blazing talons. When it reached
toward him, he could hear, or perhaps feel people gasping. What
was it about fire that attracted such a crowd? She mesmerized, no
Another random document with
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 XVI
Les Mères doivent voter

«Le vote est le droit à la considération, le

vote est le droit au pain.»

H. A.

La mère doit voter pour préparer un bon avenir à ses enfants. La

femme électeur ne peut pas comme le demandait un candidat, être un
satellite de l’homme. Elle doit déposer elle-même son bulletin dans l’urne,
et non se borner à multiplier la capacité sociale de son mari. Ce candidat
voulait qu’on donnât à la famille la prééminence politique à laquelle elle a
droit. Il préconisait le vote familial au lieu du vote des femmes.

«Ce que la femme doit vouloir, écrit-il, c’est la reconnaissance

légale de son existence sociale au même titre que le mari. La
question de savoir ensuite quelle sera la main qui portera dans
l’urne le morceau de carton représentant le bulletin familial, n’est
qu’accessoire.
«L’essentiel c’est que la femme existe. Et elle comprendra
qu’elle ne pourra conquérir ce droit éminent à l’existence qu’en
s’appuyant sur ses enfants, dont le nombre donnera autant de voix
à la famille. Ce sera là la grande force de la femme, qui ne doit se
considérer que pour ce qu’elle est naturellement: la multiplicatrice
de la capacité sociale de son mari».

Les hommes qui se moquent de Guillaume II parlant de sa royauté de

droit divin, disent aux femmes qu’ils ont sur elles une autorité de droit
divin, et que la politique est incompatible avec les fonctions de mères et
d’épouses. Mais le travail de mercenaire, de blanchissage, de portefaix
n’est pas incompatible avec ces fonctions.
On ne peut opposer la maternité, à l’exercice des droits de cette
quantité innombrable de femmes qui ne sont pas mères, qui ne le seront
jamais, qui ne l’ont jamais été.
On ne peut pas opposer, davantage, la maternité à l’exercice des
droits des femmes qui sont mères, parce qu’en aucun cas, un devoir ne
peut destituer d’un droit.
Quand il survient à l’homme des devoirs, les devoirs de la paternité, le
prive-t-on de ses droits civiques? Non. Alors pourquoi sous le prétexte
qu’elle est mère destituerait-on la femme des siens?
Est-ce que la paternité entraîne moins d’obligations que la maternité?
Est-ce que le soin d’élever l’enfant n’incombe pas solidairement aux deux
auteurs de sa naissance? Dernièrement, un candidat a enlevé un
auditoire d’hommes avec cette phrase: «Si les femmes votaient, vous
seriez obligés de garder les enfants.» Cet argument n’est pas heureux. Il
exprime avec un trop naïf égoïsme que si l’homme détient le droit de la
femme, c’est surtout dans la crainte d’être astreint à faire son devoir. Les
républicains excluent les femmes du droit, de crainte que la femme ne leur
échappe comme servante.
Qu’on n’allègue pas contre les mères l’impossibilité où elles seraient
de quitter leur enfant pour voter. Est-ce que les mères ne pourraient pas
se faire remplacer par le père près du berceau de l’enfant pour aller
préparer, par leur vote, un avenir heureux aux petits êtres qu’elles
adorent?
Est-ce que l’homme serait déshonoré parce qu’à son tour il garderait
l’enfant?
La maternité ne s’oppose pas plus à l’exercice des droits civiques,
qu’elle ne s’oppose à l’exercice d’un commerce, à l’exercice d’une
profession, à l’exercice d’un art.
Les femmes ne manqueraient pas plus à leurs devoirs familiaux en
contribuant par leur part d’intelligence au bien de la société, qu’elles n’y
manquent en allant à l’Eglise, au théâtre, au cinéma, dans les magasins.
Si la maternité absorbait la femme, au point de l’empêcher de
s’occuper de toute vie extérieure, alors il faudrait commencer par faire des
rentes à toutes les mères qui n’en ont pas, car l’obligation de gagner le
pain quotidien, l’obligation d’aller quérir les provisions du ménage,
éloigneront certainement toujours plus les mères de leurs enfants que
celle d’aller déposer dans l’urne un bulletin de vote un jour d’élection.
D’ailleurs, si la maternité n’était une allégation hypocrite pour refuser le
vote aux femmes, celles qui ne sont pas mères devraient pouvoir exercer
leurs droits, tandis qu’elles en sont tout aussi bien destituées que celles
qui sont mères.
Si nous demandons pour toutes les femmes, pour celles qui sont
mères, comme pour celles ne le sont pas, l’intégralité du droit, c’est que
nous savons que le sentiment de la responsabilité, qui résulte de la
possession du droit, éveille à un haut degré l’idée du devoir.
C’est que nous savons que la femme, une fois en possession de ses
droits civiques, marchera avec l’homme dans la voie du progrès, et que
ses enfants, après s’être nourris de son lait, s’assimileront ses idées de
justice et de liberté.
Si nous demandons pour la femme l’intégralité du droit, c’est que nous
savons que l’autorité de la Citoyenne est indispensable à la femme pour
être non seulement une mère selon la nature, une mère qui donne à son
enfant la santé, la force et la beauté du corps, mais encore, mais surtout,
une mère selon l’intelligence, une mère capable de donner à son enfant la
santé, la force et la beauté de l’âme, mens sana in corpore sano.
Quelques personnes nous disent: La famille serait désorganisée si
l’homme cessait de régner partout en roi absolu, si la femme avait sa part
de pouvoir dans la famille et dans l’Etat.
Profonde erreur. Qu’est-ce donc qui peut mieux établir la sympathie
entre les hommes que la solidarité des intérêts qui résulte de la
communauté du pouvoir?
Qu’est-ce donc qui pourrait mieux qu’une communauté de pouvoir
amener entre les époux la concorde, l’union de l’esprit? Union autrement
solide, celle-ci, que l’union du cœur!
Qu’est-ce qui pourrait mieux qu’une communauté de pouvoir, amener
chez les époux une communion de goûts, d’idées, d’aspirations, une
communion de vie intellectuelle?
Aujourd’hui, quand l’union si éphémère du cœur cesse d’exister, un
abîme se creuse entre les époux parce qu’ils n’ont pas un seul point de
ralliement. Aucun but moral, aucun intérêt élevé ne les réunit. Et dans ces
ménages où l’on ne cause, certes, ni de politique ni de sociologie, les
enfants sont le plus souvent abandonnés.
Tandis qu’avec cette chose rationnelle, la vie publique ouverte aux
femmes, la vie publique commune pour les époux, comme est commune
la vie privée, le niveau moral intellectuel s’élèverait bientôt dans chaque
ménage.
L’obligation pour les femmes de s’occuper de choses sérieuses qui
intéressent les hommes, établirait au grand profit de l’harmonie conjugale
entre maris et femmes, une émulation salutaire pour le progrès.
Les intérêts de la société, avant d’être discutés et rendus publics,
seraient d’abord discutés et résolus en famille. L’enfant témoin de ces
saines préoccupations grandirait heureux. Sa précoce initiation à la vie
civique aurait la puissance de l’éloigner des atmosphères vicieuses.
Donc, à ce triple point de vue, le bonheur de l’homme, l’intérêt de
l’enfant, l’harmonie de la famille, il est urgent que la femme, que la mère,
exerce au plus tôt ses droits civiques.
Les Français souverains ne font encore que jouer au progrès. Ils ont
badigeonné une façade de république, mais ils n’ont point la virilité
nécessaire pour accomplir les transformations fondamentales en
changeant la condition de celle qui donne aux mâles et femelles de la
nation les muscles et la moëlle. Cependant, si les milieux influent sur les
individus, combien plus exercent sur eux, d’action, les molécules d’où ils
tirent leur origine.
«Dis-moi d’où tu sors, je te dirai qui tu es!...»
Les Français, qui tous, sortent de serves, ne peuvent pas être
naturellement indépendants. L’absence de caractère, la veulerie ne se
surmonteront que quand les humains naîtront de mères libres.
La mère donne à l’enfant son empreinte. Le sein maternel fait ce qu’ils
sont, les humains.
Les femmes annulées, opprimées font des enfants à la mentalité
tordue. Pour que les enfants soient droits cérébralement il faut appeler
celles qui les créent à la plénitude de l’existence sociale et politique.
 Il faut affranchir la dispensatrice de la vie en proclamant l’égalité des
sexes devant la loi.
Les femmes n’ont pas seulement le droit de participer à la politique.
Elles ont besoin d’y participer, afin de trouver là un point d’appui quand,
par le fait de la disparition de leur compagnon, le sol manque sous leurs
pieds.
Les femmes concentreraient sur l’amélioration des conditions
d’existence leurs énergies accumulées qui pourraient aider à résoudre
des problèmes qui aujourd’hui semblent insolubles, parce qu’ils
concernent l’humanité toute entière et que les seuls efforts masculins sont
impuissants à en donner la clef.
Le droit qu’ont les femmes de faire valoir leurs droits civiques, se
double pour elles du devoir de changer pour les générations qu’elles
créent, la vie de privations en vie de satisfaction, de bien-être.
Le droit d’intervenir dans les arrangements sociaux est refusé aux
femmes par les hommes qui leur attribuent le plus grand pouvoir occulte.
C’est une anomalie de garder les femmes qui tiennent une si grande place
dans la position d’inférieures où elles sont.
Si l’instinct de conservation ne contraint les antiféministes à dire à la
femme: Tu n’es plus une poupée avec laquelle on joue et dont on se joue.
Tu es un important acteur social dont on attend l’effort. Si la dispensatrice
de la vie reste annulée, si la femme n’a pas le pouvoir de sauver les
individus en transformant, avec les lois, le milieu social, elle sera la
vengeresse inconsciente qui poussera l’humanité dégénérée à s’abîmer
dans l’anéantissement.
 XVII
La fonction maternelle rétribuée

«Parce que la femme est mère, elle ne

peut être ni électeur, ni député, mais elle peut
être blanchisseuse, femme de peine.»

Hubertine Auclert.

Le sexe masculin est incapable de bien légiférer pour les deux sexes.
Parce que les femmes ne sont ni électeurs, ni éligibles, les lois,
mêmes faites pour elles, se tournent contre elles. Ainsi la loi sur la
recherche de la paternité fait condamner à l’amende, à la prison, à
l’interdiction de séjour, la fille mère qui n’a pas de preuves écrites de la
coopération de celui qu’elle poursuit comme cocréateur de son enfant.
Pour assurer aux hommes de n’être pas ennuyés par les femmes qu’ils
rendent mères, cette loi force les femmes à recourir à l’infanticide: la
charge d’un enfant étant au-dessus des ressources d’une fille-mère.
Pendant que des hommes graves clament que le pays se dépeuple,
pendant que des politiciens se liguent pour augmenter la natalité, ce ne
sont pas seulement celles qui n’ont pu devenir mères selon la formule
édictée par le Code, qui risquent la vie pour empêcher un bébé de naître.
Tous les jours, des épouses légitimes disent: «je ne peux pas avoir un
nouvel enfant, je serais délaissée» et elles vont trouver l’opérateur, de
chez lequel elles sortent non point toujours mortes, mais souvent
estropiées.
Pourquoi cette rage de destruction d’embryons humains existe-t-elle
dans un pays dont on prédit l’effacement pour cause de manque
d’habitants?
Parce que les Français, barbares, laissent à la femme qui ne parvient
pas à se suffire à elle-même, la charge d’élever les enfants communs.
 Femmes mariées comme femmes célibataires ont la terreur de la
maternité, parce que la maternité leur inflige, en plus de la souffrance, la
gêne, la pauvreté, la noire misère.
Les Françaises n’auraient point cette terreur de la maternité, si elles
pouvaient en participant à la législation, se donner des garanties. Les
hommes législateurs ne proposent point de procurer la sérénité au sein
maternel. On semble n’attacher aucune importance à ce que les Mères de
la nation, détériorées par les souffrances physiques et morales, ne soient
pas en état à donner le jour à des êtres assez forts pour supporter la vie.
Quand on veut fabriquer un objet, on donne au moule qui doit l’exécuter la
forme et la solidité nécessaires. Mais lorsqu’il s’agit de fabriquer des
humains, on se dispense de prendre cette précaution élémentaire. On
aime mieux créer des hôpitaux pour les malades que de donner aux
génératrices la possibilité de mettre au monde des enfants robustes, sur
lesquels n’aurait point de prise la maladie.
La nature qui ne demande pas à la femme son acquiescement à la
maternité, lui impose la charge de l’enfant. La mère n’a qu’une garantie
illusoire d’être aidée à élever l’enfant, puisque cette garantie repose sur le
seul bon plaisir de l’homme. Chacun sait en effet, que l’amant se dérobe
dès qu’apparaît la grossesse de son amie, et que de plus en plus
nombreux sont les époux légitimes qui font la fête et se dispensent de
remplir le devoir paternel. Dans l’intérêt de la nation et de l’espèce
humaine, cet état de choses doit cesser. Il est plus que temps de régler la
question relative aux rapports des sexes.
La mère qui assure la perpétuation de l’espèce doit être traitée comme
le soldat qui assure la sécurité du territoire: c’est-à-dire, être logée, nourrie
durant le temps de son service de mère.
La maternité cessera de terrifier les Françaises quand, au lieu de les
déshonorer et de les réduire au dénûment, elle les fera considérer et
indemniser comme d’indispensables fonctionnaires.
On se procurera l’argent nécessaire pour rétribuer la maternité en
établissant l’impôt paternel que les hommes auront avantage à payer pour
s’épargner des coups de revolver, des brûlures de vitriol et se garantir des
procès en recherche de paternité, suivis souvent de procès en divorce.
Il suffit de mettre dans la loi cet article: «A partir de 16 ans tout
Français paie l’impôt paternel pour indemniser les mères sans ressources
et assurer l’existence des enfants.»
 XVIII
L’enfant doit-il porter le nom de la Mère? Matriarcat

Tous ceux qui ont séjourné en Algérie dans les oasis, ont pu voir au
printemps des Arabes grimper au faîte de hauts palmiers femelles, pour
répandre au-dessus de leur tête du pollen de palmiers mâles. Les fruits du
dattier femelle ainsi fécondé, lui appartiennent en propre. Ne devrait-il pas
en être ainsi des fruits humains? Pourquoi la femme qui a modelé dans
ses flancs et moralement formé l’enfant, peut-elle moins bien le classer
socialement que l’homme fécondateur?
Ce ne sera plus en étalant devant les tribunaux une faiblesse, point
générale chez son sexe, en exhalant des plaintes au théâtre contre
l’homme auteur de son déshonneur, que la mère naturelle parviendra à se
faire honorer. C’est en revendiquant virilement la responsabilité de son
acte, c’est en demandant d’être, par une rétribution équitable, mise à
même d’exercer cette fonction sociale: la maternité.
L’élémentaire justice, faisant proposer de donner un père à l’enfant
naturel, qui paraît avantageux pour la femme, règle en réalité à son
détriment une situation, en augmentant l’autorité de l’homme.
La mère élevée par son enfant au rang de chef de famille, a une autre
situation morale que l’esclave qui reconnaît son indignité, en demandant
le patronage de l’homme qui se dérobe.
—Que veut le féminisme?
—Diviser l’autorité familiale et sociale.
Enlever à l’homme la moitié de son pouvoir autocratique pour en doter
sa compagne. Or la recherche de la paternité tend à un but tout opposé,
puisqu’elle concentre dans une seule main l’autorité, en conférant à
l’homme, hors du mariage, comme dans le mariage, la qualité de chef de
famille.
Emile de Girardin, qui demandait que toute distinction établie par les
lois, entre les enfants naturels, adultérins, incestueux, légitimes, fût abolie,
voulait que l’enfant porte le nom de sa mère et soit sous son autorité.
C’était le matriarcat substitué au patriarcat.
En confondant les mères entre elles, en les reconnaissant également
aptes à exercer l’autorité sur leurs enfants et à leur donner leurs noms, le
matriarcat empêcherait de distinguer les mères naturelles des autres, et il
rendrait les enfants égaux devant l’état-civil.
Bien que la couvade n’existe pas matériellement en France, les
Français matricides rendent moralement inexistantes les mères en se
substituant à elles, en s’attribuant le mérite de leurs maternités et en
retirant honneurs et profits.
La créatrice annulée et écrasée chez nous a exercé ailleurs, en une
période de l’évolution humaine, une domination bienfaisante.
Le matriarcat a existé et existe encore dans un certain nombre
d’agglomérations humaines.
Dans la Chine antique, avant l’époque de Fohi, disent les anciens
livres, les hommes connaissaient leur mère, mais ils ignoraient qui était
leur père.
En Asie, les Lyciens prenaient le nom de leur mère et attribuaient
l’héritage aux filles.
Dans l’ancienne Egypte, les enfants portaient le nom de leur mère et
étaient dirigés par elle. Les femmes d’Egypte, dit Hérodote, vont sur la
place publique, se livrent au commerce et à l’industrie pendant que les
hommes demeurent à la maison, et y font le travail intérieur. Les femmes,
aux portes de l’Egypte, considèrent comme un déshonneur de tisser et de
filer.
Les Hurons et les Iroquois prennent le nom de leur mère, et c’est par
elle qu’ils comptent leur généalogie. C’est par les femmes que se consiste
la nation, la noblesse du sang, l’arbre généalogique, l’ordre des
générations et la conservation des familles.
La noblesse utérine exista en France en la période féodale. La mère
noble donnait le jour à un fils noble: le père fut-il roturier.
Les Crétois, d’après Platon, nommaient leur patrie d’origine, matrie:
combien d’autres peuples primitifs préférant la réalité à la fiction se
servaient de ce doux terme, matrie (mère) pour désigner les lieux qu’ils
habitaient. Ne serait-il pas plus naturel de dire: la France est ma matrie,
ma mère, que: la France est ma patrie, mon père?
Les Touaregs qui habitent le centre du Sahara Africain, ainsi que
presque tous les peuples de race berbère, sont régis par le matriarcat. Ils
se dénomment en raison de cela Beni-oummia (fils de la mère).
C’est, dit une formule de leur droit traditionnel, «le ventre qui teint
l’enfant». Aussi, le fils d’une mère noble et d’un père esclave est noble, le
fils d’une mère esclave et d’un père noble, est esclave.
Chez les Beni-oummia la loi salique est renversée. Ce n’est point le fils
du chef qui succède à son père, c’est le fils de la sœur de celui-ci.
Même nomade, la femme Targuie est instruite et a partout la première
place. Elle discute dans les conseils de la Tribu. Elle a l’administration de
l’héritage. Elle seule dispose des tentes, maisons, troupeaux, sources et
jardins. Enfin, elle confère, avec la condition sociale, les droits de
commandement sur les serfs et les redevances payées par les voyageurs.
On voit que les peuples qui se désintéressent de la paternité, au point
de s’appeler «fils de la mère» accordent à la femme, avec l’autorité
morale, bien des privilèges et que les Français civilisés auraient beaucoup
à apprendre au point de vue féministe, des Touaregs qualifiés de
barbares, par ceux qui ne les connaissent pas.
Malgré que les hommes s’efforcent de se le dissimuler, la mère donne
à l’enfant son empreinte en dépit de l’école. Nos belles écoles, qui sont à
juste titre l’orgueil et l’espoir de la nation, ne cultivent que l’intelligence.
Quand on aura affranchi la dispensatrice de la vie en proclamant
l’égalité des sexes devant la loi, les humains ne piétineront plus. Ils
courront dans la voie du progrès.
 XIX
Les mères et la dépopulation

En entendant répéter que les femmes ont pour unique rôle de mettre
des enfants au monde, on pouvait penser que le sexe féminin restait dans
la mission qui lui est assignée, en demandant de faire partie de la
commission extra-parlementaire chargée de combattre la dépopulation.
Il nous semblait que les deux sexes réunis, étaient seuls compétents
pour décider d’une affaire où le couple est indispensable. Eh bien, nous
étions dans l’erreur. Les hommes seuls suffisent pour repeupler la France,
puisque pas une femme n’a été nommée membre de la commission de
repeuplement.
Les Français présomptueux croient qu’ils pourront, sans les
Françaises, augmenter la natalité, comme sans elles, ils pensent
continuer à administrer et à gouverner.
Les messieurs réunis pour remédier à la dépopulation, s’imagineront
résoudre la question en récompensant l’homme qui n’a que du plaisir en
devenant père, tandis que la femme ruine sa santé, risque sa vie en
enfantant.
N’étant point traitée comme la cheville ouvrière du repeuplement, la
génératrice continuera, suivant la coutume, à se préserver de la
fécondation, à recourir à l’avortement, de sorte que l’homme déçu de ses
rêves de paternité, ne pourra percevoir le dédommagement du travail
puerpéral qui lui aura été attribué.
Bien que notre orgueil national prenne plaisir à constater que les
peuples les plus civilisés sont les moins prolifiques, la disette d’enfants
met la France en si mauvaise posture dans le monde, que les législateurs
ont songé à proposer de surtaxer les célibataires, les veufs, les divorcés.
Si cet impôt vexatoire ne frappait que les femmes, qui ne votant point,
ne sont point à ménager, il serait sûrement adopté par la commission.
Mais les célibataires mâles étant électeurs, on ne rééditera pas la loi de
1798 qui, durant quelques années, surimposera les célibataires.
 D’ailleurs, un impôt ne contraindrait pas au mariage les célibataires.
L’unique moyen d’augmenter la natalité consiste à intéresser les
génératrices à cette augmentation. Pendant que les femmes n’auront
aucun avantage à procréer beaucoup d’enfants, elles se soustrairont aux
nombreuses maternités qui les accablent de souffrances, les surchargent
de travail et les enlaidissent!
Certes, les hommes sont en France bien puissants. Pourtant, quoique
souverains, ils ne peuvent ni changer les lois naturelles, ni augmenter,
sans le concours des femmes, la natalité. Il devient donc, dès lors,
indispensable que les femmes fassent connaître à quelles conditions elles
consentiront à être plus souvent mères. La solution de la question du
dépeuplement est seulement là.
Si les législateurs ne trouvent pas que les procréatrices sont, plus que
quiconque, aptes à donner sur cela leur avis, les efforts en vue du
repeuplement échoueront: les seules personnes capables de les faire
aboutir étant laissées de côté.
On propose de spolier les génératrices, de récompenser les hommes
du travail de gestation et de parturition des femmes. La prime donnée au
père n’allégerait point le fardeau maternel. Ce ne serait pas, parce que les
hommes civilisés empocheraient la récompense de l’enfantement, qu’ils
parviendraient plus que les primitifs—simulant les douleurs quand leur
femme accouche—à faire croire que ce sont eux qui mettent au monde
les enfants.
Pour obtenir de la femme qu’elle dépense ses forces, passe ses nuits
en veilles, ruine sa santé et risque sa vie afin d’augmenter la population,
c’est employer un singulier moyen que de gratifier le père, parce qu’il vote,
du travail accompli par la mère, qui ne vote pas. Est-ce le moyen de
déterminer les femmes à appeler à la vie beaucoup d’enfants? Les
ouvriers seraient-ils excités à travailler en un chantier où le contre-maître
s’attribuerait leur salaire?
Les nombreuses maternités déforment, fatiguent, affaiblissent,
enlaidissent, non le père, mais la mère. Si, au lieu de lui attacher par un
petit intérêt son mari, on spolie la femme souffreteuse de la rente qui lui
est due pour la donner à l’homme gaillard, est-ce que ce ne sera pas
inciter celui-ci à la dépenser, cette rente, avec une accorte voisine, point
productrice d’enfants?
 On tourne autour de la question de l’indemnisation maternelle, qu’on
ne veut pas proposer parce que la femme qui est en droit de la toucher,
est une hors la loi.
Il est facile de comprendre que quiconque a la peine doit toucher un
salaire et que les femmes ne se déprimeront ni ne s’useront plus, dans le
seul but de procurer des rentes à leur mari qui, après la douzaine
d’enfants pourrait les planter là.
La femme est la propriété de l’homme (une propriété de rapport)
comme l’arbre à fruit est celle du jardinier, puisqu’on reconnaît seulement
à celui-ci le droit de tirer profit des fruits humains.
Que l’on tourne et retourne, en tous sens, la question du
repeuplement, on ne parviendra à la résoudre que par l’indemnisation
maternelle, qui allégera les charges du père et permettra à la mère de
conserver en se soignant, des forces de réserve pour de nouvelles
maternités.
A la femme aisée ou riche, qui ne serait, ni par une indemnité, ni par
une retraite, encouragée à de successives maternités, on pourrait offrir
l’appât des récompenses honorifiques.
Nous trouvons puériles les décorations, mais puisque les hommes en
raffolent, les femmes peuvent bien, à leur exemple, les convoiter.
Il ne faudrait pas bien entendu, que la décoration attribuée à la
maternité, lui soit spéciale: une croix de la maternité serait de suite
appelée Croix de Gigogne.
Mais admettre la femme, six fois mère, à la Légion d’honneur,
honorerait la croix en lui faisant récompenser ce qui est utile au pays.
 XX
La femme en état de légitime défense

Les infanticides sont si fréquents, que chacun est forcé de se

demander s’ils ne sont pas une nécessité sociale, et s’il ne serait pas
temps de mettre, relativement à la génération, les conventions et les lois
en harmonie avec la nature.
Le public qui traque la coupable d’infanticide et dispute à la police le
soin de l’amener devant ses juges, n’est rien moins que disposé à
atténuer son crime.
Cependant, cette meurtrière était en état de légitime défense. C’est
pour se sauver qu’elle a tué. La société tout entière fonçait sur elle,
menaçait de la vomir de son sein, de l’écharper moralement. Affolée par
l’horreur de sa situation, elle est devenue horrible. Elle a mis son enfant
hors la vie, pour ne pas être mise hors de l’humanité.
Il faudrait voir comment se comporteraient ceux qui déclament contre
la fille-mère exterminatrice, s’ils étaient aux prises avec les difficultés
inénarrables de son présent et l’épouvantement de l’avenir qui lui est
réservé. Sa faute va tendre autour d’elle un cordon sanitaire. On
s’éloignera d’elle comme d’une pestiférée, ses amis ne la connaîtront
plus. Toutes les portes, tous les cœurs lui seront fermés. Enfin, alors que
ses besoins s’augmenteront de ceux d’une autre existence, elle ne
trouvera plus d’ouvrage.
La fille-mère a à choisir entre le mépris public, un dénûment sans nom
et... le crime! L’instinct de la conservation, le sentiment faux mais très
violent de l’honneur, en font une criminelle.
Quel est l’individu, homme ou femme, qui sachant qu’il va être à tout
jamais flétri et flétri injustement, est bien certain de ne pas perdre un
instant la raison, et de ne pas commettre un crime pour échapper à
l’opprobre qui l’attend?
A ceux qui soutiennent que la mère infanticide a été impitoyable, on
peut demander si elle a été aussi impitoyable et féroce que la société qui
contraint toutes les pauvres filles, sous peine de déchéance, à se