“What was all that ‘patience is what’s needed’ talk?”
“Right. About that…” Wes stepped out the doo,r then turned back. “But it will give me more time with her, so I can see if she’s good enough for my best mate. Not just anyone will do, you know?”
∞ ∞ ∞
“We’ve made such great progress.” Julia stretched out her back as she stood from the chair she’d spent the last half hour in while sorting through various boxes from the larger of her aunt’s two bedroom closets. “I can’t thank you enough for coming along.”
Henry ceased whistling in the soft way he’d done on and off throughout the morning and looked up, his grin at the ready. Karen’s encouragement filtered through Julia once more, and she allowed herself the freedom to view him as a…what? Possible romantic partner? Boyfriend?
Maybe.
His lips crooked.
Definitely.
“I’m glad I came along.” He certainly appeared to be, having helped her with the most mundane of tasks as they moved from one room to the next, categorizing, talking, and sharing more and more little parts of themselves through conversations.
“I think we should head home after we finish with these last boxes, then we can return on Friday for the last bit.” She cringed at her assumption, and she peeked at him from the corner of her eyes. “I mean, if you’d like to come back then.”
“I think it’s safe for you to assume, Julia.”
The sweet warmth that accompanied each time he said her name spread through her chest and into her cheeks. She drew her gaze from his and scanned the room, her attention pulled toward the massive walk-in closet on the far side of the room near the gold-embossed white four-poster bed. When she’d opened the closet a few days after her aunt’s death, the scent of mountain cornflower had unraveled her grief into sobs. She’d avoided the space for months after that heart-wrenching scene, but Friday…Friday she’d shore up the courage to go through the most intimate of her aunt’s possessions.
“Julia, I think I’ve found something.”
Henry’s voice pulled her back to the present, and she joined him outside the smaller closet. He tugged a crate from the closet and placed it on the white table in the corner of the room to give her easier access.
“There’s more sheet music—and Emmeline’s name is at the top again.” He opened a folder for her, the first handwritten composition entitled Untouched Fields laying fragile beneath the cover.
Julia took the folder from him and fingered the pages of the thin yellowed sheets. “The music stops this piece stops on page three with someone scribbling out the last line of notes.”
“A poor copy, I’d wager. Most likely the composer had to start over again.”
She cringed at the thought of re-forming all those notes on a page. It would take hours. “Is that what you do when you’re composing?”
“Sometimes I still compose by hand, but my iPad makes mistakes easier to correct.” He winked. “Much less crying that way.”
“I do hate seeing grown men cry…unless it’s during Hallmark movies.”
He lowered his voice and swapped his grin for a stoic expression, though his eyes still sparkled with his subtle humor. “At the risk of losing your friendship forever, I must admit that I cannot bear those sorts of movies. The music is much too repetitive and simple.”
She released an exaggerated gasp before grinning.
“However,” he continued, “I have been known to shed a tear or two at the end of The Lord of the Rings, Lawrence of Arabia, and, at one time, Star Wars.”
Her snicker turned into a full-blown laugh. “Star Wars?”
“The music.” His palm rose to his chest. “The brass sections. They’re perfect.”
“Okay, so we may not agree on Hallmark movies, but I can totally agree with the other choices. Maybe even The Last of the Mohicans?” She narrowed a look from her periphery.
“Excellent. Or anything by the legendary John Williams. I’ve been a fan of his since I was eight and watched Jaws for the first time.”
Her hands stilled on the next piece of paper in the box. “You saw Jaws when you were eight? And you slept at night?”
He raised a finger. “Slept, yes, but avoided water for a week. I must say, my mother was quite put out at my lack of bathing. Even the toilet was suspect.”
Julia’s laugh burst out with such force she pressed a hand to her stomach while the baby wriggled to life beneath her palm. Henry sat so close to her she could make out a faint line of gray crowning his chameleon-like eyes. Subtle and unique, like him. Their gazes held. She swayed toward him, her body taking the lead and then…a sudden panic exploded through her, crashing into the attraction, stealing her breath.
No! She shifted away ever so slightly. Why should she be afraid of Henry? He’d proven himself to be as kind, gentle, and considerate each time they were together. Yet despite the acknowledgement of his gentlemanly behavior in every way, she couldn’t stop the two opposing forces battling in her chest. Her head and her heart warred with her emotions, and the fear won.
Her breathing congealed into a knot, and she turned away, tears threatening to spill while she focused on inhaling and exhaling. A strangled sort of feeling rose in her throat. What was wrong with her?
“Are these as unplayable as the ones we found last week?” She forced the question out as a distraction, a way to turn his attention away.
He leaned close enough for her to catch his scent, enticing both emotions to the forefront again. “They do. The first page is perfectly composed, but the following pages aren’t real music.”
“Why would Aunt Millie keep music she couldn’t play? It doesn’t make sense at all.”
He sat back, taking some of the uneasiness with him. “Sentimental reasons? To show how she grew as a composer?”
She clung to the banter, to the sweetness, pushing back the unnamed fear and, praying it away. She wanted him close, but…but her body didn’t. “Highly unlikely. You can do better than that.”
His brow raised at her challenge. “Ah, better.” He looked up to the ceiling, eyes narrowed as he deliberated. “These were the last pieces her lover composed, though poorly, and she couldn’t part with them despite the fact she cringed as she played through them.”
His humor worked like magic to disperse even more of the anxiety. Oh Lord, help me. Julia shook her head and looked down at the paper in her hands. Could this reaction be what Karen had talked about? An unexpected response to the trauma she’d experienced? Panic mingled with interest? No, no, please. Not with Henry. He didn’t deserve her fear.
“A little better but still not believable.”
“Well, perhaps this other box will provide a more suitable explanation for you.” Henry pushed aside an elegant scarf and a pair of vintage heels to display an ornate wooden box with an envelope taped to the top. “It looks rather special and similar to the one we found last time.”
“It’s the same. Wooden, with a golden clasp.” She looked over at Henry before gently peeling the paper from the box and opening the envelope graced with Amelia Dawn in beautiful script across its front. A simple note, written in the same hand as the previous one, contained a few lines:
‘These two are not two; love has made them one…and by its mystery each is not less but more.’ I read this from Benjamin Britten and felt it applied beautifully and succinctly to us, my darling. Despite the dangers and uncertainties of our lives, thank you for agreeing to be my wife.
Yours forever,
Lucas
“They…they were married,” Julia whispered. “Lucas and Amelia.” She turned the letter so Henry could read its words.
“Benjamin Britten?” Henry sat back and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “Do you suppose it’s the real Benjamin Britten?”
Julia blinked from her thoughts back to him. “Who?”
“Benjamin Britten was a famous composer and conductor of the era. A renowned pianist too.”
“How remarkable.” He stared at the page a moment longer, and then went back to his work on the crate, his soft whistle taking on a happy tune and easing over her fringed emotions. Communication. Patience.
As the top of the box cracked open, Julia’s breath seized.
Letters. Dozens of them. Each with the same handwriting as in the letter she held in her hand except for a larger envelope mixed among the letters. A card fell out of that envelope after Julia slit its top.
Congratulations on your marriage. You are one of the most well-suited couples I’ve ever known, and I’m glad to hear you’ll still be working together to bring me the beautiful music you’ve always provided. Your gifts never go unappreciated.
Affectionately,
Emmeline
Julia looked from the card to the sheets of music in Henry’s hands. Surely Emmeline wasn’t referring to that music, with its mismatched chords and unusual patterns. Perhaps these were Millie and Lucas’s drafts. But why keep them?
Julia placed the card back in the box. She would read some of the other letters in the privacy of her apartment once her mind had taken time to digest this latest mystery in Aunt Millie’s past. As she grasped a random bundle of the letters her fingers found another envelope. Larger, once again. And hidden at the very bottom.
Cardboard on either side protected the paper, which slid from the envelope as if accustomed to leaving its place. Inside was a certificate of marriage for Amelia Dawn Rippey and Lucas Randolph Sweitzer.
“He…he was the father,” she whispered, piecing the names together.
Henry’s whistling came to a stop. “Pardon?”
“Lucas was Rosalyn’s father. Look.” She handed him the paper. “And he was German.”
Henry examined the certificate. “But for which side, do you think?”
Julia sat back with a sigh, blinking down at the box of letters. “Why would she go into hiding if he was for the Allies? It would only make sense that she’d disappear out of disgrace or to protect herself and Rosalyn.” She placed the box onto the table and stood, pacing the room, the story taking a much darker turn than she’d wanted. “This is the perfect place to hide from anyone looking for her. And this Emmeline Sterling”—Julia waved toward the box— “she must have had some hand in all of this.”
“It’s an intriguing theory.”
Julia stopped and turned to him. “Do you think Aunt Millie was involved? Could she have been helping the Nazis because of her love for her husband?” A chill trembled up her spine and she started walking again, at a faster pace than before, as if to outrun the possibility. “Oh no, I can’t even allow my brain to go there. Surely she’d never help a cause that murdered millions of people.”
“Slow down.” His calm voice slowing her pace. “These are all conjectures. Just because the man had a German name doesn’t mean he or your aunt were Nazis.”
She walked forward, finger pointing at him. “But he had an alias, remember? Regular people do not have aliases.”
“True, but I’d rather we not forge ahead into the worst.” He gestured toward the box. “Perhaps the letters will give some insight, and we still have a few more shelves and closets to explore before we’re left to create our own ending to her story. Don’t lose heart. I feel there’s still more to discover.”
Chapter Seventeen
A phone call to Karen before the drive to Aunt Millie’s the next day gave Julia a little ammunition for the possible anxiety that lay ahead. Her therapist had reiterated that communication was key to any relationship—but especially when working through trauma—and that the feelings Julia had experienced when Henry drew intimately close to her were unsurprising…and healable.
What a difference it made to know something troubling had an ending.
She and Henry drove in companionable silence to Aunt Millie’s house with welcome intermittent conversations about music and faith charming her anxiety further away. She’d thought Henry might not wish to speak of his faith—it seemed a close-mouthed choice for the English people she’d met—but he’d surprised her. Again.
He talked about some of his favorite theological reads and books of the Bible, and despite being from two different countries, they both enjoyed some of the same podcasts from certain international pastors. She couldn’t think of one man from her small group at church or college classes who was anything like him. Most of the guys she’d known growing up were tough extroverted country boys, more likely to have a tug-of-war than a heartfelt discussion. Well, except her brother Rick, or Caleb Larson, a quiet cousin who lived down the road from her parents. They broke the usual mold. She didn’t begrudge the extroverted sporty guys or think less of them—it’s who they were and how her culture raised men. Strength meant physical ability. Virtue showed in hard work and providing for your family. Romance involved snatching a woman and kissing her until her lips went numb—at least that’s how it seemed with her daddy.
She grinned at the comparison. Loud, direct, take-charge versus gentle, careful, empathic?
But Henry had stepped right in to help her father and somehow fit in with all the crazy, in his own quiet way.
“I keep studying on this entire situation with your aunt and her husband.” Henry’s voice broke into the engine’s rumble as they drove down the dirt road toward Millie’s house. “You know the feelings you have about Emmeline Sterling?”
“Yes?”
“All of the music has her name at the top. Was she Lucas’s agent, perhaps? A contact?” He grimaced. “It would have been highly unlikely since most agents I know rarely review the music as much as set up the schedules and venues and such.”
“But if she wasn’t an agent, what else could she have been?”
“A benefactress who gave some sort of financial support for their music?”
She caught his gaze in her periphery.
“Did your aunt ever mention her?”
“Not that I recall, and I only read through a few of the letters last night. There were one or two references to meeting with Emmeline, particularly when Millie and Lucas were apart, but otherwise nothing to shed any light on her role.”
Henry looked back out the window, his brows pinched together, and she could almost see him working through the clues, as though seeking resolution to a dissonant chord. She’d never engaged in much sleuthing before, but his interest, and companionship, certainly kept her hoping for a little more time.
“A little off-topic, but what’s your home like? I’ve never been to England.” Though, she’d always wanted to see it, especially since Eisley had returned from her trip with such amazing photos and stories. The quaint towns. The beautiful countryside. Something about that world tugged on her curiosity like few other places. “Eisley said England has a lot of similarities to Appalachia, especially the countryside. Is that the same for your home?”
He turned in his seat to answer, giving her a little better view of his face. “I only live a few miles from Wes’s family’s cottage in Derbyshire, called Rose Hill. And though I still have a room in Wright Hall, I’ve been renting a flat in Matlock while I look to purchase my own house. The rolling hills are similar, except you have mountains, as whereas we have cliffs.”
Something tickled against Julia’s leg as Henry described the town of Matlock with its cobblestone streets, old buildings, and landscape of emerald. She gave a passing glance to her pantleg but pushed aside the need to investigate. The cloth of her slacks must have shifted against her skin.
“What sort of house are you looking for?”
“Well, something with character, perhaps a bit historical, and close to town.”
The tickle happened again. She shook her leg while Henry continued to talk, but the tickle sensation moved up to her knee. What? She glanced down, and her breath congealed into an unlocked scream in her throat.
On her knee, looking around as if it were the most normal th
ing to do, sat a tiny brown field mouse.
“I’ve always loved the rock homes, or even barns people have refurbished to maintain the general appeal of Derbyshire’s countryside and architecture.”
The mouse twitched its nose up in the air in Henry’s direction. Oh no! Henry! Her stomach coiled into a knot. She had to keep Henry from realizing a mouse was in the car with them. After all, she’d promised to protect him. She focused her gaze forward and pushed words from her throat. “Rock houses? And…um…what exactly are those?”
He hesitated, examining her for a moment. Had her voice shaken? Was her face pale? After a hitch in the silence while she forced a smile his way, he began explaining the beauty of the gray fieldstone homes sprinkled through the lush green hillsides. The mouse skittered an inch or two up her thigh. Her body stiffened, and she held in a squeak but couldn’t keep her leg from jerking. With ninja-move stealth, the mouse leapt from her knee, to the door handle and then paused on the edge of the dashboard nearest her window, his little chest pulsing with breaths about the same speed as hers.
And there it sat, staring at her with its round, black eyes, its whiskers twitching as if it knew exactly who to visit next. Her stomach tensed. Her body froze. How could something so small be so unnerving?
Henry continued to talk, oblivious to the entire situation, but Julia quickly took inventory of the road ahead while keeping the mouse in her periphery in case it decided to pull another ninja move. One the right, the road dipped into a deep ditch. On the left, oncoming traffic blocked a possible pit stop.
Three cars. Three cars.
When had there ever been so much traffic on this isolated country road?
She gritted her teeth together.
When there was a mouse loose in her car and a mouse-phobic hero trapped inside, that’s when.
When You Look at Me (A Pleasant Gap Romance Book 2) Page 16