“And that’s how I ended up here, with you, asking about a journal I didn’t even know existed until three months ago.”
By now, Kathryn had a huge smile on her face. “What a lovely story.”
“I only wish I knew how it ended.” Sophia returned the shears to Kathryn and tugged off the gloves. Her fingers ached from the repetitive action they’d taken, but it was a good ache.
She was about to ask Kathryn about the journal once more, but the look on the woman’s face—as if her mind was elsewhere, considering all that Sophia had told her—stopped the words before they left Sophia’s lips. When someone wore a look like that, it was best to be quiet and let the revelations come.
Kathryn studied her a few more moments before speaking again. “Perhaps you’re focused on the wrong thing. Life is more than a beginning, a middle, and an end. It’s about the countless moments woven in between the lines, the growth, the pruning. Take these flowers, for example. I can’t just sit around waiting for them to decide if they want to bloom or die. Growth won’t happen without a little intervention. They were designed to bloom, yes, but circumstances and a harsh environment sometimes make it impossible for them to flower on their own. They can’t prune themselves. And you can’t prune yourself, dear.”
Sophia squatted and picked up a dead shoot on the ground, one that had been clipped away and tossed aside. “It seems so simple when you say it like that.”
Kathryn crouched next to her. “It is simple, but that doesn’t make it easy.” She placed a hand on Sophia’s shoulder. “But you came to inquire about a journal. And it’s your lucky day, because I have it.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Evelyn was my roommate at uni and we remained close for the rest of our lives. I was surprised when she left me all of her possessions—though there weren’t many—since she still had living relatives. But apparently she feared they’d not appreciate the items she was leaving behind. She asked me to protect a few family heirlooms in case Hugh ever changed his mind about embracing his past.”
“Would it be possible for me to see it?”
“Of course, dear. Give me some time to pull the journal out of storage and I’ll let you peruse it as soon as I can.”
“Oh, thank you. I promise I’ll be very careful with it.”
After a bit more chatting, Sophia went inside to eat breakfast, her conversation with Kathryn constantly on her mind, her fingers itching to hold the journal. When she returned to her room, something on the bed caught her attention. It was an archival box—she recognized it from the many episodes of Antiques Roadshow she’d watched in the long nights after David had died and she couldn’t sleep—and there was a note on top:
Sophia,
Here is the missing piece to your puzzle. I think you will find it to be even more awe-inspiring than you’ve imagined. I’m here if you have any questions, but I thought you’d like to read it alone first.
Hugs,
Kathryn
Sophia’s hands quivered as she set the note aside, sank onto the bed, and opened the lid of the box. And there it was, what she’d been looking for, the culmination of months of searching. The cover was bound in blue leather-backed stiff boards, and the word Journal was printed in small gold lettering at the bottom.
With care, Sophia opened the journal—and what she saw made tears spring to her eyes.
To see the pen strokes Emily made, to witness the story unfolding before her in a new way . . . It was more than Sophia could bear. She pored over the story she knew so well—but her heart pounded in her chest when she finished.
Because there was more to the story.
A single loose page, written in the same handwriting as the rest, had been stuck in the back of the journal. The tearing along the left side indicated it had been part of the journal once, but had come loose—or been ripped out.
Sophia leaned closer to make out the fading words:
I have always believed that everyone has a story to tell. Story is sprouting up all around us, if only we have eyes to see it. Story forms the fiber of our being, and story is what will remain when we are gone.
It is possible that no one will ever read my story—my real story. I plan to hide it away in the dusty attic of the parsonage, where boxes of unmarked memories have been left by former reverends and their families.
But stories do not need to be read by others to have power. We simply have to believe in their importance and trust that the One who wrote them had a reason for doing so.
We must embrace that story and remember that who we are is not defined by the ups and downs of our lives—the failures OR the successes. Nay, we are instead defined by Whose we are.
Upon writing this, I have left my position of governess and moved back to the uninhabited parsonage, which Edward’s family graciously allowed. Four of my manuscripts are published and I am working on another. Because of my promise to my former employers, I did not give my name as Emily Fairfax.
Instead, I built a new identity: Robert, after my father, and Appleton, my mother’s maiden name.
Today, I choose not to leave Emily Fairfax behind but to take her with me as I forge on through life, allowing my experiences and the Light within to shine ever brighter. For I am not the sum total of my experiences. I am much, much more because the Light has claimed me.
I started writing because I thought it would save me, but ultimately it is not our deeds that have such power. For we can never do enough with only our own strength or even the borrowed strength of other people. It is to another strength we must look, to first build and then to sustain us.
No. Way.
This couldn’t be real. Robert Appleton—the author who had meant so much to Sophia—was not only a woman as she’d grown to suspect, but was in fact Emily Fairfax, the woman whose personal story had taken up space in Sophia’s heart for so many months.
So many things coming together. Her life. Emily’s. Even Ginny’s—for there was something in this letter for her too. Sophia somehow knew it.
What had Kathryn written? Ah, there. Yes. This was the missing piece to her puzzle. Like Abigail, William’s professor friend, had said: “The picture on the puzzle might not even make sense until the last piece is popped into place. Then it will form a beautiful picture.”
All of this . . . It didn’t mean anything on its own. But the cumulative effect was something wondrous to behold, and it all added up to one thing: Moving forward and healing didn’t come from marching through life alone, determined to succeed with no help. And it didn’t come from wallowing in her shame. It didn’t even come from standing in her own strength.
It meant taking the hand of a Savior and letting him lead her, wherever that might be.
44
GINNY
The times she’d run before, at least Ginny had been moving toward something.
Now? She’d just spent an hour in the car, driving to meet Sophia after a night of fitful sleep. When she had slept, she’d dreamed of her parents standing on a platform over her head, looking down and laughing. Garrett and Samantha stood on another, ignoring her completely. And Steven was nowhere to be found.
Ginny pulled into the driveway of the B&B where Sophia was staying. Her friend had asked her to come, said she had something important to show her—and of course Ginny had agreed. Not only did she want to be there for Sophia, but she’d do just about anything right now to distract herself from the mess that was her life.
But as her car rolled down the bumpy drive lined with rhododendrons and trees, her breath caught at the sense of serenity that suddenly overcame her. It was as if she’d left the world behind when she’d turned from the main road onto this side one—entering an inner sanctum of calm like she’d never known before.
Finally, she reached the house. It looked like most other B&Bs she’d seen in the English countryside—a restored longhouse with a slanted black roof, stone outer walls, and charming white windows. The surrounding gardens and a bit of farmland stre
tched behind it. As she climbed from her car, clucking greeted her from the chicken coop off to the right.
“Ginny!”
She looked up to see Sophia emerging from the front door. Something about her seemed . . . lighter. She fairly bounced as she strode toward her.
When she reached Ginny, Sophia wrapped her in a long hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I have so much to tell you.”
Ginny let herself receive the embrace. “I have so much to tell you too.” She tried to find her normally sunny disposition, but right now it seemed lost forever.
Sophia cocked her head. “How about we stay overnight? Would William be able to man the store for you tomorrow?”
Ginny shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “I don’t know. I should really get back . . .” But why? What was the point, if Garrett was only going to take everything from her?
Man, she needed to snap out of this gloom and doom.
“Actually, sure.” She pasted on a smile. “I’m guessing he won’t mind. I don’t think he has class till the afternoon.”
“Great.” Sophia looped her arm through Ginny’s and led her inside, up the stairs, and into her room.
The adorable surroundings distracted Ginny momentarily, as did the task of texting William to find out his availability for tomorrow. She slid onto the bench seat under the window and stared out at the fields behind the house.
In the far distance, she could make out the horizon above the ocean. If she had a superhero’s vision, maybe she’d be able to see across the sea to her parents’ estate—the place of her birth, her first home. How much had that influenced who she was? How had being George and Mariah Bentley’s daughter driven the course of her life, landed her here? Was she supposed to return? Should she never have left?
Ginny let her forehead sink against the cold window.
“Hey.”
She looked up to find Sophia clutching something to her chest—a book of some sort. “Is that it? The journal?”
“It is.” Her friend sat at the opposite end of the bench. “But before we talk about it, what’s going on with you?”
“Garrett wants me to sell.” The story tumbled out, every agonizing detail. Ginny didn’t try to put a positive spin on it. She just let it out in all its messy detail. By the time she finished, her nose was stuffy and her eyes ached from spilling tears. “I thought I knew what I was supposed to do, who I was supposed to be. But turns out maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m just a Bentley no matter how far I run. I mean, my first instinct was to battle and destroy Garrett. Then my next was to run away. How can I want both of those things? Will I ever know who I am? Will I ever have a place in this world that’s really mine?” Ugh, she was so sick of herself and all her questions. She wouldn’t blame her friend if she was too.
“I’m sorry about Garrett. You’re a wonderful person and friend who doesn’t deserve anything she’s going through.” Sophia was quiet a long moment. “But I’m starting to believe there’s a reason for everything that happens. Others might call it fate or karma. But I think it’s God. He’s been directing our steps this whole time, Ginny. Even when we didn’t believe.”
Ginny pulled her knees into her chest and rested her chin on top. “I wouldn’t say I don’t believe in God. I guess I just never thought of him as being much more than some guy in the sky with the power to crush us if he wanted to.”
“I know what you mean. My mom raised me in church, but my own faith has wavered in the past few years. I thought I had to do everything on my own, but it turns out I don’t. I’ve slowly opened myself back up to that childlike faith I had once upon a time. And in doing that, I’ve figured out why Emily’s story inspires me so much, why I felt this burning need to know if she was real or not.”
Where was Sophia going with this? How would talking about any of this really help? “Why?”
“Because the woman I read about spent her life finding a huge chunk of her purpose, her everything, in Edward, the man she loved. But ultimately, when she couldn’t have him, Emily turned to God. And she was much happier for it.”
Her dad had always called religion a crutch, something weak people leaned on for support. But maybe it would give Ginny some perspective. “I’d like to read that story sometime.”
“Actually . . .” Sophia held up the book in her lap. “You should.” She handed her the journal.
Ginny took it in her hands, ran her fingertips over the leather board cover, fragile around the edges but surprisingly well preserved. “I feel like a bad friend. I should have read this before now, when you first found the notebook. I guess I just thought it was your thing and I didn’t want to interfere—plus I’ve just been so busy—but I should have read it to support you.”
“Don’t worry about that. I think you’re reading it exactly when you’re supposed to. There’s one entry in particular . . . I think it was meant for both of us.” Sophia stood. “I’m going to leave you for a bit, but I’m here if you need me.”
“Okay.”
As Sophia left the room, Ginny inhaled deeply and dove into Emily’s story. Though she wasn’t one for reading, she was sucked in immediately, sympathizing with Emily, drawing from her strength, crying with her over the way Edward rejected her—how well she knew that feeling—and wanting to slap Rosamond.
And then she reached the last page. She could barely breathe as she read the words written so long ago . . . but words that applied to her today.
We must embrace that story and remember that who we are is not defined by the ups and downs of our lives—the failures OR the successes. Nay, we are instead defined by Whose we are.
And then:
Today, I choose not to leave Emily Fairfax behind but to take her with me as I forge on through life, allowing my experiences and the Light within to shine ever brighter. For I am not the sum total of my experiences. I am much, much more because the Light has claimed me.
If this was true, then it didn’t matter that Ginny was a Bentley or a Rose or a failed daughter or a betrayed wife. She was all of those things and yet none of them—not at her core. She may not belong in Boston or even in her own bookstore, which she’d helped build from the ground up and had rescued when her husband abandoned it.
But God . . . if he’d really led her here, to this place of peace, and he’d really been with her through all of it, then maybe he saw her as more than the labels she’d given herself.
And maybe he was claiming her, like Emily said. Could it be she finally had found her place to belong?
Ginny placed her hand on the window and stared out toward the ocean once more. It was strong, powerful, overwhelming, immense. She’d always seen it as what divided her: the person she’d been on one side, and the person she wanted to be on the other.
Now, she saw. In a way, it was the thing that had brought her together.
45
SOPHIA
What a difference three months could make.
Sophia leaned against the strong trunk of the Story Tree at Elliott Manor, remembering the first time she’d read about this place in the lines of Emily’s story.
Then, she’d been paralyzed by her past, unsure of her future. Now, the past no longer had a hold on her. God did.
And as for her future, it was still unsure. But she was learning to be okay with that.
Well, most of the time. She still couldn’t help the nerves that tingled as she waited for William to show up. She and Ginny had stayed a couple of extra days with Kathryn and returned late last night, so she and William hadn’t spoken in four days. Not since he’d left her at Tintagel Cliffs—things tenuous and uncertain between them.
This morning, she’d texted him to see if he’d be willing to meet her. He’d said he would head over after his early morning class.
Clouds dotted the sky, but the sun peeked through occasionally. In the distance, seagulls cawed and circled above the waves. The wind rustled the pages of the story in her hand.
At last, his tall figure appea
red. William looked more handsome than ever in his slacks, button-up shirt, and sweater vest. He’d gotten a haircut too—the curly locks that had grown in during the summer months had been trimmed, giving him a more professorial, casual air.
He stole her breath.
“Hi.” The word was full of so much hope and equal parts defeat. Poor man. How her silence must have tortured him after he’d poured out his heart to her at the cliffs.
“William.” She longed to throw herself into his arms. “Thanks for coming.”
His jaw flexed and he nodded.
“I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“I thought we were going to talk about—”
“Please.” She held up the papers gripped in her hand. “After you left . . . I finally did it. I wrote my story. And I was hoping—praying, really—that you might take the time to read it. So whatever happens after this, at least you’ll understand me a little better.”
He hesitated for a moment, then without a word, he took the papers from her and rounded the other side of the tree. He sat, his legs spread out before him.
What if, after all this, she lost him? What if her silence in the face of his “I love you” had ruined it all?
No. What was that verse Kathryn had shown her yesterday? She pulled out her phone, looking at the note she’d pinned: “Live in me. Make your home in me just as I do in you. In the same way that a branch can’t bear grapes by itself but only by being joined to the vine, you can’t bear fruit unless you are joined with me.”
As long as she was being supported by the vine, she couldn’t ruin anything. God was in charge. Not her.
Sophia stuffed the phone away again and waited, staring at the lighthouse in the distance.
Finally, William stood and approached her. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “Sophia. I had no idea what you suffered. You told me, but . . . I just didn’t get it.”
The Secrets of Paper and Ink Page 27