The Heart of Joy_A Short Story

by Vikki Kestell

  “No? What else is there to do? She asked me to respect her wishes. I will not bully her. Not ever.”

  “What else is there to do, Edmund? Why, we should do what God commands us to do when confronted with difficulties, even impossibilities. We should pray. You should pray, Edmund. Do you believe our great God wishes you and Joy to marry? Then you should ask wisdom of the Lord, who is gracious to all who approach him, and he will direct your steps.”

  O’Dell held his injured arm and pondered Rose’s advice.

  Yes, I should pray, he thought. Perhaps the Lord will show me how to break down the wall of fear in Joy’s heart.

  “I believe I should go home today,” he told Rose. “Although it will take some time before my arm is fully functional, I must get back to my work.”

  He snorted a little laugh. “My only difficulty will be dressing the wounds with one hand.”

  Rose nodded. “If you would care to stop by each morning, I would be happy to see to your dressings for you.”

  “You have been most kind to me, Mrs. Thoresen.”

  “No, Edmund, you have been kind to us, to me, in particular. I wish to thank you for protecting my daughter—my only surviving child—from the animal that mauled you. I know you would have saved Blackie, too, if you could have.”

  She took his good hand in hers. “Will you call me Rose, Edmund?”

  He stared into her face, seeing there the acceptance he sought from Joy. “You approve of my suit?”

  “Yes, with all my heart. And I beg of you not to give up hope, despite the letter Joy has written to you. I know she has feelings for you.”

  “I had hoped she had.”

  “Do seek the Lord—and be patient a little longer? She is still sorting things out.”

  ~*~

  “He has gone home?” Joy had spent so much energy avoiding O’Dell that she found herself nonplussed at Rose’s matter-of-fact announcement.

  “Yes. Dr. Murphy believes the danger of infection to be past, and Mr. O’Dell feels he can manage on his own. He will come each morning for me to change the dressings.”

  Rose studied Joy for a moment. Her daughter’s expression was a mixture of relief and disappointment, resolve and longing.

  “Have you given up Mr. O’Dell, then, Joy?”

  Joy’s chin dropped. “I-I, yes. I have.”

  “And you have done so because you fear for him?”

  Joy frowned. “I suppose that is one way of looking at it.”

  “So you, a child of The Most High God, now take your guidance from your fears? Has God instructed us to live in fear, to give fear a place in our lives, to be led by our fears?”

  Joy shifted on her feet, disturbed by the direction of the conversation. “Well, no, of course not, but—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Joy. Is fear from God or of God? Is confusion? What does Scripture tell us? Are we to be ordered, counseled, or guided by our fears?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. No. We are, rather, commanded not to fear—that is, not to allow fear to rule us. We are to obey God, even in the face of our fears. I suggest that you pray past your fears, Joy—past their hold upon you.

  “I would add that if you aspire to live a life free from the risk of loss, then you will be lonely and fearful all your days. Life is fraught with risk. As Christians, we are not to live our lives doing all we can to avoid the possibility of heartache. We are to face our fears and stand strong in the love and hope of God.”

  Rose reached out and lifted Joy’s chin. “And I think you should consider something else, my dear daughter. I think you should stop and imagine your life without Mr. O’Dell. Consider what it will be like if you turn down Mr. O’Dell and he goes away, never to return. Just for a moment, think of your life without him, a future in which he does not figure.”

  Joy did not want to. She knew she could not bear to look there—for a vast, gaping void stretched out before her—an aching emptiness that had nothing to do with her love for Grant or his absence.

  Something inside of her clenched at the idea of never seeing O’Dell again, and she could not answer her mother.

  “Edmund O’Dell loves you, Joy. You have a long life still ahead of you, so I must bring to your remembrance something else.”

  Joy licked her lips and whispered, “What is it, Mama?”

  “Your father’s last words to you.”

  Rose did not need to rehearse them to Joy. Her father’s words were burned upon Joy’s heart, and she could hear his voice as he struggled to pronounce his dying blessing upon her.

  In her mind’s eye, Joy saw her papa’s figure under the covers, so still, so much smaller than was right, not at all like the man upon whose shoulders she had ridden as a child. Joy had sat on a chair beside her father’s deathbed and held his hand in her own.

  “Papa? Papa, it’s Joy. I’m here, Papa!” she had called to him.

  She had felt a gentle pressure and, as she lifted her face, had seen his eyes searching for her. She had stood and leaned over so he could see her.

  “Here I am, Papa.”

  “My . . . my Joy Again.”

  Rose and Jan had named her “Joy Again.” She was their joy after sorrow, their happiness after so much loss.

  In her memory, Joy called out to her father. “Yes, Papa!”

  “Joy, my Joy . . . I b-bless . . . I bless you and . . . your chil . . .dren . . . my daugh . . . ter.”

  He had struggled to take another breath.

  “Your chil . . . dren. The Lord will . . . give you”

  Jan had blessed his daughter, her and her children. And yet, through the years of her marriage to Grant, Joy had been childless, unable to conceive. At the time of Jan’s death, Joy had been living in Corinth, not far from Denver. The year prior, Grant’s ship had gone down in the Atlantic, with all hands lost, and Joy was living as a widow.

  I could not give credence to Papa’s blessing when I heard it, Joy thought. I had no husband, and God had not blessed us with children.

  But then—oh! such great rejoicing!—Grant had returned from a watery grave. His memories had been seared by fever and one arm made useless from floating in the sea while tangled in a life preserver. But he had returned to Joy.

  Not long afterwards, Joy had become pregnant with baby Edmund. During her pregnancy, Joy had turned Jan’s blessing over in her heart and begun to believe that more children were coming.

  Until Edmund was taken.

  Until Grant’s damaged heart gave out.

  “Joy?”

  “Yes, Mama.” Joy’s answer was automatic.

  “God is not bound by time, place, or circumstance as we are. His promises are sure.”

  Joy blinked and allowed Rose’s words to tumble about in her mind.

  ~*~

  O’Dell stared around his plain, sparsely furnished rooms, the conversation with Rose Thoresen fresh in his mind.

  What else is there to do, Edmund? Why, we should do what God commands us to do when confronted with difficulties, even impossibilities. We should pray. You should pray, Edmund. Do you believe our great God wishes you and Joy to marry? Then you should ask wisdom of the Lord, who is gracious to all who approach him, and he will direct your steps.

  He dropped to his knees in front of a chair and bent his head. “Lord,” he whispered, “you know my heart. You know that I desire Joy, that I wish to marry her. I cannot believe that the love I have for her is wrong, that you do not bless my feelings for her, because she has made me a better man, Lord. It was the testimony of her life that first pricked at my hard heart and made me reconsider my godless state.

  “But you also know what is best for me—and for her. If Joy is not your plan for me, I am willing, Lord God, to follow your direction for my life. And if I am not your plan for her life . . . well, Lord, I desire only your best for her. I care more for her spiritual and eternal condition than my own selfish, temporal happiness.

  “So, if I am to put her aside, if that is your will,
I submit to it. Please speak to me, so that I will know your direction.”

  His voice rasped. “But if your plan for me includes Joy, will you show me what I am to do?”

  The recent memory of Joy, sitting in the dust and dirt of the hiking trail, intruded. She was weeping and hugging Blackie’s body to herself, her dress smeared with Blackie’s lifeblood.

  O’Dell shook his head. How she loved that dog and will grieve for him.

  His wounded arm itched. He cradled the arm on his lap and resisted the temptation to rub or scratch the itch that tickled and tingled within the swaddling of bandages. The more he resisted, the more it begged to be scratched.

  His thoughts wandered back several years, to the six months he had spent in Corinth posing as a British gentleman of ease. In this guise, O’Dell had arrived in the mountains above Denver, supposedly for hunting sport. In reality, he had been the Pinkerton Agency’s crack Missing Persons Investigator—and he had come to Colorado to locate and retrieve a number of women missing from back east.

  His hunt for the predators who betrayed the trust of innocent girls and women had landed him in Corinth. Quite by chance, he had taken a room at Corinth Mountain Lodge—the lodge Joy owned. When O’Dell and Joy had discovered that their missions intersected, they joined forces to put an end to the traffickers and their schemes.

  In absentminded response, he rubbed at the spot on his arm that itched. It did no good. In fact, the itching began to travel.

  “Confound it!” he muttered. He tugged his thoughts away from the aggravating tickle, back to Corinth, where something different niggled in his mind.

  He was standing outside the tiny Corinth grocery store—but he was not alone. Joy was on his arm—Joy, the widowed Miss Thoresen—for Grant was still presumed dead. They stepped into the shop. A box of puppies whined and fussed behind the grocer’s counter.

  “My Bessie gave me a new litter of pups a few weeks back,” the grocer informed them. “Would you like to see?”

  Joy crossed behind the counter and looked under it. In a wooden crate, a black dog with a single white patch at her throat nursed six chubby puppies.

  “Pick one up if you like,” Mr. Marsh said.

  She stooped, and when she stood, she was holding a black ball of curling fur.

  “Aren’t you beautiful?” Joy had crooned.

  O’Dell had known at that exact moment that he loved Joy.

  He was certain his arm was on fire.

  Stifling an oath, he jumped to his feet and paced while, as much as he could bear, he rubbed the flat of his palm across the itching and tingling of his many stitches.

  The picture of Joy with the puppy snuggled at her neck persisted. As he stared into it, weeks flew by in his memory. Then . . .

  He was sitting within the lodge’s pantry, a slatted wood box at his feet. The box trembled and emitted a quivering little whine. It had gone against his grain to let the puppy cry, but O’Dell had wanted—had needed—for Joy to hear the puppy’s whimpers and come to investigate.

  And she had.

  She had thrown open the pantry door and taken in the strange scene: O’Dell lounging upon a straight-back chair beside a box containing a few odd rags . . . and a pudgy, black pup with a white ruff.

  He had tipped his derby down over one eye and drawled, “I’ve been sitting here ever so long, Miss Thoresen. I believe the little guy is getting hungry. And the fact is, I detest dog hair.”

  He had added in a dry tone, “Particularly on this suit.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was remiss,” he’d replied.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Not at all—I am asking your pardon. I completely neglected to give you your Christmas gift.”

  “My what?” Joy had stared at the whimpering puppy with unveiled longing.

  O’Dell had stood and flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his sleeve. “Merry Christmas, Miss Thoresen, albeit two months late.”

  O’Dell stopped scratching at his arm. “Why . . . why, that’s it.”

  He grabbed for his hat and raced from the room.

  I thank you, Father, for answered prayer.

  “Now, Lord, if you will direct me where to look . . .”

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 6

  The final battle of O’Dell’s war to win Joy’s heart commenced a week later.

  It had been ten days since Joy had written the note to O’Dell. During the ten days following, Joy’s moods had alternated between defensive and morose, had vacillated between short-tempered and weepy. On any given day or at any moment, the collective souls residing under Palmer House’s roof could never guess which Joy to expect—nor could they anticipate her reaction to the box she found sitting on her chair at breakfast that morning.

  And since they could not prepare for that which they could not anticipate, the residents of Palmer House awaited Joy’s arrival at breakfast with some trepidation.

  Joy eyed the box on her chair.

  “What is this?” she demanded through pursed lips.

  Rose, who continued to butter her toast, murmured, “It is addressed to you, so I am certain we cannot tell you.”

  Joy sniffed. “Well, from where did it come?” Her frown signaled suspicion. Distrust.

  “I believe Mr. O’Dell delivered it this morning.”

  Joy heaved a sigh. A long, dreary day loomed before her, and she did not appreciate the drama with which it was beginning.

  Is this not so like Edmund O’Dell? she fumed within herself. I should have known he would disregard my wishes. Now, if I hope to have my breakfast before catching the trolley to my shop, I must take precious time to dispose of this box and its contents—while everyone here enjoys a good laugh at my expense.

  Joy glared around the table, but no one met her accusing gaze. Billy, Marit, and Rose managed to keep their faces toward their plates.

  Well! Mama must have cautioned one and all to mind their own business—the girls in particular. They are so everlastingly nosy!

  Indeed, the girls said nothing as they slanted their eyes anywhere but in Joy’s direction.

  That is, they said nothing, but they frowned, they sighed, they grimaced, they bit their tongues, and they squirmed in their seats—but they managed (at least verbally) to curb their burning curiosity.

  Mr. Wheatley, however, seemed under no such restriction. And so, while his companions at table were mute, he beamed in Joy’s direction and pronounced, “You sure do get a lot of pretties from that Mr. O’Dell. Mighty nice young feller, he is. Good checker player, too. Say, you going to open your present?”

  His last word snagged six-year-old Will’s attention. “Who got a present? Can I see? Are you going to open it? Please?”

  And that, of course, set off his little brother Charley. “Present! Present!” he hollered, clapping his hands at the same time.

  Joy tossed her head. “I most certainly will not open this-this-this—whatever it is. The table is neither the appropriate time nor place.”

  Her announcement drew an immediate and universal growl of dissatisfaction from the breakfast crowd.

  “Aw, nuts!” Will flounced back in his chair and pouted.

  His father frowned and chastised him. “Why, William Evans! You will mind your manners, young man.”

  Uncertain about what was happening—but certain about gifts of any kind, Charley pounded his spoon on the table with enthusiasm. “I wanna present! I wanna present! Present! Present!”

  “She ain’t gonna open her stupid old present, Charley,” Will grumbled. He glanced at his dad and lapsed into sullen silence, but he cut his eyes toward Joy.

  The scowl Will slanted toward Joy disconcerted her. At the same moment, she caught Olive crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue in Joy’s general direction.

  Joy’s face reddened, and she exploded. “Fine! That is the last straw. I will neither entertain nor reward such a lapse in manners and common civility. Directly into the t
rash it goes.”

  She swept the box from her chair and into her arms—and stopped cold when the box’s contents shifted.

  Skidded.

  Thudded.

  Whined.

  “No . . .” Joy plopped, rather than sat, into her chair with the box on her lap. She swallowed hard before she prized open the box’s flaps and stared at the ball of fur cowering in one corner.

  The black-and-white puppy was, perhaps, too young to be separated from its mother. She shivered and quaked and uttered a piteous whimper.

  The raw, hard, fearful spot in Joy’s heart melted. With tears shimmering on her lashes, she scooped up the tiny bundle and clasped it to her breast. The puppy quivered and yipped.

  “Shhhhh, little one,” Joy cooed. “It is all right. It is all right.”

  The box also contained a single sheet of stationery, folded and pasted to the box’s inside wall. Joy unfolded the note and, through her tears, read,

  Dearest Miss Joy,

  I pray this little orphan finds a home in your heart. Her mother was crushed under a wagon’s wheel, so she is alone in the world.

  She is tiny but beautiful, is she not?

  I am yours forever,

  Edmund O’Dell

  ~*~

  “Phone call for you, O’Dell,” one of the agents called from the front of the Pinkerton office.

  O’Dell sauntered to the phone mounted on the hallway wall and lifted the bell-like receiver. “O’Dell here.”

  Joy’s voice stuttered and cracked over the wires. “G-good morning, Mr. O’Dell? Th-this is Joy Michaels calling. Could we, that is, would you care to c-call upon me this afternoon? And stay for dinner?”

  Hope bloomed in O’Dell’s chest, a flower unfurling to the light. “Yes, I would. Very much so.”

  ~*~

  Joy answered the door herself, the diminutive scrap of a dog swaddled in flannel and tucked into the crook of her arm. The pup’s eyes were creased in deep slumber.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Dell.” Joy’s greeting was timid, her smile tenuous.