The Heart of Joy_A Short Story

by Vikki Kestell

  He smiled back, drinking in her face, her hair, her eyes. Her sweet mouth.

  Oh, thank you, Father! How I thank you!

  What he answered Joy was, “Has she eaten for you?”

  “I soaked the corner of a rag in sugar and milk, and she took right to it. She has eaten her fill three times today.”

  Joy led O’Dell into the parlor and closed the door behind them. Tea and cake were waiting on the little table between two chairs.

  “I played hooky from work today to be with her.” Joy gestured and O’Dell took a seat.

  Joy took the chair opposite him. “Mr. O’Dell, I want to thank you for this precious gift. It made me think back and remember . . . that it was you who gave Blackie to me, more than five years ago . . . when we were living in Corinth.”

  O’Dell nodded. “I am so sorry about Blackie, Miss Joy. I should have done more to save him.”

  Joy shook her head. “You did all anyone could have done, and more. You protected me, too. I-I apologize. It has been nearly two weeks and I never did thank you properly for putting yourself in harm’s way for Blackie. For me. I-I must make amends.”

  She swallowed. “I thank you.”

  O’Dell’s expression grew serious. “You must know, Miss Joy, that I would do anything—risk anything—to protect you.”

  Joy ducked her head. “Yes, I think I know that.”

  The conversation lapsed, and O’Dell shifted in his chair. “I see you have tea things laid out. I would volunteer to pour, but my left arm is still quite weak, and I might drop your cup. Would you like me to hold—have you given her a name?”

  Joy chuckled. “Yes, but it is not terribly original. Her name is Blackie. Our—I mean, my—third Blackie.”

  O’Dell laughed aloud, not intimidated by Joy’s oblique and unintentional reference to Grant. “Well, Blackie is easy to remember, is it not?”

  He held out his good arm and Joy transferred the sleeping bundle to him.

  “She feels nice,” he remarked. “Warm and plump.”

  “Oh, but she is so tiny! That must be her greedy belly you feel. It is as tight as a drum.” Joy poured tea for both of them, then took Blackie from O’Dell and resumed her seat.

  She stirred cream into her cup and sighed. “I hardly know where to begin. Where do we go from here, Mr. O’Dell?”

  He was silent for a moment. When he had sipped on his tea, he suggested, “Could you, that is, are you willing to express the objections you have toward me or concerning us, Miss Joy? I believe you have reservations and that they must weigh heavy upon your mind. I would like to hear you speak of them so that we can take them to the Lord. Together.”

  Joy sighed, now even more miserable.

  Take them to the Lord. Together.

  Why have I been unwilling to take my heart to you, Lord? I am so sorry.

  Joy nodded and lifted sad eyes to him. “I suppose I should first apologize for writing that terrible note to you. It was neither mature nor kind of me. It had to have . . . wounded you, and I am sorry.”

  O’Dell nodded. “It did hurt, but if we are to be honest with each other, you and I are bound to injure each other’s sensibilities from time to time, are we not? I want to be a godly man, one who is quick to forgive, swift to cover offenses with Christ’s love.”

  Joy blushed and looked down. “You are a younger Christian than I am, and yet your maturity shames me.”

  “Perhaps, but I care too deeply about you to allow unforgiveness to lodge in my heart. Ever.”

  Joy pondered what he said and was quiet for a while before she ventured, “You asked about my reservations.”

  “Yes, and please do not hold back. I desire truthfulness between us.”

  “Thank you. I-I, well . . .” Joy cast about, looking for the right words, knowing that she had to speak her mind, as distasteful as the idea might be. If they were to have a future together, she had to be truthful.

  “I-I suppose every woman hopes that the man she, um . . .”

  “The man she marries?”

  Joy sighed and nodded. “Yes, thank you. I suppose she hopes that the gentleman can afford a wife and a . . . family.”

  O’Dell nodded. “Of course.”

  Joy twisted the napkin in her hand. “I-I have an income from my shop, of course, but should we, er, be blessed with ch—”

  She could not say the word “children” and tried another tack. “I only bring this up because I accompanied Marshal Pounder to your rooms to retrieve your things when you were under our care.”

  That approach was no better, and Joy’s mouth turned as dry as dirt. She stopped and sipped her tea, but it did not seem to help. She could not bring herself to voice her suspicion that O’Dell was in no position, financially, to marry.

  O’Dell, for his part, was stumped. He fumbled in his mind to arrive at Joy’s meaning.

  I accompanied Marshal Pounder to your rooms.

  A vivid picture of his bleak furnishings flashed before his eyes—and, in a rush, her concerns became clear. He could not help it; he started to chuckle.

  And then laugh.

  Joy blushed red to the roots of her wheat-blonde hair. “Really,” she muttered. “I thought we had agreed to be frank. I did not comprehend that we would also be merry at each other’s expense.”

  O’Dell ran the back of his hand across his eyes. It came away damp, and still he could not quite be sober.

  “I do apologize, Joy.” But he was grinning.

  Joy. He called me Joy.

  It had been years since O’Dell had called her by her first name. As a friend and while Grant was alive, he had done so; later he had reverted to ‘Mrs. Michaels.’” As a suitor, he had been careful to address her as ‘Miss Joy.’

  The intimacy his change of address implied sent shivers through her.

  Then he reached across the little table. He took her hand in his. Joy shivered again.

  “My rooms are less than, er, homey, do you not agree?” O’Dell’s dark eyes danced. “When viewed from your perspective, my abode must have appeared well-nigh impoverished. So may I share a little secret with you?”

  Joy blinked and then nodded.

  “I care not how I live as a bachelor, but I do care how I provide for a wife. For three years, I have lived in simple, straitened circumstances so that I might, out of my quite-adequate salary, salt away all I could afford. When I take a bride, I hope to bring her to a house I have already paid for, a house she will be proud to make our home.”

  “You-you have been saving for a house?”

  O’Dell raised one brow. “Every spare nickel, dime, and dollar that has crossed my palm has gone into my savings account.”

  “Oh!” The news astounded Joy, and a warm, comfortable glow settled in the pit of her stomach.

  And then his words echoed back to her. For three years.

  He has been saving for three years? He has been saving to buy a house for us from the day Grant died?

  The realization turned the warmth in her stomach sour.

  O’Dell must have followed the direction of her thoughts as they flitted through her mind—and across her face. He flexed his jaw and, unwilling to let doubts and half-truths linger between them, chose to bring into the light the topic most painful to Joy.

  “May we speak of Grant, Joy? May we speak of your late husband and my dearest friend?”

  Joy looked away for a moment and then muttered, “I suppose. If we must.”

  O’Dell’s words were rough. Blunt. “Grant knew.”

  Joy shook her head once and frowned. “He knew . . . he knew what?”

  “He knew how I felt about you. All along, he knew.”

  “How you felt?” Her frown deepened. “How can you—”

  “Because he told me.”

  Joy ran her stiff, parched tongue over her lips. “I am not sure I comprehend.”

  “Then let me clarify so no doubt or uncertainty remains. Grant wrote to me and asked me to come to Denver for a vis
it. His request that I come was so insistent that I came at once. I had no knowledge of his illness until I arrived—the very morning your baby was born.

  “That afternoon, after you had delivered your son, Grant asked to speak privately with me. I have kept his confidence for three years, but now you must know what he said.”

  In quiet words, O’Dell repeated the one-sided conversation. Echoing in his memories, he could hear Grant’s voice—weak, yes, but strong in conviction.

  Grant had leaned toward him. “My friend, I don’t have many months left to me. Will you help me?”

  He had looked up, dreading what was coming. “Of course, Grant. Whatever it is.”

  And Grant had told him, “. . . because I am dying, Edmund O’Dell, my dearest friend, I must talk plainly: I know you once had feelings for Joy. Please do not protest. I knew this the first time I saw you look at her—while you still thought her a widow.

  “I do not mention this in condemnation! Rather, I say this to one of the most honorable men I have had the privilege of knowing. I have never feared you, Mr. O’Dell, because I know your worthy heart, just as I know that Joy’s heart belongs to me. No, you did not dishonor me, and I say this to your credit, realizing the struggle you endured.

  “Why did I write and ask you to come to Denver? Before it is too late, I wish you to make me a solemn promise, my friend. I wish you to promise me that when I am gone you will watch over Joy . . . In time, if it is God’s will and when Joy’s grief allows her to love again, I hope you will marry her . . .”

  O’Dell’s black Irish eyes moistened as he stared at Joy. “I tell you these things only because I desire you to be free, Joy. Free from guilt, free from the fear that you are betraying Grant. Free to live again. To be happy.”

  A single tear hung upon Joy’s lashes and threatened to trickle down her face, but she turned her gaze upon O’Dell. “He-he said all that? Truly?”

  Something, partly sorrow, partly release, flickered in her eyes.

  “I affirm to you, most solemnly, that he did.”

  Grant had said more, but O’Dell would share it with her at another juncture, in another place and time. This was not that place, and now was not that time.

  “Edmund, I wish you to promise me that when I am gone you will watch over Joy and our son. In time, if it is God’s will and when Joy’s grief allows her to love again, I hope you will marry her . . . and raise my son—my son to whom I gave your name.

  “I cannot think of any man I would wish to be a father to my son besides you! I say, “if it is God’s will,” because he will lead and guide you in this. I am content that, if you pray and follow his direction, all will be well.

  “I am asking a difficult thing of you, my friend, I know—but it is so strong in my heart, and I sense death closing in on me. I cannot let what time I have left slip away without speaking to you and asking for your sincere word.

  “Will you give me your word on this?”

  Instead, O’Dell spoke to Joy from the depths of his soul. “Grant knew he was dying, Joy, and he knew you could not mourn him forever. He recognized that you had many years still to live after he passed, and he loved you too much to wish that you should spend them alone.

  “And so I have waited. I have waited and watched. As these three long, slow years have slipped by us, I believe—and you must tell me if I am correct in my assumptions—that you have come to think on me with some fondness? With affection? Have you, Joy?”

  Joy nodded, just a little, and that single, errant tear dripped from her chin.

  O’Dell stood and maneuvered around the tea table to her side. He still held her hand in his.

  “Then I must tell you, I must declare to you, that no man alive loves you as I do, Joy. And no other man alive knows and understands your love for Grant and your grief over losing him and Edmund. No man alive can honor them as I have—and as I will.”

  He slipped to one knee, and clasped her hand to his chest. “I affirm my love for you. I wish to marry you and build a happy life with you. My darling, I wish to heal your grief-sick heart.

  “Joy Thoresen Michaels, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  O’Dell froze—immobile—as he awaited her answer, but his heart thrummed in hopeful anticipation.

  *

  Joy closed her eyes. The warmth and pressure of O’Dell’s hand upon hers was bliss. Even with her emotions tossing and swirling her about, she clung to his hand and rehearsed the words O’Dell had spoken concerning Grant’s wishes: “When Joy’s grief allows her to love again, I hope you will marry her.”

  Oh, Grant! You foresaw this day? That I would need to love again? I always knew you were a great man, a godly man, but your love and care for me in your dying hours blesses me still.

  And sets me free.

  *

  She opened her eyes. No more tears clouded her vision.

  “Yes, Edmund O’Dell. I will be your wife.”

  “I love you, Joy Thoresen Michaels.”

  She smiled. “I receive your love and offer you my own.”

  The smile on O’Dell’s face matched her own. He fumbled in the breast pocket of his suitcoat and drew out a circlet of gold sparkling with sapphires.

  Joy inhaled. “Oh!”

  “Joy, my beloved, will you accept this ring as the token of my intentions?”

  “I—oh, yes!”

  He lifted her hand and slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand.

  Joy stared, not at the ring glinting on her hand, but at the man whose love shone brighter than any token. “Oh, Edmund!”

  “May I kiss you, Joy?”

  Joy reddened and a slightly hysterical laugh burbled up in her chest. “Y-yes, but I-I have never . . . no one but Grant. Not ever.”

  “Then let us see how you like it, shall we?” O’Dell took her face in his good hand and leaned toward her.

  Joy closed her eyes and felt the warmth of his breath as his mouth neared hers.

  His lips were firm, tender.

  His kiss was wonderful. It—

  Something fuzzy prickled her upper lip and her nose. She giggled.

  O’Dell opened his eyes. Pulled back. Frowned.

  “Was it that terrible?”

  Joy grinned. “Not a bit! But your mustache—it tickles.”

  “Ah! Then let us try again. See if you could grow to like it.”

  He leaned in and kissed her again, a little firmer, a little longer.

  Joy sighed.

  Oh, I like it, all right.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 7

  Joy and O’Dell remained cloistered in the parlor for some time, talking and making plans. When they began to stir and think on the time, they were shocked to observe that the clock read 6:55. Dinner had commenced without them—and no one had knocked to call them to table. No one had disturbed them.

  “Do you think we should join them at this late juncture?” O’Dell asked. He had not released Joy’s hand, where it curled comfortably in his. Where he wanted it always.

  “I, well, I suppose we should . . .” Joy did not finish her thought.

  “You supposed we should what, my dear?”

  Joy liked how the ‘my dear’ O’Dell added to his question sounded. She liked it so much that she laughed a little.

  And he knew. He knew she liked it.

  “You are ‘my dear’ now, you know.” His dark eyes gleamed, and he leaned in to tease another kiss from her.

  When—breathless—they drew apart, he asked again. “What should we do, my Joy?”

  “Well, we should . . . we should tell them.”

  “I would be delighted to make the announcement, if you wish it. Do you wish it, Joy?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Yes, please.”

  “Very well.” O’Dell climbed to his feet and helped her to stand. He tucked her hand into the crook of his bandaged arm, and they made their way to the dining room.

  As Joy and O’Dell entered the dining
room, the eyes of the diners turned toward them. No one spoke, but hope and bright anticipation hung in the expressions of those seated.

  O’Dell cleared his throat. “I should apologize to each of you for our tardiness to the dinner table. However, in lieu of an apology that, I confess, would be most insincere, I should prefer to make a happy announcement to all of you, our dearest friends and family.

  “Just this evening, I have made Joy an offer of marriage,” O’Dell turned his face toward Joy’s and grinned, “and she . . . has accepted my proposal.”

  Happy pandemonium erupted in the dining room. No one cared about dinner any longer—with the exception of Will and Charley, who were awaiting dessert and could not be bothered with tedious “announcements”—not when chocolate cake was on the near horizon.

  Rose hugged Joy first. “Oh, my darling daughter. I am so happy for you!”

  She then embraced O’Dell. “I shall be glad to call you my son,” she whispered in his ear, “and I hope you will feel you can call me Mother.”

  O’Dell’s eyes filled with moisture. He choked a little as he replied, “I had hoped to gain a wife. I had not dared to dream that I would gain a mother, too.”

  Rose placed a hand on his rough cheek. “From this day, you are my son.”

  O’Dell placed a kiss in her palm. “How I thank you, Miss Rose. Mother.”

  ~*~

  O’Dell arrived at Palmer House after dinner the following evening. Joy, O’Dell, and Rose put their heads together to select a date and begin plans for the wedding.

  “We were thinking of January,” Joy said, “perhaps immediately following Christmas. A Sunday afternoon.”

  Rose retrieved a calendar from the wall by her desk. “Christmas is on a Friday this year and New Year’s is the following Friday.”

  Joy’s finger traced the dates and then she looked to O’Dell. “The first Sunday of the new year is January 3.”

  He nodded. “Since I cannot talk you into marrying me this coming Sunday, that date meets with my approval.”

  Joy and Rose laughed. Then Joy whispered, “January 3, then?”

  O’Dell nodded. “Yes. In all practicality, I wish to have a home for us before we marry. A January date will give me just a bit more than six months to find, purchase, and furnish one. I will begin looking for a suitable house immediately. Of course, I would like you to assist me in making the selection, Joy.”