by Camille Eide
Thank you for your interest in clinical genetic testing for Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy (HCM). Clinical genetic testing is provided for individuals to confirm a referring doctor’s diagnosis. We are accepting blood samples for clinical genetic testing and for our FHC (Familial Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy) Research Project. Please contact us with questions toll-free or by email.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Kerbs
Research Associate, OHSU
A research project was better than nothing. Emily read the message again before she typed a reply, telling Ms. Kerbs about her family’s connection with Freyer’s and how she would be willing to take part in whatever research her case qualified for.
After sending her that, she looked through the rest of her email, answered a few messages, and wrote a lengthy letter to Jaye, attempting to answer her multiple emails in one. Describing how Ian had taken her news made the memory fresh again, made her heart hurt.
Just as she prepared to close the server, she received a new message from OHSU.
Ms. Chapman,
The Project Director for the Freyer’s Syndrome Rare Disease Research Network is very interested in meeting with you. Our program is gravely lacking access to live case studies who can provide human biological material and clinical data necessary for biomarker identification and for clinical studies that would help advance the care of Freyer’s patients.
Dr. Hanes wants to schedule an appointment to discuss your participation. How soon can you come in?
Emily replied that she would be back in Oregon mid-August and could meet then. Ms. Kerbs wrote back immediately saying she would forward a packet of forms and questionnaires to complete before her visit.
For the first time in more than a week, a bit of her burden lifted.
Maybe they were working toward a cure. And even if there wasn’t a cure on the horizon, at least she had a chance to know more and to assist the study. Maybe she could volunteer for experimental treatments, if it would help the research.
Still feeling damp, she went to her bedroom and dug through her things, found a white, cotton sundress, and slipped it on. As she turned to head back downstairs, she caught a glimpse of herself in an oval freestanding mirror, one that hadn’t been there before.
Ian must have brought it up for her, of course.
She met her gaze in the mirror. Her hair had dried into curling tendrils after swimming. She twisted it up and secured it with a clip.
Claire was right. She should talk to Ian about Aunt Grace.
But could she handle seeing him? Maybe she should wait, take some time to collect her thoughts. Put that kiss behind her.
Good luck with that.
So how long would that take? Three weeks? Right. Three years wouldn’t be enough. The longer she waited, the harder it would be.
Taking a deep breath, she made a face at her reflection. “Quit making such a big deal out of this. It’s simple. Just talk to him.”
Emily headed downstairs. She would help Maggie clean up the picnic things while she collected her nerve.
But in the kitchen doorway, she stopped.
The old woman frowned at a gigantic bouquet in the middle of the kitchen table. A bouquet with an unmistakable scent. A bushel of honeysuckle blossoms and green leaves, stuffed into a metal bucket that could barely contain it all, spilled over in every direction.
“Well, lassie,” Maggie said. “I dinna ken how this came here. Do ye?”
Good question. The sweet fragrance filled the kitchen, stirring up a mixture of memories, emotions, and questions. A pretty solid theory had instantly formed in Emily’s mind, but it wasn’t one she wanted to discuss with Maggie. “Maybe one of your neighbors stopped by while we were out at the loch? Or the reverend?”
Maggie snorted. “Havers. Why would anyone go to the trouble of bringing it into the house when there’s loads of it up in the woods?”
So she knew about the hidden honeysuckle grove. Emily fingered a blossom, brought it to her nose. “Is that where you think this came from?”
“Aye. There’s a lovely, wee woodbine thicket up on the brae. But this didn’t march down and arrange itself on my kitchen table, now. Not without help.” She cocked her head to one side and peered into the bouquet like a mother probing for the truth in the eyes of a child.
The old woman obviously suspected someone. Emily shifted on her feet.
“No matter. It smells well enough. Smells just like ye.” Maggie shoved the picnic basket into a corner and took her apron down from a hook on the wall. “And yer letters.”
Wow, good nose. And good memory.
The day’s heat had collected and settled like a fog, low and dense, making wood-splitting a sweaty job. Ian peeled off his work shirt and hung it from a nail on a nearby post. He wiped his brow and continued bringing the axe down, splitting the dried rounds into smaller pieces.
How else could he persuade her to marry him? What did Emily want that he could appeal to? There had to be something. He’d gotten the idea for the flowers after everyone left for the loch. A dead-brilliant idea that was. As if a bucket of flowers could change her mind.
He stood another piece on the block.
A bit of movement crossed the corner of his eye.
Emily.
Coming toward him in a white dress that brought out the warm, sun-kissed look of her skin. A day of swimming with his nieces had been good for her, set her aglow. Her hair, glinting in the sun, was piled up in a pretty sort of knot, with a few curls falling loose along her cheek and neck.
Unable to breathe, Ian straightened, heart thumping. Had she changed her mind? Perhaps those flowers wielded more power than he’d given them credit for. “Hello, Emily,” he said, voice unsteady. He cleared his throat, brought the axe down hard, sinking the blade into the chopping block, and rested his hands on his hips.
Instead of answering, Emily drew in a sharp breath and stared at him wide-eyed, cheeks pink. She turned away and focused her attention on the ground.
“Did you want something?”
It could have been his imagination, but it seemed she went a few shades redder.
“Maybe later, when you’re not ... busy.” She turned to leave.
“No, wait. I’m not busy.”
She stopped. “Then would you mind ... um ...” She took a deep breath and frowned at her feet. “Could you please put your shirt on?”
Oh. “Sorry.” But as he turned and reached for his shirt, his thoughts raced.
No. It was for the sake of propriety that she asked. Of course.
Unless ...
His hand paused mid-reach. Remembering her agonized confession the night before, he savored the sudden rush, the dizzying awareness that seeing him work bare-chested had an effect on her.
You wanted to appeal to her, here’s your chance. Use this to your advantage.
Right. What kind of idiot would try to tempt a woman into marriage with bulging biceps and a sweaty, bare chest?
So it could work, then?
Only an idiot would ask. And even if it did, would you really stoop to doing it?
With a sigh, he lifted his shirt from the nail, slipped it on, buttoned it up, and turned round.
Emily’s eyes remained fixed on the ground.
Did she know that the color of her cheeks, still quite pink, was the loveliest color he’d ever seen? A sudden urge to kiss her seized him. He took a deep breath and forced his lips into a polite smile. “Better?”
Emily checked with a wee, sideways glance. “Thank you.”
“What’s on your mind?”
She cleared her throat and faced him. “What do you think about ... Maggie driving?”
Maggie? Ian frowned. You came out here to talk about Maggie? Looking like that? “What do I think?” He let out a sharp laugh. “I think not. Why?”
“She’s been talking about driving Aunt Grace around. They want to visit the place where they grew up. I don’t know if she would actually try it. I just thought you should know.�
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Ian reached in the pocket of his jeans, pulled out the truck key, and dangled it from his fingers.
She stared at the key, then up at him.
“I keep it on me always. A lesson learned the hard way. She’d have to ... well, she won’t get her hands on it, trust me.”
Emily went pink again. “Right.”
He slipped the key back in his pocket and waited. Dead cert Emily hadn’t come out here to talk about Maggie.
She swept a loose strand of hair from her forehead and took a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to Claire and thinking about Aunt Grace. I’m afraid there will come a time when she’ll need somewhere else to live. I’d like to know what you think about her relocating here. With you and Maggie.”
There will come a time. He waited for the sinking-heart feeling to hit bottom, giving the pang in his chest a moment to subside. “Does she want to live here?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t know about the disease. I’ve decided not to tell her yet. I know how much she’s wanted to come back. Now that she’s here with Maggie, she seems ... happy.” The last word sounded hollow.
“Grace is family. She’s always welcome here.”
Emily turned her attention to the house. “It means you’ll have not one but two old women needing supervision. Claire is willing to help—”
“She’ll be well-looked after, Emily. Don’t worry. I’ve given it plenty of thought. I’ve arranged to do all my freelance work from home now. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good. Thank you,” she whispered.
Tell her. “I’m here to stay, Emily. To take care of my family.” He stepped closer, willing her to look at him, to see into his heart. “And that includes you.”
A stunned look passed over her face, and she took a step back.
Ian drew a deep breath, held himself in check. “Wouldn’t you be happier here? Close to Grace?”
Emily shook her head. “I’ll be happy knowing she’s being cared for. I’m needed back home. I have a chance to help with an important clinical study of the disease.”
“What study? You mean a cure?”
She stood very still, eyes glistening. “There’s no cure. But there is a Freyer’s Syndrome research study in Portland, and they have no live cases of people with the disease. The director is eager to meet me as soon as I return. I don’t know what impact my participation will have, but I have to try. Maybe I can help bring some good from all the loss my family has suffered.”
Ian’s chest tightened. He forced himself to speak slowly, to loosen the desperation taking hold inside. “Perhaps there’s a way to help the study from here.”
She met his gaze and held it for one breathless moment. Then she shook her head and looked away, searching the wooded hills behind the house. “I also have the Juniper Ranch kids. They have no family except each other and the counselors. They need continuity. I’d like to help at least one kid feel wanted. I need to finish what I started. Just like you.” She drew a shuddering breath. “So there are a few significant things I can do with the time I have left. The kids and the study need me.”
But I need you. “You have a family right here who loves you and wants to take care of you when you need it. It makes perfect sense.”
“I can’t marry you. You know that.”
No, I don’t know that. “Then stay as Grace’s niece.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
She threw him a pleading look. “You know why,” she whispered.
Heart pounding, he stepped closer, his voice falling to a rumble. “Because you love me.”
Trembling, Emily stiffened and turned away. “I’m sorry, Ian. It would be best for everyone, including me, if I wasn’t here. The less we see of each other, the better.”
“But there must be something—”
She turned to him, pain filling her eyes. “Please, Ian, no more offers. No more notes or flowers.”
He took another step, but her hands flew up as if to ward him off.
“No more ... us.”
The words belted him like a sucker punch. Dazed, he just stood there staring long after she disappeared into the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday after church, Emily parked the old truck next to the house and stepped out. The day had turned out gray and damp. A thick, aimless mist had moved into the glen and seeped into everything it touched, including her. Dreich, Maggie had called it.
While Emily reached in to help Aunt Grace out of the truck, Maggie slammed the passenger door and stomped away. Attending church had done little to improve the old woman’s foul mood.
Grace moved slowly along the walkway to the house, and Emily hung close by her side, getting damper by the minute. But she was in no hurry to get inside and rejoin Maggie.
The old woman hadn’t said a word to Emily since she’d come knocking on her bedroom door earlier that morning with a message from Ian.
“Grace and I want to go to kirk,” the old woman had said. “Ian says he’s not going and ye can take us. He says ye know where the truck key is.” She just stood there with a hazy glare, her lips pressed hard and arms tightly folded. “My truck.”
Fabulous. Yes, Emily knew where the key was kept, meaning not only was she caught in the middle of a feud between the two MacLeans, but she had to see Ian to get it.
Two days had passed since she’d spoken to him out by the woodshed. It still pained her to remember what she’d said, but it had worked. She hadn’t seen any sign of him, no more flowers or notes. Then, when she’d gone to the cottage early this morning, Ian met her at the door with the key and a quiet warning about the clutch sticking in third gear, and nothing more.
Aunt Grace finally reached the house, and Emily helped her inside.
In the kitchen, Maggie slammed cupboard doors, muttering.
Grace shuffled over to get an apron from the wall but it was caught too high on the hook.
“Let me get that down for you, Aunt Grace,” Emily said.
Maggie spun around. “I’ll get it. She doesn’t need yer help and neither do I. Ye can go now. We dinna need ye.”
Emily pressed her lips tight as she watched the old woman stomp over to the wall and yank at the apron until it came down. Heat prickled up the back of her neck.
“Och, Maggie,” Grace said softly. “That’s no way to speak to the lass.”
Maggie chewed her lip in silence, scowling.
If that was how Maggie felt, fine. Emily wasn’t in the habit of arguing with blind, old women. She turned her attention to Grace and tried to think of an excuse for leaving that wouldn’t make Grace think Emily’s feelings were hurt.
Grace wrapped the apron around her waist, held it steady against her belly with her curled arm, tied it in a lumpy knot at one side, and inched it around until the apron hung in front. Then Grace turned to her sister. “Well?”
“Sorry,” Maggie said with a sniff and a nod in Emily’s direction. But the old woman made no effort to include her.
Emily stayed only so Aunt Grace wouldn’t worry.
As they prepared lunch, the sisters argued and corrected each other over stories of growing up and which seasonings to use and how hot the oven should be. As Maggie rolled bread dough into circles, Grace mixed meat together with onions and seasonings. Talking nonstop, she divided the mixture evenly among Maggie’s rolled-out rounds. Maggie folded each pastry over the filling and pinched the edges together. Grace placed them on a baking tray, then Maggie slid them into the oven and asked Grace why she hadn’t started the tea. Aunt Grace filled the teakettle and set it on the stove without missing a beat in her story about the old neighborhood.
They made leek soup to go with the meat pies, and to Emily’s surprise, lunch was delicious. Maggie was right—they hadn’t needed her at all.
After the meal, Aunt Grace went to take a nap.
Grumbling, Maggie puttered around the kitchen, filling and arranging dishes on a tray, then headed for
the front door.
Emily rushed to get ahead of her.
Maggie nudged her aside. “I can do it.” She balanced the tray on one arm and opened the door.
Emily held her tongue and waited until Maggie was outside. “Is that for Ian?”
“Who else?” the old woman retorted as she shuffled away with the tray that held enough food for a small family. “Though I’ll wager your plane ticket home the daft laddie’s fainted away or dead of hunger by now.”
A growing heaviness pressed on Emily’s heart. Being useless and confined produced a restless energy that consumed her. She needed to get out and spend it, regardless of the damp. She ran upstairs and changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and hiking boots, then headed out back.
The path Ian had used to take her to the honeysuckle grove led through beautifully rich, fragrant woods. Emily turned toward the hills and followed the trail up the brae to the line of trees where the sloped meadow ended and the woods began. The heavy air clung to her clothes and hair, but she didn’t care. A native Oregonian would never let a little drizzle slow her down.
Emily drew in deep breaths, letting the moist air fill her lungs. Anxiety and sorrow and dread had been building all week like a pressure cooker, and when it finally blew, the force sent her adrift.
She followed the trail up the hill and into deeper woods. It took about ten minutes to reach the cluster of trees that hid the enchanting honeysuckle grove where Ian had so eagerly taken her that first day.
The sooner you forget that day, the better.
Emily hiked past the grove without slowing.
At the top of the next hill, the trail leveled out. A lush valley in varying shades of green stretched out below for miles in every direction. Ahead, where the trail sloped down, it was veiled by a low blanket of fog. Something stood fixed in the middle of the otherwise undisturbed meadow, a building of some kind, but the fog was too thick to see what it was.
By the time she reached the valley floor, the mist had shifted enough for Emily to make out an old, stone church. Standing in the middle of nowhere, it seemed a natural, timeless part of the landscape, a ruddy anchor in a misty sea of green.