Cardiff’s breath left him. He stared at the name. No. It couldn’t be.
“Signed who?”
Cardiff’s throat was dry, and he suffered a ragged swallow before answering. “Signed Zona Evans.”
“Zona. What an interesting name.”
Cardiff, who could endure the sight of wounds that would make most people faint, felt his legs lose their strength. He fell onto a chair just in time.
“Is something wrong?”
He stared at the letter, uncomprehending. She’s in Decatur. She’s unmarried.
“Dr. Kensington? Are you ill?”
It was Mother Breston. Cardiff couldn’t answer her with words. Instead, he thrust the letter toward her.
She read it silently then exclaimed, “Zona! Is this your Zona?”
He could only nod and was appalled to feel tears threaten.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Is Evans her maiden name?”
He nodded again.
“So she’s unmarried and lives in Decatur.”
Cardiff finally summoned the words that sped through his mind. “God did it. He brought us together.”
“Not yet He hasn’t. You need to go to her. Immediately.”
When Cardiff stood, he nearly toppled the chair. “I need to go to her.”
Mother Breston took his arm. “Yes, you do.”
He looked around at the other soldiers and Dr. Phillips. They were all looking at him. Had they overheard?
By their grins, he knew they had. “Go on, Doc. Go see your girl.”
A chorus of support filled the ward.
Dr. Phillips waved him off. “We’ll handle things while you’re away.”
Mother Breston put her hands on her hips. “What more prodding do you need?”
None. He kissed her cheek and left to the accompaniment of applause.
After a quick stop at the boardinghouse, Cardiff was on a train heading south. Although the train was full, he gladly sat next to a man who dozed, allowing him time to process his thoughts.
He was on his way to see Zona!
The concept was almost too much to grasp. He looked at the snowy landscape rushing by and suddenly his thoughts grabbed on to the memory of another southbound train, heading to war, leaving Zona behind.
When the war with Mexico had proved to be less of an adventure than a horror, and after receiving no replies to the letters he sent to Zona, Cardiff had forced himself to set her on a mental shelf, a charming thing of beauty to gaze at fondly as a reminder of a long-lost time. Year after year, he’d moved her to a higher shelf, until she was finally out of reach and rarely noticed.
Until recently, when her name and image vied for his attention. He’d fought moving her to a lower shelf again, making excuses, wary about letting their shared past invade his present.
Yet he hadn’t simply heard Zona’s name once but had thought of her many times: the couple saying their good-byes on the train platform back in St. Louis; the soldier writing to his wife, Rhona; Cardiff writing his own letters and thinking about the ones he’d sent to Zona; finding her family home and hearing her history; two women telling him it was never too late for love. Then finally discovering that she lived in Decatur—and was unmarried. He sighed deeply at these stepping-stones, leading him toward this train headed south.
The man next to him awakened. “Forgive me. Was I snoring?”
“Not to worry. My mind has been elsewhere.”
The man sat up straighter, shuffled his shoulders, then studied Cardiff, making him feel uncomfortable for the scrutiny.
“Excuse me?” Cardiff said.
“Who is she?”
“Pardon?”
“The woman who’s fully captured your attention.” He made a curlicue near Cardiff’s eyes. “You’re looking at me but not looking. And you’re smiling.”
The man’s observations were disconcerting. “You are very perceptive.”
“So I’ve been told. Now, out with it. Tell me all about her.”
Although Cardiff was not one to confide easily, he told the man everything.
“Sounds like the Almighty has you where He wants you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“God did the same for me and my dearly departed wife. He led us step-by-step, closer together, and thankfully neither one of us were stubborn enough to tell Him no.” He took out his pocket watch then placed it back in his vest pocket. “When everything seems to be pointing you in a certain direction, it is not a coincidence. It’s God. ‘For God speaketh once, yea twice, yet man perceiveth it not.’”
“You’re implying God has been speaking to me?”
The man shrugged. “You have a better explanation?”
Cardiff glanced out the window then back at his seatmate. “Actually, no, I don’t.”
“There you are. On a journey that He has set in place, bringing you and your Zona back together.”
The notion that God was behind all that had happened was inspiring, and humbling. He thought of the prayer said in Mrs. Driscoll’s parlor. “But what if Zona rejects me? Tit for tat.”
“That’s where faith comes in, my friend. Since you’ve come this far—and you could have ignored each and every nudge—I have to believe God has been working on Zona’s heart, too.”
Cardiff felt his demeanor soften as his muscles let go of the tension that had followed him onto the train. “I pray you’re right.”
“I will also pray. It’s never too late for love.”
Cardiff couldn’t deny that hearing the same phrase for the third time was not a coincidence. And so he followed the man’s lead, bowed his head, and surrendered the upcoming meeting to God.
“De-ca-tur!” yelled the train’s conductor.
Although Cardiff was confident everything would work out, he suffered a tinge of disappointment that God hadn’t arranged for Zona to be on the platform, waiting for him. That’s how I would have handled things if I were God.
Just to make sure, he scrutinized each and every person who milled around the depot. But then he realized that the Zona he was seeking would not be a nineteen-year-old girl but a mature woman. Upon making that realization, he had to acknowledge that he was no longer a twentysomething boy, either, but a well-worn man of thirty-six. Although the hair on his head wasn’t gray, his beard had recently betrayed him by adding some salt to its pepper.
They had both endured the effects of fifteen years apart. He was still slim, but he knew his shoulders had slumped forward, and his gait had slowed, adjusting itself to life with a bum leg and a cane. Would Zona look similar to the girl he’d left behind? Or had she grown plump with age? Did her red hair reveal a stray strand of gray?
It is what it is, and we are what we are.
Cardiff saw a sign for the Depot Hotel and Restaurant. Perhaps someone inside would know where Zona lived. And food would be good. He hadn’t realized that he’d missed breakfast until he’d boarded the train, and even then, with the dance of his stomach mimicking the rocking of the railcars, he knew an empty stomach was better than a full one.
Upon entering the restaurant area off the main lobby, he was greeted by a woman who smoothed a tablecloth. “Good afternoon, sir. Would you care to dine? We’re smack dab in between the midday and evening meal, but I’m sure we could accommodate you.”
“That would be nice.”
The woman handed him the menu then said, “My name is Mrs. Slade, the proprietor of this restaurant. My son Matthew runs the hotel. Will you be needing a room?”
“I believe I will.”
“And you are?”
“Dr. Kensington. I work at the army hospital in Chicago.”
The woman smoothed the cloth again. “Do you receive the wounded that come through here on the hospital train?”
“I believe so.”
“It comes through everyday. I’m sure they would appreciate any care you could give them while you’re here.”
The next moment was awkward. “Actually,
I’m here on personal business.”
Mrs. Slade’s left eyebrow rose.
“I could use your help. My friend’s name is Zona Evans, and—”
“The musical director for productions at the Decatur Auditorium?”
“I’m not sure.” Though Zona had been musical. “Certainly there aren’t two women bearing her name. Could you give me her address?”
Mrs. Slade released the tablecloth to itself. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing such a thing,” she said. “Here in Decatur we are protective of our womenfolk—especially those who are unmarried.”
Cardiff’s stomach danced at the final affirmation that Zona was single. “I assure you, I mean no harm.”
“That’s all well and good,” Mrs. Slade said. “But I must stand firm on this.”
Cardiff felt the life drain out of him. God or no God. Plan or no plan. If Cardiff couldn’t find out where Zona lived, then it was all for nothing.
“Actually,” she said, her voice softening, “I do believe there is another way you can see her.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s due to come to the depot for the hospital train at half past five. She directs a small group of carolers who entertain the soldiers.”
Cardiff looked at the large clock on the wall of the restaurant. It was already half past three. “I will wait, then.”
“As soon as you eat, come to the front desk and check into a room. Until then …” She motioned to a waitress. “Miss Wallace will be happy to take your food order.”
Cardiff was glad for the bowl of soup and some bread, though he was unable to imagine eating more substantial fare. Then he checked into his room and found that its window overlooked the platform. It was perfect. He pulled a chair close and settled in to wait.
Zona was coming!
Cardiff’s chin fell off his hand, and he was jerked awake. It took him a moment to realize he was seated at the hotel window in Decatur, his elbow on the sill, waiting for Zona.
The depot was abuzz with dozens of ladies carrying baskets, waiting for the train. And then he saw Zona, marching a small contingent to the edge of the platform.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her—he didn’t dare. He pressed a hand to his mouth, covering a gasp and a smile. The image in his mind melded with the image before him. Although he was too far away to see strong details, and though the evening was upon them because of the shortened December days, the gas lights of the depot allowed him to see the essence of her, which hadn’t changed. He recognized her strong gait. Zona had never been one to glide from place to place with her skirts gently offering a charming ding-dong to her sashay. Zona captured the ground beneath her as if it was hers to claim.
The way she directed the singers to their places, moving each an inch here or there, made him laugh. Her ability to dictate and achieve her own well-imagined plan was very familiar.
Even the way she shuffled her shoulders to adjust the flow of her cape brought back memories, with the voice of Zona’s mother admonishing her to “Be still, girl.”
As a whistle announced the arrival of the train, the singers began their first song.
“‘Joy to the world, the Lord is come …’”
Cardiff absorbed the moment, mesmerized by the music and the familiar combination of his Zona and song.
Then, with thanks to the Almighty on his lips, he retrieved his coat and hat.
It was time.
“‘O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant…’”
There was too much soprano, and Zona glanced at Mrs. Miller, giving her a small signal to sing softer.
As they started the second verse Zona heard another voice join them. A man’s rich baritone. “‘Sing choirs of angels, sing in exaltation …’”
She drew in a breath and held it. No. It couldn’t be.
She scanned the crowd, looking for the singer.
And there he was, walking toward her. Time stopped, then began again in slow motion.
Cardiff stepped into place beside Mr. Pearson and continued singing the song. His smile made her skin tingle and her legs weaken. Her heart beat double time, making it impossible for her arms to conduct another note.
The rest of the quintet leaned forward to check out the newcomer in their ranks then looked back at Zona. She felt their gaze. She felt their questions. She had plenty of her own. How had this happened? How had Cardiff found her? Why was God giving her this blessing after she’d behaved so badly?
Although she assumed the carol was sung to the end, she didn’t hear it.
But with the music stilled, she stepped toward Cardiff and looked up at his face for the first time in fifteen years. His soft eyes, his strong jaw, his glorious smile. “Is it really you?” she whispered.
He put a hand upon her cheek. “It’s really me, my love. I’ve come to finally claim you as my own, for now and for always.”
With an expulsion of breath, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face into the wool of his coat. Its roughness and the solidity of his body against hers confirmed the truth. “You’re here. You’re actually here.” And I’m never going to let you go.
He held her close, and they found a rhythm from their past, two hearts beating as one.
A multitude of eyes watched the happy couple, yet Zona was only partially aware of their murmurs and stares. Her world had grown very small, the miracle keeping the rest of the world at bay.
“Thank You, God,” she whispered into Cardiff’s chest. The simple words did little to convey the extent of her awe and gratitude.
Cardiff lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “I thank Him, too, my dear. Merry Christmas, darling.”
As they kissed, the years of separation melted away and were replaced by the endless melody of their love.
About the Author
Nancy Moser is an award-winning author of over twenty novels that share a common message: we each have a unique purpose—the trick is to find out what it is. Her genres include contemporary and historical novels including Love of the Summerfields, Mozart’s Sister, and the Christy Award–winning Time Lottery. She is a fan of anything antique—humans included. www.nancymoser.com.
A Basket Brigade Christmas
Recipe Collection
From Stephanie Grace Whitson, A Stitch in Time:
This novella collection was inspired by a visit to an exhibit at the Illinois State Museum, where I learned about the Basket Brigade and in subsequent research “met” Jane Martin Johns, author of a fascinating memoir about daily life in Decatur, Illinois, before and during the Civil War. The memoir mentions a “tall gentleman” who threw off “a big gray Scotch shawl” and helped move Mrs. Johns’s new piano out of a delivery wagon and into the parlor. “That,” Mrs. Johns writes, “was my first meeting with Abraham Lincoln.” As a historian, I loved reading the memoir, and when it was time to share history-related recipes, I went looking for something not only fitting for the Basket Brigade but also connected to Mary Todd Lincoln. One biographer provided the name of a cookbook known to have been used by Mrs. Lincoln. The two recipes below are reprinted from the 1851 edition of that cookbook titled Miss Leslie’s Cookery.
Scotch Cake
Fictional Martha Jefferson’s specialty in A Stitch in Time
INGREDIENTS:
¾ pound butter
1 pound sifted flour
1 pound powdered sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
3 eggs
DIRECTIONS: (from the historical cookbook)
Rub three quarters of a pound of butter into a pound of sifted flour; mix in a pound of powdered sugar and a large table-spoonful of powdered cinnamon. Mix it into a dough with three well beaten eggs. Roll it out into a sheet; cut it into round cakes, and bake them in a quick oven; they will require but a few minutes.
Beef Tea
This recipe is offered in Miss Leslie’s chapter, “Preparations for the Sick.” It’s appropriate for our Basket Brigade angels as they min
ister to the wounded warriors on the daily train.
INGREDIENTS:
1 pound lean beef
Salt
DIRECTIONS: (from the historical cookbook)
Cut a pound of the lean of fresh juicy beef into small thin slices, and sprinkle them with a very little salt. Put the meat into a wide-mouthed glass or stone jar closely corked, and set it in a kettle or pan of water, which must be made to boil, and kept boiling hard around the jar for an hour or more. Then take out the jar and strain the essence of the beef into a bowl. Chicken tea may be made in the same manner.
From Judith Miller, A Pinch of Love:
While researching materials for A Pinch of Love, I was particularly interested in some of the foods that were served to the wounded soldiers arriving on the trains. One of the documents contained the following comment and inspired me to share a recipe for pickled peaches and old-fashioned doughnuts. A quotation from the time:
Every woman insisted on passing her own basket. Mrs. Peddecord had baked a hundred of her famous sour-cream biscuits, Mrs. Race had made fifty sandwiches, Mrs. Ryan had a bucket of pickles, Mrs. Oglesby, a big basket of doughnuts, which Mrs. White had fried. Some one, I wish I could remember who, brought a jar of pickled peaches, “enough to go around twice.” Laura Allen’s basket of red winter apples was “the last we had and just fifty of them.” In other baskets there was food enough for every man to eat his fill, and the fragments were given to the commissary, for another time.
Pickled Peaches
INGREDIENTS:
4 cups sugar
1 cup white vinegar
1 cup water
2 tablespoons whole cloves
4 pounds fresh clingstone peaches blanched and peeled
5 (3 inch) cinnamon sticks
DIRECTIONS:
Combine sugar, vinegar, and water in large pot, and bring to boil. Boil for 5 minutes. Press one or two cloves into each peach, and place into boiling syrup. Boil for 20 minutes, or until peaches are tender.
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