by Loree Lough
For Love of Eli
Other Books in the Quilts of Love Series
A Wild Goose Chase Christmas
Jennifer AlLee
(November 2012)
Path of Freedom
Jennifer Hudson Taylor
(January 2013)
Threads of Hope
Christa Allan
(March 2013)
A Healing Heart
Angela Breidenbach
(April 2013)
A Heartbeat Away
S. Dionne Moore
(May 2013)
Pieces of the Heart
Bonnie S. Calhoun
(June 2013)
Pattern for Romance
Carla Olson Gade
(August 2013)
Raw Edges
Sandra D. Bricker
(September 2013)
The Christmas Quilt
Vannetta Chapman
(October 2013)
Aloha Rose
Lisa Carter
(November 2013)
Tempest’s Course
Lynette Sowell
(December 2013)
Scraps of Evidence
Barbara Cameron
(January 2014)
A Sky without Stars
Linda S. Clare
(February 2014)
Maybelle in Stitches
Joyce Magnin
(March 2014)
FOR LOVE OF ELI
Quilts of Love Series
Loree Lough
For Love of Eli
Copyright © 2013 Loree Lough
ISBN: 978-1-4267-5250-6
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202
www.abingdonpress.com
Published in association with The Steve Laube Agency.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,
stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website,
or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital,
electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without
written permission from the publisher, except for brief
quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction
are the creations of the author, and any resemblance
to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lough, Loree.
For Love of Eli / Loree Lough.
pages cm.
ISBN 978-1-4267-5250-6 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Orphans—Fiction. 2. Quiltmakers—Fiction. 3. Memories—Fiction. 4. Heirlooms—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.O8147F67 2013
813’.6—dc23
2012041202
Scripture quotations from the Common English Bible,
Copyright © 2011 by the Common English Bible. All rights reserved.
Used by permission.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 18 17 16 15 14 13
To Larry, love of my life, keeper of my heart, my best friend and lifelong companion; to my beloved mom, now living in Paradise, whose fondness for words—those read and those written—helped inspire my own relationship with the craft (I will miss you, always!); and of course, to my Lord and Savior.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to acknowledge my cousin Dawn, whose artistry with squares of fabric, thread, and needles is rivaled only by the works of Van Gogh, Botticelli, Mantegna, and other great masters; her help in designing Eli’s quilt was as fascinating as it was educational (and I’ll tell you so in person at the next Lough reunion)!
To my cousin Maureen and her daughter, Gina, for loaning me their names and personalities, which added fun and quirky characters to the story.
I’d also like to acknowledge all the people in the Blacksburg, Virginia, area who helped me find cool and interesting places to “put” the characters, and to that oh-so-friendly Virginia trooper who helped me with mapping strategies!
Last, but certainly not least, my most humble gratitude to God, for blessing me with the ideas, the words, the time, and the energy that made this story possible.
Hello, dear readers!
I’m so glad and grateful that of all the books you could have chosen, you picked For Love of Eli to keep you company today! The quilt featured in this story is called a “memory quilt,” with good reason: Our lovely heroine, Taylor, designed this one to help her orphaned nephew remember his mom and dad by sewing bits of their history into the story of their lives. For this is a story about memories and how they affect us.
But before you dig in, let me share the story that helped inspire this novel.
A while ago, on my way to a friend’s house for an impromptu dinner, I spent forty punishing minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I’d barely escaped the gridlock when a dreaded thump-whump told me I had a flat tire. Fifteen greasy, sweaty minutes later, I was back on the road. “Better find a shortcut,” I muttered, “if you don’t want to be late.” (And anyone who knows me understands that tardiness is a big no-no in my book.) So, I typed my friend’s address into my trusty GPS, and it led me through parts of the city that I never knew existed. Somehow, I arrived right on time, and spent the first few minutes entertaining my friend with my “How I Got to Your House” tale.
Imagine my surprise when she blamed herself for my wild goose chase: If she’d given me a little more notice, I might have avoided the traffic jam. She should have invited me on a weekend and spared me the whole GPS escapade. And the flat tire? Well, she could have spared me that, too (pun intended), by suggesting that we get together at my house instead of making me travel all the way across town.
But I can’t be too hard on her because, like most humans, I’ve done the same thing. Aren’t we an odd bunch, taking ourselves to task for things we couldn’t possibly have predicted, prevented, or controlled? It’s as if we think we were born with godly powers, the way we sometimes carry on!
Reece Montgomery, the hero in For Love of Eli, wasted years beating himself up for things over which he had no control: he convinced himself that he should have noticed that his sister’s depression—sparked by the death of her young husband—had gone far above and beyond the normal grieving process. And he believed that if he hadn’t assumed Margo was asleep on that awful, life-changing night, he never would have left her alone. If he’d been in the house instead of out picking up a pizza, he could have stopped her from driving to the pharmacy.
As so many of us do when grief threatens our sanity, Reece needed someone with whom to share his self-imposed guilt. First, he blamed his sister’s husband, because if Eliot had kept his promise to Margo—instead of volunteering for another tour of duty in Afghanistan—he wouldn’t have died in a fiery IED explosion. And Reece shared his blame with the story’s heroine, for no reason other than Taylor Bradley reminded him of her brother, Eliot.
It’ll take a lot of prayer if Reece is to find his way back to God, the inventor of mercy and forgiveness. Will he ask the Almighty’s help in letting up on himself—and on Taylor—before it’s too late?
My prayer for you, dear reader, is that the Father will help you discern between the things you should take responsibility for and those that are totally out of your control, and that when you face those out-of-your-control moments, He’ll fill you with the strength you’ll need to bear up under it … plus an ounce more!
I hope you’ll write me to share what you liked best about For Love of Eli (I answer every letter, you know!) c/o Abingdon Press, P. O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202, or by ema
iling me through the link at my website, www.loreelough.com.
My best and God’s blessings to you and yours,
Loree
Learn to do good.
Seek justice:
help the oppressed;
defend the orphan;
plead for the widow.
—Isaiah 1:17 CEB
1
Mothers’ Day Weekend at the Misty Wolf Inn
Blacksburg, Virginia
Taylor stood at the bottom of the stairs and held her breath. It only seems like a hundred steps, she told herself.
As she planted her foot on the first tread, Eli whispered “You really goin’ up there this time?”
His hand, warm and small, fit perfectly into hers. “I’m seriously considering it,” she said, nodding.
The echo of his gasp floated up and disappeared around the first bend of the long, spiral staircase. “Can I come with you?”
She followed his line of vision to the half-door leading into the turret. It had been a source of fascination for him from the moment he’d moved into the Misty Wolf Inn, nearly a year ago.
“Please, Taylor? Please?”
Oh, how she loved the boy who reminded her so much of her brother! Peering into his trusting green eyes, Taylor wondered which excuse would work this time: it’s dirty and dusty up there. There are about a hundred ways you could hurt yourself. That big bare light bulb has probably burned out by now.
But Eli beat her to the punch.
“If you let me come with you,” he said, sandwiching her hand between his, “I promise to be careful and not touch anything without asking first. Promise.”
He’d been with her slightly more than a year now, and she could probably count on one hand the times she’d told him no. “Well,” she said, pointing at his bare toes, “but only if you put on your sneakers.”
He did a little jig, then fist-pumped the air. “You’re the best, best, best aunt a boy ever had!” He ran toward his room, stopping at the halfway point. “You won’t go up without me, right?”
“I’ll wait right here. Promise.” If she didn’t know better, Taylor would have said Eli’s smile had inspired the “face lit up like a Christmas tree” adage. Grinning to herself, she sat on the bottom step and said a silent prayer. Please don’t let me blubber like a baby—not in front of sweet Eli. He’d lost as many loved ones as she had, and certainly didn’t need to see her fall apart. Besides, if she allowed self-pity to distract her, even for a second, he could pick up a splinter, or trip on a loose board, or topple a stack of boxes. How would she explain that to his grumpy uncle?
The familiar sproing of a doorstop broke into her thoughts, followed by thuds and thumps that inspired a grin. She could almost picture Eli, tossing shoes and boots over his shoulders as he searched for his favorite sneakers. But so what if he made a mess in his own room? The last guest had checked out last evening, and she didn’t expect the next until Monday. Helping him re-tidy his closet was as good an excuse as any to give him her full, undivided attention.
He ran toward her, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the hardwood as he came to a quick stop. “See?” he said, showing her one foot, then the other. “Shoes!”
“Yep,” she said, laughing, “shoes.” Not the bright red high-tops she’d bought as his reward for mastering the art of tying his own shoes, but a pair of his old Velcro-closure sneakers. That he’d chosen to save time by wearing them told Taylor just how excited he was about exploring the turret’s attic space.
“Well,” he said, snapping on the light switch, “are you ready?”
Ready as I’ll ever be, she thought as he darted up the stairs. She’d been putting this off far too long. It was long past time to face her past—the good memories and the sad ones too.
When she caught up with Eli, she found him grunting and grimacing as he wrapped both hands around the cut-glass doorknob. “It’s … it’s stuck.” Rubbing his palms together, both brows disappeared into blond bangs. “Or maybe it’s locked.”
Taylor hadn’t been much older than Eli when her grandfather helped her hang the old skeleton key from the hook he’d hidden along the door jamb. She reached for it, then scooped Eli into her arms instead. “Quick, grab the key,” she ground out. “You’re heavier than you look!”
It took a second or two for him to wiggle it free, and when he did, Eli shouted “Got it!”
Taylor gave him a little squeeze before turning him loose.
Eli held it up to the light. “Never saw anything like this before.” One eye narrowed suspiciously, he looked up at Taylor. “You sure it’s a key?”
Down on one knee, she showed him how to insert it into the keyhole. “I’m sure.”
After a moment of wiggling and jiggling, the lock went clunk, startling Eli. “Whoa!” he said, giggling as he handed Taylor the key, “bet Tootie heard that all the way over at her place!”
He grabbed the doorknob again, but this time, his hand jerked back so quickly that she couldn’t help wondering if a chip in the glass had scratched him. Taylor was about to inspect his fingers when Eli said, “Is it okay if I open it, or do you want to?”
So, he’d been sincere about his promise not to touch anything without permission. Smiling, she said, “No, you do it.”
The old brass hinges squealed as the door swung into the hallway. “It’s kinda like the door on the Keebler elves’ hollow tree, isn’t it?”
“You know, you’re absolutely right!”
Hands on his knees and shaking his head, he stooped and peered into the darkness. “We can’t both fit through at the same time.”
Translation: I’m scared to go in first, but I want to be first to see what’s on the other side of this strange little door.
“I have an idea,” she said, taking his hand. “I’ll go in just far enough to turn on the light, and that way, we’ll both see what’s in there at the same time.”
“Good idea!”
Side by side, they ducked through the opening. Their entry stirred a thousand dust motes that danced like microscopic ballerinas on the beam of sunlight that poured in through the front-facing window.
“Wow,” Eli said, straightening. “Wow.”
She knew exactly how he felt. As a girl, she’d spent hundreds of hours here, spinning dreams when the sun was up, wishing on the stars when moonlight painted everything—especially that gigantic old steamer trunk—a strange and eerie shade of silver.
He turned in a slow circle. “Just look at all this stuff!” Then he noticed the rugged wood steps that led higher still in the turret, and pointed. “What’s up there?”
“Oh, just more stuff.” Taylor smiled, remembering how after Nonna’s stroke left her unable to sew, Grampa stacked boxes of material and spools of thread as high as his arms would allow. “Lots more stuff.”
“Man-o-man-o-man. It’ll take days to see it all!”
Yes, it probably would—if she had any desire to rouse gloomy memories.
Eli flicked a wooden whirligig, and while giggling at its comical dance, blew the dust from a red metal fire truck. “Whoa. C-o-o-ol,” he said, picking it up. “Whose was it?”
“Careful, now,” she warned. “There are lots of sharp edges on toys that were manufactured way back when.” She held out her hand so that he could see the bright white scar in the web between her thumb and forefinger. “I got this playing with an old car that belonged to Grampa Hank’s dad.”
Nodding, he said, “I’ll be careful.” He touched the tarnished key on the side of the fire truck. “What’s this thing do?”
“It makes the siren work. At least, it used to. It’s an antique, and nobody has played with it in years.”
He gave the key two quick cranks and grinned when the toy emitted a tinny, high-pitched wail. Down on his hands and knees, he rolled the truck back and forth. “Vroom-vroom!” he said, oblivious to the tracks its tires left in the dust.
Taylor knelt too—in front of the cedar hope chest that had lured her up
here in the first place. A wedding gift from Taylor’s maternal great-great-grandparents to their only daughter, it had been handed down through the generations until, on Taylor’s sixteenth birthday, it became hers. For years, it stood at the foot of her bed, pestering her to look inside. Two days after hiring Isaac, she silenced the nagging by asking him to carry it to the turret.
And it had been here ever since. Would she have the courage today?
Eli put the truck back where he’d found it and went to the window. “Gosh,” he said, using the heel of his hand to rub dust from the bubbly glass, “you can see all the way to the creek from up here.”
“On a clear day,” she said, tracing a burl in the trunk’s rounded lid, “you can see even farther than that.”
“Bet Uncle Reece would love this place. Wonder what he’d say if he came up here and saw all this.”
Taylor harrumphed. No doubt he’d say something like, The boy should be outside, playing in the fresh air, instead of inhaling all this grit and grime. There are probably millions of dust mites up here, along with a hundred ways he could hurt himself!
With most people, Taylor gave people the benefit of the doubt. Why not Reece?
Maybe, she thought, because he acts more like a grumpy old codger than the thirty-something man he is.
But that wasn’t fair, and she knew it. Eli might as well be Reece’s only living relative after the way his parents treated him. It couldn’t have been easy, finding out the way he did, that his sister hadn’t named him Eli’s guardian.
She remembered that day in the lawyer’s office, when Reece’s expression went from stunned to angry to anguished as the attorney read the paragraph in Margo’s will that gave Taylor total control of the boy. The news had shocked and puzzled her, too. For one thing, she’d only known Margo since shortly before her marriage to Eliot. For another, Reece had changed his entire life to help out after Eliot was killed in Afghanistan.
Eli’s excited voice pulled Taylor’s attention back to the here and now. “Oh, wow,” he said from his perch on the window ledge, “I can see our horses! There’s Millie. And Alvin and Bert. And Elsie, too!” With each one he pointed out, Eli left a tiny fingerprint on the dusty glass. “And a whole bunch of deer. Taylor! Come see! There must be fifty of ’em!”