A Daughter's Truth

by Laura Bradford

  Brad arranged Emma’s coat atop the hanger and deposited it into the hall closet alongside his own, his eyes sparkling. “Mom makes the best hot chocolate you’ll ever have, Emma. It’s one of the things I missed most when I went on my little—”

  Delia stymied the rest of his words with a splayed palm. “Today is about happy. Today is about getting to know my granddaughter, isn’t that right, Emma?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Delia pushed closed the closet door and nudged Brad from her path. “You get Emma settled in the living room and I’ll be along in just a few minutes with the hot cocoa.”

  When Delia was out of earshot, Brad lowered his voice to a level only Emma could hear. “How much do you want to bet there’ll be cookies, too?”

  “I do not need cookies,” she countered.

  “I suspect you’ll change your mind after you try one. They’re pretty incredible.”

  Mustering a smile, Emma followed him down the hall, turned left, and froze.

  “Emma?” he asked, turning back at her still feet. “Are you okay?”

  She knew she should answer, or, at the very least nod, but aside from having heard her name in conjunction with a question, she wasn’t aware of anything except the sitting room in which they were standing. Unlike the largely barren front room at the farmhouse that was used most often for church service every six months or so, this room invited people to come . . . and stay. Maybe even spend a few hours if the barn chores were all done.

  “Look at all the books,” she whispered, stepping forward, her gaze skittering down shelf after shelf of the kind of stories that so often called to her from the rack inside the English store. Pushing past the hesitancy she didn’t want to feel, Emma ran her fingers across the spines of several books before being distracted away by a framed photograph of a younger Brad and—

  Grabbing onto the edge of the nearest shelf for support, she staggered back a step. “Is that . . . That’s . . . That’s Ruby!”

  “It is.” He came up beside her, plucked the frame from its resting spot, and pulled it into book-reading range. “My mom took this of us the day we went to the carnival.”

  “That is the torn ticket you gave me when I turned thirteen?”

  Brad nodded, his gaze still riveted on the photograph. “Yes. There was a fireman’s carnival about twenty minutes north and we stopped here on the way because I’d forgotten my wallet. I remember being antsy to get there and not real excited about the delay Mom and her camera caused. But I’m sure grateful for it now.”

  “Can . . .” Emma stopped, swallowed, and tried again, her voice a perfect match to the tremble in her hands. “Can I see it, please?”

  “Of course.” He handed her the frame and stepped in behind her as she took it. “It’s like looking at yourself, isn’t it?”

  She knew she should say something, but she couldn’t. Her eyes, her thoughts, her everything was on the picture in her hands.

  An eighteen-year-old Brad stood on the left, his dark blond hair so like Emma’s. The subtle wave he sported now was more of a curl back then. The sky-blue eyes they shared led her attention to the young girl standing beside him.

  All her life, Ruby had been this person Emma could only imagine—a person her mind’s eye had created to look like a younger version of Mamm, frozen in time. Yet standing there, staring down at the reality, the only thing she’d been right about was the only two ways in which Emma favored Brad. In all other ways, Ruby had been a slightly younger version of Emma.

  * The same cheekbones

  * The same sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose

  * The same full lips

  * The same basic height

  * Even the same narrow chin

  They were all the same shared features that had mesmerized her inside the locket, but here, in a way the tinier photo hadn’t, she felt the person Ruby had been. The way the young girl smiled out at Delia depicted someone with an air of confidence and a yearning for adventure. And the way she’d nestled inside Brad’s arm spoke to the depth of her feelings for Emma’s birth father.

  “She looks so . . . happy,” she managed around the growing lump in her throat.

  “That’s because she was. We both were.”

  Together, they turned toward the sitting room doorway as Delia entered carrying a tray with three large mugs, three spoons, and a plate of what Emma could see were chocolate chip cookies. “I’m sorry that took so long. I wanted to make sure everything was just right for our Emma—oh, you’re looking at photographs. How lovely.”

  Emma relinquished the picture frame back onto the shelf and hurried to take the mug Delia offered. “Are there more?” she asked.

  “More pictures?” At Emma’s nod, Delia grinned. “Oh yes!”

  Brad started to reach for his own mug but stopped as a series of chirps diverted his hand to the front pocket of his jeans. He slipped out his phone, consulted the screen, and hooked his thumb toward the hallway. “I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to take this call.”

  Sliding a glance at Emma, he added a shrug. “You okay for a little while on your own?”

  “She’s not on her own!” Delia protested, hands on hips. “She’s with her grandmother! Now go—go take your call.” Then, with barely a moment’s hesitation, the woman shoved the mug of peppermint hot cocoa into her son’s non-phone-holding hand and shooed him from the room.

  When he was gone, Delia turned back to Emma, patting her over to the sofa. “Come. Sit. Let’s get to know one another a little bit, shall we? Maybe by then, Brad will be done with his call and he can join us when we look at pictures.”

  Wrapping her hands around the mug, Emma sidestepped her way between the coffee table and the closest corner of the couch and dutifully lowered herself to its edge, her gaze darting between Delia and the bookshelf. “You have even more books than the English market.”

  The skin around Delia’s eyes crinkled with a laugh. “And this isn’t all of them.”

  “You have more?”

  “I have two floor-to-ceiling shelves in my bedroom that are filled with books, and another three in the room I’ve dubbed my office.” Delia settled onto the couch beside Emma, pointing at Emma’s mug of hot cocoa as she did. “So? What do you think?”

  Recovering her mouth from the shock of Delia’s words, she made herself take a sip. “Yah. This is good.” She peeked inside the cup and, when she saw only liquid, looked back up at Delia. “I do not see the peppermint stick.”

  “Peppermint stick?”

  “Yah. To make the peppermint taste.”

  Delia started shaking her head before Emma was even finished speaking. “I could garnish it with a peppermint stick, of course, but I prefer the little crumbles that were on the top of the whipped cream. The peppermint flavor comes from the extract I put in with the milk and the cocoa. The flavor spreads out more that way.”

  “Perhaps I should get such extract the next time I am at the market. Annie always enjoys the peppermint cocoa I make, but perhaps she would love this more.”

  Delia turned so her knees were at an angle with Emma’s. “You make peppermint hot cocoa, dear?”

  “Yah. Every Christmas. When Annie was little—”

  “Annie?”

  “My sister. She is eight years old and she loves peppermint sticks and cocoa. So I came up with a way to combine both as a Christmas surprise.” She took another sip of her own drink and then set it back on the tray in favor of a cookie. “I like to do that.... Mix things that do not always go together when I bake and when I cook. Sometimes it does not work, but many times it does.”

  “Do you enjoy spending time in the kitchen?”

  Emma considered her answer as she broke off a piece of her cookie and paused it just shy of her lips. “It is my favorite place to be, I think.”

  Delia beamed. “Like grandmother, like granddaughter, I see.” Then: “What is it that you like about it?”

  Lowering the uneaten bite to her lap, Emma tried
to put her feelings into words—feelings she’d never been asked to explain before. “I . . . I like taking simple things, like milk and butter and yeast, and turning it into bread. I like cutting vegetables from the garden and combining it with chicken and chicken stock and making soup. I like taking a recipe that has been followed for many years and changing it to be new. I like, too, seeing a full plate of food grow empty and then be filled again. Because it is then that I know I did it right.”

  “Have you had formal train—wait.” Delia brushed at the air. “That is a silly question. The Amish do not go to school.”

  “I went to school,” Emma protested.

  “To the eighth grade, yes, but that is only about learning basics. I’m talking about higher education. The kind that prepares you for—and teaches you about—whatever passion you want to pursue as a career. Like architecture, or fashion, or cooking.”

  She heard the hitch of her breath and wondered if Delia could hear it, too. “People go to school to cook?” she asked.

  “Of course. And depending on where they went to school and how skilled they became, trained chefs can go on to work in restaurants all across the world.”

  “Is that what you did?” Emma asked. “Go to school to learn to make cookies and peppermint hot cocoa?”

  “No, dear. I make those things because I like the Mmmms I get in return when people try them.” Delia’s knowing grin sent Emma’s hand back to her lap and the cookie she’d almost forgotten. “I went to school to be an interior designer but never got to put it into practice until Brad started his company.”

  Emma turned her full attention on the woman seated to her left. “Interior design? What does that mean?”

  “It means this.” Delia opened her arms wide to the room. “It means coordinating colors and creating whatever feel a client is looking to establish.”

  “Feel?”

  “Like when you first walked into this room. Did you get any sense, any—”

  “I wanted to grab a book and curl up there,” Emma said, pointing at the quilt-draped armchair between the window and the fireplace.

  “And that’s what I do. I decide on a feel and make it come alive. Like in this room. I wanted it to be a haven after a long day, the kind of place where stress just rolls away, leaving you feeling warm and cozy.”

  “Warm and cozy,” Emma repeated only to snap her eyes back to Delia’s. “Yah! That is how it feels.”

  “Then I succeeded.” Delia reached across the gap between them and tapped Emma on the tip of the nose. “And that, my dear, is what interior design is and what I went to school for.”

  “But it is just one room.”

  “In my house, yes, but I do this for clients all the time.”

  “They all have a cozy room like this?” Emma asked.

  “If they want cozy, I’ll create cozy. If they want austere, I’ll create austere. If they want whimsical, I’ll create whimsical. If they want a room that feels rustic, I’ll create rustic.”

  “Do you like to do it? Your interior design?”

  Delia clapped her hands together beneath her chin and grinned. “I love it. Just like you enjoy hearing people ask for more of what you’ve cooked, I enjoy seeing the tears when people see what I have created in their home.”

  “They cry?” Emma asked, drawing back.

  “A happy cry, yes.” Delia picked up the plate of cookies and held it out for Emma to take another. “But that’s enough about me. You mentioned wanting to curl up with a book. Do you read?”

  “Yah. It is one of my favorite things to do, next to cooking and baking.” Emma took another bite of cookie and slowly scooted herself back against the couch. “Sometimes, when the laundry has been taken off the line and the gardening work is done, I will sit at the kitchen table and read as I wait for the bread to finish or the soup to simmer. Once I even burned the bread on the edges because I did not keep track of the time.”

  “Books have a way of doing that sometimes, don’t they?”

  “Yah.”

  Delia returned the cookie plate to the tray and reached for Emma’s hand. “Oh, my dear, your world is about to open in ways you can’t even imagine and—”

  “I’m sorry that took so long,” Brad said, breezing into the room. “But it couldn’t be helped.”

  Her hand still covering Emma’s, Delia looked up at her son, her mouth pinched. “Was it Nicholas, darling?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He’s going to get everything set up for Wednesday afternoon. At my office.”

  “Don’t you think doing it here”—Delia splayed her hands—“would be less intimidating?”

  “No, but we can discuss that later.” Brad shifted his attention to Emma and winked. “So? What did you think of your grandmother’s famous hot chocolate?”

  “It is very good.”

  Delia neatened the leftover napkins stacked on the tray and then offered Brad a cookie from the plate. “Emma makes hot chocolate, too. For one of the other girls.”

  “For Annie,” Emma corrected.

  “That’s one of Rebeccah’s kids.” Brad’s eyes, suddenly devoid of the sparkle they’d boasted seconds earlier, pinned Delia. “One of the ones that is actually hers, I should say.”

  “How many are there?”

  Emma grabbed her own mug from the tray and pulled it close in the hope of chasing the sudden chill from her body. “There . . . there are six. I mean . . . five. Jakob, Sarah, Jonathan, Annie, and Esther.”

  “I met that one,” Brad said across his cookie. “The little one.”

  Emma looked into her mug. “Her name is Esther,” she whispered. “Esther is five.”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty obvious she worships our Emma, here.”

  Shock propelled Emma’s gaze back onto Brad. “There is only one to be worshiped and that is God!”

  Silence swooped in on the heels of her outburst only to be broken by a soft tsking sound from Delia. “Now, Emma, your father didn’t mean any harm. He simply means that this little girl—this Esther—is clearly quite fond of you.”

  Then, before Emma could even blink, Delia resurrected her smile and stood. “Brad, dear, did you know that Emma has an interest in cooking and books?”

  “Oh?” Brad looked back at Emma, his cheeks lifting. “Ruby liked those things, too.”

  “She-she did?” Emma stammered.

  “Yup. And drawing. In fact, a contributing factor in why I went to school for architecture was because of her and all the houses she liked to draw.”

  Intrigued, Emma took a sip of her drink and studied Brad across the rim of her mug. “She drew houses? Where? Why?”

  “Whenever and wherever she had paper,” he said, laughing. “It started after I told her I wanted to build whole houses rather than just fix them the way my uncle did. We were lying on some grass out by Miller’s Pond when I told her that. Next thing I knew, I was talking about houses with spiral staircases and big bay windows and large patios. Some of the stuff I mentioned, she couldn’t picture, so I grabbed a notebook from my backpack and tried to show her what I meant by a spiral staircase and a bay window. I wasn’t very good at drawing back then, but once she had a basic concept of what I was talking about, she drew it. And Emma, she was good. Really good. It took her a while to get the hang of dimension and stuff like that, but she would erase and erase and erase until she got it right.

  “In the beginning, she just drew parts—like stairs, and windows, and stuff like that. When I suggested she draw the outside of the house, she said that would be boring—that all houses look the same. And when you consider where she grew up, I could see why she thought that. So one afternoon, I drove her through some different neighborhoods so she could see that not all houses are simple farmhouses. They can be ornate like a mansion, they can have turrets, bump outs, different elevations and sizes. All homes, all different.”

  “Did she begin to draw the outside, then?” Emma asked.

  “She did
. And she got more and more creative each time. Soon, I was suggesting she could be the one who drew the homes I would build with my company—with our company.” Brad brushed his hands over his napkin-topped knee, propped his elbows on the chair’s armrests, and tented his fingers beneath his chin, his thoughts clearly taking him somewhere far beyond the confines of his mother’s sitting room. “We really had a plan. A good plan. One that would have made for a nice life for the two of us . . . and, as we soon found out, you, too. But she just couldn’t see it all the way through. Just pieces and parts like the stairs and the windows, and that wasn’t enough.”

  “She stopped being able to draw whole houses again?” Emma asked.

  “More like she reverted back to believing there was only one kind.” Squeezing his eyes closed, Brad pulled in a deep breath, held it, and then parted his lashes in conjunction with a loud whoosh. “Well, I think that’s enough of that for now, don’t you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he rose to his feet and wandered over to the window. “You ever skate, Emma? On ice?”

  At Delia’s outstretched hand, Emma stood and followed the woman to the same window. A glance outside explained Brad’s question. “Sometimes, on the way home from school when we were little, Jakob and I would walk out onto Miller’s Pond in the winter and pretend our boots were skates. He would slide fast and I would slide slow. But we did not do that anymore after it cracked under my boot.”

  “Did you fall in?” Delia asked, mid-gasp.

  “Yah. My leg got very wet and very cold.”

  Delia and Brad exchanged looks, their eyebrows inching upward in a mirror image of each other as Emma continued. “Jakob got me out with a stick.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I had just turned seven.”

  “So Jakob was six, yes?” Brad prodded.

  “Six and seven?” Delia echoed. “Rebeccah allowed two little ones to play on a frozen pond by themselves at six and seven?”

  Emma rushed to defend the impression she hadn’t meant to give. “We were on our way home from school. Mamm did not know we had stopped to play.”