I felt my cheeks get hot, despite the cool autumn breeze that lifted my veil. “Now, just because you’ve made an honest woman of me doesn’t mean we forsake all other responsibilities.” My voice was low. I could hear the voices of friends and family coming close as people filed out of their pews and toward the back of the church.
“Let’s forsake.” Tucker’s voice was more of a growl. “I love forsaking.”
The door burst open just as I was seriously considering missing my own wedding reception.
“Mr. and Mrs. Van Es.” Erin Jackson was the first to barrel out of the church doors, slightly out of breath. Leave it to Erin to trample little old ladies on her way to being first in line, I thought as I positioned a ready smile on my face. Erin’s husband, Les, stood next to her, combing thick fingers through his thinning hair as he shook Tucker’s hand. Erin leaned in for an air-kiss.
“It was a lovely service,” Erin said, a tight smile pulling apart her fuchsia lipstick. “You look very pretty.” She nodded at my dress. “Budget Bridal in Des Moines? I thought I saw one just like this there when I went shopping with my niece last month.”
My eyes grew wide and I started to speak but Tucker rescued me. “Thanks for coming, Jacksons. Make sure to stop by the barn for some dinner and dancing.” He was practically shoving Erin down the steps after her husband.
“No need for homicide on our wedding day,” he whispered into my ear, and I giggled. The man knew me well.
The line was long and full of people we loved. Tucker and I greeted and hugged everyone, sharing lots of laughter. Martin wore a suit coat over a Sturgis T-shirt; Luca and Isa, in from New York, followed him with compliments on his “edginess.” There were high fives from Pete and the work crew, and Miss Evelyn was still blotting her eyes with her handkerchief when she clasped our hands with hers.
“I’m just so happy for you both,” she said, lip trembling. “And, Grace, don’t you worry one bit about your shipping needs while you’re on your honeymoon. I’ll take care of everything, even with the extra shipments to your new boutique in Des Moines. Think nothing of it.”
“Oh, she won’t, Miss Evelyn,” Tucker assured her with all sincerity. “I’m glad you reminded Grace that postal matters will just have to wait and that first things will need to come first.”
“That’s right,” Miss Evelyn said, patting Tucker’s arm as she walked away and not appearing to notice me nudging him hard with my elbow. The man was shameless.
By the time we gave our thanks to Pastor Simpson for his part in the moving ceremony, the sun was starting to dip behind the sprawling maple tree that lit up the churchyard with red and gold brilliance in its leaves. I was watching the line of trucks and cars snake out of the small church parking lot, headed to our reception, when Tucker cleared his throat. I turned to see the sewing ladies standing before us, arms linked and eyes shining. Gigi held a white box with a wide, sky-blue ribbon. She stepped forward a bit and said, “We have a little something for you two.”
Tucker took my hand.
Myrna said, “We talked about giving this to you at your bridal shower, Grace.”
“Oh boy, did we talk about it,” Goldie said under her breath with a roll of her eyes.
Myrna frowned. “I have strong feelings about etiquette. Things should be done a certain way, especially at a wedding.”
“We know,” Bev and Madge said in unison.
“But we decided,” Edna said in her teacher voice, trying to rein it in, “that this gift was for you both.”
“Because you two are a family now.” Goldie clasped both of our hands. Her eyes shone with happy tears. “You walk together now, through it all. The good, the beautiful, the tough, the aching—all of it together.”
“Just like your mom and dad did, from their first day to their last.” Gigi held out the box to me, blinking back tears.
I tugged gently on the ribbon and Tucker held the box while I lifted out its contents. My hands cradled an exquisite, white inlaid wood box. I ran my fingers over the pretty mosaic pattern. Gigi reached out and put her hand on the box.
“Your dad made this for your mom when they were dating.” Her voice wavered. “She put all his letters in it. I would see her reading them during quiet afternoons. I can still see her, curled up on her bed and smiling at your dad’s indecipherable handwriting, the way her hair caught the light pouring in the windows.” Tears fell freely now and I felt Tucker strengthen his arm’s hold around me.
Gigi swallowed hard. The other ladies gathered nearer to her, tightening the circle that surrounded her.
“After they were married,” she said, “your mom kept adding to the letters. She kept new letters from your dad, even more precious because of how life got busy and he still made time to write. She kept letters she’d written to you but not delivered yet.” She turned to Tuck, eyes full of long-earned love and respect. “There are even a few letters with your name on the envelopes.”
I heard Tuck draw a shaky breath. Emotion filled his eyes.
“She said once that she was hoping to give the letters to you on your wedding day.” Gigi smiled through her tears. “It took no small amount of effort, but I was able to keep it a secret from you. Until today.”
“There is one addition your mama didn’t know about,” Goldie said softly. “The six of us have written a letter to you both,” Goldie said. She was holding on to her friends, each hand reaching across and touching as much of their individual hands as possible. She looked at me. “We know you must miss your mom and dad a lot today, kiddo.”
I nodded and took the tissue Myrna offered me, pressing it to my wet cheeks.
“But you need to know they would be so, so proud of you.”
The ladies murmured in agreement.
“And we are so, so proud.” Goldie smiled through her tears. “Of both of you.”
“May God rain down blessings on your home,” Edna said, her voice strong and sure. “He’s awful good, so we know He will.”
The women nodded. I could imagine the many years of evidence of that goodness represented in this circle alone.
“And we’re here for you, if you need absolutely anything.” Myrna sounded ready to fight anyone who would disagree with her.
The women hugged us as one, their best Sunday clothes getting all rumpled and crushed in the process. Goldie was the first to emerge and say, “Girls, we’re going to need to back up a bit or the rhinestones on my corsage are going to cause an injury to myself and others.”
Tucker and I watched them walk away, Gigi looking back and calling to me, “No more tears, now. It’s time to party like it’s nineteen ninety-nine.” She winked at Tucker.
I looked at him. “You did not give her a mixtape.”
“I did, and I will do it again. We have a lot of family dinners ahead of us, and I, for one, am glad you’ll finally have someone ready to DJ.”
I laughed and felt a new happiness at the idea of all those days, all those dinners, all those moments together.
Tucker took my hand and kissed it. He looked at me with tenderness and I hoped my face showed him the truth, that I was perpetually stunned at the depth of my joy.
“You ready, Gracie Van Es?”
I nodded, heart full, and looked toward his truck, festooned with balloons, streamers, and tin cans, ready for our getaway.
Tucker swept me up into his arms as if I were light as air, which was just exactly how I was feeling. He placed me gently into the cab of his truck, and I scooted over just enough to allow him to drive. There was no way I was headed all the way to the opposite window.
He turned on the engine and made all sorts of ruckus as he honked and started away from the church and toward our barn, which was dripping with white hydrangeas, roses, and tulips and full of people who loved us and had made this place our home.
“Okay, beautiful,” Tucker said, arm tucked around the fabric of my dress and pulling my legs closer to him. “Ready for the adventure?”
I
waved to the smattering of well-wishers behind us and then turned, lifting my gaze to the crimson maple leaves arching overhead. Before too much road was behind us, I reached up to kiss my husband on the corner of his mouth. I tucked my shoulder into him and took his hand, holding it between both of mine, not able to get close enough to this good, true man beside me.
I smiled, watching the wash of red leaves, the greenest grass, the warm gold of an autumn sun setting over the town I loved. It was the place where I’d learned how to love and be loved, how to forgive, be forgiven, and where I learned about the sheer, breath-catching, truly amazing power of mercy and grace.
“Yes,” I finally said, sure to my core. “I am ready.”
acknowledgments
Thank you, dear reader, for coming along for this story. I absolutely loved writing this book, and I am honored you would fall into its pages with me. Thank you, too, for being the kind of nerd who reads the acknowledgments page. I am your soul sister.
The fine people at Howard Books deserve all sorts of accolades for bringing Heart Land to life. I am particularly indebted to and fond of the bright and thoughtful Beth Adams for her insight, her love of good stories, and her willingness to try the untried in order to get grace (and Grace) into the hands of readers. I am indebted, too, to Anna Dorfman for another stunning cover that tells this story so beautifully. My sincere thanks to you both.
I’m hoping the folks at Alloy Entertainment won’t notice if I just move into their offices, hide behind the ficus in the corner, and eavesdrop on their work. I’m honored to have partnered with them on this project. Sara Shandler, thank you so very much for bringing me on, and Laura Barbiea, thank you for hearing my heart, even on weekends. You are an absolute gem.
Chip MacGregor makes everything better. It’s true, and even when he’s not wearing a kilt. Chip, thank you for your perpetual and convincing argument that I can do this writing gig. You are unparalleled as an agent and also are a phenomenal friend. Thank you.
My writing group endures all sorts of drivel on the way to publication, and I cannot ever repay them, though I’m trying, month by month, with gluten-free baked goods. Wendy Delsol, Dawn Eastman, Carol Spaulding-Kruse, and Kali VanBaale, thank you for providing insight, wisdom, and a razor-sharp red pen.
Thank you to Iowa Writers, a group of smart, brave people who are fiercely loyal to one another and to the craft of writing. I am honored to be in your ranks.
Sarah Dornink Clutts of Dornink knows the real world of design, fashion, construction, and who all those people are at photo shoots. Thank you, Sarah, for making me sound smarter than I am and for not judging me for owning (and, ahem, wearing) multiple pairs of yoga pants.
Speaking of yoga pants, I want to thank my tribe of women who love me and support me and tell me when I’m totally off base. All of these things are rare, and I realize the very good fortune I have in you. Bets, Annie, Deanna, Makila, Sarah, and Sarah, thanks for letting me launch into the injured-cat cry with absolutely no warning. This is true friendship.
Thank you, dear family, hither and yon, for loving me and for reading this book. Thank you, too, to my family members who will not read this book but will fake it at family reunions. I love you, too.
My children, Ana, Mitchell, and Thea, are my most constant and vocal cheerleaders. Thank you for being loud in your love for me, kiddos. I love the loud. Except for at the dinner table. We could be a little quieter there, please.
I am able to write stories about love and grace and passion and laughter-until-it-hurts because my husband lives out those stories in our house every day. Thank you, my dearest Marc, for always, always believing I can and then ordering Thai and praying me through. I love you.
I need, every hour, the bone-deep grace and new mercy that God offers to me. He is writing the story that changes everything, and I am ever grateful.
about the author
KIMBERLY STUART is the author of eight novels, all of them stories that are intended to make readers laugh often and cry once—maybe twice. Kimberly resides in Iowa, with her fantastic husband and their three wily children.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Howard Books trade paperback edition July 2018
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Interior design by Michelle Marchese
Cover design by Anna Dorfman
Cover photograph © Richard Casteel/Eyeem/Getty Images
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-5011-8056-9
ISBN 978-1-5011-8057-6 (ebook)
Heart Land Page 23