Kate finished cleaning up the kitchen after her impromptu dinner of cereal and buttered toast. It was one of the things she appreciated about being single. When she didn’t feel like eating, she just didn’t cook. She thought of her cousin, who, weary after a day’s work outside the home, was faced with three hungry little people every night. Kate’s respect for Leslie was increasing by the minute. But then, to get to spend all of that time with kids like Emily—surely the work and weariness were worth it. Surely it was better than washing a few dishes in a big, empty house, all alone. Her work done in the kitchen, Kate turned again to Ian’s journal.
8 November 1824
I’ve never been as scared as I was last night when Jennie struggled so fiercely to bring our son into this world. About three hours in, when the screaming was so awful I thought I might near burst with my own agony, the midwife came to me and said, “Ian . . . I need you to pray. Only God can help her now.” So I prayed. I prayed and cried for three more hours, tormented by Jennie’s pain, wishing I could feel it for her instead. And then all was quiet, and the blessed midwife, tears in her eyes, told me I have a son. He’s healthy and well and, though a bit worn out from his difficult entry into this world, has passed all examination and seems to be as perfect a baby as I’ve ever seen. And praise be to God, Jennie is fine too. The midwife says the baby was turned the wrong way, and no amount of maneuvering would help. But then when Jennie was out of strength and we’d all but given up hope, the midwife says it was like a miracle under her hands—like a giant knot in Jennie’s belly unwound itself and out came my baby boy. An act of God, she called it. To Him I give praise and glory, my heart so full of gratitude for His love and mercy. My life is rich with His blessings. And now as I look into the tiny face of my offspring, my newborn son, I feel as if I’m looking into the very face of God. Surely there is nothing quite so beautiful as this. We named the baby James, after my father. I wish my mother were here to meet him.
Kate had only ever considered children of her own as a vague and distant idea—something her family hoped her to have but that she’d never felt ready for herself. Never had she felt like her own biological clock was ticking. It wasn’t that she was against the idea of a family, but she hadn’t lost sleep wishing for it either. She hadn’t, that was, until now.
Chapter 13
The next couple of days, Kate kept herself busy organizing and sorting through the boxes and piles of stuff in the attic. Much to Kate’s delight, Leslie even brought the kids over one evening to help. The five of them ate pizza and drank Cherry Pepsi then had a hilarious time going through all of the old clothes in the guest bedroom closet upstairs. Leslie and Kate laughed as Emily and Nicholas paraded around in sweater dresses and polyester vests, circa 1974. Tommy fell asleep in Kate’s arms, and while the older kids watched a movie, the two women sat in the family room and talked. It was tenuous and still a little strained, but it was obvious they were both making an effort.
The more time she spent with Leslie, the more Kate wanted to punch herself for all of the wasted time she’d been away from her family. Her heart burned with fresh agony every time she thought of Aunt Mary, of the face-to-face conversation she didn’t get to have with her before she died. The pain was most easily soothed by spending time with Leslie and her kids. Kate fed off of their presence. Even with the fresh pain of losing Mary, Kate’s life here in Rose Creek, with Linny and Leslie and the kids so close by, felt surprisingly rich. Work and life back in Atlanta had never felt so far away.
After her evening with Leslie, Kate called Bryan and Sam, inviting them up to have dinner and help sort through the last of what was in the attic. There was also a large pile of boxes and some furniture Kate had set aside that she wanted everyone to look through one final time before she donated it all to a local charity. And, of course, Bryan still had to look through his room. Kate kept her word and steered completely clear of the space. Really, she had no desire to see what he might be hiding in there. It would be a couple of weeks before Sam and Theresa could make it over, but they promised Kate they would come. Bryan was willing as well.
Without really realizing what she was doing, Kate was preparing the house for new occupants—visualizing improvements and updates. It was only a matter of time before her family asked if she was getting the house ready to sell. But Kate wasn’t preparing for a sale. As she walked through each room of the house, it scared her to admit she was preparing the house for herself—for her own family.
When she wasn’t sorting through closets or imagining plans for the house, she continued her efforts to piece together a little bit of Wylie family history. She studied Ian’s journal, even copying by hand the entries that were too faded to read completely, piecing the letters and words together as best she could. It had become a bit of a project, and though she knew Ian was an ancestor of her cousins as well, she hadn’t yet told anyone about her discovery. Perhaps she was being selfish, but a part of her felt as if some magical connection existed between Ian and her, some link between their stories. To tell her family about him might dissolve that connection.
She would tell them. But not yet.
Kate asked Linny if she knew if Mary had kept in touch with any of her cousins on the Wylie side, wondering if there might be a fellow descendant of Ian Wylie who may be familiar with his story. But Linny knew of no one. Aunt Mary’s address book revealed a few Wylies living in Western Tennessee and one in Wisconsin, but Kate didn’t recognize the names. Since they had not been at Mary’s funeral, Kate guessed they must not have been close relatives. Mary’s father, George Wylie, had three brothers that, if Kate remembered the story correctly, had all moved away from North Carolina when they were very young, establishing and growing their families in other parts of the country. George had been the youngest brother by ten years. A bit of a generational gap separated his kids from those of his siblings, and Mary had never been close to her cousins growing up. Even still, to find such a record of ancestry was worthy of looking up a long-lost cousin. Kate decided that before her three weeks were up, she’d have to make some phone calls to the Wylies listed in Mary’s address book.
After a particularly dusty Sunday afternoon in the attic, Kate decided she needed a break. After taking a shower, she drove into town to pick up a few things for Linny, including the new cordless phone she’d promised her. Linny and Charles had friends dropping in that afternoon and had invited Kate to stay, but she declined the invitation. She was anxious to get back to the farmhouse, though, once there, she found herself suddenly listless, no longer in the mood to work.
She wandered aimlessly through the rooms, restless and unable to settle into any specific activity, though much needed to be done. A large box of pictures on the dining room table briefly captured her attention, but she left it so she and Leslie could sort through it together later in the week. Leslie and the children were spending the weekend in Knoxville with Tom’s parents but were returning Monday afternoon and had plans to come over.
A large stack of documents the attorney had sent over was waiting for Kate’s signature—deeds of trust, appraisals, and tax assessments—but Kate’s heart wasn’t in it. Passing by the phone, she remembered her determination to call the Wylie family members listed in Mary’s address book and picked up the phone to make the calls. Grandpa George’s brother, Russell, lived in Tennessee. The number listed was for Russell’s son Harrison, but Kate spoke only with a grandson. Harrison had passed away a few years before. The son had little knowledge of the family’s heritage and did not recognize the name Ian Wylie. He did promise to mention the name and the vague story outline Kate gave him to his other family members and call if anyone remembered anything, but Kate wasn’t very hopeful. Ian had lived a long time ago. If anyone would have known about him and the details of his life, it would have been Mary. And if she knew, she would have told the story.
No, this story was Kate’s and Kate’s alone.
Finally settling on the couch in the family room, Kate p
icked up the journal to resume her study of its pages. She pulled out the notebook where she kept her transcriptions of the difficult passages, planning to pick up her work where she had left off. She flipped to the back of the journal, searching for the right page. Instead, she was surprised to find a nearly perfect and completely legible entry toward the end of the book. The ink was not faded, and the letters were clear and distinct. Kate wondered what conditions so perfectly preserved this particular entry. She speculated that perhaps the kind of ink used in the writing of each entry contributed one way or the other to purity in preservation. She made a mental note to do some research on the subject. Then she began to read.
6 April 1837
My father-in-law, Abe MacDonald, has passed away. He was an old man, and we give glory to God that he lived such a full and rich life. I am grateful to the man for stepping in and treating me like a son when my own father could not do so. He saved me in more ways than he could ever imagine, giving me the hand of his sweet daughter not the least of them. He will be missed, his name forever honored in this house. His death has also brought about a change of our more intimate circumstances. Upon finding herself widowed, Jennie’s mother decided it best to move in with us. Our home is adequate enough to accommodate her, and I’m sure with time my spirit will make room for her as well. Don’t understand me wrong. I love the woman. Her kindness and compassion nearly matches that of her husband. I have tremendous respect for her and dare not speak evil of her character or goodwill. But we are prone to our differences and find ourselves in contentious disagreements quite frequently over the subject of religion. Mother MacDonald is a faithful, dutiful Methodist who attends church three times a week and feels it her obligation to enlist her family in the same measure of devout service. And here is where we disagree. I am a religious man. I give glory to God for pulling me through those difficult years when I first arrived in this country. He has blessed me in more ways than I deserve. My life is rich with peace and happiness. But I do not subscribe to any one particular faith. I find the minister of Mother MacDonald’s church stuffy and a bit pompous. It does not seem a gospel of good news but one of fear and condemnation. Are we not meant to be happy in this life? To celebrate the joy that comes from righteous obedience to God’s laws rather than comply out of fear, out of an anxious desire to keep our souls from the hellfire and damnation preached so heartily from every pulpit in this city? I’ve acquired a group of religious writings by one Roger Williams, a theologian and pioneer in the establishment of religious tolerance and freedom in this nation. He details in his writings his belief that the authority to act in God’s name is gone from the earth, that until Jesus Christ comes again to call apostles to organize His church as it was in the times of the New Testament, it will not be on the earth. The intentions of the men leading the churches surrounding me today are good. They are good men, though I daresay some could improve their personalities a bit. But did Jesus not call apostles to act in His name? Were they not given authority to preach and to act for Christ after He ascended into heaven? What happened to that authority? Williams says the Christian church is in a wilderness of apostasy—that over time, emperors and rulers of state corrupted the religion of Christianity and that basic tenets and truths have been lost. There must needs be a restoration, he says. And Jesus himself must do it. To this, I align my own beliefs. I’ve spent a great deal of time reading in the New Testament and believe our God to be one of unity and love. I don’t see the reason to have so many factions, so many different churches preaching one thing or another. I’ll wait for that restoration, for a unification of purpose and spirit. Whether in this life or the next, I’ll wait for it, all the while disagreeing with my dear mother-in-law. Though I feel I have no house of worship, no four-walled structure to house my praise, I have my heart, full of gratitude and love, a heart dedicated to raising my children to know God, love Him, and worship Him in all they do. I have walked with God as my own father prescribed all those years ago. And I have felt His goodness on a daily basis. I pray that one day He may lead me to the truth.
Ian’s words were changing something inside of Kate. It felt as if a part of her had been locked up and hidden from view for so long she’d nearly forgotten it was there. But now she was finding it again, feeling a desire to learn more about who that person was. Every time she read Ian’s journal, she felt more and more certain that the person who would teach her the most about that hidden part of herself was God. Maybe it was time to visit the Methodist church after all.
Chapter 14
The following Monday morning, Kate almost didn’t run. She had already logged more miles the week before than she had ever run back in Atlanta. But the cool, clean air of the mountains was much more invigorating than the wall-to-wall mirrors of the gym and the robotic hum of the treadmill. She followed her usual path, a four-mile circuit from the farmhouse to the elementary school and then back again. She’d all but given up on running into Andrew. She had not seen him out running since their first encounter, so she was surprised when she crested the top of the hill leading up to the elementary school and saw him circling the little dirt track around the school’s playground. She glanced at her watch. It was still early, just after seven. She had started earlier on purpose to avoid the crowds of parents and children pouring into the school, which was now back in session after spring break. Perhaps that’s why she’d missed seeing Andrew the week before. She was never there early enough to catch him.
She stopped at the top of the hill to catch her breath, bending over with her hands on her knees until the burn in her calves slowly faded. Andrew hadn’t seen her yet. She watched as he circled the track once. Finally, he looked up and saw her standing there. He raised his arm and waved, motioning for her to join him on the track. She waved back and jogged over to the stairs leading down from the parking lot.
“I ran this track fourteen times hoping you’d show up.” Andrew smiled as she approached him.
“Fourteen?” Kate questioned. “Would you have kept going had I not come?” She was silently thrilled with the prospect of him intentionally waiting for her.
“I set the limit at twenty-five,” he joked.
Kate could tell Andrew was nervous. The air around them crackled with anxious, hopeful energy. Ironically enough, it seemed a scene appropriately suited for an elementary school playground. They stood, smiling awkwardly, toying with the gravel beneath their feet.
Finally, Andrew said, “Would you like to walk a little bit? We can head in the direction you’re going if you’d like.”
Kate readily agreed, and the pair set out, circling the track one final time before climbing the stairs and heading back down the hill away from the school.
“Tell me how you came to Rose Creek,” Andrew said, beginning the conversation.
“I grew up here,” Kate replied simply.
“Ah, I remember that,” Andrew said. “But you’ve been gone a long time. What brought you back?”
Kate walked in silence a few moments, hands tucked into the pockets of her lightweight performance jacket. She’d been living the reality of her situation all week, but it was still hard to say the words out loud.
“My aunt passed away,” she finally answered. “I came back for her funeral.”
“I’m so sorry,” Andrew said.
“She was like a mother to me. She was the only mother I can really remember. My own mom died when I was a little girl.”
“I’m sorry to hear that too. How did it happen?”
She looked at him and saw the sincerity in his eyes. He hadn’t asked out of mere curiosity; he was asking out of concern.
“A car accident,” Kate said. “I was seven years old. Both of my parents were killed. I was asleep in the backseat. I remember being in the hospital after it happened and hearing one of the EMTs say it was a head-on collision. My parents absorbed the bulk of the crash, and I was pulled from the car with a few bruises and a cut above my eyebrow.” Instinctively, she raised her hand to
the scar, barely visible on her left brow.
Andrew took a deep breath. “I can’t imagine,” he said.
“Thank you. It . . . it’s been tough, I guess. I don’t know. Life isn’t always fair. You just take it one day at a time, you know?”
“I know all about that,” Andrew said softly.
Kate looked up. “That sounded like a loaded statement.”
Andrew shrugged his shoulders. “Everybody’s got a past, right?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, smiling. “Some more shady than others.”
Andrew didn’t respond, eyes cast downward to the gritty pavement under their feet.
Kate changed the subject. “I saw you the other day while I was driving through town. You were leaving the courthouse. You had a dog with you.”
“Yeah? That was Ruby. She’s kind of the company pet. I was picking up a building permit for a new construction job.” Andrew’s mood obviously lightened with the change of subject.
“So that’s what you do, then? You build . . . things?”
“Well, I guess for now, yeah. That’s what I do. Spencer Contracting—Dan Spencer—he’s my uncle, my mom’s brother, so I’m working with him for a little while.” Andrew seemed nervous, like there was more to the story than what he was telling. “It’s a small local company, but they do pretty well for themselves—mostly commercial but some residential projects as well. This new project,” Andrew went on, “is a big vacation home for some doctor in Atlanta.”
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