by Tricia Goyer
Love lost. Loneliness. Maybe she should get used to it. Who was she to think she could ever give her whole heart to anyone—even a guy like Brett—without causing more pain than joy?
She returned to the box of letters, discovering pages with ripped edges underneath the letter she’d just read. They must be the pages from Clay’s journal. Ginny sat down to read them, knowing that at least Ellie’s story could take her mind off her own sad tale for a while.
Chapter Twenty
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September 30, 1927
This day, the thirtieth since Adelaide’s death, no sun shines on the bay. Summer’s gone. Winter’s in the air. Chopping wood’s been a kindness to me. My hands protest with their blisters and calluses, but my damaged heart finds solace in the excursion. I have fished, as I am doing now, for hours each day in hopes of stocking our cellar with smoked salmon. The children clam from what seems like morning till night, with Joseph leading. My boy’s got a temper on him—like his Scottish mama—but he also shines all manner of tenderness and joy. Adelaide’s.
We managed to salt and smoke the fish, can the clams. We made an attempt to can the strawberries. May not have as many this year, or rutabagas.
A Stellar’s Jay—that irksome blue bird—squawks from the bush across the river, intruding on my calm. My hands are still wet from the first salmon I caught. They smell, I suppose, but I don’t notice. Don’t feel much at all.
Little Zach collects wildflowers—forget-me-nots—and creates a wreath on Adelaide’s side of our bed each day. One handful at a time, he lays them down and mouths, “God bless Mama.”
Yesterday, after he set out the blue flowers on Adelaide’s patchwork quilt, I pulled him to my knee to ascertain what his little mind was figuring.
“When my mama comes home, she will like it. I don’t want her to think I forgot her.”
Zach went to her funeral at the schoolhouse. Heard “Amazing Grace” sung by our ragtag congregation whilst Edith Parker played the pump organ. Zach watched his mama’s coffin get lowered into the ground, disappearing under handfuls of black soil. He listened as we gave thanks for my priceless wife—better than rubies. He heard the prayers of the reverend—me. A husband ought not have to perform his own wife’s funeral.
Then I hugged him. “Mama would surely think it a kind gift.” And he ran off to dig clams with his brothers and sister.
Each day by nightfall the flowers wilt; the circle wreath wrenches apart. So I throw the petals away. He does it again the next day.
Tears rolled down Ginny’s cheeks. Midnight approached, meowing. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and continued, turning to the next page.
October 5, 1927
I’m sitting beneath this hemlock. I scouted along the banks of our Salmon River about two miles for a fishing hole, but I could’ve stopped anywhere. The river glows orange-red with salmon. But I couldn’t pick a spot. Every nook reminds me of her. Her smile, her laughter floats with the brook’s music.
I passed a landing where we picnicked. Our friend Patricia took care of the baby so we could make our escape. Thank God for her.
My wife giggled as we crossed the river, hopping from log to log. Then my foot slipped into the water, soaking my boot. She mocked me relentlessly. But then she lost her balance and soaked her skirt. The words that spewed from those candy-sweet lips! I told her she lost her salvation for sure, spouting such language, but then she reminded me I’m Presbyterian.
So we sat by the campfire, keeping each other warm, eating the smoked salmon she packed, before we wandered on home.
Like a salmon upstream, a smile fights to reach my face when remembering her, but how can I smile? How can I? Ever again?
October 1, 1928
Dear Grandfather,
This is surely a strange place. We have frequent visitors to our garden. Remember the moose and her calf that terrified me on my first day here? Well, they’ve found their way to our garden. The children tolerate them, but since “Mama Moose” (that’s what they’ve named her) charged Joseph, I have a hysterical fit when I see her.
Linc tried to help me by rigging a chair to a rope from the house to the outhouse. He thought I could just sail above the moose, but what a disaster that was. The reverend has no endurance for my outbursts. He’s still hard on me, but all I can think of are those journal entries. I try to be patient.
All my love,
Ellie Bell
October 5, 1928
Dear Brother Peter,
I’m grateful for your desire to help my family and me by sending your granddaughter here, but I’m afraid she’s not suited either to the rough Alaska life or governing a quiver of children. Not only is she terribly afraid of wildlife—coyotes, marmots, porcupines, and especially moose—but she allowed my nephew to rig up a foolhardy invention that sent the outhouse into the river.
And she doesn’t know how to shoot. Now I don’t blame her for that, but she’s not even willing to learn. Won’t go near a gun of any kind.
She’s not a bad girl. Just not cut out for this place or my family or me. I’ve half a mind to send her to the Parkers’ for the winter, but seeing as Janey’s taking a liking to her, I’ll let her stay. Just until spring.
Clay
October 20, 1928
Dear Brother Peter,
I fear for the nutritional needs of my children.
Last night when we got home, we found the house nearly burned down. Smoke billowed out the door.
Rushing inside, we found Ellie covered in corn flour, on her hands and knees in the kitchen. When she heard us, she jerked up with sheer terror as if a bear family had moseyed through the door.
I yelled a bit, I’m sorry to say. I don’t know why she tried to cook in the first place. I never expected her to, but she assured me she could.
This girl’s causing me more trouble than help. I’m sorry, Brother Peter. It’s just the truth.
Heard her crying last night, not loud wails, but soft pleading sobs. And she said a name, James. A love lost, perhaps? Is that why she came? It will be best for all when she goes on home in the spring.
Clay Parrish
Nov. 2, 1928
Dear Grandfather,
Life is difficult here, as you’ve probably garnered from my letters, but I’m starting to see how these folks get by. They depend on each other. We have some very nice neighbors. The Curtises live close by—meaning five miles downriver. They have a teen boy, and a Tlingit girl also lives with them. It’s good for Joseph to have friends.
I’m also eternally grateful for the Parkers. Some of the first homesteaders here, they have a good-sized farmhouse and even bigger hearts. Edith Parker and her daughter, May White (with her six children!), came by today and brought me a basket of cakes and treats. They even brought clothes fit for life on “the flats” (that’s what they call this area because of the acres of grassy fields). They gifted me sturdy men’s boots—like the ones they wore. What James’s mother would think of me in these!
Edith Parker shared stories from her early days, some funny, sad, harrowing. And that was enough. Knowing another soul traveled this path before me—and survived—gave me hope.
You know, Grandfather, maybe that’s all I have to offer Joseph. I lost my mother too. I pray I’ll have an opportunity to share those memories with him—and that his heart will be open. I know you’ll pray too.
Later
I could deal with this strange way of life—the skunks, moose, even bears (a real nasty one’s been killing the homesteaders’ cattle)—but it’s particularly difficult to handle a man who seems to hate me. Just yesterday morning, he snapped at me for giving the children maple syrup on their oats. I didn’t know they only used it for special occasions. And then later in the afternoon, I asked if we could eat some of the smoked salmon in the basement for lunch. You’d think I’d asked for Cornish game hens. Apparently, I have “no common sense about how to survive a winter.”
The worst of it,
Grandfather, is when he ignores me. It makes me feel worthless, unfit not only for this place but for even his meager attention. I don’t know why he won’t even be cordial to me. Maybe he thinks that if he accepts another woman’s care of his home, he’ll be disrespecting Adelaide. It’s her sugar, her salmon, her kitchen, her family I’ve invaded.
Janey just came in and pulled a chair next to mine. We like to work on quilts together when we have the chance. As she stitched, she again asked me not to give up on her papa. “He’s a good man, kind and funny. The best papa in the world. Please, don’t leave him—and us.” The reverend called her from outside, and she scampered away.
A few minutes later, the reverend appeared in the doorway. I don’t know what Janey said, but I think she influenced him somehow. She’s a very influential girl.
“Come on out. We’re playing with those rings Linc and Joseph made. Seeing which one rolls fastest.”
So I did. And it was fun.
Love, Ellie
Dec. 1, 1928
Dear Grandfather,
Folks around here love to throw a shindig. This one couple especially, Ruth and Fred Matson. Every Saturday night (and often other nights too) they invite everyone to their large home. There are only about thirty of us on the flats during the winter months. So Mrs. Parker, her daughter Mrs. White, the other ladies, and I relish time together. I’ve made friends, Grandfather. I’m falling in love with this community. I can’t help it.
Well, when we first went, the reverend avoided dancing with me, but maybe because it seemed rude to avoid me, he finally asked me to dance. He’s asked me every time we’ve been back.
Last night, we headed downstream to the Martins’ homestead. When we arrived, the house was all lit up with kerosene lamps and the party had already started, with Mr. Parker playing the guitar and Ruth Matson pumping on the organ.
Joseph, Linc, and Janey jumped right in with the musicians. May White’s girls hoisted Zach and Penny from us, and Clay and I were left alone in the little entryway. I took off my gloves and was headed to the parlor when he stopped me. At these dances, he looks so different from the scruffy man I first met. When he combs his hair and wears clean clothes, he’s almost handsome. Actually, he is handsome. I have a hard time not staring at his dark eyes. But you don’t want to hear that, do you, Grandfather?
Anyway, in the entryway, he stood crooked in front of me, one shoulder lower than the other, his hands in his belt loops.
“Ellie, I was hard on you today, and I’m sorry.”
I blinked. First, because it was the first time he’d called me Ellie and not Miss Ellie. And second, because he’d been hard on me every day since I came. I couldn’t fathom what made today different. Seems he’s either scolding me or ignoring me (except when we’re dancing).
“It’s all right.” I offered a smile.
He smiled back. He has a nice smile. Then he unstrapped his guitar from his back, tugged me to a sofa in a nook in the kitchen, and told me to wait. A minute later he came back with another guitar.
“We like music up here. Time you learned.”
He offered me the instrument. My throat tightened at his gesture. I slowly received it, awestruck.
“Does this mean we can be friends?” I asked as he sat down.
He grinned. “I didn’t say that.”
I chuckled. He showed me how to hold it. And until my fingers got too sore, he patiently sat with me, showing me basic chords.
Later, as we weaved and sashayed the quick country dances, I felt a closeness to him. It was a nice feeling.
I may grow to like him after all.
Love,
Ellie Bell
Ginny stretched, her feet hanging off the floral couch, and felt pressure on her chest. She glanced at her guitar case leaning against the wall near the window. She hadn’t opened it since she came, hadn’t thought about music, but she liked reading about how it gave Ellie a connection with Clay. She wondered if Ellie kept it up. No matter what happened—whether she was a recording artist or simply Ginny—music would always be a part of her life. That she knew for sure. She propped herself up and continued reading.
December 2, 1928
Dear Grandfather,
I want to tell you about something that happened that needs your prayers.
On the nights we don’t live it up at the Matsons’ for music and dancing, we spend our evenings around the fire. Mostly we play games. You would love it. All different sorts. Cooties is the most popular—it’s fun! You roll dice and, depending on the number, draw a body part. Whoever builds a whole body first yells “Cootie!” I’ll have to teach it to you sometime.
Before the fun begins each night, we have family worship. It’s not so different from how you and I spent our evenings when I was growing up. Clay reads the catechism and a passage from the Bible, and we sing a hymn as he plays guitar. He seems gratified that I know my catechism. We’re on “What are God’s works of providence?” Janey’s always the first to answer: “God’s works of providence are His most holy, wise, and powerful preserving and governing all His creatures, and all their actions.”
One time, the always-direct Linc asked why, if God preserves and governs everything, did his aunt Adelaide die? The reverend swallowed, but in the fireplace’s glow, I saw his brown eyes soften.
I wanted to hear his answer, but Joseph jumped in. “You shouldn’t ask that.”
“What do you mean?” Linc asked. “Don’t you ever wonder?”
“Nope.” Joseph’s lip pinched as if he were forcing it still. The tight lines on his forehead returned.
Clay shook his head. “It’s all right, Joseph. Your cousin asked a fair question. We don’t always know why the good Lord chooses certain things for us, and there was a long time after Mama died that I was angry.”
“At God?” Janey gaped up from where she rested her head against his knee.
“God seemed to have abandoned me up here. I wouldn’t trust Him. And that was wrong. If anyone can be trusted, it’s the Savior. He’s always true, always faithful, loving, kind, right. I couldn’t see that then.
“But, you know, I’ve been through a fair share of painful times. Not complaining, just telling. My mama passed, my sister, even Aunt Penelope. He never left me then, but stayed firm and strong, like a rock. I learned—even though it’s tough sometimes—my Father knows best.”
Joseph interrupted by slamming his fist against the wood-planked floor. “That’s a load of bull! God could’ve saved her and He didn’t. I’m sick of hearing about how good He is.” He stomped through the room toward the door.
Ever ready to help, little Zach ran after him and grabbed his leg. “Don’t leave, Joseph!”
“Let go.” Joseph’s voice softened a touch toward his little brother. “I need to get out of here.”
“Where?” Clay asked.
“To the Curtises’. They don’t talk about God all the time.”
“You go ahead.” Clay stood and patted Joseph’s shoulder. “Be back for breakfast.”
Without a word, Joseph stalked out the door into the dark night.
Zach started to cry and clung to me. I held him on my lap, and he buried his head in my chest. “I miss Mama.”
“Joseph misses Mama too.” Janey nuzzled into Clay’s side.
I stood, carrying Zach, and patted Janey’s shoulder. I caught Clay’s eye and tried to express compassion.
He touched my hand, and his eyes looked almost grateful. That’s when I knew I loved him.
Love, Ellie
Chapter Twenty-One
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Ginny forced an eye open and noticed Midnight, curled up and sleeping next to her on the couch, content not to move.
She tried to open her eyes all the way, but they felt sticky and heavy as if they’d been stuck together with superglue. Then she remembered—the tears. They’d come as she finished Ellie’s letter.
She picked it up and reread the spot where she’d stopped:
He touched my hand, and his eyes looked almost grateful. That’s when I knew I loved him.
There were more letters, but the emotion had stopped Ginny from reading on.
Reading Ellie’s words had cut through all her excuses for coming. Ginny had said she wanted advice, but maybe it wasn’t advice she’d come for after all. Maybe a nudging deep in her heart told her there was something—someone—more important than what fame and money could bring.
But what did that mean now? How could she fly home knowing this? Worse, how would Brett feel if he knew? He’d moved on—settled in. What would he think about her disrupting his happy little world?
She stretched again, and Midnight got the hint. Ginny rose and slipped her silk robe over her pajamas and then glanced at the clock. She didn’t want to get up too early and wake Grandma Ethel.
She reached for the letters, her heart full of longing, aching. Had Ellie felt the same?
Ellie had lived in the same home as Clay, cared for his children. How did she love without letting him know? And how did she handle his missing Adelaide? Ginny’s heart ached even more thinking about it.
Ginny picked up the next letter, in a strange way feeling as if an invisible string had tied her heart to this sweet woman from the past.
December 10, 1928
Dear Mr. Barnett,
Your granddaughter, Miss Ellie, is so pretty! I like her brown, curly hair. I’m learning to read better. She brought the Aesop’s Fables, and we do our numbers. I like it when she makes dinner because she gives us meat from the basement. I think it’s naughty, though. The boys don’t tell her that meat’s supposed to be used sparingly.
I think she likes Papa. She’s got big eyes when he’s around. I don’t know why since he’s not that nice to her. He should be nicer. It’s making her not as happy here and I’m afraid she might go stateside.
My papa likes her too. At first I thought he hated her, because he’s so mean sometimes. But then I remembered what my brother Joseph told me when the Curtis boy used to call me “buckteeth.” Joseph said he was mean because he liked me but didn’t want to admit it. I think that’s what’s going on with my papa. Plus, his eyes are soft when he looks at her and she doesn’t notice.