Proposals and Poison

by Rachelle J. Christensen

  Living with her parents in the same house she grew up in provided some distraction from her heartache. Endless days of nursing and rocking her infant replaced the time she had spent staring at the dust particles in the air, thinking of all she had lost when Jim died.

  During one of Danny’s naps, Evelyn took a cloth and dusted all of the compartments of the music box. Every time she heard the melody, it took her back to that day when Jim held her in his strong arms. She slid her finger over the fuzzy lining. She felt a connection to Jim whenever she opened the padded chambers. The box held keepsakes—a lock of Danny’s baby hair, the tarnished key that went with her first roller skates, the bottle caps from her first date with Jim. In the bottom drawer, she kept the few letters Jim had written. She rubbed the cloth along the inside of the right compartment and it caught on a piece of the red velvet paper, pulling it back.

  Her hand shook and she dropped the dust cloth. Silently berating herself for her carelessness, she pressed the corner back down, hoping it would stay in place. It curled up stubbornly, and she noticed something beneath the lining. A piece of her favorite stationery—light blue with tiny silver birds embossed on the edges. Curious, she peeled back the corner to reveal her name printed in bold caps—Jim’s handwriting. She pulled it free and sank to the floor.

  Evelyn,

  I wanted to come back to you. I hope you know if you’re reading this that I’m so angry at myself for failing you by not coming home. Believe me, I did everything I could to make it back to you. Still, life has a purpose and people live or die for a reason. I don’t know those reasons. I only know that I love you. I hope you never have to read this, but if you do, please, will you do something for me?

  Be happy. Give my things away or sell them. Even the music box. There’s a secret to this music box, but you’ll only find it by passing it on. Give your heart a second chance. You’ll always remember me, but you don’t need anything but your own heart to do it by.

  I’m sorry we never had much money or time, but I hope you’ll have more of both those things in the future. I’m so sorry, Evelyn. Please don’t let me be the reason people don’t see your beautiful smile or hear your sweet laughter. Please don’t die with me.

  Forever loving you,

  Jim

  Evelyn pondered Jim’s words for several weeks. The silver birds were all but worn down from reading his letter over and over. She didn’t want to give the music box away. She couldn’t do it, and the tears came in torrents when she listened to the music play. She didn’t understand why Jim would ask her to give away the last gift he’d given her.

  In February when Danny was three months old, Evelyn took him to the new memorial Aspen Falls had dedicated to fallen soldiers. The chilly air carried the scent of winter on its back. Wrapped tightly in layers of clothing and blankets, her son whimpered when Evelyn bent closer to the stone representing Jim’s empty grave in Colorado Springs. She pressed her cheek to the shock of dark hair covering Danny’s warm head.

  “Daddy’s not coming home.” She cried and rocked her baby while humming the tune that reminded her of his father. An icy blast lifted Danny’s blanket. Evelyn heard something and stopped rocking.

  “Hello?” Evelyn listened for an answer. The wind sang through the trees, and although she knew no one would believe it if she told, it whispered something to her. Don’t die with me. And she heard the tune, Jim’s music—his voice—a song on the wind.

  Evelyn clutched Danny and hurried back to their home. She climbed the steps to the front door and walked inside. She stood with her crying infant in the entryway. Her feet throbbed, but not from the cold. The winter in her heart refused to let the blood pump to her extremities. It stopped her frozen soul from feeling. It halted her steps across the thin ice leading up to each new day. If her heart wasn’t so heavy, she could take a step forward, cross the ice, and find safety. She closed her eyes and felt a warm breath of air brush the tendrils of hair from her face, repeating those words—Jim’s haunting words. A tingling in her feet drew her attention. Evelyn looked down at the puddle of water dripping from her boots, steam rising from the melted ice. It was time. Time to live—really live—for Jim and for Danny.

  “Mother, I put Danny down for his nap, and I’m heading over to the church swap meet.” Evelyn paused at the front door.

  Marie looked up from her sewing. “It’s time then?”

  “Yes, it’s what Jim wanted.”

  Marie nodded, and Evelyn let herself out and walked two blocks to the whitewashed building in silence. A gentle spring breeze caressed the back of her neck and reminded her of the day she and Jim stood in the kitchen one year ago. So much had changed since then. Her hair stayed tight in the clip and refused to play with the wind.

  The town of Aspen Falls was much as it had been for the past twenty years—moving at its own pace. If one knew what to look for, change would be evident, but a passerby wouldn’t recognize the handful of new shops and the remodeled park the town boasted in its claim to progressive growth.

  Evelyn carried the music box under her arm. Her heart seemed to beat with the rhythm of the music held inside. Maybe it would always keep time to Jim’s melody. She had copied his message and pasted it inside the box under the red velvet paper to remind her of what she’d heard in the cemetery. Jim had hinted at a secret, and if it wasn’t for that, Evelyn would never have ventured out with the music box.

  Tugging at the heavy door, she cradled the music box and stepped inside the church. Her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the entryway. She crossed the hall and entered the Sunday school room. With some hesitation, she eyed the gleaming wooden benches surrounding tables overflowing with donations.

  Evelyn meandered through the church, looking at the tables filled with trinkets and treasures from the community and the larger neighboring town of Callaway Grove. She rubbed the ivory paper on the box in a circular motion, and her voice resonated with a hum—something she did almost without realizing.

  The double doors at the back of the church swung open. A gust of wind pushed through and collided with Evelyn. She stood there staring as a woman struggled to carry a large cradle inside. As the wind died down, the current of air tickled her ears with the sounds of the earth coming alive, and Evelyn walked toward the woman.

  The cradle was marvelous—solid maple with little birds carved in the sides—and polished to a pale sheen. The woman closed the doors, and the last bits of wind pushed the cradle until it rocked gently. Evelyn smiled at the woman.

  Her cheeks were flushed from the exertion of carrying the load inside. A tangled mess of dark curls fell halfway down her back. She glanced at the cradle, then at Evelyn. “Do you like it?”

  Evelyn saw something familiar in the woman’s eyes. “I, uh, I do, but it’s so beautiful—I don’t know if I have enough.”

  “My name is Rhonda Halverson.” She motioned to Evelyn. “What did you bring to trade?”

  “I’m Evelyn Patterson.” Her throat tightened and she held out the box with trembling hands. “This is a music box.” She set it on the table and popped open the compartment. The miniature ballerina stood up gracefully and pirouetted to the music.

  The two women stood still and listened. Rhonda bent down and peered at the reflection of the ballerina in the mirror. “Beautiful. I’ve never seen one like this before. Where did you get it?”

  Evelyn hesitated. “It was a gift. I’m not sure where it came from.”

  Rhonda’s fingers grazed the tulle skirt of the ballerina. “My daughter would’ve loved this. That was her cradle, or bed as she called it. It’s big enough that she slept in it until she was nearly eighteen months old.”

  Evelyn swallowed. “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, she passed on two years ago. She was three.” Rhonda squared her shoulders and gazed at Evelyn.

  “I’m so sorry.” Evelyn shook her head and murmured, “My late husband gave me this music box and asked me to give it away to help me move on with my life if
he died.” She touched the velvet padding and looked at Rhonda, understanding what she had recognized in her eyes. “He died in the war before I could get a letter out that I was expecting.”

  “Seems like we have a connection then,” Rhonda said. “I’d like to trade you my cradle if you feel up to it.”

  Evelyn knelt down beside the cradle and traced the lines carved into the wood. “I think my baby will fit better in here than in the music box.” She laughed and the tinkling sound echoed through the hall.

  “And I think I’m ready to pour my sorrows into something smaller.” Rhonda cleared her throat. The music stopped playing, and the ballerina stood still in a half turn away from the mirror, her face painted in an everlasting smile that looked up at the two women who knew about heartache.

  A few hours later in the quiet of her room, Evelyn battled second thoughts. She closed her eyes for a moment and hummed Jim’s tune. Her heart beat in time with a loss she thought might never leave. She knew Jim wanted her to trade the music box so her heart would not be haunted by the song of his love, but it didn’t matter what material possessions she gave away, it wouldn’t rid her heart of the pain of Jim’s loss. She didn’t want to—wasn’t ready—to give up a love that had barely begun.

  She rocked her baby in the cradle until she felt a draft coming from the window. Stepping close to the sun-streaked pane, she saw it was open a half inch. Evelyn closed it tight, and the wind tapped against the glass once and then twice before turning back to blow in another direction. The wind seemed to know something that she didn’t. If only it could whisper what the next step was for her and Danny. Evelyn hummed and Danny smiled in his sleep, unaware of the past and with no concern for the future.

  The wind blew down the street to a two-bedroom house with a picket fence and a rusty tricycle in the yard. Leland Halverson nursed a bottle of beer in the back bedroom and looked at the empty spot on the wood floor where the cradle had been. He groaned, remembering those happy times when he could breathe without hurting. Leland had built the cradle for their baby girl, Jessie.

  He felt the current of air enter before he heard Rhonda’s light step in the kitchen.

  “Leland, I’m home. I traded the cradle for something special.”

  He winced, took a long pull from his beer, and tossed it in the corner. The glass shattered, and the amber liquid trickled over the pile of bottles he had consumed. No matter how much he drank, he’d still hear Jessie’s scream. He’d hear the haunting cry of his baby girl and remember that horrible day.

  He heard Rhonda move around the kitchen and then a clicking noise, like a windup toy. A melody—ethereal yet alluring—traveled toward him and filled the room. Rhonda must have left the door ajar, for Leland could still feel a light breeze moving down the hall. And for just a moment he thought he heard something besides music.

  The cool air sent a shiver through him. He cursed and slumped against the bedroom wall. The music continued to play and he rubbed his hand along the coarse stubble framing his jaw. He couldn’t remember the last time Rhonda had made him shower and shave. The whiskers on his cheek were matted. It must have been over a week.

  “Would you like to come in the kitchen?” Her voice was almost a whisper, but he still flinched. Rhonda stood in the doorway and Leland took a shallow breath.

  “Why?” He glanced at her and then back at the floor. He waited for his wife to answer that he stunk of liquor and needed something running through his veins besides alcohol, but she only sighed. Then he heard the wind blow the screen door shut and the music stopped playing.

  “I picked up something today I think Jessie would’ve liked.”

  Leland cringed and covered his eyes with his hand. Rhonda crouched beside him and touched his arm. “It will only take a minute. Come on.” She tugged on his sleeve.

  He curled his toes snug in his woolen socks and bit his bottom lip. Slender fingers grasped his hand and pulled. He looked up into the clear blue of Rhonda’s eyes and tried not to see Jessie there. She paused and he knew she was doing the same thing—trying not to see Jessie in the dimple under his left eye or the red highlights in his hair. She pulled again, and he allowed himself to rise with the momentum and follow her out of the bedroom.

  “I’m tired,” he complained as he shuffled down the hall.

  Rhonda turned around and looked at him. “Me, too.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and nudged him into the kitchen. “Here it is.”

  She pointed at the music box open on the table with a ballerina frozen mid-twirl. Leland swallowed, but his throat didn’t seem to be working right, his saliva caught and he choked. His chest burned, his eyes blurred, and still he was choking.

  “I need a beer.” He gasped for breath and moved toward the icebox.

  “Wait.” Rhonda put a hand on his arm and pushed him into a chair situated directly in front of the music box. She leaned over the ballerina and turned the brass key until the melody began again and the ballerina finished her pirouette and started another.

  He watched her spinning to the tune emanating from the music box and shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because it’s time for us to heal.” Rhonda sank into the chair next to him. “I traded the cradle to a woman who lost her husband in the war. She has a baby boy who’ll never know his father. She smiled at me anyway, Leland, and said she needed to give this music box away so she could keep on living.” Rhonda motioned to the music box. “We still have a chance to live. I don’t want to give up on that.”

  The table in front of him was polished with a satin finish, and the grain of the wood was hardly noticeable, lost in the deep mahogany. Leland rubbed his finger along the edge of wood he had sanded and shaped so carefully, the same way he’d shaped Jessie’s cradle. The music played on, and the melody climbed higher to sweeter notes that reminded him of Rhonda’s lullabies. He sucked in a breath, fighting the tightness in his chest. The chair scraped along the floor as he pushed it from the table and stumbled toward the icebox.

  “It was an accident. Drinking won’t change that. Jessie’s gone.”

  His hands closed around the beer bottle squeezing nearly hard enough to break the bottle and crush the shards of glass into his hands—the same hands that would never hold his little girl again. He choked, this time on a great ball of tears rising up his throat. Woolen socks made it easy to shuffle down the hall, and he leaned against the door frame for a moment, his chest heaving with sobs.

  After prying the top from his beer, he drank and swallowed his tears then sank into a heap on the floor. Grimy fingers rubbed the jagged edge of the bottle cap and flipped it into the air. It bounced along the hardwood floor—ping, ping, ping—in perfect time with the music box as the notes reached for the sweet strains of a lullaby again. Leland held his breath, listening to the tinny music, and stared at the mound of brown glass in the corner. The bottles rested against each other like a graveyard of lost hopes and dreams.

  The screen door slammed and a whoosh of air rushed down the hallway. It lifted dark strands from Leland’s head like little fingers once did when his baby girl rode on his shoulders through the woods. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the wall and listened to the music dance with the wind. The smell of lavender overtook the scent of liquor, and the sound of small feet pattered against the floor.

  Find out more about this award-winning novel here!

  For a complete list of books, sneak peeks, and special offers visit www.rachellechristensen.com

  THE SOLDIER’S BRIDE (A MUSIC BOX ROMANCE #1)

  CARVE ME A MELODY (A MUSIC BOX ROMANCE #2)

  HAWAIIAN MASQUERADE (DESTINATION BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE)

  HOW TO FETCH A FIANCÉ (MUST LOVE DOGS SERIES)

  DIAMOND RINGS ARE DEADLY THINGS (WEDDING PLANNER

  MYSTERIES #1)

  VEILS AND VENGEANCE (#2)

  PROPOSALS AND POISON (#3)

  RIVER WHISPERS

  WRONG NUMBER

  CALLER ID

  NOVELLAS
:

  SILVER CASCADE SECRETS

  DOUBLE TAKE

  HOPE FOR CHRISTMAS: AN ECHO RIDGE ROMANCE

  THE KISS THIEF: AN ECHO RIDGE ROMANCE

  THE PRINCESS BRIDE OF RIODAN: AN ECHO RIDGE ROMANCE

  COMING HOME TO LOVE: AN ECHO RIDGE ROMANCE

  NONFICTION:

  WHAT EVERY 6TH GRADER NEEDS TO KNOW: 10

  SECRETS TO CONNECT MOMS & DAUGHTERS

  LOST CHILDREN: COPING WITH MISCARRIAGE

  ULTIMATE LIFE: CREATE A LIFE WORTH LIVING IN 9 SIMPLE STEPS

  PHOTO BY ERIN SUMMERILL

  Rachelle is a mother of five who writes mystery/suspense, nonfiction, and women’s fiction. She solves the case of the missing shoe on a daily basis. She enjoys raising chickens and laughing with her husband. She graduated cum laude from Utah State University with a degree in psychology and a minor in music.

  Rachelle is the award-winning author of twenty books, including The Soldier’s Bride (a Kindle Scout Selection & Whitney Award Finalist), Diamond Rings Are Deadly Things, Veils and Vengeance, Proposals and Poison, Hawaiian Masquerade, and Christmas Kisses: An Echo Ridge Anthology. Her novella, “Silver Cascade Secrets,” was included in the Rone Award–winning Timeless Romance Anthology, Fall Collection.

  Join Rachelle’s VIP mailing list to learn more about upcoming books & get your free book at www.rachellechristensen.com