She climbed the rest of the way up the ladder and stood in the center of the attic. To her left, against the sloped sides of the attic, were two battered steamer trunks and one cedar hope chest. Instinct told her the cardboard boxes would hold “things” while the trunks and chest would hold keepsakes. She was drawn in the latter’s direction.
Emma
1917
The United States declared war on Germany on Emma Isobel Carter’s tenth birthday—April 6, 1917. Forever after, even when she was older and knew better, Emma would have the strange feeling she’d been the cause of one of her family’s greatest sadnesses. But on that particular birthday, all she knew was that the adults wore grim expressions and her birthday party, complete with cake and ice cream, felt sad.
Although Emma had hoped for books for her tenth birthday, the gift from her parents was a doll, identical to the one her sister, Elizabeth, had received on her ninth birthday two months earlier. Emma didn’t play with dolls, but Mama never seemed to notice. Emma would much rather tuck herself in a corner somewhere and read a book about foreign places. Or climb a tree. Or skip rocks on the pond. Or ride her horse bareback in the pasture.
Emma knew, even at her tender age, she would never be as pretty as her sister. Elizabeth—younger by ten months—was more than pretty. She was beautiful. Everyone said so. Liza, as Emma called her sister, had golden ringlets and sky-blue eyes and a smile that melted hearts, Emma’s included. Liza was sweet and charming without even trying; it came as natural to her as drawing breath.
That night, well after Liza had fallen asleep, Emma got out of bed and went downstairs to get a drink of water. That was when she overheard her parents talking in the parlor.
“Will you have to go, Roger?”
“I don’t believe so. Not unless the war drags on.”
“It’s already dragged on. England’s been fighting in Europe for years. So many men have died and still it goes on.”
“Don’t worry, Pearl. They’ll call up unmarried men first. Younger men. I don’t think I’ll have to go.”
“But my brother will. Won’t he?”
“Yes, Stewart would be called up. If there’s a conscription, they’ll take the younger and single men first. But I imagine he’ll volunteer before that could happen.”
Her mother’s voice fell to a whisper. “You don’t really think he’ll volunteer, do you?”
“I think he might, Pearl. Young men always seem eager to rush off to war, and your brother has a strong sense of patriotism.”
Her mother started to cry.
Emma returned to her bedroom without getting a glass of water from the kitchen. She’d lost her thirst. She didn’t understand everything her parents had said, but she understood Uncle Stewart was probably going away. Her uncle was the one adult who seemed to like Emma just the way she was, and now he would be leaving.
She stood at the window, looking out at the moonless night. A tomboy—that’s what Mama called Emma sometimes—and she didn’t make it sound like a good thing to be. But one time, when he’d heard what Mama said, Uncle Stewart winked at Emma and whispered, “You go right ahead and be a tomboy. Climb those trees. Ride those horses. Read all those books. Go as high as you can as fast as you can and learn as much as you can.”
When she heard Uncle Stewart’s voice saying those things in her head, she wasn’t afraid to do anything, try anything, be anything. But when she couldn’t hear his voice, when he wasn’t around to encourage her with a grin and a wink, it was easier to just do what others, like Mama and Liza, wanted her to do and to be what they wanted her to be.
Emma turned away from the window, crawled into bed, and buried her face in her pillow. Then, like her mother, she cried.
Allison
Allison opened Aunt Emma’s hope chest first. It was filled to the absolute brim. At the very top was a layer of old newspapers, and peeking out from one corner was a small glass horse, silver in color. She picked it up and held it in the palm of her hand.
Allison had always found it interesting, the things people held on to. Perhaps more so because—despite the number of boxes in the second-floor bedrooms—she wasn’t much of a saver. She hadn’t kept much memorabilia from Meredith’s childhood, and the important items Allison had saved, she’d given to her daughter when Meredith had taken a job transfer to Texas.
Did that make her a bad mother? She’d pondered the question more than once over the years. But she didn’t like clutter. She didn’t want to be afraid to open closet doors worried about being hit in the head with tumbling keepsakes. She disliked drawers that were hard to close because they were too full. She hated the idea of a garage—or spare bedrooms—filled with boxes of stuff she would never look at again, unless she moved and was forced to see what was inside. And so she’d tossed and given away throughout her life. Whenever she purchased something new, she tried to get rid of something old. That rule had served her well.
Her mother, on the other hand, could have produced an array of Allison’s childhood outfits in various sizes, all of her ballet costumes, all of her report cards, and any notes her teachers had sent home, from kindergarten through her senior year of high school. Heaven knew where her mother kept it all, especially after her parents sold their big house in Boise and retired to Phoenix.
Allison felt a sudden sting of missing Mom, Dad, and Meredith. Everyone she loved had moved away from her. Even Tony, although he hadn’t gone as far as the others. He’d left her, not Idaho.
That thought made the missing worse.
Stop it.
She shook her head, refusing to give in to melancholy again. Not today. She would be strong for today. One day at a time. Like the practice of any good codependent in recovery. One day at a time. She could get through one day without sad thoughts, and if not one day, at least she could get through the next hour.
She closed the lid of the hope chest, deciding to go through it later. Maybe as a treat for getting her design work done each day. Because while she didn’t save much herself, she was interested to see what Aunt Emma had thought worth keeping.
But it would have to wait. There was work to do.
She left the glass figurine on her desk then went down to the ground floor where she took a quick shower and, afterward, dressed in a pair of exercise Capri’s and an oversized T-shirt—her favorite stay-at-home attire and one of the perks of being self-employed. She swept her dark hair into a ponytail and ignored makeup altogether. Who would see her? She didn’t have any video chats scheduled, and her nearest neighbors probably didn’t know she’d moved in, tucked back into the forest as her new home was.
After making herself another large cup of coffee, she turned on her computer, opened her current project, and set to work. When she looked up next, more than two hours had passed. Her lower back complained, as if to prove the point. She rose from her chair and stretched.
If she was smart, she would plug in the treadmill and put a few miles on it. But why walk on a machine when the mountains were waiting outside her door?
She slipped her arms into the sleeves of a bulky-knit sweater that reached to her thighs, put on her athletic shoes, and headed outdoors with Gizmo on a leash. They didn’t stop moving until they reached the end of the long driveway. There, she took a deep breath of the fresh pine-scented air. Glorious! She should have done this yesterday. She would try to do it daily from now on, at least in the warmer months. She would make a walk through the forest or along the river a part of her routine. She would explore every trail she could find. She would walk fast and breathe deeply and lose fifteen unwanted pounds. She would improve her outlook on life. She would stop feeling sorry for herself, even if just for brief periods of time. Maybe she would even learn to talk to God again.
Allison and Gizmo crossed the highway and descended to the riverbank.
Learn to talk to God again. How sad that she’d forgotten how to pray. No, she hadn’t forgotten how. She’d simply stopped doing it—and not intentionally. It j
ust . . . happened. Perhaps because she’d stopped believing prayer made any difference. She didn’t want to feel that way. It didn’t mean she’d stopped believing in God or had turned her back on Jesus or didn’t trust in her salvation.
Was she angry with God? Perhaps. She’d been so sure He’d made a promise to her, a promise that had gone unfulfilled. She’d counted on it. Believed in it. Tried to do everything she thought necessary on her part in order to realize the promise. But it never happened. And since God didn’t lie it meant she’d heard wrong. It meant she didn’t know His voice the way she’d once thought she did.
“So even if I prayed now, how would I know if You answered?”
Emma
1918
Emma’s uncle Stewart never came home from the Great War. He died in the summer of 1918 during the Second Battle of the Marne outside of Paris. When the news of his death arrived, the Carter household went into deep mourning, Emma’s mother inconsolable over the loss of her younger brother.
No one seemed to notice Emma was heartbroken too. She was, after all, only a child. What could she understand of death? But she understood more than the grown-ups knew.
To find solace, she took long walks in the foothills above the Carter home. That was the summer when Emma learned to talk to God. Not just to say her prayers the way she did each night, on her knees beside her bed, hands steepled in front of her eyes, with her mother or father observing from the doorway. No, this was different. So different, she wondered if the minister at church would approve. Her mother wouldn’t condone it. Emma was convinced of that.
But God knew what she thought and felt already. And if He already knew, she might as well speak her mind out loud. So she let the pain pour out, beginning with asking God why He hadn’t protected Uncle Stewart the way she’d asked Him to in her prayers. Faithful prayers. Daily prayers. Fervent prayers. From the time Uncle Stewart joined the army, Emma had prayed for his safe return every single day. Had God said no to her request or hadn’t He heard her pleas for safety?
She’d loved her uncle more than anybody else in the world. More than her mother and father. More than her sister. Sometimes Emma had pretended he was the Prince Charming of fairy tales, and when she grew up, he would ride in on his white horse and carry her off to a castle on a high hill. A silly thing to pretend, but it made her happy all the same.
But that would never happen now. Because she would never see Uncle Stewart again.
Allison
Allison’s and Gizmo’s first week in their new home passed quickly. Allison’s work kept her busy during the daytime hours, and in the evenings and on the weekend, she slowly perused keepsakes from the first of Aunt Emma’s trunks—some jewelry, an envelope of tax receipts for this house and land from the early 1930s, two ancient 35mm cameras, a large collection of loose black-and-white photographs, some that were wrinkled and worn, clipped newspaper articles and obituaries, a bundle of letters.
Allison had never had the time nor the inclination to delve deeply into her family’s history. She’d been satisfied with the stories she knew and with her own memories. But as she looked through the photographs Aunt Emma had kept—not the nature photos that had brought her fame but the ones of people—curiosity began to grow. She recognized a few faces here and there, but the majority of them were strangers to her. There was one man in particular who seemed to have been a favorite in Aunt Emma’s early years. There were photographs of him alone as well as with other people about his own age and a few of him with Aunt Emma, one with his arm around her shoulders.
Had any of these photographs been Aunt Emma’s early efforts with a camera? Allison didn’t think so. They seemed so . . . different—yet certainly intriguing. She’d never imagined Aunt Emma with a boyfriend. Emma Carter hadn’t been unattractive, by any means, but neither had she been a beauty like Allison’s grandmother, Elizabeth Carter Hendricks. Allison’s assumption about a lack of suitors was because her spinster aunt—what a horrid term that was—had never mentioned having a sweetheart. Never. But judging by these photographs, Allison’s assumption had been wrong.
Perhaps her mother could tell her who the man in the pictures was. Allison reached for the telephone to call her, but a knock on the door—the sound making her and Gizmo jump in surprise—stopped her from punching the Phoenix number. Gizmo barked as he hopped up and down in front of the door.
“Gizmo, sit. Be still.” She stood and, as she did so, quickly checked her appearance in the mirror she’d hung last week to the left of the door. She looked presentable enough to see who’d come calling.
The knock sounded again.
“Coming.” She moved to the door and pulled it open.
And there stood Tony. Her heart skittered. She hadn’t seen him since before the divorce became final, and it surprised her to see him now.
“Hello, Allie.”
No one else called her that. Only him. She used to love it. Now, not so much.
“Hello, Tony. I didn’t expect to see you.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. Looking. Wondering. Suspecting. Hating. Fearing.
Old habits died hard. Especially when it came to Tony.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She took a step back. “Sure.” She pushed the door wide open.
“Hey, mutt,” he said to Gizmo.
Allison closed the door and released the dog from his sit. “Free.”
“Wow.” Tony moved into the center of the living room. “The place looks really different from the last time I was up here. I like what you’ve done with it.”
She motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got some diet soda or I could make you a cup of coffee.”
He waved the offer away. “No, thanks. I’m not thirsty.” Rather than sitting, he moved to the fireplace and looked at several framed photographs of Meredith and Aunt Emma and Allison’s parents.
Strange, the way his presence unsettled her. It shouldn’t. She knew Tony better than any other person in the world. True, she didn’t love him anymore. He’d killed her love. Killed it by degrees. So what was it she felt for him now? She couldn’t say.
“What do you want, Tony?” The question sounded harsh. She supposed she’d meant it to.
He faced her and shrugged. “Just to know how you’re getting along.”
As if you care.
“I’d like us to be friends, Allie.”
Friends. Really? He drove all the way up here to say he wanted them to be friends? She had a sudden and terrible urge to throw something at him. To hurt him. To make him rue the day he’d met her, the same way she rued it.
“Have you heard from Meredith?” Tony raked the fingers of his right hand through his hair. “She hasn’t returned any of my phone calls lately.”
Anger drained from Allison as quickly as it had burst to life. She sank onto the sofa. “She’s doing well. Loves her job. Making new friends. She’s busy.”
“You’d think she’d want to talk to her old man once in a while.”
“Give her time. She’s still upset over the divorce.”
“But she talks to you.”
I’m not the one who walked out. I’m not the reason we’re divorced. I’m not the one who—
“Things aren’t going well at work.” Tony finally sat. “Nothing I do seems to make the boss happy.”
She was tempted to ask him how many times he’d shown up late for work. How many times had he called in sick? But she managed to swallow the questions. She couldn’t control him. She couldn’t fix him. She had to let go.
Let go.
The words reverberated in Allison’s chest. As if it were only yesterday, she remembered where she’d been and what she’d been doing the first time she heard those words in her heart. God’s quiet, familiar voice, but the command so clear, so unwelcome. She’d held on to Tony and their marriage tightly for a long, long time. God had promised her a different outcome. How could He tell her to let go? Why had He done
that instead of giving her the miracle she’d prayed for?
She stood. “I’ve got to get to work, Tony. I’m sorry. Maybe you should call next time before you drive all this way. You’ve got the number. I didn’t change it. Cell service isn’t good here, but the house number always works.”
It occurred to her as he rose from the chair that he looked tired. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He’d aged over the past year. His hair, which needed a trim, had more gray in it. Come to think of it, he looked more than tired. He looked sad, beaten even. She was tempted to change her mind, to invite him to stay, perhaps offer him a meal. She resisted the temptation.
“Yeah, I’ve got the number.” Tony moved toward the door. As he pulled it open, he said, “Sorry to take too much of your time . . .” He met her gaze. “Take care of yourself, Allie.”
“You too.”
He glanced back at her, offered a tight smile, then went out, closing the door behind him.
He didn’t leave her thoughts quite that quickly.
Spring 1987
On their fourth date, after a lovely dinner at a favorite steakhouse, Tony drove up 8th Street into the foothills on Boise’s north boundary. He parked the truck on a rise where they could watch the full moon rise over the eastern mountains. After a few minutes of silence, he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to his side.
Her heart hammered, the way it always did when he held her. Could he hear it? Could he feel her pulse shaking the pickup?
“There it comes,” he said. “I can’t get over how big the moon looks on a night like this. Especially up here.”
Allison made a sound of agreement in her throat.
Tony looked at her then. “You know what you’ve done, Allie Knight?”
“What?”
“You’ve made me fall in love with you.”
A Promise Kept Page 2