Hearts Unfold

by Karen Welch

  Hearts Unfold

  A Novel by

  Karen Welch

  First Revised Edition

  Copyright © 2012 Karen Welch

  All rights reserved

  ISBN-13:979-1470073794

  ISBN-10:147007379X

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photography licensed through iStockphoto LP, 1240 20 AVE SE, Calgary, Alberta, T2G 1M8 Canada and Getty Images, Inc.(US). Photo credit-Tetra Images; Photographer: Rob Lewine.

  Cover designed by C.W. Ferris

  Acknowledgements

  My warmest gratitude to family and friends who have encouraged, supported and inspired me to make this effort. My husband John and son Chris have lived this adventure with me from day to day; and without their patience and interest, I’m sure I would have given up very early on. Special thanks are due to the brave friends who struggled through rough drafts and still found the courage to read more, in particular Martha Tilden, Sue Boyle and Rev. John Wilson, to husband John for providing enduring editorial support as well as musical and theological guidance, and last but far from least, to my son Chris for designing my cover.

  This book is dedicated to John, who makes me possible.

  “Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee,

  Opening to the sun above.”

  Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee—

  Henry Van Dyke, 1907

  December 23rd, 1967

  Sheriff Jack Deem had been on the job for more hours than he cared to calculate. A storm like this one brought on all kinds of emergencies at the best of times, but just before Christmas, with everybody and his brother trying to get home for the holidays, there were sure to be more than his little crew could handle. When that call had come in just before dawn from a trucker who’d pulled over to put on chains and spotted what he thought might be an accident, Jack had sensed this was going to be one of those holidays; the kind he always prayed wouldn’t come his way.

  He hadn’t been wrong. The twisted carcass of a car angled halfway up a tree, two young people dead at the scene; his day had started with a sick churning in his stomach that hadn’t eased since. That had been over twenty-four hours ago now. In between, he’d seen two of his eldest constituents off to the hospital by ambulance, one with a heart attack, the other after a bad fall down the some icy steps. With the power out over much of the county, there’d been dozens of calls from folks worried about family or neighbors without heat and expecting his office to have time to check on them. The dispatcher had been overwhelmed with reports of too many fender benders and cars in ditches to count. He’d taken a nap sometime during the night in an empty cell at the jail, only to be roused by a call about a woman ready to give birth at the truck stop out on the highway.

  All part of a rural sheriff’s life, he thought wearily. As he’d been a rural sheriff for thirty years now, one would think he’d have learned to just take it in stride. But this last call, which had come into the office just as he was telling himself the worst might be over, really had his gut tied in a knot. Old Miss Hagen, who kept him informed of anything she considered remotely suspicious, felt he’d want to know there was smoke coming from the house up at Valley Rise Farm.

  Smoke. His chest constricted at the thought of what that might mean. The house, deserted now for two years, but still full of the treasures left behind. The house where he and J.D. had played as boys, where he’d first seen Lilianne; the house where Emily had grown up. Miss Hagen had suggested hippies. He’d scoffed at the idea, but the more he thought about the alternatives, the more he hoped someone had broken in to get out of the storm. He might bring the full wrath of his office down on their heads, but he knew he would secretly bless them for being nothing more than a nuisance.

  The winding road to the farm took some time to navigate. As he eased the cruiser through the deep, crusted snow, letting the tire chains cut their way up the incline, Jack tried to think of any plausible explanation, other than the possibility that Miss Hagen had just been seeing things. But now, as he approached the ridge on which the house was situated, he could see for himself the column of gray against the bright blue of the sky. The thin line of smoke could mean only one thing. Someone was using the fireplace. His anxiety began to morph toward anger and he prepared himself to come down hard on some poor unsuspecting soul.

  He stopped the car just inside the gate, scanning the yard. Nothing to indicate an intruder, no tire tracks or footprints. And then, just as he stepped out into the snow, the front door swung open. A girl burst onto the porch, a tall, lean girl, graceful as a dancer, her heavy, dark hair instantly swept behind her by the wind. She stopped at the rail, waving her arms and calling out to him before he was even in earshot.

  He paused in the slow wade across the yard and stared. His heart lunging against his ribcage, he jerked off his sunglasses, making absolutely sure his exhausted brain wasn’t playing tricks on him.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” He realized he sounded gruff, something he’d never been with her, but just now he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hug her until she squealed, or give her a good shaking.

  Without so much as a hello, she grabbed his hand, dragging him toward the door. “Never mind that now!”

  Following her through the door, not bothering to stamp the snow off his boots, his gaze swept the room, taking in the furniture chaotically strewn out of place, the rug rolled to one side, and a pallet of some sort on the floor beside the hearth. He stopped in his tracks, instinctively pulling back to halt her progress toward the motionless figure on the floor, a bloodied bandage wrapping his head.

  He had never in all her life raised his voice to her, but the shock was too much. With each explosive word rebounding off the walls, he shouted, “What in the name of all that’s holy is going on up here!”

  Prologue

  For the better part of two years, the old house at Valley Rise Farm had been left standing in limbo. After nearly seven decades of sheltering, it for the first time faced an uncertain future, and the possibility of neglect or abandonment.

  Not that it was actually old in comparison to many in the valley, having been built in the early days of the 20th Century. Nonetheless, it stood on the site of an 18th Century homestead, and the land beneath it had seen a great deal of history pass by, leaving behind the echoes of change and the wisdom of generations.

  Built by a bachelor farmer, this house had known only two owners in its time and been home to but four individuals. If houses could speak, which of course they cannot, this house would have spoken softly, with refinement, of books and music and the gentle use of its land. It had never been the scene of riotous living, or any sort of unpleasantness or conflict. It had sheltered for many years a lonely man who had abandoned the hope of having a family, and later a loving family who had cherished every day, as if there might never be enough days to enjoy.

  Now the house stood awaiting what would be the final in a series of sad events. The present owner, the nephew of the lonely bachelor and the head of the happy family, had been confined by a devastating illness to a single room, miles away. Until his passing, the house was destined to stand empty. There was the girl, his daughter, but she was young and most likely too busy with life elsewhere to ever return to this remote valley. She would no doubt choose to build her future out in the world, allowing the house to pass into new hands. While during her childhood, she had been dedicated to this home that had been so lovingly created for her, illness, death, grief and ultimately change had sent her away from her carefully planned future here
.

  Everything remained exactly as they had left it. Nothing had been taken away, as if they had expected to return. The girl had even come to visit once or twice. She had been so sad, so quiet, seeming to hesitate at the door, afraid to come too far inside, afraid to disturb the memories that shadowed every room. If houses could grieve, this one would have then, for the demise of the girl's indomitable spirit.

  But houses can only stand and wait for someone to bring life back through the door. They are always ready, prepared to accept change and welcome newcomers. They may hold memories of the past, but they are not held back by them. As the seasons came and went, the house continued to wait for some sign of change, some stirring toward its next life.

  All around the valley, there were signs that the coming winter would be a hard one; signs that Mother Nature posts for anyone who chooses to take note. Out in the world, there were signs too, discontent, conflict and violence. As with every generation the young were restless, urging for change, losing themselves in their own freedom. Far away, a war raged on, a war the people had grown tired of hearing about, weary of spending lives on.

  But for houses that sit in isolated valleys, life looks much the same with every passing year. Only when the people who inhabit them fill them with noise and energy, or quiet and calm, do houses have any share in the happenings of the world. Houses must be loved or resented, treasured or neglected, in order to be touched by the history that passes by in their time.

  If the house could have seen beyond its view of hills and valleys, it might have noticed the signs of change coming its way. The girl, who had for so long been quietly waiting for a sign toward her own future, was inspired to look to the past for direction. If the house had known, it might have attempted to appear less forsaken, might have stood a little taller on its foundation, and might have tried to hold in a little more warmth from the winter sunlight. But as is the case with houses, it could only stand and wait.

  You Before Me. . .

  Chapter One

  It seemed to Emily that her father must have known. He must have read the misery in her eyes and drawing on what little strength remained, he had roused himself to give her the benefit of his wisdom one last time.

  Three barely discernible words, stammering and slurred, forced from his unwilling lips with such tremendous effort, yet they had spun a web of possibilities in her brain. She had argued with herself that it was her own directionless longing that magnified those words, transforming them into what sounded like fundamental wisdom. She was grasping at straws in her need to find some way to put her life back on track. She had prayed for a sign, for clarity, for a miracle. What she had received seemed to be a mere suggestion, a few words uttered by a man who might not even realize what he was saying. But she couldn't accept that. Her heart urged her to believe otherwise. In the end, she had followed her heart.

  Now here she was, at home as she had never expected to be again, and she was certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that her father had sent her. Pop must have known that the future she was blindly seeking lay in her past, in the dreams and plans that had once appeared shattered but were in fact hers for the rebuilding. Had he known that once she walked back into the house, saw that it was waiting for her to return, she would understand what she was meant to do? Perhaps he'd merely been encouraging her to come back, to see what was here and decide what she wanted for herself. It would be like him to tell her to try something, and if it didn't work out, chalk it up to experience. Failure was most often in the hesitation, he had always said.

  It hadn't been quite that easy. She’d fought a protracted battle with her more practical side. There were obvious flaws in the logic of just coming here alone in search of answers to questions too painful to put into words. She would have to try to explain something she couldn't make sense of herself. She would have to stand firm against the arguments that the house had been closed up for years, that a nineteen-year-old girl had no business alone in such an isolated place, that she should be spending the holidays with friends, not closeting herself away to brood over the past. In the end, coming here without telling anyone seemed by far the easiest thing to do. That led to the question of where to tell them she was spending the Christmas break. They would all want to know, Jack, Angela, the kids at school, especially Penny, even Mike and Sara. She had handled that with what she knew to be a despicable lack of honesty.

  She had never believed herself capable of a convincing lie, but evasion had become second nature since she'd been at college. Reluctant to expose herself as a lonely girl without a family or a real home, she had trained herself to skillfully evade the issue. She was sure her classmates considered her a snob, but she dreaded the idea of their pitying looks, or worse still, their thoughtless gossip. Rather they wonder what she had to hide than suspect her of seeking sympathetic attention. So when she was asked about her holiday plans, she glibly alluded to a ski trip with some hypothetical friends. To those back home, the friends were assumed to be classmates. To her classmates, and to Penny, they were old chums from her childhood. She never actually said where she was going, just that she'd been invited, and that wasn’t quite a lie. She had been invited, by a boy who persisted in showing an interest in her, a boy with a huge ego and an overabundance of confidence in his own charms, a boy she wouldn't have considered walking across the street with. But it had been an invitation. She hadn't lied about that.

  She knew that once she armed herself with enough arguments to go to Jack with her plan, she would have to confess her deception. And she would also eventually have to tell Penny the truth. But for now, it was enough to know that her dishonesty had been justified. The idea her father had planted had led her back to her home, her past, and back to herself. This night's epiphany had brought her into her future, and she could only hope the people who loved her would understand why she had chosen to make the journey on her own.

  The actual miracle had occurred, she believed, when she’d stood beneath the stars and whispered her own name into the darkness. In the cold night wind, the fog that had for so long bound her mind began to clear. She had looked up to the sky, a broad black bowl over the valley filled with stars she hadn't seen in years. As the profound silence embraced her, she had sensed that she was embarking on a deeply spiritual journey toward her better self. The wind rustling in the branches above her seemed to whisper words of calm and comfort, as if to say don't rush, take time to be very certain of each step.

  She had thought then of her father's words. “You,” touching her hand with a trembling caress; “farm,” shaking his head sadly. And finally, after what seemed a herculean struggle, “home.” There had been tears in his eyes, as though it grieved him to have to remind her.

  Looking up to the sky again, she’d felt the surge of her reviving spirit. Overhead, familiar constellations winked in place. A sliver of a moon hung low over the trees, too pale to compete with the brilliance of the stars. This would have been the perfect cinematic moment for a star to arc from its orbit and trail to the horizon, she mused. But nothing moved, save the gentle twinkling and one small cloud sailing just below the moon. That, she believed, had been the sign she had prayed for. The sky she had gazed up at as a child was unchanged. The hills had not shifted their positions. The winter cold had arrived in the proper season. Some things, the most essential of things, remained constant. In her short life, so much had changed. So much that she’d almost been uprooted and lost herself. In this familiar place was the direction she'd been seeking, the peace and stability she craved. Had her parents been standing with her there, she could not have felt more confident of the path she saw opening before her.

  What remained was accepting that with this decision came a binding commitment. This was more than merely taking possession of what was already hers. Any plan to return to this place, to make it her home and build her future here, would not only include the promise to care for the house and the land. She must also submit herself to be further shaped by what was here. Ju
st as it belonged to her, she knew she belonged to the farm. She would not be free to go elsewhere. It would always need her care, her companionship. It would be her family, her responsibility. Maybe that was why Pop had been so sad. What if she hadn't wanted that?

  There beneath the infinite expanse of the winter sky, mindful of all that had gone before, she made her commitment. She would come home, build on what her parents had already established, dedicate herself to a life they would have wanted for her. She would work through the practical problems of her decision in the days ahead, holding firm to the belief that things meant to be could be made to happen. The failure of her plan would have been in the hesitation to take this first step into her future. Her father had taught her better, and she intended to make him proud.

  On her pallet next to the hearth, Emily slept more peacefully that night than she had in years. She dreamed of the house as it was when there had been the three of them together. In her dream, she heard the sound of music, the piano and the violin speaking as surely as the voices that called from room to room. She smelled freshly polished wood, sun-warmed roses and the alluring scent of baking bread. In every room, as she passed slowly through the house, surfaces gleamed in the sunlight and a sweet breeze stirred the curtains at the open windows. In the oak trees outside, birds sang and the fields beyond the barn were green with the summer's abundant crop. The house seemed to glow, renewed, reborn.

  Daybreak brought the full force of harsh reality to bear. The first of those practical problems she had been so sure could be worked through met her first waking glance. The house was cold, her fire now barely glowing ashes, and from her vantage point by the hearth, she had a view of the dust that coated every surface and the delicate webs laced across light fixtures and clinging in corners. The musty smell of neglect filled her nostrils with each breath. With a resolute groan, she threw off the covers and scurried to the kitchen. Soon the copper kettle was heating water for tea and slices of buttered bread were toasting under the broiler. She had never been afraid of hard work; in fact it had always helped her think. There was enough work here to last for days, plenty of time to formulate her strategies and test her arguments. By the time the house was clean, she should be prepared to march into Jack’s office and present her plan.