by Karen Welch
“I must have been here. I must have started walking from here. It's up there, isn't it? The house is there at the top? I walked up there. Why would I do that, go in that direction, when I could have just gone back to the highway?” John strained to catch his words, recognizing the emotion in the hushed tone. With Stani, the more distressed, the softer his voice became.
“You were in shock. You had struck your head. You must have been confused and just wandered blindly from here. Is it so important, lad?”
“No, I suppose not. Pretty amazing, wouldn't you say, that I would take the most difficult way out? Not at all like me.” He flashed an ironic grin. “You know me, John, always the easy way. What time was the accident?”
“Sometime before dawn.”
“And I wasn't up there until afternoon, right?”
“One.”
“What do you suppose I was doing all that time?” Stani turned and walked back to the car, taking one last look at the damaged tree. “Searching for something, I imagine.”
John drove back to the highway; and following the directions he'd been given by a local gas station attendant, he headed the car toward a road that cut up the side of a sharp rise. He glanced at Stani, but he was staring straight ahead, a telltale muscle in his jaw the only indication of his thoughts.
“You're sure you want to do this? What can she tell you about the accident? She wasn't there, you know.”
“I don't want her to tell me anything, at least not at first. I want to try to remember. So far, it hasn't worked. But I think I do remember something here, something about her. I won't know until I see her, will I?” He turned away with an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.
They followed the steep, winding road for almost two miles, and John began to question the directions until a white board fence came into sight. By the open gate, a sign announced their arrival at Valley Rise Farm, and the name J.E. Haynes assured him this was their destination. He stopped the car inside the gate, looking to see Stani's reaction. But he was staring at the big white house beneath the trees, his eyes unusually bright. Without a word, he got out and began to stride purposefully across the broad expanse of lawn. They had agreed that he would go in alone, but John sat watching, prepared to join him if he felt the need.
Stani walked to the house, mounting the wide steps to the porch. The front door opened and a tall, slim girl stepped through. John had the momentary impression of a simple blue dress, long, shapely legs and a flowing mass of dark hair. When they met at the top of the stairs, she held out her hand to Stani and for a moment they seemed to study one another, standing almost eye to eye. Then, to John's utter amazement, they embraced, holding each other for what seemed a long time, before they turned together and went through the door.
Later, he saw them walking behind the house to the edge of the yard where the hillside fell away toward the road below, toward the site of the accident. The girl was watching Stani as he turned and gestured, gazing toward the house and shaking his head. She took his arm, and John thought he could see her smiling, talking enthusiastically as she led him back across the yard. And he could see that Stani was smiling too. For the first time today, his stride was relaxed, as if he were enjoying a walk in the sunshine with a pretty girl, rather than revisiting the scene of a nightmare. John would have given a great deal to hear what they were saying to each other, but by the looks of things Stani had found the girl in his dream and had not been disappointed.
Not long after, Stani came to the car, leaning into the window. “Look, old man, would you mind driving into town and having a bite of lunch? Emily says there's a cafe on the main street. Take all the time you like, there's no hurry.”
“What about you? You're not ready to leave, I can see.”
Stani seemed excited, his color high. “Emily is cooking.”
“Ah, I see. Well, in that case, I'll go.” Stani turned to leave, and John called after him. “Cooking, eh? What exactly is she cooking, lad?”
“I have no idea, and it matters not at all!” With an exceptionally broad grin, he waved and walked briskly back to the house.
When Emily had shooed him out of the kitchen, encouraging him to sit and relax while she prepared their lunch, Stani again looked around the big room with the fireplace at one end, and the beautiful old piano at the other. He had been drawn to the mantel when he first came in, studying the room from that angle to see that it fit his memory. He had been here, he knew, next to the hearth. And he could picture her, sitting curled in the chair there, watching him. He felt such overwhelming gratitude that finally he had something to show for his search. He did remember snatches of his time here.
And he remembered Emily. He had known her immediately. Here was the face, the smile and that soft, sweet voice, exactly as they had been in his dream. Unexpected tears had welled in his eyes. How could he ever express how relieved he was to learn that she was real? But she had responded with tears of her own, and they had fallen into each other’s arms as old friends, with no need of explanations. It was miraculous, he knew, that she was the one thing he could honestly say he remembered from those lost days.
Warm and comforting, just as he would have expected of the girl in his dream, she had quietly watched as he dealt with that first rush of memory. She had given him time to collect himself, as she wiped away her tears with a little smile. Then she had patiently answered his questions, finally taking him to where she had first seen him coming up the hill. She said he might have tried to tell her about a light, as he lay in the snow, a light she had turned on much earlier that morning. He had seen her light! That was why he had walked up the hill.
After seeing the place where he had fallen, he asked in amazement how she had ever managed to get him into the house. Blushing, she had described wrapping him in some kind of blanket and pulling him across the yard.
From the kitchen, he heard her softly humming, as dishes clattered and cabinet doors slammed. She was so unlike any girl he'd ever met, he struggled to fix her image in his mind. Pretty, yes, most definitely, but so much more than that; slim and graceful, and tall. They stood eye to eye, and he knew that the heels on his boots gave him an extra inch or so. When he had held her, he’d found his face buried in her hair, an overwhelming sensation in itself. Heavy and rich, dark brown, she wore it straight, pulled loosely from her face and held at the back of her head by a big silver clip. He’d found himself, as they talked, wondering what it would look like hanging free, and for an instant imagined unpinning its length and laying it gently around her shoulders. His fantasy had produced an unexpected rush of embarrassed blood to his face, and he wondered if she guessed at his thoughts because she had blushed too.
He turned now as she came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she had put on over her dress. It struck him that her simplicity, her total lack of pretense, gave her an air of the exotic. She might have lived all her life in this place, as she had told him, but she could easily have been a native of a dozen different countries, with her dark hair and tanned skin and those amazingly pale gray eyes. Unworldly, he thought, yet so down to earth, as she smiled and said softly, “Lunch is ready, whenever you are.” Stani shook himself hard. His tired brain was rapidly spinning out of control, turning this lovely girl into an exotic, and quite easily an erotic, fantasy. She deserved better.
As they sat at the table in the sunny kitchen, eating the delicious meal of cold beef, fried potatoes and several types of vegetables, some he wasn't sure he'd ever seen before, he asked if she lived alone.
“Yes. My parents are both dead now, but this is my home. I've lived here all my life, except for time away at school, and now this is my family.” The wave of her hand seemed to include the whole of the woods and fields around the house. She didn't seem sad, he thought, but resolute, as if she had a firm commitment to her place here.
“No man, no boyfriend to help you with all this?” He braced himself for her answer.
“No need. I can manage fine by myself.”
Again, she was firm, but she smiled, as if amused that he would think she might need help.
“You said you have a job away from home?”
“I'm a nurse. I work for a special-duty agency. It gives me the opportunity to work when I want to and be here when I'm needed.” Watching with approval as he cleaned his plate, she held out the basket of golden rolls, still warm in their checked napkin. “I don't suppose you've sat at many farmhouse kitchen tables and eaten okra and homemade bread, have you?”
“Never.” Stani realized he must be grinning like an idiot. How had this terrifying day become so amazingly pleasant? “You're not saying you baked these?” He took a roll and studied it with appropriate awe.
“Not so unusual in my world. Now eat. Your friend will be back soon. It's not very nice that you sent him into town. He was more than welcome to join us.”
“I wanted to have as much time as I can with you. There's something more, if you don't mind, that I'd like to ask you.”
“Of course.” She was instantly serious again.
“Why didn't you want anyone to know what you'd done for me? Please tell me I didn't do anything to you, to hurt you in any way.”
She blinked at him. “How could you have hurt me? You couldn't even walk. That's the silliest thing I've ever heard.” She was laughing at him, her eyes bright, and he felt himself blush again.
“Well, one hears of people doing all sorts of crazed things. Since I can't remember, I was afraid I said or did something to make you want me to just go away. You didn't even go to the hospital with me, did you?”
“No, but that had nothing to do with you. I was going through a difficult time in my own life. Once you were safely away, I knew I'd never see you again. I didn't want people coming around asking a lot of questions. Can't you understand how a girl from my simple little world would want to hide from the kind of glare that follows you everywhere you go?”
He thought for a moment about what she'd said. He'd never given any consideration to her situation, only thinking of his own ordeal. “You're right, there would have been questions,” he said finally. “But you're wrong that we would never have seen each other. We have, haven't we? And if you'll allow it, we will again.” A flicker of concern, or maybe fear, crossed her face. He laid a hand on the table near hers, but not quite touching. “Emily, I'm so thankful to have finally found you. I'm not about to just drive away today and never expect to see you again. Please tell me you won't send me away without the hope of coming back.”
Now it seemed to be her turn to think. She rose from the table and began to clear away the plates. Stani realized she must have believed this would be their only meeting. And in truth, he had never anticipated all he'd found here. But that had all changed now. For whatever reason, he couldn't bear the idea of saying good-bye to her today.
She came back and sat across from him, toying with her napkin. “If you really want to stay in touch, I don't suppose there could be any harm. Maybe we could write, like pen pals.” At his puzzled frown, she went on. “When I was in fifth grade, we were given the addresses of kids in foreign countries. Mine lived in Norway. We wrote letters, telling how we lived here and they wrote back about their lives. Considering how different our lives are, we could write those kinds of letters. You could tell me about your travels and the famous people you work with.”
He was intrigued by her suggestion. “And what would you write back to me?”
“Nothing so glamorous, I'm sure. I could tell you about the weather here, how the garden is growing, and the cost of fertilizer, I suppose.” Again, he frowned. “In the spring, when I plant my garden, I can send you progress reports.”
“Garden, as in flowers?”
“No, as in vegetables. Look out there, see those rows of dirt?” She pointed to the plowed field below the house. “That's my garden. My father had a truck farm and it's my ambition to start it up again next year.” She was smiling indulgently, as if he were a child. “I told you our lives are different. You are a world-famous musician. I am a farmer. It doesn't get much farther apart than that. Are you sure you want to go beyond today?”
“Positive. No doubts at all. Just promise you'll write in words I can understand.” Now he took her hand in his, shocked at how cool and soft it was. “I thought I had dreamed you, Emily. But I could never have conjured up someone like you. I came here searching for memories, but you've given me so much more than that. Thank you.” Cautiously, he lifted her hand to his lips, hoping she wouldn't pull away. But her eyes, wide and smoky gray now, met his as if she fully understood the effect she had had on him.
Dear amazing Emily,
This is indeed a letter of thanks. For your gracious hospitality, for your time, and most especially for the generous gift of your self.
I cannot begin to put into words what it means to find that I actually have some memory of the hours we spent together. If I am never to recall the other events of those days, at least I have found something that proves I was in fact there. Waking to learn that something so horrible had happened and having no idea what part I might have played has caused me as much pain as any of my injuries. While I accept that I may never regain the memory of the accident and how I escaped with my life, I now understand what followed. I am in awe of the effort you made on my behalf. Where you found the strength and courage I cannot imagine. However, having spent time with you, I begin to see whatan extraordinary young woman you are.
As I look back at the past few hours (I am writing this as the car speeds ever farther from your home), I realize how much more I wanted to ask about you and your life. I want to know about the things you love, the music and books, your favorite season and time of day, the colors you love to have around you and your favorite flavor of ice cream. And I want to know all about your family, your friends, how you spend your leisure time. I feel we are old friends, united by a very powerful bond, yet I realize I know so little about you. Please, will you share these things with me?
When I am performing tomorrow night, in my heart I will dedicate my performance to the woman who saved my life, and who I now hope will remain a part of that life—to my amazing friend, Emily.
All my best (your pen pal?)
Stani
Courtship
Chapter Thirty-three
Dear Stani,
I find myself overwhelmed by your letter. First you refer with such intensity to your feelings about the accident. Then you want to know my favorite flavor of ice cream? Are you always so mercurial? If so, I shall have difficulty knowing what in your letters to take seriously and what to laugh at.
There is one very serious matter I want to address, right at the start. You must not think of me as the person who saved your life. I believe with all my heart that nothing I did for you could have saved you if you were not meant to survive that night. You lived because there is more you are meant to do with your life. It was an act of God, and I did nothing more than keep you safe until help could come. So please don't think of me as anything more than the person who was in the right place to help you when you needed help. You yourself, if you will think about it, were the one who did something extraordinary, by walking up that hillside to find help. Your own desire to survive must have kept you going all those hours.
I can understand your wanting to know the details of the events leading up to the accident, but that too may be part of your healing. It must require great faith to accept the loss of those memories. I'm sure you did nothing to cause the tragedy of that night. Learning to accept loss and move on with life is something I know about. It is never easy, but the moving on can bring comfort and in time peace.
You ask about my family. As I told you, both of my parents are dead now. My mother died of cancer when I was fifteen and my father died two years ago after spending three years completely disabled following a stroke. It took me some time to pick up my life, the life they would have wanted me to have. After wandering in a depressed fog for over two years, I finally came home and fo
und the answers I needed. I had believed that everything I had loved, my family and my home, was lost forever. There is no way to describe the miracle that made me understand that I could come back here, start my own life, and keep all that my parents had already built. It was that miracle that had brought me here that Christmas week. You will forever be a part of that for me. In many ways, you helped me as much as I helped you. I realized that beside the miracle of your surviving that night, my own worries had been short-sighted and selfish. I had doubted the wisdom of God's plan for my life, which I have never done since. I believe so completely that everything happens for a reason, as part of a greater plan. Our meeting, unusual as the circumstances may have been, was meant to bring something to both our lives.
Enough of my personal philosophy! Let's see, you asked about friends, which would take another several pages, since each of them is so special to me. And music and books are the substance of my leisure time, little as there seems to be of it. I love spring, summer, fall and winter equally. Sunrise and sunset are second only to nighttime, when the stars are so incredibly brilliant in the sheer darkness of night in the country. My favorite colors are found in the rainbow and the countryside in fall. And last, but not least, my favorite ice cream is predictably chocolate.
Now it's your turn. Even though I have read the liner notes of your recording, I'm not sure where you were born and raised (and can't quite tell by your accent!). I know nothing of your family, where you actually live and certainly nothing of your tastes, although I imagine them to be very refined. And one pressing question, do you always wear black? I am also curious to know what sort of music you listen to, as opposed to the music you perform. There is such a world of beautiful music, how can anyone limit themselves to only one variety?