Hearts Unfold

by Karen Welch

  “Emily!” Sara struggled to her feet, stepping over the stacks to offer a hug. “How was New York?”

  From above, Mike chuckled softly. “More to the point, how was New York with your ‘very good friend’?”

  Emily blushed. “It was wonderful. And he was wonderful. He wanted me to tell you he’s been studying hard. He found all the books you recommended and he’s already quoting scripture to me. That’s wonderful too, isn’t it?”

  Mike came down to floor level and gave her shoulders a fond squeeze. “It is. He’s really intent on making this journey, you know. And he means to make it with you, I’m sure.”

  The blush deepened. “But that can be our secret for now, can’t it? We’ll tell the world, but not until the time is right.”

  As they often did, Sara’s eyes glittered with tears. “Your parents would be so happy for you, dear. And so will everyone else, when they know.” She sniffed softly and chuckled. “Right now, there may be a few who are a little shocked. Not only have you found a man, which you said you weren’t even interested in doing, but you’ve found a man with long hair and a British accent to boot. That may take folks a while to adjust too.”

  She spent a half-hour visiting with the two people who had given her a home when she’d suddenly been left alone and facing a sadly uncertain future. Mike and Sara McConnell had been close friends with her parents from the time both couples arrived in the little valley community. Mike was not only her pastor, he was Emily’s friend; and in many ways Sara had filled the maternal role after her mother’s death. With Mike and Sara, her confidences would be safe, she knew. But even here, in the sanctity of the cozy church office, there were things she wasn’t ready to share just yet. If she decided to go to Berlin, the McConnells would be the first to know.

  Leaving the church, she made a final stop at Martha Jean’s Boutique to drop off a little gift for the shop’s owner. Martha Jean, who had been so intent on seeing that Emily had the “right” clothes for her trip to New York City, would no doubt be pleased with the collage of newspaper clippings she’d put together. In every one, she’d been wearing something purchased from the little dress shop. Stani had warned her they might be photographed, but she’d been shocked by the number of appearances they’d made in the city’s gossip columns. And at the wild speculation over the identity of Stani Moss’s “mystery woman.”

  Martha Jean, as she had anticipated, received the gift with characteristically vocal enthusiasm. “Look at you, Em! And look at him! You make such a beautiful couple.” She studied the pictures for a long moment, as if to reassure herself the clothes had indeed been “right.” “And you needn’t have been so worried about being taller than he is. Even in heels, you’re just about the same height. Oh, Em, you look so happy! And look at that absolutely adoring expression on his face!”

  She had decided not to reveal the truth to Martha Jean. In the shoes she’d so carefully chosen for each outfit, Emily had towered inches above Stani. She had not been happy at all; in fact she’d been so unhappy that Stani had taken her shopping—for shoes. He’d purchased obscenely expensive handmade slippers, in which she was still a tiny bit taller than he; but at least he hadn’t been forced to gaze up into her eyes with that adoring expression.

  The collage was prominently displayed by the cash register, where she felt sure every woman in town would see it. It was a small price to pay for all of Martha Jean’s help, even if the very idea of so much scrutiny made Emily cringe. And maybe it would serve to satisfy the curiosity of at least some of the townspeople.

  They all asked about him, where he was and when she would be seeing him again. In every shop on the courthouse square, even after church on Sunday mornings, someone was sure to inquire. They had different names for him, her red-haired beau, that musician fellow, and the one she secretly liked best, that fancy violin player. She fell into the habit of checking his itinerary, now posted on the refrigerator, before each trip into town. With a smile, in a practiced voice filled with cheer, her answer to one and all was the same. “Oh, in Venice right now, I think,” or “On his way to Rome today.”

  That often seemed to eliminate the need for the next question, which was invariably, “Have you heard from him?” She could at least count on Myrtice to substantiate her claim that mail from “over there” was reliably unpredictable. In fact, she had received several letters, each hastily written and filled with everything but details of his whereabouts. He wrote things no one needed to know, how much he missed her, how he dreamed of her in his arms. He catalogued her charms in typically romantic language, the color of her eyes in candlelight, the timbre of her voice when she told him she loved him, and the lilt of her laughter at his pathetic jokes. No, Mr. Brown at the grocery, and Katie Malone at the flower shop would not appreciate those bits of information.

  Martha Jean might be interested, but Emily would never dare tell her the details of Stani’s letters. A word in Martha Jean’s ear was guaranteed to reach Jack within the hour, and Emily was determined to keep Jack in blissful ignorance as long as possible. Sheriff Jack Deem, her godfather, her third parent as she thought of him, was watching her closely, she knew. He would worry, and being overly protective anyway, he might begin to question the wisdom of her relationship with a man who traveled the world, leaving her sitting at home cooling her heels. Jack didn’t know that man would be her husband by the end of the year, and she was not prepared to tell him that yet.

  They had agreed to keep it a secret—more precisely, Stani had reluctantly agreed to honor her request to keep it a secret—until he was back and they could tell everyone their plans at the same time. There were after all still obstacles to overcome, not the least of which was Stani’s manager and mentor Milo Scheider’s disregard if not outright disapproval of Emily. And there was the matter of how they would divide their time between Stani’s international career and Emily’s life here in the valley. Never in her wildest dreams had she foreseen such a problem. Her carefully constructed plan had been for a solitary, simple life, supported by her work as a nurse, and by the farm’s eventual return to productivity. Now, all that would have to change. But just what form the changes would take, she had no real idea. In the meantime, she knew she didn’t want everyone here, not even Jack, putting in their two cents worth, as well-meaning as their advice might be.

  There were times when she thought Jack had guessed the truth. He knew her too well to miss the signs of her restlessness. He asked too often if she was okay, if she needed anything. Or maybe her uneasy conscience just imagined it. Jack had always seen to her well-being, even when her parents were alive. He had been there for every crisis of her life, and she felt slightly guilty about keeping things from him. Jack wanted her to be happy, she knew, and she was. Happier than she’d ever dreamed she could be. And lonelier. Somehow all the wonderful people who had supported her all those years, all the smiling faces that greeted her on the square and came to her door to visit, could not make up for the absence of that one face now missing.

  True, she could conjure him in her mind at will. The deep auburn of his hair shining in the sunlight, the warm, dark brown of his eyes smiling across the table, each finely chiseled feature and every expression she’d observed on his wonderfully mobile face.. She could hear the echo of his voice; feel the phantom touch of his hand. The longer they were apart, the less comforting and the more painful those ghostly visions became. And the more tempting John’s suggestion seemed to grow.

  She wondered if she could really be so daring. Could she go to an airport, fly across an ocean, and get to a hotel in a strange and foreign city? Of course, John would be there to help her. She imagined going backstage after the concert, seeing the look on Stani's face, feeling his arms around her after almost two months apart. For that moment, she finally admitted, she could be daring. John had said a telegram would set everything in motion. She had prayed about it, asking as always for a sign. Stani's first letter, in which he wrote of the hours he was spending working
on the Mozart project, made her somehow anxious. He was composing on the train, in the car, in the hotel rooms, he said, working in snatches of time wherever he was. He sounded driven, almost feverish. This was something new; she'd certainly never seen him in this mood, although John had described times when he pushed too hard. She finally accepted her uneasiness as the sign she needed. She would go to Berlin, spend four wonderful days with him, and see for herself that Stani was really able to keep up such a pace.

  About the Author

  Karen Welch was born in Richmond, Virginia and grew up in nearby Amelia County. After a twenty year sojourn in North Florida, she now lives in Southeast Kansas with husband John and children and grandchildren nearby.

  Contact Karen at welchkaren@yahoo.com and follow her on Facebook at Author Karen Welch for updates on the Miracle at Valley Rise Series.