Leah had turned the house at 126 Main into a photography school, keeping her studio open for business but encouraging her students to be hired as the portrait takers. She’d set up a scholarship fund with the five thousand dollars she’d received from the New York Amateur Photography contest. Her winning photograph was hanging in her and Wyatt’s bedroom, and after Geneva’s initial need for smelling salts, she hadn’t uttered a single word about the self-portrait.
With a sigh, Leah pondered the turn of events that had happened in all their lives. The most profound change had been to Leo. The proverb cookie business had taken off so rapidly, he’d bought out the old Cloudtree dairy buildings and turned them into a factory. He’d sent for Tu Yan’s brother from China and his sister Mei and her family from Brooklyn to help run things. Mei had brought a lovely woman with her named Jade Teagarden, and Leo had married her five years ago.
With all the profits he was making on Happy City Proverb Cookies, shipping them to big city restaurants across the West, Leo opened the restaurant only on the weekends. Leah and Wyatt ate there every Saturday evening.
When Leo bought the Cadillac roadster, the automobile had been the talk of Eternity. Leo had been generous enough to give everyone a ride down Main Street and up State. That, of course, got Geneva working on Hartzell, and this year, her Model T Ford had arrived. They’d taken it on an extended trip across country to Niagara Falls for a second honeymoon after Hartzell retired from the bank and let Mr. Biggs oversee the operation.
Bean Scudder was still the marshal, and he was likeable these days since he’d given up liquor nearly seven years ago. All the beer bottles from his tree had come down, to be replaced by the amber glass of root beer bottles. Wyatt had convinced him that a beer by any name ought to taste just as good. Bean had gotten hooked on Hires. In the hot summer months, one could always find the marshal on his stoop with his Little Hustler fan in the doorway and a cold bottle of root beer in his hand as he watched over his town in a less affronting manner.
Fremont Quigley, the postmaster, had transferred to Lake City in aught six, and the government had sent out a twenty-two-year-old replacement from Vista Terrace who’d been courting Pinkie Sommercamp this past year. Leemon Winterowd was still in the statuary business. For a time, he’d called on one or the other Clinkingbeard sisters, but nothing romantic developed. The spinster twins still resided on Colorado Street and were enjoying a successful stint at having gardening tip books published.
So it seemed, Leah thought, as she watched the dull sage roll by outside the dusty automobile window, that life in Eternity had gone on with its ups and downs. People finding happiness in the ways that they could. Everyone except Wyatt seemed to be fulfilled. Now it was his turn to seek out his ghosts and lay them to rest once and for all.
* * *
Wyatt could see the shake roof of the old homestead. The top of the cottonwood he’d planted by the back door when he’d been a kid still stood there, a testimony to the test of time. His hands began to sweat against the steering wheel as he veered left, then right to the drive lined with willows. The familiar landmarks marked the beginning of a homecoming that had been twenty-nine years in the making. His stomach churned half in anticipation, half in dread.
Though his mother had written steadily since he’d first contacted her, he couldn’t be sure how she felt about him until he read her eyes. His dad, he’d found out, had had a stroke a couple of years back and couldn’t walk without the aid of a cane. It was impossible for Wyatt to imagine his hardworking father in such a way.
Wyatt wouldn’t have been seeing his family at all if it hadn’t been for Leah’s loving encouragement and the acceptance of her family. It had taken his children to make him see through a parent’s eyes.
His children.
He and Leah hadn’t had any children of their own. He loved Tug and Rosalure as if he’d fathered them. He’d learned through them. Though Tug and Rosalure sometimes strayed from his and Leah’s guidance, he loved them no less when they made mistakes. It was how they learned and grew. Harlen’s trouble had been, he hadn’t known when to get on his horse and ride home to the love of his parents.
Veering the automobile around a tumbleweed that had blown in the middle of the drive, Wyatt neared the house that came into full view. The old place was as he recalled: in disrepair, but standing, patched together by the working hands of the Rileys. A gathering of people he couldn’t readily identify stood on the porch. Some held hands. Some held babies.
His chest felt as if it would burst. He took in shallow, quick gasps, trying to smash the tension that had been building in him since this morning. Leah softly touched his arm as he cut the engine and stared over the steering wheel at the expectant faces.
He searched anxiously for his mother and his dad, his gaze falling on a woman with her hair in a neat twist standing next to a man in a wicker rocker supporting a cane between his knees.
“We’ll wait here a moment,” Leah said quietly.
Nodding, Wyatt opened the car door and slid off the sticky seat. His usually unyielding stance was uncertain. Every muscle in his body burned from tight knots. He took in a deep breath and tried to relax as he walked toward the porch.
His mother moved forward as he took the steps. The arms at her aproned side hesitantly reaching out to him. Wyatt’s vision clouded with stinging tears, and he quickly blinked them back.
“Harlen . . . she cried. “Oh, Harlen . . .” His mother took him to her bosom, and he clung to her. Deep sobs raked her body as he tried, unsuccessfully this time, to keep from biting back his tears.
“Ma,” Wyatt choked, unable to edge out the emotions clogging his throat. “Ma . . .”
A trembling hand fell on his shoulder, and Wyatt lifted his head. His dad stood next to him, his right arm leaning heavily on the handle of a cane. The left side of his face was slightly relaxed, while the other spoke of power and ageless strength.
Clement Riley’s blue eyes shined with joyous tears. “What took you so long to come home, son?”
Wyatt’s voice broke, “I couldn’t find the road, Dad.” He grasped his father and brought him close. “My wife helped me.
“She and your ma write,” Clement said.
“I know, Dad.”
The side effects of the stroke had ingratiated itself into Clement’s once whip-sharp mind. This fell heavily on Wyatt, and he regretted to no end the time he hadn’t been with his father.
Without saying a word, Wyatt’s mother led him to the end of the porch and began reintroducing him to his brothers and sisters and the nephews and nieces he’d never known.
Wyatt knew Ardythe. They’d only been six years apart. She was crying like no tomorrow when he touched her cheek.
“H-Harlen, we thought you was dead.”
He shook his head, smiling at the boys at her side who were taller than she. Wyatt met her husband and sons, then moved to Daniel and Robert. “You ever race grasshoppers anymore, Harlen?” Daniel asked, close to tears.
“I’ve been doing too much running myself,” Harlen replied, then held onto his brother with a fierce love. A bond that hadn’t been broken.
Wyatt learned the names of both Daniel’s and Robert’s wives and those of their children. His brother Todd socked him on the shoulder, then embraced him so hard, Wyatt’s bones cracked.
“Hey, Harlen, you’re big,” Todd marveled.
“So are you, Todd.”
The last was Mary, the sister he hadn’t seen since she was a baby. He wouldn’t have known the lovely woman holding an infant as his kin.
“I’m Harlen,” he said to her. “I’m your brother.”
“I’m Mary,” she said shyly, cooing to the baby girl in her arms.
“I’m . . . I’m sorry I wasn’t around for your birthdays. . . .” Harlen’s voice choked and he couldn’t hold his tears back anymore.
The family gathered around, touching and holding hands, talking at the same time in low, loving tones and gazing with lo
ve at the return of the lost son and brother.
In later years, no one could ever describe the emotion felt at that meeting. The reunion proved to be the strength of Clement Riley’s heart, and he lived with less pain than he had. They talked into the wee hours of the morning, with Leah, Rosalure, and Tug sitting in and listening to stories of Wyatt’s childhood. Wyatt expressed his deep sorrow for having caused so much heartache. He told them it was his humiliation for having lived the life he had that had kept him from coming home so long. Pride wouldn’t let him return to Moab. He was too ashamed of his being incarcerated in the penitentiary.
Forgiveness was not a word that needed to be spoken. It was felt in the hearts of all those gathered in the cozy living room of the farmhouse.
The following day, Leah set up her camera in the front yard and assembled everyone onto the porch. So many members of a whole . . . she had adopted them all as her own.
“Closer, everyone,” she said, popping out from behind the cloth. She wanted the picture to be perfect.
Wyatt squeezed into the center, standing next to his mother and father on either side. Rosalure and Tug were on the bottom step, Wyatt’s hands on both their shoulders.
“Don’t anyone move!” Leah exclaimed, engaging the timer on the shutter and dashing forward. She fell into place by her new mother-in-law. “Smile, now.”
They waited long seconds, then a mechanical click went off, indicating that the photograph had been taken of a family that had withstood hardships, but had been held together by faith. The end result was not a picture. It was a portrait of the human spirit. Of generations. An image of love and the renewal of hearts.
The portrait of Wyatt’s homecoming graced the wall of his office for years to come.
Dear Readers:
I had the privilege of having Barbara Ankrum, Rachel Gibson, and Kathleen Sage critique Portraits. These writers make my job more enjoyable when it’s not going well at all. They were there to encourage and offer suggestions when I thought I’d written myself into a corner. Thank you so very much for your support and continued friendship.
With every historical romance I write, I try and incorporate history into the pages as accurately as possible without making you snooze off as if you were reading a required textbook for History 101. Researching Portraits was especially enlightening for me. I learned about photography, something I had absolutely no knowledge about. I’m an aim-and-shoot Instamatic girl. But I did discover the appreciation of wonderful black-and-white photographs taken at the turn of the century, most notably, the work of Alfred Stieglitz. He is real. To get a true understanding of his genius, you’ve got to get hold of a photograph he took of young Georgia O’Keefe (whom he later married), standing on a porch. The power of this picture is inspiring. (Thanks to my own photographer, Greg Sims, for sharing his book.)
It was no accident Leah loved opera. She got that from me. My father instilled in me an appreciation of the arts, and as a child I sat in awe watching costumed performers on the stage of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles. Perhaps unlike other music, opera is listened to not for the words, but for the passion of the voices. Some of my favorites are Puccini’s “Nessun dorma,” from Turandot, sung by Luciano Pavarotti; Delibes’s “Viens, Mallika . . . Dôme épais,” from Lakmé, sung by Mady Mesplé and Danièlle Millet; Puccini’s “Quando m’en vo” from La Bohème, sung by Mariella Adani with Mario Sereni; and Puccini’s “O mio babbino caro,” from La Rondine, sung by Kiri Te Kanawa. Opera is widely used in the movies, and anyone wanting to see just how familiar certain arias may be could try The Movies Goes To The Opera, Aria: A Passion For Opera, or Opera For People Who Hate Opera.
I hope while you read about Wyatt and Leah’s romance you were pleasantly diverted from folding the stack of laundry, unloading the dishwasher, cleaning the toilet, and all those other not-so-fun things around the house. If you get around to it, drop me a letter and let me know what you thought of Portraits. A self-addressed stamped envelope is always helpful.
All best,
Stef Ann Holm
P.O. Box 121
Meridian, ID 83680-0121
Books by Stef Ann Holm
Seasons of Gold
Liberty Rose
King of the Pirates
Snowbird
Weeping Angel
Crossings
Portraits
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
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Copyright © 1996 by Stef Ann Holm
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ISBN: 978-1-4516-1408-4
ISBN: 978-1-5011-1070-2 (ebook)
First Pocket Books printing September 1996
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Portraits Page 38