The Heart of Home

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Tristan shifted his feet, feeling an odd compulsion to bear his battered thoughts to this stranger. “She refused my proposal of marriage.”

  “Did she?” Mr. Remington cocked his head. “Are you sure?”

  He scowled. Did the man think him daft? How would he not know if she had refused such a request? Still, he sifted through the conversation and examined the memory. “Well, she said she didn’t love me, and then ran away.” He lifted his hands. “I think it is safe to assume her answer is no.”

  “Ah, well,” Mr. Remington said, rocking back on his heels. “One thing I have learned about women is that you can never make assumptions about their intentions.”

  As Opal had made assumptions about Millie? He thought back, remembering the emotions that had played across her features. Yes, now that he thought on it, he was sure the look in her eyes had not only been sorrow for the story he’d shared, but also a different hurt. A pain of her own.

  He looked at Mr. Remington, and oddly, the fellow smiled.

  Why would Opal look that way? Unless… He glanced at the house, where the door stood ajar. Unless she thought Tristan yet loved another, and the idea pained her? “She distinctly said she did not love me.” But if she truly did not love him, then why be upset over thinking he yearned for a lost love?

  “Hmm.” Mr. Remington glanced at the door. “When we were first together, I found it frustrating when Ella would lob hurtful words at me, even when I could clearly see she scarcely believed them.”

  Tristan stared at him. That hardly sounded like the fairytale love he’d expected, given Opal’s doe-eyed recount of the tale.

  “It wasn’t until later,” Remington continued, “that I realized she said things as a way of building walls against me, in order to protect herself. It wasn’t until I had the courage to scale those walls that I truly understood her.”

  The man spoke in riddles.

  “Perhaps,” he said with a sly smile, “you might find another opportunity to discuss things with her.”

  “Perhaps. Though I doubt she will welcome the conversation.”

  “Then maybe it’s time to declare your feelings.”

  Tristan eyed the man a moment, his blood heating. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” How could he expect to win her, if he wasn’t willing to fight for her?

  As Mr. Weir galloped off, Ella grasped her arm so tightly Opal winced. “Opal Martin, what’s wrong with you?”

  Opal felt her jaw unhinge and snapped it closed. “What?” Should she not feel elation watching that greedy lowlife run away like a dog with its tail between its legs?

  “Not that,” Ella whispered, ducking her head near Opal’s so Tristan and Westley wouldn’t overhear. “I mean him.”

  “Tristan?” She glanced at him, noting the satisfied set to his shoulders.

  Ella tugged on her and they started back toward the house. “Yes, of course. Who else?”

  Opal frowned, and simply let Ella lead her away. She loved her friend, but the lady did have a knack for the dramatic. They made their way across the wet ground, trying to avoid the worst of the mud.

  Mama stood on the porch like a queen overlooking her subjects, her smile radiant. Though, Opal couldn’t help but wonder why she seemed so jovial for someone who had just lost her opportunity to move to Massachusetts. They’d never have the money now. The thought brought both relief and guilt. She shouldn’t be so selfish. Mama watched them approach, then followed them inside, leaving the door ajar for the men.

  Opal tugged her arm away from her friend and paused in the foyer. “Thank heavens that scoundrel is gone. Be sure to extend my heartfelt thanks to your husband.”

  Mama made a scoffing noise, but Opal ignored her.

  Ella lifted her eyebrows, two slashes of vibrant red across her pale features. “Aye, now, you know I will, but I daresay there’s another fellow who deserves the bulk of your gratitude.” Her accent always became more pronounced when she was excited over something.

  “Yes, of course. I will thank Tristan as well, as that would only be proper.” Opal kept her shoulders straight, and her tone properly controlled. No one needed to know how it had thrilled her to see him fighting for her freedom from that awful man. They would deem such a thing silly.

  Ella rolled her eyes. “For the most romantically inclined young woman I have ever known, you certainly missed the rather romantic nature of a dashing gentleman coming to your rescue.”

  Something burned in the back of her throat and she swallowed it down. “Life is not like fairytales or romance novels. I know that now.”

  Mama wrapped her arm around Opal’s shoulders and drew her close. “Oh, my sweet girl, I am sorry I criticized you for reading and for not treasuring your tender heart. I do not wish for you to become cynical.” Her voice hitched. “And certainly not on account of my bitterness.”

  The tears that gathered in the back of her eyes wet her lashes.

  “No, life is not like a story,” Mama continued, “where every problem is immediately resolved and every couple falls in love and then never has a care in the world.” She put both hands on Opal’s shoulders and looked at her intently. “But real love is much better. You are stronger for the pain you fight through together, and closer for the wounds you help one another heal. Love isn’t without conflict, nor is it without sacrifice. But, my darling, that is the love that seeps all the way into our souls, and has the substance to last.”

  Ella sniffled. “Your mother is very wise. Do not think that Westley swooped in and, from the moment I saw him, I knew we would be together. Our love was forged through hardship, and is still growing. I love him more now than I ever did, and I believe with careful tending, that love will continue to strengthen.”

  Opal blinked away the tears. “So love is not just a rampant attraction and a wool-headed feeling?” She said it only half in jest.

  Ella laughed. “No, I daresay at times it is best described as a most frustrating and persistent devotion to tend to another’s wellbeing.” She grinned. “There are times you feel weightless and fluttery, but more often it is the comforting, steady feeling of a solid bond.”

  “So this thing…” Opal said, glancing at the two women in front of her in turn, “this thing that I feel that has me yearning to care for him, to make his hurts lessen and his smile come more often, could that be love?”

  Mama squeezed her shoulders. “It is how I started with your father, and it bloomed into something much more.”

  The door creaked open, and the object of their discussion poked his head through the door. Concern lit in his eyes, those great pools of emotion that swept her away. “Are you well?”

  She stepped forward, and nodded. “I am.” She glanced at Mama, who gave her a nod. “May we speak in the parlor?”

  He seemed surprised. “I came hoping to do just that.”

  The others dismissed themselves to join Mr. Remington on the porch, and Opal nervously followed Tristan into the parlor where he took a seat on the settee.

  She hesitated only a moment, and then settled next to him. “Thank you for protecting me and my home. You didn’t have to do that.”

  He reached over and took both of her hands in his calloused ones. “If you would let me, I would spend my life protecting you from every hurt I could.”

  She opened her mouth, but he released her hands to put his thumb over her lips.

  “Please, I must say this now, while I still have the courage to do so.”

  Opal nodded against the warmth of his palm pressed against her cheek.

  “I am broken and scarred, Opal. War has made me a haunted man. Shadows cling to my dreams, and battle still haunts my thoughts. I have no illusions about being the man you deserve, but I know that when I am with you, I want to be a better man. I want to learn to let God grow me into someone who can love you in all the ways you deserve.”

  She shuddered under the sincerity in his eyes.

  He let them drift closed and rested his forehead against hers.
His tender words brushed against her heart like a feather. “If you would have me, I would like to take this seed of love and nurture it.” He leaned back, and his face filled her vision. “Marry me, and if you have a mustard seed’s worth of love for me as well, perhaps we can grow it into a great and mighty tree that will harbor us from life’s storms.”

  She slipped her fingers up into the tangle of his hair, caked with mud from his encounter with Mr. Weir. “Oh, Tristin. I offer you a timid heart and, with it, hope to help you bind wounds and encourage you. I would like to grow this seed of love with you, and see where it takes us.”

  He sighed, and slipped his hand up to the back of her head. When his lips caressed hers, something in her soared, and she pressed closer. And in one intoxicating moment, she found that feeling she’d only ever read about.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Riverbend Plantation

  November, 1865

  Mama crossed her arms and eyed the table. “It is a Yankee holiday, you know that, don’t you?”

  Ella laughed. “Mr. Lincoln declared it a day of giving thanks unto the Lord. I say that supersedes old war alliances.” She winked at Mama. “And besides, with the army bringing in extra supplies to ensure we don’t forget to feast, it works into our plans marvelously.”

  Opal frowned. What did that mean?

  Sibby burst into the dining room, carrying a tray laden with an entire baked ham. Opal’s eyes widened. “Wherever did you get that?”

  The woman set the platter down and waved a hand at her. “Never you mind ’bout that.” She eyed Opal’s gown, still covered with a stained apron from where she’d been helping in the kitchen. “Don’t you think it’s time you done went and got ready?”

  “Yes, it is,” Ella said, grasping Opal’s hand and giving it a tug. “Come. I have a surprise for you.”

  Opal shook her head as little Basil came in with another armful of food. Where had they gotten such abundance? She hated to see all that go to waste, as it would surely take them a week to eat it all. They would fare better forgetting this silly day of feasting and store that food up for the winter.

  She allowed Ella to take her upstairs to her room, keeping her misgivings to herself. Tristan had been rather excited about everyone coming together to have this feast, and she would not spoil it for him.

  As the weeks had passed and they had spent more time in one another’s company, the seed she had first felt had, indeed, begun to grow. She and Tristan planned to marry come spring. In the meantime, he had taken up residence with the Remingtons, though he came to Riverbend every day, slowly restoring her home back into good repair.

  Ella strutted into Opal’s bedchamber and flung open her wardrobe. She reached inside and pulled out a great heap of shiny purple fabric.

  Opal stared at it a moment, and then pressed her lips together. “I hate to say it, Ella, but I fear that color will not look good on you. It…” She shrugged. “It doesn’t complement your hair.”

  “You silly girl!” Ella laughed, pulling her into a hug and crumpling the massive gown between them. “It’s for you! Sibby and I started working on it the very day you first told me about Mr. Stuart.”

  “You did?”

  Ella held the gown up to Opal’s shoulders. “Indeed. And this will look splendid on you.”

  Opal looked down at the shimmering fabric. “It’s a ball gown.”

  Ella giggled again. “And therefore perfect for tonight’s ball.”

  “What?”

  She received only another laugh at her confusion, and Ella would only reveal that it had been Tristan’s idea. As Opal pulled the gown over her head, she decided to quit asking questions and merely enjoy the frippery.

  For at least the next hour Ella fussed over her until Opal felt like she might unravel from all the attention. Her hair alone seemed to require an eternity’s worth of tugging, combing, and pinning. Finally, Ella stepped back and declared her finished. They went across the hall to Mama’s chamber, where Opal could see herself in the full-length mirror.

  She gasped. What happened to the scrawny girl in a ragged yellow dress? Here instead stood a woman in a resplendent ball gown that shimmered in the light. Perfectly crafted and forming to every curve, each ruffle, pleat, and button made a stroke of a masterpiece. Her eyes welled.

  “No, don’t you cry.” Ella squeezed her hand. “We don’t want your eyes puffy.”

  “Oh!” Mama’s voice came from the door. “She is a vision!”

  Mama’s own eyes welled, threatening to cause the moisture to escape from Opal’s eyes as well. “Isn’t it beautiful, Mama? Ella made it for me.” She looked back at her friend. “She says we are having a ball…?”

  Mama clasped her hands. “Indeed, we are! A feast and a ball the likes this old house hasn’t seen in years!”

  She seemed so excited that Opal didn’t dare comment on the unnecessary extravagance.

  “And,” Mama continued, “It will be a grand bit of fun before I go to Massachusetts.”

  Opal stilled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I am going to go and spend a few months with Eunice. It will be good for us both. We’ll have Christmas, and the spring…” Mama smiled. “It will be good.”

  “You are…you’re going to leave me here alone?”

  Mama’s eyes glistened. “Of course not, dear. You have Tristan to look out for you.”

  “But…”

  “Enough.” Mama waved her hand and pointed Opal toward the stairs. “We’ll talk more about it after the feast.”

  “Yes,” Ella said. “It’s time we go. You can talk of these things later.”

  Opal thought to protest, but instead she followed the two oddly sniffling women downstairs. Evening had begun to fall upon them, cloaking the house in rose-hued light.

  Laughter came from the parlor, filling the air and washing the quiet walls of Riverbend in sparkling anticipation. Flickering light shimmered along the floor, creating gilded patterns on the polished wood. She glanced to Mama for explanation, but Mama only smiled. They paused in the foyer, and Ella pulled Opal into an embrace. Then she slipped into the parlor, and soft music began to play.

  Mama took hold of Opal’s arm, and guided her inside.

  Her breath caught. From every surface in the parlor, tiny flames danced atop a multitude of candles, casting the room in a golden glow. She put her fingers to her lips. Not only were the Remingtons and their household here, but at least twenty of her neighbors filled both the gentlemen’s and ladies’ parlors. The massive doors between them had been pulled wide, joining the two spaces as they had not been since Daddy left for war. The people, dressed in their finest, smiled and whispered, all staring at her.

  Her feet slowed. “Mama, what’s happening?”

  Mama patted her hand. Somewhere in the corner, a man played a sweet song from a fiddle, and the music began to swell. The group parted, and there at the far end of the parlors, stood Tristan.

  Dressed in his uniform, he stood tall and proud, a reminder of the soldier he had been. His hair had been neatly combed, and he clasped his hands behind his back. When their eyes met, he smiled. The light of his smile shone through his eyes, even at this distance.

  Next to him stood Reverend Carlson, his back to the hearth where Daddy had often enjoyed his pipe. Opal’s eyes widened and she looked back to Tristan, who now grinned broadly.

  Mama squeezed her arm. “Go now, darling. He waits for you.”

  The room seemed to stand still, even as the music whirled and the candles twinkled. Tristan held her gaze, keeping her steady as she passed applauding neighbors to stand next to him in front of the reverend.

  Tristan took her hand and placed it to his lips, his eyes mischievous. “Surprised, my love?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, trying to hold back a laugh. “I never knew a bride could be surprised by her own wedding.” She glanced over the gathered crowd. “I thought we were to wait until spring?”

  “And I thought I would t
ry for a grand surprise instead.” A hint of worry entered his eyes. “You don’t like it?”

  “Oh, Tristan.” She stepped closer to him, ignoring the gasps of the crowd. “It is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

  He cupped her face and lowered his forehead to hers. “I love you, Opal.”

  “And I you.”

  When his lips touched hers, the preacher sputtered something about how that was supposed to come after the vows. But Opal didn’t care. She let her lips linger on his for a moment longer.

  When he pulled his head back, his eyes had darkened, but for a different reason. On this day, they were filled with more light than shadows. And she prayed that as their days passed, together they would grow a love that would help them weather all of life’s sorrows and further erase the clinging stain of war.

  As her own love reflected in the face of the man across from her, those roots took hold deep in her heart, binding her to him.

  Tristan grabbed her hands again as the crowd laughed and the good reverend gave him a scowl.

  Reverend Carlson cleared his throat. “Shall we start over? From the beginning this time?”

  Tristan laughed. “Yes, but make it quick.” He gave her a roguish wink. “For it’s time our fairytale began.”

  Dear reader,

  “But I don’t love you.”

  “Marry me, and you will.”

  Those were the words spoken by my grandparents more than sixty-five years ago. It was the winter of 1951, he was in the Army Air corps, and had taken her on a grand total of three dates. Certain he didn’t want to return to duty without her by his side, my grandfather proposed to my grandmother, and she accepted his claim. They married right away. Their love bloomed into four children, four granddaughters, and ten great-grandchildren.

  I’ve always loved that story, and wanted to someday put it in one of my books. It just seemed to fit in Opal and Tristan’s tale. I hope it stirred you the way it did me. If you wouldn’t mind taking a few moments to leave a review online, I would really appreciate it. It only takes a sentence or two and means so much.