A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series

by S. Dionne Moore

  “Bethie . . .” He went up on his knees and gathered her close.

  “I’ve tried all day not to cry.”

  Me too, he wanted to say but for a very different reason.

  “Jim told you it’s time, didn’t he?”

  He sat back on his heels. He should have known she had overheard his conversation with Jim the previous evening. She had gone inside for coffee and Jim had appeared from the barn to whisper to him the plans made to get him across the Potomac. Roy would help, as would Pearl. But when Jim had slipped away and Joe had turned, she’d been standing there.

  “Yes,” he braced his arm against the back of the rocker, hoping to ease the reality of what he would say. “He did.”

  Already her eyes were wet, though she fought the tears. “When?”

  He swallowed. He’d done his best to shove aside the thoughts of his looming departure. So much sooner than he wanted it to be. He swallowed, caught her gaze, begging for her understanding, wishing so much it was already done and he didn’t have to go away at all. “Tomorrow night.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  He sat back and covered her hand with his, careful to avoid getting stuck in the fabric. Her fingers felt cool against his hand, but it was a perfect fit. There would be dark days ahead and he didn’t know when he’d be able to return, though Jim had mentioned a way Joe could communicate when he was ready to come North again. He had given a list of names, slaves most likely. Relatives? He didn’t ask, only committed the names to memory and promised to protect the information. “They will get the message to me,” Jim had assured him. Joe’s throat had burned with gratitude over the man’s help. “They know of your sacrifice for Roy, Jonah, and Pearl. They will do what they can to help you in return.”

  But now, here, as time ticked off with every sweep of the cold breeze and tick of the grandfather clock . . . he’d thought about it long and hard. He needed so much to take something with him to remind him of Beth. Something to offer him comfort and hope. His request would sound strange to most, but she would understand. “I want to take the last block with me, Beth.”

  Her brows drew together. “Block?”

  “The last quilt block. It’s my symbol of comfort and hope. It reminds me that God cares, of my love for you and yours for me. And,” it was harder to talk now but he pressed on. “The quilt will forever remain unfinished until that last block is brought home again. We’ll both be incomplete without each other and the quilt—”

  His voice caught and his eyes filled.

  In slow motion, she released his hand and used the block to touch away the moisture fading down his cheeks, even as tears spilled down her own. In the silence, she spread the block out again and made slow work of folding it into a small square. It seemed such a small thing. So inconsequential in the face of what he felt for her. He stroked the hair back from her face and smiled his promise into her eyes.

  Epilogue

  Eighteen Months Later, Beth’s Journal

  At first there were no letters from Joe. I did my best to be patient, knowing the war raged on, but my imagination sometimes spun out of control and I would seek out my mother to pray with me, over me. After six months, Roy brought a packet of envelopes to me. I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer any explanation, only that smile that seemed so much like Jim’s—secretive but sure.

  The stack held five letters from Joe, and he promised more. He wrote of missing me, of his adventures, of securing his discharge, of his visit to his home that was no longer there. My heart ached for all he endured and I wondered about Ben, if Joe had found out anything. None of the letters said anything of that.

  After those letters, I received nothing else. I wanted so much to ask Roy if he should check or talk to Jim, but I was afraid to compromise whatever communications the blacks might have. I had to trust them. How strong I had wanted to be in Joe’s love, but his lingering absence and the lack of letters gnawed at me as surely as a rat gnawed at a sack of grain. Not a day went by that I didn’t pray for strength to believe in his promise of hope.

  I worked harder than ever, sewing quilts for the men and visiting the few field hospitals still in operation after Sharpsburg. Slowly, things were becoming more normal. Then, one night, my mother came to my room, a smile on her face. She motioned me to follow her and I did, hope growing with each step as the hum of voices greeted me. I descended the steps to find Roy, Jim, and Pearl standing with my father, and in the center, Joe. My heart beat so hard I thought I might faint but when he caught me and twirled me around, when I saw the emotion brimming in his eyes and felt the slam of his heart against mine, I knew my wait was over.

  He said nothing, couldn’t, for we were too busy crying, savoring our togetherness. I touched the hair that had grown long against his neck. He rocked me, his face buried in my hair, saying all the words I’d longed to hear again. When Joe finally pulled back, he led me to the porch where his haversack lay amid a bundle of other things and we would have privacy. He settled me in the rocking chair. We couldn’t stop smiling at each other. He lifted out two things, the cigar and the piece of paper, and sat across from me.

  “Ben?”

  His expression went sober. He nodded.

  “You didn’t write of him. I wondered . . .”

  “It was too dangerous to write about but, now, I can tell you.” He smoothed the back of his hand down my cheek. I laughed from the sheer excitement of having him near again and it was another few minutes before Joe could settle back to the objects and his explanation.

  “General Lee wrote out his commands to his generals outlining his plan. But one copy was lost. Special Order 191 was found in a field by a Union corporal named Mitchell.” He shifted his weight and I couldn’t help noticing how much better he was able to move his right arm. Not perfect but far better than those first days . . . “Ben and I were bivouacked in that field, and he said something to me the night before we left, that things were going to get better soon.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if he had anything to do with it. I’ll never know, but the paper,” he pointed to the sheet, “has the same watermark found on the order, and the cigar . . .”

  He raised his head and gave me a sad look. “It tore me up pretty bad to think he would be involved in something of that nature, but Ben was tore up as much as me, as anyone, over Sue and Mama. I could see why he would feel compelled to do something so desperate.”

  “Who shot him? Why?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t quite know.” I knew a mantle of weariness would always hang over him at the question mark of what happened to his brother. “If someone found him out, it makes sense he would be shot. But I’ll never know, Beth, and I prefer to look forward rather than backward.”

  I held Joe’s hand and stroked his knuckles. He gave me a little nod of reassurance and turned his hand in mine so that our palms met. It was time to change the subject. To talk about us. I blushed at the intensity of his gaze.

  “Your arm has grown stronger.”

  He glanced at his arm, at our joined hands, pleased with my comment. “Not quite right, but better.” He released my hand to pluck something else from the haversack. Dark and worn and soft. The quilt block. He handed it to me. “Now you can finish that quilt.” A spark lit his eyes that stole my breath. “We’ll need it to keep us warm this winter.”

  Discussion Questions

  1. Was Beth’s perception of herself healthy? How did this perception affect her spiritually?

  2. What do you think Beth’s parents saw in her that worried them so much following Beth’s injury and the death of Leo?

  3. Gerta’s opinionated nature ostracized her to some extent in her town. Do you know someone whose tendency and quickness to express his or her opinion often lands that person in hot water? Do you admire this type of person? What advice would you give this person?

  4. Gerta’s attitude was to help all those she could. Beth was more determined to help Union soldiers only. What changed Beth
’s attitude? What would you do if you were faced with such a situation?

  5. Gerta believed that by giving the Confederate soldiers food willingly it would deter them from taking it by force and possibly taking their revenge on the women. Do you believe this was a wise choice? What other solution would you offer?

  6. How does being caught in the middle of the war help mature Beth’s opinion of herself and her lame leg?

  7. Joe lost everything he held dear before and during the war. How would such losses affect your desire to continue fighting? Do you think his attitude toward the war was justified?

  8. Beth and Joe spent many long hours waiting out the cannonading of the town, Beth trying to help Gerta, Joe flat on his back because of his injury. Which do you think would be harder to endure: the activity and seeing all the terrible sights Beth saw or the hours of forced inactivity?

  9. Beth’s mother tried to help her daughter understand the darkness in her heart through the quilt. As a parent, have you ever tried to relay a silent message to your child in hopes they will one day understand the deeper meaning? Did it work?

  10. Jim is a pivotal secondary character with a huge heart to help those he befriends, doing much of his good deeds without thought or regard for himself. Do you know someone with such a sacrificial nature? What do you do to show your appreciation to them?

  11. Though Beth’s home is fictional, the Piper farm was real and commandeered by Longstreet during the Battle of Antietam. How do you think you would react if war came to your doorstep? What preparation would you make for you and your family?

  12. Though only mentioned in the ending, the loss of Lee’s Special Order 191 was critical to the victory of McClellan at Antietam. Before this story, had you ever heard that Lee “lost” such an important document preceding the Battle of Antietam?

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  We hope you enjoyed A Heartbeat Away and that you will continue to read the Quilts of Love series of books from Abingdon Press. Here’s an excerpt from the next book in the series, Bonnie S. Calhoun’s Pieces of the Heart.

  Pieces of the Heart

  Bonnie S. Calhoun

  1

  June 15, 1938

  Corde-eel-ee, don’t be sil-ly. We’ll find you sooner or later!”

  The taunt echoed down the alley, bouncing from building to building, at the same rate as her heartbeat pounded in her ears. The voices pumped more adrenaline into her blood. Would they pop into the Court from Pine Street?

  Cordelia Grace pedaled her red and tan Schwinn as fast as her legs would go. She sucked in short rapid breaths that burned her lungs. She took a glance behind. No one. She swerved, avoiding the metal garbage cans in front of Stoney’s Garage. Panic raced through her throat as tears pricked at her eyes. Where were her two girlfriends? They were supposed to be right behind her. Now she was alone to face her tormentors.

  She probably wouldn’t have run from them if she had “more meat on her bones” like Grammy said. Other girls had the weight and power she lacked. Why did she have to fight? Truth be told . . . she didn’t know how to fight. Her daddy was a preacher man, and her mama always said young ladies of good breeding didn’t act like street hoodlums. No one ever taught her self-defense.

  She breathed hard, pulling in big gulps of air. Maybe they hadn’t seen her turn down Dix Court? Maybe she could make it home safely . . . today. The alley, wide enough for cars to pass in either direction, felt as though it were closing in on her, squeezing her into the dusty center. She prayed someone would be on their porch. Just one grown-up she could stop and talk with until the danger passed. But each house stood silent, each narrow porch empty. Rows of garbage cans lined impossibly narrow strips of grass like tin soldiers, but none offered protection.

  The quarter-sized scab on her left knee caught on the hem of her play dress as her legs pumped the pedals. The tiny prickle pains from the pulled skin would be worth it if she managed to escape. She jerked her head around to look back again. Long skinny braids whacked her in the face and slapped her in the right eye. Tears spilled onto her cheek. Bitsy Morgan’s house marked the halfway point in the alley. Still no one in hot pursuit.

  Her arms relaxed on the handlebars and her legs slowed. She back-pedaled to brake. The bicycle slid to a stop. Cordelia hopped off the seat, her legs straddling the “J” frame. Her lungs burned.

  Five houses up, they emerged on the path leading to the avenue. The three bullies spread across the court, blocking her way.

  Cordelia whimpered as dread clenched her belly. They found her. She tried to turn but the chain caught her dress hem, wrenching the handlebars from her grip. The bicycle fell and the chain dug into the soft flesh of her ankle. A trail of black grease tracked down her white sock. Ignore the pain. If they see tears, they’ll know I’m scared. She lifted her quivering chin and stared.

  Two girls and a boy ran at her.

  She bent over and raised her bicycle.

  Two more girls raced toward her. The five Wilson kids trapped their prey. She tried not to let fear register in her eyes.

  “Cor-deel-lee, you belong to me.” Debbie Lu, the taller girl in the group, had her nappy hair pulled back in a short ponytail so tight it pulled back the corners of her eyes, adding to her sinister look.

  Cordelia shrank back, choking her handlebars with shaking hands. She watched the Wilson girl approach, slapping her fist into the palm of her other hand.

  Debbie Lu charged and slammed into Cordelia with the full force of both fists.

  Cordelia stumbled from her bicycle and skidded to the ground. Her palms raked over the graveled dirt of the alley. The sting forced tears into her eyes. She refused to respond.

  A red flash streaked from the roof of the shed on the left side of the alley. A cute light-skinned boy landed on the ground beside her bicycle. He wore blue jeans and a bright red shirt opened down the front revealing a dingy T-shirt. Cordelia eyed him warily, another tormentor.

  He didn’t join the bullies.

  She looked him up and down. Who was he? Her heart pounding eased.

  The cute boy stepped between her and Debbie Lu. “What’s the problem?” He thumbed back at Cordelia. “Did she steal your Tootsie Pop?”

  “I’m gonna pop her all right. Little Miss High Yella’ doesn’t belong in this neighborhood with her light skin and good hair. She acts like she’s white people and better’n us,” said the dark-complexioned girl.

  The cute boy turned away from Debbie Lu to glance at Cordelia.

  Cordelia froze.

  He raised one side of his lips in a slight smile and winked, then turned back to the menace. “In case you haven’t noticed, you should probably call me high yella’ too since my skin is as light as hers. Does that mean you want me out of the neighborhood, too?” He stepped closer to the girl. “See, I just moved here, and I don’t think my pa would want to leave, since he just got a job at the coal company.”

  The girl scowled but lowered her fist and backed up.

  Tim Wilson, the brother of the group, pushed Debbie Lu out of the way and stood toe-to-toe with the new boy. “Don’t you talk to my sister like that.”

  “Or what?” The cute boy’s eyebrows furrowed and he lowered his head a tad.

  Cordelia eyed the exchange. Her brain told her to run while she had the chance, but her feet stayed rooted to the spot. What did he think he was doing facing off with the Wilson kids? They were well-known sc
rappers.

  Tim Wilson raised his left hand.

  The cute boy’s right fist shot out and punched Tim square in the nose.

  Tim’s hands cupped his nose as blood squirted down the front of his shirt and splattered his sisters.

  The girls screamed. Both hightailed it down the alley.

  Cordelia grimaced. An involuntary sigh pushed from her chest. This boy wasn’t afraid of them.

  “I’ll get you for this,” Tim warned in a nasal tone.

  “Yeah, well, when you’re not bleeding and wanna stop playing house with your sisters, be sure and let me know.”

  Tim pointed a bloody finger at the boy. “Hey, you take that back or I’m gonna beat your—”

  “Oh, no! I’m sorry,” the cute boy interrupted, his voice pleading. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Cordelia’s heart sank. So much for her fearless hero. She couldn’t blame him, but somehow it felt worse than Debbie Lu’s fist in her belly.

  Which way should she run before Tim called his sisters back to finish the job?

  The boy added, “Yeah, I’m sorry. I meant to hit your sister.”

  Tim scowled through the mess dripping from his chin. He sputtered, but before he could speak, Cordelia’s rescuer faked a lunge. Tim recoiled with a girlish squeal and sprang after his sisters.

  Cordelia’s eyes widened as she stared at the back of the cute boy’s head.

  He turned to face her. “Do you talk?”

  She hadn’t spoken a single word to her surprise hero. A nervous smile crossed her lips. Her dry throat croaked out the word. “Yes.” She swallowed hard and wet her lips. “Thank you for helping me.” A flutter settled into her tummy.