by Cathy Marie Hake, Lynn A. Coleman, Mary Davis, Susan Page Davis
She nodded.
Uncle Edward smiled at her. “No regrets?”
“Never. Not a one.”
“Jacob, has life on the island been everything you thought it would be?” Uncle Edward asked.
For a moment, Jacob could only laugh. Hollan watched him with a frown.
“Edward, we’ve been through a hurricane, I saved Hollan’s life—more than once. I watched her captured at the hands of outlaws. I helped her escape. We slept outside with all the bugs on the Georgia coast and the various creepy-crawlies and reptiles. We found out about Fletcher’s attack and were chased again by the outlaws….”
“When you put it that way”—Hollan’s heart plummeted—“I’m not even sure why you’d want to stay. Why did you keep coming for me, even when I put us in danger?”
“My unending love and protection of you is similar to God’s unending love and sacrifice for us. Hollan, as long as God allows me the privilege, I’ll be right here to pull you away from any danger that comes our way.”
Hollan smiled.
“And Edward, to answer your question—” Jacob looked at them both, but his eyes settled on Hollan. The look of love he sent her filled her heart to bursting. “This experience has been everything I imagined and more.”
“I’m glad to hear it, son.” Uncle Edward slapped Jacob on the back and turned to welcome their guests.
Again he made quick work of the ceremony.
“Jacob, you may now kiss your bride.”
Hollan grinned up at him. This was the perfect moment.
Jacob leaned forward and touched his lips to hers in the most gentle of kisses. Hollan’s heart soared.
RESTORATION
by Cathy Marie Hake
Dedication
For those who gave an unseen part of themselves away in service to our country and the women who love them through it all. May the day come when wounds heal by the grace of God.
Chapter 1
Virginia, 1918
Tonight, when they’re asleep, I’ll burn it. Russell Diamond stared at his uniform in the drawer. He hadn’t intended to find it, but now that he’d stumbled across it, Russell was certain of the action he had to take. No one would have to know—at least, not for a long while. By then, maybe he’d have the words to smooth over the whole situation.
The olive drabs looked so innocuous, all pressed and clean—just as they had the day he’d first put them on. By the time he got home, the uniform still held blood, mud, and sweat, as well as sea salt from the quick “laundering” it was given aboard the passenger liner the army used to transport the wounded back from Le Havre. Russell loved his country, but he hated war. He wanted no reminder of what he’d seen and done. For now, he took care to glide the bottom drawer of the walnut wardrobe shut and headed for the backyard.
Not many folks had an orchard for a backyard. Big, old, beautiful peach and apricot trees near the house gave way to younger apple trees farther away. Dad had planted a dozen of the apples the year he and Mom married—mostly because he didn’t care for the taste of peaches.
Mom and Dad sat on the porch swing, sipping lemonade and enjoying the sunset. Russell didn’t feel like talking, so he bobbed a curt nod and plowed on past them. His leg ached as he limped at his best speed. He knew he should have been warmer to his parents, but it wasn’t in him. Instead of ruining their pleasant evening, he’d go off on his own. Snagging a pair of buckets and slipping out of sight, he hoped they’d assume he was off to weed a bit.
Among the trees, with peach, apricot, and nectarine blossoms drifting down on him in a gentle Virginia breeze, Russell sat on the ground and jerked weeds until the first pail overflowed. He set it aside and collected more to fill the second. The pain in his leg intensified, but he kept working. Coming across a withered apple core, Russell pitched it into the bucket with the bitter knowledge that he’d missed harvest this past year.
It’s too late—or far too early, he thought wryly, for even gathering any windfall. Mom always took the bird-pecked or bruised fruit and turned it into sweet cider, cinnamon applesauce, peach jam … something. She could find the good in even the worst of situations. But she was never in war.
Russell continued to scan for weeds. Anything—anything to keep him busy so he wouldn’t have to think.
He finally sat and leaned against a tree his father had planted the Sunday after Russell’s birth. At twenty, it was vibrant and straight—a contrast to the dried up, gnarled way Russell felt inside. Home was just the same as always—Dad working at Diamond Emporium, Mom busy with charitable tasks and cooking far too much food. Sis had married one of Buttonhole’s fine young men, and they’d be blessed with a baby in a few months. Folks visited over picket fences with their neighbors, bachelors still had a special pew at the back of the sanctuary, and old Mrs. Blanchard still missed about every fifth or sixth note as she played the piano in her parlor.
But I’ve changed. I’m different. I’ll never be the same.
Pain rolled over him again. Russell closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the rough bark. Minutes passed; memories swelled. Everything suddenly shifted when a soft footstep sounded. Russell jolted and grabbed for a rifle that wasn’t there.
“Son.”
“Dad.” He rasped that single word and tried to act casual as he pulled his arm back into his lap, but his heart still thundered.
Dad’s step faltered; then he sauntered the last fifteen yards or so, weaving past trees. He can’t stride through his own orchard because of me—I’ve taken away the pleasure he always took in his evening strolls.
In days gone by, Dad would have reached out to give a fatherly squeeze to Russell’s shoulder, but he’d learned sudden moves and sounds set Russell on edge, so he didn’t venture any form of touch. Russell ached for the missing contact.
“Your mother and I would like to talk with you.”
“Yes, sir.” The time’s come. Russell got to his feet and walked in silence beside Dad until they reached the back porch. Dad’s slowing his pace to compensate for my limp. Russell resented the need for it.
Mom, her hair in its usual mussed bun and her apron slightly askew, patted the seat of the porch swing next to her. He sat there, and she handed him a glass of lemonade.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Russell could feel her studying him in the waning light. Dad set to lighting a lamp. Unable to look them in the eyes, Russell watched his father’s hands as he performed the simple task. Once done, Dad sat on an old wooden chair.
“You’re hurting, Son—and I’m not talking about your leg.”
Russell shifted his gaze and stared at a droplet of water meandering down the side of his glass. His father’s quiet words were so typical of him—direct, open, and unadorned. The very stark quality of them made the truth all that much more painful. The distraction of watching such a mundane thing allowed Russell to consider a response. Finally he opted for honesty. “Yes.”
“We knew going away would … be hard on you.” Mom practiced no artifice, and her candor and sincerity had been qualities he’d come to admire very early on. It tore at him that she felt the need to measure her words so carefully.
Until this evening, he hadn’t known she’d also been watching her actions just as cautiously. Mom hadn’t washed and hung his uniform back in his wardrobe; she’d laundered it and quietly slipped it away in the bottom of the wardrobe in Sis’s old room. If he hadn’t been looking for the battered old valise they kept in the drawer, he wouldn’t have seen the painstakingly folded olive drab pants and shirt just awhile ago.
Russell chugged down the lemonade, mostly because it bought him a few more moments. He set aside the glass then looked from one parent to the other. “I mean no disrespect. This is hard.” He drew in a deep breath. “I can’t stay here anymore.”
Mom wrapped both of her arms around his right arm and leaned her head on his shoulder. She was holding on tight, just as she had the evening before he took the train to leave as a
soldier. “You haven’t finished healing yet. The cast just came off. Wait. Stay just a little while until you’re more stable.”
He’d known she’d resist his plan, but Russell still knew what he had to do. Dad searched his eyes, and Russell couldn’t take the scrutiny. He looked away and subtly shook his head. Waiting was out of the question.
“Have you prayed about it?” His father’s face looked drawn.
Russell couldn’t lie, even though he knew the truth would burden them. He’d not taken the matter to God—in fact, he and the Almighty were on very shaky terms. “No.”
Mom gasped, and Russell knew he’d let her down. Her voice showed it when she finally said in a strained tone, “Aw, honey.”
Mom’s faith was deep and dear to her; he’d strayed from the path of righteousness. It was one of the biggest reasons he couldn’t live here.
“You should still stay, Russell.” She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. “It takes time when a man’s been hurt for his body and soul to settle with all he’s gone through. We understand. It doesn’t change how we feel about you.”
Russell gently separated from her and stood. He and his father exchanged a momentary look—one that silently agreed to shield Mom from as much of the pain as they could. Russell dipped his head and pressed a kiss on her hair. “I love you, too.” The scent of peaches and cloves that always clung to her gave him a scrap of comfort.
Dad took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We have something else to discuss.”
Though he wanted to escape to the solitude of his bedroom, Russell forced himself to sit back down on the swing. One last night, he’d sit here. He’d discipline himself to pretend things weren’t so bad. It was the least he could do.
“A letter came today,” Dad said. “My great-uncle Timothy passed on. The family house belonged to him. He boarded up the place, and no one’s lived in it for several years. The day we learned you were coming home, he wrote his will and left the house and all of his wealth to you, Russell.”
“Money won’t cure what ails me.”
“No, it won’t.” Dad sighed. “And I’m glad you have the wisdom to see that, but you said you need to leave. You’ll always have a place to come back to here, but in the meantime, you have a home and funds to take care of yourself.”
Russell nodded. Words seemed futile, and Mom seemed far too fragile.
Mom tilted her head and looked up at him. She tried her best to give him a brave smile even though tears glossed her eyes. “Think on this more. Sleep on it. Your dad and I will pray.” Pain radiated from her as she added, “If you still feel you have to go, we’ll be supportive.”
They all sat together as night engulfed the yard. Crickets chirped and cicadas whirred. The wind soughed through the branches. He’d left as a boy and come back a man—but for this one evening, Russell relished the one thing that he’d not been stripped of: the unvarnished, uncomplicated, unconditional love of his family.
If he stayed here, the ache in his soul would ruin that. He knew he had to go.
Crack! Lorelei Goetz looked down at the two pieces of glass in her hand and grimaced. They hadn’t broken along the line she’d scored. Setting down the smaller segment, she focused her attention on the larger. If she tapped it a bit more with the ball end of her scoring tool, she might still get the cut.
Minuscule glass slivers caught the sunlight pouring in through her workroom window, turning the edge of her table into a kaleidoscope of red, gold, and blue. She paused for a second to appreciate the prisms the clear shards added to the mix. Papa had called them the beams of joy. He’d taught her the art of stained glass, and at times like this, it was bittersweet to see the beauty but not have him here to share it.
“You start early today, Ja?”
Lorelei looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Ja, Mama. I’d like to finish this window a few days early if I can. Mr. Grun said he’d be going to Portsmouth next week, and he’d be willing to deliver it for me.”
He mother smiled and nodded. “Wunderbar! He will be very careful. Herr Grun is a kind man.”
Lorelei turned back to the glass. “Yes, Mama, he is.” She paused a moment then added in a firm tone, “It doesn’t mean I’m going to pack up and go marry his cousin in South Dakota. This is our home—yours and mine. We’re staying here.”
Mama clucked her tongue. “You are a pretty girl, my Lori. There is no reason for you to spend your days breaking glass and putting it back together when you could be married and having babies. Your papa would want you to.”
“Yes,” Lorelei agreed pensively. “Papa would have been a wonderful grandpa.”
Taking advantage of the opening, her mother rushed to add, “I was married and had you by the time I was your age.”
“Twenty isn’t old, Mama, and Papa also wanted me to find a man who would love me the way he loved you. He told me not to settle on anything less than a perfect fit—not in a window, not in my marriage.”
“If only he were here. He would talk sense into you. There is a difference between wishes and wisdom, Lori.”
She turned around. “Mama, what’s wrong?”
Her mother came into the workroom and perched on a wooden stool. She looked like a chickadee—a plump, compact woman with brown and gray hair; she wore a faded gray apron over a brown and black dress. Instead of folding her arms as she’d normally do, she shoved them into the apron pocket—a sure sign she was worried. Instead of speaking, she shrugged.
Lorelei set down the glass, blew on her hands to remove any glass slivers, then went to her mother. “Mama, we have each other.”
“But we have little else!” Her mother blurted out the words then bit her lip.
“You’re worried about money?”
“Yes, but more—I’m worried about you. So many still look at us as the enemy.”
The injustice of that hurt. Papa had gone to fight for America, yet because they had German ancestors, still spoke German at home, and had a German last name, folks reviled them. It wasn’t until after Papa died and the government sent a soldier in a fancy uniform to give them shiny medals in Papa’s honor that many of the townspeople finally shifted from hostility to wariness.
“There are hard feelings—ones that won’t fade for a long time. Too many of the young men refuse to be seen with a German girl even just for a date. They won’t want you for a wife.” Mama pasted on a smile. “If you go to South Dakota, you will have a husband and children.”
“Arranged marriages ended in the Dark Ages. I’m happy here with you. We’ll pray that if God has a husband in mind for me, He’ll bring him to our doorstep.”
Mama shook her head. “What am I to do with you? Men are not like bottles of milk that get delivered to your porch.”
Lorelei laughed and gave her mother a peck on the cheek. “Last Sunday, the pastor told us to seek God’s will and to pray specifically, in faith.”
Mama finally pulled her hands out of her apron pocket and rubbed her legs. “Child, I’m going to end up with flat knees from all of the hours I spend kneeling in prayer for you.”
Chapter 2
Son.” His father’s voice carried grim determination. “I want a promise from you.”
Russell stood near the backyard porch steps, by the barrel Mom grew strawberries in. He plucked a dried leaf from one of the plants. Mom was inside, putting together some food for him to take. From how red and puffy her eyes had looked at breakfast, he knew she’d been up half the night weeping. He’d come out here because … well, because.
“You write your mom. Let her know how you’re doing.”
Swallowing hard, Russell lifted his chin and stared at Dad. He gave a curt nod. “You have my word.”
“And you have my word that if you need me, I’ll be there. If it would help, I’m ready to come along right now—just me. I have a sense that you’re fighting mightily to shield Mom from things.”
Knocking the heel of his hand against the barrel, Russell cleared his throat. Da
d had built the emporium from a failing, little, backwater shop into a thriving concern. For him to be willing to leave it all at the drop of a hat underscored the love he felt. “Dad, I appreciate the offer, but you were right last night. I have to be alone.”
“Son, you’re not alone; God is with you.”
“I told you last night—I’m not talking to God anymore.”
“I heard you.” His dad came down the steps and plucked a strawberry. He dusted it off gently and popped it into his mouth.
He chose the fresh, sweet berry; I’m standing here clutching the dead leaf. Russell let out a bitter laugh.
Dad shoved his hands in his pockets and didn’t take offense at Russell’s mirthless reaction. “It’s not your leg that’s troubling you; it’s the ugliness you endured. It’s a soldier’s burden, one I hoped you’d be spared. My great-uncle Tim was battle scarred and struggled mightily with his feelings and his faith.”
“I don’t remember much of him—just that he didn’t get married until he was real old.”
“He took what little was left of the family shipping business after the war and threw himself into rebuilding it. Business and the sea were his lifeblood, but his escape—his refuge—was the old family house.”
“He left it.”
“Originally, he went back home after the war. With time, he finally found peace there. When his wife developed consumption, the doctor recommended they move. It wasn’t until then he left. You’ll find peace there, Son. I have faith.”
“I heard old Mr. Sibony has a matched pair of geldings he wants to sell.” Russell hoped his father would go along with the change of subject. “I figure I’ll just ride to the coast.”
Shortly thereafter, with a blanket tied to the rear of his saddle and packs tied to the second gelding, Russell left Buttonhole. Following the directions he’d been given, he rode for two days until he passed through a seaside town and arrived at the outskirts where the road branched off. To the right, he spotted a charming little cottage with two chimneys, a budding garden, and sheets on the clothesline, snapping in the stiff breeze. That breeze also carried a woman’s voice.