The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond

by Jaime Jo Wright

  “What time is it?” she whispered.

  Garrett glanced at his watch. “Umm, eight thirty-six.”

  Annalise chuckled. “Figures.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems eight thirty-six is a good time to mark as the beginning of grace.”

  Annalise smiled toward heaven. Toward the woman she knew little about but who had once worn a dented watch, and who had started Gossamer Grove’s long journey to find grace.

  Libby

  Libby stood at the edge of Gossamer Pond. The grass was flattened where the revival tent had stood. The water rippled in the gentle breeze. The sky was blue overhead, with fluffy clouds. Dandelions danced at her feet. She looked down, smiled, and knelt. Reaching through the grass, she plucked a delicate purple flower, its petals soft in her hand.

  “Violets are perhaps the most overlooked of God’s flowers.”

  Jacobus’s voice met her ears, and Libby stood, holding the violet carefully in her hand. “Yes. I would agree.”

  His hands were in his trouser pockets. He didn’t wear a coat, and in shirtsleeves he seemed more approachable. The vision of him defending her still replayed in her memory. Heroic and yet at the same time he had empowered her.

  Libby gave Jacobus a sideways glance. A nip of sadness tugged her heart. The Corbin brothers were leaving Gossamer Grove. For good. They’d been here for no more than a couple of months, and while it seemed Jedidiah had intended to stay until the entire town was baptized, no one wanted him around anymore. Jacobus had told her earlier that there was no way to be effective in the wake of the damage his brother had done.

  “I . . .” Libby began, studying him with hesitation. Jacobus didn’t return her look. How did she say she would miss him? They barely knew each other. Circumstances may have thrust them together, but in reality she didn’t even know his favorite color.

  “Purple,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Jacobus met her incredulous look. He gave her a wan smile. “I like purple. My mother used to wear it all the time. I developed a fondness for it.”

  “How did you know I was—?” Libby stopped.

  He turned to face her. “Because you kept looking at the violet, then at me, then at the violet. It stood to reason I like violets, but did I like their color? What is my favorite color? And we aren’t thoroughly familiar with each other, are we? It’s a very introductory type of question.”

  It was probably good Jacobus Corbin was leaving town. He could read not only her soul, but also her mind. That was very dangerous. Libby cleared her throat. “I’ve a question, before you leave.”

  “Yes?” Jacobus raised his brows but didn’t offer up a suggestion as to what he thought she would ask.

  Libby forged ahead. “Calvin. When did he tell you what happened so many years ago?”

  Jacobus tilted his head. “I pieced it together. It came out slowly from him over the past few weeks.”

  “But how did you know to come for me when Reverend Mueller attacked me?”

  Jacobus shrugged. “The suspicious deaths—which, by the way, anyone with half a brain could have figured out weren’t accidental—and then Elijah’s guilt over Calvin’s condition. I had no intention of leaving you completely unprotected, but I had to confront my brother. I was suspicious perhaps even he might be behind the obituary written for you.”

  “But he wasn’t.”

  “No. Still, there was Elijah.”

  “You thought he was the obituary writer?” Libby couldn’t help the rise in her tone.

  Jacobus surprised her by reaching out and fingering one of her curls that blew across her face. “No. But he could help piece it together. The common denominator was Calvin.”

  “Calvin had nothing to do with Deacon Greenwood or Dorothy Hayes.” Libby frowned, partly because Jacobus made no sense and partly because he was still playing with her hair, which was very disconcerting.

  “Of course he did. If you observed, Calvin was good friends with everyone in town. He may have trailed behind Jedidiah and me, but he called his own father the Preacher Man. Calvin knows a lot about the goings-on in this town. Far more than people credit him.”

  “So . . . ?”

  Jacobus released the spiral of hair and pushed his hands into his pockets. “So it was just a matter of asking enough questions to conclude that Calvin’s father was Deacon Greenwood’s reverend, and Dorothy Hayes was indeed Calvin’s friend Lawrence’s mother. Elijah’s too, as it turns out. If anyone had the most knowledge to take it upon themselves to clean the town of its scourge, it was Reverend Mueller.”

  “And that’s when you came to the Muellers’ home?” she asked.

  “Precisely.” He gave a short nod.

  “Thank you again.” The memory of Jacobus Corbin, the revivalist with piercing eyes and rather odd face, pummeling a fellow minister of God gave her stomach little swirls of excitement. A feeling she couldn’t quite explain.

  “Well then,” Jacobus said and removed his hands from his pockets. He was hatless, and his hair tossed in the breeze. Libby studied his face, the crags and the angles. He had tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that indicated he might have a wicked sense of humor laced with a hidden passion that matched the force of his unleashed temper.

  “This is farewell?” Libby asked. She cursed her breathless whisper.

  “Is it?” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Well,” she flustered. “I—”

  “It needn’t be,” he stated. His eyes were clear. Direct.

  It didn’t seem as though he was going to elaborate further, so Libby stuttered, “H-how?”

  “I’ve been invited to a station at a church out east. Come with me. You can disappear from Gossamer Grove forever, and we will bring Calvin with us. Yes? New beginnings for the three of us.”

  She blinked. Rapidly. Her heart jumped into her throat—even though she knew that really wasn’t physically possible—but it felt that way. She hadn’t expected this. From a minister, no less.

  “That would hardly be appropriate,” Libby choked out. Yet for some reason, she dared to hope.

  “No? No, it wouldn’t be.” Jacobus gave a quirk to his mouth as if to dismiss her. “More’s the pity.” He extended his hand as if to shake hers. “Farewell then, Miss Sheffield.”

  She refused to take it. This was quite awkward. Libby frantically searched for words, for coherent thoughts. He had her stomach in a muddle, and she was quite—quite—“verklempt!” Libby sputtered.

  “Verklempt?” Jacobus echoed.

  Blast the man, there was a twinkle in his eye.

  Libby drew in a deep breath, very aware of how her chest swelled for a moment, and he fixed his eyes on hers. “I’m quite taken aback, Reverend Corbin.”

  “Jacobus.”

  “Jacobus,” she attempted his name out loud.

  “Very well.” He smiled, and this time it was tender. As if he really did know her—very well—somehow. “I suppose I should reiterate. You wouldn’t accompany me illicitly. I had set my mind more toward matrimony—after a courtship, of course. You would stay with my aunt for a reasonable period of time. Although I’m afraid grand gestures in proposing defy my personal tastes. I know we may not know each other as well as some might at this point in their . . . acquaintance, yet I find we seem compatible.”

  “Compatible?” Libby squeaked. These were not the words a woman wished to hear at such a time. There was no romance. Or was there? She saw a glimmer in his eye. Jacobus leaned forward, and suddenly he had pressed his lips against her forehead. Then against her temple. Then, to the detriment of her nerves, right at the opening of her ear.

  He whispered, “Come now, Libby, must you fight it? Sometimes a mystery really isn’t that mysterious if you open your eyes. As Daniel to King Belshazzar, the writing is on the wall.”

  Another featherlight kiss sent shivers across Libby’s skin.

  “Let’s leave Gossamer Grove. May our obituaries someday say—prefer
ably after we’re dead, of course—that we lived in peace, in love, and mostly in grace.”

  Libby felt his touch at the hollow of her neck. His fingers tucking something into her top button.

  “A promise, of sorts,” he whispered.

  Libby looked down at the pearl button, the wisp of lace on her blouse, and the fragile petals of the flower he’d gently positioned there.

  Life was fragile, grace beautiful. Libby smiled, and words filtered through her lips with the conviction that resided in her soul. “I love violets.”

  Author’s Note

  This novel was born as the brainchild of two people, my associate pastor and me. Oddly we both concocted the idea at separate times, and I’d already submitted my general story line to my editor. But one evening I was researching Billy Sunday and tent revivals, and the idea sprang to mind that a town this opposed to sin needed a catapult to be that tumultuous. Why not an old-fashioned revival? Fast-forward two weeks, I was in Sunday school and Pastor Dan was teaching about the history of our specific community churches. He hearkened back to the early twentieth century and a very unknown but tumultuous revival that spread across our area.

  I listened in fascinated awe at this crazy story that sounded so outlandish, I would have almost bet Pastor Dan was reciting fiction. He wasn’t. I emailed him, “We have to meet.” He emailed back, “I was thinking the same. You have to write this into a book someday!”

  So we met.

  He introduced me to the little known “Morrill Twins.” Revivalist brothers who learned under Billy Sunday, rode a tandem bicycle, and created riots wherever they went. Juxtaposed to the riots, they also appeared to have been influential in ushering in true renewals of faith and belief in the gospel message.

  The newspaper articles in this novel are altered, but are similar to the actual articles written to the local paper of the time. Old Man Whistler is a purely fictional character, but a defensive letter to the editor was submitted back in the day of the Morrill brothers and was as misspelled and as outraged in the original article as the fictional one in this book. The newspaper also struggled to report the stories surrounding the twins’ ministry. Heralding the amazing and profound ministry of the twins with baptisms in bulk, while in the next article refusing to print what they said for fear of being accused of publishing vulgarity.

  When Jedidiah, again my fictional revivalist twin, states that the congregates “have no brain in their head,” so too did one of the Morrill twins very boldly imply that if they were to defend their own life against the death threats, it would be in vain, for there were no brains in the congregants to be shot through. Effigies of the Morrill twins were also hung in town, along with the teenage boys breaking windows in a local church and throwing in a skunk. Death threats against the twins were made, and the twins were quite public that they would not be intimidated by such antics.

  Finally, the Morrill twins’ multiple months-long revival ministry in the area ended when a riot erupted at one of their meetings. Cannon crackers, eggs, mobs, and finally the stabbing of a night watchman were the very emphatic exclamation point on the end of the Morrill twins’ ministry to the area. The brothers left town shortly thereafter.

  Still, the area churches kept with the momentum the revival had started. The local Baptist church—my home church today—had dwindling attendance. But, after the Morrill twins came with impassioned fervor and blunt presentations, the attendance surged and our church has truly never been the same since. We can trace our history back to these bombastic and rather perplexing revivalists and truly see that God was able to do great things in spite of their controversial personalities.

  For the record, other than the newspaper articles, I know very little of the Morrill twins’ actual personalities. They were younger gentlemen and definitively “angular” in features (at least in my opinion!), but other than that, the Corbin brothers are merely figments of my imagination, concocted in the shadows of two rather oddly inspiring men of history.

  One point stands sure. Even though the deliverers of the message of faith are flawed, the story of grace is not. It can come alive and grow, and over a century later, our church stands on foundational seeds left by two intriguing brothers whose testimony was too vulgar to put into public print.

  Questions for Discussion

  Gossamer Grove is a town filled with behind-closed-doors secrets. Do you ever feel as though your hometown hides behind a happy façade? If we were all more vulnerable, how do you believe that would impact your community? What might be some downsides of everyone being vulnerable?

  When Garrett returns home, Annalise seems struck with every bad memory she ever had. How do you process bad memories with today’s realities? How do you find the grace to forgive others? How is this process different in trying to forgive yourself?

  The Corbin brothers’ revival caused quite a stir in Gossamer Grove. Have you ever attended an “old-time tent revival” in the vein of an evangelical crusade? What was it like? How did it affect you? If you’ve never been to one, what movie or TV show have you seen that depicted a revival or evangelical crusade? What impression did the production give you of such an event?

  Annalise is passionate about providing a means for destitute people in her town to find grace and hope. In what ways could you positively affect the lives of those in need in your community? What keeps you from taking action?

  Society sometimes couples Christianity with judgment and condemnation instead of grace and mercy. In what ways has grace been extended to you by Christians? How have you felt the power of forgiveness in a personal relationship?

  Acknowledgments

  In no specific order (because that requires some form of mathematical thinking, which I’m incapable of) I’d like to thank:

  Christen E. Krumm. You really helped poke my brain when it shut down, sent me edits on Voxer (as if I would be able to remember them later), and most of all, walked the streets of Gossamer Grove with me.

  Rachel McMillan. Who fawned over Jacobus Corbin before I ever did, who retracted in an awkward moment when I compared him to my husband, and then returned to swooning when I explained he really wasn’t my husband, he was more like Benedict Cumberbatch.

  I will pause now in these acknowledgments for you all to swoon. . . . Okay. Moving on.

  Dan Gunderson. Who’da thunk I’d be thanking my childhood buddy who let me play as one of the boys when I was little, christened me as the honorary James West, and fed me historical research for this novel like the pretty cool nerd he is? Thank you for sharing my passion of history, for giving me the word bombastic to use because it’s a freakishly cool word, and for always being in my life from the day I was born. A mentor, a friend, and brother.

  And to the Sauk County Historical Society, for allowing Dan access to the records of our colorful community.

  There are so many I want to thank, but I’m going to resort to a shorter list now or my editor will start including my acknowledgments in the maximum word count.

  My agent, Janet Grant. We started with a rush and it hasn’t stopped. Thanks for answering my incessant emails, interpreting hoaxes versus actual real people, and being a fabulous woman!

  My editor, Raela Schoenherr. Book two! This has been a lot of fun so far. I hope you’re not tired of me yet. Though I wouldn’t blame you. My emails do tend to ramble on pointlessly.

  To the Bethany House team of amazingness. Luke, Amy, Noelle, Jennifer, and all, you make this happen. You really do. I wish you’d let me plaster your names on the book cover too, ’cause you totally deserve to be on it.

  Oh gosh. The music is starting to play, isn’t it? I’ll wrap this up.

  My Clutch friends. You are awesome.

  My mentors Colleen Coble and Erica Vetsch. You both keep me grounded. Love you both!

  Sisters-of-the-Traveling-Us. We seem to miss each other often. Sarah. Alaska, really? And Kara, New Zealand? But regardless, we still find a way to talk EVERY DAY. I would be lost without my Anne Love
, Laurie Tomlinson, Kara Isaac, Sarah Varland, and Halee Matthews.

  Mom and Dad, and Mom and Dad—I have two complete sets. Not everyone is blessed to be able to claim that. Thank you for modeling marriage, even though at times we all roll our eyes.

  Cap’n Hook. Here’s to you. My unsentimental, pragmatic man who keeps me grounded and empowers me.

  My CoCo and Peter Pan. Let’s go for a midnight adventure.

  And to Jesus. Need I explain? You gave me grace, You have my soul.

  About the Author

  Jaime Jo Wright is the author of the acclaimed novel The House on Foster Hill. She’s also the Publishers Weekly and ECPA bestselling author of two novellas. Jaime works as a human resources director in Wisconsin, where she lives with her husband and two children. To learn more, visit jaimewrightbooks.com.

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