Where Grace Appears
Page 1
PRAISE FOR HEIDI CHIAVAROLI
“Chiavaroli delights with this homage to Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, featuring a time-slip narrative of two women connected across centuries.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY on The Orchard House
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“As a longtime fan of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, I was eager to read The Orchard House…. [It] invited me in, served me tea, and held me enthralled with its compelling tale.”
LORI BENTON, Christy Award-winning author of The King’s Mercy
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“Captivating from the first page….Steeped in timeless truths and served with skill, The Tea Chest is sure to be savored by all who read it.”
JOCELYN GREEN, Christy Award-winning author of Between Two Shores
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“The Hidden Side is a beautiful tale that captures the timeless struggles of the human heart.”
JULIE CANTRELL, New York Times Bestselling author of Perennials
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"First novelist Chiavaroli’s historical tapestry will provide a satisfying summer read for fans of Kristy Cambron and Lisa Wingate."
LIBRARY JOURNAL on Freedom’s Ring
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“The Edge of Mercy is most definitely one for the keeper shelf. ”
LINDSAY HARREL, author of The Secrets of Paper and Ink
Where Grace Appears
Heidi Chiavaroli
Hope Creek Publishers
Visit Heidi Chiavaroli at heidichiavaroli.com
Copyright © 2021 by Heidi Chiavaroli
All rights reserved.
Hope Creek Publishers
Cover Design by Carpe Librum Book Design
Author Photograph by Marla Darius, copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Edited by Melissa Jagears
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Scripture quotations are taken from the New International Version.
Where Grace Appears is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2021904400
Created with Vellum
Also by Heidi Chiavaroli
The Orchard House
The Tea Chest
The Hidden Side
Freedom’s Ring
The Edge of Mercy
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The Orchard House Bed and Breakfast Series
Where Grace Appears
Where Hope Begins (Summer, 2021)
Where Love Grows (Fall, 2021)
A contemporary twist on the well-loved classic, Little Women, readers will fall in love with the Martin family—Maggie, Josie, Lizzie, Bronson, Amie, and their mother Hannah—each trying to find their own way in the world and each discovering that love, home, and hope are closer than they appear.
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Ashamed of being duped by her handsome psychology professor, Josie Martin returns to Maine too proud to admit her foolishness to those closest to her. As the one-year anniversary of her father’s death approaches, she seeks solace in an old friend, Tripp Colton, and a new business venture that will prove to herself and her loved ones that she is still capable of success despite her overwhelming failure.
* * *
When Josie announces she will not return to school to finish her graduate degree but wishes to remain in Camden to help her mother achieve a lifelong dream, the entire family gets behind her idea to open and run a bed and breakfast inspired by Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House. Even Tripp gets excited about restoring Josie’s great-aunt's Victorian home for the purpose, but when Josie’s unexpected news is revealed, their friendship and the new feelings blooming between them are threatened.
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As summer gives way to fall, Josie struggles with decisions regarding her family’s future, dealing with past mistakes she cannot run from, and her feelings for Tripp. When the opportunity for grace comes along, will she take it? Or will she continue to allow her failures to define her worth?
For my sister, Krystal
I appreciate our relationship more and more as we grow older.
Love you, Sissy!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Note To Reader
Where Hope Begins
Also by Heidi Chiavaroli
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
The nature of secrets is that they long to be kept and long to be told all at the same time.
At least that’s the conclusion I came to as I stared at the solid wood door of my childhood home. Only a year away from my master’s in clinical psychology at NYU, and the one thing threatening success…the secret lodged in my belly.
I knew all about the psychology of secrets—our need for self-preservation, why we held our confidences close to our hearts, the proven healing of mind and body that often comes with their release. And so I had followed James Pennebaker’s advice and written my secret on a torn page of my journal. Then I burned it with a match over my sink, watched my words dissolve into ash, and convinced myself that it had been freed from my conscience.
I would put Pennebaker’s theory to the test over the next several weeks. For yes, I had known all about the psychology of secrets from my textbooks.
And now, I would know about them firsthand.
I pushed open the door, remembering the many times I’d crossed this threshold to find Mom pulling a batch of oatmeal cookies out of the oven for the latest PTO fundraiser. Maggie would be pacing before the kitchen bar, fretting over an upcoming date, while Lizzie sprawled on the floor patting Scrabble’s furry belly. Bronson would be laboring over an algebra problem at the dining room table, while Amie pasted wildflower petals onto cardstock beside him.
And Dad…Dad would be holed up in his office, of course, or out at the mission, saving the world.
“Hello?” I wrestled my suitcase through the doorway, filled with more books and notebooks than clothes and accessories. “I’m home!”
The rooms echoed back uncharacteristically silent despite the scent of freshly-baked brownies. I passed Dad’s office and a pang started in my breastbone. I forced my gaze away from the partially open door, not yet ready to see what I knew was there—the hollow curve of his chair, the dust thick on his dear books. I’d crack at least one open in his honor this summer. Maybe a Bertrand Russell book, or Aristotle, maybe Fate by Ralph Waldo Emerson. It wouldn’t be easy, but I’d pull on my big girl pants and do it, if not for Dad’s sake this time, then as a sort of toast to his memory.
The roar of a compressor came from the back of the house and I left m
y suitcase to search out its owner. Where was everyone? While I wasn’t vain enough to expect a welcome home party, I did think at least Lizzie would have ensured I didn’t return home to an empty house. It had been five months since I’d seen them, after all. Five months, and in some ways, a lifetime.
“Hello?” I entered the dining room to see a familiar form standing on a small ladder, holding a nail gun to freshly-painted crown molding.
He turned, and my heart gave an unexpected lurch.
Tripp Colton was the last person I needed to see right now. I still couldn’t think of that day last summer without a flush of embarrassment creeping over me. He should have never said those words. And he definitely shouldn’t have kissed me like that. He had ruined our perfectly lovely, comfortable relationship in one stormy, steamy afternoon.
We’d never be the same again.
“Josie.” His voice possessed a warmth I didn’t expect. Maybe there was still hope for us to reclaim what we’d once had. Maybe there was still hope for our friendship.
These past silent months had been torture but now, glimpsing a promise of goodwill, I longed to fight for the old order of things. To not lose Tripp’s friendship no matter how we got to this place. No matter the regret tied to that summer day. No matter the secret singeing my chest.
He stepped off the ladder and gave me a hug, eliciting a lurch of longing. I wanted to sink into those strong arms, into the spicy aroma of cologne and wood shavings and sea. So familiar. So achingly comforting. So unlike Finn’s book and leather scent.
I shook my head free of the forbidden thoughts, glanced at Tripp’s khakis and polo shirt, searched for solid ground between us.
“Grandpop didn’t up the dress code for his best project manager again, did he?”
Tripp smiled that delicious smile, the one that drove all the girls in high school crazy. Curly black hair matched his deep eyes, the faintest five o’clock shadow making his mysterious dark looks and white teeth all that more alluring.
Not that I’d ever been one of the crazy high school girls, of course. I’d just been Josie, his best friend.
Tripp shrugged. “The old boy has high standards, what can I say?” His smile spread wider. “I’m kidding. I was on the way to the library but had a half-hour to spare. Figured I could put this up for your mother—I caught her with power tools last week.”
I groaned. Ever since Mom had taken off a piece of her thumb with a belt sander when I was twelve, we’d tried to keep her away from the power tools. It had become a running joke in the family that she stick with what suited her best—books and good home cooking. “Then consider the Martin children—and Mom’s fingers—forever in your debt.” We laughed, and it felt good. Like the old us, instead of the after-that-summer-day us.
I headed to the adjoining kitchen and took a glass from the corner cupboard. I pushed it against the water dispenser on the refrigerator, noting the dispenser light was out. My thoughts turned to Dad again, just as hopeless as Mom when it came to handy house fixes. Poor Dad had always been too caught up in the mentally constructive to have anything to do with the physical improvement of anything. Lucky for us, Tripp didn’t mind trading handyman services for dibs on whatever came out of Mom’s kitchen.
I turned from the fridge, catching sight of a neatly folded sheet and pillow on the corner of the living room sofa. I wondered who Mom had allowed to crash on our couch this week. “So, a library visit, huh? They get in a new Calvin and Hobbes or something?” Despite my best efforts, I never could get Tripp to crack much more than an occasional graphic novel.
“Ha, ha.” He shook his head, picked up a smaller molding, climbed the ladder, and fit it in the corner like a perfect puzzle piece before nailing it in place. He smoothed his hand along the wood, testing it out, searching for a bump or imperfection—something to fix. Because that’s what Tripp did. Fix things.
Too bad he couldn’t fix what happened between us just as easily.
“I’m going to the library for your mother.” He climbed down the ladder and our gazes caught. For a terrible moment, I felt the awkwardness I feared would be ours from here on out. He shifted his attention back to the molding above.
I cleared my throat, grasped for words and understanding. Mom was one of the librarians. “Why does she need you to get something for her? She’s working today, isn’t she?”
“Her retirement party? At three o’clock?” Tripp rolled up the hose of the nail gun.
“R-retirement?” Surely, I hadn’t missed that piece of information. Yes, I’d been distracted of late, but not so distracted I’d miss such big news.
And a party? I’d received a text from Maggie last week, something about the twins’ Little League tournament. Nothing mentioning retirement. Lizzie called a few days ago to play me a new song she’d written. Had she said anything?
Tripp squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, you okay? No one has to know you forgot. It hasn’t even started yet. We’ll head over together…if you want.”
His hand landed steady on me, solid if not a bit hesitant. I so needed firm ground right now.
But no, arriving at Mom’s party together would never do. I needed to create clear boundaries between us. No mixed signals, especially now.
I pulled away from his warm hand. “I didn’t forget. No one told me.”
Right. That was it, wasn’t it? I pulled out a chair and sat heavily. “Mom’s really retiring?”
“That’s the word.”
We’d always been tight on money, and Mom was still young—too young to think about retiring. Unless…I gasped for sudden breath, chest tight. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, Josie. Better than fine, I think. She’s just ready for a change, you know? Even talked about renting some space over on Main Street, opening up a bookstore.”
I stared, mouth agape.
Tripp’s face reddened. “Amie talks too much sometimes.”
“Apparently,” I muttered. Still, it annoyed me that Tripp knew more than I did about what went on with my own family. I mean, a bookshop? That was huge. And no one thought to tell me?
An unpleasant twinge of guilt came as I recalled the many phone calls and text messages—especially the ones from Mom—that I’d either ignored or acknowledged with simple “likes” or smiley-faced emojis. I had my reasons, of course. Not particularly good ones, but reasons nonetheless.
Finn had been a distraction. One I’d kept to myself, hadn’t even shared with Maggie, never mind Mom. He’d been from Dad’s world, after all. It would be too much for Mom, especially not even a year after Dad’s death.
Not to mention that my obsession with Finn was such an incredibly un-Josielike thing to do. Yes, I’d always been the wild Martin. The impulsive, blunt, opinionated, passionate Martin. But I’d never lost my head around a man and I certainly never let anything get in the way of my big career plans. Not until Professor Finn Becker came along, anyway.
My face burned as I remembered the moments we shared, how the alluring power of him had been enough to swallow me up, to create oblivion in all other areas of my life.
I’d forgotten the careful outline I’d sketched out for my life. I’d forgotten respectability and reason. I’d thrown myself into the dangerous. Played with fire. It shouldn’t be a surprise I’d gotten burned. Torched.
Now, I had nothing but sizzling shame in the depths of my spirit. Too bad it wasn’t enough to undo all that had been done.
I sighed. None of those memories deserved a place here, on my homecoming day. Mom’s retirement day. Just think…a bookshop. How many times had Dad sat at this very dining room table talking about this long-held dream?
Tripp waved a hand in front of my face, and I blinked to see something like disappointment marring his features.
“I’m sorry. I’m more distracted than usual, I guess.”
“Planning that next book in your head?”
I averted my gaze. “I haven’t written since high school, and you know it.”
“That’s right. Too busy strapping all those letters to the end of your name in the Big Apple to consider silly things like stories, is that it?”
His scoffing tone rubbed me the wrong way. I breathed deep, pressed my lips together, and attempted to reign in that old temper. “Because you’re such a huge proponent of deep, well-told stories, I suppose? Don’t worry, Colton. I could never match the likes of Captain Underpants, anyway.”
“Hey, that is a brilliant series concept.” He grew serious, studied me without cracking a smile, a thousand unspoken words in his gaze. “You do know I would have gobbled up anything you’d written, Jo.”
I bristled at his nickname for me. It was bad enough Mom and Dad had the entire Little Women thing going on with our names, but sometimes I wondered if our association with the March family hadn’t cursed us in some ways. Mom had been so thrilled when I wrote my first story in elementary school. I’d Cross the Desert for Milk. It was awful. But you wouldn’t have known it by Mom’s enthusiasm.
Over the years, as Amie gravitated to art and Lizzie to music, as I bucked against the urge to write, and even last year as Maggie threw away her marketing career to be a wife and mother, I wondered if we’d inadvertently formed some sort of name-fulfilling prophecy. Had knowing Mom and Dad named us after the March family led us to mirror them in some ways? Many times, in ways we didn’t even want?