Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

  Even finding Annabelle, connecting to her birth family, her blood, felt hollow. She was grateful beyond measure to have found her roots, but they still weren’t really what she sought.

  But now Sloane walked around the chasm’s edges with a new perspective. The thing she truly wanted, Annabelle had found. The answer was both further away and closer at hand than she ever could have imagined.

  Though Sloane had been a believer all her life, God always felt somewhat distant. A vaguely judgmental presence more than a person who could fill her. Her sins were forgiven, she was destined for heaven, but she’d always sort of thought divine involvement in her life stopped there. This utter dependence on God that Annabelle painted such a beautiful picture of … that was foreign. And Sloane wanted it more than anything.

  Could it be she held God at arm’s length? Hadn’t truly surrendered to him because she feared she wasn’t enough for him either?

  Could it be that she already was enough? That the peace she so desperately sought everywhere but its true source was right here, shimmering in the sunlight, waiting for her to reach out and take hold?

  Slowly, Sloane sat up and pulled out her phone. Opened her Bible app and scrolled through the promises that had always flitted in one ear and out the other. Promises she’d never truly absorbed as being meant for her.

  She was loved. Chosen. Knit together, fearfully and wonderfully, in her mother’s womb.

  And even though her birth parents viewed her as an unwelcome surprise, even though the Kelleys saw her as a befuddlement, to God she was neither. He’d created her. He knew her. He gave his life for her. And through that sacrifice, she’d been adopted into his family. Not in a plan B, she’ll do sort of way, but as a cherished, beloved daughter of the King.

  Since before time began, he’d planned for her. Wanted her. And he’d always, always loved her.

  Cleansing tears dampening a tissue, Sloane bowed her head and basked in those promises. In that love.

  God was enough. His love was enough.

  And because of that infinite, unfathomable love … so was she.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “YOU’RE LOOKING FOR what?” Garrett frowned at his phone, as though its flat silvery surface could interpret his sister’s confusing request.

  “The Christmas relish recipe.” A touch of impatience edged Lauren’s voice. “It’s in the church cookbook, I think.”

  Amid all the turkeys and hams and sides of every description that had always graced the family holiday table, he couldn’t conjure up anything befitting the name. “Did we have relish at Christmas?”

  “No, Mr. Literal,” Lauren huffed. “It’s made with red peppers and green tomatoes. Red and green?”

  “Christmas colors.”

  “I knew you’d figure it out eventually.” Lauren’s smirk was evident even through the phone. “Grandma used to make it with all her end-of-summer produce. I’m figuring out my fall blog posts and that’d be a great feature.”

  “Look at you, planning ahead.” Garrett rose from the sofa and made his way to the pile of plastic crates along his otherwise nondescript living room wall. “You’re coming along nicely.”

  The raspberry Lauren blew would’ve made their grandmother proud.

  Garrett ran a fingertip along the tower of crates from the farmhouse, each labeled with a strip of Sharpie-scribbled packing tape. “A church cookbook, you said?”

  “It’s got a sketch of a church on the front. Light blue cover maybe?”

  “If it’s here, it should be in this one. Let me put you on speaker.” Garrett set the phone on an end table and hoisted a crate marked “Kitchen” from atop the pile. “How’s the apartment hunt coming?”

  “I think I found a place.”

  The crate thumped on the sofa. “Really?”

  “It’s adorable.” Lauren’s voice went tinny over the phone. “It’s in this ancient elementary school building that’s been converted into apartments. Mine’s got a chalkboard along one wall and everything. Hardwood floors, tons of natural light, and the kitchen is ah-mazing.”

  “That’s great, Lo. I’m happy for you.” Plastic popped as Garrett unlidded the crate and flipped past the red-and-black plaid cover of an ancient Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook, relishing the release of another weight from his shoulders. Not that Lauren’s living arrangements were his responsibility, of course, but it was still a relief to know she’d found a place she liked. “I may be apartment hunting myself soon.”

  “What? Why? You bought your house practically the second you graduated from college. Said it was a sensible investment. Are you feeling all right?”

  “It’d just be temporary. A month or two. And it’s not definite yet.” He fingered a book of cookie recipes. “My firm’s opening a branch in Wichita, and my boss thinks I should be the one to get it off the ground.”

  “Harassing me from three hours away isn’t enough anymore? You have to do it in person?”

  He quirked a grin toward the phone. “That would be a perk.”

  “So are you going to take it?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on a lot of things.”

  “Like patching things up with Sloane?”

  “If only it were that easy.”

  “You guys broke up because of the house and the distance, right? Kimberly’s buying the house, and if you take this job, the distance thing goes away too. What are you waiting for?”

  “It wasn’t just that, Lo. You remember how things ended with Jenny. How much it messed me up.”

  “I believe it was my all-knowing big brother who said Sloane is nothing like Jenny Hickok. And as usual, he’s right. Jenny was a flutterhead. She was silly and immature and she didn’t deserve you. But Sloane just fits. She’s nerdy in the same ways you are, she puts up with all your weirdness, and … Garrett, I’ve never seen you as happy as you were with her.”

  “But meeting her was never part of the plan, and I—”

  “Oh, come on.” Lauren’s exasperation rattled the phone against the end table. “You’re turning your back on the best thing that’s ever happened to you because she doesn’t fit in your plan? Then revise the plan, jerk face. Grand Master Life Plan, section 5, paragraph 3A, revision 12B: ‘Meet the woman of my dreams, fall madly in love with her, and do whatever it takes to win her heart.’”

  Bittersweet amusement tugged his lips. “We said some things last time we were together. Things I’m not sure can be fixed.”

  “Don’t you want them to be?”

  Pain pressed against the walls of his heart. “Of course I do.”

  “Seems like maybe you should make a phone call then. Apologize for whatever dumb thing you said. Because it was obviously you.”

  “You’re right. I should.”

  “Whoa. Did you just say I’m right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.” Jackpot. A light blue spiral-bound cookbook peeked up at him from the crate. “I think I found what you’re looking for. Hearth and Home: Recipes from the First Christian Church of Jamesville, Kansas.”

  “That’s it. Thank you.”

  “I’ll text you a pic.”

  “That’ll work.” She gave a thoughtful pause. “There might be some other things in that cookbook I could make over, health-food style. Could you bring it next time you visit? Y’know, when you come to look for an apartment? The one next to mine is available.”

  He chuckled. “Let’s not get nuts, Lo.”

  After they ended the call, he flipped through the little cookbook. Sure enough, page four featured a recipe for Christmas relish. He snapped a photo and texted it to Lauren. When she replied with a string of heart-eyed emojis, he slid the little cookbook back into the crate.

  Why had he brought all these cookbooks here anyway? It made far more sense for Lauren to have them, especially with—

  Wait.

  That little brown book wasn’t a cookbook.

  Adrenaline zinging through him, he carefully lifted th
e book from its nest. He didn’t carry archival gloves in his back pocket the way Sloane always seemed to, but he’d do his best.

  His heart ached at the sight of the familiar, faded scrawl. Dear God, I miss Sloane. He missed the eager gleam in her eyes, the excited flush in her cheeks. The voracious reverence with which she’d dive into the diary and devour its century-old contents. The adorable enthusiasm when she made a new discovery.

  The first date in the diary squeezed his heart.

  April 23, 1894.

  Sloane’s birthday.

  April 23, 1894

  Shiny wet ink transformed to matte black under the gentle spring breeze. Annabelle blew on the ink to speed the drying process, then closed the diary, set it on the corner of her worn quilt, and leaned back against the tree.

  Mercy, the creek was lively today, chattering and bubbling its joy at spring’s arrival. Tentative green leaves unfurled from branches; wildflowers stretched toward the sun. The apple and cherry trees along the drive perfumed the air with subtle sweetness.

  But instead of joy at the signs of new life, sorrow weighed on her soul. Because unless plans changed, she’d never again see spring bloom on Jack’s beloved land. Come summer, she’d leave all this behind. The creek. The flowers.

  The dream.

  It was for the best, of course. If staying was too painful for Oliver, then as a widow with limited options, she needed to go with him. Submit to God’s plan, as she had years ago when Uncle Stephen’s bumpy wagon brought her here. Oliver was God’s provision for her, for her other children. His invitation was gracious. Necessary. And she would accept.

  But that didn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt.

  Footsteps swished through the grass, drawing her attention from the burbling creek. Her breath hung suspended at the sight of the dark-haired man approaching.

  It wasn’t Jack, of course. It was Oliver.

  Time and again, Oliver’s resemblance to his uncle stunned her. Not even blood relatives, they nonetheless had the same inky hair, the same sharp cheekbones. But while Jack’s eyes had been a deep, stormy gray, Oliver’s were a brilliant blue. A gift from his mam, Jack always said.

  Oliver’s shadow fell across her quilt. “May I join you?”

  “Certainly.” Smiling, she scooted to her left.

  He lowered himself to the corner of the coverlet, and Annabelle filled with love for this boy turned man she adored as much as the ones she’d birthed herself. They shared a love for reading, for writing. As soon as Oliver learned penmanship, he’d begun scribbling in his own diaries. Though she’d not seen him write in one for years, she suspected he kept up the habit.

  A cottonwood branch floated by in the creek, and nostalgia tugged her heart. “The first time I laid eyes on you, you were in that water.”

  Oliver chuckled. “I thought you were an angel. My mother had a painting of an angel back in Wisconsin. It’s one of my earliest memories.” He plucked a blade of grass, twirled it between thumb and forefinger. “I’m not sure what happened to that painting. I never saw it here. But to my eyes, at that moment … you looked exactly like her.”

  Annabelle covered his hand with hers. “You never told me that.”

  “You always treated me like your own child. And you made Uncle Jack so happy. What you did for him, for us …” One corner of his mouth quirked. “I’m not certain you aren’t an angel after all.”

  Emotion thickened her throat and stung her eyes.

  “I called him Uncle Jack because that’s how I’d always known him. But he was every bit my father.” Oliver blew the blade of grass toward the rippling waters of the creek. “I hope and pray I’m as good a father as he was.”

  Was he saying … ? Annabelle squeezed his hand.

  A smile split his face.

  “Oh, Oliver.” Joy bubbled up in a laugh. “When?”

  “Early November, Kate thinks.”

  “Is she feeling all right?”

  “Mercifully, yes. She’s a bit queasy in the mornings, but it passes as soon as she eats.”

  Annabelle smiled in relief. “Then she is a blessed woman indeed.”

  “And so are you.” Mischief gleamed in deep blue eyes. “You’ll be a grandmother, after all.”

  Annabelle pulled up short. “That makes me sound frightfully old.”

  “What about Granny?”

  “That’s even worse.”

  “Granny it is then.” Oliver’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Or maybe even Granny Annie. It rhymes.”

  She gave him a playful shove. “You will not call me Granny Annie.”

  “You’ll get used to it in time.” Oliver put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

  “Perhaps it’s good that babies take months to arrive then.” She shuddered. “Granny Annie.”

  “It suits you.”

  She studied her eldest, her feelings so chaotic she couldn’t even pluck one out to examine, let alone name. “You’re going to be a wonderful father. Jack would be so proud.”

  Oliver bowed his head. “I miss him.”

  “I miss him too.”

  “I keep thinking … what if I’d been there? What if I’d gone fishing with him instead of for a drive with Kate? What if I’d repaired the roof myself when I found the fallen shingles?”

  She leaned her head against her son’s broad shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know. But I don’t always feel it.” His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “I can’t look at that corner of the house where he fell without seeing him.”

  “Oliver.” Tears blurred his image. “I understand why you need to leave. Which is why I’ve decided to come with you and Kate.”

  He pulled back. “You have?”

  “The Lord showed me my error in thinking this place is all I have of Jack. Far from it. He lives on in Thomas’s determination and John Patrick’s smile and Maggie Ann’s eyes. He lives in the hearts and memories of those who love him. I don’t need the land, the house, to feel close to him, especially not when I know we’ll be together in glory one day.” She smiled at Oliver. “Besides, you’ll need the extra hands, with the baby and all.”

  “Well, that muddles things up a bit.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re not the only one who’s been talking with God. I’ve been praying for guidance, and he’s provided it through Kate.”

  Annabelle examined her son for clues as to what he was about to say, but with Oliver she couldn’t push. He needed time to gather his thoughts. So she waited and watched as he plucked another blade of grass.

  “Kate’s quiet. She seems delicate. But she’s as tough as they come. When she makes up her mind about something, I’m learning, fast, that it’s nigh impossible to change it. And she told me that if she were in your shoes, she’d want to stay. Even if she had to go it alone. And she wouldn’t be thrilled if her child were so far away.” His eyes twinkled. “That’s how she told me about the baby.”

  Annabelle beamed. She knew she liked Kate.

  A shadow crossed Oliver’s face. “One of my earliest memories is of my parents arguing, late one night when they thought I was asleep. My mother was expecting again.”

  Annabelle blinked. Jack had never told her that. Perhaps he hadn’t known.

  “Pa wanted to abandon the trip and go back to Wisconsin. But Ma wanted to press on. She said they’d come too far, sacrificed too much, to give up. Within a week, they were both gone.” He cleared his throat. “I know we’d be taking the train, and the trip would be easier. But still. I won’t subject Kate to such a journey. Not in her condition.”

  Annabelle stared, slack-jawed. Could he possibly be saying what she thought he was saying?

  “Now, my feelings on the house have not changed. I still don’t want to go anywhere near it. But what would you say to Kate and me purchasing some of your acreage? We’d farm it all, work out some rent …”

  He kept talking, but Annabelle couldn’t hear anything beyond they’re sta
ying and that means I can stay too. How wondrous God was! How beautifully he had worked out every last detail to redeem the dream she’d surrendered to his care.

  “Oh, Oliver,” was all she could say. He wrapped one arm around her, and her heart burst into song.

  She could stay. In her house, on her land, by her creek. By God’s providence, she could live out the rest of her days making Jack’s dream come true. The dream the Lord had given him.

  The dream he’d given her too.

  “You kept the house.”

  Garrett shook his head. Now he was talking to Annabelle? He must be certifiable.

  But what he’d said aloud to his empty living room was true. Annabelle had never left the house. The land. And if Oliver kept the property, there was a decent chance it had been in the family for its entire existence.

  He closed the diary and studied its dusty cover with bone-deep certainty. He needed to tell Sloane.

  Of course, this was Sloane Kelley, researcher extraordinaire. She probably already knew. The minute she read of the potential move to California, she’d have dug through land records or census films or whatever other resources she had access to.

  But there was one thing she didn’t know. One thing she needed to know.

  The house she’d fallen in love with, the house that stood at the center of this mess, wouldn’t fall victim to Warren Williams’s wrecking ball. It wouldn’t stay in the family, not with Kimberly buying it, but it would stay standing.

  Whether it made any difference, whether he could win her back, he had no idea. But even if it couldn’t heal things between them, it might heal her.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket. Heart thumping, he scrolled through his contacts to the number he used to call all the time. To the little picture of her, the one he’d snapped while she was reading one of Annabelle’s diaries, the one that had caught her off guard and made her look up with that bemused “what in the world are you doing?” expression.

  It would be so good to hear her voice. Even the thought was like rainfall on parched land.

  But a mere phone call would be like a two-minute thundershower on ground that hadn’t seen a drop in weeks. Wonderful and welcome, but nothing close to enough.