She turned the page. A heavy watermark marred the ink on the time-crinkled stationery, but the words were still legible. Besides, she knew them already.


Your father was a most persuasive man, and even now I can see the determination in his eyes. Though I know the relationship between the two of you was never the same, I do believe your father entered eternity with overwhelming love for you and with a desire that you forgive him for the decision he made all those years ago. And I hope, my love, that you will. The longer I fight this war, and the more men I see taken so swiftly from this world to the next, the more I am convinced that harboring unforgiveness is a costly debt. One that is paid over and over not so much by the one needing forgiveness as by the one withholding it.

The ink blotched the page as though her father had hesitated overlong in lifting the pen, and she wondered what her mother had felt when first reading his next words.


What your father gave me—gave you—he did in a spirit of reconciliation, and I hope that in time you will receive his gift as such. Before I left, I placed it with the rest of our valuables for safekeeping.

Andrew stirred, and she looked up to see if he’d awakened. Sometimes the pain in his legs kept sleep at a distance. But his eyes remained closed, so she continued reading.


I’ll adhere to your wishes and will wait to share the story with our entire family once the boys and I return home. But know that this was far more than a simple gesture on your father’s part. It was an olive branch intended to heal, and I pray its roots spread deep and wide through our family. I left additional monies in the box as well. Save it if you can. Spend it if necessary. Even if the house is commandeered, it will be safe.

Oh, Papa. Where did you put it? And what is in it? Money still, perhaps?

Her mother had never said anything about it and had died so quickly herself. She’d been fine one moment, then complaining of a severe headache the next. Then she’d collapsed. When she finally came to, she’d been unable to move or speak, and within hours, even to breathe.

She’d been gone by the next morning.

Her throat tightening, Savannah didn’t reread the last paragraph of the letter, her father’s parting thoughts especially painful tonight for some reason. She slipped the folded stationery back into the envelope, then reached for the Bible. She laid her hand atop the worn black leather, much as her father had done, and wished she felt as confident about God’s providence as he and her mother had.

She opened the Bible and took care turning the pages yellowed with time and dog-eared with a thirst for understanding and comfort. Contrary to the front and back of the book that contained the scribbled history of the Darby family, the pages themselves were clean and unmarked.

Every night she read to her siblings and silently to herself. But that habit had slipped in recent years as work grew busier and time shrank by half. Some days the words spoke to her more than others. Though she realized this had more to do with her heart than anything to do with the Lord.

The lamp oil burning low and the hour growing late, she returned the Bible to the drawer, then snuggled into the bed, weary from the long day. But apparently her body hadn’t informed her thoughts because they turned with startling clarity to Aidan Bedford. She could see his face. And how he’d looked at her yesterday. For a moment, her imagination almost convinced her she hadn’t been the only one doing the looking.

Then her saner side resumed function. Why would a man like him look at a woman like her? On the other hand, how could a woman like her take a second look at a man like him? From two different worlds, they were.

But she had to admit, even though the sensations she’d experienced had been one-sided, it gave her hope that maybe someday she’d find someone. A solid Southern man who would not only love her, but who would love Carolyne and Andrew too.

As she willed sleep to come, the last paragraph of her father’s letter returned, insistent. But instead of seeing the words on the page, she heard the memory of her father’s resonant voice across time.

When last you wrote, Melna, you told me you believed without fail that it was God’s design for me to see home again. I cling to that hope and your faith in it, for my own grows less day by day. I pray to God that I am wrong. But if I am not, and heaven is soon within my sight, know that with my last breath I will be thinking of you and thanking God for the gift of your love and for all of our children. Jake and Adam are doing well, fighting bravely, as you would imagine. Though I know they are frightened. As are all brave men, from time to time. I am attempting to keep them safe and am so proud of them both. They send their love.

We all look forward to being home soon.

With deepest affection,

Merle

She hugged her pillow close, her tears dampening the smooth cotton beneath her cheek. “I love you all,” she whispered aloud, hoping the hushed stillness might somehow cause her words to be heard in eternity, even as she prayed Eternity would answer.

FOUR DAYS LATER, THE FABRICS FOR ALL WINDOWS RECEIVING new treatments had been chosen, and Savannah had measured each of the windows numerous times, both for new shades and draperies. Then she’d measured them again to confirm her calculations. Save for one room she’d particularly avoided.

As she stood outside of her old bedroom, Miss Sinclair’s current quarters, she felt much like the girl depicted in a novel by Lewis Carroll she’d recently read to Carolyne. Only there was no White Rabbit racing by with his pocket watch, and she knew with certainty she wasn’t about to tumble down into a curious hall full of locked doors of all sizes as young Alice had. Still . . . she felt a hesitance she couldn’t account for. Except that for all the dreams she’d dreamed in this bedroom, for all the paths she’d thought her life might someday take, very few had come to fruition.

Hearing footsteps on the staircase, she guessed Miss Sinclair had returned early from her shopping trip, and she hastened to her task, smiling to herself as she playfully checked the bedside table for a tiny key like in the story.

As she measured the windows and recorded the dimensions in her notebook, she waited for Miss Sinclair or Mrs. Pruitt to pop into the bedroom at any moment. No matter where she went in the house in recent days, one of the two women always seemed to be either in the room with her or in another close by. At this rate, she could come here every day for the rest of her life and never find what her father had hidden.

She glanced about the room, noting the subtle changes from when she’d last lived here. The entire house had been given a thorough cleaning. Yet it was comforting to still see familiar scuff marks on walls and slight dents in the wooden floor that she’d personally authored.

But the lacy undergarments peeking from the wardrobe and the black silk nightgown draped over the chair in the corner were most definitely new additions. She didn’t even want to think about whether Mr. Bedford had seen them.

And yet, she did wonder.

Purposefully refocusing, she moved to the next window.

Draperies for the dining room were already being sewn in the shop in town. She’d stopped by before coming this morning to make certain her coworkers understood the instructions on the ruching and trim. For a Monday morning, and so early an hour, the shop had been in a flurry. But a happy one.

To say Miss Hildegard was ecstatic with how the project was progressing was like saying a fish tended to prefer water. And why not? Miss Sinclair was asking for nothing but the best. The cost of the rich blue silk for the dining-room draperies was more than Savannah earned in a year, never mind the beading and tassels. For that reason alone, she hoped Aidan Bedford was a wealthy man. Because his fiancée was spending money almost faster than she could keep tally.

But his generosity to his future wife would also pay for Andrew’s new leg braces. “They’ll be much better and less cumbersome than your old ones,” Andrew had quoted the doctor.

So thank you, Mr. Bedford.

Though, much to her relief, she hadn’t been alone with him since that day by her grandparents’ old cabin. She’d seen him in the house along with Miss Sinclair or Mrs. Pruitt, and he’d acted completely normal. Whether it was just an act or he truly hadn’t noticed how taken with him she’d been that day, she was grateful. Either way.

She stood back and eyed the double windows, still loving the curtains she’d sewn years earlier, although the blue-and-yellow floral was a tad girlish now. But they’d soon be gone. Because next on the list were the draperies for this room—soon to become the guest quarters—once Miss Sinclair approved the design. Miss Sinclair had requested that every room in the house be measured for floor coverings as well. Carpet was to be installed wall to wall in some of the rooms, and new Persian rugs had been ordered for others.

Savannah had identified the woman’s taste early on, a skill honed from years of learning to set aside her own preferences and see the project through her clients’ eyes. Miss Sinclair loved everything French and expensive and “unlike anything Nashville has ever seen.” Savannah found it quietly amusing that so many of Miss Sinclair’s “unique conceptions” were nearly identical to drawings in the latest editions of Godey’s, Harper’s, or La Mode Illustrée.

Personally, she appreciated fashion as much as anyone. But why was it that so many women, instead of listening to their own vision and creating a style unique to them, that fit their personal taste, let their style be dictated by someone in another part of the world? Say, Paris, New York, or . . . Boston.

After all, a home belonged to the people who lived in it. Not to the world.

But she’d also learned in recent years that a house didn’t necessarily make a home. People did, and the love they shared. Wherever Carolyne and Andrew were, that was where her home was now, and she was determined to be grateful, however challenging that was at present.

Certain she’d heard someone on the stairs moments earlier, she crossed to the door and peered up and down the hallway. But the corridor was empty. Apparently she’d been mistaken. Seizing the opportunity, she combed the room for loose floorboards or ill-fitting bricks in the hearth, just as she’d done in most of the other rooms in the house. She even reached beneath the larger pieces of furniture to see if her father had somehow secured the box to the underside of—

“Miss Anderson?”

Hearing Aidan Bedford’s voice, Savannah froze on all fours in front of the wardrobe. Then she did the only thing she could think of: quickly tossed her measuring tape underneath. The round cylinder rolled clear to the back.

SAVANNAH LOOKED UP, HAVING NO NEED TO WONDER IF HER face was flushed. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bedford! How are you, sir?” And why on earth was the man home from work so early?

Still in his suit, and looking quite the successful young attorney, he tilted his head as though to better match the angle of hers. “I’m well, Miss Anderson. Question is . . . how are you?”

“Fine. Other than my measuring tape having gone for a little stroll.”

“Oh, please, allow me.” He crossed the room and knelt, facing her, then reached beneath the wardrobe. Just as swiftly, he grimaced and pulled his hand back out.

Savannah winced. “A spider?”

He shook his head, then grinned. “A joke.” He reached beneath the wardrobe again and a second later dropped the measuring tape safely into her palm.

Savannah laughed, finding his humor a little off center. And liking it.

He offered his assistance as she stood. His hand was warm and strong. And spoken for. Startled by the thought, she tucked the measuring tape into the pocket of her skirt and her hand along with it. Then she realized . . .