Liam glanced toward the jewelry case but remained silent.
“Would you like them? I never could sell to anybody else, but maybe they’d mean something to you, being part of your family and all.”
“What is it with you and Chelsea?” He shook his head, trying to sound insulted. “Trying to force old Chandler stuff on me.”
“We’ve done no such—” She stopped when she saw him grinning at her. “Oh, you are a rascal, aren’t you?” Rosemary patted his knee. “But at least we know how the pearls got here. That violin still puzzles me. So I hope the two of you will be able to solve that mystery as you sort through all those papers and books and things.”
That sounded like it was time for him to get to work. He stood.
“Liam?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I will never forget your kindness to Chelsea in letting her keep the violin. I’ll never forget it.”
* * *
Anne McNalley looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties. Her brown hair, worn shoulder length, was streaked with gray. Although her smile was brief when she welcomed Chelsea into her home, her eyes seemed kind, and her voice had a calming quality.
“So you’ve never taken lessons,” Anne said when Chelsea finished giving a limited amount of information about herself.
They were seated in a room on the south side of the house. Sunlight streamed through tall trees to bathe the room in a golden light.
“A few when I was twelve,” Chelsea answered. “At school. But basically, no. No real lessons. Not much beyond how I should hold the violin, and I’ve forgotten that, I’m sure.”
“But you’re serious about learning now?”
Chelsea nodded. “Yes. Very.”
“You are older than most of my beginning students. You probably have a job and other responsibilities. Will you commit to daily practice and to not missing your weekly lessons?”
“Yes.”
“May I see your instrument?” The teacher extended her arms.
Chelsea passed the case to her and watched as she opened it. The expression on the instructor’s face changed to one of surprise, then disbelief.
“Good heavens,” Anne McNalley breathed at last. “This is beautiful. And you never learned to play it?” She looked up.
“It was given to me recently.”
“Given?”
“A gift from my great-aunt.” In her mind, she pictured Liam driving his truck back from the music store the previous day. “And from a friend of ours.”
After a moment, Anne asked, “May I?” even as she lifted the violin from the case.
When the teacher drew the bow across the strings, the pure sound made tears rise in Chelsea’s eyes. She’d wanted to do that very thing ever since she found the violin, but she hadn’t had the courage. She hadn’t wanted to spoil anything by creating a noise that would make her cringe, like fingers on a chalkboard.
Anne smiled as her gaze returned to Chelsea. “When would you like to begin your lessons?”
“As soon as you have an opening.” She reached for her purse. “I can pay you for the first lesson in advance, if you’d like.”
Anne waved a hand. “That’s not necessary. You can pay me when we begin.” She put the violin into the case, then reached for an appointment book that rested on a nearby piano, flipped it open, and ran a finger down a few columns. “I don’t teach often in the summer. Most students want the time off, and my family prefers it when I do the same. Shall we say Tuesdays at ten in the morning?”
Chelsea’s heart raced with the excitement. “Tuesdays at ten would be perfect.” She would have said the same for any day of the week except Sunday. She would have agreed to any time as well, and Aunt Rosemary would agree to whatever worked best. She’d said as much before Chelsea left the house.
“Wonderful.” Anne rose, effectively ending the meeting.
As Chelsea walked to her car a short while later, it was difficult not to break into a happy dance. There was a lightness in her steps that made her feel as if she were floating on air. The violin had been a gift from her great-aunt and from Liam, but this feeling was a gift from God.
She turned her face toward the sun and said, “Thank You!”
Preston
November 1895
The first snowstorm of the season arrived in Chickadee Creek in early November. Preston stood outside the office of the Chandler Mining Company and watched large flakes float lazily toward the ground.
“It’s gonna blow soon,” Ethan Sooner said from the protection of the doorway.
Preston looked over his shoulder. “How can you tell?”
“Dunno.” The man shrugged. “Can feel it, I reckon.”
“You can feel it?”
“Makes my bones ache when a bad storm’s comin’.”
Ethan Sooner—father of the local sheriff’s deputy—was the first man Preston had hired after his arrival in Idaho the previous spring. He’d been assured that no one knew more about mining in this county than Ethan Sooner, and the man had proven his reputation true. Not that they were actually in business as of yet. Gold nuggets were gone from Chickadee Creek. All that remained in these streams and mountains was fine gold. Very fine gold. And Preston planned to bring the first dredger to the area to go after it. Dredging had been employed three years earlier at the mouth of the Raft River. With any luck, the dredger Preston had ordered would be delivered in the spring, and the new and improved Chandler Mining Company would be up and running again by early summer.
At the moment, summer seemed far away because snow was no longer falling lazily toward the earth. Large, languid flakes had become tiny and numerous, and as Ethan predicted, the wind was on the rise, driving the snow before it. It stung as it hit Preston’s face and neck. He turned and went inside.
A fire burned in the potbellied stove, warming the roomy office. Over-warming it, as far as Preston was concerned. The heat made his nose and throat feel dry and scratchy. He swallowed some coffee, hoping it would ease the discomfort.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Ethan said, drawing Preston’s attention. “The missus wants you to come to the house for Thanksgiving dinner. And I may as well tell you now: she won’t take no for an answer. She’s got her heart set on it.”
Preston hadn’t thought about observing the holiday. Sarah Mason had asked if he would like the cook to prepare anything special, and he’d told her he would make do with whatever was in the icebox and pantry. He didn’t need anyone working on Thanksgiving.
“Ethan, I’ll be fine at—”
“I’m tellin’ you, she won’t take no. You may as well agree to come eat with us so she doesn’t have to come drag you from your house.”
Preston grinned. “All right. I’ll plan to be there. What can I bring?”
“Not a thing but yourself. Nora wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ll see you at the church service at ten. Then you’ll come home to eat with us.”
If there was anything Preston had learned since coming to Chickadee Creek, it was that it was foolish to try to resist the hospitality of the locals. He was surprised he’d tried, even for a moment. “Sounds good.”
Ethan reached for his coat, hanging on a hook near the door. “If it’s all right with you, boss, I’m going to head home before this storm gets much worse.”
“Go on. I won’t be far behind you.”
“Mind that you don’t dawdle. You don’t want to get stuck here.”
Preston looked out the window. The world had turned completely white. “No. I don’t.”
Ethan nodded, opened the door, and stepped outside. Cold air rushed into the room, pushing heat into the far corners. As soon as the door closed behind Ethan, the whistling sound of the wind softened, leaving behind silence broken by the crackle of the fire.
Preston had been on his own since he was fourteen. His mother died when he was a kid. His father took to drink after that, and when he was liquored up, he was mean. One day, Preston had de
cided he’d had enough and left the small town on the banks of a river in the Midwest.
Over the years, he grew used to being the only one in a room or in a house, the only one riding a horse through a vast, lonely stretch of earth. He was comfortable with silence. He never minded hard work, and he’d managed to support himself without breaking the law—although he was tempted a time or two, when the hunger got to him. For much of his life he’d owned little more than the clothes on his back. Sometimes he had a horse and saddle. He knew how to get by on little. In some ways, it was more difficult to know what to do with plenty. He was still getting used to that, all these months later.
He rose from his desk and walked to a window. He hadn’t been caught in the worst of storms in the Sierras or the Rockies, but he’d seen enough to know Ethan was right. He’d better leave the mining office before the snow got too deep. Besides, he didn’t like it when his thoughts went to the past. With any luck, the wind would blow them away as he made his way to the house.
It was slow going. He had to lean into the wind, tucking his face down into the collar of his coat like a turtle into its shell. By the time he opened the door to the Chandler house, he felt battered and half frozen.
“Mr. Chandler! Look at you.”
At the sound of Sarah’s voice, he glanced up. He hadn’t expected her to be there.
His housekeeper bustled over to help him out of his coat. “You need to remember a scarf and gloves next time. Anybody with a lick of sense could’ve told you this morning that a storm was coming.”
While there were many in town who gave an extra measure of respect to Preston simply because of his last name and his inherited wealth, Sarah Mason wasn’t one of them. She often spoke to him as if he were a troublesome child instead of a grown man. Like now. As if he wasn’t smart enough to know what to wear in cold weather. From somebody else, it might irritate him. Not from Sarah. He liked the woman. Her plainspoken ways suited him, and they’d gotten along well from the start of her employment.
He gave her a wry smile. “Perhaps you ought to think of bundling up and getting home yourself.”
“Not before I’ve seen to your supper. Cook left it warming in the oven before I sent her home.”
“I can fend for myself when I need to.”
“I know that, Mr. Chandler, but I also know what my job is. And that’s to see you have a well-run household and meals on the table when it’s time.”
Preston knew it was useless to argue with the Widow Mason. He would eat his supper, as she insisted. But he would also escort her home, whether she liked it or not.
Cora
November 1895
On Thanksgiving Day, Cora and Sarah walked along the road toward the Sooner home, Cora carrying two pies and Sarah bringing a basket of rolls fresh from the oven. It was nearly noon, but the temperature had yet to rise above freezing. The bitter chill quickened their steps, and they wasted no energy on words as they leaned into the wind and hurried to their destination.
Sarah’s knock on the door was answered by Ethan Sooner.
“Come in. Come in, before you blow away.”
Nora Sooner looked over her shoulder while continuing to stir something on the stove. “Give Ethan your coats and go sit near the fire. We’re so glad you could join us.”
In the weeks since Cora began teaching in Chickadee Creek, she’d visited many of her students’ homes. But the Sooners had no school-age children, so she hadn’t had a chance to get to know them beyond brief hellos after church on Sundays. Still, she wasn’t surprised that she’d been included in their invitation for Thanksgiving dinner. She’d found her new hometown to be filled with gracious, friendly people.
Ethan took the pies and basket of rolls and carried them to the kitchen. By the time he returned, both of the women had shed their coats. He held out his arms to take them, then motioned with his head toward the fireplace. “Make yourselves at home.”
Sarah put a hand in the small of Cora’s back and urged her forward. “You take the rocking chair.” She pointed with her free hand.
Cora complied, then watched as her friend sat on a straight-backed chair nearby. It seemed to rock more than the rocker, and Cora immediately understood why Sarah had steered her away from it.
Emotions tightened her chest. She’d experienced so many kindnesses since leaving New York. Without the benevolence of strangers—particularly Mabel Johnson and Sarah Mason, but others too—Cora wouldn’t have survived long in her reckless dash for freedom. She probably wouldn’t have made it as far as Denver, let alone to Idaho. She wouldn’t be employed as a schoolteacher. Her own schooling had left her well educated, but it hadn’t given her much in the way of common sense. She’d had no understanding of how the world worked beyond the parlors and ballrooms of high society. Not really.
The door opened again, admitting Rafe Sooner and his pregnant wife, Lauretta.
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Nora bustled over to the new arrivals. “Son, you two look half-froze to death. I told you you shoulda found a place closer to us.” Holding the sides of Rafe’s head between her hands, she kissed him on both cheeks, then repeated the gesture with her daughter-in-law. “Get yourselves over by the fire and thaw out.”
Cora rose and moved away from the rocking chair. “Please,” she said when Lauretta looked her way. “Sit here. You’ll be warm in no time.”
Lauretta smiled as she waddled toward the vacated chair, one hand resting on her enlarged belly, the other on the small of her back. “Thank you,” she breathed as she sank onto the rocker. “I do get tired when I stand for long.”
Another blast of cold air drew Cora’s gaze to the door. This time it was Preston Chandler who Ethan invited into the house. She’d expected the members of the Sooner family, but Mr. Chandler was a surprise. She didn’t know why. She supposed because she’d seen so little of him since the day of her arrival.
“You know everybody,” Ethan said to Preston, motioning with his hand to indicate the people in the room.
“Yes.” Preston’s gaze met with Cora’s. “Miss Anderson.” There was a moment when it seemed he wouldn’t look away, but then he did. “Mrs. Sooner. Mrs. Mason. Nice to see you.”
“Here,” Ethan interrupted. “Give me your coat, and then go sit yourself down at the table. Care for some coffee?”
Cora took a few steps back, uncertain why she felt the need to retreat. Maybe it was the way Preston Chandler seemed to look through her. No, not through her. Inside of her. As if he could read her secrets. A disturbing thought.
In her former life, when she’d been nothing more than the decoration on a man’s arm, she’d been used to the stares of others. Women trying to decide if she was the prettiest female in the room or if she had the nicest gown or the most expensive jewels. Men trying to decide if her beauty and wealth were enough to tempt them into a marriage contract with a woman whose lineage wasn’t quite upper crust.
But the way Preston Chandler looked at her wasn’t like that. It wasn’t superficial. It seemed to go deeper than that. He seemed to look for the person within.
Something fluttered inside Cora. This man saw her. And knowing he saw the real Cora Anderson was both disturbing and . . . and delightful. The knowledge seemed to pull at her, to want to draw her closer to him.
She held her breath for a moment, and sanity returned. This strange attraction she felt wasn’t good for either of them. The real Cora Anderson didn’t want to be seen, didn’t want to be known.
She took another step back and hoped he wouldn’t look her way again.
Liam's Journal
I was thinking last night about generational sins. I know the Bible talks about them, but I don’t fully understand what they are or how they work in a Christian’s life today. Did they end with the New Covenant? Some Christians seem to think so. Did the death and resurrection of Jesus put a stop to them, at least for those who trust Jesus for their salvation? Or is the evil in this world proof that generational sin goes on to the
third and fourth generations even today?
Rosemary Townsend says my grandparents’ marriage was in trouble back before I was born. I never got to know them, so I don’t know what they were like. I was two when she died and four when he died. I have a fuzzy picture of him in my head, but that might be from seeing photos more than an actual memory. But could their troubles as a couple have impacted my dad? Did seeing his parents’ marriage become unhealthy influence him to walk out on Mom all these years later?
Then again, his parents didn’t separate (that I know of) or divorce, so it doesn’t seem like the same thing as what’s happening to my parents. Maybe he didn’t even know that Grandpa and Grandma went through a bad patch. Maybe whatever caused Grandma Eunice to sell her pearls was soon forgotten, a momentary tiff.
I always thought Mom and Dad had a solid marriage. I thought they set an example for others. You don’t see many successful marriages in Hollywood, that’s for sure. Do a lot of couples go into marriage thinking they can get out of it if it doesn’t work? Do they already have an escape plan in their minds? Or do most actually think it will last a lifetime?
If I ever decide to get married, I want to marry a woman who’s as committed to me as I am to her. And committed to the Lord. To being faithful. To being devoted. I’ll want her to respect me, and I’ll want to love her as Christ loves the church, enough that I would die for her. Sounds like a lot, but that’s how the Bible says it’s supposed to be between a husband and wife. So that’s the way I’ll want it to be, if and when the time comes.
Chapter 11
After returning from church that Sunday, Liam grabbed an apple to eat, then took Chipper outside for a bit of exercise. Between throws of the Frisbee, he managed to finish off the apple. He carried the core to the trash bin and dropped it inside just as Chipper barked a warning.
Make You Feel My Love Page 11
