Unbroken Threads

by Jennifer Klepper

  “Don’t tell me. You’re a slum lord.”

  “Very funny, Bron. This used to be a boat repair shop. We got a great price, mostly because the family of Danny’s old sailing coach owned it but partly because it’s a dump. The pier has collapsed, and the building itself, well, I don’t know how it was still standing before we put in some temporary support beams. But this neighborhood is on the rebound. It’s hard to tell quite yet, but it’s happening. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it long-term. For now, though”—Jessica slid the barn-style door open—“it’s my studio.”

  Opening the door triggered a flurry of dust that threatened to engulf the women. It took a moment to fan away the cloud and let their eyes adjust to the darkness so the interior could reveal itself.

  Jessica flicked on caged lights that hung between exposed wooden beams overhead. She stood grinning as Bronwyn scanned the mostly empty space, a single room with ample space for a boat or two and lined with large metal hooks and mostly empty wooden shelves.

  Bronwyn tapped the toe of her Louboutin on the aged, wide-plank floor. “You’re gonna have to explain, honey. You said you took a pass on the internship so you could pursue some passion. I figured you were going to work full-time with Rosalie at IAP.”

  “I am absolutely continuing with that! I’m just volunteering part-time there, though. Working on getting derivative asylum for a spouse right now, in fact. And Rosalie strong-armed me into taking on another case on top of that.” That wasn’t true. Jessica had solicited the new case, emboldened after Amina’s asylum approval. Getting the USCIS news about Amina had been better than any corporate transaction closing. No one got rich, but lives got richer.

  Jessica walked toward a large workbench that stood between two of the new support beams in the middle of the space. “This is my new workshop. I rehabilitate old trees. Old furniture and wood fixtures, really, but they were all trees once, right? I don’t have much yet, but some of the sponsors of a gala I used to run stepped up to be my first customers.”

  Next to one of the beams sat her current project. “Isn’t this gorgeous? It’s an antebellum bed, walnut.” She traced the carvings on one of the seven-foot-tall bedposts. “See how the posts are warped? The original owners threw it in a lake near their home during the Civil War so the soldiers and looters wouldn’t pillage it. It’s been passed down through the family ever since they pulled it from the water.”

  Bronwyn ran her hand down a post, her ring sparkling in the dusty light. “So, how do you unwarp it?”

  “Shut your mouth! I don’t unwarp it. I’ll refinish this bed, but for everything I work on, everything I’ve always worked on, in fact, I leave the life, the soul. The warping is part of the bed’s history but also the family’s history, our country’s history, even. Without that, it’s just another bed and means nothing. You might as well chuck this back in the lake and buy a new bed from Pottery Barn.”

  Jessica moved to the other side of the space. “You’ll appreciate this, too. A state senator brought me his grandfather’s desk. His grandfather was a judge. Look at this here.” Jessica pointed to thousands of tiny pockmarks scattered atop the right side of a desk that should have looked stately in its solid construction, except that a destroyed finish marked it as a flea market castoff instead.

  Bronwyn ran her hand across the scarred wood. “Do tell.”

  “When the judge got stuck on a point of law or struggled with a decision, he sat at his desk and tapped it over and over with a letter opener.” Jessica mimed the tapping. “The senator thinks that this area over here...” She pointed at a particularly worn area where individual indents gave way to a small crater. “He thinks this happened during a case involving an elderly woman accused of killing her severely disabled son. She was afraid she would die before him and he would be left with no one to care for him. The senator has wanted to refinish this desk for years but worried a refinisher would buff away his grandfather’s marks. He said these scars remind him that things aren’t always black and white and that he should take the time to work through the facts to get to the right resolution.”

  Bronwyn tapped her impressive wedding ring in agreement.

  “That’s the grand tour,” Jessica said, spinning for effect. The supplies that had crowded the backyard shed took up no more than one of the shelves that ran the length of the space. The workbench and two pieces anchored the room but left plenty of unused real estate. To Jessica, the open space promised opportunity.

  “Bron, do you remember telling me how you always ask yourself where ‘this moment’ will take you? I found myself in a moment, restoring a table—a scrap of trunk and root from a tree from halfway around the world. That tree represented a family and a business, a journey, a conflict, a resolution. I was on my knees with a tiny brush, removing red paint, and that moment took me to each one of those things. And it was exactly where I wanted to be.”

  “And Danny’s on board?”

  Jessica walked back to a small desk by the front door and opened the top drawer.

  Bronwyn accepted a small white card from Jessica. “‘The Old Wood Company. Jessica Donnelly. Everything.’” She tilted her head. “Everything?”

  “That’s all Danny. I don’t need business cards, but he insisted. He says that now, when anyone asks what I do, I can say ‘everything,’ and I have the business card to prove it.”

  “I always did love Danny. And this”—Bronwyn waved her arms—“this is fantastic. In fact, I could probably get some business for you. We have some pieces at the firm, and oh, the congressional offices are full of historic pieces. All of our contacts on the Hill? Honey, I’m on this. Don’t you worry.”

  The open space, swimming with dancing dust, suddenly seemed too small for Bronwyn’s aspirations.

  Jessica laughed. “All right. I’ll be waiting for a call from the White House furniture director. Surely there’s one of those, right?” Jessica flipped off the lights. “Listen, I have an important appointment this afternoon, and you’ve got soccer, so let’s go grab a quick lunch. There’s a great new bistro just down the street. We would have loved it when we were associates.”

  JESSICA pulled her car in front of the IAP building. Amina stood in front, wearing canary yellow and a wide smile that belied the dark night the two had experienced there the prior year. A balding man in his fifties wearing a button-down dress shirt and no tie stood next to her. He said goodbye to Amina and slung the strap of a leather suitcase over his shoulder when Amina headed toward the car.

  “Hi, Jessica! Thanks for picking me up.” Amina tossed a bulky bag in the back then sat in the passenger seat, buckling in before Jessica pulled away from the curb.

  “Who’s the guy with the briefcase? How was the meeting?”

  “Gary, my new boss. When I told him about my idea to provide financial literacy classes for IAP clients, he offered for the firm to defray the program costs, so he came to the meeting today. Rosalie signed off on it, and I’ll start leading the classes in two weeks.”

  A break in pedestrians crossing the street permitted Jessica to turn right.

  “I’m even starting to learn some Spanish,” Amina said.

  “Si?”

  “Si, un poco.”

  “That’s all the Spanish I’ve got, Amina. When you end up being able to speak four languages to my one, well, I guess that proves I’m a total slacker.” Jessica checked her GPS. They were fifteen minutes away. She turned on the radio. Skipping past the news channels, Jessica decided on a throwback music station.

  Changing lanes on Baltimore’s one-way streets was a gladiator sport, and today’s bumper-to-bumper traffic left little room for maneuvering. Jessica checked her mirrors to find an opening so she could make a left turn ahead.

  Amina humming along with the radio snapped Jessica out of her focus. She looked over to see Amina mouthing the chorus to “Oops!... I Did It Again.” Jessica couldn’t contain herself and blurted a laugh.

  Amina stared at Jessica blankl
y. “What? I can’t know American music?” She smiled with a hint of mischief. “I was here in 2000, remember? And we do have radios in Syria. That Britney Spears. Wow. Am I right?”

  A buoyancy had emerged in Amina since her asylum had been approved, even more so after they’d filed the petition for derivative asylum for Mohammed. The worry lines prematurely aging her face had already softened, and a new light in her deep eyes brought optimism for the future to balance the pain of her past.

  Finally getting out of Baltimore downtown proper, Jessica followed the GPS to a quieter street. Tidy brick-row houses set back from the street looked like old Baltimore but were newly renovated.

  Jessica pulled up to the curb. “Here we are.”

  Amina had signed the lease but had only seen a model unit. Today, she was moving into her very own place.

  After getting out of the car and grabbing her bag, Amina held her meager belongings at arm’s length and laughed. “Fayiz will bring over the rest of my things later, but it still won’t be enough for a whole apartment. I think I could fit in a closet with all of my things! I feel a little bad that I’m taking some of the furniture that the interfaith group is providing to refugees. It’s just me.” She smiled then clenched her teeth nervously. “Hopefully not for long, though.”

  Jessica joined her on the walk up the stairs to the entrance. It would be many months before Mohammed’s approval could possibly come through, but Rosalie was optimistic about the process, and Amina would be able to get their home prepared in the meantime. She handed the key to Amina ceremoniously, and Amina led Jessica up to the second-floor unit.

  Fumbling with the key in the lock, Amina couldn’t see Jessica shaking with anticipation behind her. Finally, the key clicked, and the knob turned.

  Amina walked in and... silence.

  Jessica stood back in the open doorway. Amina ran her hand along the small kitchen table then walked over to pick up a TV remote control sitting on the arm of a navy twill couch. She gestured toward the bedroom. Jessica nodded and followed her into the room. The overhead light illuminated a queen-sized bed with a seagrass headboard and a white down comforter. Amina peeked into the bathroom to see plush towels hanging from the towel bar and skin care products lined up on the counter.

  The women returned to the kitchen. “This seems like more than what the interfaith group said they would provide,” Amina said.

  Jessica tilted her head toward the cabinets. “Take a look.”

  Amina opened the cabinet above the dishwasher. Sturdy cream dishes adorned with acorns and oak leaves filled the shelves.

  “Jessica. What...” Her eyes welled, threatening to spill over when she shook her head in disbelief.

  “No interfaith donations here. It was my book club. Everyone pitched in. After they met you...” Jessica had underestimated her friends. She’d brought Amina to book club the previous month, and it was as though she’d brought a long-lost little sister. They had been as open to helping her as they would have been with anyone in the group. “Nari sent over the couch. It’s used, but it’s in really good shape. I doubt anyone ever sat on it. Mary Ann, well, you’ll recall from her scrutinizing your pores that she’s a skin care consultant. You got her complete lineup. Kai is an interior designer, so she made sure everything coordinated, but she wanted to keep it neutral so you could still make the place your own.” Jessica ran her hand over the smooth maple of the table. “This great table just needed to be refinished. I’ll let Denise tell you its story.”

  “And the dishes? I remember them.”

  “They were my great-grandmother’s. I left my grandmother’s note on the shelves. I even added a note from me. You can read about the happy family memories that come with the dishes. I hope you’ll add your own.”

  Amina took Jessica’s hands in her own. “I already have.”

  Dear Reader,

  We hope you enjoyed Unbroken Threads, by Jennifer Klepper. Please consider leaving a review on your favorite book site.

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I started writing this book, I thought surely that by the time it was published, the war in Syria would be over. At the date of publication, however, the destruction and killing in Syria continues, and the challenges faced by refugees in the US have increased. When the war does end, the effects will last within Syria and throughout the Syrian diaspora for generations as people attempt to heal and rebuild. While I did significant reading and research about Syria and have included factual information in this book, it remains a work of fiction. Unbroken Threads barely scratches the surface of what Syrians have gone through in their home country and, for those who have left, abroad. I hope readers will seek out Syrian and Syrian-American writers of fiction and nonfiction to learn more about the ancient and beautiful country of Syria and the people who call it home. Their voices are strong and unique and add an element that is often missing from today’s news coverage.

  For a discussion guide and further reading, please visit www.jenniferklepper.com.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  An unexpected joy of writing this book was discovering the vast and supportive world of writers. Without these groups, I never would have published Unbroken Threads, and I wouldn’t have the network of friends I now have all over the world.

  The Women’s Fiction Writers Association (WFWA) was my first foray into the world of writers’ groups. I have never seen a professional organization so uplifting and so generous with their time and wisdom in furtherance of fellow members’ career goals. Maybe I’ve been sheltered, but maybe writers are special. The Annapolis Poets and Writers group was the first group to hear or read any of my manuscript, and they wholly set me straight on a few things this novice writer didn’t yet know. Authors 18, a group of novelists debuting in 2018, inspires me daily with its talent, candor, generosity, and humor. I cannot imagine going through the publishing process without them, and I wish them all huge success.

  My early beta readers provided valuable feedback as well as much-appreciated support. They were Julie Kyle, Asli Stewart, Amy Van Slyke, and the most well-read person I’ve ever known, James Buttinger. My mom and sister were early readers, and I wish every writer had such an enthusiastic family.

  I never would have gotten to the point of writers’ groups and beta readers, though, if it weren’t for author Julie Lawson Timmer, who told me that I wrote upmarket women’s fiction, insisted I could call myself a writer since I was writing, and introduced me to WFWA.

  The Red Adept Publishing team could not be more supportive or professional. Erica Lucke Dean has been author mentor extraordinaire. My editors, Alyssa Hall and Neila Forssberg, were invaluable in helping me transform and polish my manuscript. Their patience astonishes me.

  A special technical thank you to Zach Zayner for providing input on biometrics technologies for a book that won’t be on the SFF shelf and to the software development team at Workbench Education for making me believe that anything is possible on a computer if you have good developers.

  It’s important to note that, while I spoke with real people and researched Syria, refugees, asylum law, and technology, every factual error and every misstep in this book is on me.

  Thank you also to my neighborhood book club. These women love their wine, love to talk, and love books that promote discussion. They are also generous and giving, both within the group and in the greater community. I hope to write the kind of books that keep my book club talking late into the night.

  Thank you to my family—my mom, my dad, my sister, my grandparents, my aunts, and my uncles—for providing a framework of family and tradition that influenced this book so much. I was lucky to marry into a family that has the same values, though perhaps that’s one of the things that drew my husband and me together in the first place.

  Finally, and most importantly, thank you to my children, who watched me write,
edit, and promote this book all while telling them to please be quiet. And to my husband, who has always supported anything I’ve wanted to do, 100 percent, and would do anything to make sure it happened. I am so very, very fortunate.

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  Did you love Unbroken Threads? Then you should read They Call Me Crazy by Kelly Stone Gamble!

  Cass Adams is crazy, and everyone in Deacon, Kansas, knows it. But when her good-for-nothing husband, Roland, goes missing, no one suspects that Cass buried him in their unfinished koi pond. Too bad he doesn't stay there for long. Cass gets arrested on the banks of the Spring River for dumping his corpse after heavy rain partially unearths it.The police chief wants a quick verdict—he's running for sheriff and has no time for crazy talk. But like Roland's corpse, secrets start to surface, and they bring more to light than anybody expected. Everyone in Cass's life thinks they know her—her psychic grandmother, her promiscuous ex-best friend, her worm-farming brother-in-law, and maybe even her local ghost. But after years of separate silences, no one knows the whole truth. Except Roland. And he's not talking.

  About the Author

  A Midwest native, Jennifer Klepper made stops in Dallas, Charlottesville, and Boston before settling in Maryland. While she has an appreciation for the expansive beauty of the plains states, she hopes never to live landlocked again.