by Ann Warner
And Alan Francini? Was she remembering him as well? Not as conventionally handsome as Greg or the man she’d met in the park. But definitely appealing, well, that is if she discounted their first meeting.
But maybe she now found him attractive because of seeing him in a ranch setting. The romance of the Old West and all that. For sure, if she hadn’t first seen him at DSU, she’d now find it impossible to imagine him in any setting other than a ranch.
Odd to realize, if she’d gone with her instincts and ditched Amanda and her ’orses, she would never have known riding a horse could be so marvelous. And she wouldn’t have the memory of Sonoro’s dancing.
So, all in all, maybe Amanda did have her uses.
Kathy looked back at the words on the screen, but she knew she wasn’t going to be able to write any more today. She had all the signs. That feeling of restlessness and tension. The silence. No voices in her head, Amanda’s or anyone else’s, clamoring to be heard. No “what ifs” niggling at her.
Better to go over to City Park and spend some time hitting balls against the practice wall. At least she’d get some exercise, and the afternoon wouldn’t be a complete waste. It was chilly, but she’d warm up quickly.
With quick resolution, she shut off the computer and gathered her things together.
But in spite of spending an hour practicing her backhand, followed by a run, dinner, and an evening of television shared with the Costellos, Kathy still felt out of sorts—an uncomfortable jostling mix of irritability and sadness that had to be more than simple frustration over being unable to write this weekend.
Maybe it was seeing that little girl yesterday. Delia. An unexpected reminder that when she lost Greg she’d also lost the possibility of family, at least anytime soon.
Kathy shook her head, trying to banish Greg. She’d had a lucky escape. She knew that. But even knowing that, there were still times when she felt an emptiness that was more than simply his absence from her life.
She said goodnight to the Costellos and, since she wasn’t sleepy, she went through the stack of books in her reading pile.
None quite fit her mood. In desperation, she fell back on her old standby: Emily’s diaries.
Funny now to think how disappointed she’d been the day she’d unfolded that piece of paper and discovered the interviewee she’d been assigned for her twentieth century history class was a ninety-year-old housewife named Emily Kowalski.
But it had turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to her, because Emily was the one who gave her the courage to follow a riskier path. “Life is full of uncertainties, my dear, no matter what you choose,” Emily had said, pushing a plate of chocolate chip cookies toward Kathy the day they met. “Better then to choose what you love.”
“But if I follow my dreams, it will be really difficult.” Kathy, a computer science major when she met Emily, had always wanted to be a writer.
“If you give up your dreams, Kathleen, nothing else will matter very much,” Emily had said.
When they finally got around to discussing Emily’s choice of historical event for the term paper Kathy was to write, she had expected Emily to choose something dramatic, like the bombing of Hiroshima or men landing on the moon.
Instead, Emily had talked about the discovery of penicillin by Alexander Fleming.
“A miracle. But not soon enough to help our dear Bobby.” Emily’s eyes misted. “Only five when he had the meningitis.”
After Emily told Kathy the story of Bobby’s illness and its aftermath—years spent caring for her invalid son—what Kathy most wanted to know was how Emily managed to have a happy life. Because there was no question in her mind, Emily and her husband, Jess, were happy.
Kathy planned to ask about that when she took her finished paper to show Emily.
That day, Jess, looking more stooped than Kathy remembered from her last visit, had answered the door.
“Hi, Jess. I’m here to see Emily. To show her my paper.”
The house framed Jess with dark and quiet, and no smell of fresh baking floated in the air. He’d stared at her, his silence stretching like a cobweb pulling against her hair. “Em.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “She died. A week ago.”
Kathy didn’t really need the ordinary words Jess used to confirm what she already suspected, but the pain she felt on hearing them was sudden and extraordinary.
“What happened?” The words seemed to come from a distance, as if someone else were speaking.
“Heart just gave out.” Jess stopped, then went on, his voice wavering, his throat working. “Nearly killed me too.”
Kathy reached out to touch his arm, before she remembered. Jess didn’t seem to like to be touched. Emily was the hugger. “Oh, Jess, I’m so sorry.”
He motioned her to come in, leading her slowly back to the kitchen, Emily’s kitchen, where he fixed tea.
Kathy sat, fighting the tears that were making her throat tight and her head ache. Finally, she gave in and let the tears run down her face.
After Jess poured the tea, Kathy warmed her hands on the cup, and she and Jess sat in silence until Jess cleared his throat. “Emily left something for you.” His hand trembled as he lowered the cup onto the saucer with a click. “I’ll get it.”
Kathy waited in the quiet of Emily’s kitchen, staring at the pink and purple blossoms of Emily’s African violets lifting their petals in the breeze from the kitchen window. The ticking clock and an occasional drip from the faucet were the only sounds, until Jess returned, that new uncertainty altering his step.
He carried a large shoebox. “It’s Em’s diaries. I came across them the other day when I cleared out her desk. She wanted you to have them. Took a real shine to you, Em did.”
Later, when Kathy opened the box, she found a number of small books along with a note, written in a neat, clear hand, lying on top.
November 12, 1990
My dearest Kathleen,
I know from our talks, you worry about making the right choices in your life. I cannot, nor should anyone, tell you what to do. For that, my dear, you must listen to your own heart. And, never fear, it is speaking to you.
Perhaps I can help a little though, by showing you how I found my own way. There is no one I would rather share that with.
I also want you to know, Kathleen, your visits brought this old woman so much joy.
Love,
Emily
After she read Emily’s note, Kathy started to cry again, which was strange. After all, Emily wasn’t family. Only, that’s what Kathy’s sorrow felt like. Like she was mourning a death in her family. Of someone precious to her.
Eventually, Kathy came to realize that piece of paper with Emily’s name on it was the fulcrum on which her entire future tipped. Just like the nursery rhyme, the one that went. . . for want of a nail the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe the horse was lost...all the way to the end with the country being lost, if she hadn’t met Emily and learned to trust in her dreams, her life would have been something else altogether.
And tonight, when the consequences of the choice she’d made to let Greg go to San Francisco alone was a heavy burden on her heart, she needed Emily again.
She sorted through the box of small leather-bound books, looking for the beginning of Emily’s story. When she located the right book, she curled up in her easy chair and opened it to the first page.
January 1, 1925
Well, here I am, starting a diary, of all things. When I told Jess I didn’t have any idea how to do that, he said I ought to start by telling where I came from and how I came to be Mrs. Jess Kowalski, living in Cincinnati, Ohio.
I guess that’s as good a way as any.
I grew up on a farm near Red Oak, Iowa, never expecting to do anything different than live out my life as a farmer’s daughter and a farmer’s wife, until I had that talk with my brother, Bill, the autumn I turned seventeen.
Funny, we spend our whole lives talking, and we don’t remember most of
it for two minutes, but every once in a while someone says something, and everything afterward is changed because of it.
Bill was just back from the war. He went away my strong, funny, eldest brother and came home a thin, quiet stranger, recovering from German nerve gas. In the evenings after supper, he took to walking to the other end of the pasture. He always went by himself, except for one of the farm dogs that followed him everywhere.
One evening, I went out to join him. When I reached the fence, neither Bill nor the dog paid any attention to me, so I just stood next to them and looked where they were looking.
We were having one of those orange sunsets that deepen into red that come mostly right before winter sets in, and the bare limbs of the trees at the bottom of the pasture made dark patterns against the sky color. I started in to thinking how to make a picture of it.
Finally, I asked Bill if that was why he came out here every night, to watch the sunset, and he replied he came to pray.
Well that surprised me some. I don’t believe anyone else in the family ever thought to go out at sunset to stand in the pasture and pray.
I couldn’t think of a thing to say in response, but that must have been okay, because after a bit, Bill started talking again, although he sounded sort of dreamy-like, as if he were talking to himself and not to me at all.
“When you’re in a war, maybe it’s the knowing you could die anytime, but just seems like you notice things more. Like there were these little pink flowers, used to grow in the ruts along the road. And you start in to looking for those kinds of signs, because it’s the only thing gives you hope.
“If something that fragile can survive, maybe you can too.” He leaned over and patted the dog for a while, before he went on speaking in that dreamy voice. “And you pray. Mostly it’s not much of a prayer. Just a, ‘Please, God, keep me safe today. Please, God, let me see my family again. Please, God, let me live so I can get married and have a family.’”
His voice trailed off, he straightened, and for a time he continued to gaze at the sky. Then he shrugged and spoke more matter-of-factly. “Finally, one day you add thanks you’ve made it through another day, and after a while longer, you find it’s come to be a habit.”
It was the most talking Bill had done since he got home. Actually the most talking he’d ever done to me, and what he said surprised me some. I stood beside him, picturing those pink flowers, and thinking how they were maybe like the violets in the muddy pasture in the spring.
Then I remembered the part about him getting married. “So, are you going to marry Doris Goodwin?” I asked.
“No. Leastways not right now. I’ve been thinking on what to do about it.”
But it was simple really, and I told him so. “It’ll hurt Doris a lot more to be married to someone who doesn’t want to marry her than to be told you’ve changed your mind.”
Bill looked startled, then he nodded. “Little Emmie. Seems you grew up while I was away.” He smiled, and, for the first time since he got home, looked like himself. “I figure on owing you some advice in return.” The smile faded, and his expression turned serious, almost fierce. “Don’t you go getting yourself trapped on the farm before you know what living is all about, you hear? And promise me. You’ll let me know if you want my help to go take a look at what else is out there.”
When I nodded my agreement, he went back to watching the sky, and we didn’t talk any more. I hugged tight everything he’d said though, figuring to pull it out and think on it later.
Shortly after that, Bill and Doris, who were unofficially engaged when Bill went off to the war, were officially unengaged. Then Bill left the farm for good, to go off to Omaha to get settled before starting classes at Creighton University in January.
When I finished my schooling the following summer, I knew I was expected to pick one of the eligible young men in the area, marry him, and start a family of my own. But although I didn’t feel any particular opposition to the idea, I just didn’t seem to actually be doing it.
Mother asked me about it when we were spring cleaning, washing windows. “Emily Margaret, you be sure you get that spot, right there, girl, and what about the Moriarity boy? He comes from a big farm and only the two boys.”
I don’t recall exactly how I answered her, but it was at that moment I knew that what I wanted to do was take Bill’s advice and check things out beyond Red Oak. I had no idea how to do it though, not until my best friend said I ought to be a teacher. I decided that surely sounded more interesting than marrying the Moriarity boy.
Once I made that decision, I discovered I had a whole raft of dreams that would never come true if I stayed in Red Oak. Dreams of travel and of meeting people who did other things for a living besides farm. Dreams of hearing music played by a hundred instruments instead of the single rickety piano in our parlor. And dreams of seeing paintings, full of color, hanging on cool white walls.
Getting on that train to go to Omaha for the teachers’ certification course was the most thrilling thing I’d done in my whole life.
After the course, I taught in Ames for five years, saving every penny I could, because I knew what I wanted to do next. Study art.
Lucky for me, when Bill finished his studies at Creighton, he moved to Chicago where he was teaching at a high school.
The day I arrived there for my art studies, he met me at the train. He had a young woman with him. She had curly black hair and dark eyes. Her name was Kiara Sullivan.
I saw the way Bill’s face changed when he looked at Kiara, and I knew right away they were more than friends. Then that evening, when Bill and Kiara came to take me to dinner, Bill brought along one of the other teachers to be my escort. His name was Jess Kowalski.
I went to bed that night thinking what an amazing day it had been. There was the excitement of arriving in Chicago and seeing Bill again, of course. But even more exciting, was meeting Kiara and Jess. From the very first, I knew they were going to be an important part of my life.
And so they were.
Bill and Kiara married in late summer, and Jess escorted me to the wedding. Then, after we’d already made it past the darkest, coldest part of the following winter, Kiara fell ill. It was shortly after she discovered she and Bill were expecting a baby.
At first we all thought she had a bad cold overlaid with morning sickness, but the doctor came out of Bill and Kiara’s room looking grave. She had pneumonia.
We took her to the hospital, and I kept telling myself and Bill she was going to be fine.
Only she wasn’t.
I had to stop writing yesterday to have a good cry. I miss Kiara something fierce. She was the best sister a girl could ever hope to have. Being happy with Jess, well sometimes I feel so terrible sad for Bill.
After Kiara died, it was a hard time, even though Jess and I had fallen in love and had begun to plan our life together. We got married that next summer, and shortly after that, Jess came home to say we were moving to Cincinnati.
My biggest concern was leaving Bill, but it was such a wonderful opportunity for Jess to teach at Xavier University. We just couldn’t turn it down.
I surely do miss Bill, and I worry about him.
Here in Cincinnati, we have a big house, bigger than I ever dreamed I would have, and a huge yard. On the weekends, Jess puts up fencing and clears out the woods while I put in a vegetable garden and plant flowers.
It is the perfect home for all the children we plan to have.
Kathy shut the small book and placed it on her bedside table, wiping moisture from her eyes. Emily’s joy at the thought of the children she hoped to have always made Kathy want to cry.
But maybe that was exactly what she needed from Emily tonight. Permission to cry.
Chapter Nine
When Kathy arrived at Calico Cat Books on Monday morning, she found Grace waiting in the hallway. The other woman was wearing as much makeup as she had on Saturday, and she pulled Kathy into a hug, then stepped back, grinning. “Mira. I t
hought this would be better than putting it in the mail.”
Kathy stifled her instinctive response—an oh, good grief—as her good manners reasserted themselves. But, after all, it was hard to take offense at someone so spontaneously affectionate. She gestured for Grace to come in. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, no. Gracias. I don’t want to take any more of your time.” Grace handed Kathy the large envelope, then backed toward the door.
Since she was in the middle of an edit with a deadline looming, Kathy didn’t urge Grace to stay. “I don’t know exactly when I’ll have time to look at it. Don’t worry if you don’t hear for a while.”
“Está bien. Take your time.” Grace grabbed Kathy’s hand and shook it. “Gracias. Thank you so much.”
Kathy ushered Grace out, went to her desk, and set the envelope containing Grace’s manuscript to one side. She hadn’t been happy when Alan maneuvered her into talking to Grace in the first place, and the personal delivery of the offending manuscript simply compounded that sin.
Jade looked over from the desk next to Kathy’s. “What’s up?”
Kathy grimaced. “An aspiring author.”
“Well that much, I figured.”
“I met her this weekend at my riding lesson. I told her to send me something. I just didn’t expect her to hand deliver it.”
“At least she didn’t stay long,” Jade said.
Kathy went to work, but the envelope kept catching her eye. It rhymes, and it’s a mix of English and Spanish. So it could be the worst thing she’d ever read. Or. . . it could be just the kind of book Calico was seeking.
By lunch, the envelope had taken on the character of a present, wrapped and waiting under a Christmas tree. And the suspense was killing Kathy. Eventually she could no longer deny the urge to take a look.
