Like There's No Tomorrow

by Camille Eide

  If only Maggie weren’t so pig-headed.

  As Ian neared the top of the brae, the ring of trees came into view again. What was the appeal? It was probably nothing but a wild mess of ferns and briars. He left the path and worked his way through the underbrush. It took a bit of doing, but once he cleared the tangle of undergrowth and parted the trees, he stood at the edge of a small, grassy clearing about the size of Maggie’s front yard.

  A thicket enclosed the little glen, bursting with a riot of dark pink and yellow blossoms that filled the air with a sweet, beguiling scent. Thick trees surrounding the clearing provided a sound barrier, isolating it from the world. Laden with tiny flowers, the thicket seemed to hum with life.

  Rich as honey, the heady fragrance made him dizzy. He eased himself down onto the grass and looked round, marveling at his discovery.

  Ian inhaled long and slow, breathing in the scent. Something about this place tugged at his memory, stirring something very familiar. Maybe he and Claire had played here as children.

  The soft grass looked cool and inviting.

  He lay back and closed his eyes. Emily’s face came easily to mind, the sun glinting off her hair as they walked on the beach. Her face appeared to him so clearly—the soft blush coloring her cheeks, the light in her eyes when she smiled. And the way she smelled was also clear, as though she was here. In fact—

  He sat up and stared at the blooming thicket. This place smelled like Emily.

  Either that or he was losing his mind.

  Brilliant. So, God, is this Your idea of a joke?

  After a week of planning, Emily’s Scotland trip hit a snag. She stared at the phone in her hand as if it would explain the conversation she’d just had with her dad.

  Grace shuffled into the kitchen and filled the teakettle. “Are ye finished, then? So many calls, child.”

  “No, not yet.” Emily powered up her laptop and searched online to find out how to get a copy of her birth certificate.

  Dad swore there was nothing of hers at his house, but it had to be there, stored with the rest of the things she hadn’t planned on needing when she went to “help” Aunt Grace and ended up staying on indefinitely.

  She needed the birth certificate to get her passport. Why would her dad lie? To interfere? Since when did he care where she went?

  The online copy would take weeks by mail. If she made the five-hour trip to Portland, she could get a copy the same day. After that, a passport would take at least three more weeks to arrive. The absolute earliest she and Aunt Grace could leave for Scotland would be mid-July. Which seemed like an eternity.

  While the water heated for Grace’s afternoon tea, Emily went to the post office. She’d forgotten to check the mail earlier and Aunt Grace insisted there would be a letter from Maggie. On the drive over, Emily squeezed the steering wheel as the phone call with her dad replayed in her head. When he asked why she needed a passport, she explained about taking Aunt Grace to Scotland.

  After a hollow pause, he hung up.

  Why should that surprise her? Though she knew better than to expect anything from him, his refusal to help still hurt. But there was no sense letting it get to her. She would get what she needed without his help.

  Emily pulled into the post office lot, left the Jeep running, and dashed inside. She sorted through a small stack of mail.

  Two letters from Scotland. One was addressed to her and Grace, and the other to her alone. From Ian.

  Pulse racing, she studied the familiar script before slipping a finger beneath the seal.

  An image arose of Aunt Grace waiting patiently for her return, humming a hymn, and keeping their tea warm.

  Emily’s eyes flickered over his handwriting again. She heaved a sigh. Grace came first.

  She stuffed the letter in her bag and dashed to the Jeep. When she arrived at the house minutes later, Aunt Grace had everything ready. Waiting while her aunt carefully served tea with her good hand tapped into every last drop of Emily’s patience. But as she read the regular letter to Grace, she could hear the depth of Ian’s voice in the words, and she could see him, his eyes, his smile.

  His very real presence on the page stirred things in Emily that made her glance at her aunt more than once to see if she noticed.

  The minute tea was cleaned up and put away, Emily slipped to her room, closed the door with a soft click, and pulled the other letter from her bag. She tore open the flap but hesitated. What did his letter for her contain? A repeat of how taking her into his arms had been a mistake? Did it explain things he couldn’t say in person for fear of hurting her feelings?

  Did she really want to know?

  She flopped down on the bed with the envelope. As she drew the letter out, something soft and pink landed on the bed. She gave the letter a shake and a few more daintily pressed flowers fell from the pages.

  Honeysuckle?

  She examined the petals, brought them to her nose, and smelled. First the flowers, then the letter. Faint but insistent, the sweet scent of honeysuckle clung to the folded paper.

  June 8

  Dear Emily,

  I found these flowers in the woods today. They reminded me of you.

  She caught her breath as tears turned the petals into a fuzzy, pink blur. If Jaye were here, she’d be on the floor hyperventilating. Smiling, Emily blinked until she could see.

  When we spoke on the phone, I promised to tell you about illustrating. And I will. But first, thank you for taking me to meet Aunt Grace. Maggie is pleased that Grace is well-loved and cared for, though there was never any doubt about that.

  Onto the story. It starts with an eager, young lad fresh out of school, in love and full of dreams, and ends with a grown man trapped by bitterness.

  I always liked to draw. I had an excellent teacher who encouraged me to study art and helped me get into illustrating. There was a time I felt God wanted me to use art to—as you said—bring His word to life. And you were right, it was truly rewarding. But, in order to get Katy’s father’s permission to marry, I was given a choice: either choose a career that met with his approval or continue on the path of an artist—alone. Katy didn’t care about things like that, but I knew it was important to her to honor her father and have his blessing. The decision was entirely mine.

  I put art aside to attend university in London and get a business degree. If I did that, Edward promised me a job at his brokerage, then I would be permitted to marry Katy. So I went to school for three more years, earned a degree, and went to work for him.

  Everything went as planned—almost. Edward gave me the job at McKinley, Carmichael, & Associates. But it was on the condition that I would be on probation for one year. Then, at the end of that year, if I’d proven myself, he would give his consent to the marriage. It took four years and loads of patience, but I did everything he asked. The day my ‘probation’ ended, Katy and I were married.

  Unfortunately, the cancer was not as patient. Eight months later, Katy was gone.

  Emily covered her mouth to catch the sob, but it only muffled the sound. “Oh, Ian, I’m so sorry. How devastating.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. She sat up, wiped her face, and read on.

  While I wasted time chasing Edward Carmichael’s approval, he sent Katy away to school in Hawaii. He did everything he could to keep us apart. Later, when she was sick, he took over her care and shut me out. I shouldn’t have agreed to any of it. But I was young and felt powerless to stand up to a man like him. I can’t forget what he did and what he cost me. The more I try to put it behind me, the more I despise him. I suppose those feelings drove away any desire I might have had to take up illustrating again.

  Hatred for him has consumed me for a very long time, Emily. I prayed God would take it away and help me get past it. But nothing has changed—I can’t seem to let it go. I don’t know what else to do.

  So that’s the story. I’m guilty of things I’m not proud of. Telling you was a risk I took because I knew you would want the truth.

&n
bsp; IAN

  “Oh, Ian.” She leaned back against the wall. The pain in his words tore at her. She pulled her pillow close and laid a wet cheek against its softness. She ached for his loss and his bitter regrets, and yet … he had shared these deeply personal things with her. He was letting her see into his heart, letting her into his life.

  She wanted to respond immediately. But what should she say? That it broke her heart to learn how much he’d suffered and how he still hurt? That she would do anything she could to help?

  That she loved him?

  She closed her eyes as the truth burned its way straight through her.

  Yeah. Maybe she could write that.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A faint bleating carried across the brae, a thin remnant of the sound Ian remembered as a lad when the hillside was home to shifting droves of wooly, black-faced beasts.

  He lifted another chunk of wood to the block and stood it on end, brought the axe down and split it in two. He gathered the pile of cut wood and wheeled the load into the shed to stack. It didn’t take long. Just long enough to mentally kick himself, again, for sending Emily that letter.

  Maggie’s voice warbled up the drive as he added the last piece to the woodpile. He couldn’t make out what the old woman was saying. No matter, he’d find out soon enough.

  He returned the axe to its hiding place, headed into the house, and washed up in the mudroom.

  The sound of Maggie’s shuffling footsteps in the hall grew closer until she stood behind him in the doorway.

  “Do you need something, Maggie?” He rummaged for a towel.

  “Aye. A new set o’ eyes, ye daftie. I dinna ken what to make of this. Two letters from Grace on the same day.”

  Ian spun round.

  Maggie held two envelopes in her knobby hand.

  “Can I have a look, then?”

  “Ye dinna believe me?” With a grunt, she handed them over.

  Both were from Juniper Valley. One bore Maggie’s name in Emily’s cursive. The other was addressed to Ian alone.

  Pulse quickening, he stole a glance at Maggie.

  Her dim eyes twinkled. “Now do ye believe me? Ooh, we’re double blessed today.” Maggie clucked and strutted toward the kitchen. “This calls for two pots of tea.”

  He followed. What could he say? Nothing convincing came to mind, nothing that wasn’t an outright lie.

  “Maggie, only one of these is a letter for us.” He held his breath.

  She stopped and turned. “Only one?” Her brow furrowed. “What’s the other, then?”

  “It’s for me. Just something from my trip.” Partly true, anyway.

  As Maggie went to the sink and filled the tea kettle, Ian pocketed Emily’s letter and worked to shove aside some of the clutter on the table.

  “Verra strange,” Maggie said slowly. “Both smell o’ honeysuckle.”

  Ian stiffened and glanced over his shoulder.

  The old woman continued her task, humming some old tune as she loaded a plate of honey buns.

  When tea was ready, Ian read Emily and Grace’s letter to Maggie.

  She grunted at Grace’s glowing account of meeting Ian but then cooed at the news that Grace and Emily had booked their trip to Scotland for the fourteenth of July.

  A few times, as Emily’s voice came through the words on the page, Ian lapsed into silence and read the letter to himself.

  Maggie squawked and accused him of holding back about her sister. Finally, after a second reading of the letter and some discussion about Grace and Emily’s visit, Maggie was satisfied.

  Ian bolted. He dashed out the back door, crossed the field, and tore through the upper gate, aiming for the woods.

  A light, steady breeze rustled the trees. Enough sun broke through the grey clouds to cast long shadows like fingers drumming across his path as he scrambled up the brae.

  Nearing the glen, he patted his pocket for the letter. He pressed through the brush to the clearing and pulled out the envelope. A sturdy pine near the edge of the glen offered a backrest, and he eased himself down at the base of the tree. The air buzzed with a sweetness that wrapped itself round him.

  If her letter carried her flowery scent, he couldn’t tell.

  He held his breath.

  June 15

  Dear Ian,

  Thank you for the flowers! That was so sweet. And thank you so much for your letter. I would have replied by email but I don’t have your address. I’m including mine, along with my cell number, if you ever need them.

  I hardly know where to begin. First of all, I appreciate your willingness to share your story with me, and I’m touched by your honesty. In fact, I’m honored. You may not think so now, but talking about it helps. It brings things that torment us out of the dark and into the light, and invites God in to heal and restore. So the fact that you shared this with me is a good thing.

  Ian exhaled a ragged breath. She wasn’t disgusted.

  Ian, I can’t begin to imagine what that must have been like. I’m so sorry for what you lost and for the devastation you must have felt. Anger would be a natural reaction for anyone. You’ve asked God to help you, and that’s the important thing. I know the Lord heard your prayer. Don’t stop.

  But I wonder—have you forgiven yourself?

  The words pulsed on the page, daring him to stop and consider them.

  I know how hard it can be to forgive those who hurt us. Remember looking at the ocean? I am amazed that the God who created all that power and beauty also cares about each of us. I don’t know why He does. All I know is His love is immense and unfailing, and has the power to do the impossible. He loves each one of us, though we don’t deserve it. That includes you, me, my dad. And, as I’m sure you know, it also includes Edward Carmichael.

  The meaning of her words sunk in like a hot, iron fist. He flicked the letter away with a growl.

  If Emily thought he should call on Edward for a lovely, wee visit over tea, she needed to think again. God may well love the rotter, but that was His problem.

  Jaw clenched, Ian stared at the paper, itching to crumple it. When he could stare at it no longer, he snatched it up again.

  This might sound crazy, but I wonder what would happen if you started praying for him? What do you think? I mean—what harm could it do?

  “Ha!”

  The single hacked-out laugh bounced off the thicket and echoed back at him.

  “What do I think?” Staring at the words, he shook his head. And just how did she suggest he pray for the man? There was nothing Ian wanted for him. At least, not the kind of things Emily probably had in mind.

  Ian closed his eyes. He could see her now with those delicate eyebrows slightly arched above amber-brown eyes. Her kind, patient smile as she waited for his answer.

  God knows your heart, Ian. He knows the depth and strength of your character and your desire to do the right thing. He will help you get past this. I believe it without a doubt.

  I look forward to meeting Maggie and seeing you again. Thank you for your letter. It means a lot to me.

  Love, Emily

  He read the letter again, then stared at the closing lines for a long, long time. Finally, he stood and scanned the patch of grey sky above him. Either rain or sun waited beyond the hazy veil, maybe both. Or perhaps a fierce summer thunderstorm, steadily gathering strength.

  God only knew.

  Ian folded the letter, returned it to his pocket, and worked his way back to the path. When he reached the trail, he turned right and headed northwest, toward the old cemetery.

  In the weeks that followed, no letters arrived from Juniper Valley, and Maggie didn’t send any. She didn’t have time. Kirkhaven’s summer fair would take place soon, followed by the visit from Grace and Emily, and Maggie was in a flap to get ready for both.

  Which was fine with Ian. He didn’t need Maggie poking into his business.

  For days, Emily’s letter burned a hole in his pocket. He couldn’t get her face out of his min
d. Her suggestion to pray for Edward was absurd. Chewing on rusty nails sounded delightful by comparison. But every time he read her letter and lingered on the good things she believed about him, he broke out in a cold sweat.

  How could she suggest it?

  What harm could it do?

  Harm wasn’t the issue—it was pure, dead wrong. On so many levels. So wrong that he finally decided to actually do it. Then he could say he tried and there would be an end of it.

  And maybe then he could put Emily out of his mind.

  A few days later, he went down to the old cemetery. He stared at Katy’s gravestone for the longest time and asked himself what he was doing. Thoughts of Edward brought only curses to mind, so he said nothing. That had to be worth something. But the effort warranted a job done right. So, through gritted teeth, he said, “God, bless ... the person. Amen.”

  A few days after that, the fifteen-minute walk to the church gave Ian time to come up with a long list of things God should do about Edward Carmichael, but when he arrived at the cemetery, a sense of God’s presence silenced him.

  He was there to pray for the man, not list the man’s evil deeds.

  So he asked God to bless him again, turned round, and trudged home.