by Camille Eide
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Over the next two days, Emily hung around the house and kept an eye on Maggie and Grace. But baking and strolling and chatting over tea did nothing to expend her growing restlessness. With three weeks of their visit remaining, she needed an occupation. And soon. Because even though she’d managed to avoid seeing Ian, she couldn’t stop thinking about him and the things he’d said to her out by the berry field.
And that kiss.
Thursday afternoon, the urge to run consumed her. She laced up her shoes and headed out. Just a light jog, she told herself, a slow pace until she got her bearings. And until she saw a doctor and had a better idea of how hard she should be pushing herself.
Beneath a gray sky, the rolling hills and the meadows between took on a dark, dusky, green hue. The scent of pine and heather mingled with the damp air, invigorating her lungs. She followed the road toward town for about a mile until she reached a wooden bridge spanning a large stream, then turned back, not too afraid of running into Ian because he seemed to be avoiding the house.
Even Aunt Grace had noticed. “Where’s that nice, young laddie, Ian? He’s not still at the beach, is he?”
And Maggie had said, “He probably has an article to send off. He always disappears into his writing cave when he has a deadline.”
Every time Emily felt her own concern for him creeping in, she told herself worrying was pointless. She needed to focus on something else. The sooner she could get in touch with the university and schedule her testing, the better. But how? She might have to find the internet café in the village. She’d jog there if she had to.
Later that night, Emily dragged herself upstairs to her room. She closed the door, leaned against it, and looked around.
Spending time in this room—his room—wasn’t helping. A clean, woodsy scent lingered here, the same scent that drifted around Ian. She unhooked the window latch and raised the bottom pane, letting in a fresh supply of the same mossy, pine-scented air.
Everything about this room breathed of him. Like oxygen, his presence was inescapable. The clothes in the wardrobe. His things. The way he left his books—angled and marked in such a way as to show his promise to resume.
What was he doing? What was he feeling?
“Lord,” she whispered, “I can’t stand the thought of him hurting and angry. Please help me know what to do about that. Help Ian forget about everything that happened between us. Help him move on.” She closed her eyes. “And help me forget too.”
Time for a distraction. A book. Something.
The Bible Ian kept on the dresser would help clear her mind.
She took it down and settled into the chair in the corner. It fell open with ease to the dedication page. The slightly faded inscription had been penned in an elegant, feminine hand.
Emily caught her breath at the words:
To my beloved Ian. My lover,
my rock, my shield.
A noble, humble man of quiet strength,
dearly loved by God.
Philippians 4:13. Never forget.
I love you,
Katy
Ignoring the sudden ache in her chest, Emily focused on the date of the inscription. Nine years ago. She closed her eyes and replayed in her mind what Ian had told her about Katy. His wife had given him this Bible the year she died.
She already knew Katy had been a young woman of faith and character. To Emily, she had seemed more like a sainted icon than a person. But these were the words of a real woman who not only admired and adored Ian, but also loved him. Body, mind, and soul.
A queasy feeling churned in her stomach and she closed the Bible. It felt wrong, like peeking into someone’s diary. She stared at the closed cover, but it was too late. The words had singed into her memory.
The queasiness twisted into a sickening knot and stirred up emotions Emily didn’t even know she owned. Katy and Ian had obviously been very much in love.
An unrelenting heaviness weighed like a boulder on her chest, and, even though she tried to hold them back, tears came. “Dear God, this is pointless. He’s not mine to mourn over.”
She opened the Bible to the verse Katy noted in Philippians and read the boldly underlined passage, even though it was a verse she knew well.
I can do all this through him who gives me strength.
She skimmed through the pages, stopping to read other underlined and highlighted passages. At whose hand—Katy’s or Ian’s?
The notes scribbled in the margins were clearly Ian’s familiar block print.
She blew out an exasperated breath and closed the Bible. “Sorry, but this isn’t helping.”
The books on the table next to the chair were obviously ones he was reading—probably not a good choice either. His study in the next room contained plenty of books which Ian had said were at her disposal, so she rose and went to the hall, tapped on the door, and let herself in. An entire wall of books caught her eye and she aimed for those. She could grab something and leave as quickly as possible. Emily found a few well-worn classics, including her favorite Jane Austen novel.
Again, Ian’s or Katy’s?
She leafed through the pages. The book would provide a few hours of escape at least. Except—the dutiful Anne Elliot’s steady, unfulfilled love for Captain Wentworth … bad idea. She slipped the volume back into place on the shelf, tucked a loose wave of hair behind her ear, and looked around the room.
Filing cabinets topped with stacks of magazines and folders lined two of the walls. Dated file boxes towered beside them with more folders and magazines piled neatly on top. A framed drawing hung on the wall above the cabinets and, next to it, an award.
Emily moved to get a closer look.
Ian’s signature scrawled across the bottom of an illustration from Daniel’s Friends Face the Fire. In the painting, three men stood together, unharmed amid flames, with a fourth man nearby. A beautiful, inspiring work of art and an award. From a lifetime ago.
Maybe one day his love of art would return.
A computer monitor and keyboard sat lifeless on the desk below the window. A bronze lamp craned over the corner of the desk where several labeled notebooks stood. The window overlooked the berry field to the west of the house. On the wall, a collage of photos covered a whiteboard with captions beneath them.
She stepped closer.
The photos were of the bridges of downtown Portland, Oregon. Most of the photos depicted various people, but one woman, about mid-fifties, was in several of the shots. Probably Janet Anderson, his friend.
Ian was in one of the photos with an arm around her shoulders, posing for the camera with that warm, devastating smile.
Fabulous. Just what I needed to see.
This was the workspace of a conscientious, sensible man. So how could a sensible man offer to throw away the best years of his life on a dying woman? What was he thinking? He couldn’t possibly have thought it through.
Out the window, a dimly lit view of the fence at the edge of the berry field brought the last encounter with Ian back to her mind in a rush of vivid detail. His impassioned plea. And that kiss—
That was it. Ian hadn’t thought any of this through. In fact, he probably hadn’t been thinking at all. Physical attraction had blinded his judgment.
It had certainly blinded hers, for one breathtaking moment.
Her cheeks burned at the memory. The crush of his lips on hers, the heat of his skin. Every detail of that kiss came back to her, and with good reason.
It was her first.
And because of her prognosis, it would be her last.
Her eyes stung with the threat of more tears, but she shook the temptation off. No more. She’d cried more in the last two weeks than she had in her entire life.
The voice of reason said there was no point dwelling on it.
“Okay, Em.” She spoke aloud, as if that would break the silent grip Ian had on her thoughts. “Time to think about something else.”
But Ian ha
d unconsciously taken what she had quietly saved. Her friends had never understood Emily’s decision to reserve her first kiss for the man she would marry. Which would have been Ian, if things had been different. But marriage wasn’t in God’s plan for her after all.
She slumped into the desk chair and massaged her temples, trying to relieve the throbbing tension from the strain of the last few days. In the absence of her voice, stillness filled the room. Summer evenings back home in Oregon’s high desert were deeply quiet, just like this.
Home.
The sooner she went home, the sooner Ian could get on with his life and she could get on with hers.
Or what’s left of it.
Tears stung her eyes again. She’d never been one to wallow in self-pity. But as the tears continued to well up, she let them come. Why shouldn’t she? She had good reason to feel sorry for herself. Several reasons.
“First off, I have a fatal disease,” she said to no one. “Secondly, the most amazing man wants to marry me and I can’t have him. Third, I’m trying to end things with him, but now he’s got me so wound up I can’t think straight.”
It wasn’t fair.
“Lord, why did I kiss him? What in the world was I thinking? And what am I supposed to do for three more weeks? Ending it was hard enough, but now ...”
What would it have been like to be his wife? The thought launched a rush of images and sensations she had no business entertaining.
“No.” Her whisper cracked the stillness. “See? I knew it. One kiss complicates everything.”
Actually, it was three.
“It’s not Ian’s fault, Lord. I’m sure he’s never heard of a grown woman saving her first kiss for her husband.” Emily’s elbows dug into her knees and she let her forehead fall into her hands. “All I want is to wrap my arms around him and love him with everything I have and forget about tomorrow.” She lifted her face heavenward. “God, I can’t do this. I can’t. I need Your help, please.”
Would God help her? It was all her fault. Not only had she let Ian kiss her, but she’d kissed him back. And what about Ian? Had the kiss complicated things for him too?
Emily groaned. She should leave now, go back home this minute. But that wouldn’t be fair to Aunt Grace.
Drained and heavy-hearted, she rose, opened the study door, and froze.
Ian stood with his forehead pressed against the door frame, eyes closed.
No. Please tell me you didn’t hear that.
Heat surged to her cheeks. Her mind raced for a reply for whatever he might say.
But he said nothing.
She urged her feet forward and slipped past him. As she closed her door, she heard a long, heavy exhale.
Friday morning brought clear, blue skies and a call from Claire inviting everyone to join her and the kids for a picnic and swimming. When Ian delivered the message to Maggie, the old woman launched into a flurry of activity, pulling out picnic baskets before he’d even left the kitchen.
As he walked back to the cottage, he still couldn’t decide if he would go or stay behind. He wanted to go along to help. Or, if he were honest, to be near Emily. Because her agonized confession the night before was far from agony for him. Quite the opposite.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He meant to get a book. When he realized she was in the study praying, he started to slip away quietly. But what he overheard seized him, turned him inside out.
It kept him awake most of the night. In the little time he did sleep, Emily visited his dreams in ways that tormented him far worse than his waking thoughts until he finally jumped out of bed, threw on his shoes, and went for a pre-dawn run. It would be best to forget what he’d heard.
He reached for the knob on the cottage door. Forget what she said? Not possible.
Ian could either respect her wishes and stay away from her, or take advantage of the situation and double his efforts until she changed her mind. He needed to change her mind. He needed to stay beside her through it all.
He was her first kiss?
The idea sent a ripple of joy and amazement through him, but a wee pang of guilt for taking it without asking nagged at him as well. The least he could do for her was to back off. For now. Besides, that would give him time to think of a new plan.
A MacLean never gave up.
He stayed inside the cottage all morning, working on his laptop, even after he heard Claire’s car arrive.
Within minutes, a hail of thumps and giggles rattled the door. Kallie burst in first, then Hannah. “Uncle Ian, we’re going for a swim at the loch!” Hannah lunged at him and grasped his hand. “Come on.”
“And I’m going to dunk you. You won’t get away this time.” Kallie gripped his other hand and yanked him as hard as she could.
“Sorry, I’m not going. Maybe next time. I’ve got to stay here and finish my work.”
“No work, not today.” Hannah punctuated each word with a shake of her head.
“It’s picnic day,” Kallie said. “Now let’s go.”
With a sigh, he gave in to their tugging.
They each tucked one of his hands under their arms like the handles of a wheelbarrow and towed him out the door and up the sloped drive.
“C’mon, Hannah, pull harder.” Kallie grunted.
As they neared the top of the drive, they came upon the others.
Emily helped Aunt Grace into Claire’s estate car.
An instant replay of how soft her lips felt and how sweetly they had yielded to the pressure of his not-so-gentle kiss flooded his senses.
His nephews came out of the house, each bearing a picnic basket. Jack had his balanced on one shoulder and Douglas came out carrying his load in front at an awkward-looking angle. As the lad passed Emily, he checked out each of his biceps.
Ian couldn’t help but give a faint smile. He probably would have done the same at that age.
“All right boys, let’s have them,” Claire said from the back door of the wagon. “Yours first, Dougie. It’s the biggest.”
Douglas scoffed. “It’s not too big for me.” The lad’s chest swelled and he glanced in Emily’s direction before hoisting his load into the car. Then he tried to relieve Jack of his burden, but Jack lifted the basket high above his head, also checking out the effect on his own muscles.
If Emily noticed the abundance of manliness surrounding her, she didn’t show it. She seemed focused on making sure Aunt Grace was safely buckled into the front seat.
Douglas saw him approach. “Uncle Ian! Where’s your fishing pole? I brought mine.”
At the mention of his name, Emily looked up, cheeks instantly pink.
“No, Doog. He’s coming swimming with us,” Kallie said. “We’re going to take turns dunking him under.”
Hannah ran to Emily. “Will you swim with me?”
“I’m not ...” She glanced at Ian. “Sure, that sounds like fun.”
“Shirrr.” Kallie giggled.
Should Emily be swimming? Ian yielded to the tug of apprehension. Perhaps she should see a doctor before taking any risks. As soon as he could, he would find out more about the disease.
A wee frown creased Emily’s brow. “Except I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”
Claire slammed the rear door, brushed her hands, and turned to Emily with a smile. “Good thing I brought an extra one. Although on you”—she pinched the sides of Emily’s waist—“I’m afraid it might not stay up.”
Jack nudged Douglas and leaned close. “Forget fishing. I’m going swimming.”
Douglas frowned at his brother, then stared at Emily, his face neon pink.
Ian hid his smile while inspecting the roof rack. “Douglas, I’ll go fishing with you next time. Bring your da and we’ll take the Seastrike out.”
Claire finished buckling Hannah into the car, pulled up straight, and spun to face him. “But you’re coming today too, aren’t you?”
“No, I have a story deadline and some new queries to send off.”
She frowned. “Och! Ta
ke a break. Come with us.”
Ian tugged on the metal rack to test it, rocking the whole car. When he didn’t answer, Claire’s fists flew to her hips.
Quietly, Emily broke in. “No, I’ll stay here. Ian, you should go—”
Maggie tromped up to Ian with a hand thrust out, palm up. “Let’s have it.”
“What’s that?”
“The key! I know ye’re hiding it somewhere. It’s still my truck. And dinna fash yerself—Jack can drive me.”
“Oh no, Maggie. No.” Claire had to shout above Jack’s hooting. “I’m not falling for that one again. And besides …” Claire turned to Ian with a pointed look. “Ian is going to drive.”
He shook his head. “Sorry, Claire. If you need the truck, take it. Let Jack drive. Or Douglas. It’s not that far.”
“I can drive?” Douglas’s voice rose to an unmanly squeak.
Kallie stomped over to Ian and tilted a frown up at him. “Why aren’t you coming with us?”
Everyone seemed to be waiting for his answer, including Emily.
“I made a promise to finish what I started.” When he looked up, he saw that he had Emily’s full attention. “I always honor my promises. Perhaps another time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In spite of the warm July sun, the chilly waters of Loch Lagan sent Emily back for her clothes the minute she finished swimming. After lunch, she stayed in the sun with the girls and tried to get warm again, which earned her a plastic bucket and the prestigious title of Sand Gatherer.
The girls didn’t seem to mind being wet. Dirt clung to their damp swimsuits as they worked diligently on a palatial masterpiece of rock and sand, similar to the castles Emily had built with her mom and dad as a kid at the beach. Together, she and her mom would build a huge sandcastle while her dad packed in countless buckets of water for the moat.
She squinted against the sun’s glare reflecting off the glistening water. If only her dad could be here and see the quiet majesty and beauty of this place. The protective Scots pines surrounding the loch, the green hills mounding in succession like pillows in the distance. The rich tones of greens, the splendor of God’s magnificent creation. Her dad couldn’t possibly deny the presence and majesty of God in a place like this.
