All God's Promises (A Prairie Heritage Book 7)

by Vikki Kestell

  Kari was able to laugh with him. “I’m sorry, my dear friend. I knew it was too much, but I couldn’t think of any other way to tell you and Ruth—and I certainly didn’t want to tell you separately and have to go through the complete telling all over again.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so! But you’ll have to retell it when you meet with your attorneys and Mr. Washington.”

  “They already know that Peter Granger was Dean Morgan and that he kidnapped my father. They just don’t know about my sister and brother.”

  “Well, that will make the retelling simpler. Er, sort of. Okay, Kari. I’ll wait for Mr. Washington’s call. In the meantime, I’ll get on the records search.”

  —

  KARI LEFT ESQUIBEL INVESTIGATIONS, skipped lunch, and headed east on I-40. I am not going to waste three whole days on the drive back to NOLA, she decided as she pushed the Caddy up to seventy-five miles per hour. Her route was the reverse of her drive from NOLA to Albuquerque a little more than one month before, but she intended to make the journey in two or two-and-a-half days, not three.

  During the long stretches of open road, Kari had trouble focusing on her driving. Instead, her thoughts ran ahead, to the meeting she needed to have—as soon as possible—with Clover and Owen Washington.

  And I know the right person to set up that meeting.

  When Kari stopped to use the restroom, she placed a long-distance call to the offices of Brunell & Brunell.

  “Miss Dawes, please. Kari Hillyer, er, Granger speaking.”

  She shook her head as the receptionist put her call through. Kari Hillyer. Kari Granger. Kari Michaels. Sheesh. Pick one, for heaven’s sake!

  Of course Clover, his law partners, and Owen knew the extraordinary circumstances surrounding Kari’s family connections, but Kari had no idea if they had shared those revelations with the staff of Brunell & Brunell.

  The refined tones of Miss Dawes flowed over the phone lines. “Good afternoon, Miss Kari.”

  Kari sighed with relief. “Miss Kari” fits the bill no matter what my last name may be!

  “Hello, Miss Dawes. How are you today?”

  “I am well; thank you for asking. It is lovely to hear from you. Are you on your way back now?”

  “Yes; I’m on the road and should be home midday, day after tomorrow. That is why I am calling.”

  “Of course. How may I help you?”

  Kari smiled. Miss Dawes was the consummate executive assistant: cultured, reliable, and unflappable.

  “I would like to meet with Clover and Mr. Washington as soon after I arrive home as can be arranged.”

  “Of course, Miss Kari. Would Monday morning be soon enough?”

  Kari realized she would be arriving home on a Saturday afternoon. “Oh, dear.”

  “If the need is urgent, I’m certain Clover will want to accommodate your schedule.” It was “Miss Dawes’ speak,” her gracious way of saying that Kari’s business at the firm was of the first order.

  I could probably ask them to stand on their heads and they would do it!

  Kari didn’t like the idea of wielding that kind of power.

  “Let me think one second, Miss Dawes.” Kari toyed with the idea of asking Clover and Owen to come to her house Saturday evening.

  No; I’ll be useless after driving so many hours, and Clover retires early.

  Sunday morning?

  No; we’ll be at church Sunday morning.

  That was it.

  “Miss Dawes? If they have no previous plans and are amenable, I would like to take Clover and Lorene and Owen and Mercy to brunch after service Sunday.”

  “I am certain they will accept your invitation. Do you have a restaurant preference, Miss Kari?”

  “Um, no.”

  “It would be my pleasure to make the reservation, Miss Kari.”

  “That would be super, Miss Dawes. Thank you.”

  “May I do anything further for you?”

  “No, but thank you for asking. Good bye.”

  Next Kari dialed her housekeeper, Azalea Bodeen, and listened to the line ring on the other end. Kari could only imagine Azalea’s consternation if Kari were to arrive home unannounced. Not that Kari believed Azalea would be found wanting in any respect! No, it was the housekeeper’s sense of propriety, how things ‘should’ be done, that was Kari’s concern.

  Kari’s brow creased. And how did I end up with a housekeeper, anyway? Oh, yes. I have Oskar Brunell to thank for that.

  Kari recalled her first morning in Peter Granger’s quasi-mansion. She had awoken to the smell of freshly ground and perked coffee wafting up the back stairs from the kitchen. And something else. Something delicious.

  Her first thought had been, If this is a cooking and coffee-making burglar, I wonder if we can come to a mutually satisfying arrangement: He pilfers a priceless antique and leaves me with food and liquid treasure.

  Kari had followed her nose down the back staircase and found Azalea pulling from-scratch popovers from the oven.

  “Good morning.” Kari’s silent approach had frightened the woman more than the woman’s presence in the house had surprised Kari.

  The woman had shrieked and dropped the tin into the sink. “There! Ya skeered th’ wits outta me!”

  She had turned, holding her hand over her heart.

  “I was thinking something similar when I woke up and realized someone was in the house with me,” Kari had answered evenly.

  “What? Mr. Oskar din’t tell ya he hired me t’ do fer ya?”

  Kari chuckled at the memory—and then someone picked up her call.

  “Mrs. Bodeen? This is, er, Miss Kari. I am on my way home and thought I should let you know that I intend to arrive early Saturday afternoon.”

  She listened for a moment, smiling at the soft accents coming through the line. “Yes, but please do not interrupt your weekend off. Surely whatever needs to be done can be done tomorrow or Monday?”

  She listened again. “Dinner? Um, I will probably make a sandwich or something.”

  And listened again. “No, no, please don’t put an entire pot roast in the refrigerator for me! I insist. Heavens. It would take me a week to eat it. Some cold cuts and greens will be fine. Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Bodeen. You are quite good to me.”

  Kari disconnected and returned to her car.

  Heavens! In the month I was away from New Orleans, I forgot how gracious NOLA people are.

  And how stinking rich you are, sneered an inner voice.

  Kari drove until her eyes were bleary. She pulled into the first reputable-looking hotel she saw alongside the road. It had been dark for some time; all Kari wanted was to sleep a few hours and then get back on the road.

  Before retiring for the night, Kari called the front desk and set up a five a.m. wakeup call. Then she did something she had been holding back on: She opened the first of Rose’s three additional journals. It wasn’t that Kari lacked the eagerness to dive into the journals. No; it was that she felt the sacredness of doing so.

  I want to take my time and savor them.

  In the back of her mind she wondered what Rose’s first entry would be, her first entry after Edmund was taken. What would Rose’s deepest thoughts reveal about the events of April 12, 1911? How would she respond?

  Kari’s faith was so new that she harbored a tiny fear, a fear that those events might have, at least initially, shaken Rose’s faith.

  The binding of the first of the three journals was a deep blue. With gentle hands, Kari folded the cover back and turned the first page. The inscription on the next page, like the inscription in Rose’s first journal, read

  Rose Thoresen

  My Journal

  Kari blinked. No, that wasn’t what was written. The last word was not “journal”; it was “journey.”

  Rose Thoresen

  My Journey

  “My journey,” Kari breathed. Her heart pounded, and she devoured the first words penned in Rose’s fine script.

  Journal En
try, July 13, 1911

  Lord, it has been a while since I made an entry. I suppose for many “good” reasons it is understandable: I was hoping my journal would be found—and Edmund with it—but they have not come back to us as yet. I had hoped, too, that Grant’s health would improve, but you have taken him home. I even told myself that I was “simple waiting for my arm to heal”—and yet, while it healed, I did not shirk my duties to my daughter in her grief or to Palmer House.

  I know you see everything, even my many reasons for procrastinating, and I am grateful that you have never been far from me. I have felt your presence daily. In the interim between my last entry and this one, my voice, if not my pen, has been raised continually to your throne, O God.

  And so for three months I have delayed purchasing another volume to replace the lost one. I insisted to myself that I would wait until my old journal was found before I continued to record my thoughts. However, Mr. O’Dell’s visit two days past has made me adjust the focus of my resolve.

  You already know what Mr. O’Dell had to tell us, Lord. He said that they have no leads to follow at present, that the trail has gone cold. Oh, he was quick to assure Joy that he will not give up, but what will he do without a lead of any kind?

  My mind was quick to inform my heart that the situation was hopeless. I know better than to let my mind rule my emotions—or the other way around. You, Lord, are my King. I will be ruled by you, and you alone, not by my thoughts or feelings.

  Accordingly, I went out straightway yesterday morning and purchased this little book. I did so as an act of faith. However, I no longer consider it merely a journal, but rather a record of my journey. Is not our walk with you a journey? And over time when the faith of many might wither or wane, I am determined to express my trust in you in some tangible, ongoing manner. Let me adhere to your exhortation found in Psalm 12,

  But I have trusted in thy mercy;

  My heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.

  So, Lord, let me say this: I love you. I trust you. I know you have heard our prayers and that you are already working on our behalf. I await your answer, O God, my King, with patience and hope.

  Yes, I love you, Lord. Thank you for loving me.

  Kari gently touched the last words of the entry. Yes, I love you, too, Lord. Thank you for loving me.

  “Thank you for loving me, Lord,” Kari repeated to herself. “And thank you for Rose’s example of unflinching perseverance.”

  Kari fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep until—much too soon—the phone in her room rang. It was her wakeup call. She pulled herself out of bed, dressed, grabbed coffee and a donut from the hotel’s hospitality area, and pointed her car down the road.

  The rest of her drive was uneventful, but the humidity increased with every mile. Long before she drove across the lake into the city, the August temperatures and matching ambient moisture had convinced her to put the top up and use the air conditioning.

  Then the drive became easier, more familiar, and when she turned into her neighborhood, she marked the known streets and houses along the way. When Kari pulled into the driveway of her house she realized how much she was looking forward to being home.

  Home.

  The house on Marlow Avenue felt like home?

  She eased the Caddy down the drive toward the garage door. Every aspect of the grounds and the house’s exterior called to her: the pale pink stone, the slate roof, the freshly edged grass.

  Why, even the windows are gleaming! she noted with a grin.

  She got out to unlock the garage and was not surprised to spot Toller Bodeen jogging across the grass toward her. Azalea would have alerted her son to Kari’s imminent return.

  “Hi, Toller.”

  Her groundskeeper smiled in return. “Aft’noon, Miss Kari. Can I get your bags and put th’ car away for ya?”

  Kari didn’t argue. She was beat. “Yes. Thank you.”

  He carried her luggage around to the front door, waited while Kari unlocked and opened the door, then wordlessly (and with little apparent effort) hauled her bags up the staircase to Kari’s room.

  With a nod, Toller bid her goodbye. “I’ll hang th’ keys in th’ kitchen when I’m done, Miss Kari.”

  “Thank you, Toller.”

  “M’ pleasure. Welcome home, Miss Kari.”

  Kari wandered through the house, a soft smile on her lips. She touched her favorite knick-knacks and stroked the top of an end table she particularly liked. The house was immaculate, of course, and all was as she had left it.

  I’m home.

  Those words seemed incongruous to Kari since she had spent only a few months in the house—uneasy ones at that—before leaving on her trip. When Kari had left for Albuquerque and Denver, she had still felt like she was living in Peter Granger’s house, not her own.

  But something had changed.

  No, many things had changed.

  Lord, I confess I’m a little confused. I am grateful and glad to be here—but I felt so “at home” with Søren, Ilsa, and Max. And I bought Rose’s land! I intend to build a house on it. Now I feel a sense of belonging to this house of all places. I hope you will straighten me out.

  Kari climbed the beautiful staircase to her room on the second floor. Toller had left her bags against one wall.

  Hot shower! her weary brain telegraphed to stiff muscles.

  “Yes.”

  Kari grabbed one suitcase, opened it on her bed, and rooted around in it, tossing dirty things into a pile on the floor until she found something clean and comfortable to wear. She left the contents of her suitcase strewn across her bed and fled to the bathroom.

  She scrubbed herself and washed her hair. Then she stood in the shower until the hot water was exhausted and her skin tingled. When she climbed out, she felt for the towels and wrapped one around her steaming body and another around her wet hair. Then she headed for her room.

  What?

  The jumbled mess she had made was gone. So was her luggage.

  Kari scanned the room: Her toiletries were stacked neatly on her vanity; her clean clothes were either hung or folded into her dresser drawers; her dirty clothes were missing.

  Kari glanced again into her closet and spotted her suitcases. They were nested into one another and placed on the shelf above the rod. Where they belonged.

  Kari stepped out into the hallway and, from far down the back stairs, heard the faint sound of the washing machine. Shaking her head, Kari dressed and set about drying her hair.

  Before she finished, she smelled something cooking. Something that set her insides rumbling.

  Kari sighed and felt a contentment that was unfamiliar to her.

  Lord, please bless Azalea Bodeen. Again, I’m glad to be home.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 6

  KARI SLID INTO THE PEW NEXT TO LORENE and touched her arm. She was a bit late; the singing was in full swing.

  Lorene turned and hugged her. Clover glanced over, smiled, and would have hugged her, too, but it wasn’t the right time. Clover’s son, Oskar, and his wife Melanie, nodded from the next pew over.

  The service was exactly what Kari needed: The worship sent her heart soaring to Jesus, the pastor’s message convicted and challenged her to apply—not merely assent to—what the Bible taught, and the community of believers enfolded her.

  Lord, thank you. I have longed for this all my life and didn’t know it, Kari prayed. I always wanted and needed a family—because I have always longed to belong to you.

  After the service, Owen and Mercy Washington found them.

  “Honey, it’s so good to see you home.” Mercy smiled and hugged Kari. “And thank you for your kind invitation to Sunday brunch. It’s a real treat.”

  Kari arched one eyebrow. “You may rethink your thanks before we are done today. It’s something of ‘a working lunch.’”

  “Ooooh, Chile! You be mysterious!” Mercy laughed back.

  True to her word, Miss Dawes had made reservations for five
at a large hotel that touted an extravagant and traditional New Orleans Sunday brunch. Kari and her guests met in the lobby and were shown to a round table nestled into a semiprivate window nook.

  “This is perfect,” Kari told the maître d' as he seated her. “Thank you.”

  “Our pleasure. Would Madam and her guests care for coffee?”

  “I know I would,” Kari replied. She looked at the others. Owen and Mercy nodded, but Clover and Lorene declined.

  After they had received their coffees and ordered from the brunch menu, Clover patted Kari’s hand. “Miss Kari, we are so glad to see you safely home. You left on a little jaunt a month ago that turned into an adventure and something quite unexpected.”

  Lorene and Owen nodded and Mercy said, “Owen told me how you found that woman’s journal and it led you to your real family. What an amazin’, astonishin’ story! How you adjustin’, girl?”

  Kari thought for a moment. “To be truthful, pretty much everything about the last four months has been unexpected. Unexpected, life-altering, and ongoing! I feel as though I am living in a blender, a whirlwind of continual upheaval.”

  Her guests’ heads bobbed sympathetically.

  Kari smiled at Mercy. “You asked me how I am adjusting? Without Jesus I think I would be an absolute hot mess—like I was when I first came to NOLA. But with him? With Jesus? It is as though something calm and stable has settled and taken root on my insides. And I-I don’t feel broken like I used to feel.”

  Kari thought a moment longer. “For all my life I have had a deep longing for family—to belong somewhere, to someone. To be completely loved and accepted. To be a part of something greater and enduring. Now I have almost too much family! I certainly feel pulled in diverse directions, but . . . but that calm, that peace down deep in me doesn’t budge. It doesn’t shift.”

  She looked around. “Does that make any sense? I mean, I wanted to find Rose so badly and, in a way, I did. I found Palmer House and scads of family to whom, quite literally, I was the answer to eighty-plus years of prayer! I even bought Rose’s land, her homestead, to keep it from passing out of the family. And when I was staying with Søren, Ilsa, and Max on the Thoresen homestead, I fit right in.”