echristian-epub-ee8a4ba5-94c3-4982-ae55-299db4e26c11

by Unknown

  Emma’s eyes blurred as she turned the page.

  I met a nice man today: Ray Sullins. Ray’s different, like me, but so kind, so gentle. He wants to help me with my jewelry but I told him no, that he shouldn’t come around. People will talk. Like they don’t anyway. Someone dug up Marietta Higgsby’s tombstone and put it in our front yard last night. The Higgsby family was deeply upset and accused me of sorcery—like I’d want a tombstone in my front yard! Anyway, Ray is simpleminded. He’s not handicapped, just simple in mind. He told me he has the mind of an eight-year-old, but he seems so much wiser. He’s a gentle man. Maybe a friend.

  Another entry a week later:

  Ray comes by every day now. We work on jewelry and I baked him a peach pie last night. He said no one had ever baked him a peach pie—not just for him. We sat on the porch and held hands until the moon was high in the sky. I don’t know what the neighbors think, but I don’t care. God knows my heart—and Ray’s. We aren’t lovers; we’re just good friends. Emma, it feels good to have a friend. I think often about you and Sam Gold. Sam stops by occasionally and brings me something. Maybe a half gallon of chocolate mint ice cream, other times a new plant to put in my garden. The other night I was lying in bed thinking about you and Sam, and the Lord laid it on my heart that I was wrong. Wrong to stop you from going after love. You were young and so was Sam, but I’m coming to realize that youth—or simpleminded people—can make it if they try hard enough. Emma, I have something I need to tell you, something I should have told you a long time ago. Sam wrote you a letter shortly after you left and asked me to send it to you. He didn’t know where you were. I told him I would, but I didn’t. It grieves me now to think about my selfishness, but at the time I thought I was protecting you. I don’t know what the letter said; I didn’t read it. I threw it away. I threw your life away, Emma. Please, please forgive me. And please don’t hate me. Sam is a good man. I know that now. He would have found a way to take care of you. If only we knew then what we know now … .

  Emma set the journal aside and wept brokenly for all the lost years. For what she and Sam should have had. She could literally feel her heart softening toward Lully, forgiveness trying to penetrate the hardened wall. When she regained control of her emotions, she picked up the journal again.

  The next entry made Emma’s blood run cold:

  I’ve been feeling poorly lately, so Ray made me go to the doctor. I hate doctors; they plain scare me. Not by what they do, but by what they might find. Anyway, he found something, and Ray had to take me to the hospital for tests. He was so good to me—stood there the whole time and held my hand and kept reassuring me everything would be all right. Sometimes I think his eight-year-old mind can see things that I can’t. Seems my heart is weak—something happened at birth that’s caused it to wear out faster. Maybe that’s why I was always so tired when we were young. The doctor gave me lots of pills and said I wasn’t to exert myself at all. Ray is taking good care of me. He cried last night, said he was afraid of losing me. I don’t want to abandon him; I know what that’s all about. And like us, Ray has no one.

  Emma reached for a fresh tissue and blew her nose. She felt guilty, as if she were intruding into Lully’s most private thoughts, yet she was powerless to lay the book aside. Had her sister realized that one day Emma would be reading these words? Had she left the journal to cleanse the wounds between them? It would seem so by the way she sometimes addressed Emma in the entries. Emma read on, pausing to reread the next passage.

  I’m getting weaker now. Ray denies what is clear: no amount of medicine is going to help me, and transplants are hard to come by. We wait each day for the phone to ring, but it never brings the message we’re hoping for. Sometimes I have to sit up all night because I can’t breathe lying down. My heart hurts. Literally. I long to pick up the phone and call you, Emma, to hear your voice. I think the sound would be nice and comforting to me, but then I see Ray and his uncontrollable tears and the worry that lines his face, and I realize I can’t do that to you. When I’m gone you will experience another loss, but you won’t have to watch this slow and agonizing death. I love you, my dear sister. I can’t remember; have I ever told you that? Forgive me. Youth sometimes forgets the important things. We might have gotten the short end of the stick in life, but I know without a doubt our reward waits for us. If possible, I will be standing at the gates of pearl waiting for you when God brings you home. There we will never feel alone again.

  The entries each got shorter as Lully’s heart weakened. The handwriting got spidery. One was in a childish block style that Ray must have written for her.

  LULLY LOVES YOU EMMA.

  Then one final entry two days before Lully’s death:

  I can’t leave you the legacy of a normal life; I can leave you something more precious. Find it, Emma. Look with all your heart … . It’s in the house … . It’s in your heart.

  The paragraph ended with:

  Lord, please don’t let me give up yet. I don’t understand why or what’s happening to my body, but draw me even closer. Fill me so full of the knowledge that you are carrying me during this struggle that what’s happening doesn’t matter. Allow me to be a shining example of your love … no fear. Just a quiet rest in knowing that soon I will be running through golden meadows, laughing and playing like a child again … .

  Holding the handkerchief under her nose, Emma reread the final passage, obviously written with Lully’s last strength. “Something more precious …”

  What? Emma looked up, holding the journal to her breast. What had Lully left when she had nothing but the house and a few impersonal items?

  Emotionally unable to continue, she laid the journal aside and left the bedroom. The task was turning out to be more painful than she had anticipated. Why had she let so many years go by without contacting Lully? Pride? Fear? Anger? She wasn’t sure even now. She’d thought for the longest time that when Lully hadn’t come looking for her, that she had abandoned Emma, too. The journal proved her wrong. Lully had looked for her and found her. Then she had let her assert her independence with the hope and a sister’s prayer that she would come back. She never would have—Emma suddenly realized she never would have come back if not for Lully’s death. Serenity held too many memories for her, too many broken promises.

  She walked into the kitchen, intending to bake an apple cake to take to Elizabeth’s when she discovered that Lully’s cabinets were void of spices. She had forgotten she had used the last of them to make the banana bread. It was Christmas Day—where could she get cinnamon and nutmeg? The café. Brisco’s Café was open until one o’clock for the locals who gathered for coffee and donuts every morning, holidays included, or for families who enjoyed having breakfast together. Christmas Day was no different. Emma could borrow a few spices from Thelma Earls, the owner. Hurrying to the front closet, she slipped into a heavy coat and put on a warm hat.

  Ten minutes later she entered the small café that smelled of coffee and fresh danish. Mostly men, drinking coffee and swapping small talk, filled almost every table in the town gossip hall. Womenfolk were home basting the turkeys and mashing potatoes, shooing young children from underfoot.

  Thelma looked up when the door opened, her beefy face flushed by the heat. “Ms. Emma. Merry Christmas!”

  Emma nodded, pulling off her gloves. “I need to ask a favor, Thelma.”

  “Sure thing, sweetie.” Thelma set the glass coffeepot aside. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to borrow a little cinnamon and nutmeg.”

  “Can handle that,” Thelma assured her. She disappeared into the back room and started dumping spices into paper cupcake linings.

  Emma took a seat at the counter, smiling pleasantly at the occasional man who noticed her. She spotted a man sitting by himself, his danish untouched. After a while, he laid aside the paper he was reading, and picked up his hat and briefcase. He approached the register, glancing at Emma.

  “Thelma will be right back. She’s gett
ing some spices for me.”

  He nodded.

  She studied his profile. She didn’t know him, but that didn’t mean he was new in town. So much in Serenity had changed in the last fifteen years. Probably visiting a son or a daughter for the holiday.

  Jay Bennett laughed and got up from his table. Bidding the men a Merry Christmas, he walked toward the register. When he spotted Emma he grinned. “Well, if it isn’t Ms. Emma Mansi.”

  Emma smiled. “Merry Christmas, Jay.”

  “I’m ready to do the rest of those repairs any time you are.”

  “That’s great, Jay. We’ll start again after the holidays.”

  Jay laid his bill on the counter with a couple of dollars. “See you in the morning, Thelma!”

  “Have a good day, Jay!” Thelma called from the back room.

  The man still standing at the register waiting to pay turned at the mention of Emma’s name. When the door closed behind Jay, the man said, “Ms. Mansi?”

  Emma looked up.

  He extended a well-manicured hand. “Oscar Wellman.” When the name didn’t register with Emma, he went on to explain. “I’m with Shangri-La Developers in Denver. I’m visiting a relative here for the day, but I’m also in the area looking for potential land investments—this is quite a stroke of luck. I have your sister’s name on my list.” He paused and cleared his throat. “I planned to talk to her about possibly selling the house.”

  A land developer. Emma shook hands with Mr. Wellman. “I’m sorry. My sister died a couple months ago, and I haven’t decided what I plan to do with the house.”

  “No?” The tall, well-dressed man in his sixties cocked a dark brow. “Please forgive me. I was under the impression that the house would be for sale immediately. I bumped into Tom Crane and Darrel Masters at a convention last week and they were speculating on buying the property themselves—for a parking lot? Now it would be a shame to tear down a historical treasure.” Oscar rubbed his chin pensively. “I’m quite sure my company could keep the house intact but build around the perimeter—make all the time-share units rustic—it is the house bordering a cemetery, right?”

  Suddenly Tom Crane’s actions of late took on a sinister note. It seemed that the mayor and Darrel Masters had been snooping around the house, itching to get their hands on the property for a municipal parking lot. “It is, but it isn’t for sale,” Emma answered.

  “So odd,” he murmured. “Very puzzling. I heard that other sources are also interested in purchasing the land. This area—so close to Durango—is ideal for time-share development, and if it’s a matter of money, well, let me assure, you my corporation has deep pockets. They will give you above and beyond top price for the property.”

  Tourists were the last thing the people of Serenity wanted. The town remained small because of people’s preference to do so. Tom Crane knew the residents’ regard for privacy—surely Mr. Wellman had his facts wrong.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Wellman.” Emma stood up to take the package Thelma was now holding over the counter. “My house is not for sale.”

  She started to pay and Thelma waved the gesture aside. “May have to borrow off you one of these days. Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas.” Oscar Wellman followed her out the doorway. “Ms. Mansi.” He fell into brisk step with her. “I don’t mean to be rude, and it is Christmas, but am I to understand that you alone own the house? I was given to believe that Sam Gold is co-owner.”

  “He is, but he knows I don’t want to sell.”

  “I understand there’s a slight technicality concerning the deed, but—”

  “Slight,” Emma said. “Only slight and it will be cleared up soon. But the house still won’t be for sale.”

  “Well, now, perhaps you should talk to Mr. Gold. He didn’t seem as adamant when I spoke with him yesterday afternoon.”

  Emma whirled. “You spoke to Sam?”

  “Yes, late yesterday afternoon. I presented an offer and he said he would consult you. I must say, your refusal to look at the contract surprises me. The offer Shangri-La has made is above generous, and I warn you, you won’t be able to match it anywhere else. The owner of Shangri-La used to live in Santa Fe, and his heart is here in the Durango area.”

  Emma swallowed back a sharp retort. How dare he imply she was being selfish to keep the house from a land-grubbing speculator? She couldn’t trust Shangri-La to keep their word. They’d bulldoze the house to the ground and build new units. Some young designer would move the cemetery headstones and plant azalea bushes on Mom and Lully’s grave.

  “Perhaps this has all been too sudden for you. The death of your sister, the memorial. I know how that can be—I buried my mother less than a year ago. Tom indicated that you’re still in shock, and that’s only natural. Your sister was so young.” He paused, reaching out to take her arm.

  “Tom Crane?”

  “The mayor—yes. He and Darrel, of course, want the parking lot, but my company would be a better choice, Ms. Mansi. In time, perhaps you will come to realize what is best for all concerned. Tom says Sam believes that it’s best to sell—”

  “Sam believes?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “Well, he is co-owner—”

  Whirling, she walked back to the restaurant and opened the door. Patrons glanced up as she threaded her way through the narrow aisles to the back table where the mayor and Darrel Masters were sitting. Slamming her hand flat on the chrome tabletop with a smack that resounded throughout the room, she said quietly, “I own that house. Sam will get half the proceeds if I ever sell or he will be paid half if I decide to keep it. Either way, gentlemen—” she leaned closer— “the house is not for sale to you or you or—” she turned and pointed to Oscar Wellman, who was now standing in the café doorway, mouth agape—“him. Understood?”

  The mayor and Darrel nodded wordlessly. A piece of egg dangled from the mayor’s fork that was lifted halfway to his mouth.

  Taking a deep breath, Emma straightened. “Thank you, gentlemen. Merry Christmas.”

  Her cheeks burned as she walked off, head held erect. Brushing past Mr. Wellman, who still held the door open, she sucked fresh air into her lungs. Her knees trembled. She was accustomed to confrontations and she didn’t like them. But someone had to put a foot down, and it was high time she let the people of Serenity know that they weren’t going to push her around like Lully.

  Slamming her front door shut, Emma strode to the living room and picked up the phone. The line rang three times before a woman answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi—is Sam there?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Emma … Emma Mansi.”

  The woman’s voice warmed. “Emma. How nice to hear from you after all these years.” Betty Higgins—Sam’s neighbor? “I baked a turkey for the boys and a few side dishes—you know men. Ken and Sam would have eaten a cheese sandwich and called it Christmas.”

  “I’m sure Sam and Ken are very appreciative. May I speak to Sam?”

  “Yes, I’ll get him—have you had your dinner? You’re welcome to come and eat with us. I know Sam would—”

  “Thank you so much, but I’ve promised to eat with Elizabeth.”

  “Oh … well, I understand. Perhaps another time. Soon?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Emma tapped her fingers on the cord impatiently as she waited. She imagined a “few side dishes,” including dressing, sweet potatoes, green beans, Jell-O salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, a pumpkin and a pecan pie—

  Sam’s voice came on the line. “I was thinking about you. I didn’t know if you’d want to come over here for dinner or I would have asked. What’s up?”

  My temper. Emma drew a deep breath and said as calmly as she could, “It is my house. I don’t care what Lully said in that ridiculous will, the house is mine, and I’ll find that deed if it takes me a hundred years. This house is the only thing I have left of my crummy, rotten life. I hate the house. I wish I never had to see it again
but I’m not selling it. You understand? I’m not selling it!” Her voice caught with emotion. “Do you understand?”

  After a moment of silence Sam said, “You hate the crummy, rotten, falling-down-around-your-head house, filled with spiders, snakes, pigs, and God knows what’s next. It’s the only thing left of your crummy, rotten life, and you hate it and all the painful memories it brings, but you’re not selling it for any amount of money.”

  “That’s right.” She sniffed.

  “I got it. Anything else?”

  “You can tear that contract up from Shangri-La Developers right now!”

  She heard him lay the phone down and come back a minute later. The sound of tearing paper came across the line. Deliberate ripping.

  He picked up the receiver again. “Anything else?”