The Kissing Tree

by Karen Witemeyer

  The older man smiled, and Barnabas immediately saw the love he carried for his departed wife.

  “Phoebe’s my dreamer,” Hollis continued. “She needs a man who can appreciate her dreams while grounding her in reality. And you, my dear boy, are the most capable, down-­to-­earth man I know. When Phoebe came to me with this inn idea, it was as if Laurel had whispered into God’s ear and the Almighty saw fit to send me the perfect solution: force the two of you to work together, let you get in each other’s way and get to know each other. If nothing sparked . . .” He shrugged. “Well, I knew you’d see that her inn was a success, so there’d be no harm done. But if something did spark . . . well, then. We’d be having a whole different conversation. One rather like this one, right now.”

  A weight lifted from Barnabas’s shoulders, leaving him nearly giddy with relief and excitement. “So I have your blessing?”

  Hollis planted his large palm on Barnabas’s shoulder and squeezed. “You’ve been like a son to me for years. I’d be honored to make it official.” His gaze honed to a sharp edge, and his grip tightened. “If Phoebe welcomes your suit.”

  “I think she will,” Barnabas said, “if she’ll forgive me for blundering earlier today.” He pulled the paper-­wrapped frame out from under his arm. “I came back to get this as a way to make amends.” He turned his head in the direction of the inn. “I’ve already been gone longer than I intended.”

  Hollis released his grip on Barnabas’s shoulder and gave his back a firm pat, the kind that would have sent a less-­prepared man sprawling. Thankfully, Barnabas was well accustomed to Hollis Woodward’s thumps and had braced for the impact.

  “Don’t let me stop you,” the big man boomed.

  Barnabas nodded his thanks and strode forward, only to be stopped a few steps later when his future father-­in-­law called out to him.

  “Hey, Ackerly!”

  Barnabas turned. “Yes?”

  “You’ll need this.” Hollis tossed him a small object.

  Barnabas snatched it out of the air, his pulse stuttering when he realized what it was. A pocketknife. An old one. One that had probably carved the very initials featured in the artwork he held in his hands.

  He looked back. Hollis nodded. Approval. Acceptance. Even a wish of good luck.

  Barnabas returned the nod. Time to carry on the family tradition.

  At the sound of the back door opening, Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. Her heart gave a painful throb in her breast at the sight of Barnabas striding through the doorway, but she’d been mentally preparing herself for this moment and was determined to act as if nothing were amiss.

  “Oh good. You’re back.” She returned to her inspection of the photographs laid out across the kitchen table. “Mr. Cooksey has produced some marvelous shots.” She smiled politely at the preening photographer standing on the other side of the table. “I’m leaning toward the inn view for the advertising we do in the newspapers and men’s periodicals, but I think we should use the tree view for the ladies’ magazines as well as in Lippincott’s. It would be the perfect companion to my column, don’t you think?”

  Her heart ached every time she looked at the photograph of her and Barnabas embracing beneath the branches of the Kissing Tree, but she recognized the marketability of the image. Mr. Cooksey had utterly captured the romantic magic of the Kissing Tree. She’d be a fool not to use it, no matter what painful emotions it stirred.

  When Barnabas made no comment, Phoebe finally turned to face him. A tiny gasp escaped her. He was completely disheveled. Hair wild, no coat, no hat, his gaze filled with worry and regret. All thoughts of photography fled her mind.

  She took a step toward him, her hand outstretched. “Barnabas? Are you all right?”

  “No. I’m not. I need to speak with you.” He glanced to the photographer, then to the cook, who had just reached for the kettle and the cup Barnabas preferred. “Alone.”

  Phoebe didn’t hesitate. Whatever was bothering him, it was serious. She’d never seen him like this. “Of course. We can talk outside.”

  He gave a sharp nod, then pivoted and marched out the back door. She muttered a quick apology to Mr. Cooksey, then hurried after Barnabas, expecting him to be waiting for her at the base of the porch steps. He wasn’t. He was striding down the path to the Kissing Tree.

  Not there. She shook her head. Her heart was still too raw. Too confused. But she didn’t have a choice. He needed her. She’d just have to ignore the tree. She’d listen to what he had to say and help him if she could. That was what friends did for each other. And she was determined to preserve their friendship. It might be all she had left.

  By the time she caught up to him, he was ducking under the branch that held her parents’ initials. Ignoring the pang in her chest at the sight of the place where she had wept out her hopes and dreams less than an hour ago, she focused her gaze, instead, on the marble bench that seemed to be Barnabas’s destination.

  He paced in front of the bench, some kind of package in his hands. Finally, as if coming to a decision, he halted, set the package down, then turned to face her. Before she knew what he was about, he captured both her hands in his and peered into her eyes with an intensity that made her warm and cold all at once.

  “I hurt you today, Phoebe, and I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hands. “So sorry.”

  She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. Shaking her head, she tried to reassure him despite the fact that she couldn’t manage to meet his gaze. “You have nothing to be sorry about. You know how I am. Overly sentimental and foolish.” She shrugged. “I got caught up in the moment, is all.” In the words. She could still hear his declaration of love cooing in her ears. Thank heaven he couldn’t see her eyes. There was a definite sheen collecting there. She did her best to blink it away.

  “You’re not foolish. I am. Look at me, Phoebe. Please.”

  Compelled by his plea, her chin came up. Her eyes met his.

  “I meant what I said earlier today. I do love you. So much that it terrifies me to think I might have destroyed any chance of you returning my feelings because I chose practicality over romance in the moment that mattered most.”

  Phoebe couldn’t move, could barely breathe as the hope she’d thought unraveled now knitted itself back together with miraculous speed.

  All at once, Barnabas dropped down on one knee. “Phoebe, I’ll never be a romantic hero who sweeps you off your feet with grand gestures.”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. “This gesture is pretty grand.”

  He faltered a bit at her interruption, but then a light came into his blue-­gray eyes that brought a smile to her face.

  “Can you forgive me for being a clod who did more to protect appearances than your feelings?”

  His face tilted up to hers, so earnest, so full of longing. A longing her heart recognized, for it matched her own.

  She squeezed his hands. “Of course I forgive you.”

  He bounded back to his feet and drew her over to the bench. Picking up the package, he urged her to sit, then lowered himself beside her. “Here. This is for you.”

  Feeling the shape, she guessed the contents before she had it fully unwrapped. The frame he’d tried to hide from her the day of the room judging. It had been for her?

  She pulled the last of the paper away, and tears immediately filled her eyes. He’d sketched her parents’ initials just as they appeared on the tree, the details vivid and lifelike. Not only that, but he’d woven a laurel of grasses to encircle the drawing beneath the glass. A laurel—­to represent her mother. And he said he wasn’t romantic.

  “It’s beautiful.” Her fingers traced the letters through the glass before she turned to the thoughtful man at her side. “I love it.”

  “I was thinking I might have to redo it,” he said.

  “Absolutely not!” She clutched the frame to her chest and scowled at him. “It’s perfect just the way it is.”

  “Well, I was thinking I might need to add a
nother set of initials. BA and PW. To the sketch . . .” He paused and pulled a knife from his pocket, a knife she recognized. “And to the tree.”

  “Barnabas?” Her heart beat so hard and fast, his name barely made it past her lips.

  His hand cupped her face, the sweetness of his touch turning her insides to mush.

  “Will you marry me, Phoebe? And spend the rest of your days teaching me how to be the romantic man of your dreams?”

  Setting the frame aside, she covered his hand with hers and peered into his face. “Oh, Barnabas. You’re already the man of my dreams.”

  A clink of metal on stone told her he’d dropped the pocketknife a heartbeat before his left hand caressed her other cheek. He drew her face toward him and met her halfway with a passionate eagerness that dissolved the last of her doubts.

  His kiss was tender yet urgent. Full of passion. Adoration. Never had she dreamed that a simple kiss could make her feel so cherished, so wanted. So . . . not peculiar. She clung to his shoulders, letting him anchor her in a swirl of sensations that left her deliciously dizzy.

  If her parents’ love story had taught her one thing, it was never to take a single moment for granted. As her future husband’s kiss gentled and he tucked her face into the hollow of his shoulder, where she could hear the beating of his heart, she vowed to love him to the best of her ability every single day.

  After a blessedly long moment, Barnabas straightened and touched his lips to her forehead. Then he smiled and reached for the pocketknife that had bounced off the bench to land in the dirt beneath.

  “I guess I better get carving.”

  Phoebe removed her glasses and used the edge of her skirt to clean away the smudges left behind from their enthusiastic embrace. “While you do that, I’ll make mental notes.”

  He smiled over his shoulder as he walked over to the branch. “For your column?”

  Phoebe shook her head. “No. This Kissing Tree tale will be strictly for our children.”

  Epilogue

  I’m telling you, Oliver. It’s them.”

  Phoebe hid her grin over the not-­quite-­whispered comment made by their most recently arrived guests. Mr. and Mrs. Edmondson stood in front of the parlor fireplace, admiring the room’s showpiece, a large framed photograph of a silhouetted couple embracing beneath the branches of the Kissing Tree.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Matilda. The Ackerlys are far too sensible to pose for such a photograph. They probably hired actors to portray the scene. It’s just another accoutrement designed to heighten the romantic atmosphere. It’s not real.”

  “I assure you, it’s very real,” Barnabas said as he crossed the room and extended a hand to his wife, where she was pretending to read in the corner. “Isn’t that so, dear?”

  “Absolutely.” Phoebe placed her hand in his, her pulse fluttering in anticipation.

  Barnabas helped her to her feet, then with a flourish, pulled her into his arms and pressed her close. Her head fell back just as it had during their photography session, and she gazed up into his adoring face as love bloomed anew in her heart.

  “I’m a stickler for authenticity, you see,” Barnabas said, just as he did every time one of the inn’s guests got mired in too much stodginess. He caressed the side of Phoebe’s face, then stepped out of their embrace, being sure to keep an arm about her waist. He never left her alone after one of their affectionate displays. “Everything you see in the Kissing Tree Inn was designed while my wife and I were falling in love. The courtship was real, and it’s reflected in the very walls around you.”

  At least in the wallpaper, Phoebe thought as she grinned at her husband. She loved it when his inner romantic came out. Almost as much as she loved the practical mind that had made their inn a spectacular success. They’d been open for only two months and were already booked for the next three.

  They’d waited to accept guests until after their wedding, a small outdoor affair beneath the arms of the tree that inspired so much love in the Oak Springs community. Barnabas claimed the delay was a sound business decision, explaining how the inn would fare better with a newly wedded couple as innkeepers instead of a single woman in the midst of a courtship. They couldn’t have the innkeeper so distracted by her own love story that she neglected the stories around her. In private, however, Barnabas admitted that he’d really just wanted an excuse to move up the wedding date. And having Phoebe all to himself for those six weeks had been well worth the money they’d lost in postponing the grand opening of the Kissing Tree Inn.

  “Bravo!” The couple in the game corner set down their cards and applauded. “Good show, Ackerly,” Mr. Winchester said. “You remind me of myself when Beatrice and I were first married.” He winked at his wife, the two of them in their early forties. “The question is, if we come back in twenty years, will you still be singing the same tune?”

  Barnabas turned to look at Phoebe, his blue-­gray eyes softening with promise. “After twenty years of practice, sir, I imagine our song will be even sweeter.”

  Contents

  Return to Main Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Epilogue

  To all whose homes are havens of

  hope, life, and refuge.

  God places the lonely in families;

  he sets the prisoners free and gives them joy.

  Psalm 68:6

  Prologue

  DECEMBER 24, 1944

  BATTLE OF THE BULGE

  Dear Hannah.” Luke’s hands shook as he spoke the words and tried to form the letters on a torn paper sack. His breath puffed into the dark night, then dissipated into stars above, the sound of shells and shots ringing in the distance.

  “Concentrate.” The word escaped raggedly. If that was what he sounded like, he must look worse than the piles of rubble peppering this landscape. Having your plane shot down in battle and falling from the sky into waves of snowy drifts would do that to a guy, he guessed.

  He glanced around, confirming yet again that he was alone. Had been alone in the plane, as its lone pilot. So much was a blur—­but yes, that part was clear.

  Lights danced into his wobbly consciousness. A tiny Belgian village on Christmas Eve. Home fires burning, soft carols filling homes and chapels, and here he sat, half buried in snow with at least one broken leg and a smattering of other splintered maladies inside, leaning up against his impossibly cold plane. Or what was left of it. The remains of an old stone barn sat a stone’s throw away, its bent weathervane sprouting crookedly from the ground, creaking its own Christmas melody into the night. Its off-­key groan, pitiful as it was, seemed to speak hope to him.

  “Concentrate.” Again, through gritted teeth. He gripped the pencil and willed it to move. He may not be able to drag himself to safety. He might well die this night. But he would fight for his life with the weapons he had: pencil, paper, and a pen pal he’d never met, halfway across the world in Texas.

  Where it was warm.

  He fisted the pencil and forced his hand to form shaky letters. If he did not move, he would close his eyes. If he closed his eyes, he would sleep. If he slept, he would die.

  D-­E-­A-­R

  H-­A-­N-­N-­A-­H

  The cold burned colder in the blur in his mind. He dug through the mire of his thoughts to the nearest clear memory. Danny Garland, tossing that ridiculous half grin at him before he’d left for duty six months back. Throwing him his notebook. “Hey,” he’d said. “You write to my sister while I’m out. Keep sending her those drawings—­just till I get back.”

  He had never come back. So Luke Hampstead, whose own last letter received had been of the “Dear John” variety, took up writing to a stranger in Texas . . . and kept it up when h
er brother no longer could, his life claimed by the war.

  And now she would get him through this cold. Please, God . . .

  He had never written her much in the chatty way. Only technical notes explaining his sketches, to keep her brother’s promise. But now . . .

  “H-­h-­h-­how are you?” He breathed the words, small talk freezing into ice and dropping to the ground. It figured. He never was good at small talk. He wrote the words anyway to the tune of shellfire and distant caroling.

  It went on this way for hours, on into the silence. Fighting back the creeping fingers of cold with the warm promise of golden Texas light. When dawn crept over the jagged-­tree horizon of the Ardennes Forest, Luke Hampstead beheld three impossible things . . . and laughed the prayer of a man so grateful his words had long, long run out.

  The first impossible thing: his letter. Which he had labored over with more dedication and concentration than he could ever remember pouring into a single effort in his entire life . . . was a meager few sentences long, looked like a kid had written it, and bore the ramblings of a man convinced of his own demise. This pitiful excuse for a letter was what he’d exhausted his entire being to write?

  The second impossible thing: his breath. Coming in shorter, quicker beats now—­but coming still, its puffs illuminated by a sun he’d thought he’d never see again. He was alive.

  And the third impossible, beautiful thing: a man and woman in humble farmhouse garb, running up the hill toward him with what looked to be a homemade stretcher. Gesturing back at a chimney, smoke curling out, with cinnamon on the air. The woman uttering something in Dutch to the man. “Leven. Leven.” Muttering urgent and low, like a prayer, then leaning in to hear his breath. Declaring, “Leven—­Life! Amen. You are alive!”