More Than Words: Stories of Courage

by Anthology

  Daniel put his arms around her and hugged her gently.

  “The honor will be ours,” he said.

  “I want to have it at Just Like Home,” Frankie told Charlotte. “That’s where my very best friends are, you know. Daniel and I have talked about it.” She looked at him. “Once we get to the States, if he still thinks he can’t live without me, we’ll have the wedding there and then the reception here when we return.”

  Charlotte’s smile slipped.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course you’ll be coming back here.” She forced a smile. “And that’s as it should be.”

  Daniel glanced at Frankie and she nodded. Now it was time to break the rest of their news.

  Daniel sat down on the sofa beside Charlotte and took her by the hand.

  “I haven’t known you nearly as long as Frankie has, but I’ve known you long enough to realize that it would be a great loss to leave you behind. So, when we marry…”

  Frankie interrupted. “No…if we marry. I’m serious when I say you have to ask me again in a few weeks. Your feelings may change, and if they do, I will understand.”

  Charlotte just shook her head. How different young people were today. Still, she’d made a mess of her own life. It seemed that Frankie and Daniel were trying to do the right thing.

  Daniel frowned at Frankie and put a finger against her lips to silence her, then turned to Charlotte again.

  “As I was saying…before my dear Francesca interrupted to tell me what my true feelings are… We want to ask you to come back to Positano with us. My mother and grandmother have been gone for years, as have Frankie’s. You are all she has. Will you come and live here in my home and share her with me?”

  Charlotte’s mouth dropped open and she unconsciously fingered the locket around her neck. There was a hope in her eyes that nearly broke Frankie’s heart.

  “Oh…you two won’t want an old woman interfering with your new life.”

  Daniel shook his head.

  “On the contrary, dear lady. You forget, this is Italy. We love to have our nonnas around. My house is huge. You will bring love to this place. Besides, if you don’t come, who’s going to teach our little girls how to knit?”

  Charlotte beamed as she looked from Daniel to Frankie and back again.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” they both said at once.

  A quiet joy came over her face as she leaned back in her chair. Her gaze moved to the window, and she realized how close she would be to Danny for the rest of her days.

  “I accept,” she said softly.

  Daniel grinned. “I will be the envy of every man in Positano. I will have not one, but two beautiful women in my life.”

  “Then if you don’t change your mind later, it’s a deal,” Frankie said.

  Daniel looked at her and laughed.

  “Yes, my love. It is, as you say…a deal.”

  When the three of them arrived back in the States, they were met at the airport by a contingent from Second Wind Dreams. It seemed that after receiving Frankie’s call about a possible wedding at Just Like Home, Mavis Tulia had phoned the director of Second Wind Dreams. The sadness in Charlotte Grace’s life had been transformed into joy. The story generated so much news across the country that the charity was the recipient of unusually large and much-needed cash donations to further their good works.

  True to his word, Daniel met his grandfather’s family, and in doing so, felt as if a part of him had come home. He knew that was how the Morrow family felt. They had part of their Danny back, even if it was in an unexpected way.

  And also as he’d vowed, Daniel Sciora had once more proposed to Frankie, but this time with a stern expression on his face. He told her that he was unaccustomed to having his word doubted, and hoped that he wouldn’t have to propose to her every year or so, just to reassure her that he couldn’t live without her.

  Frankie had cried and accepted his offer, and then they married in the small chapel on the grounds of Just Like Home. She walked herself down the aisle, but when it came to the point where the preacher asked who gave this woman to this man, everybody in the congregation shouted out a loud, “We do.”

  That brought tears to Frankie’s eyes and put a big smile on Daniel’s face. He would say later that he’d thought his family was large, but he believed hers was larger.

  Charlotte had become the center of attention, which was, for her, a bit disconcerting. She’d lived so many years in the background of life that she wasn’t sure how to take all this fuss. But she still managed to find time to knit, and on the day she was to fly back to Italy with Frankie and Daniel, she presented Charlie with the finished afghan.

  “It’s a little bit early,” she said. “On your birthday, eat a piece of cake for me.”

  Charlie blushed and kissed her on the cheek, then beamed with delight as he and the other residents of the home waved goodbye to two of their own.

  Charlotte and Frankie walked out of the door, paused on the step and looked at each other. Then they smiled and walked arm in arm to Daniel, who was waiting with their cab.

  Daniel knew it was difficult for them to leave their old friends behind. But he also knew that these two women belonged together, and with his help, he would make sure that they soon had a new family to fuss over them.

  “So, my two beautiful women…are you ready to go home?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  Daniel opened the door of the cab, then stepped aside.

  “Your chariot awaits.”

  Four years later

  Charlotte had been gone a whole year now, and still, from time to time, either Daniel or Frankie would start to ask if she was coming down to dinner, then they would remember and smile through their tears.

  Today would have been her ninety-first birthday. They were going to stop by the cemetery on their way to Positano, and Frankie was trying to get dressed and still keep their baby girl out of mischief at the same time.

  Frankie was doing up the last button on her blouse when she heard a crash behind her. She flinched and turned just as Daniel came running into the room.

  Their eighteen-month-old daughter, Charlotte, had pulled a potted plant down from a stand. The pot had shattered, spilling dirt and broken stems all over the floor.

  “Oh, Charlotte…no, no,” Frankie cried as she leaned down and picked her up.

  The baby howled.

  “Is she hurt?” Daniel asked, running practiced hands over her black curly hair, feeling for bumps.

  “No. Just scared, I think.” Frankie frowned. “I’ll have to clean this up before we go.”

  “The housekeeper is here,” Daniel said. “I’ll tell her while you dry little Miss Nosey’s tears.” He placed several tiny kisses along Charlotte’s arm, all the way to her cheek, and the baby giggled.

  With a wink at Frankie, Daniel hurried out of the room.

  Charlotte automatically grabbed at the yellow ribbon at her mother’s throat.

  “You can’t have that, either,” Frankie said, gently taking the locket out of Charlotte’s hands before it could go in her mouth. “But you will someday, when you’re older. I promised. Now, let’s go find the flowers we’re going to put on Grandmother’s grave.”

  Charlotte Grace had lived long enough to see her namesake born, and had rocked her to sleep many times. Then one night she had gone to bed and simply hadn’t woken up.

  When they arrived at the cemetery a short time later, Frankie took the flowers from the trunk of the car while Daniel got his daughter out of the backseat.

  “Come with Papa, little girl. We will visit your great-grandfather and Grandmother Charlotte while Mama brings the flowers.”

  It sounded like a fine idea to Charlotte, except for the flowers. She pointed to the bouquet that Frankie was carrying and let out a screech.

  “Me do,” she said.

  Daniel grinned as Frankie chose two of the more sturdy flowers from the bunch and handed them to her baby.
/>   “Here you go,” she said gently. “One for Great-grandfather, and one for Grandmother Charlotte.”

  Clutching the stems tightly, the little girl squirmed to get down. She held her father’s hand as they made their way to the graves.

  When they got to Daniel Morrow’s grave, Charlotte put one of the flowers down on the ground, then patted it goodbye and pointed up the hill.

  “Yes, Grandmother Charlotte is up there, isn’t she?” Daniel said, and took her hand once more.

  Together, the trio started up the hill to the spot where Charlotte Grace was buried. In death, as in life, there was still a distance between Charlotte and the love of her life. But Frankie was comforted by the thought that all their sadness had been left behind.

  When they reached Charlotte’s grave, Frankie stepped forward and replaced the old flowers in the vase with the new ones she’d brought.

  “Look, Charlotte, it’s wisteria, your favorite.”

  The little girl moved closer to her mother. Before either one of them could stop her, she’d placed her flower on the grass and then lay facedown on top of it, arms outstretched.

  Frankie picked her up and began brushing her off.

  Charlotte pointed to her flower.

  “Hug,” she said.

  Frankie smiled. “Yes, you gave Grandmother Charlotte a big hug. She would have loved that.”

  “Here, give her to me,” Daniel said as he kissed Frankie’s cheek. “She’s getting too heavy for you to carry this far.”

  As they were walking away, baby Charlotte turned and looked at where they’d been, then began smiling and waving.

  Frankie felt the skin crawl on the back of her neck, just like the first day she’d seen Daniel.

  “Wait!” she said softly, and stopped.

  Daniel took her arm. “Are you hurt? Did you turn your ankle?”

  She shook her head. Her heart was pounding so fast that she thought she would faint, but she had to look. She had to know.

  Slowly, slowly, she began to turn around.

  They were barely visible, like the shadow of a cloud on the rock-strewn hill. But they were there, just the same.

  A young man and a young woman, standing hand-in-hand on the horizon. When Frankie blinked, they were gone.

  Daniel frowned.

  “What is it? Are you okay? Did you forget something?”

  Frankie shook her head, furiously fighting back tears.

  “No, darling. Everything is okay. In fact, it’s more than okay. It’s perfect.”

  Daniel smiled.

  Dear Reader,

  A few years ago I was fortunate enough to participate in the Harlequin More Than Words program. In writing my story, The Yellow Ribbon, I learned what giving is really about.

  Being able to meet P.K. Beville and watch her accept her award was wonderful. But it was what she does, every day of her life, that I found so special. The entire focus of her charity is about giving senior citizens one last chance at realizing a dream—a chance to do something one more time that they used to enjoy—or a chance to see a dream come true that they believed had passed them by.

  One of the wishes P.K. granted so touched my heart that I know I will never look at a woman in a wheelchair again without remembering this story.

  Once, many years ago, a very young and very beautiful woman aspired to be a fashion model. With her heart in her throat and her dreams held close, she traveled all the way to New York City, only to be told she wasn’t tall enough. She went back home with her hopes dashed and her plan of becoming a fashion model nothing more than a fading memory. Years passed and with time came many crises, until the beautiful young woman had become an old woman, living out what was left of her life in a wheelchair.

  Through what can only be construed as a maze of miracles, P.K. Beville made the elderly woman’s dreams come true. She brought her back to New York City during the most amazing of times—Fashion Week in NY. Through P.K.’s continuing selflessness, she contacted a famous designer who was also taken with the story and who created a one-of-a-kind dress for the old woman to wear. Then came the fashion show, and this time the elderly woman did make it on stage, in her beautiful gown, only she wasn’t walking down the runway. She was wheeling down in her wheelchair as huge close-ups of her face—that beautiful face of the young woman she’d once been—were being flashed on the wide-screen behind her. She was the sensation of the show and went home with a beautiful dress and memories of a standing ovation.

  P.K. Beville still makes dreams for the elderly come true—hot air balloon rides, playing the blues once more on Bourbon Street or earning an honorary degree—and in doing so she reminds us what giving is really about.

  I hope you enjoy The Yellow Ribbon, and as you read, remember the elderly in your family. The elderly couple you know who spends holidays alone. The old woman who sits alone in the church pew in front of you. The nursing home down the street where dozens and dozens of people who were once our brightest and finest are waiting out the last of their days without joy.

  Lift a glass to P.K. Beville and Second Wind Dreams, and if you can’t make a dream come true on your own, give to someone who can.

  With love to all my readers,

  JUNE NIELSEN

  QUILTS FROM CARING HANDS

  June Nielsen wanted to reach out to children in crisis and wrap them in love, take away their pain and let them know there was someone who cared. That dream turned into a very tangible gift for her community—quilts. Now, as founder of Quilts from Caring Hands, June is wrapping an entire community in her love and compassion. Since its inception in 1990, Quilts from Caring Hands has made and donated over 5000 quilts to more than a dozen social service agencies serving children in crisis in Oregon’s Willamette Valley area.

  Quilts from Caring Hands all began when June’s two children were away in high school. June was part of a small quilting circle at the time. She had always sewn—from projects as a Girl Scout to making her own clothes in school, and came to quilting in 1970 when she and her husband were living in Wyoming. Pregnant with her son, June decided to try making a quilt, learning the craft through trial and error.

  In 1989 June read an article about children born with AIDS and was deeply touched. “I couldn’t cure AIDS or be a foster mother to a lot of kids,” she realized. “I could, however, share a bit of TLC with them. Give them a quilt and let them know people care about them.” Through local community groups and social services, June found there were many children-at-risk who could be helped—pediatric AIDS patients, the homeless, those in foster care, abused or emotionally ill children, infants of teenage moms and the visually impaired.

  One of the women in her quilting circle was setting up a quilting shop and offered June space at the back of the store to work on the project. Four women with no money, no fabric—just an idea, and agencies who wanted quilts. “We began with the philosophy that we would make as many quilts as we could with the supplies and willing hands that came our way,” June recalls. The fabrics were donated bit by bit, a few yards here, some batting there. They were literally making quilts out of whatever they could find.

  Women coming into the quilting store heard all the noise and chatter in the back and, drawn by curiosity, came into the fold. By the end of the first year, the group had grown to fifteen women, and one hundred quilts had been made. Today the group numbers forty-five women, and they’ve expanded into a larger space in a local church. In the past few years, Quilts from Caring Hands has made and donated an average of three hundred quilts a year.

  The women in the group range in age from forty to ninety. June describes the women as “energetic, interesting and vital.” Some women who’ve joined have never sewn a thing, but June sincerely believes everyone has something to offer the group, and she encourages them to go as far as they wish in helping. June has been described as a master at encouraging others to stretch out and try something a bit more challenging than they thought they could.

  The quilting
circle itself is a very important part of Quilts from Caring Hands. Lots of sharing goes on in that circle—sharing of information about the community and about the craft of quilting…and a deeper level of sharing happens, too. Eyes focused on the work means less eye contact, and that makes it easier for the women to open up and confide in the group. That deep bond of friendship and support reaches out well beyond the regular Wednesday meetings.

  The love, time and skill that go into making the quilts translate into love and caring for the recipients. June hears all the time from people in social service groups about how much the quilts mean. Many of these children have nothing at all—and they’ve never had something brand-new of their very own, something made just for them that will always be theirs. The children of women in crisis seem to find strength in being wrapped in a quilt, and find the courage to talk about what has happened to them. One victim of domestic violence received a purple quilt for her daughter. Purple was her daughter’s favorite color—and the mother knew, in that moment, that everything would work out.

  June gets so many words of gratitude from social agency workers, telling her that there’s something indescribably comforting in quilts. It makes the stay in these social service facilities more comfortable for children. The quilts are for the children to keep, and become a symbol of their strength, of all they’ve survived. One frontline worker expressed to June how a child, wrapped in her very own quilt, is wrapped, too, in a work of art that means hope and peace. It’s beauty where there has only been pain and loneliness.

  June says she’s motivated to continue her work by the idea that you never know what one event will turn a child around. Maybe it will be the fact that one person who didn’t even know the child cared. And she’s inspired by the women who bring their time and passion to Quilts from Caring Hands. “I’m just in awe of the women in the group,” June says. “How they’ve immediately caught the spirit of what this is all about.” She is overwhelmed at the way the group has grown, how doors have opened and little things have led to where they are today.

  And as for her own work with Quilts from Caring Hands, June says, “My life is pretty ordinary. Being so blessed, I feel the need to give back. Volunteering gives me the opportunity to give back to the community…a way to say thanks.”