She looked forward to her future with Michael and all the Talbots, and was eternally grateful for where God was leading her—where He was leading them all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Nicole
I stood in the kitchen looking at Maddee’s whiteboard, barely believing that August 5 was finally here. No summer had ever passed so quickly for me as this one! It felt like about a week ago when I was sitting here listening to Maddee’s rules and schedule—and laid out some rules of my own. By next summer she’d probably be married, which meant we’d likely never be roomies again, at least not for such an extended period of time.
My heart grew heavy at the thought, but I pushed it from my mind and headed for the living room area to pull the last of my things together and do some final cleaning. I’d be leaving in about an hour or so to head back to school for the fall semester.
At the moment, Maddee was next door with Miss Vida, who’d asked for her help in rounding up some goodies from her garden to send with me today. Thus, alone for now, I pumped up the music and wrestled with one bag and then the next, finally admitting that my new trophy wasn’t going to fit in either. Instead, I rolled it in a blanket for protection and then slid that into a pillowcase. Perfect.
I’d received the trophy yesterday at the summer employees’ farewell banquet, which was really just a pizza party with some awards given out at the end. The funny thing was, most everyone else would still be working there for at least another week or two. But Nate had given the party early so I could be included, and I understood why when I heard him call my name.
Up to that point, the awards had mostly been silly and just for fun, such as “Best Pooper Scooper” and “Most Likely to Sneak Sugar Cubes to the Horses.” But then at the end, they gave out a couple of serious ones too, such as “Most Improved Rider” and “Best Groomer.” Mine came last, the “Summer MVP” award. As everyone whooped and hollered, and I headed up front to claim my prize, Nate read from his little note card. “Not just for your consistent dedication and hard work, but also for saving the life of a horse through keen observation and quick action.” I knew he was talking about Hutch, and though it seemed like a bit of a stretch to say I’d saved the animal’s life, it still felt good to be honored.
As I accepted my trophy and envelope, I looked into Nate’s eyes, needing to see here at the end, for just a moment, that he felt what we had even if he couldn’t admit it to himself or to me. Once again, though, the only thing there was a wall. No matter how close we’d grown, or how wonderfully we got along, or how perfect we were for each other, this man was never going to admit to himself that I was worth the risk of loving. He would hold out for someone better, someone who’d never struggled with addiction, someone who wouldn’t get his hopes up only to dash them on the rocks. Knowing his history, I couldn’t really blame him.
When the party was over, I hadn’t the heart for the kind of goodbye I knew he would give me, a simple handshake or maybe a quick side hug between friends, so I just caught his eye across the room, mouthed the words “Thank you,” and gave him a wave. He waved in return, and for a moment he looked genuinely sad that I was leaving. But then someone interrupted on his end, so with that I slipped out the door and headed for my car.
The award had come with a fifty-dollar gift card, and I went straight from there to the store, where I spent it on a basket, tissue paper, and various engagement supplies, including a couple of thick, gorgeous bridal magazines, some nice thank-you stationery, a guide to wedding etiquette, and a little cake topper bride and groom just for fun. I put it all together and kept it hidden until this morning. When my sister headed over to Miss Vida’s, I was able to slip upstairs and leave it on her bed along with a note thanking her for all she’d done for me this summer.
I’d never forgotten the little gift basket she made for me when I moved in after my accident. It hadn’t been anything fancy. Just some candy bars and a couple of things like playing cards to help me pass the time. But it had touched me deeply in ways I hadn’t even understood then, and my hope was that Maddee would see my love for her in this basket, as I had seen her love for me in that one.
Back downstairs, I finished the last of the packing and then turned my attention to cleaning. While I worked, my mind went to the investigation and Harold Underwood and all that had happened since the day at Nana’s a little more than a month ago when Ortiz arrested him for the murder of Taavi Koenig.
According to Ortiz, after speaking with his lawyer, Harold ended up making a full confession about the murder, though he insisted on calling it “an accidental crime of passion.” He explained how, on the day he went to Talbot headquarters to purchase the machine, Granddad mentioned the visit he’d just had from Taavi Koenig, including the fact that he’d brought a map with him showing the layout of the old plantation and the approximate location of the overseer’s dead body. Wanting that map, Harold had gone to Taavi later and convinced him that Granddad was lying, and that the only reason he’d put him off for a week was because he wanted time to find the manuscript himself. Harold convinced Taavi that the two of them should go to the cabin first thing Saturday morning, while Granddad was busy with his reunion guests, and find that manuscript together instead.
What Taavi didn’t know was that Harold had been out at the cabin several times recently, helping to facilitate the activities of his brother’s crime syndicate. From the time Harold made first contact about purchasing the machine until that purchase was complete, the syndicate had been bugging the Talbots’ home, with the cabin as their listening station, to make sure Granddad wasn’t secretly cooperating with the feds. They were supposed to have closed up shop once the deal was done on Wednesday, which was why Harold was startled when he and Taavi got to the cabin Saturday morning to find three of the guys still out there. Unbeknownst to him, they’d been told to extend their watch for another week.
Taavi had seemed confused by the encounter, especially because Harold was clearly trying to prevent him from interacting with those men or seeing what they were doing inside the cabin. But he got a glimpse of their equipment and mistakenly assumed they were using high-tech means to search for the treasured manuscript. Furious, he pushed his way inside, where a scuffle ensued. Taavi kept yelling at the men about how they were stealing his hidden treasure, but that was the last thing Harold wanted these goons to hear, lest they insist on a piece of that action themselves. Before he knew it, Harold said, he had grabbed a big hunting knife from the sideboard and fatally stabbed Taavi in the chest.
Harold had been stunned, not to mention covered in blood, but lucky for him, the syndicate guys knew what to do from there. While two of them removed all the equipment and lugged it out to their vehicle, the third guy took Harold down the path that led to the river and cleaned him up as best he could. All four men got back to the cabin at about the same time, but just before they rounded the bend, they heard voices and stopped.
Peeking ahead, they saw a group of little girls inside the cabin at that very moment. The men hid and watched from the bushes, trying to decide what to do. None of them wanted to kill the kids, though that was an option. Instead, they waited till the girls took off, and then they moved into high gear, two of them wrapping the body in a tarp and carting it away while the other two cleaned up the blood as best they could. In a last-second burst of inspiration, finally snapping out of his stupor, Harold had been the one to set things up in such a way that it would cast suspicion on the children’s story. They all left just in time, unseen, and later dumped Taavi’s body into the Atlantic a few miles off the coast of Norfolk.
Of course, in time Harold would return to the cabin and continue his search, still pursuing Taavi’s theory that Mr. Porter had hidden the manuscript somewhere in the vicinity of the old slave quarters. But despite coming back again and again, and looking as hard as he could, he’d never been able to find it.
Harold easily confessed all of this to Ortiz, though he didn’t mention any other thievery�
��until police raided his home and office and discovered a secret collection, one with dozens of valuable diaspora-related documents, including the original version of Catherine Talbot Gillet’s journal, which he’d kept several years ago, returning to the museum a faked version instead. The police were still in the process of tracing some of the other items back to their rightful owners, but so far it seemed Harold’s basic technique had been as I’d guessed—that he used his reputation and authentication qualifications to keep originals and return fakes. Even his involvement with the pamphlet had been an attempt to steal it, apparently, but because it was being donated to the Smithsonian, he’d had to let that one go. It was too risky given that their own experts would be thoroughly checking it out soon after.
For now, Harold had been arraigned and was currently awaiting sentencing. With him behind bars and all his precious treasures gone, I had to wonder if he was going through withdrawals like a junkie. If so, at least prison would keep him on the straight and narrow. Convicts often managed to smuggle in drugs, but I highly doubted anyone was trading in diaspora-related historical documents.
As it turned out, the manuscript was in better shape than expected, though not by much. As Harold had said, years of vacillating temperatures and moisture and the like had wrought havoc with much of it. But some pages were intact, as well as numerous fragments. For now, it was with a restoration group, and we knew that once they were done, Gabe would be selling it, just as his father had planned to do—though he was hoping to keep one fragment as a remnant of the family heirloom. Museums all over the world had been putting out feelers since the day the story hit the news, so it wouldn’t be hard to find buyers. Apparently, numbers were already being tossed about in the seven-to eight-figure range, not bad for a tattered and partially disintegrated old pile of parchment.
We never expected to share in the profits of our discovery, but to our surprise the Koenig family said that upon the final sale of the manuscript, they intended to give us a $100,000 reward, to be divided among the group of seven who were there the day it was found. We all knew they were simply paying back our family for the money Granddad had once given them now that they knew the true source of their scholarships, so after voicing some mild objections, we accepted their generosity.
And we did have fun deciding what we would each do with our share. I was going to put mine in the bank, earmarked for future horse-related expenses in my new career. Both couples would be using theirs toward down payments on their first homes, but Danielle surprised us all by saying she would like to invest hers in a nice video camera, professional lighting, and other equipment, which she would use to start a side business as a videographer. Her first project was to record Aunt Cissy sharing all the family stories she held in her head. Of course, Danielle would end up with the porcelain box for her efforts, which we all applauded.
In turn, Aunt Cissy was so pleased at the thought that she said she was going to spend her entire share on travel gift cards, which she would then give out to the four cousins. “They’ll be for the sole purpose of visiting each other when you can. That’s my legacy, to see that you girls always remain as close to one another as you are today.”
Now, in the carriage house, as I gathered up the copies of Michael’s love notes to put away with the Civil War photos, one of the pages fell out. I bent over and picked it up, reading the first line on the page, its words written in Michael’s neat, masculine handwriting.
You are my vine and fig tree.
Maddee and Miss Vida came inside at just that moment, so I turned down the music and asked if they had any idea what he’d meant by that.
“I think it’s from the Bible,” Maddee offered, putting down the bags of produce she was carrying and pulling out her phone to google it. Meanwhile, Miss Vida used her phone to call her boyfriend.
“Okay, I was right,” Maddee said, her eyes on the screen. “It comes up in the Old Testament. And, apparently, George Washington quoted the phrase often in his correspondence.”
She read aloud the various interpretations of the verse, including something about peasant farmers living free of military oppression. But before she got to an explanation that made sense as an endearment, Miss Vida finished her call, hung up, and said, “Okay, I’ve got it.”
We both gave her our attention.
“According to Lev, the phrase shows up three times in the Hebrew Scriptures in a slightly different context each time. He said if we’re talking about a love letter from a man to a woman, more than likely it was referring to the version in Micah, which says, ‘They will sit under their own vine and fig tree, and no one will make them afraid.’ Or something like that.”
As she went on to explain further, what she said made perfect sense, not just for Michael and Therese, but for Nate and me too. Listening to her words, I could feel my pulse surging, and I just kept thinking, yes. Yes!
“Thank you, Miss Vida!” When she was done, I threw my arms around the woman and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. Then I grabbed my purse and keys and headed for the door.
“Wait! Where are you going?” Maddee cried.
“To see a man about some figs. I’ll be back.”
When I arrived at Dover Creek Farms, I screeched to a halt in the first parking spot I saw and went in search of Nate. It took a while, but I found him in the far pasture repairing a broken section of the fence, several of the horses grazing contentedly nearby.
I marched quickly over to him and came to a stop about six feet away.
He didn’t see me at first, but then Puzzles gave a loud nicker of hello, and Nate glanced up. When he saw me, he seemed surprised but obviously pleased.
“Nicole? What are you doing here?” he asked, setting down his tools and wiping his hands on his jeans as he rose. “Are you okay?”
I let out a breath and locked my eyes on his. “You are my vine and fig tree, Nate.”
“What?”
“It’s a verse from the Bible. The words were also in a love note one of my ancestors wrote to his wife.”
“Okay…”
“In Micah, the term ‘vine and fig tree’ means a place of rest, of safety, of peace. Understand, these two people had gone through the Civil War. I think what my great-great-great-grandfather was saying was that after all the craziness and pain and destruction and devastation of that, he was going to be okay because she was his place of rest. My great-great-great-grandmother was his vine and fig tree.”
Nate’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was trying to figure out where I was going with this.
“I’ve had craziness too, and pain,” I continued, “and I’ve left behind plenty of destruction and devastation. But that isn’t me anymore. I came out the other side, Nate. I don’t want the craziness. I don’t need it. I just want peace and rest.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I know that’s what scares you about me. You’ve been let down so many times that I’m sure you told yourself you would never, ever get involved with an addict, even one in recovery.”
To my surprise, his eyes grew shiny with tears, though he blinked them away.
“All summer,” I continued, the sight making me tear up as well, “you’ve kept me at arm’s length because you’re so afraid of that part of me. You’re terrified it’s still in there somewhere, just waiting to come back out again. It scares you to death. It’s what keeps you from—”
I stopped, feeling a sob threaten at the back of my throat.
“It’s what keeps me from taking you in my arms?” he asked softly, moving a step closer. “From telling you that I love you?”
“Yes.” My heart pounded. “And I understand. I really do. You can’t know for certain that all that stuff is behind me. No addict can, Nate. You can’t even say that for sure about yourself.”
He nodded. “I know. So how can I take that risk with someone else? Even if that someone is you?”
I looked over at the horses, grasping for the right words to say. Then they
came to me. “Maybe as a wise chaplain once told me, you have to let faith conquer fear.”
Nate blinked, this time sending twin tracks of tears down his handsome, chiseled face.
“Sure, there’s risk, just like with horses,” I said, paraphrasing the sermon he’d given that first time I visited the racetrack. “You could fall off, or get your hand bitten, or whatever. The problem is, Nate, you can’t know a horse’s love without first conquering your fear. And how do you do that?”
We spoke in unison, “Through faith and faith alone.”
Nate wiped impatiently at his cheeks and then groaned, his eyes to the sky. Whether he was wrestling with God or himself, I wasn’t sure, but finally he moved closer toward me across the grass.
“Do you know how tough it’s been to spend every day with you and not say anything about how I really feel?” he demanded, coming to a stop just inches away. “About how I probably fell for you the moment I first saw you? How I did everything I could to keep you at arm’s length because I just knew you were trouble on wheels, but you got under my skin anyway? How you ended up being this amazing person I just wanted to get to know better, to spend time with. To love.”
Heart pounding, I reached up and placed a hand on his cheek. It was warm and rough and felt like home.
“So be my vine and fig tree, Nate,” I whispered. “Be my place of rest. And I’ll be yours.”
He closed his eyes, as if in one last futile attempt to resist. But when he opened them again, I could see that the wall between us had come down.
With a deep sigh, he took me in his arms, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he brought his lips to mine.
We fit together perfectly, beautifully, like nothing I had ever known before. Despite all the guys in my past, every stupid mistake I had ever made, somehow this felt like the first real kiss of my life. When it ended, I laid my head against his chest and we just stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms and rocking side to side in the pasture with the horses looking on. I could have stayed like that for the next fifty years.
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