by Karey White
Mrs. Houston smiled. “Let’s not leave him in suspense any longer, then.”
The ride out of town felt so much longer than it truly was. Shannon resisted the urge to plead with Mrs. Houston to drive faster. At last, the dugout came into view. But she didn’t see Patrick.
“He has to be here,” she whispered, fighting the urge to cry. She never cried, but too many endless days of heartache had taken a toll.
“I am certain he is here,” Mrs. Houston said. “Go on over and peek inside.”
She climbed down from the buggy, still holding the drawing Patrick had made of the two of them together. Carefully, quietly, she moved toward the house. If he wasn’t inside, her heart would break. Relief flooded through her when she spotted him, his back to the door, hanging something on the opposite wall.
She turned back to Mrs. Houston, still sitting in the buggy, and waved. Mrs. Houston waved back then set the horses in motion once more, heading back toward town. The noise was enough to finally pull Patrick’s attention to the door.
His eyes widened when he saw her there, but his expression turned wary in the next moment. “Good day to you, Shannon.”
“I received your letter.” She held the drawing up in front of her, the final scene facing him. “This was my favorite part.”
He moved to where she stood, uncertainty filling every line of his face. “That’s all I have to offer you. A tiny house half in the ground, fields that will likely not be very fertile. You’ve known so much hardship in your life, and all I can give you is more of that. I don’t want you to feel trapped or—”
She pressed her finger to his lips. “This was my favorite part. Us. Together. Tis all I’ve wanted from the first time I met you. Not fancy houses or wealth or fine things. Just you, Patrick O’Malley. Just you.”
He clasped his hands over hers and kissed her fingertips. “I’ve been a bit of an idiot.”
“A bit of an idiot?”
His beloved smile returned. “An enormous idiot.”
“Then it is a very good thing for you I adore enormous idiots. They’re m’ favorite kind.”
He took her face in his hands and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I had intended to ask you to the social this weekend, but I suspect we’re going to miss it, love.”
“Are we, now?”
“We are, indeed.” His arms wrapped around her waist.
Shannon slid her arms around his neck, leaning in to his embrace. “And why exactly are we going to miss it?”
“The way I figure it, I’d best marry you before you change your mind about loveable idiots.” He kissed her temple then the very corner of her mouth.
“I think you’d better,” she whispered. “But first, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything, my love. Anything at all.”
“Kiss me like you mean it.”
He did without hesitation. His kiss was fervent and deep, six months of longing and loneliness finally coming to an end. Shannon held him as tightly as her arms would allow, refusing to let him go. Too long she’d been without him. His final love letter had brought them to that moment, not to the end, of a journey, but the beginning of a brand new one, together.
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SARAH M. EDEN is the author of multiple historical romances, including Longing for Home and Whitney Award finalists Seeking Persephone and Courting Miss Lancaster. Combining her obsession with history and affinity for tender love stories, Sarah loves crafting witty characters and heartfelt romances. She has twice served as the Master of Ceremonies for the LDStorymakers Writers Conference and acted as the Writer in Residence at the Northwest Writers Retreat. Sarah is represented by Pam van Hylckama Vlieg at Foreword Literary Agency. Visit Sarah’s website here: http://www.sarahmeden.com/
Chapter One
1926—Provo, Utah
When Jane Martin arrived at the meeting of the Aid and Cultural Society, everything appeared to be perfectly normal. No one could possibly have thought differently. As usual, the members were sitting, and, in some cases, standing, in a circle, but everyone knew who was really in charge: Emma Tanner. She stood at the front of the classroom in the schoolhouse, their typical meeting spot, while everyone listened to her going over the agenda. Jane sat at a desk and listened quietly with her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap.
They’d already discussed the success of the results of the canvassing project, during which they’d collected money to send to an orphanage in Africa. They’d covered the plans for an upcoming benefit concert to raise money for repainting the town hall. Now Emma was listing off who would perform what at the benefit.
Finally the society was doing something cultural. Jane was entirely supportive of charity activities, but combining service with culture, as the benefit would do, would be particularly gratifying. As usual, Jane said little or nothing, instead observing those around her and daydreaming about what she might perform at the benefit in four months.
And yes, at times, her mind strayed to envying Emma, whose golden hair was always the most elegant hair in the room. Jane had always yearned for such hair; in primary school, Emma always had the thickest, shiniest braids. Rumors had circulated that Emma’s mother used olive oil on her daughter’s hair to create the effect. Jane’s practical mother never allowed such nonsense related to one’s appearance. Such concerns weren’t proper or Christian, she’d always said.
Now that they were grown, of course they no longer wore two long braids, but Emma looked even prettier with her hair crimped into waves and swept back into a simple chignon. Those waves! Jane’s drab, limp hair would never hold a wave much longer than it took to make it. Her destiny most surely did not consist of ever having a beautiful or elaborate hairstyle. No, hers lay flat, in spite of efforts to use decorative combs to hold her hair in place, and in spite of efforts to tease sections so they’d stand off her scalp, and in spite of many other efforts, her hair looked as if it belonged atop the head of a stern old school mistress of fifty instead of a nineteen-year-old eligible young woman.
“Let’s see,” Emma said, consulting her notes with a paper in one hand and a pencil in the other, which moved along her list. “Evangeline, do you still plan to do a poetry reading?”
“Most certainly,” Evangeline said, her face lighting up. She’d always been pretty too, but unlike Emma, Evangeline had been so kind to Jane that there were days she’d forgotten how plain and simple she looked in comparison with her classmates, or how the boys admired the other girls, but never her. Evangeline looked about the circle of two dozen or so members of the society. “I’m thinking of performing one of Keats’ works. He wrote such beautiful poetry.”
Keats was a wonderful choice, no question. Ever pragmatic, Emma, who had not a single romantic bone in her body, nodded and jotted a note. “As soon as you decide which piece, let me know. Of course, I’d like to have a program that’s balanced with topics and lengths and such. The sooner I know who is doing what, the better I can make the program sing.” She smiled at Evangeline, although the look in her eye seemed a bit patronizing. Jane shifted in her seat, hoping she wouldn’t get the same look.
“Oh, yes,” Evangeline said. “I’ll choose my selection tonight and tell you what it is first thing tomorrow.” She nodded, then wiped away a wisp of hair which had escaped the loose bun of her chestnut hair.
Thomas Allred raised his hand, and Emma called on him as if she were his school teacher rather than his peer. “Could I do one of Shakespeare’s sonnets?”
Emma’s mouth closed tightly in thought before she said, “A sonnet is awfully short, and Shakespeare’s works are overdone.”
“True,” he said. “But if all of us perform long works, the benefit will last all night. A happy and alert audience is more likely to applaud and donate more.” He seemed to completely ignore her other argument about Shakespeare being overdone. “Besides, better a short but excellent performance from me than something dull and li
feless by someone else.” He grinned, as if he knew full well that he was being silly. But the descriptors repeated in Jane’s head.
Dull and lifeless— like my face. And my hair. She reached up and smoothed it, hating how drab it— and she— was. Yet her eyes strayed to Thomas, the only boy in town who’d never teased her. He’d even stood up for her against a couple of boys throwing snowballs her way one winter several years back. She’d always been grateful, and a corner in her heart had always belonged to him and the strawberry-blond cowlick over his forehead.
What did Thomas Allred look for in a girl? She forced her eyes away from him so no one would suspect she felt anything for her former classmate, but the question still rang in her mind. What did he think of her? Of the other girls? She’d seen him escort girls home from dances, but he’d never seemed to have his eye set on one girl in particular. The fact that he wasn’t set on one girl might have comforted another young woman in her shoes, but not Jane. He wouldn’t ever look her way. No man ever would.
Jane had figured that much out six years ago, when it became common for the school children to pass notes behind Miss Sterling’s back, bearing messages about which boys had eyes for which girls and vice versa. The idea of having her name on such a note, and thereby drawing the attention of the entire class to herself, would have been embarrassing, whether or not the rumor was true.
Far more humiliating, however, was the absolute knowledge that she was in no danger of ever seeing her name on one. No one would ever have thought to write her name on one, not even in jest. And they never had. She might as well have not existed, for all the attention paid to her. As she looked about the room at her former classmates, memories of the past flooded back of feeling ugly and unimportant— unless the class had a game involving math or Latin, in which case they all wanted her on their teams because she was smart in those subjects. Jane mentally shook herself away from thoughts of the past. Dwelling on such things never resulted in anything but a sour stomach and a headache.
Instead, she decided to lose herself in imagination, for in the mind, all things were possible; even Jane Martin could be beautiful in fantasy. She could be noticed for something other than brains and a strong work ethic. So she sat there and built a castle in the sky, complete with her very own prince, who, after declaring his undying love, tilted her head back and leaned forward to kiss her. Their lips had almost met when the jab of an elbow in her side brought her back to earth.
With a start, she looked about the room, only to see chuckles rippling around the circle. At Jane’s side, Martha Prater laughed openly. It had to have been her elbow Jane had felt the tip of digging into her ribs. She smoothed her skirts and tried to ignore the heat building in her face, which undoubtedly translated into hot pink spots on her cheeks.
Do not give them the satisfaction of seeing you embarrassed.
She cleared her throat and turned to Emma. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Emma tilted her head and chuckled, but then with impatience and a fist at her hip, said, “Will you or won’t you play the piano for the benefit?”
A chorus of “Oh, do,” and “You play so well,” and “Really” followed from several girls.
Honest or not, the flattery did its work. Jane nodded agreement. “I will. I’ve been practicing a piece by Rachmaninoff, Prelude in G Minor—”
“Perfect,” Emma said with a nod. She scribbled a final note then hugged her writing tablet to her chest as she looked around the circle. Jane swallowed, unable to speak up to tell Emma that she hadn’t gotten the full title out. Emma went on. “I have one last item on the agenda— something I think you will all enjoy.”
Perhaps it would be something else cultural. Emma finally had Jane’s attention, at least for the moment, as well as the attention of everyone else in the room.
Emma looked from side to side several times in an aggravating manner of anticipation. “As many of you know, I have an aunt who lives in Canada. She wrote recently asking if our association would be interested in writing letters to members of a similar group she heads in Toronto.”
“As... letter... friends?” Andrew Barton asked, as if searching for the right term.
Emma nodded, and Violet clasped her hands. “That sounds delightful,” she said. “I’ve always wanted a letter friend. I’ve heard that famous novelists often have letter friends, ones they’ve never met their whole lives, but they’re dear friends all the same.” Violet got a far-off look of wonder in her eyes, which Jane studied. Did Jane herself look like that when drifting into daydreams of castles and princes? No time to think of that now.
Emma hurried on. “She sent me a list of names and addresses, which I have here. I’ve already spoken with Mrs. Allred about it, and she’s quite pleased with the idea.”
Everyone looked at Thomas, whose parents ran the town’s post office. He raised his hands in protest. “This is the first I’ve heard of it,” he declared. “But I’m sure they’ll put me to work on it one way or another.”
“Splendid.” Emma smiled and smoothed her hair, which hadn’t a single hair out of place. She tore two pages from her notebook and set them and a pencil on the table behind her. “For those interested, be sure to clearly print your name and address. You’ll be assigned someone to write to soon. I would recommend mailing a letter at least once a week, especially at first, so you can get to know your new Canadian friend. Eventually, we could help with charitable and cultural events, and maybe someday meet them face to face.”
“That would be delightful,” Evangeline said, but then her brow furrowed. “We won’t be writing to any French Canadians, will we?”
A ripple of laugher went around the circle, making Evangeline frown, but they all understood her question. Evangeline’s marks in French had never been good.
“No French-speaking letter writers,” Emma assured her. “We will all be writing in English, although don’t be surprised to see slight differences in spelling and punctuation written by our Canadian friends. And that ends tonight’s meeting. Let’s sing our song, and then you can all sign up.”
The group stood and sang their anthem, officially ending the meeting, after which most members moved as one toward the desk. They lined up and chatted as they waited their turn to add their names to the list. Jane hung back even after half of the group had signed up, pondering the concept of writing to some unknown Canadian.
The idea had a certain appeal: she might be able to confide in a total stranger about the inner workings of her heart and mind, after a time. Not if the recipient laughed at her romantic notions and “silly” daydreams. She stood and got in line near the back, deciding to give letter writing a try.
“Are you signing up?” Thomas asked from in front of her. She startled; she hadn’t realized he was there. Plus, she hadn’t stood this close to him in years, so she hadn’t realized how tall he’d grown, nor how nicely his shoulders had broadened from all the farm work he did. And to think he’d once been part of a group of five unruly, undisciplined boys who brought frogs to school. He’d never put one in her lunch pail, however.
As with so many other things, that was one more occurrence to be both relieved and saddened by— the mean boys’ biggest, hardest snowballs were always aimed at the girls they had liked best. She never got hit, except when a snowball missed its mark of Susanna Billingsly and brushed the sleeve of Jane’s coat. That hardly counted. For a moment, Jane almost wished Thomas had thrown a snowball at her during their school years.
“So... are you signing up?” Thomas pressed.
Again Jane’s mind had drifted off. She found herself nodding three times quickly before she found her voice. “Yes. Yes, of course. A letter friend would be a delight to have, don’t you think?”
One of his shoulders came up and then dropped. “I suppose. I’m not much in the way of a letter writer, although it seems to be an important art. If necessary, I shall learn.” He added his information to the paper and handed the pencil to Jane, shooting her a b
rief smile as he put on his hat and left, whistling.
I wouldn’t mind being hit by a snowball if it meant Thomas had a hankering for me. The thought flitted across Jane’s mind before she realized it, and again she felt her cheeks flush as she stepped forward to take her turn signing up.
Chapter Two
Two days after the Aid and Cultural Society meeting, Thomas sat at the post office desk behind the front counter, sorting incoming mail. The door clunked open, and light, high-pitched footsteps sounded, indicating a woman in heeled boots, like his sister Dorothy wore. He looked up to see Emma Tanner before him, twisting a handkerchief in her hands.
“Emma,” he said, standing. “Is there something I can help you with?” She wore the same horrified and embarrassed expression as the time, ten years ago, when Toby Gillis put a toad in her lunch pail.
“I hope you can help. Oh, I don’t know.” With a harrumph, she dropped onto the bench by the door and sighed.
“What’s the matter?” Thomas asked, setting the stack of letters aside. He rounded the counter to help as a gentleman should, if he could.
Emma shrugged. “It should be nothing, but I do feel so dreadfully foolish.” She looked at the handkerchief in her fingers, which was wrinkled from all the wringing. “Aunt Bertha promised that her group had more than enough people to write to ours, and that some of our members might be even asked to have two letter friends.”
When she didn’t go on right away, Thomas raised his eyebrows and tried to coax her on with the word he could feel hanging in the air. “But?” he prompted.
She let out a groan. “But they don’t have enough people to write us back. Almost, but not quite. I thought we would have more interested members from the Canadian group.” She groaned and covered her face with her hands. “What kind of president am I when I rush into decisions without confirming details first?”
