Where Grace Appears

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  Hannah turned to Aunt Pris, who sat on a wicker chair they’d brought down off the porch. “To Aunt Pris, for braving an adventure with us.” She turned to Grandpop, then Tripp. “To Colton Contractors for their excitement and contribution to this project.” She looked fondly at Josie, her eyes sparkling along with the contents of her glass. “To Josie, the brains and brazenness of the idea.” She raised her glass around the circle. “To each one of you for supporting this endeavor and not thinking it foolish. I am so excited to see what God’s going to do with this place. Cheers!”

  They clinked glasses and sipped their bubbly before Hannah urged everyone to help themselves to the food. Tripp ducked behind Josie and grabbed a paper plate.

  She looked up. “Hey. Glad you guys could make it.”

  “I’d never miss your mom’s chicken salad.”

  “She made some without walnuts and cranberries this time.” Josie grabbed a snack size bag of potato chips and put it alongside her sandwich.

  “Good news. That stuff’s too fancy for me.” He piled a scoop of potato salad on his plate, then followed it up with a separate bowl of salad greens.

  She walked to the wide steps of the porch and sat. He followed, seeing that August and Grandpop sat with Bronson, who gestured to the orchards.

  “Can I sit here?”

  She moved over, though not out of necessity. The steps ran three times longer than a normal set, creating the elegant look that followed throughout the veranda. Curved porch rails and massive columns ensured plenty of shade and room enough for a party. Hannah would probably buy more wicker furniture and tables to ensure enough room for multiple guests to enjoy the area while maintaining some privacy.

  He sat, balancing his large plate in his hands. The wind coming off the harbor carried the scent of the sea. “This place is going to be booming in no time.”

  “We’re grateful for your help.” Her voice sounded stiff, and Tripp hated the wall between them. But Josie had never been good at shallow and pretend. She was good at real, and that had always been right fine by him.

  “Josie, I’m sorry for how I reacted the other day. It was rude and inconsiderate. You don’t owe me anything, and yet, I’ve been going on like you do. Can you forgive me?”

  “You’re wrong about one thing.”

  He studied her profile. Really studied her. How much of her did he actually know, and how much had he made up for himself in his mind? “What’s that?”

  “I do owe you something. Friendship. I haven’t been much of a friend this past year. Not responding to your texts. Kind of pretending you didn’t exist. I’m sorry.”

  He forked a cubed potato covered in mayonnaise, but felt his stomach curdle. He put his plate on the step beside him. “It’s not like I made it easy with what happened last summer. But can you understand? I couldn’t keep my feelings a secret forever.”

  The corner of her mouth curved upward. “We’ve always been truthful with one another.”

  “Despite what you might think, you were never an easy answer for me. You were never my next practical step to achieving manhood. You were—you are, my heart.”

  She let her head fall in her hand. “Tripp—”

  “No, hear me out. I don’t want any awkwardness between us. I just want to tell you how it is.”

  He hadn’t planned to say this at a family picnic. But blast it all, he needed to be out with it, especially with Josie so contemplative this evening. This was a new beginning for her—this baby, this B&B. He couldn’t afford not to lay it all out on the table here and now.

  Despite the inevitable pain of her continued refusal.

  Despite his continued hurt surrounding the rumors and his reputation.

  Despite his fragile and bruised broken heart.

  “I have not stopped loving you, Josie Martin. And I can be whoever you want me to be. Husband, friend, you name it. I can also be whoever you want me to be to this baby. You know what my heart wants—it wants you, and if a part of you is another man’s child, then I’m up for the task. And I swear to you, I will be the best father on the entire east coast if it means waking up beside you every day.”

  Her bottom lip trembled. “Tripp—”

  “No, let me finish. Please. I’ve thought about this. I’ve prayed about it. This is tricky stuff, but love doesn’t run away from the tricky.” He licked his lips, fumbled for words. “The ball’s in your court, for however long you need. If you’d rather me be honorary uncle to this child rather than father, if you’d rather me be your friend—it might kill me, Josie-girl, but if it makes you happy—I will be that.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. “Tripp, you are too good, just like I thought all along.” She stared down at their laps in silence, then gestured to his hand. “What happened?”

  “My temper.”

  “Through a wall?”

  “No, plain old punching bag.”

  “I guess you are human.” She bit into her chicken sandwich.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He sighed. “So, are we okay?”

  “You mean will things be awkward between us?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled. “Let’s make sure they’re not.”

  “Deal.” He’d take what she would offer, even if he did feel ignored by her, even if her continued rejection felt like the pouring of salt on his open and wounded heart.

  “After all, we’re going to work together an awful lot over the next few months. You have your work cut out for you here.” She waved behind them at Aunt Pris’s home.

  “You’re good at changing the subject when you’re uncomfortable, you know that?”

  She straightened. “What do you want me to say, Tripp? That you’re the saintliest, most decent guy in the world and that I can’t win no matter what? If I turn you down yet again, I’m the stupidest girl on the planet. If I let you fix everything, I’m the most indecent, life-sucking person that’s ever lived—someone I really don’t want to be.”

  She tapped her foot on the step. “I was supposed to be the one with all the answers, don’t you understand? Not someone who leeches the life out of her best friend—”

  “Are you serious? You don’t leech life out of anyone, Josie. Just look at the life you’ve breathed into your Mom and Aunt Pris in the couple weeks you’ve been home.”

  “Tripp, if we got married now, wouldn’t you question my motives? You look like the easy answer, after all. Steady, secure, loaded. Do you honestly expect me to hurl myself at you? You deserve so much more.”

  Didn’t he just say he loved her authenticity? Well, here it was. Real Josie, laying it all out on the table. Could he love Josie Martin, marry her even, if she didn’t want his heart? If she married him for a home, security, a father for her child? Was that what he wanted? Would it make him happy?

  No, he wouldn’t be satisfied. But he’d take the risk. Because love—real, unconditional love—didn’t decide itself based on the other person’s response. Love, quite simply, loved. End of story.

  He wondered if Josie put some effort into it, if she could love him. For the millionth time since he heard her news, he wondered about the New York man who stole her heart. He must be sophisticated, probably read all the books Josie read, probably never stooped to reading a comic in his life. He probably hired other people to fix his door when it came loose from its frame. He and Josie probably paraded around the city going to wine tastings and poetry readings, laughing at the same inside literary jokes Tripp never got. They probably made passionate love on the bare rug of the guy’s extensive library.

  Tripp grit his teeth, felt his anger rising again even as he tried to tamp it down.

  He had one thing over this mystery man, at least. This so-called father of Josie’s baby.

  Tripp had staying power.

  In whatever capacity Josie wanted, he would be there. And if he never got to take her in his arms and show her how he cared for her, if it killed him until the end, he would keep on staying, keep on pur
suing, keep on loving. As long as she didn’t choose another man that would change his role, he would be here.

  Because that’s what scandalous, unconditional love did.

  And that’s where the scales fell in Tripp’s favor.

  18

  Three Months Later

  “I thought you were going to flare high again, but you landed it today.” Katrina pushed her watermelon Greek salad aside, half-finished as always.

  Finn lifted his glass of Bourgogne Blanc to his lips and took in the view of the Hudson River from his seat at the Pier i Café. “You, too.”

  They’d locked hands while freefalling this time, the experience and bond they shared that high up pure ecstasy. He knew from experience it would only fuel their time in the bedroom later. And, if he were lucky, the tears wouldn’t come tonight.

  Katrina had noticed them a month ago, said they were signs of a mid-life crisis or testosterone deficiency. Finn had snapped at that. Who did she think she was, anyway? He was the psychologist. She needed to stick to her law degree.

  She hadn’t mentioned the tears anymore after that, but also stayed away from him for the next four days, her message plain—his tears were weak, and if he didn’t get a hold of himself she’d find someone more capable of doing so.

  Her independence had drawn him at first. Even in the beginning, she spoke of not wanting to be tied down. She probably saw other men here and there. He told himself that was okay.

  But it wasn’t.

  Bottom line was, he wanted to be wanted. Wanted to be needed.

  No matter how weak that made him.

  Three hours later, Finn sat at the large in-ground pool of Bill White, head of the psychology department at NYU, chilled beer in hand. Beside him, Katrina sipped her margarita and spoke to Bill’s wife, advising on how to handle a landscaper who, according to Mrs. White, didn’t hold up his end of the contract.

  Nancy Rutherford, who had an office next door to his at the university, walked over and sat down at the edge of the pool to dip her feet. She pushed dark sunglasses onto her head. “Good summer, Finn?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You?”

  “Had a lot of time with the grandchildren, so can’t beat that. And it’s Nancy, Finn. We’re colleagues and I can’t be more than ten years older than you.”

  Don’t remind me.

  Finn’s fortieth birthday fast approached, throwing a dark shadow over his days. During the summer, he’d distracted himself with jumping, lazy trips to Long Island with Katrina, late nights in her arms. But sitting here with his colleagues and starting classes this past week filled him with thoughts of his own mortality, of how fast the seasons came and went, of how fast half his life had already passed.

  “I’m looking to hire on a graduate student for my office.” Nancy swished her feet in the clear water. “Someone dependable with good organizational skills. Good pay with lots of potential for growth. I was thinking of Josie Martin—she was in my psychopharmacology class last year. I tried to look her up, but it appears she’s not enrolled this semester. Any idea what she’s up to?”

  His skin grew hot, then cold, the beer glass slippery in his hand. Maybe he was having a midlife crisis, after all. “W-why do you think I would know?”

  Nancy sipped her fruity drink. “You were acquainted with her father at one time, weren’t you? Just thought I’d ask. She’s been on my mind for this position.”

  “You must have her contact information if she was in your class last year.”

  “I do, but I thought it odd she didn’t come back.” She shrugged. “No matter. I’ll reach out to her myself. Though if her plans have changed, it might not matter.”

  Bill carried a framed photograph over to their group. He stooped over Nancy and pointed at the various faces behind the glass, reciting whose children belonged to whom.

  Finn excused himself and stood, going to the far corner of the outside bar. His right hand began to tremor, and he commanded it to still.

  Josie wasn’t coming back.

  While he’d seen her name absent from his own roster, he assumed that was intentional. But quitting or transferring altogether? NYU had been her dream. It had been Amos’s dream for her. She’d worked too hard for those scholarships and grants. Accepting money from her great-aunt hadn’t been easy, either. This degree, this career, meant too much to her.

  That could only mean one thing—she’d decided to have the baby. Did she plan to give it away? Shouldn’t she have at least informed him of all this?

  He raked a hand through his hair. The echoing laughs of his colleagues behind him grated on his nerves. They spoke of their grandchildren as if they were life’s finest fruits.

  Irrational anger bubbled up from his gut. He needed to get out of here, take a run, get himself rip-roaring drunk. Anything to take the edge off.

  It wasn’t until later that night, after the alcohol had worn off, after he’d woken yet again to tears on his pillow, that the truth settled upon him with a fierceness that rattled.

  He was angry, all right. But most of all, he was angry with himself.

  Clearly, he didn’t have closure when it came to Josie Martin. He’d text her tomorrow, throw out a mention of Nancy’s proposition, feel out what she’d done about the baby. Maybe she’d gotten rid of it after all. Maybe she’d chosen to pursue a degree at a college closer to her family. She’d struggled after Amos’s death—it made sense she’d stay close to home after a year away.

  Maybe all his tears were simply for nothing.

  19

  The sound of birds woke me, the splash of sunlight from my attic window kissing my face. I stretched, turned on my back, and placed my hands over the mound of my belly. Little Mouse, as I’d taken to calling the babe, twisted and turned within.

  When I’d first felt movement, I’d resisted the urge to put my hands on my stomach, to communicate and attach myself to the tiny human. If I were to give up my baby, it would only be harder if I bonded with him or her.

  My resolve hadn’t lasted long, however. It was simply too impossible not to touch the child. And why shouldn’t it know love while it grew within me? Whether I kept it or not shouldn’t dictate the child’s need to feel cared for, even in my womb.

  “Good morning, Little Mouse.” I rested my hands on my large belly and turned to look at the ultrasound picture propped against the lamp of my nightstand beside the journal I’d taken to writing in. I didn’t know the sex of the baby, again feared that knowing would make it all the more concrete, all the more difficult to release the child to another mother’s arms.

  And yet, with each day that passed, with each doctor’s appointment, and with each Lamaze class I attended, I felt a surety within me, a perception I couldn’t quite explain, that I would indeed keep this baby. I’d kept my intentions quiet. For the most part, my family gave me time and room to make my own decision—not that they weren’t busy enough with their own endeavors.

  The B&B was in full remodeling swing and we’d accepted an offer on our house two weeks ago. Between boxing up our belongings, planning the decorating scheme for each guest room, and having Aunt Pris live with us while Tripp and his crew completed the work on the kitchen remodel, it seemed that what I did with my baby come October was the last thing on everyone’s mind.

  I rolled out of bed and pulled on my favorite—if one allowed for such a gross oxymoron when it came to maternity clothes—pair of jeans and a t-shirt that didn’t make me feel like a beached whale.

  I came down the stairs, the sweet scent of something in the oven a normal part of my morning. While Mom didn’t prepare five-course breakfasts every day, she loved trying out new recipes. It also seemed to be the secret weapon in keeping Aunt Pris happy.

  “Morning.” I grabbed the kettle to heat up water for my tea. Every day, the kitchen grew barer and barer. First the curtains vanished, then the decorative wall hangings. Now, the hutch lay empty, cardboard boxes beside it. I’d offered to clear Dad’s study, but Mom insisted on doing
it herself. I hadn’t argued, though I had grabbed a few of our favorite books from the room before she began. Maybe I’d even use some for decorative purposes in the bookshop.

  “Morning.” Mom pulled a pan of fluffy goodness from the oven. “This has to be eaten right away, so grab a plate.”

  I did so, letting her serve a piece on a small plate before placing it in front of Aunt Pris. “What’s this?”

  “German Apple Pancakes. My mother’s recipe.” She handed me another plate.

  I took it and sat. “I’m really not sure if I’m gaining weight from the baby or all this food.”

  Aunt Pris glanced at my stomach, then at the rest of me. “You certainly have filled out everywhere the last couple of months.”

  I glared at her. “Baby’s tend to do that.”

  Mom pat my shoulder before she sat with us, a slice of pancake on her own plate. “Josie, you’re beautiful. That’s all there is to it.”

  “She needed some weight on those bones, looked like a colt before—all skinny arms and legs. I wasn’t insulting you, girl.”

  Nice save, Aunt Pris. I lifted a bite to my mouth, the tangy sweetness causing a moan to escape my lips. “This is heavenly.”

  She smiled, sipped her coffee. “We’re headed over to Orchard House today so we can check on the progress. Want to come?”

  “Absolutely. I’m in awe of all they’ve gotten done so far. It looks amazing.” Tripp planned to hang kitchen cabinets this week, countertops would be installed next along with upstairs bathtubs and sinks.

  Tripp’s special project had been the balcony off the largest bedroom—what we’d decided to name the Alcott Room. Mom and I purchased portraits of Louisa May Alcott and her family to frame and hang in the room. Amie planned to paint an owl on a branch below the mantle of the fireplace, as well as calla lilies on the wall beside my personal favorite furniture piece—a simple half moon desk inspired by the very one Louisa had written Little Women, just like the one still on display at the Alcott Orchard House in Concord, Massachusetts.