Where Grace Appears

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  He ran the back of his fingers over her cheek. “I’ve waited forever to hear you say that.”

  She lay her head against his chest, her child between them.

  He squeezed her tighter. “I can’t wait to make you my wife, Josie Martin.”

  She released a sound of contentment against his chest.

  “I just want to clarify one little thing.”

  She lifted her head. “What’s that?”

  “When you call me captain, you mean Captain America, right? Because I don’t think I’m cool with my future wife thinking of me as Captain Underpants.”

  She ran her forefinger along his chin. “How about captain of my heart?”

  “Incredibly corny, even for you, but I’ll take it. Where shall we sail next, my fair lady?”

  “To the edge of the horizon, as long as we’re together.”

  “I’m up for that.” He kissed her long and deep, pulling every ounce of sweetness from her lips, from the moment. “I’m very much up for that.”

  26

  I walked up the stairs to the second floor of Aunt Pris’s home. The Martin home now, too. It was all really happening.

  I stopped on the landing halfway up the stairs where a generous window bench graced a bow window. I sat, waiting for the cramp in my belly to disappear. Especially active last night, Little Mouse had been quiet for most of the day, save for the Braxton Hicks contractions I’d sustained for most of the afternoon. My doctor assured me they were normal, especially in the last month of pregnancy.

  We’d unpacked the last few days, the closing on our home behind us and nothing before us but the preparing of the B&B and the bookshop. Once the money from the house became available, I’d start building our store inventory.

  I ascended the remaining flight of stairs and walked to the room straight ahead, the Alcott Room, labeled with the wooden sign I’d labored over for hours. Amie must have approved of it, for she didn’t protest the placards. I knocked on the open door, not wanting to startle my youngest sister from her painting.

  “Come in.”

  I peered around the door to the fireplace in the corner, where Amie worked on painting an owl identical to the one in Louisa May Alcott’s room at Orchard House in Concord. She looked up, a palette of oils on the floor by her feet. Her expression seemed to dim at the sight of me. We hadn’t quite made peace over our awful argument a few weeks earlier. We were civil enough, of course, but neither of us had apologized, clinging to our pride and the very real sense that the other was in the wrong.

  I supposed I should ask for forgiveness. I didn’t want to bring my child into the world with this terrible thing between me and my sister. I wanted to be good and noble, a mother like mine. But it was hard. Was I under some unrealistic expectation that becoming a mother would make me more saintly?

  Hardly.

  I gestured at her artwork on the mantle. “That’s beautiful, Amie. It looks just like the original.”

  She leaned back, squinted. “I think it will do. I like having it here, anyway. Gives it the Alcott authenticity, I think.”

  “It does. You do great work.”

  She went back to her painting, and I walked around the large room, ran my hand over the curves of the four-poster bed, anticipating the things that were still left to do. Window treatments and wall hangings. Comforter and television (I’d argued over that one but lost the battle—Mom insisted we’d alienate our clientele by not having a TV in each room). We already had a handful of reservations for December, and that being through nothing but word-of-mouth and the website.

  I lowered myself to the chair in front of the half moon desk. I ran my hand over the smooth white paint, tried to choose my words carefully. “You know, I never should have said what I did—about you not having anything to do with my baby. That’s not what I want. Not what I want at all.” Another pain started, but it proved to be a gentle, slow mounting pressure that subsided in quick enough time.

  My sister continued painting, silence her answer. It dragged out until I couldn’t take anymore.

  I grit my teeth, my anger rising along with another contraction. “What do you want from me? Seems you’re always holding something against me, and I don’t know why.”

  She dipped her brush in her colors and raised it to the mantle. “I guess I want you to stop having it all.”

  I shook my head, confused. “What?”

  She shrugged. “First you had all of Dad’s attention, then Tripp’s. Then you got to go off to New York, a city of excitement and culture and art and beauty. You left him and I thought…” She bit her lip, swirled her paint with her brush. “You had everything, Josie. Everything. But you ruined it. And yet you still come out on top, don’t you? Helping Mom achieve her dream, having the first Martin grandchild to carry Dad’s blood, and Tripp…he still loves you. After all the junk you put him through, he still chooses you.”

  My mind swam. Tripp. Did Amie actually have feelings for him? I mean, sure, there were times her schoolgirl crush on our good-looking older neighbor was apparent, but he was my best friend. The boy who loved me.

  She lifted her brush again, the sunlight from the window across the room streaming onto her golden head. “You did everything wrong and you still get it all. I guess I figure if Tripp can’t hold a grudge against you, I’ll do it for him.”

  “You love him…” I spoke the words softly, unsure of their value or the reaction I would receive when speaking them.

  Amie sniffed. “It doesn’t matter, not now. I thought with you rejecting his proposal last summer and leaving for New York…then when you came back pregnant, I thought for sure there wasn’t a chance. But I was wrong. Dead wrong.”

  “Amie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I mean, he’s so much older than you and—”

  “Professor Becker is just right for your age, is that it? Do birthdays really matter when it comes to love?”

  My heart—and my belly—squeezed. I couldn’t write Amie’s feelings for Tripp off as a superficial crush. She was eighteen, old enough to hold such feelings. And she was right. Who was I to judge when it came to whose heart one chose? I could understand the draw of an older man, perhaps one she’d admired since childhood. Tripp had never been anything but sweet to her, so much more than just an older brother.

  No wonder she loved him. What was not to love?

  I swallowed, another pain building, something in me aware that they came with increasing intensity now, that perhaps I should give my doctor a call. But not yet. Not before I said one thing to my sister.

  “I won’t see Tripp anymore then.”

  She froze mid brushstroke, turned to look at me. “What?”

  “Love and men, they are important. But my sisters—my siblings, this family…I won’t risk it dividing us. I can’t bear it.” The words swam over and through me, and I thought I meant them. It was the noble thing to do, wasn’t it? Move aside until Amie’s heart had time to heal? Tripp had been so patient with me. What was a little more time? I couldn’t imagine marrying him, blending him into the family with this thing between me and Amie.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ll stop seeing Tripp if it’s going to hurt you, Amie.”

  “But…you love him.”

  I nodded. “I do. And it would hurt like crazy to stop seeing him. But you’re…you’re my sister. How will this affect our family if I don’t—” Another pain clenched my belly, and this time I leaned back in the chair, put my hands over my stomach, tried to practice the breathing I learned at Lamaze classes.

  Amie got to her feet. “Are you okay?”

  I pushed myself to a standing position. “I probably just need to walk it off. Maybe I’ll go call my doctor just to make sure.”

  She took my arm and guided me across the room, but not before I felt a pop within me, much akin to a balloon bursting. A gush of water fell between my legs along with another pain, this time tearing across my abdomen with claw like force. I crumpled over myself
.

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Amie started for the bathroom, but then whirled around, came back to me. “You’re going into labor!”

  I doubled over, the pain now unrelenting and ten times more excruciating.

  “We need to go to the hospital. Now.” Amie tried to lead me toward the door, but I squeezed her arm until she looked in my eyes. I shook my head.

  This couldn’t be happening. I had a month. A month to prepare for this child. To get the bookshop and apartment ready. To get myself ready. I looked into my sister’s clear blue eyes, tried to gain strength from the fact that they were the color of the ocean on a cloudless day. But it was no use. “I can’t be a mother. Amie, I’m not ready to be a mother.”

  My breaths came fast, my chest rising and falling in rapid succession. A feeling of panic came over me, causing the pain in my middle to intensify. Hot hands compressed and squeezed, clasping the life out of me. My knees weakened, and I lowered myself to the ground, leaned back against the four-poster bed.

  Amie knelt in front of me, took my face in her cool hands. “You listen to me, Josie Martin. You are the strongest woman I know, you hear me? You hear? You are going to be a great mother, and this child is blessed beyond words to have you.” She looked at the floor, bit her lip, then brought her gaze back to me. “And Tripp…he’s going to be the most amazing father or step-father or whatever he’s going to be to this child, too. You both are amazing. Together. There’s nothing you can’t do. Now buck up, because you’re about to have a baby and you can do this.”

  “Don’t leave me,” I huffed, the pain that just ended turning over into another. “Don’t leave.”

  She cursed. “My phone just died. Do you have yours? We need to call the ambulance.”

  I shook my head, grasping for something that wasn’t pain. “It’s downstairs.”

  “Aunt Pris!” Amie shouted, rattling my head. “Aunt Pris!”

  Mom and Lizzie had gone grocery shopping, Bronson was at the far end of the orchards. Last I checked, Aunt Pris and Esther were downstairs.

  And then the old woman was before me and I couldn’t comprehend how she’d climbed the stairs so quickly.

  “She’s in labor?”

  Amie spoke. “I don’t think we can move her. We need to call an ambulance.”

  Aunt Pris left and I heard her call for Esther to ring for the ambulance. An overwhelming urge to push came from within me. But no. This couldn’t be happening so fast, especially not with a first baby.

  Then I remembered Amie’s words about me being strong. I felt certain this baby would be strong as well. That he or she was forcing its way into the world even now, ready or not.

  More pain, a feeling of lightheadedness.

  God, help.

  Then wrinkled black hands soothed my forehead, demanded towels and a bowl of warm water and sterile scissors. Esther, as clear and focused as I’d ever seen her, told me I was going to be fine. That she helped her mother deliver a baby or two in her day and the good Lord was bringing it all back to her.

  I didn’t have much time to doubt the validity of an octogenarian woman with severe dementia. Another pain and the need to push. And then again, and again, Esther encouraging, Aunt Pris praying, Amie crying and holding my hand.

  And then one more push and a beautiful cry lit the room. Esther called Amie to her, instructing her to cut the cord. I lifted up on my elbows, a bursting in my heart for the gift of new life before me.

  “It’s a boy!” Amie cried.

  Aunt Pris propped pillows beneath me. Esther pushed aside the buttons of my shirt to tuck the squalling infant against my skin. I held him close, not believing this was him, my child. He turned his cheek toward my breast, and I kissed the top of his dark head.

  The EMT’s came in a short time later, Aunt Pris directing and ordering them to be careful down the stairs with her great grandnephew. For once, I was glad she was on my side. Amie called Mom and Lizzie and Tripp. Amidst the excited screams coming through the phone, I gathered that they would all meet us at the hospital.

  Once there, a nurse took Little Mouse to weigh and measure and clean. Tears fell down my face at having him taken from me—so small, so innocent, with me the only thing to protect him.

  I knew then that I would have never been able to give him up. That maybe me having him at home, of sharing those first few moments of bonding, was somehow God’s way of showing me that.

  A soft knock came at the door of my hospital room and I looked up to see Mom, Lizzie, and Bronson. They all hugged me and oohed and ahhed over Little Mouse as Amie gave them an account of our eventful afternoon.

  “I’m so glad she was with me.” I looked at my youngest sister, felt a newfound bond between us that I hoped with all my heart was not a one-sided affair.

  She squeezed my hand. “You scared the snot out of me. But I wouldn’t have traded that for the world. Wow. And who would have known that Esther really knows her stuff?”

  We laughed. Another light knock came at the door and Tripp entered the room, looking handsome and rugged in a Colton Contractors t-shirt and dirt-stained jeans. He glanced at the bundle in my arms, a foreign uncertainty about him.

  “Well, what are you doing still standing in the doorway, Tripp Colton?” Amie asked. “Come see this little guy.”

  Tripp came closer, and Amie placed my hand in Tripp’s before sliding her hand from mine. My bottom lip trembled as I looked at her. She nodded.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, moved by the gesture and all it meant. She smiled, but it didn’t quite meet her eyes, something bittersweet around the edges. She turned away.

  My heart filled, and I uttered a silent prayer of gratitude and healing for my youngest sister before I smiled up at Tripp, who gazed at Little Mouse in wonder.

  “He’s amazing, Josie. I’m so glad you’re both okay.”

  “The doctor said he’s full term and completely healthy. We must have miscalculated my due date.”

  “What are you going to name him?” Lizzie asked.

  I looked down at Little Mouse’s wrinkled skin, tiny capped head and gloved fingers. I knew his name, thought it fitting that my entire family—including Tripp—be in this hospital room when I revealed it.

  “Amos. Amos Arthur Martin.”

  Mom lifted a tissue to her eyes, and Lizzie put an arm around her. “That’s fitting, Josie. Very fitting indeed.”

  Becoming a mother hadn’t been Dad’s dream for me, but now, gazing at little Amos, I wondered at how quickly it became my dream.

  In that moment, I sensed a sort of restoration within me. I’d searched for success and approval all my life, had been too busy to look for real love. Until now. Surrounded by family and friends, with my child tucked sweetly in my arms, I felt the lavishness of love—and knew that’s what really counted.

  Bronson stepped forward. “Can we say a prayer for him, Josie?”

  I nodded and everyone huddled in, entwining arms around one another. Bronson placed a hand on Amos’s hatted head and spoke a blessing over my son and his new little life. I closed my eyes, relishing the warmth of his tiny body, savoring those I loved surrounding me—my mother, my siblings, Tripp.

  This was indeed a new beginning—the beginning of something I’d never planned but something I wouldn’t change for the world.

  27

  It’d been too long.

  Finn tapped his foot against the floor of the plane, anxious to jump again. He looked around the group that included Katrina, acknowledged the rare camaraderie their unit shared jumping that afternoon.

  While Katrina had flirted with him most of the day, for reasons unknown to him, he couldn’t reciprocate the dalliance.

  As the plane climbed upward, Finn anticipated the last jump of the day. Their drop zone mentor had reported winds of 13 knots—not anything anyone in their experienced group shouldn’t be able to handle. A little wind tested jump skills, added extra adrenaline to the rush of the dive.

  Finn leaned back in h
is seat and closed his eyes, the engine of the plane and the rollicking chatter of the group lulling him. He thought of Josie—only this time not with guilt, but with anticipation. He would have been okay with her saying yes to his proposal. More than okay, really. For the first few days after he returned to the city from Maine, he’d sulked, lost. He’d been certain Josie would jump into his arms. Isn’t that what she wanted all those months ago?

  But she hadn’t. He still wondered how her rejection had the power to shake him up as it did.

  But one thing was certain—he looked forward to being a father. Maybe he wouldn’t see his child every day like some, maybe one day he’d have to accept that Tripp would, but Finn couldn’t ignore the feeling of fulfillment and purpose snuggling into his soul, the anticipation at meeting a child he had helped create.

  It was a complete one-hundred eighty degree turn from where he’d been in February. What had transpired? His conscience, of course. The tears. But it was something more, that voice from his childhood he’d been hearing and leaning into. On the rare occasions he gave himself over to it, he knew peace.

  Mario, a wingsuit diver in the front of the cabin asked the pilot for a ground wind check.

  A few minutes later, he yelled back at them. “Manifest only saw one gust pass through—it was at twenty-four knots.”

  A couple of the jumpers cheered, up for the excitement. Something in Finn’s middle hitched. Twenty-four knots was a steep increase in winds since takeoff.

  The two-minute light came on, and a few of the divers buckled up, ready to take the “ride of shame” back down to the airport. But there shouldn’t be any shame in it. Unpredictable gust fronts could throw them off their landing area by a long shot. No one wanted to land in power lines, someone’s house, or the interstate.

  Katrina elbowed Finn. “What do you say, Professor? You up for it?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Come on. You want the experience, don’t you?”

  He did. Nothing like a little wind to test one’s limits and skills, to prove one’s ability. And while he sought to keep his distance from Katrina, he also felt a sort of responsibility for her. Was it right to let her jump on her own under these conditions?