December 1927
Amethyst sat by the fireplace in the log cabin room and cuddled baby Conrad against her breast. Even now, two months after his birth, he still seemed like the greatest miracle she had ever witnessed. Such a perfect little miniature, with his tiny fingers and toes, his enormous blue eyes, that deep dimple in his right cheek. The dimple, Harper told her, proved him a Wainwright, even though the scarring on his own face had eradicated his dimple forever.
She gave a deep sigh and stroked the baby’s velvety head. Surely Harper’s mother had held him this way, gazing into his eyes, thinking him the most beautiful baby who had ever drawn breath.
Amethyst let her mind drift as she watched the misting rain outside the window. It was nearly Christmas, and Harper had been nagging her for the past two weeks to tell him what she wanted as a Christmas present. But she simply couldn’t think of a single gift’ that would make her life more complete. She had a home and family, friends and love, a sense of God’s presence in her life, and a calling that gave significance and meaning to each new day What more could any woman want?
Silvie had been apprehensive that once Amethyst and Harper married, everything would change at Noble House. But marriage had not altered the calling. Now the three of them worked together to provide a place of refuge and dignity for people rejected by society. And nobody called Noble House “the freak show” any longer.
Ten years. It had been ten years since the day Amethyst had sat in this very chair and wondered what would become of her now that her parents were gone and she was alone. But she hadn’t been alone—not really. The spirit and legacy of her grandparents had survived. Through Pearl’s journals, she had been challenged and transformed, shown the direction her life was to go. And even when she hadn’t known it—if truth be told, even when she resisted it—God had been at work in her life to bring her to this place.
She only had one regret.
Her father.
Since the day of her wedding more than three years ago, Amethyst had been haunted by the vision of that bedraggled, decrepit shadow of a man who had appeared on the lawn. Given the story Harper told her of the amethyst brooch, the man had to be her father, and yet if he were, why had he not spoken to her? Why had he simply signed the guest book and disappeared?
In the year following their marriage, Harper had done his best to find the man-who called himself Avery Benedict, but to no avail. Once more, he had vanished like the morning mist. Sometimes Amethyst wept over him. Sometimes she raged at him. Occasionally she wished he had never come back, so that she could consider him dead and push him out of her life forever. But he was always there, in the back of her mind, staying alive in the image of a broken-down old fellow in a ragged satin vest.
It was infuriating. He never truly went away, and yet he was never there.
After a while, Amethyst thought she had forgiven him. She had tried, anyway. She had rationalized his behavior, attempted to understand. But in the end, she had always returned to the one overwhelming emotion that assailed her every time she conjured up his image in her mind—anger.
What kind of man would leave his wife and daughter to take up a new life as a gambler under a different name? What kind of man would return on the day of that same daughter’s wedding and then disappear again without a word?
Avery Benedict. Every time she thought of the name, Amethyst tasted bile in her throat. He had taken Grandma Pearl’s maiden name and exploited it as an alias for his life of indulgence and debauchery. What gall! What self-centeredness!
And yet he was her father. No matter what he had done, no matter how vile his life had been, he was still her father. Something in Amethyst longed for him to know how blessed she was, what a wonderful man she had married, what a beautiful baby grandson he had.
The conflict tore at her every time she allowed herself to think about him. What if he showed up again? How would she react? Would she let the full force of her righteous anger blow him to kingdom come, or would she be so relieved to see him that she would forget her rage altogether and fall into his embrace like a devastated little girl whose daddy had finally come home?
Amethyst had no idea how she would respond. She wasn’t even sure if she would want her infant son to become acquainted with his grandfather. Abraham Noble—or Avery Benedict, as he called himself now—wasn’t exactly the kind of model Amethyst would want Conrad to emulate. And given what he had done to her, the man surely did not deserve a second chance.
Little Conrad stirred in her arms, and her eyes drifted to his innocent cherub face. A wave of remorse washed over her, and her heart sank like a stone in the river. It was almost Christmas. The season of second chances.
If God had blessed her so much, how could she not find one tiny space in her heart to plant a seed of forgiveness?
Harper leaned against his desk at Bainbridge Metal Works and braced himself against the pain. It crested over him, sending scalding needles of agony through every nerve ending, and then subsided, leaving him breathless and sweating.
Everything was in order, thank God. Amethyst and Conrad would be provided for. She would still have Silvie, and Noble House. She was a strong woman, a determined woman. She would be all right.
It just seemed so unfair.
He had been to a doctor, of course—three of them, to be exact. None of them knew precisely how long he had left. A few months if he was lucky A few days if he wasn’t. But all of the doctors agreed that his heart wouldn’t hold out much longer. There was nothing anyone could do.
Harper didn’t believe in luck. When the first physician had informed him of his condition, he had prayed that he might live long enough to see the birth of his child. That prayer had been answered over two months ago. Now he asked God to let him live through Christmas.
He felt a little like Abraham, bargaining with God over the destruction of Sodom. But Abraham’s life hadn’t been on the line. Harper’s own prayers were undoubtedly more passionate than Abraham’s. And although he wasn’t sure he was as righteous as the Father of Nations, he wasn’t banking on his own deservedness, but on grace.
So far, grace had held him up.
He hadn’t told Amethyst. Initially, he had kept the information from her because of her condition—an expectant mother didn’t need the additional anxiety of knowing that her husband was dying. After Conrad’s birth, she had been caught up in the duties of motherhood and accepted without question his excuses that he was just tired, or that he had a touch of influenza.
Only Mac Bainbridge knew that after today Harper would not be returning to work. He just needed to finish preparing the salary drafts for the month. The men shouldn’t have to wait for their pay just because his heart was giving out on him.
He arranged the paychecks in a zippered cash envelope and placed them in the safe where Bainbridge could find them. Detailed instructions for the running of the plant were in the top right-hand drawer, clearly labeled. If Harper had done his final tasks well, Mac would have all the information he needed to make a seamless transition to whoever was hired to take his place.
Amethyst would believe it when he told her Bainbridge had given him a few weeks off. After all, he worked hard, and he hadn’t taken a day off since the week they went to New Orleans for their honeymoon. He smiled to himself at the irony of the situation. Most people did not take a vacation to die.
Harper was ready to go—in spiritual terms, anyway. He had made his peace with the Almighty years ago, and had enjoyed a blessed and fruitful life. No longer did he curse his scars and his physical disabilities—he barely thought about them any more. Amethysts love had made all the difference.
Two years ago, before he knew about his heart condition, before Conrad had even been conceived, he had told Amethyst in a tender moment that he could die a happy man, knowing that once in his life he had been truly loved. It had seemed the right thing to say at the time, a sentiment that came from the depths of his heart. Now the memory of the moment mocked him. Yes, he had been truly loved, and truly happy. But he wished with all his soul that he didn’t have to die.
In the beginning, he had begged to be healed, convinced that God would honor his prayer. When it didn’t happen, he prayed to be gracious. And the Lord had responded to that one. His great regret—besides having to leave the woman he loved so soon—was the awareness that he wouldn’t live to see his son grow up and become a man.
Harper put his head down on his desk, and tears seeped from his closed eyelids. He was resigned to the reality of his situation. Apparently he had done what he had been put on earth to do, and soon his time would come. But surely his God would understand a few tears over what he was leaving behind.
A soft knock on the office door arrested his attention, and Harper sat up and swiped at his eyes. “Come in.”
Mac Bainbridge opened the door and stuck his head around the corner. “How ya doin’?”
Harper forced a smile. “Pretty good, I guess. I’m about ready to leave.”
Mac moved into the doorway and leaned one shoulder on the door jamb. His eyes focused on the floor, and he bit his lower lip. “I’m going to miss you, Harper.”
Harper blew out a long breath. “Thanks.”
“You know that opening we’ve got? The packaging job?”
“I thought you had about eight guys lined up for that.”
“Well, yeah, I did. But it’s not heavy work, and all the men who applied are capable of doing the harder stuff out in the plant. Anyway, there’s this one fellow—an older guy, who needs a job but can’t do the metal work.”
“Mac Bainbridge, are you going soft on me?”
Mac laughed. “I dunno. Maybe I’ve just learned a thing or two from you over the years.”
“So this older fellow—” Harper prompted.
“Well, he looks like he’s kinda down on his luck and could use a break. Do you mind talking to him?”
“Me? Why?”
“You’ve done all the hiring here for the past twenty years, that’s why.”
“Nine. I’ve been here nine years, Mac.”
“Okay Nine. It just seems like twenty.” Mac shrugged. “If you don’t want to see him, I’ll take care of it.”
Harper thought for a minute. It seemed appropriate, somehow, that his last official act at Bainbridge Metal Works would be to help a discouraged man find a job and get back on his feet again. “All right, Mac. Send him in.”
Mac disappeared, and Harper pulled an application form out of his filing cabinet. He was scanning through the questions when he heard a shuffling at the door and looked up to see a skinny, gray-haired man with a week’s worth of stubble.
Harper motioned to a chair next to his desk. “Come in and have a seat, Mr.—”
The man didn’t move. He just stood there, staring.
Harper turned the scarred side of his face toward the man and launched into his explanation. He had done this a hundred times over the past nine years. “Go ahead and get a good look; you’ll be seeing this face a lot if you come to work here—” Suddenly he stopped. The truth was, the man wouldn’t be seeing his face again. But he went on anyway. “I was wounded in the war and my face was burned. Don’t let it bother you—it doesn’t bother me.”
The man said nothing. Harper looked up at him again. “Is there a problem?”
“I know you,” the man mumbled. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“I doubt it. I don’t get around much.”
The old fellow shuffled into Harper’s office and dropped into the chair. “Yeah, I know you.” He tapped a bony finger on his forehead. “I remember faces. And I’d sure remember that one. You were a lot younger, but—”
The voice was craggy and hoarse, but suddenly something registered in Harper’s mind. His head snapped up. “Memphis?” he whispered.
“Yeah, I been in Memphis. Used to have a little business up there, once upon a time.” The gray head nodded and the rheumy eyes fixed on Harper’s. “Lost it, though, some years back. Had a streak of bad luck, I did.”
“What’s your name?” Harper asked, although the knot in the pit of his stomach told him that he already knew the answer.
“Benedict,” the old man answered. “Avery Benedict.”
Amethyst leaned back in her chair at the dining room table and gazed at the man who sat across from her.
Harper had brought him home, and now, with a bath and shave and fresh clothes, he almost looked like the father she hadn’t seen in ten years. He had aged, of course—he would be sixty-two now, but he looked ten or fifteen years older than that, with ashen circles under his eyes and a sallow cast to his skin. He was pathetically thin, and the skin sagged around his bony neck.
He ate rapidly, refilling his plate twice and darting a glance at her as if to make sure it was all right to have seconds. For a long time neither of them said anything, but simply stared at each other with the guarded expression of two cats circling for a fight.
Amethyst waited, her mind spinning with accusations. She thought about her mother, buried under a headstone that bore his name, too. Thought about the day he left, claiming to be fulfilling his patriotic duty in the war that had left her husband scarred for life. Thought about her wedding day, and the way he had scrawled his name in her guest book and vanished again. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much anger to express, so many questions that needed answering. And the most overwhelming question of all: Why?
So far, he hadn’t offered a word of explanation about the day he left, hadn’t said so much as “I’m sorry.” He had just watched her out of the corner of his eye, averting his glance any time she looked at him. But she had noticed one thing that tugged at her heart—whenever his eyes rested on the amethyst and pearl brooch she wore at her throat, he blinked rapidly, as if trying to stem back a rush of tears.
By the time he had finished eating, all the fight had gone out of Amethyst. All she could feel was pity for an old man who obviously had been punished enough.
Maybe that was what forgiveness was all about, she mused silently. Not condoning or excusing or even understanding, but leaving to God the business of doling out justice or mercy. Clearly, her father had reaped the harvest of his misdeeds. He was old and sick and miserable, nearly starving, and unable to look his only daughter in the eye. He hadn’t apologized or asked for her forgiveness, and maybe he never would. But Amethyst suspected that from the Lord’s point of view, that didn’t matter. Forgiveness wasn’t based on the worthiness of the one who needed it, but on the grace of the one who extended it.
Amethyst looked at Harper and saw a strange expression in his eyes—an entreating glance, as if begging her to do the right thing. For a moment or two, judgment and compassion grappled for the upper hand in her soul. Then, with a sigh, she surrendered.
She went to the bedroom, lifted Conrad out of his crib, and returned to the table.
“Father,” she said in a low voice as she held the baby out to him, “I’d like you to meet your grandson.”