58
“IT’S INCREDIBLE.” Alex turned the journal over in his hands and looked from me to Bernice across the kitchen table. “And to think, it all happened right here. In this house.”
I gave him an apologetic look. “As I told you yesterday, we appreciate your patience as we finished reading and transcribing everything.”
“Yes, we do,” Bernice said. “We wanted to be able to share the full story with you. And to that end . . .”
I handed him a thin loose-leaf notebook. “We’ve printed a copy for your eyes only. You’ve been in on this from the very start, after all.”
As he scanned the first few pages, his eyes watered. “How my Olivia would have loved this. She spent hours tracing both our family histories. She even learned that my great-great-great-grandfather Jack Brennan drove a freight wagon out in Colorado back in the 1870s or thereabouts. Married a French woman, or so the name on the census led us to believe. Anyway . . .” He exhaled. “Livvy would have treasured this.”
Bernice grabbed his hand. “My Asa would have too. And who knows, maybe all these loved ones already met Charlotte and Nettie awhile back, and they’ve all been watching and waiting for us to find that room. And learn their story.”
“What a nice thought,” I whispered, grateful to God all over again for using this house to put Stephen and me on a path to healing. When we called Maggie yesterday, her “happy tears,” as she called them, had inspired our own. The three of us had talked for more than an hour.
Alex closed the notebook. “I sure appreciate this, ladies, and will start reading it tonight. You mentioned something about publishing it?”
“It was Claire’s idea.”
“It was both our ideas,” I corrected her.
Bernice smiled and rolled her eyes. “We’re still kicking around the details. We just know it’s meant to be shared.”
We walked out front, where Bernice said a hasty goodbye, late for a meeting with fellow historians. Alex headed to his truck too, but I saw my opportunity.
“May I have a word with you, Alex?”
He paused on the front steps. “Sure thing.”
“It’s about Stephen and me. I just want to let you know that he and I are . . . working on things. We’re seeing a wonderful counselor, and I’m really hopeful we’ll be able to put our marriage on a right footing again.”
“Claire, that’s great news. I’m happy for you guys. But I’ll be praying for more than just ‘right footing.’ In my experience, God’s not so much into propping up as he is into making all things new.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, knowing that somewhere out there was a woman who would be doubly blessed when Alex Brennan walked into her life.
He waved goodnight and was nearly to his truck when Stephen turned into the driveway. Stephen parked his Mercedes behind the truck and got out.
“Evening, Alex.”
“Hey, Stephen.”
They met halfway, shook hands, and had an exchange I couldn’t hear. But Stephen’s friendly grip of Alex’s shoulder spoke volumes. As did his smile as he walked up the steps to me.
“Claire, you need to get home fast, woman!” Bernice’s tone might have concerned me if not for its sassiness. “The photographer called and says he’ll be here any minute with the pictures of the journal—and that he has news!”
“What does that mean?” I asked, glancing through the windshield at a cloudless swath of late summer sky.
“He wouldn’t tell me on the phone, but he wants us both here. And after waiting the past three weeks for him to get back with us, I don’t want to wait any longer. So get your little tush home!”
I laughed. “Has Stephen arrived yet, by chance?”
“Not yet. But I’ll watch for him. I’m looking forward to seeing him again, and I’m praying for you both continually.”
“I can feel it, and I’m so grateful.”
Nearly a month had passed since Bernice sent feelers out to colleagues about her possible connection to Charlotte Thursmann. I prayed she would get an answer soon and that what dear Nettie herself had said would prove true: “Sometimes the truth just won’t stay hidden no more.”
My phone dinged, and a picture popped up of Maggie and Eric at a pizza place, judging by the pepperoni pie in front of them, then her text:
She didn’t have to ask me twice.
“Is this my favorite mom?” she answered seconds later, laughing. “That’s the fastest you’ve ever called me back!”
“What can I say? I want to talk to my favorite daughter!”
The lightness in her voice, and within me, was a gift.
“That pizza sure looked good, babe. How’s Eric and school?”
I was nearly home by the time she finished giving me a play-by-play, and I drank in every word.
“One more thing, Mom. Something I’ve been thinking about lately, then I gotta get to class. I think Bryan knows that you and Dad are working on things. And I think he’s really happy.”
“Oh, sweetie . . .” I pushed the words past the lump in my throat. “I think so too. I really do.”
After we hung up, my emotions, still tender, hovered at the surface, and I knew why. I needed to talk to Stephen about Bryan. And I would, tonight.
For the past three weeks, Stephen had made good on every pledge in his Intent to Pursue. With his permission, I’d let Bernice read what he’d written. She’d cried her way through it, just as I had. “There’s nothing more attractive than a man who loves Jesus,” she’d said.
Renewed feelings for Stephen stirred within me. At times when he would gently place his hand on my arm or the small of my back, that merest touch would fan my desire for him. But he was still giving me space, which I needed. Despite my highest hope for our future, I knew it would be nearly impossible to be intimate with him without thinking of . . . her.
Other than the brief, borderline-chaste hug we exchanged after I’d said yes to his request for a second chance, he’d made no attempt at intimacy. I appreciated that. I also enjoyed our evening hikes through the acreage behind the house, conversation coming more easily, as it once had. We had yet to find Charlotte’s grave and those of her family, and I wondered if we ever would.
I pulled into the driveway and spotted Bernice’s car, along with the photographer’s. But I didn’t recognize the blue Honda Accord stopping just ahead of me. I parked behind it and got out—the same time as Stephen.
I did a double take as he walked toward me. “Is your Mercedes in the shop?”
He smiled. “I sold it.”
I didn’t have to ask why. “Thank you,” I said softly. “I know you loved that car.”
“I love you far more.” He tenderly took my hand. “And it’s only a car.”
“But since when are you a Honda man?”
“Well, that’s a whole other story that’s going to take—”
“Would y’all get on in here?” Bernice stood on the front porch, hands on hips.
“Coming!” Stephen called out, his grip tightening. “We’ll continue this later.”
A shiver stole through me, and judging by the warmth in his eyes, he knew it. But unlike times past when I had pulled away, not wanting him to see the power his nearness had over me, I didn’t move—until Bernice pointedly cleared her throat. We hurried inside.
Christopher Kincaid, a distinguished-looking man about Bernice’s age, opened a large leather album, and I recognized the first image as the opening page of Charlotte’s journal.
“First, thank you all for entrusting me with the privilege of this shoot,” he began, “and for allowing me to photograph the journal in the very room where Charlotte Thursmann likely wrote it. I know you wondered whether the last pages might contain more of Charlotte’s journal that time and the elements had destroyed.”
Bernice, Stephen, and I exchanged hopeful looks.
“They did not,” Christopher said, his words sucking the very air from the room. “However,” he continued, flipping to the back of the album, excitement in his eyes, “they did contain writing very different from Charlotte’s, though not unlike that of a previous passage. I shot numerous images of each page with various filters and lighting, then contrasted the images before digitally stacking them to—”
“Oh, good grief, Chris!” Bernice said. “Just tell us!”
With a wry smile, he pushed the album across the table toward us. In unison, we gasped.
“Nettie!”