Epilogue

One more day, and Hank would be her husband. Lily and Jamie, joyful at their first reunion, now acted fully like the little terrors they were. Evelyn loved every minute of the normalcy she thought would never return. Shrieks and thumps, tears and bumps—all welcome—along with snuggles, cuddles, and bedtime stories.

Evelyn sat on the sofa in a rare respite from the hullabaloo of family life. Bernice had offered to sit with the children at her place, so Evelyn sipped a cup of coffee and enjoyed the soft lights adorning the Christmas tree. She’d never envisioned a Christmas Eve wedding, but all the world seemed decorated with her joy. Compliments of the season.

An early wedding gift had arrived from Sarasota. Inside the brown paper wrapping was a box wrapped again with brightly colored paper. A card addressed, “To Fraidy Freddie and his poor bride” left no doubt as to who it was from. Hank’s eyes had twinkled when he handed the gift to Evelyn to open. When she lifted the flap, a coiled spring shot out of the box. Evelyn had shrieked so loudly the children came running. Hank had been smart enough not to open it himself, saying, “Ringling clowns always get the last laugh.”

But the laughter of her family would soon fade from inside this dear home. When the general public had learned Evelyn and the children would be forced to vacate their home by the end of November, the bank suffered from bad press. A one-month stay had been granted, enough for the children to celebrate their last Christmas on Capen Street. They must have decided the furor would have died down by then, and they were correct.

Hank had already led the daunting task of searching for a little place of their own. With their two incomes they could only afford an apartment which had opened in Bernice’s building, but it had just two bedrooms. Jamie and Lily would have to share a room, which would make Evelyn have to find a referee’s uniform. It was only a temporary fix, one they’d decided they could live with until Evelyn finished night school and earned her teacher’s certificate. Hank had urged her to follow her dream—another sign of the depth of his love for her.

A rap on the door summoned her, and Evelyn peeped out the window before answering. A horde of reporters had descended after they returned from Troy, wanting interviews and “inside information” about the search for Jamie. The world loved a happy ending, especially during the holidays.

Two familiar figures stood on the porch. Mr. Viller and Mr. Gooden from Hampshire Bank. Buzzards. Couldn’t they wait another week? The house would be empty by then.

Mr. Gooden spoke first. “Hello, Mrs. Benson.”

For one more day, yes. But Mrs. Webster by tomorrow this time. She could manage one last crisis on her own. “Hello. And hello, Mr. Viller.”

“Please pardon this intrusion, but we have urgent business of a personal nature.” Mr. Gooden licked his chapped lips and attempted a smile.

Mr. Viller flipped up the collar of his wool coat. “It’s very cold out here. May we come in?”

Evelyn experienced a sudden, inhospitable urge to turn them away, but she said, “Of course. Please come in.”

Neither man removed his coat, and Evelyn didn’t offer to take them.

“This is a highly unusual situation, ma’am.” Mr. Gooden offered a genuine smile. Perhaps his cold heart was thawed by the scent of freshly baked gingersnaps and coffee. Without ceremony, he handed her an envelope.

A quick surge of dread flipped Evelyn’s stomach. Her hand trembling, she reached for it and ran her finger under the flap.

“No. You don’t need to open it now.” Mr. Viller’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “On behalf of Hampshire Bank, I apologize for the distress we’ve caused during an already difficult time.”

They were sorry. Ha. Evelyn didn’t believe in Santa Claus, either. “Thank you.” Her rote response was the best she could manage under the circumstances.

“When your story of finding your nephew caught the imagination of the city—in fact the nation—people wanted to help.” Mr. Viller paused. “I wanted to help. I know I wasn’t the friendliest person in the months after the fire, but we were under tremendous pressure from our stockholders. I am truly, deeply sorry.”

Well. Maybe Santa was real, after all. She’d been certain Mr. Viller would only find a lump of coal in his stocking this year. “Thank you. I accept your apology.”

Mr. Viller held out his hand, and Evelyn took it. He then added his other hand, covering hers. “The envelope holds the deed to this house, Mrs. Benson.”

Evelyn wobbled, and the gentlemen helped her sit in the nearest chair.

“We received contributions from all across the country. From pennies to hundred-dollar donations, they arrived in a continuous stream until the house was paid off.”

Mr. Gooden added his wide smile to that of Mr. Viller. “And there was cash left over. The envelope contains not only the deed, but a passbook for a savings account in the lad’s name. If more donations arrive, we’ll deposit them there in a fund for his future education.”

Evelyn opened the passbook, but stars in her eyes prevented her from seeing the amount clearly.

Mr. Viller chuckled. He rotated the book. “It helps if you read it right-side-up.”

The amount was staggering. Evelyn fumbled for what to say. “Gentlemen, I can’t find words …” She swallowed and murmured, “Thank you.”

“Mr. Viller wanted to wait until Christmas, but then we discovered you’re to be married tomorrow. Consider it an early gift from Hampshire Bank.” Mr. Gooden positively beamed.

“We know you’re busy, so we will be on our way. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Benson.” Mr. Viller knotted his worsted wool scarf below his neck and buttoned his coat again. Mr. Gooden did the same.

Evelyn stood and walked to the door with wooden steps. She opened it, the men passed through, and she overheard Mr. Gooden say, “I love being a Christmas elf.” Mr. Viller gave him a hefty shove.

After shutting the door, Evelyn leaned against it and stared at the deed. No. Not Santa Claus. But she’d wager Bill Halstead had something to do with this since he had the ear of the Almighty.

With Lily as the all-eyes-had-better-be-on-me flower girl, and Jamie as the most adorable—if rambunctious—ring bearer, Evelyn Benson walked down the aisle of South Congregational Church on the arm of her boss, Charlie Reynolds, to become Mrs. Henry Webster.

Charlie, wearing a spiffy Brooks Brothers suit, ushered Evelyn with the posture and bearing of a medieval knight. An aging, potbellied knight, but a noble one. Some folks gasped and whispered as he passed. Others seemed not to recognize him at all.

They passed the pew where Evelyn sat during Bill and Helen’s funeral, but not even that memory could diminish her joy. Evelyn allowed herself to scan the dear faces of friends in attendance, some new, some old. Mr. Viller and Mr. Gooden had been invited, and Evelyn welcomed their presence as representatives of God’s miracle in keeping the Capen Street home.

Bernice sat in the position of honor as mother of the bride, joined by the Amatos, and Hank’s friend, Phil, beamed at her from his seat beside Mother Webster. Without the wisdom and spiritual maturity of those two amazing friends, Hank and Evelyn might not have enjoyed this happy ending today.

Then, Evelyn had eyes only for Hank—her soon-to-be husband, yes, but also her best friend. The waitress and circus clown had been transformed by the wand of wedding magic into a couple that might have been the models for the bride and groom cake topper Darla found. The light in Hank’s eyes at his candid perusal head-to-toe was followed by words he whispered when she arrived at the altar. “You’re gorgeous.”

Mother Webster had insisted on buying the lovely cream-colored suit she wore, and Helen’s ruffle under the collar and lapels added the perfect, feminine touch, wrapping Evelyn with a lacy hug from her sister-in-law. An off-white velvet half hat with a net covering her eyes and a nosegay of red roses completed her ensemble. Evelyn had never felt lovelier.

The ceremony passed in a haze of joy, and Evelyn feared she might giggle like a lovestruck teenager when Hank said, “I do.” The word handsome didn’t begin to describe her groom, suave and as devastatingly charming as Clark Gable. Evelyn felt as if she were the starlet in a moving picture.

Hank’s father struggled to keep his composure, at one moment whispering, “Pay attention, you two.” When he finally arrived at “You may now kiss your bride,” Evelyn lost touch with every reality except Hank’s strong embrace and his soft lips pressed against her own.

For a moment too long, evidently, because titters of laughter and applause swept the congregation before Darla, who pretended to be the grumpiest matron of honor in the history of weddings, said with fake sternness, “That’s enough, circus man.”

Hank broke the kiss and winked at Darla before pouring his love into Evelyn through his sky-blue eyes. He said, “I love you, Mrs. Webster.”

“Thank you, son! I love you too!” Hank’s mother called out the joke from the front pew and chortled, very pleased with herself for joining the mischief.

“Us too,” cried Lily, puckering up. Hank scooped Lily and Miss Persimmon—the doll Lily had insisted needed to be dressed in a matching outfit—into his arms and planted a big, sloppy kiss right on his new daughter’s rosy cheek. “I love you, Miss Lily.”

Jamie threw down his pillow and cried. Evelyn handed her bouquet to Darla and swept Jamie up for a new-family hug. She peppered his face with kisses until he pushed her away. Bride and groom both still held the children when Reverend Webster said, “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Henry Webster.”

The magnificent strains of the organ played, “God Moves in a Mysterious Way,” for the recessional march, and Evelyn sang the words softly as she smiled at friends and congregants.

Blind unbelief is sure to err

And scan His work in vain;

God is His own interpreter,

And He will make it plain.

After a glorious wedding night in their bungalow—he could still hardly believe the generosity that made it theirs—Hank and Evelyn rose when the stars still twinkled against a navy-blue sky. The children were tucked safely across the street with Bernice—not awake yet, surely. He and Evelyn planned to do it themselves in a little while to begin their first Christmas Day as a family.

Bundled up to her pert little nose, which he couldn’t help but kiss, she said, “Dress warm and meet me on the porch.”

Hank had no idea what his new bride was up to, but he’d have a lifetime to enjoy her spontaneity. He felt like a teenager up to mischief while everyone else slept. The frostbitten trees glittered under the streetlights, but Evelyn lit the way with a flashlight down the sidewalk to the gate in the backyard that opened to the cemetery.

Snow crunched under their feet, and huge flakes fell to earth like sparkling confetti. Even the frozen tombstones wore mantles of white like hugs from heaven, and the city sounds vanished, muffled by the wondrous hush of Christmas morning.

Hank guessed their destination but not the purpose of the visit. They stopped at Bill and Helen’s graves. A newly installed stone was engraved with both names, united in death as in life, with lilies of the valley carved in relief around the chiseled edges.

Evelyn brushed away the light coating of snow that obscured the words. She knelt on the frozen ground as if it were a church altar. Hank joined her, placing his arm around her shoulders. She looked up, and tiny tears had frozen on her lush eyelashes next to the snowflakes. “It haunts me that no one ever faced the consequences for causing the fire.”

It haunted Hank too. No one had heard from Russell since he fled, but God knew where he was. Someday he’d be found. If he didn’t face trial on earth, he surely would on Judgment Day.

Evelyn said, “I miss them so much. But without what happened that horrible day, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Hank’s throat contained a lump he couldn’t swallow. Nor could he reply. His heart was too full of God’s goodness.

“Did you see, Hank?”

Hank coughed. “See what?”

Evelyn brushed away the blanket of white that obscured the words carved across the bottom. She shone her flashlight on flowing script with a doublet written by William Cowper that perfectly captured their separate journeys and the one they had just begun as man and wife.

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flow’r.

Hank embraced Evelyn, and from her honeyed lips he savored another taste from the sweetest flower under heaven.