CHAPTER
Thirteen

Nora’s heart jumped into her throat when she spotted John’s name in her email inbox mid-morning on Monday.

Since Saturday, when she’d sent her email to John, she’d been praying that God would help John understand the spirit in which her email had been written. She’d also been praying that she’d respond well to John’s response to her party invitation, whether it was a yes or a no.

It was a no. She stared at the few lines he’d typed.

It was a no.

She grabbed her purse, left the library, and drove straight to the Hartnett Chapel. As she drove, disappointment drilled down into the sense of numbness laboring to protect her.

Lord! I prayed against this. You know I did! You remember, right?

When she came to a stop in front of the chapel, she drank in the sight as if it were the antidote to disappointment. Which in a strange way, it was.

She mounted the chapel’s familiar steps. Like always, the knob turned easily beneath her palm and the chapel’s interior welcomed her with a hushed atmosphere and the scent of old wood. She simply stood, letting the comfort of the place sink into her.

From the time when Merryweather Historical Village had been nothing more than a wish list on a yellow legal pad, Nora had longed for a chapel.

A year after she’d graduated from college, she’d come across a mention of the Hartnett Chapel while reading a letter written by Lena Sussex, one of Merryweather’s early residents, to her sister. Nora had scoured old records and found the plot of land belonging to the Hartnetts. Further digging had confirmed that the Hartnett family still owned the property.

She’d called Mr. Hartnett. When he’d informed her that the chapel was still standing, she’d been euphoric. He’d given her directions and assured her that she was more than welcome to have a look.

She immediately drove out to see the chapel. All these years later, she could still remember the rush of unalloyed joy she experienced when she saw the simple, boxy one-room building. Quite utilitarian, except for the loving embellishments that had been added. Instead of the usual white, the clapboard exterior was painted palest blue. The chapel boasted a peaked front door. The elegant, scrolling woodwork of the overhang above the door bore witness to the skill of the long-gone carpenter who’d fashioned it. The original bell still hung in the chapel’s bell tower. A sturdy, roughhewn wooden cross reached heavenward from the tower’s highest point.

Nora had been dating Harrison when she’d first come to the chapel. They hadn’t been engaged at that time, but that hadn’t stopped her from concocting a rosy vision of the Hartnett Chapel’s role in her future wedding.

She’d determined that she’d purchase the chapel and bring it triumphantly to her village. She’d restore it lovingly and tastefully. Since her wedding guests would be too numerous to fit inside its walls—her family was one of the bedrocks of the community, after all—she’d seat the guests outdoors in rows of white chairs. She’d use the chapel’s raised front stoop as the platform for her vows and bedeck the door with a crown of flowers. The bell tower would jut into the blue sky and all the guests would swoon over the beauty of their love and the perfection of the setting.

That’s how it was supposed to have gone.

The first problem had occurred when she’d asked Mr. Hartnett if she could buy his chapel. Mr. Hartnett was a robust, white-haired retired logger. He’d granted her permission to spend time at his chapel whenever she wished, and he even tolerated her frequent visits to his home bearing bribery gifts. But he would not sell his chapel to her.

The Hartnett Chapel had stood empty for a few generations, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important to Mr. Hartnett. He’d made memories at the chapel during his boyhood. It represented a piece of his family’s history, and he was set on retaining it for his grandchildren.

Whenever he told Nora these things, she explained why she loved the chapel and how dotingly she’d take care of it. She promised to put a sign out front declaring it the Hartnett Chapel. She assured him that his descendants would always have an open invitation to use the chapel for events at no cost. She went on and on about how nice it would be to share this particular piece of his family’s history with all the residents of Merryweather and the many tourists who visited her village.

Alas, Mr. Hartnett liked his chapel exactly where it was.

Which was all perfectly reasonable yet left Nora feeling like a sorority girl who’d been rushing a particular pledge with all her might and zero success.

She reached the front of the chapel and slowly swiveled. Carefully, she catalogued the details around her to make sure nothing had dared change since the last time she’d come. Some of the windowpanes tipped at jaggedly broken angles in their frames. The once-white paint on the walls had become a crust of peels. Cobwebs arched like buttresses beneath the beams supporting the roof. A rug of dirt and grime covered the hardwood floor.

The original wooden pews remained amazingly intact, however. So did the hand-painted green stenciling that formed an enchanting border along the top rim of the walls.

She let herself out of the building and took a seat on the stoop.

From this vantage point, no other man-made structure could be seen. The Hartnett Chapel had been rooted in a meadow ringed with nothing but rolling land.

It had rained on the drive here. The sky hovered close above, a dull gray mass. However, sunlight had found a faraway crack in the cloud cover. It slanted across the land, touching tree branches and turning their leaves a bright, alive, almost eerie green.

There was no way for her to know if John and Allie really did have plans the night of July third. Or if John had said they had plans because he wanted to avoid her. The idea that he might want to avoid her stung. At the same time, if he wanted to avoid her in order to guard his romance with Allie, then it only proved what she’d always known to be true about his character. Perhaps in a few days, when it didn’t sting so much, she’d be able to commend him for that.

She rested the side of her head against one of the spindles in the handrail that flanked the chapel’s front steps.

This building centered her in part because she loved it, in part because it helped her hear what God was saying to her.

Today, God was reminding her that she shouldn’t expect to receive everything she wanted in life.

The things you wanted and prayed for and didn’t receive left holes in your heart and sometimes in your historical village, too. As much as Nora wanted to rail against that, she had to concede that the holes were what the Lord used to mature and humble His people. The things you didn’t receive added value to your life, the same as did the things you received.

Life had holes. Life was still beautiful.

Nora could sense God’s nearness, hear Him in the sounds of nature, see Him in the rays of sunlight. He hadn’t given her this chapel or John, but He had given her Himself. He was enough.

He’s enough, Nora.

She knew it in her head, that He was. But her heart continued to waver. Her heart had a long memory. It hadn’t forgotten what had happened the last time she’d trusted God fully.

Her heart was preoccupied at the moment, anyway, by its efforts to patch the hole that John had left.

“Why are you smiling?” Allie asked.

“Oh.” He’d just wheeled his suitcase from his closet into his bedroom so he could start packing. The suitcase had reminded him of Nora’s huge monogrammed bag, and he’d been smiling over the memory of how she’d carried half of Office Depot around inside of it. “I was just thinking about the last trip this group of guys and I went on together.”

“I’m glad you’re excited about it. You’re going to have a great time.”

He nodded.

He was leaving in the morning and would be gone for ten days. Three days in New York, where he’d be giving seminars on emergency preparedness. The rest in Maine, fishing with a group of former SEALs.

Maybe they’d do Navy SEAL-type stuff. He opened his mouth to tell Allie how Nora had joked about Navy SEAL-type stuff—

He closed his mouth. That wasn’t something he could tell Allie.

She sat on the edge of his bed, the toes of one foot sunk into the carpet, her other foot tucked behind her ankle. She’d bent her head to check something on her phone. Her thick blond braid trailed down her back.

She’d made dinner for them in his kitchen tonight. Cheese enchiladas, rice, salad, and something she’d called an ice cream pie. His brain had registered the fact that all of it was good, but he hadn’t really tasted any of it.

Two weeks had passed since he’d seen Nora, and still, all he wanted to smile about was Nora. The only subject he really wanted to talk to Allie about was Nora.

After he’d received Nora’s email, he’d thought about how to respond for two days. He’d finally done what he hadn’t wanted to do and turned down her invitation. He was trying to be ethical. To be a decent human being. To be a trustworthy boyfriend.

“Would you like me to send a care package to you and the guys in Maine?” Allie asked without lifting her attention from her phone’s screen.

“No, that’s okay.”

“It says here that the resort will accept deliveries for guests.”

“Huh.”

“You know, I haven’t been to New York in years. I’d love to return. I wonder if there are any last-minute deals on flights. . . .” Her fingers tapped at her phone. “We could go to museums and see a musical or two.”

Right then, in the middle of his bedroom with the handle of an empty suitcase in his hand, he realized he was done. He didn’t want Allie making him any more enchiladas or sending him care packages or coming with him to New York. He didn’t want to feel obligated to check in with her during his trip. He didn’t want her waiting for him at the airport when he returned.

On paper, Allie was the perfect girlfriend for him. Everyone loved her: men, women, kids. She had it all together. She was full of good qualities.

But she didn’t click her key fob twice to lock her car. She didn’t have fiery red hair and pale skin. She didn’t use ridiculous words.

There was something about Nora and him together, about them, that fit. It didn’t make sense. Nora was much more widely read than he was. She loved tea, for goodness’ sake. She wasn’t athletic at all. She was a fan of some British show with a long name that he’d never heard of because he avoided PBS like the plague. And her hairstyles confused him.

In a way he couldn’t explain, the things that made Nora who she was—her good heart and her flaws and all the rest—also made her exactly right for him. Which meant that everyone else, even Allie, was exactly wrong.

Regardless of whether Nora wanted to date him or didn’t want to date him, he couldn’t go on dating Allie any longer. He was grateful to Allie for helping him through the days following his diagnosis. Very grateful. But his desire to be free had outrun his affection and gratitude.

All girlfriends everywhere deserved more than what he’d been putting forth since he returned home from Blakeville. Allie, who’d done absolutely nothing wrong, definitely deserved more.

Pressure to say something to her, to end it, mounted within him so strongly he was surprised he’d been able to fight it up until now.

He left the suitcase behind. “Allie?”

Her face lifted to his, smiling.

He didn’t want to hurt her, and he was already sorry, incredibly sorry, for the hurt he was about to cause.

John watched clouds steal Washington from view as his plane gained altitude on its flight to New York.

Allie hadn’t screamed or sobbed or cursed him when he’d ended things with her yesterday. She had way too much pride for that. Even so, their breakup had been painful. It left John feeling two ways.

Like a world-class jerk.

And relieved.

He didn’t doubt that he’d done the right thing. It was just that the doing of it had sucked.

This trip had come at a good time.

He needed a vacation and distance to get his head straight.

Over the next ten days, he’d pray and think and rest. When he returned home, he’d decide what in the world to do about Nora.

Deciding what in the world to do about Nora would have been easy if it weren’t for his eyesight.

The day after arriving in Shore Pine from his trip, he stood on his deck. He could barely make out the lake through the morning mist. It wasn’t a hard or a cold mist. It was a soft, summer mist that suited his mood.

Before he could ask Nora out, he’d have to tell her about his blindness. She deserved all the facts before making a decision about him, but man . . . He sighed. He didn’t want to tell her.

He’d prefer for Nora to go on thinking he was the man she’d read about in Uncommon Courage and watched in the movie. Which was rich, considering he’d always known, even before his diagnosis, that the man in the book and movie was better and bigger and braver and a whole lot more immortal than he’d ever been.

He didn’t have to contact Nora. Their relationship was already over. He could just leave it like it was. Nora would never have to tell him she didn’t want to date him or watch him weaken.

Except he missed her too much not to contact her. Almost a month had passed since their trip to Blakeville. In all that time their only communication had been her email to him and his to her. Yet the cold, heavy ache of missing her had never gone away.

Somehow, during the search for Sherry, Nora had become the bright spot in his days. She was still his bright spot, and he couldn’t make himself let her go.

His finger paused over his cell phone’s screen and the text he’d begun typing to Nora. He slowly hit backspace backspace backspace.

Angrily, he combed a hand through his hair. He couldn’t make himself let her go, and at the same time he hated the idea of dragging her into the struggle that was coming for him . . . the struggle that had already begun.

Blindness wasn’t pretty. He’d lose his ability to drive himself places. He might even lose his ability to walk places without being led by someone. His mind spiraled whenever he thought about waking up to darkness, not being able to look at his lake, having to fumble his way through life.

He wanted better for her.

But, selfishly, he also plain old wanted her. So he’d tell her his secret and explain what it meant. He’d tell her, and then the ball would be in her court.

Growling, he typed a text message. Before he could stop himself, he pressed send.

Nora’s phone binged to signal a text message.

She was sitting inside Sweet Art, savoring a dark chocolate cashew truffle when she heard the bing and reached over to pull her phone from her purse. The instant she saw John Lawson as the sender’s name, her heart stuttered. The truffle sat in her mouth, melting, while joy and caution gusted within her.

John.

Oh, John.

If there’d been any thought that she’d moved on from him, which to be factual there hadn’t been, seeing his name appear on her phone blasted that away. If one equated physical hunger to Nora’s hunger to hear something from John, then Nora had been at the point of cannibalism.

“I’m guessing from the look on your face that you’ve heard from John.” Britt neared, tucking the dustcloth she’d been using into her apron’s pocket.

Nora peeled her gaze from the phone to Britt.

“Breathe.” Britt made sweeping motions in front of her lungs. “Chew. Swallow. Speak.”

Nora did as she was told.

“What did he say?” Britt asked.

“Let me see.” She clicked to reveal the full message. “He says he knows Grandma’s party is just a few days away and he’s sorry because it’s short notice and because he realizes it’s rude to change his RSVP. But he’d like to come if the invitation is still open.” This was way too good to be true. She’d all but given up hope.

Britt pursed her lips. “He didn’t say we’d like to come if the invitation is still open?”

“No. Just I’d like to come.”

“For the record, I’m going to have to hurt him for causing you this much happiness if he’s still with his girlfriend.”

“I’m going to have to hurt you for causing me a stroke by suggesting he might not still be with his girlfriend. Surely they’re still together. I mean . . . Don’t you think?” She searched Britt’s face.

“I think you and I need to know the answer to exactly that. Like now. Text him back and say, ‘Certainly! You and Allie are still welcome to come to the party.’ That’s the subtlest way to fish for information.”

Nora thought it through. “Perfect.” She typed Britt’s suggested text with quivering fingers and the taste of chocolate in her mouth.

Neither of the sisters attempted so much as a hiccup as they waited for John’s reply.

Bing. They almost bumped heads as they leaned in to read his words.

Allie and I broke up. It’ll just be me.

“Great Scott,” Nora wheezed. Her free hand flew up to cover her heart and keep it in its place.

“I’d kind of like to pump my fist and squeal,” Britt said calmly, “but I’m not sure that’s the correct response to news of someone else’s breakup.”

“I’m having the same dilemma. What if she broke up with him and he’s heartbroken about it?”

“Nora.” Britt gave her a longsuffering look. “I can just about promise you that no woman has broken up with that man. Ever. He was the one who broke up with her. It’s you he likes.”

“What! We don’t know that he likes me.”

“Think about it. There’s only one reason why he’d ask to come to Grandma’s party. It’s not because he’s hoping to have a raging good time at an eighty-year-old’s birthday. It’s not even for the supremely good cake I’ll be baking. He wants to come to the party for you.”

Glorious hope, terrified hope swelled within her. She would love to believe Britt. But Britt’s conjecture felt too farfetched to trust. “How should I respond?”

“By saying, ‘It’s about time, slow-moving Navy SEAL.’”

“Take pity on me and give me a suggestion that’s in the realm of how normal, non-Britt people actually speak to one another.”

“Well, for starters, I don’t think you need to mention his breakup at all at this point. There’ll be time to discuss that with him later.”

Good advice. She carefully typed, Grandma’s birthday dinner will begin at 7:00, but feel free to arrive at my parents’ house anytime—

“Because any time’s a good time for lovin’.”

“That’s so not helpful, Britt.” Nora continued formulating her message: . . . between 6–7. 423 Briar Cliff Road, Merryweather. I feel it’s only right to do you the favor of warning you that Grandma doesn’t call a gathering a party unless the women are wearing fancy dresses and the men are wearing suits. She read it over three times, checking for typos. It seemed to hit the right note.

“I approve,” Britt said.

Nora sent the message.

He responded immediately. Thanks for the warning. It sounds like I owe you a favor.

“Ask him to bring a friend for Willow.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Nora Bradford! Think about your poor sister. Don’t even consider hoarding all the handsome guys for yourself.”

“Yes, because I’m so well known for hoarding all the handsome guys.”

“You’re known for your caring generosity,” Britt shot back. “So prove it.”

Nora bit her lip and wrote, Willow likes to balance out the tables, and we have one more spot for a guy at our table. If you bring a friend with you, then it’ll be me who ends up owing you a favor.

I’ll do my best.

Great! See you then.

“Well done, sister.” Britt scooted the unfinished truffle closer to Nora. “Now eat chocolate.”

Nora took a bite. “How come you didn’t ask me to have John bring two friends? One for Willow and one for you?”

“I’m still on hiatus from dating after my last train wreck of a romance. Anyway, Zander will be there. He’s better company than a boyfriend, and he’s handier, too, because he’ll help me serve birthday cake.”

“As far as you’re concerned, this whole party is about the cake, isn’t it?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“There’s more to life than dessert, Britt.”

“Touché, coming from the woman who up until a few weeks ago poured all her energy into Northamptonshire and books.” Britt disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Nora finished the chocolate slowly. She allowed her emotions to execute a long row of ecstatic cartwheels, then tried to settle herself enough to think rationally.

Britt’s opinions aside, it was certainly possible that Allie had been the one to break up with John. It was also possible that John didn’t like Nora in the way Britt thought he did. He might have texted her because he was sad and in need of a distraction. It wouldn’t do to build a fiction worthy of one of her epic fantasy novels to explain John’s motives for attending the party.

She’d wait. She’d be prepared for whatever came.

For this one beautiful, cocoa-powder-covered moment, it was enough simply to have heard from John. And to know that she’d get to see him again.

John.

Oh, John.

Nora had been experiencing a wide range of misgivings since she climbed into Willow’s Range Rover en route to the hair salon. They intensified as she sat in Javier’s chair and he gently took down her hair.

Her updos were the one aspect of her appearance that people seemed to remember, that people commented on. Was she really willing to give up her one memorable, comment-worthy feature?

She’d finally told Willow she’d consent to a new hairstyle because she earnestly wanted to look her best for Grandma’s party now that she knew John would be there.

Willow had laughed and confessed that she’d made a hair appointment for Nora the day after they’d eaten borscht. Willow hadn’t informed Nora about the appointment because she’d been employing the technique their mom used to use on them for dental appointments. When they were kids their mom would announce, “We’re having our teeth cleaned today!” immediately before pulling into the dentist’s parking lot. She’d never given her daughters time to wail or stoke their anxiety. It had been stealth attack dentistry.

Willow had been planning stealth attack hairstyling.

“Were you just going to kidnap me?” Nora had asked.

“Yes. But I won’t have to now that you’ve come to your senses, which I applaud you for, by the way. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at three thirty.”

So here she was. And even though Nora hadn’t been kidnapped . . . even though she’d raised her hand for this . . . yikes.

Javier listened carefully to Nora’s ideas, concerns, and limits. Then, just like at the makeup counter several weeks back, he and Willow did a great deal of talking back and forth amongst themselves. The two experts, the two taste-brokers. Nora felt like an eight-year-old at the mercy of adults.

As he worked on her color, Nora became more and more certain that she was going to end up with brown hair the color of blah. Just how much would she infuriate and offend Willow if she went to the drugstore and bought her usual box of Firelight Red and dyed it all back tomorrow?

An assistant shampooed and conditioned Nora, then Javier flashed his shiny scissors around her head. It looked to her like he was cutting it too short. Her heart dropped like a rock down a canyon. Unlike the color, there’d be no way to change this back before the party.

Javier spun her to face the center of the salon, away from the mirror, while he blew her hair dry. “No peeking!” he kept saying in his accented English. Could it be called peeking when you were trying to look at your own hair?

Finally, he set aside the blow dryer. He swept a flat iron along the strands. Willow beamed. Nora felt queasy. The chicken salad sandwich she’d had for lunch hadn’t been the best choice, perhaps.

Her hair was her thing. Why had she subjected herself to this?

Because Willow’s a beauty genius and because you really do want to look your best for the party. Take heart! Be brave!

Javier considered her critically.

I don’t think I like you, Javier. You, with your accent and shiny scissors.

He reached out and brushed a lock into place with the kind of familiarity that only hair stylists and massage therapists were permitted. “Finished,” he declared. “You look beautiful.”

This was at least the fourth time he’d told her she looked beautiful. Nora knew very well that he was doing it unconsciously. No doubt he told all his clients they were beautiful with perfunctory regularity. Which went a long way toward explaining his salon’s roaring success.

Slowly, Javier turned Nora to face the mirror.

Nora watched her own eyes round in the mirror’s reflection.

Oh. My. Goodness.

Willow came to stand at her shoulder, looking self-satisfied.

Javier had dyed Nora’s hair a deeper shade than it had been before. Instead of resembling a brassy copper penny, it now resembled burnished cinnamon. A little darker near her crown, with a few lighter, more honey-colored strands around her face. It was just as striking and eye-catching as Nora had always wanted but no longer one flat shade. This red had depth. A Dutch master could have used the color palette of her hair in a painting.

Javier had parted it on the side and cut a light fringe of bangs that swept across the edge of her forehead, then melded seamlessly with the rest of her hair. He’d done a lot of layering, but it had all been subtle under-layering, because, for the most part, her hair appeared to be all one length. It ended in a perfect line at her shoulders.

Nora was too surprised to speak.

She looked . . . Did she look better? She’d been braced for displeasure, so it was taking some mind-bending to figure this out. But, yes. She thought she might look better. The side bangs complemented her features. The length of the cut flattered the shape of her face.

She looked classy.

“You’re welcome,” Javier drawled.

“See?” Willow said. “You’re still exactly yourself. We’ve just surrounded your beauty with the best possible setting.” She waved a hand down Nora’s hair. “Like a Tiffany setting is to a diamond, this hairstyle is to your face.”

“I . . .”

Javier chuckled deeply. “You’re welcome,” he said again.

Unsent letter from John to Sherry Thompson O’Sullivan:

Dear Sherry,

My name is John Lawson and I was born at Presbyterian Hospital thirty-three years ago this past November. I learned your whereabouts by speaking with Sue Hodges who lives on Regent Street in Shelton and by traveling to Blakeville and searching through Thompson family records.

I was adopted by Ray and Linda Lawson and raised in Seattle. I have one sibling, a sister.

I graduated from Northern Arizona University and was fortunate to play baseball during my years there. Shortly after graduation, I joined the Navy and served for six years. For the past five years, I’ve been living and working in Shore Pine. I own Lawson Training, a company that offers emergency preparedness and response courses.

If you’re the woman that I’m looking for, I’d like an opportunity to meet you. I won’t contact you further until I hear from you via the phone number, email, or address I’ve included below. I’d appreciate the chance to speak with you and ask you a few questions.

Sincerely, John

Email from Duncan to his personal assistant:

Go ahead and book me on that flight into Seattle. I fancy some Pacific lobster, a trip up the Space Needle, and time with my American friend.