The downpour continued. At times, rain pelted Emily’s window so hard it sounded as if a mob were trying to get in. The older women busied themselves storing heather honey, maintaining their bickering banter, and making a huge mess, but Emily kept to herself.
Getting lost in the woods had broadsided her with a numbing truth. She couldn’t be there for any of the people she loved, so there was no point hanging around and dragging out the pain of separation. The longer she stayed trapped in the house with the old sisters, the stronger her certainty became that she needed to remove herself. Not just from Ian, but all of them.
The deluge persisted and the walls of the old farmhouse seemed to press in. Emily spent her time in the upstairs study, exchanging messages with Rebecca, the research associate in Portland, and filling out questionnaires.
On the day Ian went to town, she went down to the cottage and phoned Jaye. Emily filled her in on what had happened with Ian and what she’d learned from the university clinic but held back the part about getting lost in the woods.
Jaye was unusually quiet.
“What’s up, Jaye? What’s wrong?”
“I was still hoping things would work out with you and Ian somehow. You know, the two of you in a castle on a cliff overlooking the sea, with a boatload of kids and living happily ever after.”
“Really?” If not for the girlish pout in her friend’s voice, Emily might have felt a stab of loss at the comment. But as it was, Jaye’s fantasies came as a sparkling ray of relief. “Sounds good. And what do you get out of this little fairy tale?”
The line went quiet again. “Seriously? Em, if it meant you’d get a guy like that, I’d take a travel trailer in a hay field with forty-seven cats.”
Emily couldn’t help but laugh. “Now that’s a lovely, wee picture.”
“See? I knew it. You already sound like a highland lass.”
“With a castle on the sea, don’t forget.”
By Wednesday, the rain eased up enough to get out of the house. Claire came and took Maggie, Grace, and Emily to Glasgow, where they spent the morning touring the city and visiting the sisters’ old neighborhood, then back to Claire’s flat for tea.
Emily hovered in the background and let the sisters visit with Claire and her family, but, for some reason, Maggie insisted on including her in everything and she made Emily join them at the table. After a few minutes, an unsettling sense of frustration burned in Emily. She jumped up and went to the window.
Claire pulled Emily aside and tossed a nod toward the older ladies. “You need some time away from the old hens. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. And pack a bag—you’re staying the night.”
Later, back in her room, Emily reached for the Bible Ian kept on top of the chest.
It wasn’t there. In its place was an envelope bearing her name in Ian’s neat block print.
Maybe she could pretend she hadn’t seen it.
Holding her breath, she opened the envelope and drew out the folded paper. Not a letter, but a map. Hand-drawn in remarkable detail, it showed several landmarks including the farmhouse, walking trails, honeysuckle grove, surrounding roads, and hills. Even the loch where she went swimming with Claire’s family. It was labeled and marked with directions and distances, with walking trails in blue. The church and cemetery were in the middle, and far northeast of the meadow and woods, a tall stone bridge arched over a stream.
She put the map back in the envelope and left it on the dresser.
Saturday morning, while Aunt Grace and Maggie assembled pies, Emily hung around the kitchen window and kept a close eye on the driveway. At the sound of Claire’s car, Emily grabbed her duffel bag and jacket and waited at the door.
Claire burst in and winked at Emily. “Hey, there!”
“Hi.” Emily smiled.
Claire ducked into the kitchen. “Do you have a pie for my boys, Maggie?” She shook her short hair, sending droplets of water flying. “If they find out I’ve been here on pie day and didn’t bring one home, they’ll have my head.”
Maggie muttered, “Do I have a pie. Humph.” She turned to the bunker and came back with the requested dish. Handing it to Claire, she leaned close and nodded in Emily’s direction. “Keep a keen eye on that one, now. Dinna let her wander off.”
“Fat chance.” Claire grinned. “Hannah won’t let her out of her sight.”
“I’m making a pie for the reverend,” Aunt Grace said over her shoulder, smiling. “He’s so kind. He brought us a chicken for supper last week.”
“No, Grace, I told ye. He dinna bring us a chicken.”
“Margaret Agnes, I know a chicken when I see it.”
“Let’s go, Em, before things get ugly,” Claire said beneath her breath. She headed for the door and called back with a song in her voice, “Cheerio, you two. We’re off for some girl time—we’re going shopping!”
Aside from slipping up to Emily’s bedroom to leave the map, Ian had avoided the house all week. It wasn’t until Emily was safely on her way to Glasgow with Claire on Saturday that he finally had a chance to venture up to the house to see if anything needed done.
Janet Anderson’s call, which had come later the same night he’d found Emily, could not have been a coincidence. It bore the mark of some carefully timed, divinely executed plan.
Janet could always look past the initial blow and the ensuing turmoil that often blindsided others, and focus on the biblical perspective. When she phoned, Ian almost didn’t take the call. He was still numb, still trying to swallow the bitterness of defeat. But before long, he was telling Janet all that had happened, from the beginning. Her calm, steady strength traveled across thousands of miles without the slightest pause.
“I’ll pray for you, Ian, for both of you,” she said. “We don’t often get to know where God is leading us or why, but we do know He’ll provide whatever we need to get there. Read Isaiah and let God’s word speak to your heart. Commit Isaiah 41:10 to memory and remember it when you pray. When the plan is God’s, He provides the means. He is faithful, Ian. All His ways are good. Always.”
Always? Coming from anyone else, Ian might have scoffed. But coming from Janet, the words carried weight.
As he neared the farmhouse, Ian slowed his pace. He stopped and leaned against the truck. The air smelled clean and fresh.
The dark rain clouds had finally moved on, leaving only wisps of white parading past the sun.
“Lord, I don’t question Your goodness. I do trust You. But I don’t understand why You brought me into her life if I can’t do anything for her. Why did You let me fall in love with her if I have to let her go?” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
A gentle gust stirred. He pictured Emily standing there, a lock of hair moving across her cheek in the breeze. “Why?” he whispered.
Why? Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell Me, if you understand.
“That’s not fair,” he muttered. “Even Job couldn’t answer that one.”
The breeze picked up.
He opened his eyes.
The clouds made slow but steady progress across the sky.
“All right, forget I asked why. Just tell me what You want from me. If You’ll help me, I’ll do my best. Your way, God, not mine.” With a slow exhale, Ian pushed off from the truck and went inside.
The kitchen was a war zone every Saturday afternoon, and this day was no different. Scattered flour, crushed berries, heaps of crusted mixing bowls, and dribbling pies adorned the room.
At the center of it all sat two white-haired, old women, sipping tea and looking quite pleased with themselves.
“It was honey.” From Grace’s tone, this wasn’t the first time she’d said it.
“It was bread.” Maggie set her teacup down with a clank. “Tell her, laddie.”
Too late for escape—they’d seen him. “What’s this?”
“Manna,” Grace said. “In the desert. God sent it from heaven every morning.”
“Aye.” Out of habit, he went to the bunker and swept a critical glance over the pies.
“They crrrushed it up and made porridge from it,” Maggie said, her words rolling low and burry like an old storyteller.
“No, they made it into cakes. Honey cakes.”
With a grunt, Maggie rose from her seat and padded to the cupboard, shaking her head.
Grace’s voice rose. “It came with the dew every morning and all they had to do was go out and gather it up. They always had plenty.”
“Not plenty,” Maggie fired over her shoulder. “They were only allowed to take enough for the one day. If they took extra, it got maggots.”
“When I said plenty, I meant enough. It’s the same thing.”
“Och,’tis not.” Maggie turned to Ian. “Have some tea, laddie. There’s plenty.” She snorted and pulled out a cup.
Grace set her cup down gently. “Can ye imagine going to bed every night without a crumb to yer name? All they had at the end of the day was the good Lord’s promise to provide again in the morn.”
“Sit.” Maggie shuffled toward Ian with a cup and saucer.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll leave you ladies to your stories,” Ian said. “Two’s company, three’s a crowd.”
Aunt Grace lifted a quick smile. “Ooh, no. You must stay.”
Ian sighed. “For a minute then.” He pulled out a chair, shoved the clutter aside, and sat down.
The week-old honeysuckle bouquet still sat in the middle of the table. Though beginning to droop, it still gave off that haunting scent.
This wasn’t right—the three of them having tea without Emily. For more than two years, the four of them had exchanged countless letters over tea. Emily’s absence sent a cool, hollow feeling over him, like a swiftly moving shadow.
God could heal her. He’d done far more amazing things.
You want a miracle, but have you taken a look at the one you’ve already been given?
As Ian mulled on that thought, Maggie set a cup near him and poured from her teapot. “We saw our old house in Baillieston. They turned that drafty old place into a fancy gift shoppe.” She clucked and shook her head. “Ye believe me now, eh, Gracie?”
“Do they know about the tree in the backyard?” Grace’s pale eyes danced with girlish delight. “Did they see what Liam carved in it for ye?”
Maggie snorted and plopped onto her chair. “Havers.”
Ian’s studied his grannie. “What’s this, Maggie? Love notes from Granddad?”
“Hoo-hoo.” Grace chuckled.
Maggie’s nose and cheeks burst with bright splotches. “Ye’re not the only MacLean who can swap secret letters.”
Ian frowned into the murky contents of his teacup. What else did the old woman know?
“Thomas slipped me notes when we were at the University.” Grace chuckled. “When we worked in the clinic.”
“At Glasgow University?” Ian asked. He grabbed a scrap of paper, scribbled a note, and shoved it into his pocket.
Grace nodded. “We had a lovely time then.” Her smile faded. “But it was a sad time, too. I wanted to be with Emmy. With her precious mum gone, Emmy’s poor father ...”
A familiar twinge tugged at Ian’s chest.
“So she was a wee child then?” Maggie asked.
“Fifteen,” Ian said much too quickly.
Maggie smiled and slurped her tea.
“I did love being in Scotland, but I needed to go back for the lass.”
Maggie poured more tea for Grace, but the pot clanked hard against her cup. “And go back ye did. I never saw ye again.”
“Och, Maggie. Ye’ve had Ian here. And Claire and her lovely, wee family. Ye’ve not needed me.”
“Who said anything about needing ye?” Rising from her chair, Maggie took the empty scone plate and stomped to the stove for more.
Grace reached over and laid a hand lightly on Ian’s arm. “Such a dear young mon. Maggie is blessed to have ye and Claire so close.”
Ian put his cup down and turned to his aunt. “Did Claire take you to visit the university hospital when you went to Glasgow?”
Aunt Grace shook her head. “No. There was not enough time.”
“I’ll take you then, if you fancy a tour.”
“Ooh.” Grace patted his arm. “That would be lovely.” She sipped her tea and smiled.
“Aye, lovely,” Maggie chortled as she returned to the table. “A whole day footerin’ about in a hospital.” She thrust her pudgy, red nose close to her sister’s face. “Best keep yer eyes open, Gracie. I’ve heard tales of old folks like ye going in for a visit and never coming out again.”
“Never?” Aunt Grace lowered her cup. “Ooh, dear.”
Ian stifled a chuckle. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’m going too.” Maggie set the pot down with an exasperated grunt. “If ye’d stayed here where ye belong, Gracie, there’d be no need for all this foolishness.”
“Margaret Agnes, I had to go back. Emmy needed me. Her dear mum wanted the lass properly cared for. Ooh, if Jess could see her now, she’d be so proud. Emily turned out so lovely.”
“Aye, quite lovely.” Maggie cocked her head at Ian. “Dinna ye agree, laddie?”
Ian swallowed scalding tea with a loud gulp and set his cup down hard enough to rattle the saucer.
“Jess named Emily after a Wordsworth poem,” Grace said. “There was a heartsick young maid named Emily who ... ooh, dear, I can’t mind the whole of it now, but there were some lines about those flowers. How did it go, now?”
The old woman’s brow furrowed so deep that Ian grew half afraid she would have another stroke.
“I remember.” With eyes closed, Grace smiled. “She approached yon rustic shed/ hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread/ along the walls and overhead/ the fragrance of the breathing flowers/ revived a memory of those hours.”
Maggie grunted. “Woodbine. There’s no mistaking that scent.” She reached out and plucked a blossom from the bouquet on the table.
Ian frowned. “Woodbine? I thought this was honeysuckle.”
Maggie smiled and brought the blossom to her round nose. “Did ye now?”
“Woodbine is honeysuckle,” Aunt Grace said. “Jess loved it, and so does Emmy.”
“It turns up in such odd places.” Maggie sniffed the flower so hard the petals almost disappeared.
“Thomas says,”—Grace’s voice fell to a conspirator’s tone—“‘When words escape, flowers speak.’”
“Do they now?” The old woman leaned back in her seat and folded her arms across her bosom. “This bunch appeared on my table. I dinna ken how.”
Maggie’s hints didn’t go unnoticed, but nailing down the thought that kept springing to mind was more important.
Grace’s eyes grew round. “Maybe it was faeries.”
Maggie cackled long and loud.
The idea stirring in Ian’s mind suddenly took shape, like a painting when the key brushstrokes are applied. He sprang from his seat. “I’ve got things to do.” As he headed for the back door, their voices trailed him down the hall.
“I’ve always wanted to see a faerie,” Grace said.
Maggie chuckled. “I believe ye just did.”