A brisk February wind blew through the farm before sunrise, seeping into cracks in the old cottage. This was the coldest morning yet.
Ian bundled up and went to the main house to stoke the fire for Aunt Grace and Maggie. Then, as the sun rose, he hiked over the brae to the cemetery. He stepped over the fence and crouched low near Katy’s stone, his breath coming out in big, white puffs. “If You could, please tell her I don’t hate him anymore. I hope he makes things right with You and everyone else, for his own sake. Tell Katy I’m grateful for the time she and I had together. It taught me to value each day. I suppose You knew I’d need that.”
The sun’s first light broke over the hills to the east—a new day. He reached out to brush frost from the gravestone, but then stopped. He rose instead and left the stone untouched.
On the way back to the cottage, Ian continued to pray. First, thanks for the gift of a new day, then to ask for direction and the strength to follow, for Emily, himself, and their family.
Their growing family.
A slow smile spread across his face. With their foster-parent paperwork approved, and the adoption petition in the works, he and Emily were finally realizing what they had only dreamed of—the day they could bring Hector home.
The lad was crazy for fishing. He and Ian could work on art together. Or anything he liked to do—Ian was ready to try new things. Whatever it took to make the lad feel at home, like part of a real family.
A gust of wind ripped the door from his hand when he entered the cottage, slamming it into the wall.
Emily came out of the bedroom to meet him, a grin lighting her face.
He checked his watch. “Sorry, love, but Hector’s flight doesn’t land for several more hours. We have to wait. But if you insist, I suppose we could go early and pace the runway. I’m sure the airport staff will understand.”
Still grinning, she held something behind her back. “Funny. Guess what came by courier while you were gone?”
He opened the wood burner, stirred the fire, and latched the door. “A warrant for Maggie’s arrest? Ah, I knew it. It was bound to happen.”
“No.” She pulled out what she had hidden.
A book. A shiny, new children’s storybook.
“So it came.” He took Samson, the Super-Warrior and ran his fingers lightly over the bright, glossy cover. Examined the pages. Tried but couldn’t hold back a smile.
“It’s beautiful, inside and out.” Emily beamed. “Look at the cover. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“Not bad.”
“Not bad?” Emily huffed. “I’m sure the artist-slash-author would be deeply flattered to hear that.”
Ian met her gaze and held it. Love welled up, filling him with gratitude. “Aye,” he said softly. “The artist-slash-author is flattered. And honored.” He reached for Emily’s hands and wove his fingers through hers. “But most of all, he’s thankful.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. “Well, maybe you could tell him—if you see him—that I’m thankful too.”
“I think he’d say ... he couldn’t ask for anything more.”
Emily leaned close and planted a swift kiss.
The telephone rang.
She turned to get it, but Ian grabbed her and tugged her close. She laughed. “We should get that. It could be important.”
Ian shook his head and held her tighter. “That’s what answering machines are for. It’s more important to stay right here. Keeping warm.” He kissed her neck.
The phone continued to ring.
She wiggled free. “It could be Hec’s case worker.”
As Emily took the call, Ian waited, listening to her half of the conversation.
“That’s excellent news, doctor ... Of course, you’re very welcome ... Yes, it’s my pleasure to help.” Emily pulled the receiver away from her ear and whispered, “The Freyer’s Syndrome study at Glasgow University received full grant renewal because of my participation!”
Ian moved close to her side.
She tilted the phone toward his ear.
“—extremely indebted to you. I’m also calling to answer your question, Mrs. MacLean. Tests indicate that you are positive as a carrier, which means you run a fifty-percent risk of passing on the gene.”
Emily inhaled sharply and looked up at Ian. They already knew this, but wanted to make sure.
“As you know, your test results have given us reason to pursue new possibilities in our study. Based on our findings, we have been able to reclassify the heritability of this disease. Specifically, we have recently discovered that patients with a variant result such as yours can fully express the disease, or experience partial expression.”
Ian frowned. “Partial?” he whispered. “What does that mean?”
“It’s also possible for the disease to never express at all.”
Emily’s mouth hung open. “Never? Is there a way to know for sure?”
“I’m afraid only time will tell,” the doctor said.
The room spun.
Ian closed his eyes.
The voice on the other end went on. “Mrs. MacLean, you’re very healthy today. We will continue to monitor you and help you stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible.”
“Thank you.” Emily said something about her next visit, ended the call, and turned to Ian.
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t decide how to process the information.
Emily grasped his biceps. “Ian.”
He could only stare at the telephone. There was a chance that what his wife had wasn’t fatal.
“Listen, Ian, it doesn’t matter. Every day is a gift. Whether it’s one day or twenty days or twenty-thousand days. We only have one day at a time, any of us. If we’re doing everything we can with the gifts we’ve been given—like your beautiful storybook, or making a lonely child feel loved—then I can’t ask for anything more.” Eyes glistening, she caressed his face. “We’re already so blessed, Ian.”
He pulled her close and held her. “You’re right. None of us knows how long we have.” He brushed a lock of her hair from her brow and kissed her forehead.
Emily’s eyes closed and she smiled. “You will be an amazing father.”
He kissed her temple and murmured, “Aye. If I can manage Maggie, it’s a dead cert I can handle one young lad.”
Emily chuckled softly. “You manage Maggie? That’s funny, I thought it was the other way around.”
“Did you now?”
She rested against him. “He’ll know he’s wanted?”
He nodded “Every day.”
“Is that a promise?” She looked up at him.
“Aye.” He kissed her cheek. “Now do you remember what you promised when you married me?”
She feigned a look of strained concentration. “Um, that I’d laugh at all your dorky jokes?”
Ian frowned. “Hey. I thought that was a given.”
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “I promised to treasure every minute with you.”
“And ...?”
“And ...” she said, her expression softening, “to love you like there’s no tomorrow.”
He pulled her closer, held her tight. “Is that a promise?”
Emily nodded. “Aye,” she said in her best Scottish brogue. “That’s a promise.”