Wesley flipped the cover of his pocket watch for the sixth time. She was twenty minutes late. His emotions ranged from frustration, to disappointment, to worry. Even Miss Eloise was growing concerned.
Standing outside the library on the steps, he scanned the street as far as he could see. Throngs of people had streamed past the library steps on their way toward the tea on the lawn. Maggie was nowhere. He was ready to retrace their steps the night he’d taken her to the train station, thinking to board it and search Petoskey, when a newsboy ran up the steps.
“You Mister Hill, sir?”
“I am.”
The boy shoved a note into his hand and darted back the way he’d come. Unfolding the paper, Wes read:
Dear Wesley,
I cannot attend the tea with you today. It would be dishonest of me to do so.
Furthermore, I must end our academic agreement. I regret any disruption this may cause you and humbly ask for your forgiveness.
Sincerely,
Maggie
“Disruption?” Wesley rubbed his hand over his chest. Did she have no idea what it did to him, to call it only a disruption? He scanned the crowd for the messenger, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy, thinking to chase after him and find out where she lived. The urge to declare his true feelings pounded in his chest, but he was helpless to express them.
He wavered, then ran down the street toward the train station, weaving in and out of the crowd like a fish swimming upstream. When he reached the Bay View station, the train from Petoskey had just arrived. The boy was nowhere, but Wesley got on the train anyway, fighting his way against the crowd on their way to attend Big Sunday’s main lecture. Finding a window seat to watch for something, anything that might point to the direction the boy might have gone, Wesley’s blood stilled as he recognized the outline of his uncle’s hat and the shape of his shoulders in the midst of the crowd moving away from the train platform. The man’s identity was unmistakable as he strode toward Bay View’s curvy wooded streets.
Wesley stood inside the train car, straining his eyes just as Uncle Bernard turned down the street. He’d seen enough to confirm it. Uncle Bernard had been to Petoskey.
Did he have something to do with Maggie’s refusal?
Surely not.
Wesley slumped to his place by the window, careful not to squash the old man beside him in the seat. The man was dressed in work overalls with grass-stained knees. In his hands he held an old handkerchief full of rose petals that he arranged one by one as if they were golden treasures. Wesley sighed and ran his hands along his thighs, praying about what to do, how to find her. His library princess, the one Sam hadn’t believed existed.
Wesley heard nothing from above. No divine direction whispered in his heart or his mind. Sighing heavily, he ran his hands once more along his thighs, accidentally catching the tail of the man’s kerchief, sending the petals falling to the floor.
The man gasped and lunged forward to retrieve them.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” Wesley reached down and picked up the fragile petals, the waft of the roses familiar in some way.
The man handled each petal with great care, stacking them one by one back into the kerchief.
“These must be special to you.” Wesley held out his hand for the man to take the last three petals.
“They are for my daughter.” His eyes twinkled. “I tell her God’s perfume is sweeter than any store-bought kind.” He looked up with softness around his eyes and a bit of sadness. “And she believes me, but I wish I could give her more than my gardener’s wages can afford.”
“The smell is lovely, I’m sure she loves them because they come from your heart.” Wesley thought of Maggie. It would be something she would say. He sighed again.
“You are troubled today?”
The man had shared his treasure. Wesley reached in his pocket to share his sorrow. He unfolded the letter from Maggie for the old gent to see. Somehow sharing his ache eased his pain. The man was silent for a moment after reading it.
“Seems you’re a might more troubled than a missed chance for some tea or study with this lady.”
“That I am.”
“This Miss Abbott must be special.” The man’s voice cracked as he fingered the rose petal on top of the stack.
“Oh, that she is, but how I’m going to find her or tell her that before her mind is set, I don’t know.”
“Are you a man of faith? You trust every footstep to the Lord who provides?” The train was coasting toward a halt. The man looked directly up at him, something familiar about his eyes.
“I am. I do, sir.” A peace settled into the place where tumult had churned.
“Then trust the Lord. A rose worth choosing is worth the thorn that may prick when you first reach for it.” The man took a petal from the kerchief and gave it to Wesley before standing and weaving his way into the crowd exiting the train.
Maggie knew she’d done the right thing, but she couldn’t distract herself from the onslaught of questions she knew was coming. How would she face Miss Eloise? Would Father see her heart when she explained?
She tried reading, but her thoughts strayed from the page.
Of course she had refused Wesley based on honesty. Wasn’t that noble? Then why couldn’t she shake the feeling that she’d still not been entirely truthful somehow? But she had been, hadn’t she? Maggie tossed the novel aside and went to the small kitchen to start dinner preparations. Better to be busy.
She heard the door open and close as she set the table and recognized her father’s step into the room behind her.
Sometimes when he came home tired, knees hurting, he was quiet, and she understood when he went to bed early. Tonight’s silence as he shuffled off his work boots and found his chair at the table meant more long hours trying to keep her thoughts busy. Normally she welcomed the chance to enjoy the evening reading, but that was ruined for the night. Maybe even ruined for a lifetime.
Maggie sat down across from her father, feeling the acuteness of her own misery as they bowed their heads to pray.
“Father who provides all, provide my lovely daughter with the wisdom to know when You’ve sent her the right man to spend her life with.”
Tears stung Maggie’s eyes and her throat grew thick. She stared at her plate, unable to look up.
He set his handkerchief of rose petals beside her plate and laid his hand across hers.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Why didn’t you tell me this Mr. Hill is in love with you?”
She jerked her gaze upward. “Love? He’s not in love with me. It was only supposed to be tea.”
“Then why are you crying? You didn’t want to tell me you have feelings for him?”
“Is it so obvious to others yet not to me? You only assume he returns my affections.” She shuddered, seeing the disappointment in his eyes. “Oh Father, I didn’t want to hurt your pride.” Maggie swiped another tear. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t happy with my life, the life you’ve given me.” Her lip quivered.
“Well, dear girl. A father feels a great many things when he thinks his girl might be falling in love, but having my pride hurt isn’t one of them.” His assuredness and calm only undid her further.
“I’m not in love with him. It was just a schoolgirl agreement to help him with an assignment. I—I turned down the invitation to tea.” Her appetite vanished. She couldn’t breathe through her nose.
He still held his hand over hers. “I’m old. But I once watched your mother fall in love.”
“Well if this is what it feels like, it’s terrible.” Tears and sobs matched her declaration as she pushed away from the table to escape to her room, shutting the door behind her.
Letting the torrent of tears erupt, she emptied her heart as she lay on the bed.
Why was being honest so unbelievably painful?
Wasn’t cutting Wesley Graham Hill out of her life supposed to bring everything back to the way it had been before?