“You’ve been awful quiet this afternoon.”
Jess stopped at the bottom of the stairs to meet her grandpa, still working to control her emotions from the earlier conversation with Anna. Something in her head, the rational part of her, shouted out the ridiculousness of her prejudice. The utter lunacy of such narrow-minded assumptions. But her heart ached with the weighty cost of another man’s lust and the reigning grief of hundreds of lost lives in a devastating war.
“Coming home is harder than I thought.”
He nodded, tugging his pipe from his pocket. “I’d imagine so, and it’s not been so easy this first month.”
She rubbed her forehead. “No, Grandpa. It hasn’t.”
“Let’s go for a walk, like old times.” He gestured with his chin toward the front door, hinting to their weekly path along Spring Creek they’d taken when she was a child. “You just put the baby down for a nap and Jude’s helpin’ Granny with some biscuits.” His brows wiggled with playful temptation and loosed her resolve.
“Sounds like a good idea.”
They checked with Granny before stepping off the large front porch for the tree-lined trail. There was something magical about this path with its rosy dogwood entrance framing the way into a mountain laurel wonderland. The rhododendron, hiding among the fleshing leaves of the laurel, bowed to the newer blooms of summer, only to have both eventually fade to the brilliant quilt of autumn leaves. Home.
Scraps and Lightning bounded after them, dancing about each other like two overgrown rabbits. They’d found kinship with each other too.
Grandpa and Jess walked in silence a while, the vibrant whistle of the busy birds serenading a lazy summer afternoon. Honeysuckle air brought a cool touch to Jess’ cheeks as their easy pace crumpled old leaves underfoot.
“I don’t imagine we’ll have much more afternoons this cool with summer closing in.”
“Probably not.”
The stillness seeped deep, whispering to her battered soul, calling her from her solitude. Her grandpa’s intent, no doubt. She breathed in the sweet air and almost felt a prayer slip from the recesses of her pain. A child’s cry. A weary reach for help.
“When I lost my parents three months apart from each other, I sought out the comfort of God in these forests. Your granny and I would take long walks, and sometimes, we wouldn’t say a word, only listen. Listen for God to speak to our hearts. Touch us with comfort.”
They took a few more steps. “And what did He say?”
Grandpa offered her a grin from his periphery. “Well, for a long time, I didn’t hear him say anything at all. Same thing happened after your mama died. I was overcome with sorrow, too busy listening to the sound of my own voice asking God why.”
The words came with a gentle sting.
“But then, after the pain started to subside and I began to see clear again, He spoke. His comfort came from the same place it’d always been. In his Word. I read, He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
The irony. As a nurse, her occupation, by definition, was to heal, to bind brokenness, so why couldn’t she cure her own shattered insides? She craved healing, the soothing freedom of a quiet heart, but feared it at the same time. It came with a cost.
What would she lose if she relinquished her anger, her fury at the man... and his people who had caused such harm to so many? What price would God require her to pay in exchange for an ounce of peace?
Wounds hollowed her out. Fear prickled the remains. How could she keep living this shattered life? This ghost-walk of an existence? Two choices rose from the silence—either a hard heart or a mended one.
“That same Psalm goes on to talk about God’s greatness. He names the stars and calls down the snow. Makes the wind blow and the rains come. But none of those big things make him happier than His children finding hope in His steadfast love.”
Jess stopped and faced her grandpa, her gaze searching his. “Steadfast? How can his love be steadfast when there is death and destruction going on in every corner of this world? What kind of love lets thousands of young men die in a senseless war? Or leaves two children orphaned to whoever will take them? Or... or allows a drunken German soldier to steal the innocence of his captive?” Tears blurred her grandpa’s face, but he moved, embracing her in his thick, strong arms.
She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his two worlds. Pine and lye soap. Pipe tobacco and the faintest hint of peroxide.
“I’m sorry, little girl.” His deep voice rasped with the pain, searing her middle. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop those wounds from finding you. So sorry you were the victim of a broken man’s evil. I can’t tell you why it happened, but I can tell you that the temptation to wall yourself up inside will only hurt you worse. The anger will harden you to any good feelin’ of the sweetness of this life and the tender touch of love.”
“But how can you trust Him? When all these bad things happen? How can He be steadfast?”
“Steadfast means that His love stays the same though the whole world falls apart. He promises to hold you, especially when your heart breaks from hands of broken people. He’s holding you right now, girl. Better and more certain than I ever could, because he holds your soul. As scarred and crumbled as it feels, His fingers are gliding over it, healing and molding and shaping it into something new. Something stronger because of His love. Steadfast doesn’t mean the storm ends. It means there’s unshakeable safety in the middle of the storm.”
“I hate storms.” Her words trembled.
Her grandpa wiped a tear from her cheek with his wrinkled palm. “Then let Him be your shelter. The world can be mad all around you, but your heart can know His peace no matter the storm. No matter the pain others put upon you. He promises to heal you.”
She clung to Grandpa, weeping into his shirt until the sobs subsided in a withered breath.
His soft, deep voice rose into the quiet. “Dear God, you who named the stars and set the planets in place. Who formed those destined for good and those for ill. Oh, God of the broken and lonely, scarred and rejected. Father to fatherless and home for the foreigner.”
She stiffened at his reference, but then breathed out some of her anger on a sigh.
“Comfort my girl. Take this burden she keeps holding, a burden too big for her to carry, and drench her hatred with your sweet mercies. Overwhelm her with your presence so she will see the goodness of your hands and the greatness of your love. And...”
The hitch in his voice pierced her so deeply, a fresh wave of tears warmed her eyes.
“And, Father, give her the strength to forgive the unforgiveable so that she can be free from bitterness. Open her eyes.”
She pulled back and looked up at him. “Open my eyes?”
His palm bushed away another tear. “Oh, honey, grief and anger make us blind. You’re so busy staring at your empty hand, you’ve failed to see how full the other one is.”
He squeezed her shoulders and offered his own teary-eyed grin. “We all miss your mama, but her strength is still alive in you. Her courage is too.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re braver than you think you are.”
Jess looked down at the trail, her heart wrestling for peace, for truth.
“I’m going to go on back and help your granny with the young’uns. Why don’t you take a little while and come on home when you’re ready?”
She nodded.
“And maybe you can bring in a few of them apples on your way back. I bet we can convince your granny to cook up some apple turnovers for breakfast. They always made you feel a little better when you were small.”
Jess grinned and wiped at her nose like a little girl. “They did have some magical qualities to them.”
“What would she say about those sour apples and her dessert?” He looked up at the sky. “Some sour and some sweet...”
“Make this apple treat complete,” Jessica finished.
He raised a brow and gave her shoulder a final squeeze. “Food for thought, I’d say.”
With that, he walked away, disappearing behind the curve in the path toward home.
She couldn’t recall how long she stayed there among the flowers and squirrels, waiting for a peace she used to know but which lingered just beyond her grasp. What did her grandfather mean by her hand being full?
She looked down at her left hand. A residual scar from the explosion made a curve from her wrist to the middle of her palm. She’d lost friends, almost lost her brother, lost a piece of her innocence, lost a friend in childbirth, lost her ability to walk without a limp or hear well from one ear. She turned over her right palm and looked at it, the hand smooth and unhindered by the effects of war. What did she have left?
She balled up her fist and stared upward. Paint strokes of white clouds breezed along in the faded blue sky. “I... I don’t know how my grandparents can see your love inside this pain and I’m not inclined to go along without good cause, so...” She glanced around the forest, waiting, wondering, and the little girl inside of her hoping this fairytale might be true. “So, if you are in the middle of all this mess, show me.”
***
Jessica tucked a final apple into her burgeoning apron before stepping out of the forest in sight of the farm house. Whether from the crying on her grandfather’s shoulder or the fresh air of the day, the heaviness from earlier had lifted a little. As she came to the front porch steps, the sound of laughter from behind the house piqued her curiosity. She unloaded the apples onto the porch and made her way around the side of the house, stopping at the back corner to take in the sight.
August Reinhold stood, holding Sylvie’s arm with a badminton racquet, while Jude waited across the net with his own racquet in hand. Evidently, from the gentle instruction and occasional laughter, he was trying to teach the children badminton. Sylvie kept trying to turn around to see his face. Jude’s intense focus caused him to hit the birdie too hard. All the while, August kept attempting to teach, unscathed by the complete futility of the effort.
Jess leaned against the house, watching him from her shadowed perch. He crouched behind Sylvie, his khaki slacks and white button-up still giving him a fashionable look despite his current occupation. A special sort of tenderness enveloped him in some strange way, a gentle strength. The way he cupped Sylvie’s hand with his own against the racquet, his cheek pressed to hers as he helped her practice her swing, most likely to help her feel the vibrations of his speech at her ear. Gentle.
So different from her attacker.
Lt. Snyder, the true name of the spy who captured her and her brother, never stooped to dirty his clothes for the pleasure of a child. Not while he playacted as a Belgian doctor on the Front lines and certainly not after he’d revealed his true identity to Jess and David at gunpoint. He’d been harsh, forceful, taking exactly what he wanted from those subordinate to him. And though he hadn’t been able to completely violate her in his attack, he’d done enough to leave a stain of shame on her soul. She pinched her eyes closed at the naked memory... his rough hands on her skin... his heated breath scraping across her lips to her neck.
She forced her attention away from the ravaged remains of those memories and frantically searched for hints of duplicity in the countenance of the man before her. Sylvie snatched the racquet from him at one point, tossed it to the ground, and grabbed his face in her hands, fussing at him in an animated fashion. August’s deep laugh drifted to her from the field, pricking her frown to respond.
Her lips complied and her heart pushed against the boundaries of her hurt.
Sylvie pushed at August until he fell from his crouched position into the grass and after a second’s hesitation, Jude joined Sylvie in piling on top of the vulnerable sailor. August’s laugh continued, warm and inviting, intermingled with Sylvie’s infectious giggle. Jessica lost her hold on her smile as it spread wide, pinching into her cheeks.
In that moment, as August stood from the ground, Sylvie hooked to one of his legs and Jude clinging to his neck in a vain attempt to bring the man down again, his gaze found hers across the yard. His unfettered smile, broad and alive, froze. He raised a brow, his gaze beckoning her to enter his world of laughter and children and unbridled joy.
And something her heart understood that her mind didn’t.
She paused, grappling her expression back to neutral, waiting as Jude’s weight finally won against August’s balance and they both toppled to the ground again. She emerged from the shadows of the house and walked forward, each step closer to the cheerful bunch.
“I’ve never learned this rule of badminton, Mr. Reinhold. Is it part of the German version?”
He sat up, picking off Jude then Sylvie carefully and placing them on the grass with a tickle or two in the process. It was very difficult to remain cross with such a man.
“I’m afraid my students became distracted.”
She folded her arms across her chest, examining him as he rose to his feet. “Clearly.”
He dusted off his trousers with his hat and then replaced the latter back on his head, peeking at her from beneath the rim. “You could do better?”
“Probably. At this rate, it will be winter before you have one rally.”
“Is that a challenge, Miss Ross?”
She laughed. “I don’t need to challenge you, Mr. Reinhold.”
He matched her pose, his arms folded. “I could best you, I think.”
She slipped her palms to her hips, giving his full body a cynical perusal. “From what I just witnessed, that’s doubtful.”
“You play me?”
“No.”
He grimaced and then some thought must have spurned a mischievous smile. “You are afraid I will best you?”
Her laugh spilled loose again, and the residual warmth of his teasing ushered her own response. “Oh no, I won’t lose, dear Mr. Reinhold. I just don’t like to see grown men cry.”
His grin spread wide again in a way that let her know what she said pleased him, though she couldn’t figure out how. Her sassy comments rarely evoked much except scorn or a reprimand.
“Bold words.” He ushered his palm toward the playing field, then slid her a look. “I promise to be easy on you.”
Her smile faded and she stood up straighter. “Easy on me?” Her lips pursed tight and she stepped closer, hoping her glare singed his perfect grin. “Because of my leg?”
“Oh no, Miss Jesse.” He stared back, his brow raised in pure innocence. “Because you are a woman.”
A shock of air burst from her lungs. She held out her palm. “It’s a challenge, Mr. Reinhold.”
He took her hand, his grin tilted in his mesmerizing way, and she suddenly realized what had happened. She’d walked readily into his trap, and for some reason, she wasn’t half as infuriated as she ought to be.
“But the match will have to wait until... later?”
“Ah, I see. You’ve suddenly realized you’ve overcommitted yourself?”
He removed his hat, unveiling his rebel curls. “Oh no, my dear Miss Jesse. I promised Sylvie and Jude a treasure hunt before I return to camp this afternoon.”
“A treasure hunt?” She crossed her arms again, the fire of a new argument animating her tongue. “How convenient.”
He raised his palms in admission of his blamelessness. “I speak the truth. You can ask Jude or Sylvie. We have a very special treasure hunt to make.”
“It sounds highly suspicious, Mr. Reinhold.”
She bestowed her most narrow-eyed gaze. He didn’t even flinch. In fact, his grin teased wider. “You are right.” He leaned close enough that his breath taunted chills across the skin at her cheek. “We are on a secret mission to collect information for the Kaiser, all hidden within the woods of your fair town.”
She rolled her gaze up to his, his face close, his scent of pine even closer. “And you just shared your vital information with your enemy.”
“You are not my enemy, Miss Jesse.” He wiggled his brows. “Until you are across the net from me.”
She shoved his shoulder to created distance from his enticing warmth. “Fine. Go off on your treasure hunt.”
Those periwinkle eyes held her attention for a moment longer, the gentle tug toward him opening a dormant curiosity. Trust him? Her breath hitched at the terrifying possibility. Trust a German? Again?
Mercifully, August turned his attention to Jude. “Jude, collect Sylvie for our walk. Our treasure hunt is too exciting for Miss Jesse today.”
She stared at the back of his head, hoping her vision left the slightest mark. But it would be a shame to scorch such lovely hair. “I like adventure as good as the next person, but I have work to do. Dinner, in fact. And a baby to see to.”
She gestured up toward the porch where Granny sat with Sylvie in her arms.
“Don’t mind us none, Jess honey. We’re fine as can be.”
Jessica’s shoulders slumped. Granny was no help at all with excuses.
Jess turned back to the trio, but they were already walking away from her, starting for the path through the woods toward the chapel. Sylvie rode on August’s back like an oversized and adorable knapsack in frilly rose. Jude walked beside him, one strap of his overalls falling over his shoulder, reminding her of how young he really was. Vulnerable. And hers.
Her heart squeezed as they disappeared into the forest. Afternoon sunlight filtered haloed hues through greenery, creating a golden archway of shade and sun, beckoning her to follow.
August Reinhold was an infuriating man. Argumentative and abrasive men, she understood, even overtly flirtatious and obvious like Jasper Little, but calm and quiet confidence? A man who appeared to hold the same tender heart she loved in her grandfather, father, and brother, yet with a distinctly more distracting smile? No, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
She glanced up to the porch. Granny grinned, patting Faith as she slept on her shoulder.
“Well?” Her granny’s brows rose.
Jess released a body-shaking sigh. “Fine. I’ll be back soon.” She raised a finger to her grandmother to make her point. “Very soon.”