Grandpa took influenza the day after Jess’ return, a mild case but enough to employ her waking moments with extra work. News headlines were riddled with the thousands of casualties from the epidemic. The larger cities brought the greatest numbers, but only due to their sizes. Percentages hit highs wherever the flu developed. A new name emerged from the throngs. The Blue Death.
She’d made one call to the hospital the day after her return to Hot Springs, only to have her questions dodged from one person to the next. Finally, after a heated conversation with a nurse, she learned August Holden was still alive but in very poor condition.
She prayed through her days as she moved among the patients and on her drive from the farm to check on her grandfather. Those moments, those snippets of conversations and meditations, blanketed her spirit with a powerful peace. A new understanding of God’s love for her shone in the smaller reflection of August’s. His letters proved a constant reminder and sweeping portrait of a faithful, relentless love.
God cradled her heart in this storm. Though shattered with grief and shaking with fear, her soul found an incomprehensible rest. How?
The truest love.
Unfailing.
Her next call to Asheville nearly shattered her newfound peace.
“We have no one by the name of August Holden in our hospital, miss,” the voice replied, indifferent to her plea.
“And what about August Reinhold?”
Papers shuffled and a muffled conversation followed. “No, miss. There is no current patient here by the name of August Reinhold or Holden.”
Jess thanked Mr. Leonard for the use of the post office’s phone, and her exhaustion paired with her erratic emotions ushered her tears to the brink. She drew the car up beside the farmhouse and gripped the steering mechanism, offering up another faltering prayer before leaving the vehicle.
Grandpa met her at the door. “What did you find out?”
“They have no one there by that name.”
Grandpa’s frown deepened, his gaze reflecting the darker turn of her thoughts. “You have to find him.”
Her throat closed. “You’re still weak, Grandpa.”
“I’m strong enough to manage, and finding our August will make me stronger still.”
Jess immediately set to work for the trip, sending a note to Cliff and Anna to share her plans and to beg for their prayers.
The hospital clerk in Asheville gave few answers when Jessica arrived. Jess’ breath shivered behind her mask as the seconds stretched and the woman shifted through papers in search of information.
“I’m sorry, Miss Ross, but an August Holden was taken to Asheville Cemetery four days ago.”
Heat drained from her head out through her body. “Asheville Cemetery?”
The woman hesitated before continuing. “One of the local cemeteries. He was buried on the lower side, near the river.”
Jess stared, unhearing. Her palm flattened against the counter for support, urgently searching the woman’s face for the lie. “No, that can’t be right.”
The woman folded her hands in front of her, her face impassive. “There are too many losses to count, too many condolences to share. I am truly sorry.”
She refused to believe it. Not August. No. She took the first taxi to the shadowed side of a vast field overlooking the French Broad. She refused tears access. Wouldn’t she feel something within her heart if a part of her died?
The gravestones scattered across the earth, as if thrown haphazardly across the green hillside. She followed the driver’s instructions to the far side of the cemetery, feeling relief as each stone revealed another name than the one she sought. She crested the hill, the sunlight glimmering off the river below, when gaze settled on a small stone surrounded by fresh earth.
August Holden
German Internee
October 10, 1918
She dropped to her knees into the red-tilled earth, her fingers tracing the letters, attempting to smudge them away. No, God. Please, no.
But the sweet name stared back at her, etched in stone much too cold and lifeless for her August. The old, familiar ache surged the trail to her heart. Grief arched out a wretched sob.
“Why? Oh, why August? Of all the men in the world, why him?” She lowered her face to the stone. “What can I do with my heart now?” Her voice broke. “He can’t be gone.”
She wept until her heart quivered from the effort and tears refused to come, until the afternoon light faded against the horizon. The last train to Hot Springs would leave soon. She pushed herself up and made the trek home. Everything suddenly lost color. The sounds dulled and a chasm of sorrow ripped open every wound from her past, shaking more tears loose.
I have loved you with an everlasting love.
Everlasting? She wiped at her tears and closed her eyes against the passing scenes out the train window.
“Hold me, Father. Hold me together for I’m breaking to pieces inside.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing the emotions tight and her fragile faith even tighter. “I can’t... I can’t hold on by myself.”
Whispers of comfort, threads of the truths that had become her ready companions, bound her trembling heart with immeasurable strength, binding with gentle care. She clung to the strip of peace, threads of promises, filling her mind with truths she repeated to her faint heart until she drew the car up to the farmhouse.
She stared at the welcome home, her feet faltering toward the door. No. She wasn’t ready to admit aloud the harrowing truth engraved in stone. No, not yet.
Autumn wind chilled her damp cheeks as she rushed through the back garden toward the forest. The orange hues of coming evening dusted over freshly fallen leaves along her path, creating a carpet of color. The grove of trees welcomed her down the path as a faithful friend, guiding her steps to the chapel. August’s chapel.
Fall’s shades provided a vibrant canopy of golds and reds. She had to make it to the chapel. She could weep there—pray there and touch the wood planks August lovingly set into place for her. For her. She stumbled, tears blinding her vision as the chapel appeared through an archway of autumn trees.
She waited for the sound of August’s hammering, for his occasional hum of some German tune, but only the birdsong met her, and she quickened her uneven pace.
The sanctuary smelled of pine and sweetness. Her smile quivered. He’d carved each intricate design at the front of the church, personalizing the tiny chapel with his special gift.
She removed her gloves and slid her palm over the wooden walls, placed piece by piece. Her feet drew her to the little closet, the place he’d couched her in his embrace against the storm. The haven where his heart irrevocably touched hers.
Changed and healed her.
And whether in his life or his death, she’d never be the same.
She’d learned how to hope from his love. How to find freedom and joy.
Discovered peace.
She opened the little closet door and pulled her weak body up the rickety stairs until she reached the stained glass window, shattered pieces forged together into a beautiful cross—restored and whole.
That was her.
Her life had been broken pieces, her heart a wrecked collection of jagged edges and blunt corners. August’s love, framed by God’s grace, pieced her heart and her spirit back together into something... someone stronger than before.
Oh, how she would miss him and the promise of what she’d hoped to have with him, but his love would linger in her faith and remain like fragrance through the rest of her life. She placed her hand over her heart, tears trailing over her cheeks.
Here.
The pain dug deep, to the bottom of her soul, but God’s love burrowed deeper still, cradling her to her core, couching her ragged spirit in incomprehensible peace.
Everlasting.
She reached a palm to touch the stained glass window. The sun shone through it, filling the steeple with a glorious halo of color and brightness. All the pieces, the light and the dark, merged together to form something beautiful.
Like her life... and August’s life. Each piece in God’s hands, no matter the edge, the shape, the color. He linked them together and formed something magnificent that many were unable to see until the sun shone through.
She rested her head against the glass and peered out into a world tinted in gold. A lone figure approached down the path toward the chapel, his steps slow and careful. Her grandfather had probably heard her arrive or seen her furious dash toward the chapel.
She stood up straight, ready to face him and to speak the pain aloud. The stairs creaked beneath her slow decent, feeling the weight of her wounds beneath the weight of her grief. The thick, wooden door of the chapel creaked open. She braced herself with a deep breath and lifted her eyes to the path, but the man approaching stood taller than her grandfather.
His shoulders were broader and hair, blonder.
Each closing step teasing an impossibility.
August?
She steadied her hand against the door frame.
His pale eyes bored into hers, sending her back a step. She blinked and wiped at her eyes, but he kept moving closer.
She shook her head, her breath lodged in a scream or a sob, she wasn’t sure which one. Every Appalachian ghost story and superstition she’d ever heard came to mind and inspired a chill down her spine.
He took the three steps to stand before her, his feet making strong thuds against the wood. Real... human... alive?
“I... I saw your grave.”
Dark shadows shadowed his eyes and his pale face marked the remains of his illness, but he slipped his warm palms across her cheeks, proving he was either very much alive or she’d gone mad.
She reached for the front of his shirt, gripping the cloth to make certain he was every bit flesh and blood. He seemed to understand the desperation, the irresistible need to touch, because all hesitation fled and he took her mouth and all her remaining senses into his kiss.
His arms captured her, wrapping around her and pinning her against his solid warmth, safe and whole. She sobbed against his lips, but refused to release him. Her palms slid up his back, gliding over the muscles as they flexed and rolled beneath her hands. Alive? She drew back only long enough to examine his face, ensure the nightmare had passed, before meeting his lips again.
His fingers slipped over her shoulders, leaving a wonderful caress of tingles up her neck before burying in her hair. Oh, what blessed grace! What sweet surprise!
This kiss surged with journeys from grief to hope, lost to found, brokenness to wholeness. She couldn’t get enough. Her fingers glided over his hair and his face, examining every detail. Yes, he was here, every beautiful piece. Her August.
August pulled her down to the step beside him and tucked her beneath his arm. Close. His sigh breathed over her hair as he pressed his cheek against her head.
“How? I... don’t understand,” Jess’ words quivered, breathless. She rested her hand on his chest, pressing her cheek to his shoulder for a deeper scent of pine.
“Nurse Riley exchanged my death tag with a lonely comrade of mine.”
Jess pulled back, searching his face. “She what?”
“He was a man as lost to his past as I. She gave him my name so that I could be free to come to you.” He shrugged, his grin growing. “August Reinhold is a dead man to this world, and this man before you is free to become whoever he wishes.”
She stared up in wonder, attempting to digest this new information.
He ran a thumb across her cheek, his own gaze glistening with unshed tears. “I have no history, no home, no name.” He braided his fingers through hers and drew their hands to his chest. “I have great hopes you’ll share yours with me.”
She laughed and grabbed his face in her hands, kissing him. “Yes.” She nodded. “For the rest of my life, yes.”
His laugh joined hers with the chorus of birdsong and the applause of the wind. They sat, arm-in-arm, beneath the stained-glass window, another example of brokenness restored.