THE past is a treasure too often forsaken and more difficult to retrieve than some might imagine. Though it’s relatively easy to amass a great deal of information, especially in the age of Google and computerized records, dates of renovations and shifts in design don’t tell much of a story.
Stories need drama. And drama is the purview of human beings. Lives which are ephemeral, fleeting, and fragile, lost to the ravages of time and the constant demands of change. Notches painstakingly cut into a doorframe to mark growing children and expanding families obliterated for the sake of a shiny, new finish. Entire rooms gutted and repurposed. The narrative of a generation stripped away with the outdated wallpaper.
Of course, traces remain, subtle and haunting. The burnish of the staircase handrail, for instance, a rare patina achieved only through touch—the skim of gloved hands in hasty descent, the grip of aged fingers for support at the end of an arduous day. A thousand caresses, each leaving an impression, all playing a part, and, for the house at 1621 Washington Street, every one made by a Briar.
Briar, derived from the English spelled b-r-a-e-r, the noun is commonly defined as any plant having a prickly stem, or a mass of said plants. In fifteenth-century England, when the word first came into use, it was common practice for homeowners to cultivate barriers of the thorny shrubs around their property in an effort to discourage unwanted visitors. To this day, no one knows if one such inhospitable family lent their name to the flora, or if it was the other way around. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. As Shakespeare so famously asked, What’s in a name? Does the rose not smell as sweet? Or, perhaps more apropos, the thorn cut as deep?
Thorns and roses, life and death, hard facts and sweeping drama, the story of Briar House is a study in contrasts. Generations struggling to live and love, quite literally, in the shadow of death. Some would succeed and some failed miserably, but all of them tried their best not to lose sight of a truth as fundamental to them as their very name. Beauty secrets among the thorns. You only have to look to find it.
* * * *
“For the longest time, I refused to even try.”
David lowered his head, crumpling the papers he’d been reading from in between his hands.
The morning after Ephie had told him she loved him, he’d woken to a note. I’ll be near, it read, the only other mark a perfectly penciled heart. He’d rolled onto his back, placing the crisp sheet of paper in the center of his chest as he’d imagined her drawing the small symbol, carefully forming each curving half and then painstakingly filling it with wispy, diagonal strokes.
She’d been true to her word, nearby throughout the day, though never close enough for his liking.
At the chapel, he’d caught her slipping into the last row. Her tentative smile had reassured him, even as it conjured images from the previous evening when she’d been on her knees before him. He’d shifted in his seat, earning a scowl from Meg severe enough to keep him in place, eyes front, for the rest of the service. At the cemetery, however, he’d been able to drink his fill. Ephie’d kept to the periphery, again, joining the semi-circle of mourners at the opposite side of the gravesite. The setting sun, low on the horizon behind her, had cast her in relief. Still, he’d sensed her gaze. And as his father’s body had been consigned to the earth, David had kept his focus on her, committing the details of her silhouette to memory.
Short, brown curls buffeted in the wintery wind. The quiet strength defined in her shoulders, the graceful arc of her arms disappearing into the angling of her crinoline-structured skirt. Despite the plunging temperatures and her platform heels, she’d been steady as a pillar.
He hadn’t realized how much her presence had comforted him until he’d stepped forward with his brother and sister-in-law to drop the blood red roses they’d been holding onto the top of the casket. When he’d looked up from the solemn chore, she’d been gone. And though he’d ached at her absence, for the first time in his life, David hadn’t felt alone.
He hadn’t seen or spoken to her since.
She meant it as a gift, giving him time to mourn, to think, to consider his options. But as the days had gone by in tortured succession, his choices had narrowed to one—her. What he didn’t know was if his words would be enough to make her believe it.
“Until you”—he sought Ephie out, twenty pairs of eyes following his lead—“reminded me of the sanctity to be found in death, the salvation possible in remorse, that love can bloom even under the starkest conditions.”
She sifted in her seat, but her gaze didn’t waver, her lips parting as he continued to stare.
“I wish I could say, like your name, it all hit me like a thunderbolt out of the blue. Perhaps then we might not have wasted so much time doubting one another. But the changes have come over me slowly, though no less profound, making me see things I’d tried my best to bury in the shadows.”
As if in a trance, Ephie got to her feet, fingertips trailing over the desktop as she started toward him. He waited until she stood in front of him before reaching out to cup her face in his hands.
“You’ve reminded me, Epiphany Jones, of my own dreams. The ones I once had for my future. And the idea of facing it without you…Please, fireball”—he faltered, suddenly afraid the words capable of convincing her simply didn’t exist—“Please tell me I don’t have to.”
Her sweet smile clarified the tears tracking her cheeks. And beneath the familiar press of her hands, his heart swelled with relief.
“Oh, David,” Ephie whispered. “How I love you.”