Catherine, I can't see him. Not now. Maybe not ever." In the kitchen of her tiny cottage, Ellie propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. She had thought she had exhausted all her tears at Hazel's bedside and at the funeral. But here they were, forming a knot in her throat again, threatening to overwhelm her once more.
This time not for the dying, but for the living.
Ellie felt Catherine's hand stroking her hair, and she looked up. "I can't do it. Not after all this time. Tell him to go away—please."
"If that's what you really want, I'll tell him," Catherine said evenly. "But before you make that decision, there are a few things you ought to know"
"Such as?"
"I spoke with him at some length. Ellie, he's been absolved of any responsibility for the fire or for his wife's death. The authorities hadn't really counted him as a viable suspect—until he ran away, that is. Only when he disappeared did they begin to question his motives." She looked into Ellie's eyes. "What he told you was the truth. When he lost everything, he just gave up. Began to drift."
"And what about the ring—his first wife's engagement ring?"
"The ring was his mother's, just as he said. The rest was just rumor."
Ellie exhaled a ragged sigh. "So why didn't he tell me all this? Why did he just leave?"
"He saw the expression in your eyes that day, Ellie. You were afraid of him. You didn't trust him."
"No, I didn't. I couldn't help it. And how can I trust him now?"
"A wise old woman I once knew defined trust as 'risk taken and survived.' You won't know for sure, Ellie, until you take the risk."
"But it's been so long, Catherine. Why didn't he contact me? Why didn't he let me know what was happening, where he was . . . something?"
"There's been a war on, remember? Except for ration books and scrap drives, we've pretty much been isolated from the reality of it. But Rome hasn't. By the time everything was settled—the fire was ultimately determined to be an accident, by the way, caused by a cracked stovepipe—Rome was called up for service. He didn't want to try to explain in a letter, he said, but before he had a chance to get back here, he was shipped out. Spent nearly a year on the front before getting wounded, then was in and out of hospitals getting his leg put back together."
Ellie averted her eyes from Catherine's penetrating gaze. "So you think I should just welcome him back with open arms because he's wearing a Purple Heart? My patriotic duty, is that it?"
"I think you have a duty, yes," Catherine replied in a low voice. "But not to Rome. To yourself. If you send him away without ever talking to him, you may live with that regret for the rest of your life."
Something jerked in Ellie's mind, a sharp pain, as if a probe had pricked a sensitive area of her brain. Live without regret, Hazel Dennison had told her. Love. Forgive.
But how could she forgive someone who had abandoned her without explanation, a man who had professed his love for her and then left her in a heartbeat? She had almost gotten over him, almost begun to forget, and now . . .
"I'm not suggesting that you simply forgive him and pretend it never happened," Catherine went on as if she had read Ellie's thoughts. "But I do believe you owe it to him—and more importantly, to yourself—to give him a chance."
"He had his chance," Ellie snapped. "We don't get second chances in this life."
"Don't we?" Catherine smiled briefly and raised her eyebrows. "Isn't that what grace is all about—getting a second chance, even when you don't necessarily deserve it?"
Catherine's words sent a flush of shame coursing through Ellie's veins, and she felt heat rise up her neck and into her cheeks. Much as she despised admitting it, Catherine was right. Ellie had been given a second chance—an opportunity to make her life count for something, a miracle of hope in the midst of mind-numbing despair. When she had been at her lowest ebb, God had reached into her life and lifted her up on a tide of fresh challenges, new relationships, and an unaccustomed intimacy with the Almighty that had altered her life forever.
The Lord hadn't given up on her, even when she had been angry and bitter and completely hopeless. And she knew, with a sinking sense of inevitability, that she couldn't give up on Rome, either—at least not until she had heard him out.
"All right, you win," Ellie said at last. "I'll talk to him. But I'm not making any promises, understand."
Ellie wasn't quite sure what to expect as she followed Catherine into the front parlor, but what she saw certainly wasn't like any reunion she could have envisioned. Rome sat on the sofa, leaning back, his bad leg stretched out on a footstool, surrounded by most of the residents of the Eleanor James Home for the Elderly. Burgess Goudge had "Moonlight Serenade" playing full blast on the record player and was demonstrating his ability to dance like Fred Astaire, with his cane in one hand and a hatrack in the other. Mount Pisgah perched on Rome's chest, kneading his lapels and drooling on his medals. Frieda Hawthorne was squeezed in beside him, chattering about her most recent mountain panoramas and explaining watercolor technique in her high-pitched voice.
Burgess was the first to see Ellie. He abandoned the hatrack and swept her into his free arm for a dance. In the time it took them to make one circuit of the parlor, he had managed to croak into her ear, "Don't let this fella get away, honey. He's a winner."
When the music stopped, everyone, including Rome, was focused on Ellie. Frieda heaved herself off the sofa and tottered over to her. "Such a nice young man you have, child," she squealed happily, patting Ellie on the arm. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Rome pushed Pisgah to the floor, retrieved his cane, and tried to struggle to his feet. "Forgive me, Ellie, I—"
"Don't get up," she said, infusing her voice with as much iciness as she could muster. "I can see your attention is occupied."
"I was just getting to know some of your friends while I waited," he said smoothly. "And hoping you'd see me."
When he got up and began to walk toward her, his eyes locked on hers, Elbe's composure began to slip. His expression was so open, so hopeful, that despite her resolve to keep him at a distance, she felt drawn to him, as if she could see into his soul and witness the love that was still there. By the time he reached her, she was trembling.
"May I have this dance, Miss James?" He put out a hand and grinned. "It's been a long time since this old soldier has had the opportunity to dance with such a lovely lady."
Ellie's eyes went to the cane, to his twisted leg. "Is it all right? I mean, can you—?"
"I'm afraid I don't hold a candle to Burgess," he said with a wink as he tossed the cane onto the sofa. "But I can manage with a little help and support."
Burgess started the record player and the strains of Tommy Dorsey filled the parlor. "I'll never smile again, until I smile at you. ..."
Ellie made a face at Burgess over Rome's shoulder, but the soothing music and romantic lyrics worked their way into her heart, and she found herself relaxing in his arms. His grip tightened around her waist and pulled her close, and his lips brushed against her ear as he whispered, "I've waited so long for this. Give me a chance, Ellie, and I'll explain everything."
"I'll never love again, I'm so in love with you," the Dorsey singers crooned in the background. Within my heart, I know I will never start to smile again until I smile at you. ..."
When the song ended, wild applause broke out all around them. Frieda clasped her hands to her bosom and shrilled, "Oh, it's so romantic! Just like in the movies!" Ellie felt herself blush.
"Let's get out of here, okay?" Rome said softly.
She hesitated only for a minute. She hadn't wanted to be alone with him, but anything was better than this public display. "All right." She turned on her heel and made for the door, and, amid the laughter and applause, heard Rome's odd little step-scrape behind her.
Alone in Ellie's cottage, they both turned self-conscious. Ellie busied herself making coffee, and Rome wandered aimlessly through the rooms until he came full circle to the kitchen table.
"You've done a real nice job with this place."
"Correction. Catherine did a nice job. She had the additions done before I ever moved in here."
"Well, it's nice. Real nice. Hardly looks like the same cottage as it did when I—" He stopped mid-sentence and cleared his throat awkwardly.
"I know. I wasn't sure I could live here until I saw how different it—" Ellie, too, ended abruptly. "Cream and sugar?"
"Just black, thanks." He shrugged. "Like always."
She set two steaming mugs on the table and sat as far away from him as possible, which wasn't far enough, given the small dimensions of the table.
Rome toyed with his mug, turning it this way and that until coffee sloshed onto the wooden tabletop. "Sorry."
Ellie handed him a napkin. "It's okay."
"Ellie—"
"Rome—"
They both spoke at once, then lapsed into silence. Rome held out a hand. "You first."
Ellie shook her head. "No, you go ahead. You said you wanted to talk. I'm listening."
Rome chewed his lip and stared at his coffee cup. "For the past five years I've been planning what I would say to you," he began. "All that time on the front, and afterward, in the hospital. My biggest fear was that I might die before I had a chance to see you again."
"Forgive me for interrupting," Ellie said, "but I'd appreciate it if you'd just get on with your explanations. That's why you came back, isn't it?"
He reached a hand out toward her, and even though part of her longed to take it, to feel the tender touch of his fingers again, she kept her own hands folded in her lap.
"You still don't trust me," he said.
"Give me one good reason to trust," she shot back. "Five years ago you just walked away, and I haven't heard a word from you since."
"Didn't Catherine tell you that I was absolved of any suspicion in the fire, in Amelia's death?"
"She told me."
"But that's not enough."
"No, Rome, it's not enough. I trusted you—once, a long time ago. I gave my heart to you. But then you disappeared. What was I supposed to think? What, in heaven's name, was I supposed to do! Keep a torch burning, and rush back into your arms the minute you showed your face again?"
"No. I don't expect that."
"Then what do you expect from me, Rome Tucker?"
"I don't expect anything, Ellie. I just hoped you'd be willing to listen, to give me a second chance. I had to come back. I couldn't live the rest of my life regretting the fact that I didn't try."
Second chances. Regrets. Would she regret it too if she didn't give Rome a chance? Or, more importantly, if she didn't give God a chance to work in this situation?
She sighed and waved a hand. "All right. Go on."
"The day I left, I saw the look on your face when Tish Cameron told you about my past. It was all just rumor and misunderstanding, but I knew I couldn't make you believe that. I had to leave, Ellie. Had to go back and straighten it all out before I could give myself to you as a free man, with nothing hanging over my head.
"Once the authorities had a chance to question me, they immediately took me off their list of suspects. By the time they determined the cause of the fire and declared Amelia's death an accident, Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor and I was called up. I went into the army and got shipped overseas. Then I was wounded and hospitalized. But I never stopped thinking about you, Ellie. Never stopped loving you."
"Why didn't you write? Why didn't you at least give me some indication of where you were and what was going on?"
"I wanted to. I did, in fact, write to you. Dozens of letters."
"I never got them."
"I never mailed them. I'm not very good at expressing myself, Ellie. Everything I wrote sounded so hollow. I had to see you face to face. Had to be able to look into your eyes and see for myself whether you would ever be able to trust me again."
He got up from the table, went into the parlor, and returned with a small canvas bag. "Here," he said, pulling out a sheaf of letters and a file folder stuffed with official-looking papers. "These are the letters I wrote—at least the ones I didn't tear up." He handed them to her. "And this is a copy of the final police report, and a copy of my service record. It's all here—the whole history of the past five years of my life."
Ellie shuffled through the stack, and her heart did a series of flips when her fingers touched the sealed envelopes that bore her name.
"I prayed—every single day—that you wouldn't go off to school in Chicago or New York or some big city where you could vanish forever. That you wouldn't leave until I had a chance to see you again. To see you, and tell you I love you."
Ellie sat staring at the letters and papers, avoiding his gaze. She thought about that moment of decision when she had chosen to stay here and help Catherine with the James Home, rather than pursueing her dreams. Was it possible that other factors besides her fear had played a part in that decision? Factors such as Rome's prayers, or her own need to become the woman she was intended to be? Had God kept her here, waiting, for this moment—for Rome Tucker's return?
Yet she hadn't been waiting, not really. She had never even considered the possibility that he might come back. Instead, she had gone on with her life, had taken her second chance, and had, in the process, found a purpose and significance to her life far deeper than anything she had ever dreamed.
She thought about Catherine Starr, how the woman had helped her learn what it meant to listen to the Lord's voice and follow the Lord's direction. She thought about Hazel Dennison, who even in death had given her one of the great gifts of life. These and other forces beyond her imagining had figured into her decision to stay at the James Home. Was it possible that Rome Tucker was one of those hidden reasons—not the primary motive, perhaps, but one of those secret secondary works of God?
At last Ellie felt strong enough and sure enough to respond, and she raised her head and looked him in the eye.
"You have to understand, Rome," she said quietly, "that I am not the same person you knew when you left here. Back then, I was a girl, uncertain of my direction and willing to cling to any shred of hope for a future. In the years you've been gone, I've become a woman, and I've discovered my own relationship with God—a relationship that has become the most important factor in any decision I make. It hasn't been easy, but I'm no longer lonely or isolated or desperate. I have a life and a calling. I have a family. I have love."
She paused, and as the next words came to her, a sense of peace drifted over her soul like a warm blanket, a power of spirit engendered by the truth that filled her heart. "I don't need you, Rome, to make my life complete. But I am willing to consider the possibility that God has sent you back here for a reason. A very wise and loving woman recently told me that living without regret makes dying easy I can't make any commitments right now, but I don't want to go to my grave regretting the possibility that I rejected something God might have wanted for me."
She paused and smiled at him. "A long time ago, when you first asked me to marry you, I said I'd need some time to sort it out. I didn't want to accept your proposal out of desperation, the way a drowning person grabs onto the first bit of debris that floats by. Give me time now, Rome. Time to listen to God. Time to listen to my own heart."
"Take all the time you need," he said in a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."