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Claire had arrived in the city last evening, too late to pay this visit. Now, as she entered the Crown Hill Cemetery through the arched entrance, she carried with her less guilt and grief than in the past.
With the death of their first child, she and Richard had purchased plots on this high point, or “crown,” overlooking the center of Indianapolis to the south. Though only the bones of her husband occupied the tiny plot of ground, it seemed fitting for him to be in a spot that would face the type of buildings he’d dreamed of designing.
Only days ago, she would have followed that thought with “but never had a chance because of her.” Yes, she’d let hurt distract her from realizing the danger the day he died. However, the voice of blame no longer haunted her to the extent she’d allowed it to for two years. All that was left was a sadness in knowing her last words to Richard were said in anger.
Claire had learned her lesson the hard way and prayed that, once she returned to Riverport, Mark would be willing to see the change in her. Until then, she must say goodbye to her old life, her old fear.
While wandering down the path toward her destination—an open area that held rows of headstones and small monuments to loved ones—she focused on the sounds of the birds chirping in nearby trees and relished the warm, soft breeze that danced across her face. The cheerfulness of nature kept her mind off the somberness of the occasion.
Past visits had never failed to wrench every ounce of emotion from her and wring her dry of tears. Today, a sense of serenity replaced the impulse toward melancholy—a hard-fought-for serenity, but one that assured her that she’d begun her life’s next journey on the right path. What lay ahead, whether comfort or distress, she had no idea, but she’d walk with the courage of knowing that God, not fear, accompanied her.
Claire encountered numerous people out for a stroll through the park-like setting, people who might not have anyone interred here, but who enjoyed the lovely surroundings.
The section where Richard was buried came into view, as did the gentleman standing at his gravesite. She squinted to identify him, and her stomach dropped. George. Why had he picked now to pay his respects? In fact, why pay his respects at all to someone he’d elected to forget?
She thought about turning around and coming back later but trudged through the grass to stand beside George, her attention on her husband’s headstone. The once-pristine sandstone marker was soiled by two years of dust and dirt.
On either side of the grave, two smaller headstones poked from the ground. Headstones planted in memory of lives never lived.
“Claire.”
“George.”
At the end of the curt greeting, they stood mute. Claire struggled for something to say. An apology might be in order. Yet...
Finally, George filled the awkwardness. “Do you remember the time Richard and I inspected the abandoned Cascade Hotel?”
The memory of the decrepit building in a small town north of here brought a reluctant smile to her lips. “You looked it over in order to prepare plans to renovate it.”
“We examined every corner.”
“That’s when Richard caught a glimpse of a ‘cat’ slipping around a corner.”
George chuckled. “He insisted it be safely removed from the building before any work began, so we set off to chase it down.”
The memory widened her smile. “I burned his clothing and made him sleep outside that night.”
“You burned mine, too.” George laughed. “I still can’t understand how he mistook a skunk for a cat. From then on, I never let him forget his spectacles.”
Claire joined him in laughter. “Poor Richard. I’d never seen him more embarrassed.”
The merriment over the story died off. “Did you know he lost a project with Harris Lefler because of me?”
George’s chin dipped to meet his chest, and he didn’t respond for several moments. “Did he?”
Of course, he knew, but she accepted his answer as a kindness.
“No matter what you think, I really did care about Richard. He was my best friend.” He turned to face her. “I’d like to put aside our differences and be your friend, too.”
Claire crouched and, after removing a glove, pulled the stem of a dandelion from the base of the headstone. She blew on what was left of the fluff, sending it floating on currents of air, and taking the time to think about George’s request.
“I very much wish to remain angry with you, George. I wish to, but I can’t. Richard wouldn’t want us at odds, because you were his best friend, too.” She slipped the glove on, and he helped her to stand. “That was a nice thing you did for Mr. Gregory.”
“I didn’t do it for him, though I’ll admit to being sorry he didn’t make it to the next round in the competition. I wouldn’t have minded defeating him in the end.”
As anticipated, Mark’s design was rejected. For once, Claire felt no self-reproach. Sadness, yes, but she wasn’t responsible for the bigotries of others, only her own.
They both reached out and touched the headstone a final time before George walked Claire back to the cemetery’s entrance. Without giving it a second thought, she kicked her resentment of him into the past where it belonged. She laid a hand on his arm and gave a gentle squeeze. “Goodbye for now, George.”
“Goodbye, Claire.” George’s brow furrowed, his attention behind her. “You came with him?”
She turned toward the man pacing within the arched gateway into the cemetery twenty yards away. “No.”
Not long ago, she would have considered Mark’s presence here an insensitive intrusion. Today, her heart sang with delight.
“Clearly, someone else waits to take Richard’s place.” George grinned and walked away.
Claire shook her head. That was the George she remembered.
Before meeting with Mark, she paused to observe him. Hope rose like those dandelion seeds on the air currents. Surely, he had come for one reason. For her.
***
WAITING AT THE GATE, Mark paced while Claire talked to George Brant. Would she be outraged that he’d come, that he’d intruded on her time of remembrance?
Had it not been for her father’s recommendation and blessing, he’d have remained in Riverport and met her at the train station on her return. However, Mr. Pittman believed his daughter needed him—today and in the future.
Now what was he to do? He hadn’t expected to see her with Brant, much less see her touching him.
Brant noticed Mark and said something to Claire. When she turned, Mark searched her expression for pleasure or dismay. She had mastered neutrality.
Brant crossed the lawn toward him. “I cannot say I’m surprised to see you.” Then he walked away before Mark could respond.
Mark put one foot in front of the other, his gaze locked on Claire. She met him halfway. He’d prepared himself for the awkward meeting given the circumstances of their parting.
He was here, beside her, even though it eluded him as to where to begin. “This is a beautiful place.” He was content to speak of the trivial until their feet landed on a more important topic.
“Yes.” She glanced around. “How did you find me here?”
“Your father.”
“Pa?”
“We talked for some time last night. He told me where you went...and why. I think I’m growing on him.”
“He isn’t as severe as he came across the first time you met or the day of my move.” Claire walked toward the entrance gate, her steps slow and precise, and he followed. “I’m sorry about the Lefler competition.”
“How did you know?”
“George.”
Mark eyed the man as he climbed into a waiting carriage. How had he discovered it? It didn’t matter. “The whole thing was my fault. I’d heard the rumors when it came to his opinion of working women. I should never have put you in the position of dealing with Mr. Arbuckle.”
“You had no one else.”
“I could have sent my mother.”
“As I recall, you did.”
“To be honest, besides providing a chaperone for you, I’d hoped that, in traveling together, you and my mother would discover some common ground.”
“We found a little. I’m not sure she’ll ever see me as worthy of...” Claire pressed her lips together.
Worthy of him? Worthy of being his wife?
“She’s come around, Claire...about you, about her circumstances.” He explained the letter from Nadia Kowalski and his mother’s change of heart.
“Poor Paulina. Although, I am happy for your mother.” She clenched her hands behind her back. “How is the Dover design coming?”
“I met with the couple and showed them the preliminary plan. They liked it very much, especially your ideas for the interior.” Mark kicked aside an old, broken acorn. “Dover was disappointed that you wouldn’t be moving forward on the project.”
“He won’t change his mind about working with you, will he?”
“No. He’ll keep his word.”
With his hand at her elbow, Mark led Claire in the direction of his hired carriage. He hadn’t planned to lay this out here, but she seemed to be waiting for him to say something. “Dover isn’t the only one disappointed that we won’t be working together.”
She voiced no objection. In fact, it appeared she wished to hear more.
“Be my partner, Claire. We’ll rename the business Gregory and Kingsley Architects.”
Her face fell. “Gregory and Kingsley.”
He’d thought she’d be happy to be offered an important role in his company, the kind she’d once wanted. Instead, she looked as if he had stolen her stick candy and run off before she could stop him.
She arched a thin eyebrow. “You came here to talk me into a partnership with you?”
“No.” Not that kind of partnership. “Well, yes, but—”
“Mark, there’s something you should know. I urged you to go after the Lefler invitation to get back at George for erasing the Kingsley name from his company. My reason for working with you was to see that name on a final plan.”
“To keep his memory alive?”
“As penance for my role in his death.” She shook her head. “After a while, I just wanted it for me.”
He appreciated her honesty. He welcomed learning everything about her, even her less-flattering secrets.
Mark drummed his uninjured fingers on his thigh. He might as well get said what he’d traveled all these miles to say, what her father had encouraged him to say. “I want that for you, too, Claire. I want you as a partner in my company, but that isn’t the reason I came to Indianapolis.”
“Then why?”
He captured her left hand and paused a moment to be sure she wouldn’t pull away. To his delight, she didn’t. Nerves heightened by what he was about to say, his thumb brushed the top of her fingers and froze with an awareness that something was different.
He pulled off her glove. “You removed the ring.” Richard’s ring.
She glanced at her finger as though its nakedness held no significance. “It was time. Why look back years from now and wonder if I chose poorly?”
Bewildered, Mark’s brow creased. Chose poorly? What did it matter what she meant when it fostered his optimism?
Her fingers—her bare finger—curled around his. “You were about to tell me why you traveled to Indianapolis. Was it to escort me home?”
Home? Mark liked the sound of it, because Riverport was home. God led him there, and Mark trusted that was where He wished him to stay. Somehow.
“Yes, I wish to escort you home. Even that isn’t why I’m here. Our last conversation didn’t go as I’d planned. I didn’t ask you what I wanted desperately to know.”
“Which was?”
He drew in a deep breath. “Claire Pittman Kingsley, will you marry me?”
She stared up the road in the direction of the city, killing him with her silence. Finally, she faced him and smiled. “That’s not a trivial question, Mr. Gregory.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Her answer wasn’t a rejection. Still... “What’s wrong?”
“We haven’t settled our biggest problem, Mark. You want children. What if—”
He sighed. “Darling, we talked about Lizzie O’Keefe losing three children. I should have told you the rest of their story. They went on to have two more healthy babies. This next child will be their third. Yes, they’re prepared should the worst happen, but they aren’t letting it take away their enthusiasm over this baby.”
“Are you being truthful? You’re not trying to convince me?”
“I am trying to convince you...with the truth.”
She peered up at him through those long lashes. “That doesn’t mean we’ll be as fortunate.”
“No, it doesn’t. But as long as your health isn’t endangered and you’re willing to take the chance, we’ll face that ‘what if’ together and pray that God blesses us with children of our own. If not, there’s a big orphanage outside of Riverport filled with children who need a family.” He winked. “We might even find a Polish child to adopt.”
She laughed. “Wouldn’t that please your mother.”
“Immensely.”
Her mirth wavered, replaced by deep lines between her eyes. “Are you sure you’re willing to risk—”
He growled. “Claire, I’m willing. Are you?”
He passed through what seemed an eternity, waiting for her response. Then...
An inviting smile graced her lips. She held out her arms. “They’re open whenever you’re ready to walk into them for all time.”
Mark ran her answer over in his mind, worried he’d merely heard the words he yearned to hear.
“Well, Mr. Gregory?”
He conquered the empty inches standing between them and stepped into her arms. “I’m ready. I’m more than ready, Mrs. Kingsley.”