29

PERLA MEANT TO SLEEP. She meant to sink into oblivion and maybe dream of that time when she was still innocent. When she still thought she had the power to change Arthur’s life without impacting her own. But sleep would not come. She held the photo of him against her heart. She’d stopped loving him a long time ago, had even learned to stop regretting him. After all, she’d been forgiven and was gifted with a beautiful daughter. A daughter who even now sat out in the hall reading a letter written by her father.

That was what troubled her. She and Sadie were at an impasse, had been for years, and Perla had let it happen. She should have insisted her daughter learn who her father was. Or better yet, dug deep to find out why Sadie didn’t want to know. Was she ashamed? Did she feel like she would be betraying Casewell? Whatever the reason, Perla realized there had to be some pain buried there and she’d never attempt to exorcise it. She’d eventually convinced herself that she was protecting Sadie by never burdening her daughter with the fact that her mother had been with a married man. But now she doubted the wisdom of that. Sadie was a mature and accomplished woman. Surely they could have come to an understanding.

Perla thought of her own father. He’d always been gruff, but she thought he’d loved her. At least he had until she shamed him by getting pregnant. After that, it felt as though he stopped—like flipping a switch. Maybe that was the root of what was troubling her now. Casewell had been such a loving father to Sadie, and Perla didn’t want to expose her daughter to someone who might bruise her heart. What if she decided to go looking for Arthur and he hurt her—denied her? She felt certain he’d never known about his daughter. Finding out now could cause unimaginable consequences.

She stared at the ceiling, folded her hands together, and parted her lips. “Not my—” she took a breath—“call.”

She’d raised Sadie to know the best earthly father the world had to offer and more importantly to know her heavenly Father, perfect in every way. If she wanted to go find Arthur Morgan, well, that was up to her. Perla had done her best to equip her daughter with an education, good sense, and love. The rest was up to her. And God.

Perla swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself to standing with her strong left arm. She took a moment to compose herself, grasped the hated walker, and shuffled in her stocking feet to the door. Sadie and Ella sat on a bench at the end of the hall, not speaking. Sadie looked up, and Perla saw something harden in her daughter’s eyes. It almost froze her to the spot, but then she called on the Holy Spirit and pushed forward. Approaching her daughter, Perla held out the photo.

Sadie took it, furrowing her brow. “What’s this?”

Perla pointed to the back of the photo.

Sadie flipped it over, read the spidery writing, then looked up to meet Perla’s eyes. “Is this him?”

Perla nodded.

“Did you love him?”

Perla nodded again.

“As much as you loved . . .” Sadie’s voice broke. “As much as you loved Papa?”

“No,” Perla choked out. “And I love—” she swallowed convulsively, trying to make her muscles and mind cooperate—“you . . . more.”

Sadie stood, pushed the walker aside, and drew Perla into her arms, tears dampening her mother’s shoulder. “I wish we could really and truly talk about this. I wish we’d done it a long time ago. I’ve just been so . . . so angry that I was never really Papa’s child.”

Perla stepped back a little so she could look into her daughter’s beautiful eyes. “So sorry.” She worked her mouth, closed her eyes to draw up the words she wanted, the sounds she needed to make. “Will talk.”

Sadie barked a laugh through her sobbing. “We will? You’ve always been stubborn, Mother, so if you say so I have to think you’ll find a way.”

Perla nodded once emphatically and drew Sadie back into a hug, regretting the weakness in her right arm. She had some work to do, and with God’s help she’d get it done this side of heaven.

“Are you ready to read, Gran?”

Gran smiled, and Ella thought the right side of her mouth lifted a bit higher than it had even a week ago. Maybe she was being too optimistic, but she felt encouraged. They were settled in the living room of the little gray house once again. After several weeks of hard work and the start of summer break at Aunt Sadie’s school, they’d finally brought Gran home.

“Goodnight Moon,” Gran said, holding up her favorite book.

“Okay, but I think we might need to upgrade soon. Maybe we can try Uncle Wiggily or The Wind in the Willows.”

Gran shook her head and closed her eyes. Ella waited, knowing this was how Gran formulated what she wanted to say, as though seeing the words in her mind made it possible to speak them.

“The Velvet . . . Velveteen Rabbit.”

Ella clapped her hands. “Yes, I’ll get a copy this afternoon.”

Gran held up a hand and Ella waited again. “In . . . attic. Sadie’s copy in the attic.”

“Even better,” Ella said as she settled on the sofa to listen to her grandmother read the simple book open in her lap.

As she listened, Ella considered how the atmosphere in their family had changed. Aunt Sadie seemed like a whole new woman since their visit with Imogene. Or maybe it was since Gran gave her that picture of Arthur Morgan. It was almost as if Gran passed him on to his daughter, giving up whatever claim she’d held since 1948. It seemed to have been freeing for them both.

The day after Gran read Arthur’s letter, she asked for a speech pathologist—something she’d refused until then. When the pathologist wasn’t working with Gran, Ella was. In just a week’s time she’d gotten to the point where she could speak in short sentences and rarely used the wrong word in place of the one she wanted. And soon they would step up to The Velveteen Rabbit.

Ella was thankful for Gran’s renewed zeal and for Aunt Sadie’s softening. It almost felt like everything was right with the world again.

Except for the church. And the small matter of her own faith and what truly mattered to her. She was beginning to understand that there was more to believing than going to church and praying before a meal.

Ella realized Gran had stopped reading. She blinked her eyes and looked down to see what page they were on.

“You’re almost to the end. Just a little further.”

“What are you . . . thinking?”

Ella scrambled a moment. “I was just thinking about how great it is that you and Aunt Sadie are getting along better.”

“Piffle.”

Ella giggled. “What did you say?”

“Don’t believe . . . you. You’re thinking . . . something—” Gran rolled her hand in the air, waving the right word in for a landing—“deep. Serious.”

“I suppose I was.” Ella shifted, turning more fully to face her grandmother. “Gran, even before I came home when you first got sick, I had this dream about moving back to the farm and living the artist’s life. But I always imagined there would be a husband in that picture and I didn’t do very well on that front with Mark. I love being here to help you, and it’s good to be back on the farm, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. Is this enough?”

“Be content,” Gran said. She closed the book and patted the cover. “Content.”

For once, Ella didn’t know what Gran was getting at. “What do you mean?”

“Trying . . . too hard.” Gran closed her eyes, though Ella could see them moving beneath the lids as if reading something written inside. “Please God, not men.”

Now Ella thought she knew what Gran meant, but she resisted. Happiness—or contentment—wasn’t that simple. She loved Gran and was grateful to see her continuing to improve, but maybe her mind still wasn’t at full capacity yet.

She patted her grandmother’s hand. “Yes, you’re right. Now I’m going up into the attic to see if I can dig up that copy of The Velveteen Rabbit.”

Gran sighed and looked at Ella in a way that clearly let her know she was off the hook for now, but Gran wasn’t finished with this conversation.

Aunt Sadie insisted on cooking supper. She said she’d been craving cassoulet, so Ella left her to it and pulled down the attic steps. The landscape up there was a bit daunting. The small attic was packed full of dusty boxes and black plastic bags with few hints as to what was inside. As Ella turned back the flaps on the first box, she wished for a hospital mask. The dust was going to play havoc with her sinuses.

She sneezed violently as she shifted a box of old linens to get at the container beneath it.

“Bless you.”

Ella jumped, nearly hitting her head on a rafter. Whirling around, she saw a head poking up through the attic access in the floor. “Seth?”

He stepped up another rung so she could see his chest and shoulders in addition to his face. The single light bulb cast deep shadows, making him look spooky.

“I was next door talking to your dad about the fire at the preserve. Seems they found the culprit.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d pop over and give you the scoop, too.”

Ella felt her pulse quicken. She’d almost forgotten about the fire—assumed it would go unsolved. “Who did it?”

He took another step up and sat on the edge of the opening, his feet hanging down. “Looked like the sheriff had Mavis Sanders dead to rights.”

Ella felt a jolt. She’d wondered about Mavis, but decided the older woman, cantankerous as she was, wouldn’t stoop so low. Ella guessed maybe the cane was nothing more than an act.

Seth continued, “But turns out it was her grandson.”

“What?” Ella moved closer and knelt down across from Seth. Did he mean Simon? That kid she’d met at the wedding?

“Apparently Mavis slipped over to the lodge during the wedding, thinking she’d burn it down, but Simon followed her and talked her into letting him do it. He said he tried to set a fire that wouldn’t amount to anything. He figured that was how he could get his grandmother out of there with the least fuss, but it took better than he anticipated.” Seth laughed softly. “Poor kid fessed up as soon as he heard his grandmother might be blamed.”

“Will he be punished?”

Seth ruffled his hair where his hat had dented it. “I think there’ll have to be something—at least a fine—but Keith says he doesn’t plan to press charges.”

“Poor Mavis. That church is her heart.” Ella stood and dusted off her hands. “I’m just glad it didn’t turn out any worse.”

Seth looked at her intently. “Are you? I was pretty sure it wouldn’t hurt your feelings if a tornado hit the lodge.”

“Maybe I did feel that way for a while. But now that Gran’s back home and she and Sadie are getting along so much better, I guess you could say my priorities have shifted. I’m sad about losing the church, but it’s not as important as I once thought it was.”

Seth smiled and stood. “Sounds about right to me. Now, what are you doing up here in all this heat and dust?”

“Gran’s been reading children’s books to improve her speech. She wants to try The Velveteen Rabbit and there’s supposed to be a copy up here that belonged to Aunt Sadie.”

“That’s a great book,” Seth said, reaching for a stack of boxes behind him. “Okay if I help look?”

Ella glanced at him over her shoulder. “Sure. If you want.”

He flipped open a box and coughed. “This looks like clothes.”

“There’s a black marker around here somewhere. If you don’t mind, write Clothes on the outside so we’ll know next time. I might want to go through these later and pull scraps for future quilt pieces.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes. Although it was a comfortable June day outside, the attic was warm, and Ella worried Seth might notice the sweat stains on her T-shirt.

“Hey, how about I work my way to that little window in the back and see if it’ll open?” Seth didn’t move but had his hands on his hips, as if considering the gauntlet between where he stood and the window.

“If you can, that would be wonderful. I can’t take much more of this heat. Might have to leave it until the cool of the morning.”

“Hang on.” Seth pushed, shoved, and clambered over a chest to reach the window. When he popped it open, Ella felt a rush of air. She wanted to raise her arms for better circulation, but opted to maintain her dignity.

“Hey, there’s a bookcase back here.”

“Does it have children’s books in it?”

“I think so.” Seth disappeared as he crouched down.

Ella climbed back into the space in front of the window. It was a good ten degrees cooler here. She breathed a sigh of relief and crouched down next to Seth, who was pulling books off the shelf.

“Here it is,” he said, blowing dust off the book and then wiping it on his jeans. He handed it to Ella.

“Excellent. Now we can escape this hothouse.”

Ella took a step backward, right into a bag of who knew what, and fell in a heap on the floor. Seth was over her in a heartbeat, helping her to her feet and running his hands over her wrists and arms.

“Are you hurt? It looked like your elbow got the worst of it.”

Ella felt so many emotions at once, she thought she might burst. Her elbow did indeed hurt, but she was also embarrassed. And the way Seth was touching her made her feel light-headed and shivery in spite of the heat. She took a breath and put her hands over his to still them.

“I’m fine. I’m thinking I’ll have a bruise or two, but mostly it’s my ego that’s wounded.” She tried a shaky laugh.

“Good.” Seth’s voice was deep and comforting.

Ella looked into his eyes and what had been a pleasant tingly feeling turned into full-fledged palpitations and shortness of breath. The way he was looking at her made her doubts about which member of the Phillips family he liked best seem silly. She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips, suddenly realizing how dry they were. Was he leaning in? Might he . . . ?

“Hey, what’s that?”

Ella felt like someone had changed the channel in the middle of her favorite show.

“What?”

Seth released her and bent down to look at the bag she’d tripped over. “This looks like it could be one of your art pieces.” He opened the torn bag to reveal a quilt.

“It’s not one of mine. At least I don’t think it is. Although this part looks kind of familiar.” Ella rubbed the fabric between her fingers. Why did it seem so familiar? “Let’s get it downstairs where we can spread it out.”

“Your wish is my command,” Seth said with a mock salute.

He hauled the bag to the opening in the floor and wrestled it through. Ella tucked the book under her arm and followed.

They took the bag outside where the dust wouldn’t matter, extracted what appeared to be a full-sized quilt, and carried it back inside to spread out in the house. Sadie and Gran were working through some of Gran’s voice exercises, waiting for the cassoulet to finish baking. It smelled wonderful, and Ella felt her stomach grumble. Maybe they’d ask Seth to stay and eat with them. But first she wanted to figure out what it was about the quilt that seemed so familiar.

Gran peered over her reading glasses, then removed them and smiled. “What . . . have you . . . found?”

“Ella tripped over it on her way to get the book you wanted,” Seth said.

“Yes,” Ella said. “I left the book on the table, but there’s something about this quilt that seems really familiar. Is it one of yours, Gran?”

“It’s yours.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, there’s something familiar about it, but I don’t remember making it.”

Gran leaned forward and pointed at the center pieces.

Reaching down, Ella touched a quilt piece and wrinkled her brow. What was it about the texture of this particular fabric? Then she gasped, realizing what Gran meant when she said this was her quilt—hers alone. The pattern was made up of oval after oval of hexagon pieces that gave the outer edge a scalloped effect, which included an amazing variety of fabrics in a rainbow of colors. At the center was a block Ella remembered sewing when she was eight or so. One of her first attempts that she’d assumed was long gone. As she looked more closely, Ella realized she knew most of these bits of fabric.

There was the pink stripe from her first party dress, a full skirt with cap sleeves that Ella once wore with white stockings and shiny black shoes. She twirled herself sick in that dress. There were also scraps of dark-green velvet from a holiday dress she’d worn the year she recited “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” at school. Soft flannel from one of her nightgowns, plaid from a school shirt, denim from a pair of pants, corduroy from a jumper—she could go on and on. Each carefully trimmed and stitched bit of fabric brought back some memory from Ella’s childhood. She touched them and held the soft, worn fabric to her cheek.

Smiling, Ella turned glowing eyes on her grandmother. “When did you do this?”

“Added . . . every . . . every year.”

Ella examined the outer rings and saw scraps of fabric from her own quilt projects. “How did you get these pieces?”

“Your Margaret.” She shook her head and started over. “Your mother helped.” She sighed. “Your . . . wedding quilt.”

Ella caught Seth watching her and blushed. “I’m sorry I spoiled the surprise.”

“I’m glad,” Gran said. “It’s good.”

“Yes,” Sadie agreed, tears in her eyes. “This time I understand you, Mother. It is good.”