He wrapped the pin in tissue and handed it over.
Quillan snatched it. If any more days passed, he’d do his shopping elsewhere. But he knew Carina would love the things he’d purchased. If only D.C. would answer the telegram and the weather would clear. He went outside and looked into the sky, gray with more impending snow.
“Two things, Lord. A telegram and a blue sky.” He brought his gaze down to a bearded man watching him. Was it so foolish to stand in the street and pray? Quillan tipped his hat, and the man walked past. Quillan went to the telegraph office.
The clerk looked up. “Nothing yet.”
Quillan thanked him and went back out. What could be taking D.C. so long to answer? Was he upset Quillan would even consider selling? Couldn’t he understand the position they were in? He went back to the hotel to secure Carina’s gift in his pack with the others. The parasol, of course, stood in the corner.
Quillan walked over, picked it up, and opened it. He looked up through the ecru lace and imagined Carina standing beneath it. He closed it abruptly, before the longing for her became painful. He tore a sheet of paper from his journal and found his fountain pen, which he’d filled with ink from an eyedropper the night before. With it, he now wrote a letter to his foster father. Reverend Shepard would be ecstatic to know he was at last seeking the Lord’s wisdom.
Quillan also inquired after his wife, Leona. He pictured her curled in her bed like a skeletal infant, bawling and picking at the covers. The image evoked a wrenching sympathy. Was she still alive? Frequently insanity left its victims physically tenacious, though she’d seemed so frail.
He would likely not receive a reply before he left the area with Carina. He wrote as much to the reverend. Then he thanked him for the years of care he’d been given in their home. He might never see the man again, and he wanted his foster father to know his gratitude, though those years had been the most painful of his life.
Setting the letter aside, Quillan took out his journal. He’d filled three pages with Scripture verses that had spoken to him in his reading, his own ramblings that had followed, and some poems he’d written to share with Carina. His most recent he read now.
Without you time escapes its rule and lingers overlong,
Yet were I there with you, my love, t’would skip and bound and leap.
The distance stills the hands of time, the days the hours prolong,
As one by one the minutes put the sun and moon to sleep.
But time, it cannot halt for long without the Lord take heed,
And God will spin it soon, my love, and set the earth aright,
Then to your waiting arms I’ll run with haste and all due speed,
To set the stars adance again to brighten up your night.
Time had once had no hold on him. But now it seemed a force he battled daily. It’s only that I miss her, Lord.
It is good for the heart to hunger. This time Quillan didn’t wonder at the words. He’d grown accustomed to the answers coming to his mind. And he knew they were the Lord, especially when they weren’t what he wanted to hear.
But he governed himself, using the time to write in his journal, long stretches of still time he’d never allowed himself before. Mae was right; it was something he should learn, though patience and peace were slow in coming.
It seemed a blessing straight from heaven when on the eighth day, the telegraph clerk reached into a cubby behind him and held out D.C.’s reply. Quillan paid the man and hurried out to the street. He unfolded the paper and found the text.
Sorry delay. On retreat. Sell mine. Treasure in heaven. D.C.
Quillan clutched the paper to his chest, picturing Cain’s scapegrace son. From the sound of it, he’d matured, and his faith still upheld him. He’d make a fine preacher. Quillan wished he could tell him he’d found his own faith. Wished he could have found it before old Cain was killed. But he supposed Cain knew somehow. Maybe there was some portal through which Cain watched them both, knew that even if hard times were not behind them, at least they were on the right path.
He folded the telegram. Now he would take Carina home. He closed his eyes in silent gratitude, his sense of purpose keen. He went to the Italian market and purchased items they could stock in the wagon for their trip: jars of olives, dried spicy sausage called pepperoni and another named Genoa salami. Both beat jerky by a long shot. He bought her semolina flour and olive oil, a string of garlic, and pickled anchovies.
He carried the crate to the wagon, then loaded the other gifts he’d amassed for her. He gave his horses one last lookover. Jack and Jock, his leaders, were well rested and fresher from an eight-day rest than they’d been in years. His wheelers, Socrates and Homer, he’d leased to a driver for two short trips, but they were strong Clydesdale blood and were fresh enough after two days’ rest to make the trip over the pass—supposing the weather held and the trip was indeed short. Quillan worried a little that the recent snow might have reached a depth and softness that would make the road a nightmare. But whatever the case, he was going.
Carina felt good to be out of bed and dressed in her blue chintz shirtwaist and full linen skirts. Her corset was tied, but bearably, and Nonna’s shawl warmed her shoulders. Ah, to stand and walk. It was ten days since Quillan had left her door, and her concern had risen. But it was out of her hands. So what good was fretting?
But fret she did. She walked to the table where he had sat and studied. She sat in the chair he had used. She took out her own journal, flipped to a new page, and wrote her frustration, her fears, her longing. Then she closed the journal. Signore, have mercy. Per piacere, Signore. Have I not learned patience? She rushed on before she could hear an answer to that. You know I am trusting you. Is it so much to—She jumped at the knock on the door and hurried to open it.
Nothing. No one. Then she realized it was the other door. Sciocco! Chiding herself for a fool, she closed out the cold and went to the side door. Why would Quillan knock? Would he not let himself and Sam inside? She opened the door to find Mae and threw herself into the woman’s arms. She felt Mae’s laugh rumble inside her chest.
“Gracious, Carina. Is it as bad as that?”
Carina clung to Mae’s softness. “I’m pazzo with waiting.”
“A little cabin fever, too, no doubt. Well, I see the doc gave the go ahead for you to be up.”
Carina drew back and waved a hand. “Standing and walking. No riding, no jostling, no overexcitement. Doesn’t he know I’m dying of unexcitement?”
Again Mae laughed. “Well, sit yourself down and tell me what’s all this about èmie taking over for you.”
“I can’t sit.” Carina crossed the room, wringing her hands. “But yes, isn’t it wonderful? Robert agreed she should oversee the restaurant. He might attach a clinic to the side, and she’ll be close to you, Mae.”