“The detective.” Joy spread her arms wide, as if somehow Kaine should have drawn the conclusion herself. “Joel Cunningham!”
Grant nodded slowly in consideration. “I suppose. Joe Coldham, Joel Cunningham. Yeah, that type of variation wouldn’t be out of the norm for a census.”
“Joel Cunningham?” Kaine frowned, remembering. “Wasn’t he the one who captured Arnold Foster? What made them marry so quickly? Was it just for Hallie?”
“Oh, honey, you have no idea!” Joy leaped to her feet. She did a little hop from foot to foot, her purple tunic top swaying over her yellow polka-dot leggings. “Hold on. I’m going to get Maggie’s diary and read it to ya. But first I need some coffee.” She swept from the room in a flourish of excitement and left a flowery perfume scent in her wake.
Grant and Kaine sat in silence, until finally his arm slid around her waist and pulled her closer. He leaned over and pressed his lips to her temple.
“I have a feeling there’s a whole other part of Ivy’s story we’re about to find out.” His lips moved against Kaine’s hair and she shivered, this time from pleasure.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “Me too.”
“Do you mind? Not having all the answers?”
Kaine considered Grant’s question for a bit, closing her eyes as she pictured Gabriella shoving Hallie into Maggie’s arms and giving her life to save them both . . . and changing Ivy’s life as well. “Family history may not always be complete, and some of it becomes foggy over time, but one thing I know.” She looked up, and Grant gazed down into her eyes.
He waited.
Kaine smiled. “I know that I come from a line of strong women, who fought for their families, fought for those they loved, and saw hope in their future. And I know . . .” She breathed deep in the realization of it. “I know I am one of them.”
Ivy
Leaves from the previous autumn blanketed the ground and softened Ivy’s footsteps as she wove between headstones. Old names, old friends, a place that felt like home. But today was different. The sun warmed the earth and made the dew on the grass glisten like diamonds. The gauzy hemline of her pale blue dress caressed the earth as she passed. She brushed her fingertips over the healing wounds on her face. Healing.
It was why her father was a physician. It was why Ivy had written the stories of those who were buried here. To heal. To survive. But now, Ivy examined herself. She stilled in front of Gabriella’s grave. She had set out to find her name, and Maggie made it clear Ivy would never know it. But still, Ivy had been earnest in her journey to unveil Gabriella’s story, and there was satisfaction in knowing that Gabriella would be remembered, if not by her name, then by her daughter. By the generations that would come from Hallie and Maggie, the two people Gabriella had given her life to save. And because she wasn’t afraid of the grave, she had hope of what would come next.
Ivy ran her hand over Gabriella’s cross. Hope was the one thing she had missed in her healing. Hope not only healed, it lessened the scars. She had grown used to loss. She expected it. She expected failure from those around her. But Gabriella, in the brutality of her circumstances, had found hope in Someone greater. Her faith reached into Ivy’s soul.
She inhaled a deep breath of warm spring air filled with the freshness of rain. She wanted that hope. To cling to God as Gabriella had. To hold Him so close that this world became an interlude before life truly began.
Ivy trailed her fingers over the marker and turned her face to her brother’s stone. She’d expected Joel to meet her here, in the early morning hours. He had promised he would. This time no one would stop him from keeping that promise.
His head was bent as he stood with his back to her. Andrew’s resting place was illuminated by a shaft of the morning sun. Joel’s shoulders were broad, encased in a white shirt, and relaxed. He looked up at her when she approached, and Ivy offered him a small smile as she noted the gentleness in his eyes. She had seen it there so often many years before. Andrew had told her once that she would marry Joel one day. Joel was one half of her heart, and Andrew the other.
Joel reached for Ivy’s hand. She lifted it willingly and wrapped her fingers around his. They both stood in silence over Andrew’s grave.
“I’m here,” Joel murmured.
Ivy smiled, though her contentment was seasoned with sorrow. “Thank you.”
Joel’s grip tightened. A mourning dove cooed in a bush beyond the grave. Ivy closed her eyes. She could almost hear the words as they entered her heart.
“‘For in thee, O Lord, do I hope: thou wilt hear, O Lord my God.’” Ivy’s whisper floated over the cemetery.
She turned to Joel, and he searched her eyes.
“Gabriella had written that Scripture on the page I found under the bed at Foster Hill House. It was a promise she clung to.”
“He heard her,” Joel affirmed.
“He did. But it is difficult to accept that promise is fulfilled in spite of our circumstances, not instead of our circumstances.” The admission pained Ivy. If she accepted Gabriella’s death as God’s promise of new life, then she must believe the same for Andrew, whose faith was equally strong.
Joel reached for her other hand. Ivy stared down at their interlocked fingers.
“Ivy, it’s time.”
She looked down at Andrew’s grave. “To say goodbye? I know.”
Ivy knelt and pressed her lips against the cold stone. But Andrew wasn’t there. Not really. And therein lay her hope.
“Farewell, my brother,” she whispered. A hot tear trickled down her cheek. Saying goodbye did not mean the ache of emptiness would leave. But, it was time to live again. Andrew would want that. She could see it now.
Joel helped her stand, and Ivy leaned into him.
“We need to protect Hallie and Maggie,” she said with firm determination. “And we need to keep the story of Foster Hill House as quiet as we can, for their sake.”
“I know.” Joel wrapped his arm around her waist. He spoke into her temple, his breath warm and comforting. “It is possible to do that . . . together.”
Ivy pulled back a bit and allowed herself to look deep into his eyes. There was promise there, maturity, and strength that had grown since he was young. She loved him. She always had.
“I would like that,” Ivy murmured.
Joel’s smile cloaked her in its warmth. “Ivy.” His finger trailed softly down her face to her chin. “You were always my Ivy.”
She had no bitterness now, no doubts, no questions. Joel’s kiss was gentle, slow, but claimed her with purpose. When he pulled back, he seemed thoughtful but very much at peace.
“So we’ll make Hallie our own?” Ivy had to ask, searching his face. To be sure.
Joel’s mouth tipped up at the corner. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Yes. Definitely.”
She laid her head against his shoulder as the sun rose above the treetops, shining down on them. A witness to the hope that was rising inside her.
Ivy closed her eyes. She wanted to remember this moment. For it was in this moment that she breathed in life.