A Basket Brigade Christmas (44 page)

“That’s far too harsh a word.” Although it wasn’t.

She waved Zona’s appeasement away. “Actually, I need to apologize to you for the trouble I caused at the depot.”

“I deserved it.”

“Yes, you did, but it wasn’t up to me to dole out your punishment—especially in public.” She sighed deeply. “Sometimes I can be quite wicked.”

Zona remembered the shadowed vices she’d confronted at the church. “So can we all.”

“And so, I want to ask your forgiveness for not being totally honest with you by working with Johnny in secret. I have come to realize that secrets breed tension, and truth breeds peace.”

At just that minute, Johnny slipped in the door of the auditorium.

“Come in, Johnny. I was just telling the others you were going to join us.”

Mr. Fleming moved a chair between him and Mr. Pearson. “Come sit here, boy.”

“No,” Seth said. “Let him sit with me and Gabriel.”

The eldest of the Martin sisters giggled. “He can sit by us.”

Johnny blushed.

“Next to Seth and Gabriel would be fine,” Zona said. “Now then, let’s run through the staging for ‘Joy to the World.’”

An appropriate song, all in all.

Cardiff didn’t remember much about the ride back to the stable, nor his subsequent walk to the boardinghouse. Hours had passed as he wandered the streets of Chicago, thinking about the past and what could have been, what should have been. So many errors of timing and intent.

By the time he reached the boardinghouse, he was covered with snow and couldn’t feel his hands or feet. Somehow he stumbled up the steps and inside, where his cane clattered to the floor.

Everyone was eating dinner, but upon seeing him, they erupted into motion, drew him to the fireside, and removed his outer garments. The two tenants rushed to fulfill Mrs. Driscoll’s orders of blankets and hot coffee. Cardiff let them fuss around him, too stiff and miserable to protest.

Mr. Johnson put another log on the fire and poked it to higher flames. “You’re just getting back?” he asked. “You’ve been gone since morning.”

“I got the horse back safely. No worries.”

“I’m not worried about the horse, but it’s far too long to be outside, especially in this weather.”

Cardiff had no defense. “I lost track of time.”

“Pooh to that,” Mrs. Driscoll said. “Lose time and lose your life. What were you thinking?”

I wasn’t thinking. Or perhaps I was thinking too much.

The other tenant brought him coffee, but Cardiff’s hands were too stiff to hold the cup. Mrs. Driscoll pulled another chair close then took his hands in hers and rubbed them vigorously. “Where did you go all day? I insist you tell us the reason for risking your life like this.”

Cardiff hunkered his shoulders into the blanket. The tops of his ears stung with the cold. He didn’t want to tell them. For one thing, it was none of their business; for another, it was old business, done business, business that made his heart ache.

“We’re waiting.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to say,” Mr. Johnson said.

“He has no choice in the matter. He comes home near death? We deserve an answer.”

Cardiff closed his eyes a moment and realized sleep was imminent. Best to answer her quickly so he could be left alone. “I sought an old friend but found she had moved away.”

“She? Was she your sweetheart?”

He was too weary to deny it. “Yes.”

“Do you still love her?”

Such a question. And yet, “I believe I do, though it doesn’t do me much good after all these years.”

“How many years?”

“Fifteen.”

“Gracious.”

Mr. Johnson poked the fire again. “You have no idea where she is?”

“Her family moved to help an elderly parent in central Illinois.”

“No city known?”

“No city known.”

Mrs. Driscoll put a hand on his arm. “Surely there’s some way you can find out where she went.”

Mr. Johnson leaned against the mantel. “He can’t very well send dozens of letters to every town.”

Mrs. Driscoll’s eyes brightened. “Why not? Surely one would stick.”

“I don’t even know if she’s still unmarried.”

Mr. Johnson frowned. “Fifteen years
is
a long time.”

“Too long,” Cardiff said.

Mrs. Driscoll shook away the negative thoughts. “It is never too late for love.”

Cardiff looked at her. “That’s what the woman who lives in Zona’s old house said.”

“See?” She spread her hands as if they held the truth. “It is never too late,
and
I know what we
can
do. We can pray.”

“For what?” Mr. Johnson asked.

“Pray that if this woman—what is her name?”

“Zona Evans.”

“Pray that if Zona Evans is unmarried and willing to meet up with our doctor, God arranges it.”

“That’s absurd,” the other tenant said.

“Prayers are never absurd.” She pointed at each one of them. “Take hands and bow your heads. I’ll do the praying for us.”

The men did as they were told, and Cardiff let his landlady’s prayer spin a cocoon of hope around him.

C
ardiff stood by Corporal Statler’s bed. “Your color is better. How are you feeling?”

“Fair to partly cloudy.”

His wit was a good sign. Cardiff had dodged his own bullet with this patient and thanked God for it. And Mother Breston.

“Can I get you anything?”

The corporal nodded at the bedside table. “I got a letter there, from one of those nice ladies who bring them onto the hospital train. Never got a chance to read it.”

“What ladies?”

“In Decatur. When the hospital train stopped there, all sorts of ladies came on board and gave us food, letters, socks, and blankets.”

Cardiff vaguely remembered passing through Decatur on his way north. No ladies had tended to his train.

But it wasn’t a hospital train.

He retrieved the letter and read it aloud: “‘My Dear Friend. You are not my husband nor son; but you are the husband or son of some woman who undoubtedly loves you. I send you my prayers and support with a heart that aches for your sufferings. Signed—’”

Cardiff’s breath left him. He stared at the name.
No. It couldn’t be.

“Signed
who
?”

Cardiff’s throat was dry, and he suffered a ragged swallow before answering. “Signed Zona Evans.”

“Zona. What an interesting name.”

Cardiff, who could endure the sight of wounds that would make most people faint, felt his legs lose their strength. He fell onto a chair just in time.

“Is something wrong?”

He stared at the letter, uncomprehending.
She’s in Decatur. She’s unmarried.

“Dr. Kensington? Are you ill?”

It was Mother Breston. Cardiff couldn’t answer her with words. Instead, he thrust the letter toward her.

She read it silently then exclaimed, “Zona! Is this your Zona?”

He could only nod and was appalled to feel tears threaten.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Is Evans her maiden name?”

He nodded again.

“So she’s unmarried and lives in Decatur.”

Cardiff finally summoned the words that sped through his mind. “God did it. He brought us together.”

“Not yet He hasn’t. You need to go to her. Immediately.”

When Cardiff stood, he nearly toppled the chair. “I need to go to her.”

Mother Breston took his arm. “Yes, you do.”

He looked around at the other soldiers and Dr. Phillips. They were all looking at him. Had they overheard?

By their grins, he knew they had. “Go on, Doc. Go see your girl.”

A chorus of support filled the ward.

Dr. Phillips waved him off. “We’ll handle things while you’re away.”

Mother Breston put her hands on her hips. “What more prodding do you need?”

None. He kissed her cheek and left to the accompaniment of applause.

After a quick stop at the boardinghouse, Cardiff was on a train heading south. Although the train was full, he gladly sat next to a man who dozed, allowing him time to process his thoughts.

He was on his way to see Zona!

The concept was almost too much to grasp. He looked at the snowy landscape rushing by and suddenly his thoughts grabbed on to the memory of another southbound train, heading to war, leaving Zona behind.

When the war with Mexico had proved to be less of an adventure than a horror, and after receiving no replies to the letters he sent to Zona, Cardiff had forced himself to set her on a mental shelf, a charming thing of beauty to gaze at fondly as a reminder of a long-lost time. Year after year, he’d moved her to a higher shelf, until she was finally out of reach and rarely noticed.

Until recently, when her name and image vied for his attention. He’d fought moving her to a lower shelf again, making excuses, wary about letting their shared past invade his present.

Yet he hadn’t simply heard Zona’s name once but had thought of her many times: the couple saying their good-byes on the train platform back in St. Louis; the soldier writing to his wife, Rhona; Cardiff writing his own letters and thinking about the ones he’d sent to Zona; finding her family home and hearing her history; two women telling him it was never too late for love. Then finally discovering that she lived in Decatur—and was unmarried. He sighed deeply at these stepping-stones, leading him toward this train headed south.

The man next to him awakened. “Forgive me. Was I snoring?”

“Not to worry. My mind has been elsewhere.”

The man sat up straighter, shuffled his shoulders, then studied Cardiff, making him feel uncomfortable for the scrutiny.

“Excuse me?” Cardiff said.

“Who is she?”

“Pardon?”

“The woman who’s fully captured your attention.” He made a curlicue near Cardiff’s eyes. “You’re looking at me but not looking. And you’re smiling.”

The man’s observations were disconcerting. “You are very perceptive.”

“So I’ve been told. Now, out with it. Tell me all about her.”

Although Cardiff was not one to confide easily, he told the man everything.

“Sounds like the Almighty has you where He wants you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“God did the same for me and my dearly departed wife. He led us step-by-step, closer together, and thankfully neither one of us were stubborn enough to tell Him no.” He took out his pocket watch then placed it back in his vest pocket. “When everything seems to be pointing you in a certain direction, it is not a coincidence. It’s God. ‘For God speaketh once, yea twice, yet man perceiveth it not.’”