Written on Her Heart (12 page)

The girls tripped over one another running window to window until he was out of sight. “Wow.” Heather covered her mouth with slender fingers. “He’s so cute. Why must he talk? Do you think maybe he’s nervous?” She looked oddly hopeful.

“Sure.”

“Maybe he’ll settle down in time. It must be hard being new here.”

“Let’s hope. If he doesn’t, the kids will eat him alive.”

Emma led Heather to the living room, forcing images of second graders shooting spit wads into James’ perfectly sculpted hair from her mind. She sat cross-legged on her sofa and pulled a bright yellow cushion onto her lap. “Nicholas brought his dog over to have pictures taken.”

“Wait.” Heather jumped up and disappeared. A minute later she brought the coffee and a bowl of strawberries from the countertop, plus some bread from the breadbox. She set the coffee between them on the couch, propping it up and twisting the lid once more for safety. She handed the bowl to Emma and bit into the bread.

“We took some pictures, but he didn’t ask to see them, and then he stayed for lunch. He cooked.”

“You like him.” Heather looked her over as she chewed.

“Yeah.”

“Better than your book guy?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell. It’s like comparing apples to eagles. I don’t know Nicholas well, and I have no idea what he thinks of me. On the other hand, I feel like I know the soldier. I’ve gotten to know his heart and his dreams through his journal, but I don’t know who he is, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to mess it up. He’s perfect in my head.”

“No one’s perfect. Here’s what you do. I say we at least find out who he is so you can return his journal. Then go from there.”

“What about Nicholas?” Emma liked the idea of releasing her expectations, though she doubted she could.

“What do you want to do about Nicholas?”

“I don’t know.” The lie hurt.

“Then don’t worry about it. It’ll sort itself out.”

Nothing sounded better than sticking her head in a hole. First, she’d focus on the soldier. The least she could do was return his journal. A surge of urgency swept over her. If she’d lost her journal and knew anyone in Honey Creek could be reading it, she’d die of humiliation. And she had read his journal. What kind of person did that? Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She didn’t only read it, she poured over the words, unintentionally memorizing passages from rereading her favorite parts. At least she didn’t tell anyone about what she read. Telling his secrets would be the ultimate betrayal. But, what if she found him and he asked her if she’d read it. Should she lie? She couldn’t tell him the whole truth. Her doldrums life had gotten very complicated.

Thoughts of Nicholas subsided as her soldier came front and center. She had an unspoken commitment to him. An obligation to do right. She messed up by invading his privacy and keeping his journal so long. She had to return it. He would do the right thing in her position, and she admired him. She wanted to follow his example to be honorable and brave.

“Okay. I want to find him.”

Heather stopped chewing. “Really?”

“Yes. I need to do the right thing and return his journal. Whatever happens after that, happens.” She stood and went to retrieve the journal. “Should I bring it with me?”

“No. We won’t find him today since we can’t come out and ask what we want to know. Even if we did, you can always come back and get it.”

Emma nodded in agreement. “Right. Where to first?”

“I thought about it all night. I think we should start by getting our hands on one of those Veterans’ Day pamphlets from church. Remember, they had all our servicemen in there.”

“Smart.” Emma delighted at the new mission. “I know right where we can find one.”

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the Fallon Farm. Cynthia and her grandma were in the garden. Cynthia waved an arm overhead when she saw them approach.

“Do you see this garden?” Heather whispered.

She did, and if Emma’s garden could see this one, it’d pull up and move. The plants under her care barely survived, while Cynthia’s flourished. From where they stood, there seemed to be flowers planted alongside vegetables. She’d read about that and dismissed it as too much work. Apparently work paid off.

“Hey, ladies!”

Cynthia spoke in her grandmother’s ear before bounding from the garden to greet them. She pulled off a pair of pink gardening gloves and shaded her eyes with one hand. “What’s new?”

“Sorry to drop by like this. We hope we didn’t interrupt.” Emma nodded to the garden.

“Oh, no, we’re out there all the time. What can I do for you?”

“We wondered if Mitchell kept copies of the pamphlets from his services.” Heather liked to get to the point.

“Some. When we don’t run out, he keeps one or two in a file so he doesn’t repeat his sermons too often.” She winked.

When she winked, it was endearing and spunky. When James winked, he looked like a used car salesman.

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

The girls exchanged a glance. Neither spoke.

Cynthia crossed her arms over her chest. “Come on,” she prompted. “Spill. No. Don’t. If it’s gossip, don’t tell me. I try not to hear that anymore. Being married to the town reverend makes me a sitting duck for criticism. Wait. If it has to do with gossip, I can’t help you either.” She frowned. The puzzlement on her face showed she hadn’t yet adjusted to her new position as Reverend Fallon’s wife.

“We’re not here to gossip,” Emma gushed, horrified at the thought she’d come to the reverend’s house to do any such thing.

“We want to see the pamphlet from Veterans’ Day,” Heather explained. “We wanted to do something nice for the servicemen this year.”

Emma chewed her lips. Heather lied to the reverend’s wife, and she didn’t stop her. They were going to hell.
Sorry! I didn’t know she’d do that. I am so sorry. She didn’t mean it either. We are so so so sorry.

“Oh, fun! Well, then come on in.”

The trio passed Mitchell on the porch. He leaned down to plant a kiss on his wife. “Hello, ladies. What’re you guys up to?”

When Cynthia told him, Emma went back to her silent prayer for forgiveness. Mitchell’s eyes paused on Emma’s a moment too long. He caught her lying. The freaking reverend caught her in a lie.

“Let me know if I can help. I’ll be back in a little while. There’s a Strawberry Festival coming.” He tipped his hat in their direction, and to her great relief, jogged down the porch stairs to his truck.

Inside, Cynthia poured three tall glasses of ice water and set them at the table before she disappeared. Cynthia left Honey Creek once too. Emma remembered how the town buzzed with news of her return when she came back for a visit two years ago. They practically unpacked their moving trucks together. Something had hurt Cynthia enough to send her away once. Emma sometimes imagined a bond between them for that reason. The old folks whispered about things to one another, but most of the time they were too stubborn to share. With any luck they kept Emma’s secrets too.

The space beyond the front door was remarkable. Her home looked like a New York design firm had come to decorate. Everything looked country chic like
Better Homes & Gardens
had set it up after consulting with Martha Stewart. None of the décor in their sight came from the local Wal-Mart, that was for certain. Warm earthy tones of green and brown anchored against subtle blue backgrounds, and everywhere she least expected it, a punch of burnt orange jumped out to grab her. An artist’s palette. Emma needed tips on where to find the fabrics and little touches Cynthia used. The home inspired her. She considered her options for redecorating as Cynthia returned.

“Here you are. We had one left. These went like hotcakes.”

“All these men are in the service?” The book was at least 25 pages long. She didn’t remember it being so thick.

“Some are now, but this includes living residents of Honey Creek who are now or have ever been enlisted in the armed services. Doesn’t matter if they lived here when they were. If they filled out the form, they got on the list.”

“Oh.” There was a form.

“You’re going to have to plan big.”

“What?” Emma looked up as Heather flipped through the book. Who were they kidding? Twenty-five pages wasn’t a pamphlet.

“Or not. You don’t have to do something for all of them. You could consider sending care packages to those who’re overseas now instead. The ones who are here will vouch for how much it means to get something from home.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Heather gave Emma a wayward look.

“I’ll tell you what.” Cynthia left the room, talking as she went. “Take the pamphlet and mark the ones who are overseas now. I’ll double check to see if anyone else went since last year.” She returned with a giant brown box. “These are things I collected last fall to send to them and then didn’t follow through. I’m so glad you ladies are doing this. I’ve felt awful ever since. I hoped to get back to it. Now I won’t have to worry.” She looked so relieved. Emma couldn’t say no.

The box thumped hard on the ground beside her. “I think there’s enough in there to send to all of them, plus a few extras.”

“Thanks.” Heather frowned.

“We’re glad to help.” Emma lifted the box. “Well, we’d better get started. I’ll bring the book back in a few days, if that’s all right.”

“Certainly.”

Heather dragged her body from the chair and tossed the book into the box. Together they carried the box and their new assignment out the front door.

Chapter Eleven

Nicholas sauntered up the steps to his childhood home. Hands in pockets. Smile tugging at his lips. The big white farmhouse never changed. The porch swing still creaked in the breeze. His mom still lined the boots up by the front door. Fresh roasted coffee wafted out to meet him. As far as he was concerned, there was no place like home.

“Hello, Mama.” He slipped into the kitchen, careful not to let the old screen door bang shut behind him.

“My angel, baby boy.” She wiped her hands into her apron and reached up to plant a kiss on his cheek. “How are you?”

“Hungry.”

“And right on time.” She scooped a plate full of pasta and ladled it with red sauce. “Eat up. You’re too thin.”

He patted his stomach. “On time is where I want to be. Plus, I find late is never good.” Too late to say good-bye to his dad. Too late for the funeral. Too late to spot the ambush he led his convoy into. Never ever good.

“Are you all right? Have you found your journal?”

Snapping back to the present, Nicholas poured two cups of coffee and headed to the table for dinner with his mom. She stared back at him in scrutiny.

“It’ll turn up.” He hoped. He dug in with enthusiasm. “Delicious as always. Do you know you make the best rigatoni around? That makes me a lucky guy.”

She shook her head in disagreement. “Anything would taste as good after all the strawberries we’ve seen this month.” Rolling her eyes, she sighed with exhaustion. In June the Strawberry Festival was all she could talk about. By the week of the event, she hated fruit in general. In a week more, she’d forget the stress of this event and be busy planning for the town’s Happy Apple Festival in a few months. Nicholas chuckled.

“I finished the booths and the framework for the judges’ tents. The festival’s ready to go from a carpentry standpoint. How about the judges?”

“High and mighty like every year. Every woman with a dish or a relative in the contest is sucking up to them like you wouldn’t believe.”