Where Faith Belongs, page 26
My throat threatened to close. “Because I love you,” I whispered.
And then his arms were around me, drawing me in with their warmth and security. “Amie, I love you so much. I will do everything I can to make sure I never hurt you again.”
“You will hurt me, and I’ll probably hurt you, but then we’ll forgive and we’ll seek grace. Together. I’m sorry I ran away with Luke. I want you to know we didn’t—I mean, we did sleep in the same bed and I kissed him, but it never went further than that. I couldn’t.”
August studied me, those alarming blue eyes soaking me in. “Wow.” He ran his tongue over his lips, closed his eyes. “I am so, so thankful to hear that. I mean, I was ready to show you grace, but wow. Amie, I want to show you love and grace for the rest of my days if you’ll let me.”
“Yes,” I breathed, my heart nearly bursting with the promise in his eyes, the knowing in my spirit that I could trust him to make good on his word.
Slowly, he lowered his mouth to mine, pulling me into his arms soft and slow, and then more urgent, drinking me in. And I couldn’t imagine anything in the world more wonderful than being in his arms.
This time, for good.
43
Five Months Later
“Make sure it’s covered!” I yelled from my spot in the dining room as I worked to hide the corner of the canvas with my body. Around me, my siblings and their significant others, along with their kids and Aunt Pris and a robust-looking Mr. Colton, surrounded the canvas.
August squeezed my hand and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Stop being so nervous. She’s going to love it.”
I gave him a quick peck on the cheek, my heart erupting in gratitude for this man, for this family, for all the blessings God had given me. Not to mention the beautiful diamond solitaire that made its home quite comfortably on my ring finger. I couldn’t wait to marry August Colton in the spring.
“She’s coming!” Davey yelled, hurrying to place his small body in front of the canvas along with the others.
A moment later, Mom bustled through the door, suitcase in hand.
“Welcome home!” we called in somewhat disjointed fashion.
Mom’s jaw dropped. “Well, what in the world is all this?”
Josie grinned, bouncing little Eddie on her shoulder. “Just a big ol’ Martin family greeting.”
Maggie stepped forward. “Mom, we hope you had a great time off, but we are so glad you’re back. Seriously, we have no clue how you do it all.”
“And I for one miss your food!” Bronson said, earning him an elbow from Morgan. He wrapped his arm around her, and my brother and I shared a smile. Bronson and Morgan would be married New Year’s Eve. Right after their wedding, I’d be deep in the planning of my own.
Mom laughed. “Well, I missed you all.”
“How was the conference?” Lizzie asked. She looked a little pale today. The hormones she was taking for her and Asher’s IVF treatments sometimes made her nauseous, but as always, she remained bright and positive.
“Restful and inspiring. I’m ready to dive back in. And it was great to catch up with Charlotte. Now, what are you all hiding?”
Tripp craned his neck at me. “What do you say, Amie? Can we unveil?”
I nodded and we parted, revealing the oversized canvas to my mother. I watched her carefully, not wanting to miss a second of her reaction.
She took it in, then placed a hand to her mouth, her face crumpling with emotion. “Oh my goodness, it’s beautiful. Amie, it’s perfect.”
I hugged her and turned to study the painting with her. I considered it my best yet. Three months ago, we’d had a professional picture of all the kids and spouses and soon-to-be spouses and grandkids taken and for the last two months, I’d worked on painting it, adding my own unique take and style.
Now, my gaze roamed over Maggie and Josh, Davey, Isaac, and Grace, then Josie and Tripp, toddling Amos, little Eddie. Lizzie sitting in Asher’s lap, his wheelchair almost completely hidden, Bronson and Morgan at the end near one of the apple trees, and on the other end, me and August. A snapshot in time. A picture that represented Mom and Dad’s legacy.
“I’m going to hang it in the living room, of course. Amie, I had no idea you could do people so well. It’s—it’s masterful.”
August elbowed me. “Working at the art camp is paying off, I guess.”
I smiled. It was, though not so much in what I was getting as what I was giving. After spending more time at Abundant Life Church with August, I’d talked often with Marcus’s mother about how well Marcus was doing at the art center. I’d been inspired to pay them a visit, and the director had hired me on the spot.
It wasn’t an ordinary art camp. It was a nonprofit with a mission to provide education and community to those with autism and those who processed information differently. Their goal was inclusion, acceptance, and kindness, and they were open to all ideas when it came to art.
Art, like faith, had the power to heal. And slowly, I was beginning to accept my place in the world—a place I might not have expected, a place that didn’t make me revered and well-known, but a place that was just as important as I strove to help others realize their true potential.
I’d never been happier.
As the family traveled to the living room to see how the picture would look positioned above the couch, August tugged my hand, holding me back in the kitchen. He kissed me soundly on the lips.
“I’m proud of you.”
I didn’t bother to hide my glow. How could I contain it when I had so much to be thankful for?
“And I’m proud of you.”
In helping Liam, August had taken on a bigger role in Gambler’s Anonymous. Not to mention stepping it up in the family business as his grandfather made the difficult decision to move back from the company in part-time retirement.
“What are you proud of me for?” he asked.
“For everything you do. But mostly, for keeping that cell phone out of your front pocket.”
He nuzzled my neck. “No chance am I doing anything to ruin the chances of having babies with you, Amie Martin.”
I giggled and snuggled deep into his arms, sighing with contentment. I couldn’t wait to marry this man, couldn’t wait to spend the rest of our lives creating love and family and a legacy that, if I were half as blessed, could be like the one Mom and Dad had built.
I leaned my head against his shoulder. “Thanks for always making me feel like I belong.”
He squeezed me tight. “Amie, you will always belong in these arms. Forever and ever, for as long as God gives us.”
Now that was something I could definitely place my faith in.
Read on for a glimpse of the final book in
The Orchard House Bed and Breakfast Series,
Where Promises Remain!
CHAPTER ONE
After running The Orchard House Bed and Breakfast for nearly four years, not much throws me off-kilter anymore.
Sure, there have been surprising—even challenging—moments. The time Aunt Pris’s friend, Esther, tried to steal our antique dining room candlestick holders by hiding them in her pants during one of her bouts with dementia. The time the Duchess of Tonga demanded we bow upon entering a room in her presence, though we had our reasons to doubt her claim of royalty.
I could go on, but the point is, we’ve had our fair share of adventures. And now, with the last of my five children about to leave home for good, the adventures would be mine alone.
I swallowed down the thought, turning to my laptop screen. Then again, there was nothing like a new project to distract from self-pitying thoughts, and the email before me might be just the ticket to accomplish the task.
I got up from my seat at the kitchen bar and walked with hurried steps through the butler’s pantry into the guest living quarters where my oldest daughter Maggie worked at the bed and breakfast’s front desk.
“Maggie, did you see—” I stopped short. My daughter wasn’t behind the desk, or anywhere in sight, for that matter. Rather, a burly man with a close-cropped beard and hair graying at the temples stood, finger hovering over the bell on the desk. He wore a button-down flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms covered in tattoos. I glimpsed the intricate ink of a compass and a rope on the arm closest to me.
I blinked. “I’m sorry. I thought my daughter was here. Welcome to Orchard House. Can I help you?”
He smiled, and it was a nice smile. A little worn and rugged around the edges, but warm and genuine, spreading all the way up to his eyes, which crinkled at the corners. He held his hand out to me. “Hello. My name’s Kevin. Kevin Williams. I just moved in next door.”
“Oh!” I placed my hand in his, the large warm fingers enveloping mine. “I’m Hannah. It’s nice to meet you.” The Perry home had sold only a few weeks ago. If I’d known our new neighbors were moving in so quickly, I would have planned to reach out—at least bring over a coffee cake. Then again, with Amie and August’s wedding fast approaching, I’d been a bit out of sorts. Not at the top of my planning game.
He squeezed my hand and a flush worked over my body. Huh. Now that was new. Unless it was simply a hot flash. Those certainly were becoming more and more commonplace.
I released his hand. “How are you enjoying Camden?”
“Great town. I’m looking forward to the fishing.”
“Be sure to try Penobscot River. It’s famous for its landlocked salmon. The best I’ve ever had.”
His eyebrows raised. “You a fisherwoman?”
I laughed. “Good grief, no. But I try to know a little bit about everything to help our guests find their adventures.”
He nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “A woman who knows a little bit about everything. I’ll keep that in mind.”
His gaze didn’t leave me, and although I’d received my fair share of admiring glances from the opposite sex in my fifty-two years, this one served to rattle me in an altogether different way. Not an entirely unpleasant way. Was it my hormones or the fact that the last of my children was about to fly the nest? I’d never been alone—not in my entire life. For goodness sakes, even Aunt Pris had up and left Orchard House—the only home she’d ever known—last year when she married her longtime love and our old neighbor, Ed Colton.
And I was happy. Happy for Aunt Pris and for Amie. Happy that Maggie and Josie built families with the men they loved. Happy Lizzie had found Asher, that they were trying to have a baby with the help of IVF. Happy that my only son, Bronson, had also married the love of his life this past New Year’s Eve.
Yes, my children were all finding their way. In love, in their careers, and in faith. Nothing could bring me more joy. Why then, did this impending dread fill me when I woke each morning? Why was I, a grown middle-aged woman, afraid of being on my own?
I blinked, breaking the connection, and walked behind the desk, shuffling papers in an attempt to hide my blush—ahem, hot flash. I glanced at his left hand. No ring. What was I doing? Why did it matter?
I cleared my throat. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Kevin. If you ever need anything—a cup of sugar, restaurant recommendations, a book to borrow, please don’t hesitate to call on us.”
There. I was being neighborly, but I was also signaling the end of the conversation.
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about a shed I’m building.”
“Okay . . .”
“I’m considering cutting down a tree to make room for it. An old elm. It shows signs of rot, but still has plenty of foliage. I wanted to ask your thoughts on it.”
“My thoughts?” Was he concerned I’d think the shed ugly? A distasteful addition to the neighborhood?
“Well, I’m a tree-guy myself. Can’t live without my trees. I tend to get attached to them, particularly if they’ve been around for a while. I didn’t want to go cutting it down without your approval.”
I squinted at him. “Is the tree on my property?” If so, why were we even having this conversation—the tree was not his to cut down. Then again, why would he plan to build a shed on our property? And if so, we had bigger problems to discuss.
“No, ma’am.”
I shook my head, bristling at the “ma’am.” “Hannah.”
He nodded, smiled. His eyes were the color of pine trees in midwinter. “Hannah.”
“I’m sorry, Kevin, but if the tree is on your property, I don’t see as to how I have a say in the matter.”
“Well, like I said, trees are a big deal in my estimation, and you can see this tree from your back patio, maybe even get a little shade from it in late summer. If you’re attached to it . . .”
Oh. Well, that was considerate. I moved to place my hand on his arm, but stopped myself. “That is extremely thoughtful, but it’s your tree. If you want to cut it down, you should. I promise not to take any offense whatsoever.”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “I might sleep better tonight knowing you took a look at it with me.”
This burly, tattoo-covered man would lose sleep over what a near stranger thought about him cutting down a tree on his own property? I was more concerned about the aesthetics of his shed.
I smiled and started toward the door. “Far be it from me to mess with a good night’s sleep.”
He chuckled, scooting ahead to hold the door open for me. We walked around the back of the Victorian, toward the bookshop and the back patio, side-by-side. Kevin gestured to the orchards. “Beautiful property.”
“I never get sick of it. It was my late husband’s great-aunt’s. We renovated the home and moved in four years ago.” Aunt Pris had gifted the home and property to me for Christmas last year. I still found myself choking up at the gesture. Yes, I knew she intended to hand it over to me in her will, but the fact she was willing to do so while she was still alive meant even more.
“Ed’s home is my home now,” Aunt Pris had told me. “The Orchard House is thriving under your caring touch, Hannah. I want you to have it in every sense of the word.”
Kevin’s voice broke into my remembrances. “And you run the orchard and the bed and breakfast?”
“My son, Bronson, is in charge of the orchards. He and his wife run a summer camp here, too. They’ve done a wonderful job.”
“Busy place, then.”
“We are, but we try not to bother the neighbors.” I gave him a sidelong glance.
“No bother on my end. I love kids.”
We strode past my herb gardens, the faint scent of basil reaching my nostrils. That reminded me, I needed to make pesto for the pasta tonight. Bronson wouldn’t eat pasta without . . . too late, I caught myself.
Bronson wouldn’t be coming to dinner. Neither would any of my other children. Even Amie, the last of my children still living at home, would likely be off with August planning last-minute wedding details.
It was fine, of course. More than fine. I had the entire bunch over every Saturday night for dinner, and I was grateful for that blessing. Grateful I was able to still live close to my five children.
I shook my head, focusing on the man beside me. “How many do you have? Kids, I mean?”
He raked a hand through his hair. “No kids, unfortunately. My wife had some medical issues in her teens that prevented her from having children. It was the one thing she regretted not being able to give me, but if I could do everything all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.”
We came to the edge of the property and stopped walking, the ancient stone wall before us, ragged and fallen from years of New England weather. I loved the character and imperfection of it, how each stone told a chapter in the story of the stone wall. “You lost her?”
He nodded. “Six years back, to cancer.”
I couldn’t deny the sudden kinship I felt to this near stranger. I’d never gone to a grief support group, but perhaps I could have benefited from one. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry about your husband.”
“Thank you.” I still missed Amos, the way his passion for life kept him immersed in new projects, the way he would come out of his study with an open book to discuss a new theory or thought with me, the tender way he treated each of our children—teaching them to love deeply, to think wisely, to be curious about everything under the sun.
Strange how five years had, in some ways, flown by without him. Though I’d give anything for one more day with my husband, time had eased the sting of his absence. I’d grown a business, watched each of our children find their way. And while I still sometimes shed tears at night when I found the other side of the bed cold and empty, I also could honestly say Amos would be pleased with how I’d led our family these last five years. How the trials, in a miraculous way, had grown my own faith.
Kevin pointed to the tree growing up from his side of the property about three feet from the stone wall. Tall and stately, it reached long arms over the wall and into Orchard House property, sending shade into a generous portion of our yard.
“It is beautiful,” I said. “But Bronson complains every autumn about the leaves he has to rake up. You said there’s signs of rot?”
He pointed to a hanging branch about halfway up. “Lots of missing leaves. Also, the bark is gray in spots instead of brown and it’s splitting from the main part of the tree.” He pointed again. “See there?”
I nodded. “If it falls, it could do some damage.”
“Normally, I’m not one for cutting down trees at the first sign of a little rot, but you’re right—it could hit your patio and your house the way it’s leaning. Not to mention, this seems to be the best place for my woodshed.”
I turned to him. “I heartily agree. I hope you can sleep better knowing we’ve discussed this.”
He grinned, his green eyes sparkling. “Thanks, Hannah. It was nice to meet you.”
“You too. And if you need a tree guy, I can ask my son-in-law for a recommendation. He’s in the construction business and knows some good people.”
“That’s mighty thoughtful, but there’s no need. I’m the tree guy.”
