A Promise Kept (3 page)

But it would have to wait. There was work to do.

She left the glass figurine on her desk then went down to the ground floor where she took a quick shower and, afterward, dressed in a pair of exercise Capri’s and an oversized T-shirt—her favorite stay-at-home attire and one of the perks of being self-employed. She swept her dark hair into a ponytail and ignored makeup altogether. Who would see her? She didn’t have any video chats scheduled, and her nearest neighbors probably didn’t know she’d moved in, tucked back into the forest as her new home was.

After making herself another large cup of coffee, she turned on her computer, opened her current project, and set to work. When she looked up next, more than two hours had passed. Her lower back complained, as if to prove the point. She rose from her chair and stretched.

If she was smart, she would plug in the treadmill and put a
few miles on it. But why walk on a machine when the mountains were waiting outside her door?

She slipped her arms into the sleeves of a bulky-knit sweater that reached to her thighs, put on her athletic shoes, and headed outdoors with Gizmo on a leash. They didn’t stop moving until they reached the end of the long driveway. There, she took a deep breath of the fresh pine-scented air. Glorious! She should have done this yesterday. She would try to do it daily from now on, at least in the warmer months. She would make a walk through the forest or along the river a part of her routine. She would explore every trail she could find. She would walk fast and breathe deeply and lose fifteen unwanted pounds. She would improve her outlook on life. She would stop feeling sorry for herself, even if just for brief periods of time. Maybe she would even learn to talk to God again.

Allison and Gizmo crossed the highway and descended to the riverbank.

Learn to talk to God again. How sad that she’d forgotten how to pray. No, she hadn’t forgotten how. She’d simply stopped doing it—and not intentionally. It just . . . happened. Perhaps because she’d stopped believing prayer made any difference. She didn’t want to feel that way. It didn’t mean she’d stopped believing in God or had turned her back on Jesus or didn’t trust in her salvation.

Was she angry with God? Perhaps. She’d been so sure He’d made a promise to her, a promise that had gone unfulfilled. She’d counted on it. Believed in it. Tried to do everything she thought necessary on her part in order to realize the promise. But it never happened. And since God didn’t lie it meant she’d heard wrong. It meant she didn’t know His voice the way she’d once thought she did.

“So even if I prayed now, how would I know if You answered?”

Emma

1918

Emma’s uncle Stewart never came home from the Great War. He died in the summer of 1918 during the Second Battle of the Marne outside of Paris. When the news of his death arrived, the Carter household went into deep mourning, Emma’s mother inconsolable over the loss of her younger brother.

No one seemed to notice Emma was heartbroken too. She was, after all, only a child. What could she understand of death? But she understood more than the grown-ups knew.

To find solace, she took long walks in the foothills above the Carter home. That was the summer when Emma learned to talk to God. Not just to say her prayers the way she did each night, on her knees beside her bed, hands steepled in front of her eyes, with her mother or father observing from the doorway. No, this was different. So different, she wondered if the minister at church would approve. Her mother wouldn’t condone it. Emma was convinced of that.

But God knew what she thought and felt already. And if He already knew, she might as well speak her mind out loud. So she let the pain pour out, beginning with asking God why He hadn’t protected Uncle Stewart the way she’d asked Him to in her prayers. Faithful prayers. Daily prayers. Fervent prayers. From the time Uncle Stewart joined the army, Emma had prayed for his safe return every single day. Had God said no to her request or hadn’t He heard her pleas for safety?

She’d loved her uncle more than anybody else in the world. More than her mother and father. More than her sister. Sometimes Emma had pretended he was the Prince Charming of fairy tales, and when she grew up, he would ride in on his white horse and carry her off to a castle on a high hill. A silly thing to pretend, but it made her happy all the same.

But that would never happen now. Because she would never see Uncle Stewart again.

Allison

Allison’s and Gizmo’s first week in their new home passed quickly. Allison’s work kept her busy during the daytime hours, and in the evenings and on the weekend, she slowly perused keepsakes from the first of Aunt Emma’s trunks—some jewelry, an envelope of tax receipts for this house and land from the early 1930s, two ancient 35mm cameras, a large collection of loose black-and-white photographs, some that were wrinkled and worn, clipped newspaper articles and obituaries, a bundle of letters.

Allison had never had the time nor the inclination to delve deeply into her family’s history. She’d been satisfied with the stories she knew and with her own memories. But as she looked through the photographs Aunt Emma had kept—not the nature photos that had brought her fame but the ones of people—curiosity began to grow. She recognized a few faces here and there, but the majority of them were strangers to her. There was one man in particular who seemed to have been a favorite in Aunt Emma’s early years. There were photographs of him alone as well as with other people about his own age and a few of him with Aunt Emma, one with his arm around her shoulders.

Had any of these photographs been Aunt Emma’s early efforts with a camera? Allison didn’t think so. They seemed so . . . different—yet certainly intriguing. She’d never imagined Aunt Emma with a boyfriend. Emma Carter hadn’t been unattractive, by any means, but neither had she been a beauty like
Allison’s grandmother, Elizabeth Carter Hendricks. Allison’s assumption about a lack of suitors was because her spinster aunt—what a horrid term that was—had never mentioned having a sweetheart. Never. But judging by these photographs, Allison’s assumption had been wrong.

Perhaps her mother could tell her who the man in the pictures was. Allison reached for the telephone to call her, but a knock on the door—the sound making her and Gizmo jump in surprise—stopped her from punching the Phoenix number. Gizmo barked as he hopped up and down in front of the door.

“Gizmo, sit. Be still.” She stood and, as she did so, quickly checked her appearance in the mirror she’d hung last week to the left of the door. She looked presentable enough to see who’d come calling.

The knock sounded again.

“Coming.” She moved to the door and pulled it open.

And there stood Tony. Her heart skittered. She hadn’t seen him since before the divorce became final, and it surprised her to see him now.

“Hello, Allie.”

No one else called her that. Only him. She used to love it. Now, not so much.

“Hello, Tony. I didn’t expect to see you.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. Looking. Wondering. Suspecting. Hating. Fearing.

Old habits died hard. Especially when it came to Tony.

“May I come in?” he asked.

She took a step back. “Sure.” She pushed the door wide open.

“Hey, mutt,” he said to Gizmo.

Allison closed the door and released the dog from his sit. “Free.”

“Wow.” Tony moved into the center of the living room. “The
place looks really different from the last time I was up here. I like what you’ve done with it.”

She motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs. “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got some diet soda or I could make you a cup of coffee.”

He waved the offer away. “No, thanks. I’m not thirsty.” Rather than sitting, he moved to the fireplace and looked at several framed photographs of Meredith and Aunt Emma and Allison’s parents.

Strange, the way his presence unsettled her. It shouldn’t. She knew Tony better than any other person in the world. True, she didn’t love him anymore. He’d killed her love. Killed it by degrees. So what was it she felt for him now? She couldn’t say.

“What do you want, Tony?” The question sounded harsh. She supposed she’d meant it to.

He faced her and shrugged. “Just to know how you’re getting along.”

As if you care
.

“I’d like us to be friends, Allie.”

Friends. Really? He drove all the way up here to say he wanted them to be friends? She had a sudden and terrible urge to throw something at him. To hurt him. To make him rue the day he’d met her, the same way she rued it.

“Have you heard from Meredith?” Tony raked the fingers of his right hand through his hair. “She hasn’t returned any of my phone calls lately.”

Anger drained from Allison as quickly as it had burst to life. She sank onto the sofa. “She’s doing well. Loves her job. Making new friends. She’s busy.”

“You’d think she’d want to talk to her old man once in a while.”

“Give her time. She’s still upset over the divorce.”

“But she talks to you.”

I’m not the one who walked out. I’m not the reason we’re divorced. I’m not the one who—

“Things aren’t going well at work.” Tony finally sat. “Nothing I do seems to make the boss happy.”

She was tempted to ask him how many times he’d shown up late for work. How many times had he called in sick? But she managed to swallow the questions. She couldn’t control him. She couldn’t fix him. She had to let go.

Let go
.

The words reverberated in Allison’s chest. As if it were only yesterday, she remembered where she’d been and what she’d been doing the first time she heard those words in her heart. God’s quiet, familiar voice, but the command so clear, so unwelcome. She’d held on to Tony and their marriage tightly for a long, long time. God had promised her a different outcome. How could He tell her to let go? Why had He done that instead of giving her the miracle she’d prayed for?

She stood. “I’ve got to get to work, Tony. I’m sorry. Maybe you should call next time before you drive all this way. You’ve got the number. I didn’t change it. Cell service isn’t good here, but the house number always works.”

It occurred to her as he rose from the chair that he looked tired. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He’d aged over the past year. His hair, which needed a trim, had more gray in it. Come to think of it, he looked more than tired. He looked sad, beaten even. She was tempted to change her mind, to invite him to stay, perhaps offer him a meal. She resisted the temptation.

“Yeah, I’ve got the number.” Tony moved toward the door. As he pulled it open, he said, “Sorry to take too much of your time . . .” He met her gaze. “Take care of yourself, Allie.”

“You too.”

He glanced back at her, offered a tight smile, then went out, closing the door behind him.

He didn’t leave her thoughts quite that quickly.

Spring 1987

On their fourth date, after a lovely dinner at a favorite steakhouse, Tony drove up 8th Street into the foothills on Boise’s north boundary. He parked the truck on a rise where they could watch the full moon rise over the eastern mountains. After a few minutes of silence, he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to his side.

Her heart hammered, the way it always did when he held her. Could he hear it? Could he feel her pulse shaking the pickup?

“There it comes,” he said. “I can’t get over how big the moon looks on a night like this. Especially up here.”

Allison made a sound of agreement in her throat.

Tony looked at her then. “You know what you’ve done, Allie Knight?”

“What?”

“You’ve made me fall in love with you.”

She held her breath, amazed by what she’d heard. Afraid she was imagining it. Slowly, he brought his lips to hers. A million butterflies were loosed in her stomach.

When he drew back, he whispered, “Do you think you might learn to love me too?”

“Oh, Tony. I already do.”

He grinned. “You do? Why didn’t you say so before this?”

Because I was afraid you wouldn’t ever say you love me. Because even if you did, I didn’t want to be the first to say it
.

“Marry me?” His voice was low. It poured over her like honey, golden and warm.

Now she
knew
she was imagining things.

“Say you’ll marry me, Allie. Next year, after you graduate, let’s get married. I should have a good job by then and be able to support us. My folks like you and your folks like me. Even your brother likes me.”

Why be sensible? Let’s elope. Let’s elope tonight
.

He kissed her again. With so much tenderness it brought tears to her eyes. How could anybody feel this happy and not explode from it?

Every fairy tale in the world had just come true for her.

Allison

The town of Kings Meadow, population 2,893, was up the narrow, winding highway several miles from Allison’s home. Like many similar communities in Idaho, it had a fast-food joint, a restaurant that specialized in fried foods, two banks, three churches, and a public library. There was a mercantile, a gas station, a medical clinic, and the schools—classrooms for kindergarten through twelfth-grade students housed on a single campus, although in two different buildings, K through eighth grade in one, senior high in the other.