Stealing Mercy (36 page)

“
Henry?” The little blond boy.

“
My son. I was only seventeen, you see. Unmarried.”

“
Dot had a grandson?” I put out a hand to steady myself and my box slips. I can’t imagine having a beautiful little boy in my life and not wanting to know him. To hold him, to read him stories, take him to the park, the zoo, and to share with him and introduce him to the amazing world God had created. How could Dot have turned her back on her daughter and her grandson?

The girl laughs and it sounds harsh. “I sometimes wondered what bothered Mom more, my lack of judgment, or the fact she was old enough to be a grandmother.”

She stands and catches the box as it slips from my arms. “What’s this?”

“
It’s the journals and letters of your great, great grandmother, Mercy Faye.” I stammer, realizing that family had been important enough to Dot for her to want to have a personal history of her grandmother, but not important to enough to forgive her daughter. Pride, I realize, remembering Odious’ evaluation.

“
I’m a genealogist,” I say, liking the word and warming to its definition. “Dot hired me to write your ancestors’ story.” I hold up the leather bound book and enjoy a swell of satisfaction.

“
Oh, well, then you’ll need to speak to my dad. He’s taking care of my mom’s finances.” She takes the book and thumbs through it, stopping at the photographs.

“
Oh, I don’t want to be paid.”

She looks pained. “Are you sure? This must have taken a great deal of time.” Taking the box from my arms, she says, “I insist you speak with my dad.” She disappears into the house, clearly expecting me to follow.

“
I can’t stay,” I say and back out the door. I stop in the kitchen garden, my foot smashing a tiny basil plant. The crushed leaves emit a potent odor reminding me of Mercy asking Trent to kiss her. Until now, I’d hated that part of the story. At that point I’d considered Mercy silly and I’d put down the journal for a number of days. She hadn’t been in love with Trent, she just needed to hide her face. Surely there’d been easier, simpler ways to do so, less messy, less complicated and emotionally impactful. But then, she hadn’t expected to be emotionally impacted by a kiss.

The screen door squeaks back open. “My dad really wants to see you.”

I open my mouth to make an excuse.

“
He pretty much begged--” She pauses and then hurriedly adds, “He’d come down here himself, but he broke his leg yesterday.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“
He was rescuing Henry’s kite from a tree. I’m afraid he’s lying on the couch, restless and cranky. You’d be doing us both a huge favor.”

I sniff and slowly walk back up the path, realizing that I have the history clasped to my chest. Blinking, I wonder. I’d thought I’d given it to the girl.

She holds the door open and I slipped inside. She leads the way to the front room where Errol’s propped up on a heap of pillows on the sofa. He smiles when he sees me. “I knew you were hiding something!”

I hold up my hand. “Mr. Michaels-”

“
Mrs. Michaels--” My name sounds wrong and intimate coming from him.

“
Would you like to hear a story?” Sitting down in a wing back chair, I pull the glasses from my pocket. Babette, who’d been dozing at the foot of the sofa, comes to lay on my feet like a furry foot warmer. I decide to read until the end.

New York City’s night noises seeped through the wall chinks and window: the jingle of horse harnesses, the stomping of hooves, the mournful howl of a dog, but one noise, a noise that didn't belong, jarred Mercy awake.

Epilogue

December 1889

My darling Eloise,

You cannot imagine our relief and delight to receive your letter. Felicitations to you and Donovan! We can’t wait to see you and hear of your adventures. While it’s true that Miles continues to huff -

“I know I said I wouldn’t bother you again, but what do you think?” Chloe held up two swatches of satin, one yellow, one peach.

Mercy poised the quill above her letter, tipped her head, smiled and said, “You’ll be beautiful in either. Did you ask Miles?”

“He said neither,” Chloe frowned at the fabric. “His exact words were
nothing at all
.”

Mercy laughed. “That would make for a memorable ceremony.”

“And it’d be undoubtedly chilly.”

“And yet steamy.”

Chloe sighed, turned on her heel and left the library, still contemplating the fabric swatches. Mercy tucked her feet under her skirts and nestled against the cushions of the bay window seat. From here she could watch the snow settle over the distant mountains. The fat flakes lazily fell as if confident in their ability to slowly but surely blanket the valley floor. In the pasture the horses stood nuzzling each other; their breath rose in warm puffs of fog. In the far distance she could see the top of the roof of what would soon be her new home. Sometimes she closed her eyes and imagined that she could hear Trent and the rhythm of his hammer.

In the summer they’d been married beneath the gnarled old apple tree that would eventually sit outside their sitting room window. Someday, she would watch her children playing in the tree, swinging in the branches. She placed her hand on her belly and felt the tiny life moving. Picking up her pen, she continued her letter.

I do so hope you’ll be here in when the baby arrives in the spring. You know how lovely the ranch is when the trees are in blossom and all the flowers in bloom.

“Mercy?” Trent stood in the doorway. “I have something for you, darling.”

She unfolded herself from the cushions. “What is it?”

“Come and see.”

A smile played around his lips. In the kitchen, Hester scolded the cook. Chloe fretted over her trousseau in the room above them. It was the middle of the day. Christmas, the proper day for gift giving, was only a few days away. Suspicion tinged her voice. “What do you have?”

Trent took her hand and pulled her close. “Mistletoe,” he said, just before he made proper use of it.

*****

About the author:

Kristy Tate lives in Southern Orange County, California with her family. She studied English Literature at Brigham Young University and at BYU's International Center in London. Stealing Mercy is her first published novel. For more information and updates on Kristy's next novel, follow her blog at:

http://www.kristystories.blogspot.com