A Promise Kept (11 page)

“But—”

“I want to have a nice dinner with my wife and maybe dance with her a bit.”

There was a smoldering look in his eyes that made her heart go all aflutter. He’d always had that effect on her. A glance. The brush of his finger along her forearm. His breath on her neck. It all left her weak in the knees.

The doorbell rang. “There’s Grandma,” Tony said, then disappeared from view.

Allison went to the closet and pulled out one of her favorite dresses. Would it fit? She was still packing a few baby pounds. Hoping for the best, she shed her top and shorts and put on the dress. She turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror. A
relieved sigh escaped her. The dress looked pretty good, if she did say so herself.

“Knock, knock. May I come in?”

Allison turned toward the bedroom door as her mother entered the room, making a beeline toward the cradle. “Hi, Mom.”

“How’s our little angel?”

“Perfect. She just fell asleep a bit ago. With any luck she’ll stay that way until we get home. But if she doesn’t, there are a couple of bottles of breast milk in the refrigerator.”

Her mother turned from the cradle to meet Allison’s gaze. “I don’t want you to worry about a thing. The baby and I will be just fine. You and Tony go and enjoy yourselves. Don’t give us a single thought.” She flicked her wrist at Allison, as if shooing her away. “Finish getting ready, darling. Your husband is waiting.”

Happiness washed over Allison. A joy that was almost more than she could contain. She had the best parents, the best husband, the best baby in the world.

It just didn’t get any better than this.

Emma

1927

The family gathered around the table in Roger and Pearl Carter’s dining room on Thanksgiving Day, everyone doing their best to make it seem a festive affair. But it was hard, the loss of baby J.J. too recent to be forgotten, even for an hour or two. Emma saw the lingering sadness in her sister’s eyes, and it made her own heart break. She also noticed how tenderly John spoke to his wife. She saw how tenderly he touched Liza, smiled at her, listened to her. And this, too, made her heart ache, though for a different reason.

There was an empty chair at the table next to Emma. Alexander hadn’t yet joined them for dinner. He’d told Emma he had something to do and would get to his in-laws’ home as soon as possible. Something to do on Thanksgiving? What could possibly be so urgent today?

Only she didn’t have to ask that question. She knew the answer. It had something to do with what he did in his spare time. She wasn’t supposed to know her husband was a bootlegger, but she did. And it frightened her. Frightened her to imagine what might happen to Alexander if he was caught by the authorities. Frightened her to know what kind of men—gangsters with guns!—he did business with. Frightened her because she knew things she wasn’t supposed to know. And if she was foolish enough to reveal what she knew to Alexander or to ask him the wrong questions, she would make him angry. She could make
him angry so easily. Especially if he’d been drinking some of that illegal alcohol himself. And he did drink it. He drank a lot of it.

It shamed her to admit it, but she was afraid of Alexander when he was angry. He’d never struck her, but there’d been times she thought he might. Sometimes she wanted to run away. But she loved him too much to leave, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t known the man she’d chosen to marry. She’d seen his quick temper long before she’d become Mrs. Monroe. And she’d known he didn’t love her even as he’d pledged himself to her.

“Emma?”

She met Liza’s gaze across the table.

“Are you all right?” her sister asked softly.

She lied with a nod.

Did Liza believe her?

Please, God. Let her believe me
.

Allison

The dining area in Allison’s home was too small to hold everyone she’d invited for Thanksgiving dinner. So she’d borrowed a long table and folding chairs for the occasion, and Meredith set them up in the living room after she arrived from Boise on Thanksgiving morning. Their guests would include Susan and Ned Lyle; Chet and Marsha Leonard and their two teenage sons; and Pastor Josh Simpson, his wife, Becca, and their son, Tad.

Allison treasured the time she and Meredith had in the kitchen before their guests began to arrive. It was one of the great joys of life, she thought, the new relationship many mothers enjoyed with their daughters after they became adults. Meredith had gone through the normal pulling away during her teen years, but there hadn’t been any ugly scenes of rebellion. Not like some families went through. By the time she graduated from college, a year sooner than most students her age, she’d blossomed into a beautiful, intelligent, strong-minded woman who loved God and had her feet firmly planted in reality. She’d also become her mother’s dearest friend. Which had made her move to Texas especially hard on Allison.

But today they were together, and laughter filled the kitchen as they worked, Meredith peeling potatoes while Allison prepared the green bean casserole. Meredith must have inherited some of Aunt Emma’s gift of gab. She shared funny stories from her job and the people she worked with and about her adjustment
to Texas, especially the climate. She even shared about some disastrous dates she’d been on.

“I think I’m going to kiss dating good-bye, like the guy who wrote that book.”

“You’ll find someone,” Allison said. “The right someone. I just wish he could be from Idaho, and you’d both move back.”

“Not likely to happen while I’m living and working in San Antonio. Not many Idahoans living there that I’ve found.”

“I know, but I can wish it, can’t I?”

Meredith rinsed the last potato in the sink. “Wish away, Mom. I wouldn’t mind coming home to Idaho for good, but I can’t see the company transferring me back anytime soon.”

Allison made a mental note to double her prayers for just that thing to happen.

The first of their guests arrived shortly after one o’clock—Pastor and Mrs. Simpson and their son with the Lyles close on their heels. It was more than half an hour later before Chet Leonard arrived with his two sons, sans Marsha.

“She wasn’t feeling up to being with other people today,” he said, explaining his wife’s absence.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Allison took his hat and coat. “I’ll send a plate home with you so she doesn’t miss out on the Thanksgiving meal.”

“That’s really kind.”

She didn’t offer him any advice. She didn’t know him all that well. But perhaps she could find some way to encourage Marsha, woman to woman. She and Susan could put their heads together and come up with some ideas. With a nod, she turned and carried the collected coats and Chet’s hat into her bedroom.

Allison and her company sat at the table at two o’clock. The pastor blessed the food, and then everyone passed the serving dishes until their own plates were piled high. Roast turkey and
stuffing. Mashed potatoes and gravy and hot, buttered rolls. Green beans and sweet potatoes and peas with pearl onions. Olives and pickles, celery and carrots.

It was over coffee and dessert—apple pie with ice cream or pumpkin pie with whipped cream or some of both—when conversations melded together and turned not to the holiday of Thanksgiving but to thanking the Giver of all. Allison wasn’t sure who started it, but soon they were going around the table, one by one, naming people and things they were thankful for.

First came the expected: Thankful for my husband. Thankful for my wife. Thankful for my children. Thankful for my health.

But eventually someone spoke the unexpected.

“I’m thankful God didn’t answer my prayer about a job I wanted my first year out of college.” Chet tipped his chair onto its back legs. “Would’ve made a lot of money, but we wouldn’t have had the life we were supposed to have. Our children wouldn’t have grown up in such a tight community, learning the values I want them to have. I’m thankful God said no to something good so we could have something better.” His voice softened. “I’m especially glad Rick got to grow up the way he did.”

Everyone seemed to hold their breaths at the mention of his son. Empathy tightened Allison’s chest. How hard it was to speak of the loved one who was no longer present. Especially at first.

“I nursed my mother for a few years before she died,” Becca Simpson said, breaking the silence at long last. “She had dementia. It was hard to watch her fail that way. But I’ve never known the Lord to be so close as He was in those years. I’m thankful to Him for that dark valley of testing because it brought me closer to our Savior.”

Others continued in that vein, but Allison no longer listened.
Am I thankful for the hard things and disappointments that have happened in my life?
The question made her uncomfortable—because she wanted to answer in the affirmative but she couldn’t.

Allison

The house felt empty, almost abandoned, after Meredith drove back to Boise on Sunday afternoon. After four days and three nights with her daughter’s constant company, Allison wasn’t sure what to do with herself in the midst of the silence. She thought about starting another of her aunt’s journals. Or she could work on her latest scrapbook of old photographs. Neither choice beckoned to her.

With a mug of decaf in hand, she settled at last into a favorite chair in the living room and stared at the flames in the fireplace. Before she could take her first sip of coffee, the telephone rang. The call was from Susan.

“I thought you’d be feeling at loose ends with Meredith gone again,” her friend said after they’d greeted each other.

“You know me well.”

“Friday will be here before you know it.”

“Maybe that’s the real problem. January will be here before I know it too, and Meredith will go back to Texas.”

“Let tomorrow take care of itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

She nodded, as if Susan could see her. Her friend was offering good—and scriptural—advice. If only knowing and doing were the same thing.

Susan must have decided it was time to change the subject
before Allison found herself in tears. “Have you had time to start reading our book for December’s book club?”

“Not yet. I’m not sure I’m up for something that takes deep thought. I usually enjoy biographies and memoirs, but I don’t know about this one. It’s going to be so sad. I can tell from the back cover blurb. A humorous novel would have suited me better.”

“You’ll get your turn to pick what you like.”

“I know. But to tell you the truth, I’d rather read Aunt Emma’s journals. I love getting a glimpse into her life when she was a teenager. Things were so different back then, and yet they were a lot the same. Times change but people don’t. Not really.”

“Maybe you should think about publishing Emma’s journals.”

“All of them?”

Susan laughed. “Of course not. But I’ll bet you could pick and choose from the entries. Just the right ones to let readers catch a glimpse of her life. The rest of the book could be of your favorite photographs she took. You could include some of her more famous ones and then some of the more obscure.”

“Interesting thought.”

“It’s more than interesting. It’s a good idea. A really good idea. You should do it.”

“Okay. Okay. I promise to think about it. I’ve got a lot of journals to read before I’ll know if there’s anything I could do with them.”

“You be sure you do think about it. Hey, listen. I’ve got to run. Ned’s calling me.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.”

“Later,” Susan echoed. Then the connection was gone.

Allison’s coffee had grown cold while she talked to her friend. She carried the mug into the kitchen and put it in the microwave for thirty seconds.

Publish a book about her aunt? It was a rather outlandish idea. Allison wasn’t a writer by any stretch of the imagination. Although she had to admit, reading Aunt Emma’s journals had given her the desire to keep one of her own. Maybe now would be a good time to make that first entry.

She went into the bedroom, retrieved her Bible along with some highlighters, a pen, and a spiral-bound journal she’d recently purchased, and carried everything to the kitchen table.

But where to begin?

She took a sip of coffee from her mug, opened the journal, and began to write.

Just who is Allison Marie Knight Kavanagh?

It’s embarrassing to reach the age of 45 and not have a quick and easy answer to the question. As a child, I was the beloved daughter and pesky little sister. In my twenties and thirties I was a wife and mother.

But somewhere along the way, I think I lost track of me.

No, not somewhere. It happened when I tried to become Tony’s savior instead of his wife. I wasn’t very good at that. I tried to be his rock. Wasn’t good at that either. When did I start believing that was the role God wanted me to play in our marriage? When did I become so desperate to hold all the tattered pieces together instead of learning to trust, instead of leaning into Jesus?

A good Christian isn’t supposed to get divorced. That’s what people say. That’s what I’ve always believed. And yet here I am. Divorced. Maybe I’m not a good Christian.

Even as she wrote the last sentences, she knew they were wrong. Not that she wasn’t supposed to live in obedience to God, but that she was supposed to live under grace rather than by her works. The gospel itself wasn’t complicated, but sometimes being a disciple of Christ was. Following rules, she’d found, was—or seemed to be—easier than walking by faith and listening to the Spirit. So much easier to believe that if she did X Y Z, then A B C would happen.

Just who is Allison Marie Knight Kavanagh today? I need to find out. I need God to reveal my identity to me.

And what about that conversation everyone had on Thanksgiving? The one about thanking God for hard things in our lives. God walked with me after Tony left and He was there when I was grieving over my failed marriage. He was there even when I didn’t talk to Him or acknowledge Him. But am I grateful for what He taught me in those horrible months? Is it possible not to want to be divorced and yet be able to thank God in the midst of it? Or even for it? I think it must be. The Bible says so. But how do I learn to do it?