Tender Vow (38 page)

“Then what—? Do you need help?”

He took each step with care, then looked down at her and winked. “Like I said, I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, he reappeared just seconds later, nothing amiss or different, as far as she could see. “What did you do?”

“You’re a nosy little thing, aren’t you?” he teased as he descended the stairs. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“And stubborn. Close your eyes.”

She obeyed but not without a mountain of curiosity building inside her. “What in the world?” she whispered. “You should know I’m not very good with surprises. I always want to peek.”

“Well, restrain yourself, woman.”

A spontaneous giggle erupted. At last, he arrived at her side, his musky scent and quiet breaths awakening her senses to his nearness. She kept her eyes pressed shut until he gave her permission to open them after he’d planted himself beside her.

In his hand was a small package wrapped in gold foil with a tiny bow fastened to the top. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, placing it in her open hand.

“What? Christmas? I don’t understand. Why didn’t you give this to me earlier?”

“I—really couldn’t. It was a bit too…um, telling of my feelings.”

“Oh.” She stared at the pretty box, suddenly feeling jittery. “May I open it?”

He chortled and bent to nip at her ear lobe. “You’d better.”

Slowly, carefully, she removed the paper to find a silver box. With shaking fingers, she lifted the lid to reveal a velvet heart-shaped container. “Oh, how beautiful,” she ogled, her chest so tightly compressed it almost hurt to take in air.

“Open it,” he urged her, his warm breath tickling her cheek.

Hesitantly, she did so, shrieking with pleasure and shock at her first glimpse of two glistening diamond stud earrings. “Jason, this is too much!”

“No, it’s not.” He pulled her to him and whispered in her ear, “Actually, I’m thinking along the lines of something to fit on your finger next time. What would you say to that?”

She gasped and felt her face go feverishly hot. “Are you—?”

Once again, he got up, but this time he didn’t go far, just stood, turned around, and then went down on one knee, albeit slowly and with the tiniest wince. “Jason, you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh, but I do. It’s my first proposal, and I mean to do it up right—well, minus the ring for now, if you don’t mind.” He sighed and wrinkled his nose. “I’m doing this all backwards, aren’t I?”

She giggled. “Oh, my. This is too much. But I love it—and I love you.”

“Mrs. Evans,” he said, sobering, taking both her hands in his and squeezing, looking at her through his good eye, the other one opening to a mere slit. “I promise to make my brother proud by loving and caring for you always. Would you do me the honor of being my bride, pending the purchase of a ring, which I will allow you to select at your convenience?”

She couldn’t restrain herself. Laughter mingled with tears. “Yes! Oh, my goodness, yes!” With the velvet box in hand, she flung her arms around his neck and planted kisses all over his face and neck, taking care to be gentle at the bruised places.

Between fervent kisses, they planned an August wedding, made precious promises to each other, spoke of their future with excitement, and expressed their amazement at the God they served. How incredible that He should orchestrate so fine a plan that would bring them together in this way.

Somehow, the topic of Jay’s passion for skiing came up, and Rachel suggested quite by surprise that he ought to go back out. “Next winter,” she said. “You need to conquer whatever fears you might have and fall in love with the sport all over again.”

She meant it, too, knowing that his return to the slopes would in some way help bring her a certain sense of closure and healing.

“Really?” He squinted at her in disbelief. “But I thought you’d never approve, that the memories….”

She laid a hand on his powerful arm, drawing strength from the mere touch. “I wouldn’t dream of holding you back, Jay. I’ve tasted fear, and it’s not of God; therefore, I refuse to let it rule my life. When you decide to hit those slopes again, I will be cheering you on. And”—she put her hands together in a prayerful gesture and looked heavenward—“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if, at some point, Meaggie or Johnny wants to learn, well, I will trust you to teach them.”

“Rachel,” he whispered, touching his forehead to hers again. “Are you listening to yourself? You’ve come a long way.”

She giggled. “Don’t expect me to ever go out there, though. That’s where I draw the line. I mean, just the thought of getting on one of those—those things that take you to the top of the hill—”

“Chair lifts,” he supplied.

“Uh-uh.” She gave her head several adamant shakes. “John always tried to talk me into letting you teach me, but I had no interest, and that hasn’t changed. So, please don’t start trying to convince me that it’s fun to attach your feet to two long, skinny boards and slide down a steep, snow-covered hill.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Because I will turn you down again and again.”

“I believe you.”

“And one more thing.”

He couldn’t seem to get the silly grin off his face. “I can hardly wait to hear what that will be.”

“I would like to have another baby,” she blurted out with little premeditation. Yes, she’d been thinking about it lately, but shouldn’t she have considered her timing a bit more carefully? He’d only just proposed, for goodness’ sake!

First, his eyebrows shot up, his slit of a swollen eye widening a bit, and then his mouth dropped nearly to his knees, stunned silence holding him in its grip. But, suddenly, it all gave way to riotous laughter and a hug so tight that she struggled to breathe. “Rachel Kay Evans, you are a wonder. I can’t believe I’m still learning about you after all these years. As for your desire to expand our family, I’m all for it.”

“Really?” She let out a ragged sigh as tears of joy trickled from the corners of her eyes. Gracious, she was a seesaw of emotions. “Jason, my heart is bursting.”

He captured her and pulled her close. “Mine, too.”

And in those heart-bursting, dream-building minutes, two souls made one tender vow to love till their last breath.

A Preview of Book One in the River of Hope Series

by Sharlene MacLaren

Coming in Fall 2011

May 1926
Wabash, Indiana

“Praise ye the Lord. Sing unto the Lord a new song.”—Psalm 149:1

Smoke rings rose and circled the heads of Charley Arnold and Roy Scott as they sat in Livvie’s Kitchen, each partaking of steaming coffee, savory roast beef and gravy, and conversation, guffawing every so often at each other’s blather. Neither seemed to care much who heard them, since the whole place buzzed with boisterous midday talk. Folks came to Livvie’s Kitchen to fill their stomachs, but for many, getting an earful of talk and gossip was just as satisfying.

Behind the counter, utensils banged against metal, and pots and pans sizzled and boiled with steam and smoke. “Order’s up!” hollered the cook, Joe Stewart. On cue, Olivia Beckman, the owner, set down two hamburger platters in front of Mr. and Mrs. Waters and delivered them a hasty smile. Her knee-length, cotton floral skirt flared as she turned, mopped her brow, blew several strawberry blonde strands of damp hair off her face, and hustled to the counter. “You boys put out those disgusting nicotine sticks,” she scolded Charley and Roy on the run. “How many times do I have to tell you, I don’t allow smoking in my establishment? I don’t even have ashtrays.”

“Aw, Livvie, how you expect us to enjoy a proper cup of coffee without a cigarette? ’Sides, ar’ saucers work fine for ashtrays,” Charley whined to her back.

“Saucers are not ashtrays,” stated old Mrs. Garner from the booth behind the two men. She craned her long, skinny neck to train her owl eyes on them, her lips pinched together in a tight frown. Mr. Garner had nothing to say, of course. He rarely did, preferring to let his wife do the talking. Instead, he slurped wordlessly on his tomato soup.

Livvie snatched the next order form from the counter and gave it a glance, lifted two more plates, one with macaroni and cheese and a roll and the other a chicken drumstick with mashed potatoes, then whirled back around, eyeing both men sternly. “I expect you to follow my rules, boys”—she traipsed past them—“or go next door to Zeke’s, where the smoke’s as thick as cow dung.”

Her saucy remark gave rise to riotous hoots. “You tell ’em, Liv,” someone said—Harv Brewster, perhaps? What with the racket of babies crying, patrons chattering, the cash register clinking as Cora Mae tallied somebody’s order, the screen door flapping open and shut, and car horns honking outside, Livvie couldn’t discern who said what.

“You best listen, fellas. When Livvie Beckman speaks, she means every word,” said another. She turned at the husky male voice but couldn’t identify its source.

“Lady, you got to start goin’ to preachin’ school,” said yet another unknown speaker.

“Yup, yup. She’s somethin’, ain’t she?” No mistaking Coot Hermanson’s croaky pipes. Her most loyal customer—also the oldest by far—gave her one of his famous toothy grins over his coffee cup, which he held with trembling fingers. No one really knew Coot’s age, and most people suspected he didn’t know it, himself, but Livvie thought he looked to be a hundred—ninety-nine, at the very least. But that didn’t keep him from showing up at her diner on Market Street every day, huffing from the two-block walk, his faithful black mongrel, Reggie, parked on his haunches out under the awning, waiting for his usual handout of leftover bacon or oatmeal or the heels of a fresh-baked loaf of bread.

Before scooting past him, she stooped to tap him with her elbow. “I’ll be right back to fill that coffee cup, Coot,” she whispered into his good ear.

He lifted an ancient white eyebrow and winked. “You take your time, missy,” he whispered back before she straightened and hurried along.

Of all her regulars, Coot probably knew her best—knew about the tough façade she put on, day in and day out; recognized the rawness of her heart, the ache she carried straight to her bones. She’d talked to him on many a day when business had slowed and he’d hung back, telling her about his sweet Bessie or listening as she spoke in hushed tones about Frank and her deep sense of loss. Almost a year had come and gone since her husband’s passing, but she still dampened her pillow almost every night after tucking in her young sons, Alex and Nathan, saddened by how little they spoke of their daddy anymore. It made her frantic to keep his memory alive, so she constantly told them stories—how she’d met him at a church picnic on a hot July day when she was seventeen and he a mere five months older; how he’d loved to laugh and build things with his hands; how he’d thrived on playing baseball and fishing and hunting rabbits, squirrels, and raccoons; how he’d always enjoyed cooking a fine dinner for his family, rare among young men, as most boys his age wouldn’t have been caught dead alongside their mothers in the kitchen.

She told them how, from the day they’d met, he’d spoken of his dream to own a restaurant, and how, once they’d married, they’d saved every spare penny to open Livvie’s Kitchen. She had worked in a five-and-dime until Alex was born; Frank had worked in a factory. She relayed his utter joy when they’d cut the ribbon and welcomed their first customers, Coot Hermanson and a lineup of others who would one day become regulars. What she failed to tell them was how hard it was to keep her passion alive in their daddy’s absence. Oh, she had Joe Stewart, but he’d just dropped the news last week that he’d picked up a new kitchen job in a Chicago eatery, some well-known establishment, he’d said, and he could hardly turn it down, especially with his daughter and grandchildren begging him to move closer to them. Wabash had been home to Joe since childhood, but with his wife’s passing, he had little to keep him here. It made sense, Livvie supposed, but it didn’t make her life any easier having to find a replacement.

She set down two plates for a couple she’d not seen before, a middle-aged man and his wife. Strangers were always passing through Wabash on their way north or south, so it wasn’t unusual for her not to know them. “You folks enjoy your lunch,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you kindly,” said the man while loosening his tie and licking his lips. “This meal looks mighty fine.”

She nodded, then made for the coffeepot behind the counter, sensing it was time for a round of refills.

Smoke still rose over Charley and Roy’s heads, though their cigarettes looked to be nearing their ends. She decided not to mention anything further about their obnoxious behavior unless they lit up again. Those old fools had little compunction and even less consideration for the comfort of others. She would have liked to ban them from her restaurant, except for the revenue they brought in with their almost daily visits. Gracious, it cost an awful lot to keep Livvie’s Kitchen operating. She would sell it tomorrow if she had a backup plan, which she didn’t. Besides, Frank would bust out of his casket if she hung a “For Sale” sign on the front door. The diner had been his dream, and she’d adopted it with gusto because she’d loved him so much, but she hadn’t anticipated his leaving her alone in the thick of it, especially with bank loans yet to pay off and a good profit still to be made.

Oh, why had God taken Frank at such a young age? He’d been thirty-one, married for ten years and the owner of the restaurant for five. Couldn’t God easily have intervened and sent an angel just in time to keep Frank from stepping in front of that horse-drawn wagon hauling furniture? And why, for mercy’s sake, did the accident have to occur right in front of the restaurant, drawing a huge crowd and forever etching in Livvie’s mind’s eye the sight of her beloved lying in the middle of the street, blood oozing from his nose and mouth, his eyes open but not seeing? Coot always told her God had her best interests in mind and that she needed to trust Him with her whole heart, but how could she when it seemed like few things ever went right for her and she had to work so hard to stay afloat? Goodness, she barely had a minute to spare for her own children.