Where Grace Appears Read online

  Over time, I’d pulled away from creative writing and moved toward philosophy and psychology. Towards Dad’s dreams for me. For who was I to compete with Jo March?

  I shook my head, forcing myself back to the present. Back to Tripp stating he wanted to read my stories. Back to that horrid nickname he had for me. “Don’t call me ‘Jo.’ Besides, we both know you never had the attention span for anything more than a graphic novel.”

  He leaned forward. “Remember Noah and the Seed? That was a brilliant story.”

  A grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. “It had pictures. That’s why you liked it.”

  Amie had drawn the pictures, and we’d presented it at story time at the children’s hospital a month after Lizzie's thyroid surgery. There’d been nothing better than seeing those little faces light up as they transported from the bright playroom corner of a hospital to a world I’d created with words.

  Enthralled by my story and Amie’s pictures, the uncertainty etched on their small faces had disappeared, replaced by a look of wonder.

  I pushed the memory away. I’d decided on a different route to help people now. Dad would have been proud of all I’d accomplished so far in making a name for myself in the field of psychology at NYU.

  I sniffed, not quite able to push away the full memories of those times in the hospital—with Tripp leaning against a wall enjoying the stories as much as the children.

  He pulled out a chair and sat beside me. “I loved all your stories, even the ones without pictures. Still love them.” His gaze held mine, and something about it brought me to the edge of longing, so much so it was devastating.

  I shot to my feet, familiar panic working its way to my chest. “Why don’t you head on over to the library? I have to put some things away. I’ll see you there?”

  He swallowed, the thick bob of his Adam’s apple moving along his smooth neck. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Thanks.” This was what I wanted. It was. To be left alone.

  He gathered up his tools and ladder, seemed prepared to leave in silence.

  “Tripp.” I caught him before he headed out the back door to his truck. “It’s good to see you.”

  His smile, etched with a sadness I’d expected to have disappeared by now, didn’t quite reach the edges of his mouth. “You too, Josie.”

  I didn’t breathe until the sound of his truck was an echo down our quiet street.

  We would clear the air between us sometime soon. But it didn’t have to be the very afternoon I came home.

  Tripp started up his work truck and leaned back against the headrest, his thoughts filled with his encounter with Josie. She joked he wasn’t much of a reader, and that might be true, but he read one thing very well, even if she’d never admit it—her.

  That sad, desperate look in her sharp gray eyes, hidden beneath that mass of wild chestnut hair, covered something she didn’t want him to see. It didn’t matter that it’d been five months—five long months—since they’d seen one another. He knew.

  Something was wrong. Was it just being home again, realizing the loss of her father anew? She used to confide in him, but those days vanished faster than coffees on a construction site.

  Seeing her was like reopening an old wound. With much pain, he realized he still held out hope for them to be together someday. His best friend. The girl he’d loved all his life.

  But she’d rejected him, tore his heart to shreds like one would an old bank statement. He’d convinced himself he was getting over her, even went on a date or two, but always found the poor girl, who sat across from him at dinner, lacking. Not with any kind of blatant physical or character flaw, but with the simple fact that she wasn’t Josie, the girl who took up every inch and corner of his heart.

  He put his truck in drive and sent up a quick prayer for whatever the future brought for them. How would he even survive this retirement party? Josie’d want to catch up with her siblings no doubt. Would she even acknowledge his presence?

  But he wasn’t going for Josie, he was going for Hannah. The woman had been like a mother to him all these years. He couldn’t miss her big day. Seeing Josie again—even if she didn’t give him the time of day—was just an added benefit.

  His phone rang out over his Bluetooth and he turned left on Bay View Street toward the library, the sparkling Maine coast on his right. He picked up. “Hey, Pedro. What’s up?”

  “You at the office, Boss Man?”

  “I can be.” His best foreman didn’t ask for much, so when he did, Tripp tried to accommodate.

  “I gotta talk to you before I lose my cool.”

  Pedro didn’t lose his cool often. Not over receiving the wrong materials on a job-site. Not over a picky homeowner who changed their mind a hundred times over tile backsplash choices. Not even over a four-hundred-dollar table saw gone bust.

  An unpleasant knowing settled in Tripp’s stomach. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” He’d have to be late to the library. Keeping his foreman happy trumped being on time for a retirement party. Better to keep Grandpop out of it all if possible. Especially if… “This doesn’t have anything to do with a certain blond-haired college kid who’d rather be surfing than building houses, does it?”

  “You called it, Boss.”

  Tripp groaned and hung up with Pedro, his fingers tight on the wheel. He probably should have fired that kid a week ago. Probably should have sent him packing, told him to get a job at a beach club where he could have smiled pretty for tips all summer long. If only it wasn’t so complicated.

  If only the lazy laborer was someone other than his own brother.

  2

  If my hometown of Camden was the jewel of the Maine coast, as so many claimed, then its library was the jewel of the town. Perched on a hill overlooking the harbor, the historic building boasted just enough old charm to be considered unique and just enough modern-day essentials to be considered practical. I couldn’t count how many times I’d sprawled on a bench overlooking the naked masts on the harbor or perched on one of the stones that made up the generous backyard amphitheater with nothing but a book and my imagination to pass the time.

  While my father’s throne had been his study, my mother’s was the library.

  But to imagine the library without my mother was almost as painful as imagining Dad’s empty study chair. And a bookshop? How had I not been told of such a major decision? So much was changing, and changing fast—yet I couldn’t pretend my life wasn’t among them.

  I turned onto Atlantic Avenue to park, but not before glimpsing the orchards in bloom behind the massive Victorian home just around the corner on historic High Street. I’d always been drawn to the place, dubbed Orchard House, with its wide wraparound front porch, its many gables that hid secret rooms and hiding places, the historical mysteries that clung to the curves of its turrets.

  Too bad I couldn’t say I felt the same draw to the home’s solitary resident.

  Still, I should visit her soon. The peppery octogenarian could be a trial, but my great-aunt Pris made it possible for me to attend NYU. Even if paying for my college was her attempt to make restitution for past wrongs. While I admired my great-aunt’s independence, I could have done without her blunt opinions and irrational finagling in the lives of her great-nieces and nephew.

  I parked my beat-up Honda Civic and crossed the street to walk the pavers, carved with bookish quotes, to the library’s front entrance. The large-domed windows illuminated chandeliers and walls lined with books and people—many people—within. It looked as if the entire town had come to pay tribute to Mom.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushed off the notion that I should have accepted Tripp’s offer to accompany him, and pulled the door open, suddenly conscious of my empty hands. I should have brought Mom a gift, or at least picked up some chocolates or a bouquet of flowers at French and Brawn Market. As usual though, my good intentions lagged behind my actions.

  I stepped into the building. Small groups of people
congregated throughout the large room, some sitting in chairs and at tables, others standing in clusters. The delicious scent of books mingled with that of food and various colognes and perfumes, making me dizzy. I searched for members of my family but spotted only unfamiliar heads of hair and a few of the library staff. I squeezed against a bookshelf before feeling a hard poke in my side.

  I whirled to see the rubber end of a cane in my face. I was convinced Aunt Pris carried it around more for the jabbing than for balancing. The top of her coiffed white hair barely reached my shoulders, yet what she lacked in height, she made up for with her commanding presence.

  “About time you showed up, girl.”

  “Nice to see you, Aunt Priscilla.”

  “Have you seen that brother of yours? I’ve been after him to help bring some boxes over to the house for me.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I just got into town.” I turned my attention to the small toy poodle perched inside her large pocketbook. I didn’t think dogs were allowed in the library, but I doubted anyone would question my great-aunt. I held my hand out to the fat, spoiled pooch, hoping for a different response than I’d received in our previous encounters. “Hey, Cragen.” Aunt Pris was a big Law & Order fan. “How’s things?” My attempt at conversation earned me a sharp, yippie snap. I snatched my hand back. “Same as Christmas then, huh?”

  Aunt Pris eyed me. “Hmph. You done with school yet? Still, don’t see how a fancy degree is going to help you make something of yourself.”

  I was four the first time I met Aunt Pris. Sometimes—okay, all of the time—I didn’t understand how Dad and Aunt Pris were even related, no matter how distantly. Not for the first time, I wondered why Aunt Pris hadn’t taken my father in after her sister died while giving birth to him. I wondered if Dad would have turned out differently—more rigid and hard instead of the softhearted man I knew. Perhaps I should be extra thankful for Dad’s adoptive parents, who died in a house fire before I ever knew them.

  Maybe deep beneath my aunt’s crotchety exterior lay a generous heart to go with all that gumption. She’d certainly helped Dad out of a financial pickle more than once, even though Dad’s adoption as a baby hadn’t connected us with his birth mother’s sister until later in his life.

  I breathed deep and opened my mouth to defend my chosen study to my great-aunt. Surely helping people, digging deep into the human psyche, and promoting internal healing was of more worth than a career that would bring in bucket loads of money. Not that I had an aversion to bucket loads of money, mind you. But some things were more to be treasured, Dad always said. Despite the often fleshly temptation to think otherwise, in the end, I couldn’t help but agree.

  Aunt Pris raised her eyebrows. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me how that degree is going to benefit you? Unless you met a rich city man, Josy-phine…that would be the most worthy news this family has heard in a long time. Especially after your sister’s…choices.” She jerked her head to the corner of the large room where my oldest sister corralled two young boys with a plate of cookies.

  “Oh!” I turned to Aunt Pris. “Do you mind? I haven’t seen her since Christmas.”

  Aunt Pris waved me away. “Go on, I got my quilting club over yonder there.” She waved her cane at a group of silver-haired ladies who for some mystical reason, enjoyed my great-aunt’s company.

  “Maggie!” I called, waving and tripping over my own feet as I made my way toward her.

  My sister lifted her dark head after setting the cookies down, her delicate pretty features made all the more so by the pleasant look of surprise on her face. She threw her arms around me in a tight embrace, and I sank into them, clinging tighter. For the first time since those two little blasted pink lines showed up, I felt that everything was going to be okay. Somehow, like a storybook ending, it all would be right in the end.

  We parted, and I discreetly brushed the wet corners of my eyes.

  Maggie dipped her head. “My Josie—crying? Are you okay?”

  I sniffed, nearly swatted her hand away. “Just glad to be home.”

  “Well, I thought you were going to leave us forever the way you never returned my calls.”

  A tug at the hem of my blouse caused me to turn to see five-year-old Davey. “You remember me, Aunt Josie? You took care of us when Daddy and Mommy went mooning.”

  I stifled a laugh and wrapped my nephew in a hug, inhaling the scent of maple syrup and soap. It had been too long. “Of course, I remember you, you silly goose.”

  Maggie ruffled his hair, smiling. “It’s called a honeymoon, Davey.”

  Indeed. For certainly the idea of my sweet, responsible sister mooning the neighbors was nearly as preposterous as Aunt Pris getting emotional over a Hallmark movie.

  I turned to my second nephew, who stuffed his face with a sugar cookie. “Isaac.” I wrapped him in a hug. “It’s good to see you, little guy.”

  “You too, Aunt Josie,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.

  “Oh,” I dug in my small purse. “I have something for you guys.” I pulled out two little plastic packs of LEGOs I’d seen at a Walmart back in New York a couple weeks ago. One was a helicopter, the other an airplane.

  The boys let out whoops and thank you’s before collapsing to the floor to empty and assemble their loot.

  My heart swelled. “How’s it going with…everything?” My older sister, as prim as a China aster, had surprised everyone by getting knocked off her feet by a whirlwind romance to a man ten years her elder—a widower with twin boys, no less. To be honest, we’d all been hesitant to jump on board with the idea. Too much baggage, too much room for hurt—and all too fast. But after we’d lost Dad, what was really important rose to the surface. Josh and his parents had been such a help to us, particularly to Mom in handling the details of the will and life insurance. In truth, we couldn’t help but fall in love with the high school teacher as Maggie had. The two had been married last summer just before I returned to school.

  Maggie blew her hair out of her face as her gaze lingered on the boys. “It’s good. Great, actually.” She leaned toward me. “In fact, Josh and I talked about it just this morning and we’ve decided to start trying.”

  I stared at her as I sought to comprehend her words.

  Maggie’s laughter bubbled up, and she bumped my shoulder with her own. “Oh, Josie. You know, the birds and the bees?”

  I stared at her, uncomprehending.

  “A baby, silly. We want to have a baby.”

  I grasped for words. A baby. But of course. “I—that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you, Mags.” I gave her another hug.

  “Well, I suppose it could take some time, but I think I’m ready. I think we’re ready. I can’t believe how fast Davey and Isaac have stolen my heart. It’s not always easy, of course. Some days are hard. Really hard. But when I think about growing up in a big family like we did—well, I can’t imagine it any other way for my own.”

  “You’re a great mother.” And she was. How many times had I been on the phone with her last fall while she led the twins through bath times or uncomplainingly stopped a brotherly quarrel from escalating into a wrestling match? She was the one who should be popping out babies, raising them to be functional, caring human beings. My sister was made for such things. I, on the other hand, was made for runs on the beach, getting lost in a library, writing dry research papers only twenty people read in an obscure psych journal, maybe even scribbling down a secret murder-mystery once in a while.

  I was not made to be a mother.

  We chatted a few more minutes about the possibility of a new baby for Maggie before I couldn’t take it anymore. I searched the room for Mom, guessing her petite frame to be lost somewhere in the crowd. “So, Mom retiring, huh? That was sure a surprise. And what’s this about a bookshop?”

  Maggie bent to wipe chocolate from Isaac’s mouth. “If you returned my calls or read my texts the last several weeks, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  I winced. “I-u
h…” Yes, I hadn’t been great about returning calls, but I always read my texts. Vaguely, I remembered a couple of particularly lengthy texts I’d ignored the week my life collapsed around me. But hadn’t I skimmed them? I wouldn’t have missed such an important detail as the Martin family opening a bookshop, would I?

  Then again, that week—the week my plans and future were crumpled up and torn—nothing had seemed to matter except my pain. Even my precious classes had fallen by the wayside. The dinging of my texts had filled me with hope—a hope never realized—for each time I’d spotted Maggie or Mom or Lizzie’s names and not Finn’s, I’d put the phone down, allowing the messages to drag me further into despair.

  Maggie pushed a stray hair from Isaac’s face, the move natural and without thought. Gracious me, she was a good mom. “Don’t sweat it, Sis. I know you’ve been busy. I’m just glad you’re here now. I was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” My voice practically squeaked.

  She narrowed her eyes at me, but didn’t push, for which I was thankful. As my closest friend, I couldn’t deny that I’d taken her marriage hard. And so soon after Dad died. Maggie had gained a new family in only a day, and I’d felt my world shift, felt that everything I held dear was being taken from me. But being with Maggie now, I could only feel grateful. She was still here. Unlike Dad, I could still talk to her. Yes, things changed. This new dimension of my sister—the wife and mother dimension—didn’t take away from who she was, it only added to the already beautiful person I was proud to know. If I ever worked up the courage to tell her my secret, which I’d have to sooner or later, I hoped she might have wisdom to offer.

  After she got over her initial disappointment in me, of course.

  Even now, at the thought, prickles of heat speared my pride. Shame and embarrassment surged forth. Maggie, Mom, my entire family, even Aunt Pris…I’d let them all down. I was the driven one, the determined-to-grab-the-world-by-its-horns-and-wrangle-success-from-it one. And I’d always kept my principles in line.