Page 51 of The Promise in Poppies
“How?” she asked out loud, imploring the stoic figure of her forefather who bore a remarkable resemblance to Burns. They shared the same dark hair and eyes, and boasted a similar sharp, angular jawline and broad nose. Had Chadwick been just as callous and unfeeling as his power-hungry predecessor? Would he be proud of Burns or ashamed? There was so much she didn’t know about her ancestry. Was her entire paternal family line just as reprehensible?
Her gaze flitted to the glass case. Lydia’s diary lay inside, calling out to her. With trembling fingers, Cassie lifted it from its resting place and settled on the window seat, tucking her feet beneath her. The soft, aged leather smelled earthy and faintly sweet, and she gingerly turned to the first page, slipping into the past.
Lydia’s sloping cursive told of intense hardship and innumerable sacrifices but also of resilience as a brave band of men and women sought to build a better life. As she read, Cassie cried solaced tears, sharing in their triumph as they overcame countless obstacles to erect an entire town from the harsh, unforgiving soil beneath their worn soles.
Through Lydia’s raw, vulnerable writing, Cassie caught a glimpse of hope in the future. Her tears waned and her spirits lifted, ever so slightly. Until it all came crashing down on the page.
A forest fire had blazed through the town, reducing their dreams to a pile of ash and cinder. Lydia’s sorrow soaked deeper than the ink stains, and Cassie’s heart broke anew.
Pushed to the edge of grief, her throat sore, eyes aching and tender, Cassie closed the book, unable to bear any more sadness. But as quickly as she slammed it shut, she eased it back open, driven by a desperate need to know how they persevered through such unthinkable anguish.
Chadwick says we can rebuild, even greater than before, but I do not share his idealism or his fortitude. It is clear to me now. God has abandoned us. There is no good here.
A tear slid down Cassie’s cheek and onto the page, dampening a water stain that marred the yellowed paper. Had Lydia shed her own tears as she wrote these words?
I took a constitutional walk this morning at Chadwick’s urging. He said the Lord would meet me among the trees. I remained silent, too fatigued to argue, but I knew I would be alone.
With each step, my soul grieved the devastation around me. Mighty redwoods stripped of their glory, regal pines snapped in two. I could go no further. The grief had become too heavy a burden to bear.
Then I saw it, like a vision from heaven. A sea of gold among the ruins. Sunlight streamed through scorched branches, unfurling the velveteen petals, so supple yet strong. They had survived the unspeakable, unafraid to bloom again.
At that moment, I recalled a verse from the Holy Bible my mother made me memorize.
“Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”
That morning, the Lord gave me a promise in the poppies. No matter what troubles unfold, He is with us. His love covers all trials and transgressions, and His strength, perfected in our weakness, will always be enough.
I do not have to wither in adversity. Like the flowers of the field, I can bloom above the ashes.
Cassie read Lydia’s words again and again, her quiet wisdom like cool water on a blistering burn. As she faced the wreckage of her own heart, she had a similar choice. Wither or bloom?
She gently turned to the last page, hoping to find another wise maxim—a line, a phrase, anything—not yet ready to say goodbye. But instead of sage reverie preserved in ink and paper, she discovered a dried poppy pressed between the pages, safeguarded for over a century.
With the lightest, feather-soft touch, she caressed the brittle edges, a smile curling her lips. Her father may not be a man worthy of her heart, but he wasn’t the only branch of her family tree she’d unwittingly uncovered. And not all of them lived in the past. Perhaps there was some good to be found after all.
The creaking of hinges disrupted her thoughts. She tore her gaze from the pressed poppy to find her husband standing in the doorway with a look on his face that said he knew everything.
As their eyes met, a surge of love and affection barreled through her, stealing her breath. Before she could say a word, he’d covered the distance and gathered her in his arms. For several minutes, she merely clung to him, cocooned in his embrace, inhaling his soothing, familiar scent as his chest rose and fell in a comforting, steady rhythm. No matter how far off-kilter her world became, her husband remained a refuge, fixed and unwavering.
“I’m so sorry, Ru,” he murmured, caressing her hair at the nape of her neck. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She tilted her head back, locking eyes once more, communicating in a single glance that, although wounded, she’d be okay. “Yes, but not now.” Her gaze drifted to the diary, nestled on the cushion beside her. In a way, she’d worked through many of her feelings with a woman she’d never met. A woman with whom she now felt intrinsically connected.
“How did you find out?” she asked, adding, “Does anyone else know?”
His features softened as he held her hand, tracing his thumb in gentle circles across her skin. “Most of the town knows. Your mother confronted Burns on stage while we all waited for his keynote, not realizing we could hear them.”
Cassie winced, fighting a sudden surge of embarrassment. But was it so terrible they all knew? These people were her family. Wouldn’t she tell them, anyway? She thought of the tremendous amount of love waiting for her, and Maggie’s words from the other night tiptoed into her foremost thoughts.Not all families are related by blood, but they’re no less real.
In the quiet corner of her soul, beyond the pain and betrayal, in a place that believed in redemption and miracles, she still prayed for a different ending—for a chance at reconciliation with her father and maybe, one day, a relationship. Perhaps she always would. But for now, she’d grieve the loss of what could have been and find comfort in her greatest blessing—the people of her heart who remained by her side through both the fires and the fields of flowers. And she could only hope that she enriched their lives as much as they did hers.
“What about the library?” she asked. “Did you hear about that, too?”
“We did. And let’s just say, it didn’t go over well.” Luke’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “I think Burns is afraid of Frank. He canceled the deal with the developer. On speakerphone, thanks to Frank’s insistence. And he’s leaving town.” Luke squeezed her hand, regarding her with earnest empathy. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” she said slowly. “Or at least, I know I will be.”
He pressed a tender kiss to her temple, and she savored the simple gesture that spoke volumes to her wounded heart. “What about the town? We don’t have a mayor now.”
