Page 12 of Always to Remember
Sitting on the bed, he carefully untied the braids of thin rope that held the flap closed. Lifting the bag, he dumped the envelopes onto the red-and-white quilt his mother had made. Reverently, he picked up an envelope, held it beneath his nose, and inhaled.
Honeysuckle.
Slowly he trailed his fingers over the delicate script. During the time the army had held him as a prisoner, when the loneliness had consumed him until he felt it as a gnawing hunger in his gut, these envelopes had sustained him. He pulled them out, smelled them, and touched them.
He pretended the woman who sent them had written his name instead of another’s across the envelope. Although he never read the letters housed in the envelopes, he knew they contained words of love and longing, perhaps a little loneliness, and a great deal of pride. A wife’s letter to her husband would reflect all those things … and more.
One by one, he placed the envelopes back into the bag. Reaching across the bed, he picked up the rolled sketches and slid them into the bag before lacing the braided ropes.
Stretching out on the bed, he stared at the ceiling and wondered if Meg Warner had drifted off to sleep with memories of her husband.
The bench swing squeaked as Meg pressed her bare toes against the porch and gave a lazy push. Drawing comfort from the gentle swaying, she tucked her foot beneath her.
Late in the afternoon, Reverend Baxter had stopped by unexpectedly, hinting at and receiving an invitation to supper. She tried to convince herself that it was his presence alone that had prevented her from returning to the Hollands’ farm as she’d promised. But if that were the sole reason she hadn’t gone, she’d go to the farm tomorrow to look at the sketches.
And she already knew in her heart that she wouldn’t go tomorrow either. It wasn’t Reverend Baxter that stopped her. It was Clayton Holland. She couldn’t fathom the difference between the man Clay was before the war and the man he was now.
The wind whispered a lover’s rhapsody through the trees, carrying her back to a time when love and joy filled her heart … a time when laughter and smiles were wrapped around confidence.
Her wedding day.
Everyone came to share her joy—even Clay. He stood by Kirk’s side as Kirk pledged himself to Meg until death. She paid scant attention to Clay or anyone else that day. She only had eyes for Kirk, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that promised a lifetime of happiness.
After the ceremony, Kirk teased Clay and told him he had to dance with the bride. Clay shook his head, his face burning a bright red, until finally he relented and asked her for a dance. They waltzed, but Meg could recall nothing else. Distracted, she searched over Clay’s shoulder for Kirk among the guests, wanting to be back in his arms.
She slipped her foot from beneath her now and pushed against the porch again. As lazily as the swaying of the swing, her mind wandered to the day Kirk left. He had talked with Clay at the edge of town. She thought it odd because everyone knew Clay had not enlisted. They shook hands, then Kirk embraced him. A manly embrace. Two men. One leaving, surrounded by family and friends. The other standing alone on the edge of town.
She hadn’t understood how Kirk tolerated being so close to Clay, but no time had remained to ask inconsequential questions. Their final moments came too swiftly, filled with pledges of undying love and remembrance, the promise to write, and the promise to return home soon. She kept her promise to write. He was unable to keep his promise to return home.
Along with her neighbors, she rejoiced when the army came for Clay, glad that at last he would serve the Confederacy. Rumors that he had still refused to join his company on the battlefield were whispered on the wind and chilled Meg’s heart. Clay and Kirk had been friends. Clay had not only betrayed the Confederacy, he’d betrayed Kirk.
But for the first time, she wondered what price he’d paid to return home. Did he wake at night to the screams of dying men as she so often did? The depth of despair in his brown eyes seemed to indicate that he might.
Her request for a monument had put a spark of hope in his eyes, which was the last thing she intended. How had he managed to find her request an honor?
The memorial was meant to be Clay’s punishment as much as a tribute to the heroes of Cedar Grove. The sooner he began working, the sooner he’d finish—and the sooner his punishment would end.
Slowly. She must proceed slowly. She’d give the hope in his eyes time to die before going to his farm to look at the sketches. Sighing, she drew her legs up beneath her on the swing. She had nothing else to do with her time.
Three
MEG FINISHED PLAYING THE HYMN, FOLDED HER HANDS IN HERlap, and tried to focus her attention on Reverend Baxter’s words.
The church door opened and distant footsteps resounded. She held her breath until they fell into silence.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she allowed her gaze to wander toward the back of the church. Her heart slammed against her ribs when she discovered Clayton Holland’s intense gaze riveted on her.
He sat alone, his face solemn. He lifted some sort of cloth pouch so she could see it over the congregation. Then he lowered it, stood, and walked out of the church empty-handed.
Meg balled her hands in her lap, refusing to feel guilty about not having returned to his farm as she’d promised. Clay was a man without honor, and as such, he deserved no respect.
The pouch, however, was another matter. She could no longer see it, but knowing that he’d brought it for her and left it—whatever it held—on the last pew made her feel as though she were sitting on a cactus. She’d never squirmed so much in her life.
When Reverend Baxter finally signaled her to begin the final hymn, her hands itched to touch the canvas bag instead of the organ keys. She’d never realized how slowly people walked from the church. Did she always play this hymn three times before the church was empty?
When the only movements within the sanctuary were the dust motes waltzing in the sunlight, Meg rose from the bench, walked down the steps from the dais, strolled as calmly as she could to the last pew, and slid onto the hardwood bench.
With feathery touches, she stroked the silken threads she had embroidered to form Kirk’s initials in the pouch. Lifting the soiled flap, she peered inside the canvas bag, then poured the contents onto the bench. Gunpowder overpowered the scent of honeysuckle.
