Roots of Wood and Stone Page 8

  Colleen sipped her coffee. “My ex-husband had some dealings with his former partner. If memory serves, the Spencers sold some of their land to a neighbor about fifteen years ago.”

  Sloane pursed her lips. That timing lined up with Garrett’s mother’s cancer diagnosis. Maybe the Spencers had needed money to help with her treatments.

  “The neighbor agreed to farm the land, but a couple years later he sold it to Williams for a pretty penny.” Colleen chuckled. “The Spencers were none too pleased and made that crystal clear when ole Warren came to try to buy the rest.”

  Way to go, Rosie. Garrett’s grandma definitely had some fire in her. Doubtless her husband had too.

  “For the sake of preserving an old property, I sure hope stubbornness runs in that family.” Colleen turned back to her computer. “All the same, I wouldn’t get too attached.”

  “Right.” Reeling, Sloane set the diary on her desk. Warren Williams turning that beautiful land into a sea of suburbia? The idea made her sick.

  It wouldn’t happen, though. Rosie and Lauren were happy there, and the decluttering binge seemed geared toward making the house more habitable for Rosie, not more attractive for a potential buyer. Besides, if he were planning to sell, Garrett would’ve mentioned it, but he hadn’t said a word.

  Her shoulders relaxed. The Spencer place, Jack Brennan’s claim, wasn’t in immediate danger. At least, she hoped it wasn’t.

  Because despite Colleen’s warning, it was too late.

  Sloane was already attached.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHAFTS OF SUNLIGHT sneaked between the blinds of Garrett’s office and took up residence in their customary spot on the far side of the gray carpet. Normally he felt extra virtuous when he arrived before the sunbeams did, but this morning, as he slid his second cup of coffee from beneath the Keurig’s spigot, he barely noticed. Wednesday already, and despite two days of early mornings and late nights, he was still playing catch-up.

  Such was life when he took time off for a trip to Wichita.

  It never used to be like this. Not long ago, he’d come in early to sip coffee at leisure, not gulp it out of desperation. The relative quiet was a perfect opportunity to skim the latest industry news, maybe draft a blog post, and reach Inbox Zero before the chaos hit.

  These days, he’d settle for Inbox Double Digits. Especially since yesterday’s dip in the Dow meant he’d doubtless spend the morning reassuring his more panicky clients.

  Sure enough, as soon as his clock clicked to eight, the phone rang. Garrett reached for the receiver with wry amusement. He’d speak with several clients this morning, but only one was this predictably punctual.

  “Morning, Mrs. Krantz.”

  “Good morning, Garrett.” The elderly widow’s sheepish smile was audible. “I suppose you can guess why I’m bothering you this early.”

  Garrett leaned back in his chair and twirled a pen between his fingers. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with the Dow, would it?”

  “You know me well.”

  He chuckled. “I try. And it’d be great if all my clients were this vigilant. But a seventy-point swing is nothing to get excited about.”

  His client’s soft sigh whooshed into his ear. “I know. I just needed to hear it from you.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” Affection for his anxious client curved his lips. He’d reassure a thousand Geraldine Krantzes if it meant sparing them the financial struggles his grandmother was mired in.

  Garrett returned the phone to its cradle just as a knock came at the door. His boss, Joseph Sterling, stood in the doorway, a blue Sporting KC coffee mug clutched in one deep brown hand.

  Sterling smiled. “Geraldine Krantz, I presume?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Sweet old ladies, man, that’s your wheelhouse.” Sterling’s broad smile faded slightly. “Speaking of, how’s your grandma?”

  “About the same. Which is good, considering.”

  Sterling nodded, then raked a sharp gaze over Garrett’s face, the office lights glinting off his glasses. “You’ve been putting in a lot of late nights. Early mornings.”

  The chair squeaked as Garrett shifted his weight. “I do what needs to be done. You know that.”

  “I do.” His boss paused. “Y’know, I usually have to give the work-life balance speech to people whose work takes over their lives. But it’s not healthy to let your life take over your work either.”

  The gentle reprimand brought heat to Garrett’s cheeks and an anxious knot to his chest. “I know, sir.”

  “I’ve got nothing but respect for what you’re doing. It can’t be easy, especially with the travel. But you’re one of my best guys. I need you at the top of your game. Your clients do too.”

  With a tap on the doorframe, Sterling retreated, and Garrett turned back to his computer, reeling from the unexpected encounter.

  He’d only ever received accolades at work, not chastisement. Sterling’s visits to his office had always been limited to small talk and strategy sessions, with a good deal of positive feedback and appreciation for his hard work.

  These weekend trips to Wichita must be taking more of a toll than he’d thought. But he’d already wracked his brain for a different solution and come up empty. Lauren’s day job as a wedding photographer meant she frequently worked weekends, and securing quality, consistent home care for Saturday and Sunday had proven difficult.

  The situation wasn’t sustainable, and the wrenching decision he’d been putting off now stared him straight in the face.

  The decision shouldn’t even be his to make, but no one else was willing or able to make it. Mom and Grandpa were gone. Lauren’s emotions sometimes clouded her judgment. And Dad? Ha. Happy in Florida with his new wife and new life, Paul Anderson offered only vague, breezy, don’t-bother-me-with-this encouragement. “You’re way closer to the situation than I am, Garrett. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

  And so the weight settled on his shoulders. A weight he accepted, even viewed as an honor sometimes. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t resent it sometimes too.

  Humiliation and anxiety churning in his gut, he clicked out of Mrs. Krantz’s files and into the bookmarked folders of websites and research. While the basic plan—find a care facility for Grandma—seemed simple, it contained a complicated number of moving parts. Which place would provide the best care? At what cost? What would insurance cover, and what would they need to come up with on their own?

  And what about the house? What could they get if they sold it? What work would need to be done to make a sale possible?

  Perhaps it still wasn’t time for Grandma to leave her home.

  But it was time—past time—to get some answers. Solidify questions and uncertainties into actual facts and workable plans.

  Reaching for his coffee, he clicked to his online calendar. He was already heading down on Friday for the concert with Sloane, but if he left a couple hours early, he could meet with a real estate agent. Lauren wouldn’t like it, but Lauren wouldn’t be there. According to their shared calendar, she’d be taking Grandma for a checkup.

  It was the perfect opportunity. One he’d be an idiot to forgo.

  Surging with caffeine and motivation, he glanced through the list of Wichita real estate firms he’d researched, selected one more or less at random, and picked up the phone.

  Even this small step would give him a modicum of control over a squirming, unpredictable situation.

  Perhaps that control was an illusion. Perhaps not.

  Either way, he’d take it.

  June 4, 1871

  The strains of “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing” filled Uncle Stephen’s parlor as Annabelle stood with the group of neighbors who formed their little congregation. Though she longed for the day when they could build a real church building, with a bell and a steeple and an organ like her church back in Indiana, these weekly gatherings, all packed together in her uncle’s parlor, we
re lovely in their own way. The common struggle of eking out a living had removed petty arguments and denominational squabbles. Now that their Savior was all they had, it was starkly clear he was all they needed. And the thought of it made Annabelle’s heart overflow during the hymn’s final stanza.

  No sooner had the notes died away than the door creaked open, bringing in a gust of rain-soaked air. Annabelle turned at the intrusion, and her breath caught.

  Jack. With Oliver by his side.

  “Miss Collins!” His face alight, Oliver bolted across the crowded space and flung his arms around a startled Annabelle.

  “Well, hello, Oliver.” Her cheeks warmed at the whispers and titters of the congregation.

  “Oliver.” Jack’s face loomed large as he scooped up the boy, then turned to Uncle Stephen. “I’m deeply sorry, Dr. Maxwell. I’m afraid it’s been a long while since the lad’s been to a proper meeting.”

  “No harm done, Mr. Brennan.” Uncle Stephen, the Word open in his hand, regarded Jack and his nephew with a kind smile. “Jesus himself said to let the little children come unto him. Stands to reason that those who strive to be like him would follow in his footsteps.”

  As the whispers died down, Jack nodded his thanks and squeezed through the sea of skirts and boots to the only empty chair, a few feet to Annabelle’s left. Close enough to catch a whiff of rain-soaked leather as he passed, to glimpse a fleck of shaving soap clinging to his neck.

  Amusement glimmered in his eyes as he ushered Oliver past, settled into the chair, and pulled his nephew onto his lap. “So much for an unobtrusive entrance,” he muttered.

  Uncle Stephen began the week’s lesson, and Annabelle turned her attention to him. She tried her best to focus, but the whole left side of her body tingled with the awareness that Jack was near. A force more powerful than discipline tugged her gaze in his direction.

  Mercy, he was handsome. And not in a pretty, refined way like the boys she’d known growing up. No, Jack Brennan was this country personified. Wild. Fierce. Untamable. The hollows beneath his cheekbones and the fine lines around his eyes spoke of hardship, but the tightness of his mouth, the breadth of his shoulders, spoke of determination to overcome.

  His dark gaze darted to hers, and she hastily looked away. The quick movement caused her Bible to nearly slip off her lap, but she caught it with a soft slap of palm on paper that drew a sharp, disapproving look from Aunt Katherine. Properly chastised, Annabelle fastened her gaze on Uncle Stephen’s thin, bespectacled face. She wouldn’t allow her eyes to wander again.

  And wander they didn’t. But she couldn’t say the same for her focus. Rather than listening to Uncle Stephen’s message, she found herself praying for Jack. That her uncle’s words would sneak past his defenses and fan that spark of hope she’d glimpsed the last time they sat in this parlor.

  That Jack was here, that he’d risked the humiliation of a late arrival, that he’d stayed even after Oliver’s impulsive interruption … Oh, the Lord had to be calling him back into the fold. Please, almighty God. Finish the good work you have begun in Jack.

  And if you see fit to use me in that good work … then here am I, Lord. Send me.

  When the time of teaching ended and they rose for the closing hymn, Annabelle hazarded one more glance at Jack, who stood with a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, sharing a hymnbook with the gentleman next to him.

  Oh. It was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t not stare. Because gone was the darkness of Jack’s earlier expression, the tight, drawn pallor of his skin. Now his face radiated richness, and his gray eyes held an inner light they hadn’t before.

  Those eyes locked with hers and he smiled. Not one of those quirked, humorless half smiles, but a full-bodied one that transformed his whole countenance. Joy rushed into her soul with the ferocity of a prairie wind. Whatever faith Jack had lost in his struggle, it seemed God had given at least a portion of it back.

  No force in all the world could have kept her from returning that smile.

  The fiddler struck up the closing hymn, and though Jack’s lips moved along with the rest, his gaze remained fixed on her. Looking at her. Looking into her, as though he could see her very soul.

  The quiet clearing of Aunt Katherine’s throat broke the spell. Annabelle glanced at her aunt’s reproachful face, then ordered her gaze to white page and black notes.

  But nothing could steal the joy of answered prayer.

  The insistent buzz of Sloane’s phone against the desk dragged her out of the nineteenth century and into the twenty-first. Setting the diary aside, she answered the unfamiliar number, her voice as foggy as though she’d just woken up from a nap.

  Thank goodness it was Friday.

  “Hey, Sloane, it’s Lauren Anderson. Garrett’s sister.” She sounded on the verge of squealing with excitement. “I found something I think you’ll want to see.”

  Sloane straightened. “Ooh, another diary?”

  “Better. I may have found a photo of Annabelle.”

  “Really?” Sloane was wide awake and fully in the present now.

  “I’m not positive it’s her, but it says ‘Granny Annie’ on the back, and the clothes look like they might be the right vintage. I can text you a picture.”

  Sloane already had her keys in hand. “Cell phones never do those pictures justice. I’d love to see it in person if that’s okay.”

  “You’re coming all the way out here just to look at a picture?”

  “History nerd, remember? There’s something deeply wrong about looking at a century-old photograph on the screen of an iPhone. I can swing by in about twenty minutes, if that works?”

  “Sure,” Lauren replied. “I have to take Grandma to the doctor at three thirty, but if you’re heading out now, that should give us a little time.”

  Sloane was halfway to the elevator before they even ended the call.

  When Sloane arrived, Lauren stood in the living room holding up two zippered cardigans for Rosie’s examination.

  “Okay, Grandma. Do you want the red sweater or the pink?”

  “Pink,” Rosie answered with confidence, and Lauren draped the knit garment over her stooped shoulders, then swept past and hung the red sweater on a rack near the door.

  “That’s one of the things I’ve learned about dementia,” she explained, her voice low. “If you give someone two options, most of the time they’ll pick the last thing they hear. And as cold as Grandma gets at the doctor, pink was the best choice.”

  With a broad smile, Rosie turned to Sloane. “Why, hello there, Auntie Boop. Was I expecting you today?”

  “No, Grandma.” Lauren zipped up Rosie’s cardigan. “Auntie Boop just stopped by to pick something up. She knows we’re off to the doctor.”

  “Oh. All right.” Rosie blinked at Sloane, her blue eyes faraway and unfocused.

  “While I get Auntie Boop what she came for, why don’t you see how the Royals are doing?” Lauren clicked on the TV, and Rosie’s attention instantly locked on the screen.

  “That should buy us a few minutes. The pictures are in here.” Lauren started for the kitchen. “And sorry about the Auntie Boop thing.”

  Sloane fell into step. “I’m happy to be mistaken for her. She sounds fun.”

  “I’ve got no idea who she is. Just like these pictures.” Lauren switched on the kitchen light, revealing a table covered not with health food but with dozens upon dozens of photographs. Color, black-and-white, framed, free-floating … The sight was a feast for Sloane’s eyes.

  “They’ve been on the wall in the stairwell forever,” Lauren continued, “but today Grandma got upset because she couldn’t remember who the people were. I feel terrible. I never thought to protect her from pictures, or to ask her about them before it was too late.”

  “Pictures are never the first thing on anyone’s mind, and we’ve got lots of ways to find out who these people are. It might take a little sleuthing, but …” Sloane spread her hands. “Nancy Drew, at your service. What have we got?�
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  “Here’s the one I called you about.” Lauren handed a black-and-white photo to Sloane.

  Her heartbeat quickened. A fiftysomething woman peered back from the photo, clad in a shirtwaist and skirt typical of the early twentieth century. She stood alone next to a water pump, her hair pulled back in a bun, the corners of her eyes creased in a gentle smile.

  Sloane flipped the picture over, but the back bore no identifying details other than “Granny Annie” scrawled in blue ink.

  “Is this your grandma’s handwriting?”

  “I thought of that, but I pulled out some of her recipes to compare, and it’s not the same.”

  Sloane eyed the photo again. “Well, whoever Granny Annie is, I’d say she was probably born in the 1850s sometime. Maybe early 1860s.”

  Lauren’s eyes widened. “So this really could be Annabelle?”

  Sloane’s excitement surged. “It’s definitely possible. She’s the right age. And Annie could be a nickname.”

  The deep lines in the woman’s face, the silver hue of her hair, spoke of a life filled with hardship. But her expression held a peace, a soft serenity, with just a hint of fire.

  Had this woman penned the pages Sloane kept turning long into the night? Was it she who’d reached through time and so quickly captured Sloane’s heart?

  Lauren chuckled, holding another black-and-white photo.

  “These are my grandparents, right after they got married.” She handed the photo to Sloane.

  She stared through the gilt-framed glass in disbelief. Because there, his arm around a young, golden-haired Rosie, was a man in a 1950s-era suit and fedora, a cleft in his chin and a rakish smile on his lips.

  He looked exactly like Garrett.

  A bubble of infatuation formed fast. “Wow. They’re practically identical.”

  “Grandma’s called Garrett by the wrong name since we were in high school. That’s part of why it took everyone so long to figure out she was sick.” Lauren tugged her long hair into a messy bun and grabbed an olive-green backpack from a chair. “Okay, I gotta get Grandma to her appointment. The door locks by itself, so feel free to stay as long as you like. Thanks for coming out. It’s great to see you.”