Hank ruffled Jewel's hair and told her he expected her to spell his name by the next visit. Elsie clasped Ivy’s hands and made her promise to send measurements. As a gift, she
wanted to sew a dress from the fabric brought from New York.
Brian, in his way, said the most with the least—a firm handshake for Torin, a look that conveyedI’m proud of you, brother, and a murmured, “Take care of our girls.”
Then they were all gone.
Ivy stood on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, watching the surrey until the road bend and the trees obscured the view. The dust from the wheels hung in the golden afternoon light like a slowly settling curtain.
Jewel cried at the parting—great, hiccupping sobs that required Torin to scoop her up and carry her inside, murmuring reassurances into her hair.
The sound of the child’s grief, raw and uncomprehending, still echoed in Ivy’s chest.They’ll be back, she tried to reassure herself.Unlike Jewel, you have an adult’s understanding of why they left and trust in their return.
This is our life. My life.She gripped the porch rail and stared down the empty road.Bright moments of connection separatedby long stretches of solitude. Brief, beautiful gatherings that make the silence afterward feel louder.
“Enough of this melancholy!” she scolded.I have much to be thankful for here. Really, except for some loneliness, I’m quite content.
Except, she would miss the easy chatter with Cora and socializing with her new friends, of the feeling of being part of a community.
She thought of Cora going back to a life filled with people and purpose and the joy of a new baby. Of Elsie, who would return to her sewing room and her friends and the bustling life of a small town where everyone knew everyone, and nobody had to pretend they didn't exist. Even Brian, for all his curmudgeonly past, had built a life that extended beyond the boundaries of Three Bend Lake—a life of books and conversations and correspondence with interesting people.
The back door opened and closed. Torin’s footsteps, slower than usual, came down the hallway.
She turned toward the house.
He appeared in the front doorway, looking as weary as she felt, the lines around his eyes deeper than they'd been this morning.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “Cried herself out. Not sure if she’ll wake up for supper.” He leaned against the doorframe with the loose-limbed exhaustion of a introspective man who'd spent the afternoon being social and then coped with a distressed child. “Thank you for today. The food. The flowers. Making everyone feel welcome. You have a gift for that.”
She forced a smile. “It was a lovely day. Your friends are wonderful people.”
Torin raised an eyebrow. “As is Cora.” With an arm, he made a circling motion. “I’m blessed that Hank and Brian chose women who not only fit them but fitusas a group.” He paused,his expression darkening. “I know ournecessarysolitude is difficult for you.”
Wanting to reassure him, Ivy placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll be just fine.”
As if grateful, he gave her a smile that didn’t match the sadness lurking in his eyes.
Even as Ivy spoke the words, she wondered.Can I be fine when I love a man so broken?
That night,Torin sat alone in the parlor with a glass of cider. He hadn’t lit the lamps, and the silence of the house settled around him. At an odd hour, Jewel had woken up hungry and ate, her manner subdued.
After he’d drained himself with the drawn-out comforting of his inconsolable daughter, Ivy had taken over Jewel’s bedtime preparations. He’d never been so grateful for her presence. He needed to relax and claim a little time for himself, assured his daughter was in good hands.
He could hear the murmur of Ivy’s voice from down the hall, reading the nightly story. Tonight it was the tale of the ugly duckling, Jewel's favorite, because the duckling became a swan. “Like our swans!” she always exclaimed, pointing toward the lake.
He set down the glass of cider, slouched in his chair until his head rested on the back, and closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to think about Mary Beth in a different way. Not in anger. Not in pain. Not the betrayal. Just the memory of her—slim and dark-haired and elegant, with a laugh like crystal and a horror of anything coarse or common.
He remembered how she recoiled from the babe in the nurse's arms when the doctor spoke the wordMongoloid.How the color had drained from her face. How she'd turned her head away from their sweet baby, theirdaughter, and, in a tone he would never forget, ordered them to “take the creature away.”
Creature. Not her. Not Jewel.Creature.
Picturing the memory, as he so often did lately, he recalled holding his newborn daughter against his chest, a tiny Mongoloid infant with her tilted eyes and her tiny fists waving in the gaslight. His love, instead of dying like Mary Beth’s, had burst forth, so immediate and savage the immensity had nearly knocked him to his knees. In that moment, he'd known. Whatever sacrifice demanded of him—his wife, his family, his wealth, his future—he would choose this child.
And he had. And his decision had cost him everything.
Yet I gained so much more.
The comparison was unmistakable in the two women’s stark differences. Mary Beth had looked at their daughter and seen a mistake. Upon their first meeting, Ivy had dropped to her knees on the parlor floor and introduced Jewel to a kitten named Brave, and then spent her days coaxing letters and numbers from a child the world had written off.
