Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

of theirs? All secrets won’t be told by that old trunk. Nor his sketchbook.

These unspoken memories aren’t mine to understand or forgive. But I am curious about those letters. Still tucked away. I’ve shunned them, thinking of Father—a sort of betrayal should I peek. Those two men are together in Heaven now, I suppose. As brothers. Besides, Father was there for Mother, to pick up her broken pieces. They had a family. A life. Me. And before all that, Mr. Birch and their children, who no doubt delighted them as little Ruby and Toliver did my heart.

Speaking of Toliver, I saw him in town the other day. He’d grown an inch or two, and strutted proudly in a pair of new overalls. The tall man he was with picked him up by the back suspender and tossed him high in the air before catching him. Toliver’s squeals of joy blended with the man’s deep, rich laughter. A petite woman joined them, her market basket on her arm. She pulled out an apple and handed it to him. He giggled again as he grasped the edge of the woman’s apron with one hand and held the apple with the other. I lifted my hand to wave, but he didn’t see me. They climbed into their parked wagon and drove away, out of town. Heading home...

Lad wagged his tail, begging for his daily chunk of ham. I believe I shall fetch those letters. It’s time.

JAMES COULDN’T SLEEP. He’d been there when Jenny received the letter from Dorothy. Watched her scan the words and toss them like trash into the cook stove flames. What had she written? Jenny’s blank expression told nothing.

Burning a letter was a dreadful thing to do. As though living words were forced to an early death, the sender unloved. He cherished every missive he’d ever received. Only two he’d burned, for good reason. To keep the truth hidden. But he’d rewritten those for Dorothy—to fill in the gaps her heart and mind longed to understand. Unless she’d burned them too, they yet lived.

He’d write a letter himself. To Dorothy. He hoped she wouldn’t mind.

SEPTEMBER 18, 1880

I finally found bravery enough to read those letters. Mother, at my age and full of dreams and a future with Mr. Birch. Seemed they’d been sweethearts from school days. His letters were full of Tennyson and farm planning advice. Goals he’d hoped to achieve their first year together.

Then I found one letter. The one that told me everything. The heartbreaking words swam before my eyes. Family ties had been cut. He’d been forced to make decisions. His choice to abandon this old cottage and instead make the most of Mother’s farm.

This is a letter I want to destroy, rip to shreds—but maybe I should bury it instead. Let the earth rot away such painful nonsense. How pitiful it is, how childish to hurt another in such a way! Had they truly loved him, had they truly accepted my mother as his bride, had jealousy never strapped them to an ongoing train whose tracks lay in a selfish circle. What choice had they except to protect themselves? No wonder Kate winces, when happiness is her gift!

The remaining letters were full of sweet nonsense. I blush at the thought of them. I buried these, even the horrid one, together in the depths of the trunk.

The lid propped open, I lifted out some of the baby toys, carved smooth except for tiny teeth marks at the ends. I untied the bundle of baby gowns, rather stained with age, but such delicate stitching. So soft. I imagined my young mother at work, as I’d later often seen. Thought of her hand resting across her curved stomach, her face alight as she awaited the birth of her firstborn. And a second and third...

I began to cherish every part of Mother’s too brief life. To appreciate artistic farmer Abraham Birch and the short-lived joy they’d shared.

Thoughts drift as they are wont to do, to Father. How often I inadvertently compare them! What foolishness.

I found an item unexpected. A small box nestled at the bottom of the bundle, inside rested a heart-shaped locket. Large, plain, gold. I pried the hinge, praying it would open, praying this heart unable to break.

No picture enshrined, but words—Thy will be done—the Lord’s prayer. His joy, His pain. His sacrifice, and His victory over death. A precious statement.

Had mother dug out the photograph and replaced grief with acceptance?

I gently snapped the words together and latched the chain around my neck. Not to wear as a weight of Mother’s pain, but a reminder that her heart made room to live again. For Father. For me.

Chapter 36

SEPTEMBER 20, 1880

How many months has it been since I’ve received a letter? I feel as though my friends have forgotten me—or is it I who have forgotten them? It’s true, I do have an old, unanswered stack of correspondence on my desk. How to pen my happenstances and heartaches? Would they understand?

I rode Becky to town today and found one letter waiting. The handwriting stopped me short. Mr. Bleu? The temptation was to tear it open then and there. I waited until home, settled into my rocking chair, to open it.

Surprised by my heart—his heart—reaching out. His words will stay with me forever, I think. I know.

Dear Dorothy,

We haven’t seen each other in a while, but I sincerely hope you are not without friends. If you are, I hope you consider me one.

How is Old Becky? Happy in her new home? I suppose I should come see for myself, feed her an apple or two.

Little Ruby let the news spill that you’d signed over the deed. To tell you the truth, I paid Hammond a visit to confess my doings and wiped the slate clean. As spotless as I could manage. I hoped it would ease your relationship with them. Hammond was certainly humbled and maybe one day his heart will catch up with