Chapter 20
T he following evening, Kathleen stood at her kitchen window, watching a flock of birds fly across Flathead Lake.
Despite the warmth radiating from the wood-burning stove, she picked up her sweater and pulled it on.
The house felt larger somehow when she was alone, each room holding space for memories and conversations that hadn’t yet happened.
Susan had gone into town earlier, intent on making the most of her last day in Sapphire Bay.
Kathleen would miss her when she left. It was wonderful sharing the house with her, slipping down to the hidden room when they were alone, and imagining what it must have been like in Montana in the late nineteenth century.
The soft chime of her doorbell interrupted her thoughts, and she hurried to answer it, grateful for the arrival of her friends.
Lynda stood on the veranda holding a bottle of wine and a covered dish that smelled like her famous herb bread.
Behind her, Isabel carried a bouquet of wildflowers from Frank’s garden, while Susan balanced a white bakery box that undoubtedly contained something decadent from her catering supplies.
“Perfect timing,” Kathleen said, stepping aside to let them in. “I just finished setting up the living room.”
Like she had many times, she’d arranged cushions on the floor around her coffee table, creating a cozy circle near the fireplace.
Hopefully, the contractors would soon be finished in the dining room.
But for now, having their last evening together beside the fireplace felt more right than sitting in a formal dining room.
“This is so much better than meeting at a restaurant,” Susan said as she sat on the floor. “We can spread everything out and take our time.”
Isabel arranged her flowers in a mason jar, then settled onto one of the cushions with a slight wince. “I’ll have to get back to my pilates classes if we’re going to do this all the time.”
Lynda laughed as she attempted to find a comfortable position. “I spent yesterday examining a very uncooperative Great Dane, and every muscle in my body is protesting.”
Kathleen poured wine into four mismatched glasses—a collection that had grown organically over the years, each piece carrying its own story. “Don’t worry,” she assured her friends. “The dining room will be up and running next week.”
Susan accepted her wine with a grateful smile. “It’s a pity I won’t be here to see the room finished.”
“You can always come back sooner than you think you will,” Kathleen said, settling onto her own cushion.
Susan had decided to sell her business, but so much was still up in the air that she wasn’t sure when she could leave Georgia.
“Tell us about your conversations with the broker. How are you feeling?”
“Everything’s been surprisingly positive,” Susan said. “Both potential buyers seem genuinely interested in maintaining the quality and reputation I’ve built. They’re not looking to change everything straightaway.”
“That must be a relief,” Isabel said gently. “When you’ve put so much of yourself into building something, it’s hard to imagine someone else taking it in a completely different direction.”
“It is, but I have to accept that someone else will have ideas that are different from mine. I keep reminding myself that change is good.” Susan took a sip of wine, and some of the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease.
“At least they understand that providing exceptional service has made the business successful.”
Kathleen studied her friend’s face, recognizing the mix of excitement and apprehension that came with major life changes. “Are you having any second thoughts about selling?”
“Not really,” Susan said, though her voice carried a note of uncertainty.
“I’m tired, Kathleen. I love what I do, but I’ve been running myself ragged for years.
The early morning prep work, the late evening cleanup, the constant pressure to book new events.
..” She gestured helplessly. “I want to have energy for other things again.”
“Like what?” Lynda asked, refilling her own glass.
Susan’s eyes brightened for the first time that evening. “Like traveling without worrying about client deadlines, reading books that aren’t business management guides, and starting a smaller business in Sapphire Bay.”
Isabel reached over and squeezed Susan’s hand. “You know we’d love nothing more than to have you here permanently.”
“But there’s no pressure,” Kathleen added quickly. “We want whatever makes you happiest.”
Susan nodded and then reached for the white bakery box she’d brought. “Speaking of things that make me happy, I brought a chocolate bourbon cake. I thought we might need something indulgent after looking at Florence’s journal entries.”
Unfortunately, it had taken longer than Chloe or Kathleen had thought to receive the scanned journal entries from the Smithsonian.
But when they arrived, Kathleen could see why it had taken so long.
Sarah had sent the entire journal in separate emails.
Kathleen had printed them off for her friends, and the pages now lay in a neat stack on the coffee table.
“Are you ready to look at them?” Lynda asked eagerly.
Isabel moved closer as Kathleen picked up the first page.
“I’ve already read some of the entries,” Kathleen told her friends.
“This is typical of how Florence describes what’s happening around her.
” She cleared her throat. “March 15th, 1895. M.A. arrived today in the final month of her confinement. She walked nearly twenty miles from Polson, carrying only a small bundle of belongings and the letter of introduction from Dr. Whitman. Her condition is stable, though she shows signs of prolonged malnutrition and exhaustion. More concerning is the fear I see in her eyes—the same look I recognize in my own mirror all those years ago.”
The room fell silent as Florence’s words settled over them.
Kathleen continued reading, her voice growing stronger as she shared Florence’s detailed account of caring for the young woman, helping her through labor, and eventually assisting her in creating a new identity as a widow named Mary Anderson.
“She writes about each woman like she’s documenting a victory,” Susan said softly. “Even though she had to be terrified of being discovered.”
“Look at this entry,” Isabel said, pointing to a passage further down the page. “She mentions her aunt Miriam teaching her how to forge documents.”
Kathleen handed Susan another page. “Florence writes about the people who helped her. On this page, she talks about a shop owner who donated fabric for baby clothes.”
“They were all taking risks,” Susan added. “If the authorities had discovered what they were doing, everyone involved could have faced serious consequences.”
As Lynda, Susan, and Isabel read different pages of the journal, Kathleen turned to a page near the end of the stack.
Florence’s handwriting appeared more hurried and less controlled.
“This must be from closer to 1899,” she said, beginning to read again.
“I fear our time may be coming to an end. Someone has been asking questions in town about the women who have stayed with us. Aunt Miriam insists we should burn everything and disappear, but I cannot abandon the girls who may still need our help. If something happens to me, I pray that whoever finds these records will understand that every woman deserves the chance to control her own destiny.”
Tears blurred Kathleen’s vision as Florence’s words washed over her.
Florence had lived in this house, walked in the same rooms, and looked through the same windows as Kathleen.
After everything that had happened, she’d faced her end with courage and an unwavering commitment to the people she’d sworn to protect.
“She died protecting their secrets,” Susan whispered.
“And her aunt preserved her journal,” Isabel added softly. “Making sure Florence’s story would eventually be told.”
Susan sighed. “I keep thinking about how different the world was for women then. How few options they had if something went wrong in their lives.”
“It makes me grateful for what we have now,” Lynda said. “The freedom to make our own choices and to start over when we need to.”
Kathleen looked around at her three dearest friends, women who had supported her through her divorce, her move to Sapphire Bay, and every challenge since. They had all started over in their own ways, found new paths when the old ones no longer served them.
“That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?” she said. “We’re refusing to let circumstances define our futures. Florence and her aunt would understand exactly what our friendship means.”
“To Florence,” Susan said, raising her wine glass. “And to women who refuse to give up on themselves or each other.”
They clinked glasses solemnly, the sound echoing against the crackle of the fire. Outside, full darkness had settled over the lake, but inside, surrounded by the warmth of friendship, Kathleen felt more connected to her home and her future than she had in months.
Tomorrow, Susan would fly back to Georgia. But tonight, they were together in the house where Florence Buckley had lived and worked and sacrificed. They were carrying forward the legacy of women who understood that sometimes the greatest act of courage was simply refusing to surrender hope.