Chapter 16
Our eyes are locked, and I struggle not to look away because his gaze burns intensely on mine. A lump rises to my throat. It’s from gratitude. It’s from the connection I don’t want to have with him but feel right now anyway.
I’m relieved he’s standing too far away to do anything crazy like kiss me or I fear he might. We stay quiet a moment, and I again feel the wildness of the world all around me. Until finally he glances down into his bucket to say, “Think we probably got enough now.”
I nod. Then force a smile to lighten things. “Blackberries for days.”
He steps closer to glance in my pail as well. “You did good, young blackberry apprentice.”
I can’t stop the small laugh that sneaks out. “If the broadcasting thing ever falls through, maybe I can fall back on my new blackberry-picking skills.”
Despite having decided we’re done, I grab another berry hanging right in front of me—I guess the picking is a little addictive and I feel almost like I’m leaving behind tiny ripe treasures—and he follows suit, picking another himself.
We’re standing side by side, still picking those last few berries—when suddenly his hand closes over mine and he whispers, “Shhh,” near my ear. “Be still.”
I feel his breath on my skin. And I’m hyperaware of his hand holding mine. Freezing in place, I’m a little afraid, my heart beating too fast, but also aware that various body parts are tingling.
“Don’t move,” he instructs me in the same whisper, “but look to your right.”
Slowly, I turn my head. When I find a deer standing less than ten feet away, I softly gasp. It’s so big close up. But I sense how gentle it is, too.
“Wants some berries, I’m guessin’,” Matt says, low. And with that, he smoothly sets his bucket down and scoops into it with one hand, still holding my hand with the other, then reaches out an open palm full of berries beyond me, to our visitor.
We both stay motionless—I’m trying not to exhale lest even that scare the beautiful white-spotted deer away.
As I look at it, I could swear it’s looking back, that we’re having a moment as it tries to decide if it can trust what’s being offered.
I instinctively send a mental message: It’s safe. I promise. You don’t have to be afraid.
I know it’s crazy, but as if the deer can grasp my thoughts, it cautiously comes forward—one step, then two. It pauses, and I’m holding my breath as Matt squeezes my hand tight, and then it moves closer until it’s eating the berries from Matt’s outstretched palm.
The three of us stand there that way, all just trying not to frighten each other, until finally the deer turns to bound gracefully away through the brush. We watch it go, listening to the shushing sounds it creates as it disappears out of sight.
I look toward Matt and our eyes meet. I fear my heart might erupt through my chest.
He leans forward, his face coming closer to mine—and I can smell him, feel his nearness—until his forehead bumps the brim of my big hat.
He seems to almost bounce backward off it, clearly surprised by the obstacle even though I’m not sure why. I pull my hand away, take a step back as well.
I decide to address the deer and only the deer. “That was amazing,” I say, and I mean it—I’m still as stunned by that as by suspecting Matt just tried to kiss me. And by not knowing if I was going to stop him.
“Yeah,” he replies, sounding a little taken aback—maybe by the deer, maybe by the hat bump. “I’ve never had that happen before.”
“Really?” I mean, he grew up here, so maybe I thought he was a deer whisperer, but apparently this was as rare for him as for me.
He nods. “Once-in-a-lifetime occurrence probably.”
I nod, too, and make more conversation about the deer as we pick up our buckets and start for home.
But as we walk, I notice the top of my hand is purple where he touched it with fingers he’d been picking berries with.
It’s like left-behind fingerprints, proof, a reminder that touching occurred.
It makes me keep feeling the touch even though it’s over now.
I can’t help thinking that this stupid, silly hat of mine protected me from more than just the sun today.
That night, as I get ready for bed, standing in front of the mirror and putting on my scar cream, I’m still feeling it all somehow—the sensation of his hand on mine, the moment the deer looked me in the eye, the blackberries sitting in my kitchen still making me sense the wild, beautiful bits of nature all around me.
I study my hair, the flat little curls that have taken shape on my head, a darker brown than I remember my natural color being. I take in my cheekbones, the prominence of my eyes. I try to see what Matt says he sees in me.
I still miss how I used to look—I just do.
But I don’t rush to look away this time. Usually, I do hurry, making a point not to look too long. Tonight, though, I stand there, take my time, and really see myself. I try to make friends with my reflection again.
The next morning, I scoop some blackberries into a shallow bowl, pour milk over them, sprinkle a little sugar on top, and dive in with a spoon. Matt was right—a simple, tasty, natural breakfast.
After that, I dress, skip my walk, get in the car, and start the drive to Brandywine.
Of course, I soon realize I have no idea where it is and can’t consult a map app for help.
So I stop at the Last Chance and get directions from Joy Lynn of all people.
I’m wearing my fedora, but I really do think I’m starting to grow on her anyway.
Later I’ll make the cobbler and put some berries in containers for Grace and the winery—Matt agreed to find good homes for the rest. But I woke up with an idea—and, all things considered, it seems like a good day to get away from the house for a while.
I mean, yes, I’ll be immersed right back into my Lost Valley life in a few hours, but a change of scenery sounds good.
Because I don’t want to get too mired in thoughts of Matthew Cordray trying to kiss me.
He never alluded to it afterward, and I’m hoping he realized that, as I told him once before, he’s barking up the wrong tree.
It doesn’t matter if I’m getting more accustomed to how I look—nothing good could come of having some sort of affair with the guy next door.
My stay here is temporary, he and I have nothing in common, and sex was not on the agenda for my summer of healing.
As I’ve known all along, I’m getting used to my scars, and used to my new hair—so it’s not a great time to get naked with some guy I just met.
Healing is a process—it doesn’t happen overnight.
And it’s all right if it takes a while to get okay with looking in the mirror again.
Brandywine is another little town tucked into the mountains, but it’s slightly more lively than Lost and Found.
On an idyllic twisting, turning Main Street, I spot a bank, a lawyer’s office, a flower shop, a Subway sandwich shop, and then, lo and behold, the library—a blessedly somewhat modern building with its own parking lot and even a flashing digital sign in front showing me that it’s eighty-one degrees at 10:11 in the morning.
It was a long, winding drive to get here, but it already feels worth it as I park. I instantly know I’m treating myself to Subway for lunch! I’m not even a big Subway fan, but the familiarity of it feels so ... comfortable.
Still in my car, I pull out my phone to find that I already have a connection—phone bars and internet! Not a great connection, but it’s enough to make me wonder if maybe that’s why this little town is thriving more than one without it.
Inside the library, things are relatively quiet—two librarians work behind a large counter, a teenager taps on a laptop at a long table, a few kids and moms meander around tall bookshelves.
When I hesitate slightly, standing just inside the door, a thirtysomething librarian asks, “Hi, can I help you with something?”
“I’m here for the Wi-Fi,” I respond.
Her smile tells me I’m probably not the first person to come to her library for this hot commodity. “Of course,” she says, then points to a sign with the password.
I went so far as to bring my laptop for this task, so I take a seat in an easy chair near a window and get signed on. Just like at the Piggly Wiggly, it feels like a triumph.
I dive right into what I’ve come here to do.
I pull out the pocket Bible once belonging to Sarah Hawkins, which I wrapped in a soft dish towel to protect it in my purse, and I carefully open it up to relocate the key pieces of information inside.
I type the name Isham Hawkins into a search bar.
I want to know more about Sarah and Isham, who lost their young son two centuries ago, and I also want to see if I can find someone—alive today—to whom this Bible might have belonged before it showed up in Lost and Found.
It doesn’t take long to turn up some info about the family on a genealogy website.
I learn that they had many other children—not surprising given the times, despite that somehow I’d seen them as a little family of three who’d ended up a mere two.
While I can’t imagine the pain of losing a child, I’m heartened to know they had others to comfort them.
I also learn that Sarah’s maiden name was Hall, she was Isham’s second wife, they were farmers from Woodford County, and they’re buried side by side in the Kentucky state capital of Frankfort.
But I don’t learn much more. I add the word “bible” to my search, knowing it’s a long shot that I would find anyone saying, Hey, I lost my great-great-great-great-great-grandparents’ teeny-tiny Bible , but you never know.
This search turns up a few more mentions of Sarah and Isham, but the only new info it reveals is that Isham died at the age of sixty-five in 1870.