Chapter 24 Hope in Needlepoint
hope in needlepoint
Hannah - five years ago
It’s hot chocolate on steroids. The mound of whipped cream on top is nearly as big as the cup itself. Chocolate shavings. Cinnamon stick poking out the side. It’s so pretty I’m not sure I should drink it.
“Oh, so when you said ‘hot chocolate’ you meant the fancy kind,” I say.
“I take hot chocolate very seriously, Hannah.”
“Obviously,” I tease, clinking our mugs together. He lowers into the rocking chair next to mine.
The dock sits a short walk from the back deck of the cabin and down a small flight of stairs.
Serene water so calm it reflects the moon in a vivid shimmer across the surface expands under a blanket of stars.
Pines and spruces hug the edge of the water while silhouetted mountains linger in the distance, piercing the black sky above.
Street noise and light pollution don’t exist here.
Only the sound of rustling trees and the night song of crickets fills the stillness.
I tuck one leg up against the arm rest and use my other foot to set the rocker in motion, taking my first sip. Warm liquid hits my taste buds in an explosion of rich flavors and childhood nostalgia.
My hum of pleasure is involuntary. I wave a mystified hand around the mug then toward him in a one of these is not like the other gesture. “How in the world did this happen?”
His snicker echoes off the rim of his cup. “I hate coffee.”
That’s all he says. “And?”
He swipes a dot of whipped cream off my nose without a word. A touch so casual and unassuming it disorients me. I pull the sleeves of his hoodie down over my wrists to busy my hands.
“And,” he goes on. “Nana taught me.”
I give him a lazy smile. “Will you tell me about her?”
One leg propped on his opposite knee, he drags a hand over his jaw. For several beats, he doesn’t speak. Only pushes his chair back and forth, the creaking motion causing a ripple of water underneath the dock.
“She was…the glue. You know those people that hold everything around them together? That was Nana.”
“You were close?”
He dips his head once, skates a thumb over the ceramic handle of his mug.
“Did you grow up here?”
“No,” he says after a long sip. “But I visited every summer.”
Rowan doesn’t elaborate. The silence is heavy, but comforting too. I look out over the water, my mind returning to the flag on the mantle inside.
“Was your dad an only child?” I ask tentatively, prepared for him to shut down my line of questioning. I wouldn’t push if he did.
Rowan releases a heavy breath. “Yeah.”
“That means your grandfather is—”
“Alone,” he finishes softly, the word shouting loud into the void.
I look back at the cabin and see the glow of the stove light through the window, imagining Norm traipsing through the tiny house day in and day out without any company. “Do you live close by?”
“Home is in North Carolina, but I’m stationed at Fort Benning in Georgia.” He pauses, takes another drink. “Pops is stubborn. With no one else around, I’m nervous he’s just gonna hide out here all by himself.”
That would scare me too. Before I can come up with some dumb platitude, he adds, “It’s really hard for me to get out here.”
“Are you deployed a lot?”
He looks at me, eyes searching. “Often enough.”
My confusion must be evident on my face because Rowan smirks.
“That’s…vague,” I offer.
The smirk tips into a full grin. “If I told you I’d have to kill you. You know, top secret, classified and all that.” My eyes roll. “I’m kind of a big deal.”
I hum through a cozy sip, sleeve-covered hands tucked around the warm cup. “Humble too,” I murmur. He swivels his head but I refuse to meet his gaze out of principle.
His crooked smile is just visible in the moonlight out of the corner of my eye. Damn the flutters in my belly when I spot those dimples of his.
“Humble doesn’t come with the job description, sweetheart.”
He winks and my cheeks heat. Say that again.
I need to steer the conversation back to safer territory.
“So, while you’re out saving the world—”
“And growing my ego.”
Bobbing my head, I snap my fingers and point at him. “Precisely. Growing your ego, you know”—I set a palm on my chest—“for the greater good. While you’re doing that, is there someone else who could visit him? A sibling maybe?”
His expression sobers. He goes on to tell me about his family in North Carolina. A stepsister with no relation to Norm. A mom who works two jobs to help put said stepsister through medical school thanks to her own father who disappeared before she hit puberty.
“And nobody knows where he is?” I ask of his stepdad.
Rowan sets his empty mug on the small log turned on its side between the chairs.
“No. And he’s honestly not a bad guy. He came into our lives a few years after my dad passed, and I hadn’t seen Mom that happy in a long time.
Everything was great until his accident at work.
He was never the same after that.” He pauses, pondering over a deep breath.
“The opioids for pain spiraled into an addiction he couldn’t control.
He was in and out for a while until he just vanished.
I had a year before I headed to basic training, but Bri was only eleven.
Mom was left to take care of everything. ”
The blue of his eyes is lost to the darkness, but I see the sorrow in them. “Your mom did what moms do. She held everything together.”
He raises a brow. “Like glue?”
“Like glue.”
“Tell me about your mom.”
“Oh gosh,” I huff, grinning at the stars. “If the women in your family are glue, my mom is confetti.”
Rowan rolls the word over his tongue. “Confetti.”
I let the sound of the breeze sweeping through the pines and the soft lap of water beneath the dock lull my memories to the surface. Rowan doesn’t rush me.
“I never knew my father,” I begin after a long silence. “He and my mom were a one night thing. Growing up, kids would talk about their dads and how fun they were, and I remember thinking there’s no way these guys are as fun as my mom.”
“It’s always been just the two of you?”
Pressure builds behind my eyelids and I suck in a slow inconspicuous breath. I don’t meet his gaze, but I can feel his attention on my profile.
“Uh oh, I know that look,” I deflect, trying to keep my tone light.
“What look?”
“The loud kind.”
His face ripples, fighting a smile. “I’m looking at you loud?”
I nod at my lap then meet his eye. “It’s the same way Mom does.”
“And what way is that?”
“Like you can see right through me.”
Rowan’s throat bobs, but he doesn’t look away. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
It’s the truth and yet…
Am I really about to talk about this with a stranger?
“It wasn’t just Mom and me.” I set my mug down and drop his gaze. “She had a best friend named Gwyn she met in birthing class. Both single moms, due dates days apart. They always said Maddy and I became best friends in the womb.”
“The four of you then?”
I’m too lost in the sea of memories to really hear his question. It’s familiar, being under this sky. The stars overhead and the single cloud floating in my periphery are nothing but launching points for my eyes. I hit one, remember something, then bounce to another.
“When we were little, Maddy couldn’t say my name so she called me Haddy.” I shrug. “I guess because it rhymed? I don’t know, we never really figured it out, but it stuck.”
Warm tears bleed into the creases around my eyes.
“By the time we were eight, we lived on the same street. Mom taught us to shave our legs. Gwyn taught us to drive.” My breath stutters.
“We all went prom dress shopping together. We were supposed to go to pr—” I swat at a tear when I feel it trail down my cheek.
“Sorry. You didn’t ask for my depressing life story. ”
My pathetic attempt to laugh it away doesn’t work because Rowan’s right there. He’s pulled his chair closer, reached over the table between us, and folded my hand in his without me realizing it.
I look up, and the color I couldn’t find in his eyes before has returned. An infinite pool of blue. Refreshing and a little mysterious.
Losing Gwyn and Maddy is not a subject I bring up voluntarily. Ever. And I actively avoid dwelling on Mom’s diagnosis because seeing the glass as anything other than half full feels like an admission of defeat before the battle is over.
“What do you think happens after we die?” The question is an overflow of the Tilt-A-Whirl of thoughts spinning around in my mind.
If self-preservation was within reach, I’d think to take it back because of how juvenile it sounds.
But deep down, I’m just a daughter—a best friend—who aches to know there’s something beyond this.
I can’t explain how Rowan pulls everything I’ve pushed down for so long to the surface. All I know is when he looks at me the way he is now—all loud and reassuring—I feel seen.
Rowan scans my face for long seconds before he finally says something. “When I would visit as a kid, Nana made us go to church every Sunday. Pops didn’t grumble too much because he was used to it, but I thought it was epically boring.”
A knowing smile splits his features like a happy memory just downloaded into his brain unexpectedly.
“Nana was about the size of a teacup, barely hit five feet. And I remember Pops kept a briefcase in the back of the truck.” He pauses, chuckling to himself.
“The guy’s never been within missile range of a white-collar career a day in his life, but he had this empty briefcase he’d carry into church just so Nana would have something to set her feet on when she sat down. ”
“Stop it!”
“I know! Disgustingly cute, right?”
“So gross.”
We exchange a smile.
“Anyway,” he goes on, “most of what I remember about church is that briefcase.” He blinks down at our intertwined hands.
I should let go. Maybe he should. Neither of us do.
Rowan clears his throat. “Except for this one time, the pastor was preaching a message about hope. And he said something I recognized from this needlepoint thing Nana had hanging on the wall at their Boulder house. I grew up staring at it but I never—”
“We’re just gonna gloss over the part where you casually drop that your grandparents have two homes?”
He flashes me a dry look. I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“You wanna know what the needlepoint said or not, Hannah?”
“I’m gonna need the big scary military man to say ‘needlepoint’ again.”
“Hannah.”
“Rowan.”
“Shall I go on?”
I open my palm between us as if to say be my guest. “What did the needlepoint wall thingy say?”
Elbow propped on the arm rest, I set my chin on the fist of my free hand, and give him my undivided attention. His thumb sweeps over my knuckles. I look down at the contact at the same time he does. When I lift my eyes a moment later, his are still locked on the spot where he’s touching me.
He swallows hard before meeting my gaze.
“It said ‘hope is an anchor for the soul.’ The pastor said it again at my dad’s funeral.
” A timid smile curves one corner of his mouth.
“When the service was over, like any eight-year-old who doesn’t know the art of good timing, I asked Nana to explain what it meant while Mom was crying on her shoulder. ”
Rowan hesitates, head dipped low. I squeeze his hand and he sniffs sharply.
“What did she say?” I urge, coaxing him back up.
A deep breath. “She said without hope to hold on to, our joy now would float away.” His eyes pierce mine, so resolute and strong, it’s impossible to miss what he says next.
“Her only child’s casket had just been lowered into the ground and she was holding his burial flag in her arms…
and she had this peace about her that seemed unfathomable. ”
I imagine the watery smile I give him looks a lot like what his Nana’s did then.
“She said she knew she would see her son again and that hope helps us hold on to the good things life has for us.” He looks to the lake and then up to the sky. “And, I don’t know, when I imagine her up there with Dad, it doesn’t hurt as much.”
Soft, slow tears spill over, but they aren’t the devastated kind. They’re a comfort. Cathartic even.
“If there’s a chance Gwyn and Maddy are up there together,” he says, dragging a thumb under my left eye, then my right. “I think that’s a hope worth holding on to.”
“Hope is an anchor for the soul,” I whisper, more for me than him. I let the words ruminate on my tongue like a prayer.
Nothing is said after that. We just lean back in our chairs, hands interlocked, gazes transfixed on the stars above, as every word, every secret, every mindless touch and unspoken thought sits exposed like an open confessional. It’s raw and a little scary. But it’s also beautiful.
Mom’s always said it’s the best things in life that make the least amount of sense. That the universe has a knack for surprising us when we least expect it.
Tonight feels like one of those unexpected, best things.