Chapter Nineteen
Henry stood in the hallway for several moments after Lola ran outside, desperately trying to make sense of the conversation he had just overheard.
“My mother died the day I was born.”
The words echoed in his thoughts with unsettling clarity and he closed his eyes for a moment. That could not be reconciled with the letters.
He remembered them almost word for word.
One had described preserving peaches beside her mother during the summer harvest. Another spoke affectionately of Lillian fussing over her whenever she looked tired.
They were small details, the sort a person invented only with considerable effort, or simply because they were true. Until now, Henry had assumed they were.
And then there was the mention of Devil’s Hollow. Had she lived there as a girl and then moved? Because the letters from Nora had not come from an address in Devil’s Hollow.
His thoughts drifted upstairs to the worn family Bible resting upon the bedside table.
Sarah Turner. Ever since finding the name inside its cover, he had searched for innocent explanations.
Perhaps it belonged to a grandmother. Perhaps an aunt.
Perhaps it had simply been passed through several hands before finding its way to Nora.
He had wanted to believe that, he still wanted to. Because the alternative was almost unthinkable. He had invited a stranger beneath his roof, married her before God, and entrusted her with Lola.
The thought sat heavily upon his shoulders. No. He would not leap to conclusions. There had to be an explanation, there simply had to.
Taking a steadying breath, he stepped into the kitchen and Nora looked up at once. The gentle smile she’d been wearing only moments before disappeared almost immediately.
“Henry.” She seemed to search his face. “Is something wrong?”
He wished, more than he expected, that he could answer no. Instead he said quietly, “We need to talk.”
She laid the spoon carefully across the rim of the pot before turning to face him fully.
The late afternoon sunlight poured through the kitchen window, illuminating the fine dusting of flour still clinging to the front of her apron.
A loose strand of chestnut hair had escaped her braid while she cooked, curling softly against her cheek.
“I overheard your conversation with Lola.”
For the briefest instant, fear flickered across her face. But she recovered so quickly he might almost have imagined it. “I see.”
“You told her your mother died when you were born.”
She nodded. “Yes.” There was no hesitation, or uncertainty, simply a quiet acceptance of the statement.
Henry’s stomach tightened. “I don’t understand.”
She waited.
“The letters...” He spoke carefully, choosing each word with deliberate restraint. “The letters you wrote before coming here spoke about your mother often.”
The color slowly left her face.
“You wrote about preserving peaches together.”
She said nothing.
“You wrote about spending evenings reading while she sewed.”
Still nothing.
“You called her Lillian.”
Silence settled between them as Henry watched her closely. She lowered her gaze to the floorboards, her hands folded together so tightly that the knuckles turned white. For a long moment, neither of them spoke and the silence revealed more than words ever could.
“Help me understand.” His voice remained gentle. “I know there must be something I’m missing.”
She drew a slow breath. “I...”
For the first time since beginning the conversation, hope stirred inside him. She was going to tell him, whatever burden she carried, perhaps she had finally decided to trust him. He waited as she opened her mouth again. Then stopped.
“I’m sorry.” The words were scarcely louder than a whisper.
Henry frowned. “Sorry for what?”
She shook her head. “I can’t explain.”
He stared at her. “You can’t...” He struggled to understand. “...or you won’t?”
Her eyes closed briefly and when they opened again, they shimmered with unshed tears. “I can’t.”
The answer settled heavily between them. Henry looked away for a moment, pressing his thumb against the bridge of his nose. He had promised himself he would not become angry. Not until he understood. Yet, understanding seemed no closer now than it had been before.
Without a word, he turned and walked down the hall to the sitting room. He picked up her Bible and carried it back to the kitchen. “It isn’t only the letters.” He opened the cover. “There’s this.” He turned the first page toward her, the faded handwriting was unmistakable.
Ruth looked at it for several long moments
“Who is Sarah Turner?”
“My grandmother.”
Again, the answer came quickly. Too quickly. Henry’s stomach sank as he held her gaze. “No.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t believe that’s true.”
Nora did not answer. Instead, she simply looked at the open Bible, her hands clasped tightly before her. Henry noticed the slight tremor in her fingers and, for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he ought to abandon the conversation altogether. She looked frightened and the thought gave him pause.
He closed the Bible gently and laid it upon the table between them. “I don’t want to accuse you of anything.” His voice was quieter now than it had been a moment before. “I just want to understand.”
She raised her eyes to his. “I know.”
“Do you?” He searched her face, hoping to find something, anything, that would reassure him he had been wrong.
“I have spent the better part of a week convincing myself I was imagining things. I told myself the name in the Bible meant nothing. I told myself anyone might forget an author’s name.
I even told myself I was becoming suspicious simply because...
” He gave a weary shake of his head. “Because I’ve grown out of the habit of trusting people. ”
He stopped, the admission had escaped before he intended it to. “I wanted every explanation except the one that keeps presenting itself.”
Ruth swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at her steadily. “You’ve already said that.”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“The truth,” he said. “Just tell me the truth.”
Silence followed and he waited. Surely she could see that he was trying to meet her halfway?
She looked down at the Bible once more, and Henry watched her chest rise with a slow, uneven breath. Twice, she seemed on the verge of speaking. Twice, she stopped herself. Finally, she whispered, “I can’t.”
Something inside him gave way. He turned from her and walked to the window, resting both hands on the sill as he stared out across the yard.
The late afternoon sun lay warm over the pasture, gilding the grass in shades of amber.
Lola was near the corral, talking happily to Buttercup as though the world remained exactly as it had been that morning. He envied children their certainty.
Behind him, Nora spoke softly. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”
Henry closed his eyes. “I believe you.” He turned to face her once more. “I believe you’ve cared for Lola and I believe you’ve worked harder than anyone had any right to expect.”
His eyes drifted briefly around the kitchen. “This house...” He smiled sadly. “It hasn’t felt like a home since Samantha died.. And you changed that.”
He saw fresh tears gather in her eyes. “I’ve watched Lola laugh again and I’ve even found myself...” He stopped, the next words were more difficult than he expected. “I’ve found myself looking forward to coming home.”
The confession lingered between them. Henry had not intended to say it aloud, yet now that he had, he realized it was true. He had begun measuring his days by whether she would be waiting in the kitchen when he returned from the fields.
He drew another breath. “Do you know what makes this so difficult?”
Nora shook her head.
“I don’t doubt your kindness.” His voice roughened. “I doubt your honesty.”
She flinched, the words visibly wounding her. He hated himself for saying them.
Yet, they remained true.
“I don’t know who you are.”
“I am the same woman I’ve always been.”
“No.” He answered gently. “You aren’t.”
She took a step toward him. “Henry, please.”
“I’ve read letters from one woman.” He looked at the Bible resting between them. “And I’ve found the name of another.” He met her eyes. “Tell me how any of that is supposed to make sense of any of it?”
She covered her mouth as tears escaped down her cheeks. “I wish I could.”
“You can.”
“No.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
The repeated answer struck him with growing frustration. “Why not?”
She looked utterly broken. “I just can’t.”
Henry stared at her and in that moment the room seemed impossibly quiet. “I have trusted you.” The words came more sharply than he intended. “I brought you into my home.” He stepped forward. “I asked nothing of you except honesty.”
“I know.”
“And yet every question I ask...” His voice tightened. “...every single question... you answer with another secret.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But you are.” The admission surprised even him. “I don’t know whether you realize it, but you are.”
He watched tears spill freely down her face. Still, no explanation came and his disappointment slowly hardened. Not into hatred, but into resolve. “I cannot build a marriage on this.”
She looked at him as though he had spoken another language.
“If you cannot trust me enough to tell me who you are...” He paused. “...then perhaps you should leave.”
The instant the words left his mouth, he wished he could gather them back. Nora stared at him in complete disbelief as her lips trembled. Then, before he could say anything else, she turned and hurried toward the back door.
“Nora—”
But she did not stop. The screen door slammed behind her, rattling the dishes in the cupboard. Henry remained where he was, his hands now braced against the edge of the kitchen table. The echo of the screen door slamming still seemed to linger in the silence.