“I miss him.” Her whisper echoed to my soul.
“Yes, me too.” My breath shuddered out. “Oliver may not be here with us anymore, but his love is. It always will be.”
“Will we see him again?”
“Oh yes!” I smiled at the unexpected comfort lacing my declaration as I held to scripture’s promise. “Your brother loved Christ, Vicky. He loved Him so well that it came out in almost everything he did without even using words sometimes. His story is even better than any fairy tale because he gets the best happy ending of all. And one day, we will too.”
“I want to see Oliver now.”
“So do I. Oh, so do I. But remember, he’s only a page away. In all those fairy tales you read, about the brave knights or honorable princes. He’s there, as he was when he lived, so kind and brave. And he’s here.” I pressed a hand to her chest. “In all our love for him, because God allows us the gift of memories to tide us over to eternity.”
She covered her little palm over mine against her chest and nodded.
“Keep to your Bible and to your fairy tales, sweet girl. One is your soul and the other is for your daydreams. Both will help you through this, and in both you’ll find your story.”
We walked hand in hand to Helen’s, who gave me enough money for Anna and me to make the trip to America. Helen and I promised to correspond, and she’d find a way to get notes to Victoria, as she could.
Lark had been beaten rather badly, and during the altercation both she and Wolfe had fallen down the stairs of their home. Two of the maids bore witness to the event, which legally cleared Lark of any possible charges, but the shadow of her history and her husband’s death still followed her.
And I discovered only a short while after arriving in Asheville, that I carried much more than a piece of Oliver in my heart.The knowledge brought with it a mixture of overwhelming joy and an awareness that I would become an outcast, of sorts, as Oliver and my story remained quietly tucked away in my heart to protect the future of our child.
But his story would not be forgotten and my grief would not be wasted, nor would our dreams. If I had to work three jobs and pursue every coin, Brick House would become more than just a bookshop and a sweet dream. It would become a place where hope lived between all the mortar and the pages.
Like an excellent story.
Chapter 26
The bookshop office gaped like a charred cave, walls burned to the cinder block on the apartment side and scorched through to the bookshop bathroom on the other. The stench permeated every part of the shop.
After Clara and Max had given their police report and Julian had been taken into custody, they got a few hours’ sleep at Robbie’s before returning to the bookshop.
The smoke damage alone cost thousands, not to mention the structural damage and the loss of inventory. At least insurance would take care of some of it, but not all. It wouldn’t cover the loss of Christmas income. How could they recover from this? Would they end up having to sell Blackwell’s anyway? After all she’d done to try and save it!
Max, with his usual calm, suggested Clara not “freak out” until after she’d talked to the insurance adjuster and Mr. Lawson.
“It may be a waste of good tears,” he said as he wrapped her in one of his warm hugs. Then, with a small smile, he slipped his fingers through hers and they began evaluating the damage in the office.
The blackened remains of the marriage certificate lay singed in the corner of the office, along with many other unidentifiable pieces of paper. The oak desk stood blackened, but intact, so at least many of the things within the drawers remained intact as well. The bookkeeping. Important tax documents. Even some of the old papers of her dad’s and the tiny key she’d discovered in the attic.
A family picture lay scorched beyond repair. The plastic pieces of the office chair were melted, and the nearby filing cabinet’s corner curved inward from the heat. It could have been much worse.
She tried to reassure herself. Perhaps the books upstairs could be salvaged, and the main heart of the building was fine. The apartment too. Everything just needed a thorough cleaning or…she sighed against her tears. Replacement.
They’d moved ruined items out. Granny Sadie’s massive chair that always stood in the corner of the room by the now-singed antique reading lamp, the two family photos that only had the frames remaining, a side table that had been reduced to a single leg.
Clara glanced around the nearly empty office at the remains. They’d have to replace the desk, but at least her laptop was still in her room. She’d not unpacked yet, so all of her digital files should be safe.
“Clara, come see this.”
Max’s voice drew her from her depressed examination of the withered peace lily she used to have by the door. He was crouched down near the corner of the office with the worst damage. She moved to his side and peered around the blackened remains of one wall where it met the now-nonexistent other wall, the spot where Granny Sadie’s chair used to sit.
“What is it? A box?”
Clara followed his gesture to see some sort of metal container lodged within the exposed part of the wall. A box that would have remained hidden by the wall if not for the fire. “It…it looks like a…a lockbox, maybe? An old one.”
Soot rolled from its cover as Max pulled it from its hiding spot, but otherwise it appeared undamaged. “How did it get there? In the wall?”
Max shrugged and placed the box on the desk. “How old is the office?”
Clara scanned the space again. “If
