My dear Casey,
I’d hoped this would be something we could do together. I started planning this adventure when I found you, but the cancer found me first. Sometimes life works out that way. But I had the opportunity to finish it all, and that is worth more to me than I can explain.
This plan won’t be what I’d once thought, but I know God has His reasons for everything. I’m thankful I was able to complete it before He calls me home. I feel in my spirit that I don’t have much longer, and the end will probably come sooner than I thought. Much sooner than I told you. I’m writing this now while I still can. I hope you will forgive me. I didn’t want to worry you, should the doctors be right.
In her last moments of life, Ida had planned something mysterious. I eyed the typewriter. What kind of unselfishness did that take? I probably would have been planning out my last meals or crossing something off my bucket list.
Ida wrote me a letter. I clutched it to my chest like a childhood teddy bear knighted with the responsibilities of keeping a little girl safe from the dark. Breathe. Hold it together. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.
I could have given you everything when you came to visit. We probably had time to do one or two of the projects together, but I didn’t want to start the journey with you knowing I wouldn’t be able to finish. I know now that this is the way it was always meant to be. This was my journey, but it will also be yours. Something tells me you’ll need the discovery.
Think of this as a way for us to stay connected a little longer. A few more days of stories and tea and laughs. Though I will be gone, know the God who loves me also loves you, and He will be there with the both of us. You are not alone.
Don’t rush the process, but don’t be afraid to take each step as it comes, either. Sometimes a story has to unfold in its own way, or you miss the meaning.
You have a big heart, my girl, and I know it’s filled with a lot of hurt. But every story has trials, and every heroine has to face them to find herself and the truth she is meant to discover. By God’s blessing, I had time to finish the letters that will walk you through each step.
Tomorrow you’ll get the first piece of the puzzle. Ryan is a good man, and I know he will do everything in his power to honor my final request and walk with you as you discover all I want to share. Try not to push him away. He means well.
My sweet Casey, this isn’t the end. Eat something. Get some rest. Tomorrow starts a new adventure. Will you take it with me?
I stared at the letter. No signature. No farewell. But Ida’s heart covered the page. I read it three more times, trying to figure out what Ida meant.
A journey? What was she talking about? I couldn’t take a trip. I’d lost everything, save one clunker I couldn’t even fill with gas.
Maybe the stories were still here after all. She’d written them down. Hope bubbled for a moment and then dashed away.
Apparently, Ida had given all the stories to the too-chipper man next door. Why not leave them for me? Why involve someone else?
Too many questions. Questions I’d have to deal with, but I was too tired to go next door and demand answers.
For now, I figured I’d take Ida’s advice. Find some food. Get some sleep. If I could. How long did Ida expect me to stay here? Would I spend the entire summer in backwoods Mississippi? Maryville’s claim to fame boasted it was the smallest town with two interstate exits in America.
I rubbed my temples and forced myself to get up. One step at a time.
First thing tomorrow, I’d have a discussion with Ryan about the items that belonged to me.
And then maybe I’d get the stories after all.
2
Fragments of Reality
Mornings had a way of making things feel new. Fresh. But only for a moment or two. Then reality came crashing back down. No sense putting it off. Reality never took rain checks. I tossed off the heavy quilt. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains covering the wide windows on the second floor of Ida’s house.
I swung my feet off the side of the bed and looked around, taking time to admire Ida’s loving touch.
The guest room, like everything else at Ida’s, cocooned a person in hospitality and Southern charm. Papered walls in a shade of tranquil blue held photographs and paintings of relatives long lost to the annals of history. Nothing like my old apartment back in Atlanta. Funny how the city could be in the same geographic region and seem like another world. Two states over and light-years different.
I wiggled my feet on the thick gray rug and dug my toes around in the softness, in no hurry to start the day. I’d slept fitfully in the four-poster bed, imagining danger in the sounds of the night that were surely nothing more than old pipes and settling wood. I fingered the hand-stitched quilt. Quilting was a winter project, Ida had said.
We never made it that long.
With a sigh, I pushed off the bed and passed by the antique dresser without looking at my reflection in the silvered mirror. The bathroom had been added and remodeled at some later point in the Victorian house’s history. And the on-demand hot water heater meant I could let the heat work out the tension in my knotted muscles.
When did I have to start doing things like paying the water bill? Ugh. I shook the thought off. A problem for another day. Today, all I had to do was—
The doorbell rang.
Who in the world would be at the door this early in the morning? I glanced down at my ragged T-shirt and cotton shorts.
The doorbell rang again. Too bad for them. Impatience on the visitor’s part didn’t mean there had to be any anxiety on mine. They could wait. Or come back later.
It would be fine.
I closed the bathroom door and turned on the shower. Besides, it was probably just Ryan, delivering the next letter from Ida. Since both excitement and apprehension over what the letter might say flooded me in equal measures, a shower would be a better next step than answering the door at—what time was it, anyway? I poked my head out of the bathroom and craned my neck to see the digital clock on the nightstand.
9:45
Oh. Not actually an unreasonably early hour. Ryan would still have to wait. Even better, he could leave the letter or package or whatever it was on the welcome mat. That way I wouldn’t have to talk to him. Avoiding people was becoming my specialty.
Thirty minutes later I trudged down the stairs dressed in baggy sweatpants and a tank top and stepped into the foyer still littered with dead flowers. I really needed to throw those out. Ida liked her house tidy. Another sparkling day spewed sunshine in merry beams over the hardwood floor.
I opened the front door. The welcome mat with a big letter M in scrolling script held nothing more than dust. Great. He’d either come back or would want me to come over to get the package. A conversation that could wait until at least after coffee.
“Good morning!”
I yelped and ducked back inside the doorway, my pulse skittering like a squirrel on a hot sidewalk.
“Casey? You okay?”
The door jerked to a halt mid-slam. Oh. Ryan. Of course. I poked my head out but kept a firm grip on the door. “What are you doing here?”
He unfolded his muscular frame from the swing hanging on the far side of the wraparound porch. “Waiting on you.”
I gave him my best cactus stare. The one that warned people of my prickly nature and made it clear they should keep their distance. “Why?”