Even Leticia got teary eyed, looking bemused by the emotion she was feeling. “It’s as if we’d only just found each other,” she said, dabbing her delicately wrought handkerchief to her nose.
“They are doing the right thing,” Hannah said decisively, giving Finnea a quick, hard embrace. “And you heard that son-in-law of yours,” she added to Leticia. “They’ll come back.”
The older woman’s voice softened unexpectedly, and traitorous tears threatened. “We’re all better off for your having come here. Remember that, child, and let that help you find your way back one day.”
Even Nester looked off-kilter—not exactly sad, though not exactly immune either. Despite all the tension that had existed between them, Finnea hugged him. He blustered and squirmed until she let go. “Yes, well,” he mumbled. He started away. But suddenly he stopped and looked back one last time, the corner of his lips crooking up into a fond smile. “Take care of yourself, little sis.” Then he was gone.
But it was enough for Finnea.
She had left that world behind, left the mosaic that had given her hope in the beginning. But she would always remember the warrior and the dove. Dove’s Way would always be a part of her. But she could no longer deny that her way home was to Africa.
They disembarked at the small rustic station where she had begun this journey a year ago. Matthew held tight to Mary’s hand. She wanted to see everything, staring with open-mouthed amazement at the mahogany-colored women with woven baskets perched on their heads, who moved with the balance and grace of ballet dancers.
Animals were everywhere. Chickens and goats ran wild, taking refuge from the swarms of children that chased them in the dusty roads lined with brightly colored flowers and overgrown leaves of green.
Finnea could tell that Mary itched to join in the fun, but she stayed close to her father’s side, not yet ready to venture too far away.
On the outskirts of the station, Matthew bought armloads of flowers, then without a word started off down the dry, red-dirt road, petals trailing behind him as he went.
After a startled moment, Finnea and Mary raced to catch up. “What’s the hurry?” they asked.
“The sun will be down soon.”
Matthew strode on with determination, hard-carved muscles rippling beneath his hunter’s clothes. Finnea chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of what might come out in the dark.”
He stopped, his arm snaking around her waist as he pulled her up against his chest. “Tonight I’ll show you just how afraid I am of the dark.” He brushed his lips against her hair. “But fear of the jungle isn’t the reason I’m in a hurry. Come on.”
He took off again.
“Daddy! You’re going too fast!”
“It’s not much farther, princess. You can make it.”
Trees began to crowd the path, making it smaller and narrower as they went. But just when Mary would have stopped altogether, they came out into a clearing.
Mary gasped. And Finnea felt tears well in her eyes. She was home, finally.
Standing on a high point, they looked out to the west and could see the sun setting, a huge orange ball of fire sinking on the horizon. She had dreamed of this. Survived each day in the snow by imagining the feel of the heat on her skin.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Matthew smiled, then turned to Mary. “For you,” he said, handing the child a colorful bouquet.
“And for you,” he added to Finnea, filling her arms with rich red hibiscus and wild orchids.
“So many gifts. The sunset and now flowers.”
A shout interrupted them. When they turned, Janji stood in the distance on the rough-hewn road that marked the final steps to the rubber plantation.
“Janji!” Mary cried out, waving her flowers in the air.
When he waved in return, she dashed down the path to him.
Finnea smiled and started to follow. But Matthew caught her hand.
“Before we go, I have something else for you.” He dropped the pack off his shoulder, reached inside, and pulled out a piece of paper. “This is for you.”
Uncertain, she broke the seal and read the official-looking document. Her eyes scanned the lines once, then twice, before her head shot up.
“How is this possible? Nester said he wouldn’t relinquish his shares.”
“True, but he wasn’t opposed to selling me the farm outright. It’s yours, Finnea. Every acre, every tree.”
Her face closed up. “No, Matthew. It’s yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t work that way. You paid for it.”
He considered her. “Ah, then that must mean Africa isn’t mine?”
Her brow furrowed in bewilderment. “What are you talking about? Africa isn’t anyone’s.”
“But it is. It’s yours.” His expression grew solemn. “In a manner of speaking, you paid for it. Here and in Boston.”
She felt her heart kick.
He stepped closer and brushed an errant tendril of hair from her face. “You’ve given me your Africa—the beauty, the wildness. Now I am returning the favor and giving you the farm.”
Pure, sheer happiness filled her soul. “Then it’s ours, Matthew,” she said. “Yours and mine and Mary’s.”
His warrior eyes grew fierce, his hand drifting down to the gentle curve of her belly. “And our child’s.”
At the words, Finnea felt excitement flare. A child.
A year ago she believed she would never again experience the feel of baby-soft arms holding her tight. But she had, with Mary, and she would again with their baby.
Doubt tried to fill her, and Matthew seemed to understand.
“You are a good mother. And Isabel will always be with you.”
Her lips pulled into a smile, and her excitement burst through. “We have so many plans to make. We need to fix a room for Mary, though my old room would be perfect for her. It has a beautiful window with lace curtains that overlooks a gazebo in the yard. Yes, I’m sure that will work. But we’ll need another for the baby—”
“Hold on,” he said with a chuckle. “We have plenty of time for house additions.”
She slipped closer to him. “Yes, I suppose we do.”
He ran his finger down her cheek, his face lined with emotion. “Have I told you recently how much I love you?”
She placed her hand over his heart and nodded, vibrant shades of African sun filling the world with orange and red. “Yes, you have. Every day. Just as I love you.”
“We are forever, Finn, and I knew it the minute I saw you when you stepped on the train.”
Finnea stepped back with a laugh. “You knew it that minute, did you? As I recall you were less than pleased to see me.”
He shrugged like an errant schoolboy, his full smile crooked as he possessively pulled her back to him. “I was pleased. I just wasn’t so good at showing it.”
She laughed out loud, causing his smile to evaporate. Then one last time he reached down to his pack and pulled out a leather-bound volume.
Surprise filled her. “What is that?”
“A journal. I didn’t always know how to show you that I cared, but I always wrote it down. I’ve written about you every day since I found you again in Boston. I love you, Finn. I have from the beginning.” He held out the book. “This is for you. Proof of my love.”
“Oh, Matthew, I don’t need proof.”
“Please.”
With trembling hands, she took his gift and carefully flipped back the cover. She read the first entry and looked up at him, tears filling her eyes.
But he wouldn’t let her say anything. He led her the last steps to the farm, and as soon as they had celebrated their homecoming with Janji and his family, she returned to the pages.
She read a bit each day, savoring each entry like a song or cherished poem, until she came to the end and found one blank page.
They had been there a week when Finnea looked up at Matthew as he entered their room. “You left one empty,” she said from where she was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the book in her lap.
He took the leather-bound volume from her with a loving smile. “I have one entry left to write.”
“When will you do it?” she demanded, her voice like a child’s, filled with delight and impatience.
Matthew chuckled, his voice like gravel as he came toward her. “Soon. After that you can read it. But for now, I’m going to show you all the love I wrote about in those pages.”
Finnea laughed as he tossed the journal aside. Stepping closer, he brushed his fingers against her skin until her laughter trailed off to desire. With a sound of deep satisfaction rumbling inside him, he held her in his hands, like the warrior and the dove.
From the Journal of Matthew Hawthorne
You are with me now, my sweetest Finnea, on a farm in Africa. Mary is at our side, reaching out and taking your hand. And mine. Loving us as she loves her little brother, who follows her everywhere she goes.
We call him Chance because of what you said he has given us. Second chances. At love, at life, at living.
At night when you curl so securely against my side, you whisper that he looks just like me, handsome and beautiful. You look between us, seeing us as the same — as always, never seeing my scars.
Africa is our home now, the place where a man is nothing more than what he is inside — the place where my life truly began.
The past is still there, etched in my mind as much as on my face. But the edges have begun to wear away, like the edges of a stone washed smooth by the waves. For the first time I understand that sometimes hope is found in the least likely of places.
And the day you stepped on the train, I found my hope in you.