They followed
the steep, winding road for almost two miles, and John began to question the
directions until a white board fence came into sight.
By the open gate, a sign announced their
arrival at Valley Rise Farm, and the name J.E. Haynes assured him this was
their destination.
He stopped the car
inside the gate, looking to see Stani's reaction.
But he was staring at the big white house
beneath the trees, his eyes unusually bright.
Without a word, he got out and began to stride purposefully across the
broad expanse of lawn.
They had agreed
that he would go in alone, but John sat watching, prepared to join him if he
felt the need.
Stani walked to
the house, mounting the wide steps to the porch.
The front door opened and a tall, slim girl
stepped through.
John had the momentary
impression of a simple blue dress, long, shapely legs and a flowing mass of
dark hair.
When they met at the top of
the stairs, she held out her hand to Stani and for a moment they seemed to
study one another, standing almost eye to eye.
Then, to John's utter amazement, they embraced, holding each other for
what seemed a long time, before they turned together and went through the door.
Later, he saw
them walking behind the house to the edge of the yard where the hillside fell
away toward the road below, toward the site of the accident.
The girl was watching Stani as he turned and
gestured, gazing toward the house and shaking his head.
She took his arm, and John thought he could
see her smiling, talking enthusiastically as she led him back across the
yard.
And he could see that Stani was
smiling too.
For the first time today,
his stride was relaxed, as if he were enjoying a walk in the sunshine with a
pretty girl, rather than revisiting the scene of a nightmare.
John would have given a great deal to hear
what they were saying to each other, but by the looks of things Stani had found
the girl in his dream and had not been disappointed.
Not long after,
Stani came to the car, leaning into the window.
“Look, old man, would you mind driving into town and having a bite of
lunch?
Emily says there's a cafe on the
main street.
Take all the time you like,
there's no hurry.”
“What about
you?
You're not ready to leave, I can
see.”
Stani seemed
excited, his color high.
“Emily is
cooking.”
“Ah, I
see.
Well, in that case, I'll go.”
Stani turned to leave, and John called after
him.
“Cooking, eh?
What exactly is she cooking, lad?”
“I have no
idea, and it matters not at all!”
With
an exceptionally broad grin, he waved and walked briskly back to the house.
When Emily had
shooed him out of the kitchen, encouraging him to sit and relax while she
prepared their lunch, Stani again looked around the big room with the fireplace
at one end, and the beautiful old piano at the other.
He had been drawn to the mantel when he first
came in, studying the room from that angle to see that it fit his memory.
He had been here, he knew, next to the
hearth.
And he could picture her,
sitting curled in the chair there, watching him.
He felt such overwhelming gratitude that
finally he had something to show for his search.
He
did
remember snatches of his time here.
And he
remembered Emily.
He had known her
immediately.
Here was the face, the
smile and that soft, sweet voice, exactly as they had been in his dream.
Unexpected tears had welled in his eyes.
How could he ever express how relieved he was
to learn that she was real?
But she had
responded with tears of her own, and they had fallen into each other’s arms as
old friends, with no need of explanations.
It was miraculous, he knew, that she was the one thing he could honestly
say he remembered from those lost days.
Warm and
comforting, just as he would have expected of the girl in his dream, she had
quietly watched as he dealt with that first rush of memory.
She had given him time to collect himself, as
she wiped away her tears with a little smile.
Then she had patiently answered his questions, finally taking him to
where she had first seen him coming up the hill.
She said he might have tried to tell her
about a light, as he lay in the snow, a light she had turned on much earlier
that morning.
He had seen her
light!
That was why he had walked up the
hill.
After seeing
the place where he had fallen, he asked in amazement how she had ever managed
to get him into the house.
Blushing, she
had described wrapping him in some kind of blanket and pulling him across the
yard.
From the
kitchen, he heard her softly humming, as dishes clattered and cabinet doors
slammed.
She was so unlike any girl he'd
ever met, he struggled to fix her image in his mind.
Pretty, yes, most definitely, but so much
more than that; slim and graceful, and tall.
They stood eye to eye, and he knew that the heels on his boots gave him
an extra inch or so.
When he had held
her, he’d found his face buried in her hair, an overwhelming sensation in
itself.
Heavy and rich, dark brown, she wore
it straight, pulled loosely from her face and held at the back of her head by a
big silver clip.
He’d found himself, as
they talked, wondering what it would look like hanging free, and for an instant
imagined unpinning its length and laying it gently around her shoulders.
His fantasy had produced an unexpected rush
of embarrassed blood to his face, and he wondered if she guessed at his
thoughts because she had blushed too.
He turned now
as she came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron she had put on over
her dress.
It struck him that her
simplicity, her total lack of pretense, gave her an air of the exotic. She
might have lived all her life in this place, as she had told him, but she could
easily have been a native of a dozen different countries, with her dark hair
and tanned skin and those amazingly pale gray eyes.
Unworldly, he thought, yet so down to earth,
as she smiled and said softly, “Lunch is ready, whenever you are.”
Stani shook himself hard.
His tired brain was rapidly spinning out of
control, turning this lovely girl into an exotic, and quite easily an erotic,
fantasy.
She deserved better.
As they sat at
the table in the sunny kitchen, eating the delicious meal of cold beef, fried
potatoes and several types of vegetables, some he wasn't sure he'd ever seen
before, he asked if she lived alone.
“Yes.
My parents are both dead now, but this is my
home.
I've lived here all my life,
except for time away at school, and now this is my family.”
The wave of her hand seemed to include the
whole of the woods and fields around the house.
She didn't seem sad, he thought, but resolute, as if she had a firm
commitment to her place here.
“No man, no
boyfriend to help you with all this?”
He
braced himself for her answer.
“No need.
I can manage fine by myself.”
Again, she was firm, but she smiled, as if
amused that he would think she might need help.
“You said you
have a job away from home?”
“I'm a
nurse.
I work for a special-duty
agency.
It gives me the opportunity to
work when I want to and be here when I'm needed.”
Watching with approval as he cleaned his
plate, she held out the basket of golden rolls, still warm in their checked
napkin.
“I don't suppose you've sat at
many farmhouse kitchen tables and eaten okra and homemade bread, have you?”
“Never.”
Stani realized he must be grinning like an
idiot.
How had this terrifying day
become so amazingly pleasant?
“You're
not saying you baked these?”
He took a
roll and studied it with appropriate awe.
“Not so unusual
in my world.
Now eat.
Your friend will be back soon.
It's not very nice that you sent him into
town.
He was more than welcome to join
us.”
“I wanted to
have as much time as I can with you.
There's something more, if you don't mind, that I'd like to ask you.”
“Of
course.”
She was instantly serious
again.
“Why didn't you
want anyone to know what you'd done for me?
Please tell me I didn't do anything to you, to hurt you in any way.”
She blinked at
him.
“How could you have hurt me?
You couldn't even walk.
That's the silliest thing I've ever
heard.”
She was laughing at him, her
eyes bright, and he felt himself blush again.
“Well, one
hears of people doing all sorts of crazed things.
Since I can't remember, I was afraid I said
or did something to make you want me to just go away.
You didn't even go to the hospital with me,
did you?”
“No, but that
had nothing to do with you.
I was going
through a difficult time in my own life.
Once you were safely away, I knew I'd never see you again.
I didn't want people coming around asking a
lot of questions.
Can't you understand
how a girl from my simple little world would want to hide from the kind of
glare that follows you everywhere you go?”
He thought for
a moment about what she'd said.
He'd
never given any consideration to her situation, only thinking of his own
ordeal.
“You're right, there would have
been questions,” he said finally.
“But
you're wrong that we would never have seen each other.
We have, haven't we?
And if you'll allow it, we will again.”
A flicker of concern, or maybe fear, crossed
her face.
He laid a hand on the table
near hers, but not quite touching.
“Emily, I'm so thankful to have finally found you.
I'm not about to just drive away today and
never expect to see you again.
Please
tell me you won't send me away without the hope of coming back.”
Now it seemed
to be her turn to think.
She rose from
the table and began to clear away the plates.
Stani realized she must have believed this would be their only meeting.
And in truth, he had never anticipated all
he'd found here.
But that had all
changed now.
For whatever reason, he
couldn't bear the idea of saying good-bye to her today.
She came back
and sat across from him, toying with her napkin.
“If you really want to stay in touch, I don't
suppose there could be any harm.
Maybe
we could write, like pen pals.”
At his
puzzled frown, she went on.
“When I was
in fifth grade, we were given the addresses of kids in foreign countries.
Mine lived in Norway.
We wrote letters, telling how we lived here
and they wrote back about their lives.
Considering how different our lives are, we could write those kinds of
letters.
You could tell me about your
travels and the famous people you work with.”
He was
intrigued by her suggestion.
“And what
would you write back to me?”
“Nothing so
glamorous, I'm sure.
I could tell you
about the weather here, how the garden is growing, and the cost of fertilizer,
I suppose.”
Again, he frowned.
“In the spring, when I plant my garden, I can
send you progress reports.”
“Garden, as in
flowers?”
“No, as in
vegetables.
Look out there, see those
rows of dirt?”
She pointed to the plowed
field below the house.
“That's my
garden.
My father had a truck farm and
it's my ambition to start it up again next year.”
She was smiling indulgently, as if he were a
child.
“I told you our lives are
different.
You
are a world-famous
musician.
I
am a farmer.
It doesn't get much farther apart than
that.
Are you sure you want to go beyond
today?”