“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
—HEBREWS 11:1 KJV
There is strange magic here.
And it is just as I imagined.
The entire structure, at least twenty feet in length, is filled with lush, green growth. Some trees hold delicate flowers painted in pinks and reds and purples. Jasmine, lavender, and sage permeate the air with their heady perfume. Tropical plants squat with shining leaves that drip with moisture. A gurgling waterfall sits at the far end, and water runs down the cement in thin rivulets along pathways that wind through the deciduous growth. Exotic orchids of every description and color hang from wooden slat boxes and baskets along poles near the top of the building.
Everyone has a different perception of heaven.
This comes close to mine.
Crisp white gravel crunches under my feet as I step forward, inhale the sweet scents on the warm air that is making me a little light-headed, and then I blink.
I hear myself gasp as I move backward, unbelieving.
Oh . . .
Dead and half-dead plants sway in the cold wind that whistles through cracked panes of glass. The top of my boot hits a pile of broken clay pots. Rubble is everywhere. Overturned benches, brown shriveled vines . . . gray roots litter the worn path, having given up the will to live a lifetime ago.
This is a war zone. Some wayward missile has landed, left its calling card.
There is no beauty here.
Only desolation and death and the dregs of what this place once was.
What did I see a moment ago? Chills race through me as confusion dries up my throat. I shut my eyes and open them again, just to be sure.
How? How is what I saw even remotely possible?
I did see it, didn’t I? Of course I did. The faintest scent of jasmine still lingers in the air. I breathe deeply and almost smile.
Then I clutch my elbows and feel the world tilt again.
I need to call Dr. Clarke.
I’ve really lost it this time.
Clarice moves to stand beside me. Her sad sigh sings over the wind. She places her hand on my arm and simply stands there. Then, finally, she speaks. “Sometimes we are allowed to glimpse the beauty within the brokenness, Savannah.”
My breath comes in shaky fits and starts and I turn to face her. “But I . . . saw . . .” How to begin?
Her knowing smile says there is no need. “This place was my Joe’s refuge. He could spend hours in here, puttering away, talking to his plants, caring for them. Of course, he never had to do much, as magnificent as it was when we moved in. But he kept it going, until he got too sick. I’ve never been much of a horticulturist myself, and once he died, I couldn’t come in here at all. So I’m afraid it’s gone to rack and ruin.” She shuffles forward, bends to pick up a stray pot, and turns. “But there is hope.” Out of the dry dirt, one tiny, stubborn shoot appears and Clarice nods her approval. “There is always hope.”
I reach for the sliver of green and slide my finger along the cold plant. “Must be a bulb of some sort.” How it has survived is beyond me.
“Do you garden, Savannah?” Her eyes light with interest.
I shrug and kick aside a few shards of terra-cotta. “I used to. These days I only seem to kill things.” Friendships. Marriages. Children.
Clarice places the pot on a shelf that has not fallen down, brushes dirt off her hands, and smiles. “Brock can get the electricity back up and running in no time. He’s quite handy when he wants to be. Once we get some heat in here . . . and water . . . repair the windows, it could be lovely again. What do you think?”
I don’t know what to think. The old greenhouse is a heap of rubbish waiting to be thrown away. “It would be a massive undertaking. Besides, it’s winter. Nothing will grow now.”
“Don’t be so sure.” She pulls her coat tight. “I think you’d be surprised what can happen when you work for something you really want.”
I shove my hands in the pockets of my coat and study her. I’m not so sure we’re talking about the greenhouse anymore. “Some things aren’t repairable, Clarice,” I say softly. “Sometimes it’s better to let go rather than linger, wishing for the impossible.”
“My dear.” She rests her hands on my arms and looks up at me. Through me. Straight into my soul. “Nothing is impossible if you have enough faith. You know that, don’t you?”
I did. Once. I’m not so sure I do now.
“And when our faith seems to fail?”
She shakes her head and lets me go. “You pray for more.” Clarice clasps her hands together and gives me a smile that almost makes me believe in miracles. “Will you work in my greenhouse with me, Savannah? I’d like to see what can be made of this mess. It’s time.”
And before I know it, I am nodding. And smiling.
I have a new friend. A new purpose.
And maybe a reason to get up in the morning.
Perhaps Clarice is right.
Perhaps it is time.
A week later I’m startled from slumber by someone banging on the front door. I’m fully awake in seconds and glance at the clock as I pull on my robe. It’s 9:00 a.m. Why am I sleeping so well here? Must be the fresh air. And maybe the fact that I’m not in my own half-empty bed where the scent of Kevin’s cologne still lingers and screams my sorry situation each time I enter the room.
The knocking grows more insistent.
“Coming!” I pad down the hall, smother a yawn, and fling open the door. “Maysie.”
She’s beaming, jumping up and down like her red boots are pogo sticks. “Willow had her puppies!” she squeaks, her eyes bright as she relays the information. “There’s six! You have to come pick yours, Miss Savannah!” She grabs my hand and pulls. “Come now!”
“Whoa, sweetie, slow down.” I look down the path, across the lawn. Snow is falling lightly around us, landing on her hair and coat and nose. “Did you walk over here all by yourself?” Scratch that. She ran. Her flushed cheeks say so.
“Uh-huh.” She nods and blows out a big breath. “Aunt Clarice doesn’t mind, ’cause I’ve got my guardian angel.”
“Your . . . what now?” I rub my eyes. Maybe I’m still asleep. Still dreaming.
“My guardian angel, silly.” Delightful childish laughter fills the air as she points to the path. “She’s right there.” Maysie takes a long look at me and her mouth turns downward. “You can’t see her, can you?”
I shrug. How am I supposed to answer that? But she’s smiling again, so maybe I don’t have to.
“It’s okay. Daddy doesn’t see her either. Just Aunt Clarice and me.” She jumps up and down impatiently. “Are ya coming?”
And I haven’t even had my coffee.
Maysie waits in the kitchen while I take a quick shower, dress, and grab a bagel. I also call over to the Chandlers to make sure they know she’s here, which of course they do, and Clarice tells me that it’s quite all right indeed.
The little girl practically drags me all the way back to her house through ankle-deep snow. By the time I enter the kitchen, I’m pretty sure there’s about a foot of the white stuff in my boots. I shake them off at the door and wipe down my socks and jeans as best I can. Maysie has already scampered away in the direction of the laundry room, where she tells me Willow and the puppies are resting.
I find a hook to hang my coat on, turn, and almost barrel into Brock.
He arches a brow, steps back, and holds a steaming mug toward me. “Coffee. Can I trust you with it?” His voice is thick with sleep, he’s bleary-eyed, his hair is mussed, and the sight of him steals my breath.
I really need to stop fangirling over the fact that I’m living next door to a bestselling author. “Tha-thank you.” My stammered words are nothing short of embarrassing. And why can’t the man be ugly?
“Welcome,” he mumbles and heads back to the coffeepot for his own cup.
The aroma is tantalizing and I breathe it in. “Guess you didn’t get much sleep last night?”
“Nope.” He takes a gulp from a turquoise ceramic mug that says Daddie, obviously made by Maysie, and gives a tired grin. “But Willow’s fine and all the puppies look sound and healthy.”
“That’s good. You do this often? Have puppies?”
“Uh, no.” His smile brings out a dimple in his left cheek. “It’s my first time.”
I just asked the man if he has puppies. Often. Somebody slap me.
“I meant . . . has Willow . . .” I give up because he’s laughing at me.
So not nice.
“You ready?” He nods toward the door at the end of the kitchen. “Maysie’ll start yelling soon if we don’t get in there. You remember that age, right?”
“Very well. My girls were just as persistent.” I realize too late what I’ve said. He shoots me a sidelong glance but makes no comment, and I follow him through the door.
The puppies are gorgeous. There are four boys, one yellow and three black, and two girls, one black and one yellow.
“Chocolate’s the dominant gene,” Brock explains with a hint of self-satisfaction. “I looked it up.”
I choose one of the girls, the black one, and Brock ties a soft-pink ribbon around her little neck. I watch his careful hands and memories plunder my mind again. How sweet it was in those early days after we brought Shelby home from the hospital . . .
I’m barely twenty years old, sore, sleep-deprived, and scared out of my mind.
Kevin carries the car seat into our one-bedroom apartment like he’s carrying a crystal chandelier, puts her down in the middle of the living room floor, stands back, and crouches in front of our sleeping infant. “Hey, sweet pea,” he says in a singsong voice just above a whisper. “You’re home now. Mommy’s going to go lie down and you and Daddy can hang out awhile, what do you say?”
We’ve been married barely six months and he’s never talked to me like that. Like I’m the most important person in the world.
Huh.
I take off my spring coat and slowly make my way across the room to them. He glances up at me and we share a smile, as though we still can’t believe what we’ve done. Shelby’s perfect little face is puckered in slumber, oblivious to anything around her. My eyes smart when I look at her. She is two days old and has already become my world. Our world.
Kevin stands and slides his hands around my face. He stares at me for the longest time, not saying a word. And then he kisses me.
And I know I have not lost him. Not really.
“I have the most beautiful wife in the entire universe,” he whispers, leaving a trail of soft kisses along my neck. “And together we make the most beautiful children.”
“I only see one, Kev.” I smile and weave my fingers through his hair. “And she wasn’t exactly planned, if you recall.”
“Not by us, maybe.” He kisses me again, with a gentleness that makes me ache. “But we’ll do right by her, Savannah. I’ll be the best father, the best husband I know how to be. I swear it.”
“I know you will.” My emotions are spinning like a smoothie in a blender and tears crest my cheeks. “You already are.”
“Miss Savannah?” Maysie tugs on my sleeve. “You have to name her.”
I blink and catch Brock’s cautious gaze. He’s probably wondering why I’m sitting here on the floor of the warm laundry room surrounded by the smell of detergent and dogs, with tears swimming in my eyes.
“You with us, Savannah?” His soft voice sears me, and somehow says maybe, just maybe, things might work out. And that whatever way they do, I will survive. “What will you call her?”
I reach a tentative hand toward the soft bundle of fur and touch a finger to the puppy’s velvet head.
“Hope.” I meet his eyes again. “I’m going to call her Hope.”
“That’s a beautiful name. She’ll like that very much,” Maysie declares, snuggles next to me, and wraps her arms around my waist. I stiffen slightly because it’s been so long since I’ve felt this kind of affection: the unconditional love of a child who has no ulterior motive, only wants to give of herself.
My throat is too thick for words, so I just lean in and hug her back.
“Hope.” Brock rolls the word on his tongue, thoughtful as he processes it, but then he smiles too. “Well chosen.”