Treasured Fate

By F. Sharon Swope and Genilee Swope Parente

Maud Novec has been kicked out of her own home and winds up on the doorstep of Elmer Martin, a farmer who seeks companionship and help running his home. The two find friendship as Elmer teaches Maud the beauty of life on a farm. Eventually they realize their feelings run much deeper than employer/employee. The budding romance is threatened, howe

• Language: English
• Publisher: GSP Publishing
• Release date: Jul 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996910699

F. Sharon Swope

Sharon ran her local hometown newspaper The Edgerton Earth with husband Robert W. Swope for many years and wrote a popular local column for that paper. She always wanted to write fiction, so at age eighty-two, she sat down at a computer and started writing. She is now in her nineties and still passionate about words.

Book preview

PROLOGUE: May 15, 2014

HARRY OPENED the door to Room 310 and flicked on the light. He stood in the door frame of a small suite, his eyes traveling the room slowly as if he were searching for some reason to enter.

The room was neat and cozy, plain in furnishings, but with the slightly feminine touch of flowered paintings on the wall. Harry didn’t really care. He glanced at the two chairs that sat across from the king-sized bed, entered the room and sat in one of the chairs, noting the half-filled bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses on a nearby table. One glass held the remnants of wine.

Harry sighed deeply and rubbed his palms over his cheeks trying to work up enthusiasm for yet another meeting he didn’t want. He sat back in his chair and glanced at the wine bottle label—a decent vintage. He preferred a stiff finger or two of whiskey, but he’d cut back on all alcohol after a rough period of too much. It numbed the pain too well, and he was trying hard to care about business again.

Nothing seemed to matter though. His mind inevitably left the bottom line in the middle of meetings and settled on the chasm in his life left by the death of his wife Daphne.

Maybe a glass of wine would bolster me.

Harry reached for the bottle, poured a generous portion, then put the bottle back on the table. He took a long pull of deep red liquid, tasting the smoothness, but not finding pleasure in it. He twirled the glass slowly by its stem staring into its contents and letting his mind go where it wished.

Daphne. Daphne. Daphne. His wife had been his miracle in life. Even after twenty years together, he couldn’t grasp how this beautiful creature had found something in him to love. Harry pictured her chestnut hair, the fine bones of her face, the delicate fingers that had weaved light and meaning into a life that had mostly been work and success. Over half of that twenty years had been spent under the dark cloud of cancer. But Daphne had managed to allow sunshine through right up until the last excruciating month, when the disease returned to choke the life out of her and the desire to live out of him.

The fact her light had been extinguished in such an extended way was not only cruel, but wrong. When Daphne spoke—even when she was in pain—Harry heard music. Her touch made him feel whole—a part of this earth. Her smile healed every small stress that came from the workday, every insecurity he’d ever felt, every doubt he had about being a good person. It had been like that since the day they’d met, and though it had taken him a while to convince her they were meant to be together, he’d succeeded—the greatest success of his life.

Harry put the glass aside and pushed the fingertips of one hand against his forehead. He was so very tired—so sick of trying to act like everything would be all right. He’d mostly tried for his stepdaughter Maud. But his affection for her was never enough to fuel him. Daphne burned through life; Maud walked over coals with her slow steady gait. How many years had she spent taking care of her mother? Didn’t he owe her the guidance to find another path?

What a wretched, ungrateful father I’ve been.

He couldn’t seem to find a way to help her. He knew he’d been a poor leader and example—even poorer since Daphne’s illness finally won out. He couldn’t even show Maud what it was to be a good businessman because he’d lost that ability as well and was pretty sure that was the reason for this meeting.

Harry picked up his glass again and upended it. He stared at the empty vessel, surprised he’d finished it and wondering whether a second glass might taste better, maybe get him ready for the meeting. He poured another, but left it on the table to sit back and stare at the ceiling. Harry felt the hole in his heart widen and deepen. How many people told him this grief would ease? Why did it only seem to get worse?

Clutching his fists to his chest, he willed the pain to go away. As always, it only grew fuller, broader, more encompassing. Breathing deeply, he squeezed his eyelids shut, but he couldn’t relax, couldn’t let go of the ache.

Suddenly, he was aware that he wasn’t alone. Had he heard something? Harry opened his eyes and peered across the room, trying to focus on the foggy image. Someone was resting on the edge of the bed. He squinted and strained his eyes and was rewarded with the image of his beloved wife. Her hands were folded neatly and resting in her lap. Her ethereal smile gave him the comfort he needed, and the ache finally eased.

Darling Harry. Are you ready for me? she said. I’ve waited a very long time.

Yes, he murmured. He tried to get up out of the chair to go to her, but his body would not go where his brain commanded. His limbs felt like they were encased in all of the things he’d done wrong in his life. Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he reach his love? He tried to raise just one arm and stretch it out towards his love.

I was supposed to tell Maud something, Daphne. What was it?

Daphne remained seated, her chestnut curls moving slightly, and Harry felt the breeze that had stirred them. She smiled again and he felt his limbs finally loosen.

You’ve nothing to be ashamed of Harry. You did what you could.

With those words, the burdens of the last few months suddenly lifted. All Harry saw, all he felt, was the draw towards this lovely woman with whom he’d shared his life. Nothing else mattered.

You’re right. She’ll find out on her own. Harry glided towards his wife. He took her hand, and the two of them floated into each other, becoming the one entity they’d been working towards since the day they met.

CHAPTER ONE

CHRISTMAS DAY 2014 brought a change in Elmer Martin he didn’t like. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his lethargy; he only knew he’d awakened feeling listless with no urge to get out of bed. It was a feeling he hadn’t had in all his forty-three years.

Elmer was a man of endless energy who wouldn’t have known what to do with down time if he had it. In the twenty-five years that had passed since his father died, farming had filled every minute of his life. He honestly couldn’t remember a single day when he felt like doing absolutely nothing.

I’m probably coming down with the flu, Elmer thought. He put a hand to his forehead, though he knew that was foolish. He was pretty sure he wasn’t sick. I should get up and see if I have a thermometer. He made no move to rise.

Elmer stared up at the ceiling remembering past Christmases. An image of Pearla, his beloved nanny, floated before his eyes, and the edges of his mouth turned slightly upwards.

Pearla would arrive on the family’s doorstep December first—even if that date was a weekend—to get the season started. A tree would be waiting for her in the living room. Elmer and his dad chose the tree each year from the farm’s plentiful supply.

Pearla would make a big fuss about its perfection, then begin a process that would last over the course of the next week, beginning with decorating the tree, then the rest of the house. After Pearla died, he and his father continued to put up the tree on December 1 in her honor, but never managed to finish it off; at first, because it was too painful a reminder of the woman who had started the tradition. Later, because neither man quite had the touch or the time to decorate a tree. Eventually, it became a habit just to cut the tree and let it sit, one of only a few holiday traditions he and his dad had.

Last night, he’d looked at the small pine tree sitting in the living room and wondered if the ornaments his father packed away so long ago were stored somewhere in the attic.

Why does it matter now? he thought. Dad’s been gone twenty-five years, Pearla many more. I’ve been through dozens of Christmases. What’s different about this one?

Elmer pulled the covers up higher and closed his eyes. But once the light started to peek through the curtains and fall on his face, Elmer had no choice; he couldn’t let the animals go hungry or the cows’ teats get too full. Elmer groaned and made himself sit up. He rubbed his face with both hands, threw off the bed covers, then reached for the folded jeans and wool shirt laying on a chair next to the bed. He dressed and went into the morning.

Two and a half hours later, Elmer was back in bed, the jeans and shirt uncharacteristically discarded on the floor. I have to be sick, he told his pillow as he nodded off to sleep.

In midafternoon, Elmer finally got up from his bed and went to the kitchen seeking nourishment. He tore bread up in a glass and poured milk over it. A scowl formed on his brow as he studied the soggy, unappealing mess, but he picked up a spoon, determined to eat.

When Elmer finished, he put the dishes in the sink. But instead of washing them and returning to the barn or getting onto a home project, he crawled back into bed. Covering his head with the quilt, he turned on his side and made a small pocket so he could breathe and think, something he remembered doing as a child. By now, he recognized that whatever was wrong with him had nothing to do with a virus—it was in his head.

He needed a woman’s touch, but he wasn’t even sure what that meant. It was partly a physical need; it had been too long since he’d sought out feminine company. But it was more than that. What he needed was a home; something besides this square building that held his past or the neat and tidy buildings that sat on his farm, serving their utilitarian purposes.

Elmer suddenly remembered one of those Christmas mornings from many years ago. He’d been a young boy, and he had a high fever. His father had called Pearla despite the fact it was a holiday. Since it was Christmas, she should have been home with her own family, but she’d come anyway.

I brought you a special present, Pearla had said, and despite his achy throat, Elmer’s little boy eyes had widened in interest. He struggled to sit up in bed.

Pearla handed him a metal box about the size of two of his hands. It was tarnished and old, but it had scrollwork along the outer edge and script writing on the lid. Elmer made out the year 1950 and a name he didn’t recognize.

I’m not sure where it came from … I found it in my mom’s stuff when I was a little girl, Pearla said. Mom didn’t know where she’d gotten it, either, but she let me have it, and I’ve kept it all these years in a drawer.

A question formed on the little boy’s face.

I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s a very important box. When I have a happy thought, I open the lid and put part of that happy feeling into this box. Then when I’m sick or I feel sad, I open the lid again and a bit of joy pops out and back into my head.

The sick little boy had believed most of what the old woman told him those days. He’d used the box time and again for the first year he had it. Although it didn’t take long before he realized it wasn’t really magical, the gift had been one of his most treasured boyhood possessions because it reminded him someone had loved him enough to give a piece of herself just when he needed it most. Where was the box now? Did he stash it away when Pearla died?

Elmer groaned and turned over in bed.

This is ridiculous. No woman is going to come along and hand me a ‘magic’ box.

Still he knew that what he really wanted was someone who would take time to soften the edges of his schedule; who might know how to put the ornaments on the tree; make him eat something besides bread and milk; go shopping for curtains. He could also use someone who could help care for his animals or the garden. He needed a mate.

Yet the thought of dating gave him a queasy stomach. He had no time and no desire to follow up on the flirting that came from women in his church trying to catch the eye of a single man. He was certainly way beyond dating online or hanging out in bars; and he didn’t really believe casual sex was right. He was old fashioned and not ashamed of it. But it wasn’t doing him much good at the moment.

With another groan and a sigh, Elmer pulled the covers off his head. He sat up and shook his head back and forth. He rubbed his face with both hands, then dropped them into his lap.

This is ridiculous, Elmer said to the walls. I don’t need a girlfriend or a long, drawn out relationship. What I really need is a wife!

CHAPTER TWO

MAUD NOVAC stared into her own weary eyes in the bus depot’s bathroom mirror, then turned her head from side to side. Her blunt features were splotchy and even more unattractive than usual. She rubbed her cheeks and leaned closer. Her tears telescoped the intensity of green that always brought on the comment: Your eyes are your best feature, dear. She blinked them now and declared, "Great way to spend your thirty-fifth birthday, dear."

She turned and walked away from her image towards the restroom entrance to the station, flipping off the switch at the door. The hinges of the heavy door creaked and groaned in protest as she slowly opened it and gazed into blackness.

It’s a good thing this isn’t a big city station or there’d probably be alarms, she thought. And thank goodness the closing security guard wasn’t thorough enough to check the bathroom stalls.

Despite being fairly certain she was alone, she tiptoed out of the bathroom, then wondered why she was being cautious. The cavernous station was eerily quiet and mostly dark, though there was just enough light from outside to make out benches and counters. The air of the empty bus station was comfortable compared to the cold damp outside, where she’d spent an hour and half trying to decide where to go or how she’d afford to get back on a train. Maud located the nearest bench and sat, feeling the unyielding wood on her rear and then on her back. She drew her battered suitcase close to her side, seeking the comfort of the familiar leather, and realizing the case held the only possessions she now had—a few clothes, a few mementos.

Even though she was alone, habit made her pull her skirt across her knees, and uncertainty made her look into the shadows of the room.

Am I truly alone? Do I even care?

Maud sighed deeply, let go of the suitcase and scooted back on the bench, shoulders drooping. Her chin dropped to her chest and her hands went to her face.

What a horrible week, crowning a horrible year. She’d lost her mother around her birthday last year, then her dear stepfather just nine months later. Now, she was also without a home.

Oh Dad, why did you leave me like this?

Maud thought back to the scene in the lawyer’s office two days ago: the reading of her stepfather Harry Novac’s will. As expected, it specified that everything be left to his daughter. How could Maud have imagined that daughter didn’t mean her? For most of her adult life, she had nursed her mother, taken care of the household, then helped her stepfather grieve both before and after her mother died. She knew he loved her; he’d made that clear time and again over the years.

Then why, oh why, didn’t you officially adopt me?

She hadn’t given it much thought and had used the Novac name since her mother had married him. But at the reading of the will, a stranger had shown up declaring she was his birth daughter, providing proof. While the lawyer expressed his condolences and horror at Maud’s situation, he carefully explained there was nothing he could do—the blood daughter had claim to it all.

Maud left the home where she’d grown up with nothing but a few hastily packed clothes and a hundred dollars. She used half that money to buy a bus ticket as far from her hometown, Cooper, Pennsylvania, as she could get and ended up here in Lancaster with no money for a hotel, arriving just half an hour before the station closed for the night. She knew it was foolish to run without a fight, but she’d been so shocked, she’d just wanted to get out of there.

Weary to the marrow, Maud pushed the case to the end of the hard bench and lay down on her side; she couldn’t get comfortable. Her body ached for her soft mattress at home and the warm comforter her mother had made before she got so sick. Maud tried to turn onto her back, but her skirt restricted her movements. She pushed herself up to a sitting position and let the tears fall again.

How am I going to get by? I have no money, no home, no job and no real skills. I didn’t go to college. I’ve spent years doing nothing but taking care of my own home. How can I survive?

Maud pictured the attractive blond woman who said she was Harry’s daughter. The woman had stood, arms crossed and watched as two policemen supervised Maud’s departure.

That girl could have had a sister, but she chose to toss me out like a piece of garbage.

Maud’s head came up, the tears in her emerald eyes replaced by a spark of anger. A sudden draft elicited a shiver and Maud reached over to a newspaper lying next to her on the bench. She unfolded the sheets of the paper and tried to pull them around her for warmth.

Instead, they fluttered to the floor, as if batted out of her hands by an unseen intruder. Maud looked around the room again.

Where had that breeze come from?

She bent to pick up the paper and caught the words: Classified Ads.

Maud drew the