A Town Called Valentine(26)
She scanned the rest of the letter.
If Dorothy did right by you, this won’t come as a shock. I pray she came to her senses and told the truth, understanding that you deserved to know. But sometimes she gets it in her head that she’s right, damn the consequences. If you didn’t know—I’m sorry, child. Forgiveness is one of God’s graces, but he makes us work hard for it. I ask for your understanding on my own behalf, too, for not being able to reach my only child. It is a failure I pray over every night. Rosemary Thalberg says I obsess too much, that I did my best, that the next generation will heal the mistakes of the past. I tell her she’s a busybody, full of too much sunshine and rainbows. But deep in my crotchety old heart, I hope she’s right.
I pray for you, too, my little Emily. Your past may have some heartache, but only you can determine your future. And may it be a long and happy life. You have all my love.
Grandma Riley
A tear slid down Emily’s cheek, a wry smile twisted her lips. The letter sounded just like the grandma she remembered, the one who liked to walk in the rain wearing big rubber boots, who stubbornly spent hours in her garden even though vegetables refused to grow for her.
Part of Emily still didn’t want to believe Grandma could be telling the truth about her dad. And with everything going on in her life, it seemed too overwhelming to think about. Perhaps she didn’t even want to pursue it. What would it matter? All those important years after Jacob Strong died had been spent without a father, and looking for one at this late date seemed almost selfish. She might disrupt an entire family.
A family she should have been a part of. But it was too late.
And perhaps her mother had actually been protecting her from a man who didn’t deserve to be a father. Instead, Delilah had given her Jacob Strong, kind and wonderful, his memory still a balm when she needed to be soothed.
Hands shaking, she folded up the letter and thrust it into her purse, as if it were a live snake she didn’t want to touch again. She went back to relentlessly bagging garbage in the apartment, exhausting herself so she didn’t have to think, only taking a break when it was time for lunch. She pulled the container of apple tarts out of her backpack, then realized she’d left the lunch she’d packed back at the boardinghouse. Apple tarts would have to do.
She locked up the building—was that even necessary in broad daylight in Valentine Valley? But she was a city girl, and it just seemed wrong not to be careful. Forcing herself to look cheerful, she went next door and found Monica rearranging a display of crocheted baby afghans and looking relieved for the distraction.
Emily set the plastic container on the main counter. “I brought us something a bit more decadent to share than a salad. Dessert.”
“Oh, I haven’t eaten lunch yet,” Monica said, looking hungrily at the container.
“I already did, so I’ll leave you to finish yours.” She didn’t want Monica insisting on sharing two days in a row.
“Don’t rush off.” Monica lifted the lid, wafted the container under her nose, and groaned. “Ohh, it smells divine. You baked this?”
“Apple tarts.”
“Crust from scratch?” she asked, eyes going wide. “I thought everyone bought theirs nowadays.”
“Not me. Never have. But baking up in the mountains is tricky although you probably already know that.”
Monica snorted.
Emily reluctantly smiled. “I’ve been taking lessons in high-altitude baking from the widows, and this is one recipe that turned out okay the first time.”
“So you’re not experimenting on me?” Monica teased.
“Cross my heart.” Emily had to admit that it was nice having a conversation instead of spending too much time keeping dark thoughts at bay.
The bell above the door jangled, and they both turned to look.
Monica broke into a big grin as a young woman entered. “Brooke, just in time for lunch—or should I say Emily’s fantastic dessert?”
Brooke’s gaze focused on Emily with recognition as if she’d already heard about her. What is it with small towns? Emily wondered wryly. Brooke was a good half a foot taller than she was, her lean build shown off in tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a button-snapped Western shirt with a fleece vest over the top. She carried a cowboy hat at her side along with a small cooler, and in the other hand a paper bag.
“So you’re Emily Murphy,” Brooke said, a smile slowly forming. Then she lifted a brown paper sack. “You forgot your lunch.”