Ribbon of Years Read online

  Ribbon of Years

  Robin Lee Hatcher

  Ribbon of Years

  Robin Lee Hatcher

  Copyright 2001, 2014 by Robin Lee Hatcher

  To Sara Jones,

  sister in Christ and in heart.

  Thanks for being an encourager in countless ways.

  Every time I think of you, I give thanks to my God.

  I always pray for you,

  and I make my requests with a heart full of joy

  because you have been my partners

  in spreading the Good News about Christ.

  PHILIPPIANS 1 : 3 - 5, NLT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ribbon of Years was born in my heart while I watched reports on television of a tragedy where innocent lives were lost through no fault of their own. As I watched the grieving families of those who died, I found myself asking, "How do people trust God to bring them through difficult things like this? How do Christians walk by faith, no matter what trials come their way?" God used so many people to give me answers to those questions and to help me develop this story until it became the novel you hold in your hand now. While I can't thank them all, I do want to thank a few.

  To Pastor Gene Arnold, whose sermons, Sunday after Sunday, gave me the answers I needed even before I knew I had questions. Thank you, Gene, for your faithfulness in shepherding the people of Trinity Fellowship.

  To George Hage, for sharing his heart with me and with others. George, I pray that I've been true in the way I used what you so freely gave.

  To the members of the Trinity Women's Care Group, for challenging me, encouraging me, teaching me, praying for me.

  To Christie Moore, for her obedience to minister to the nations, including to a small group of women in McCall, Idaho. Christie, may God bless you, indeed, and may He enlarge your territory.

  CONTENTS

  JULIANNA: SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER ONE

  MIRIAM: SUMMER 1936

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JULIANNA: SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER SIX

  MIRIAM: SPRING 1944

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JULIANNA: SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MIRIAM: AUTUMN 1952

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  JULIANNA: SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MIRIAM: SPRING 1963

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  JULIANNA: SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MIRIAM: WINTER 1971

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  JULIANNA: SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  MIRIAM: AUTUMN 1988

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  JULIANNA: SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  MIRIAM: JULY 3, 2001

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  JULIANNA: AUTUMN 2001

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  About the Author

  JULIANNA

  SUMMER 2001

  CHAPTER ONE

  WOULDN'T IT BE GREAT IF PEOPLE COULD BEGIN THEIR LIVES AGAIN, IF WE could get a clean slate? That's what I was thinking as I drove through a quiet Boise neighborhood on a warm Friday morning in August.

  When I was a kid, we called that a "do over." I wanted a "do over" in life. Of course, I knew I wouldn't get one. You got what you got, and you might as well make the best of it.

  Leland, my husband of twenty-four years, seemed content enough. So did Traci, our daughter.

  But I kept feeling like there should be something . . . oh, I don't know. Something more.

  At my age—forty-four this year—I thought I should know what life was about, but I didn't. It all seemed pretty futile. I only had to look at the newspaper headlines or listen to the evening news to confirm those feelings.

  Leland knew I was at loose ends, restless, discontented. Poor man. He'd tried a dozen different remedies to lift my spirits, all to no avail.

  I sighed deeply, my gaze fixed on the more-than-a-century-old homes, looking for my destination. In this part of town, the blocks were laid out in precise, orderly squares, the ancient trees gnarled, their roots buckling the sidewalks from the underside.

  Spying the sign I was searching for—Estate Sale Preview Today, it proclaimed in large red letters—I pressed on the brake pedal and pulled to the curb.

  I stared at the two-story Victorian-era house and sighed again. Normally I loved coming to these old homes and looking for that special find. But today . . . well, I doubted anything would interest me in my present mood.

  "You're here," I muttered. "Make the best of it."

  I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat, opened the door, and got out.

  I was greeted on the front porch by an attractive young woman—twenty-something and ultrathin—in a white silk suit, the jacket long, the skirt short. She had legs that didn't end, straight blond hair cut in a Jennifer Aniston style, striking blue eyes, and a thousand-watt smile.

  Not exactly the sort of girl who made a forty-something woman in an identity crisis feel good about herself.

  "Welcome," she said as she handed me a brochure. "Feel free to browse. Everything in the house is for sale. If you have questions, ask one of the setup crew. The auction will begin tomorrow morning at ten."

  "Thanks," I mumbled as I moved toward the open doorway.

  The moment my foot fell on the parquet floor of the entry, I felt surrounded by the past. The paper on the walls was reminiscent of the 1950s, a pastoral scene on an off-white background with pale green trees, grazing sheep, and shepherdesses with hooped skirts and crooked staffs. The baseboard and wainscoting had been painted the same shade of green as that in the wallpaper. It made me think of my grandmother's house.

  I paused, closed my eyes, and breathed in. Yes, it even smelled a bit like Grandma's house used to. A hint of rose petals. A little musty. A dash of old age and disuse.

  I heard voices behind me and quickly moved forward. There were more people in the living room off to my right, so after a quick glance inside, I bypassed it, heading instead for the stairs. I liked to do my antique browsing alone.

  There were two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small sitting room on the second floor of the house. No one was in the sitting room, so I went in and closed the door behind me.

  It wasn't until I was inside that I realized the room seemed to be set up for a meeting. An odd collection of chairs—a wooden rocker, a love seat, a recliner, an upholstered wing-backed chair—formed a circle around an oval coffee table. Atop the table was a plain brown cardboard box, perhaps three feet by three feet in size. I might not have paid any more attention if it weren't for the green satin ribbon tied around the box.

  I crossed the room for a closer look.

  The top panels had been folded over one another rather than being taped, and across one of those panels, someone had written w
ith a black marker: My life.

  That was all. Just those two words, in large bold script. My life.

  Should I look? I wondered as I gingerly touched the box.

  "She did say everything in the house is for sale," I answered myself aloud.

  That seemed justification enough to untie the ribbon and see what was inside.

  What I found was not momentous, as I'd hoped. It was merely an odd collection of items, none of them of any apparent value. A rolled-up poster. A tan-colored serving tray, the kind used in cafeterias, only smaller; this one had been decorated with stickers, glitter, and Bible verses. A soldier's service cap, faded by time. A Nixon campaign button. A pair of gold filigree earrings. A striking black-and-white photograph of a majestic mountain range at either sunset or sunrise; it had been framed in black wrought iron, and the glass was cracked in the lower right corner. And finally, a soda-fountain glass, the kind they used to serve milk shakes in when I was a kid.

  "So much for your life, whoever you are."

  What would I put into a box marked "My life"?

  Given the way I'd been feeling of late, that was a frightening thought. Except for raising my daughter, it didn't seem my life had accounted for anything.

  The door to the sitting room squeaked open, revealing an elderly man, stoop-shouldered, bald-headed, and leaning on a cane. He raised his bushy gray eyebrows when he saw me.

  "Sorry, miss," he said in a papery thin voice. "I was told I'd find—" he stopped abruptly when his gaze settled on the open box. "There it is." He shuffled forward. "Miriam would sure be surprised if she knew I got here before the others. She always complained about me bein' late."

  Miriam?

  The man came to stand before me and stared inside the box. "My, oh, my. How'd she manage to hang on to that all these years?" He pulled the rocking chair close and sat down. Motioning with a quivering index finger, he said, "Hand me that poster, will you?"

  I obliged, at the same time wondering how to gracefully make my escape. The curious sort I might be, but I knew some folks tended to talk at length about things that didn't interest me in the least.

  The elderly gentleman unrolled the poster. I couldn't tell if he was about to cry or if his eyes were simply watery from old age.

  "I was with Miriam the night she got this," he said. "Let's see now. That would've been about 1936, I reckon. Yes, that's when it would've been. I remember 'cause that was the same year I took a job at Tucker's Insurance. My father'd had a hard time after losing our farm. All of us living with his cousin, and he couldn't get a job. He needed my help."

  What was I supposed to say to all that?

  His gaze met mine. "Guess 1936 seems a long time ago to someone as young as you."

  "I'm not all that young."

  "Reckon that's what you think now. Time'll change that, same as it changed Miriam and me."

  "Was she your wife?"

  "Nope." He shook his head. "She wouldn't have me. Not in '36, and not later either."

  Heaven only knew what possessed me to ask, "Why not?"

  He didn't seem to hear me. He was staring at the poster, unrolled on his lap, his gnarled hands holding it in place, but his eyes had a faraway look in them. "She was fifteen that summer, prettiest girl in town and full of the dickens. When I think about some of the stunts she pulled, nothin' short of a miracle that she lived to see twenty, let alone eighty." He chuckled softly. "A regular spitfire, she was back then."

  MIRIAM

  SUMMER 1936

  CHAPTER TWO

  "ARE YOU CRAZY, MIRIAM?" JACOB MCALLISTER WHISPERED. "YOU get us caught, my dad's gonna take the hide right off my backside."

  Miriam Gresham ignored him. Jacob was a worrywart. Worse than any old woman she'd ever known.

  "Are you listening to me?" he persisted, his voice rising slightly.

  "No." She continued to pry open the glass door that held the Anna Karenina publicity poster. The theater had another just like it inside the lobby. They wouldn't miss this one. "I'm not leaving without this poster. You know how much I adore Garbo."

  "Enough to wind up in jail over?"

  Miriam glanced at Jacob's shadowed figure and chuckled softly. It was one o'clock on a Wednesday morning. Main Street was black as tar on this moonless night.

  "We're not going to get arrested," she assured him. "Officer Tucker doesn't go out on patrol again for another hour. And besides, if you'd showed up when you were supposed to, we wouldn't—"

  "Any girl who knows the patrol schedule of the cops is trouble for sure," he grumbled. "I don't know why I hang out with you."

  "So go home. I don't need you here. I can do this all by my lonesome." She went back to work, sliding the flat edge of the screwdriver under the lower right corner of the glass.

  Miriam knew that, despite his complaining, Jacob wouldn't leave. He was sweet on her, and everybody in River Bluff knew it. She liked him, too, but not the way he wanted.

  At seventeen, Jacob thought a lot about responsibilities and family and settling down. Getting a job, getting married, having kids. Growing up and growing old, that was how Miriam saw Jacob's future, same as she saw it for most of her classmates.

  But she wasn't ready for that. Not yet. She wanted to be an actress like Greta Garbo. She wanted to be in motion pictures. As soon as she could scrape together enough money for a ticket, she was taking the bus to California, to Hollywood, to MGM Studios.

  With a loud creak the glass door on the display case came loose. She swung it to the side, then quickly plucked the thumbtacks from the four corners of the poster and snatched it from the corkboard.

  Her pulse raced. "Okay, let's get out of here. Quick!"

  Miriam darted around the side of the theater and down the alley. She knew Jacob followed right behind. She could hear the soles of his shoes slapping against the hard-packed dirt as they ran. Instinct rather than sight carried them through the darkened backstreet to where they'd parked her dad's Model T.

  "Hurry up," she ordered Jacob as she scrambled into the automobile.

  He went straight to the crank, their routine down to a science after a year of late-night escapades. When Miriam gave it any thought at all, she found it amazing that her parents hadn't discovered her absences.

  Just went to prove what a great actress she was. Her folks didn't suspect a thing. They slept peacefully every night, trusting that their daughter wouldn't think of disobeying them.

  If they only knew . . .

  River Bluff, a small town by most any standard, was located about thirty-five miles outside of Boise, the state capital. It consisted of not much more than four streets—two running north-south and two running east-west—where one could find the police station, the Bluff Diner, one bank, five churches, the elementary school on the west end and the high school on the east end, a mercantile and a drugstore, Tucker's Insurance Agency, which was owned by Officer Tucker's Uncle Mooney, and the River Bluff Movie House.

  The area farmers grew a little bit of everything—corn, onions, sugar beets, alfalfa, apples, cherries, grapes—on land that had been laboriously reclaimed from the desert; lava rocks had been cleared by hand, the rich volcanic soil watered from the miles and miles of irrigation ditches and canals that spiderwebbed out from the Boise and Snake Rivers.

  Frank Gresham, Miriam's father, was the town druggist and an elder at the All Saints Community Church. His wife, Eliza, taught the first, second, and third graders at the elementary school and sang in the church choir on Sundays. Both Frank and Eliza were respected members of the town.

  And both had a few blind spots when it came to their one and only daughter.

  Not so, Officer Del Tucker. When Patrick Finch called to report a theft at the movie house, Tucker's first suspect was Miriam Gresham. Not that he'd caught her in one of her pranks. He hadn't. But he had an instinct about these things, and he figured it was about time she knew he had his eye on her and her shenanigans.

  Del removed his hat as he opened the door t
o the Main Street Pharmacy. A tiny bell announced his arrival; ceiling fans whirred softly, stirring the warm air.

  "Be right with you," Miriam called from the storeroom at the back of the building.

  "No hurry," he returned as he strode down a narrow aisle, glancing at the shelves on either side of him.

  When she appeared in the doorway, she flashed him a confident smile, not the least bit troubled to see him. "Good afternoon, Officer Tucker. What can I do for you?"

  Nobody should be that sure of herself at fifteen.

  "Is your father around?" he asked.

  Del already knew the answer. Frank Gresham went home for lunch every day at this time. During the school year, he closed the store for the noon hour. But when summer months arrived, ever since she turned twelve, he'd let his daughter tend the cash register and wait on customers.

  "He's at lunch," Miriam said.

  "Is it that time already?" Feigning surprise, Del looked at his watch.

  "Is there something I can get you?"

  He shook his head. "Actually, I need to ask him how late he worked last night. Do you happen to know?"

  She widened her pretty blue eyes. "He came home at the usual time. He didn't come back to the store after supper as far as I know."

  "Well, tell him there was trouble over at the movie house after it closed last night. I need to know if he saw anything unusual before he left." He gave her a hard look. "You remember to tell him that, will you?"

  Miriam didn't even blink. "I'll remember, Officer Tucker." Sugar wouldn't melt in her mouth, she looked so sweet. "I hope it wasn't anything serious."

  "It was, if you call taking something that's not yours serious."

  "Something was stolen?"

  She asked the question with such complete innocence, Del was nearly convinced he was wrong about her involvement.

  "How dreadful," she added. "Was it something valuable?"

  Nearly convinced but not quite.

  "Not particularly." He placed his hat back on his head. "But I don't take kindly to thieves, no matter what they've stolen."

  Miriam may have looked as cool as a cucumber the whole time Officer Tucker was standing on the opposite side of the counter, but inside she was a sorry sight, a mass of tension and screaming nerve endings. There was something about those brown eyes of his. He seemed to see straight into her soul.