The Heart of Joy_A Short Story Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Postscript

  Books by Vikki Kestell

  About Vikki

  The Heart of Joy

  A Prairie Heritage Addendum

  (A Short Story)

  by Vikki Kestell

  Denver, Colorado, 1914

  Joy Michaels, grieving mother and widow, resides in an aging but remarkable Denver home: a beautiful, three-story Victorian/Queen Anne mansion resplendent with towers, turrets, peaks, and gables and known locally as Palmer House. Palmer House—a most extraordinary refuge for young women rescued from prostitution.

  Joy and her mother, Rose Thoresen, share the responsibilities of ministering to and mentoring the young women who live under Palmer House’s roof. But now Joy faces an agonizing decision: Should she remain true to the memory of her first love or open her heart to the possibility of new love?

  “I will always love you, Grant,” Joy whispered, “but God has called you away, and now I must follow the path he has laid before me—even if it is not what either of us would have chosen, had we been given such a choice.”

  The Heart of Joy

  Copyright ©2016 Vikki Kestell

  All Rights Reserved

  ~*~

  Faith-Filled Fiction™

  http://www.faith-filledfiction.com/

  http://www.vikkikestell.com/

  ~*~

  Scripture Quotations Taken from

  The King James Version (KJV)

  Public Domain

  ~*~

  Cover Design for The Heart of Joy

  Vikki Kestell

  ~*~

  Dedication

  For those who grieve:

  To every thing there is a season,

  and a time to every purpose

  under the heaven.

  Ecclesiastes 3:1

  ~*~

  “I anoint the good end of all things

  with greater beauty than the beginning.”

  —The Heart of Joy

  ~*~

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks

  to my esteemed teammates,

  Cheryl Adkins and Greg McCann,

  who give selflessly of themselves

  to make each new book the most effective

  instrument of God’s grace possible.

  I love you.

  ~*~

  To My Readers

  This book is a work of fiction,

  what I term Faith-Filled Fiction™.

  While the characters and events are fiction,

  they are situated within the historical record.

  To God be the glory.

  ~*~

  Prologue

  Denver, December 1914

  Billy and Mr. Wheatley wrestled the blue spruce into its place in the corner of Palmer House’s great room. The two men, one young and strapping, the other elderly but willing (and whose white hair poked out from his head in wild, pointed tufts), tipped the evergreen into an upright position and let it settle upon its stand. The men grinned at each other and stood back to survey their work.

  The tree was a generous ten feet tall, and its boughs opened wide to grace the corner allotted for it. The treetop tapered to a single, pointed spire near the high ceiling. Ample room remained between spire and ceiling, however, for Billy to crown the tree with a golden star.

  “What do you think, Miss Joy?” Billy asked.

  “I think it is perfect.”

  Joy Michaels drew in a deep breath and smiled as she did so. The scent of freshly cut spruce perfumed the air and spilled out the great room’s doors into the foyer and dining room, adding to the other delicious aromas filling the house. Laughter echoed from the kitchen, the happy giggles and titters of the young women of Palmer House sharing in the fellowship of Christmas baking.

  She inhaled again. The spruce tree’s spicy-sappy fragrance was distinctive: It evoked the Christmas season in Joy’s heart as no other scent could.

  I love Christmas, Joy mused, but it has been a long time since I have been able to truly celebrate it, a long time since I have felt its perfect and momentous delight.

  While her friends adjusted the tree’s stand so the spruce would remain upright and unwavering, Joy gave herself to the memories of the past months—the healing journey that began on her late husband’s birthday and would culminate just two Sundays from today.

  “I will always love you, Grant,” Joy whispered, “but God has called you away, and now I must follow the path he has laid before me—even if it is not what either of us would have chosen, had we been given such a choice.”

  Joy closed her eyes and sighed, contentment and peace warming her soul. Her thoughts drifted back, to the day her heart began to heal.

  Yes, it was Grant’s birthday. May 2 . . .

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 1

  Denver, May 2, 1914

  Joy Thoresen Michaels swayed with the jerky stop-and-go motion of the downtown trolley. In her arms she held a large bouquet of flowers cossetted in brown paper—early roses from the gardens of Palmer House. Dazzling pinks, buttery yellows, deep crimsons, and vibrant sunset blushes peeked from the open end of her package.

  She was conscious of the sweet aroma rising from the roses, as were her fellow passengers. Some turned appreciative glances upon Joy. Others nodded their gratification.

  One woman, gray-haired and clad head to toe in drab, worn brown, sat across the aisle facing Joy. Her back was to the windows, as was Joy’s. The woman closed her eyes, let her head fall against and rest upon the window glass, and inhaled deeply. Once. And again. Then she sighed and a tiny smile played across her careworn mouth.

  Joy looked away. I am glad these flowers can provide a moment of solace to the weary of heart, Lord.

  She cradled the brown paper bundle with the same tender care she had lavished upon her baby boy . . . the last time she had seen him.

  Edmund will be three now—not three months, but three years old. And Grant, my dear husband! How is it possible that three years have worn away since you went to be with Jesus? My aching heart cannot believe it.

  The trolley jerked, its braking gears ground, and the vehicle came to a shuddering stop. Joy stepped off the car’s back steps. A moment later, the conveyance shuddered again and lurched forward.

  As the trolley departed, Joy looked about her. She was a block from her destination. She took a moment to twitch the peplum of her blue serge suit jacket into its proper alignment and smooth a crease from her skirt. She did not touch her wide-brimmed hat or smooth her hair—she knew she had coiled and pinned the lengthy blonde braid securely at the back of her head.

  Joy stood tall, both without and within, preparing herself for the emotional ordeal ahead. With a nod, she squared her shoulders and crossed the road. Her long legs, grateful for the exercise, stretched out to the extent her confining skirt would allow and made short work of the distance.

  She neared the entrance, glanced once at the sign, Riverside Cemetery, and passed inside its gates. Her husband’s resting place was around the back of Denver’s cemetery. She followed the familiar graveled road until it curved and began to trace the edge of the nearby South Platte River.

  The river’s water ran high with spring runoff. Joy caught glimpses of the rushing water through the trees and brush that overgrew the river’s banks.

  Halfway across the cemetery’s breadth, she came upon an automobile parked to one side of the road. She walked on. Only yards bey
ond the vehicle, she turned away from the road, into the grassy park. Grant’s simple upright marker was a few rows ahead.

  She wanted to run to the headstone and throw herself upon the grass above Grant’s grave. She longed more than life itself to have Grant hold her again! She needed—

  Joy halted and frowned. “Who?”

  A man knelt by Grant’s grave, his dark head bowed in prayer. A stylish bowler hat rested on the lawn not far from him.

  Joy did not approach. She waited for the man to finish.

  He must have sensed her presence or, he, too, may have inhaled the potent perfume coming from the roses Joy carried and been drawn to its source. A moment later, he stood, brushed grass from the knees of his creased trousers, and turned.

  “Hello, Mrs. Michaels.”

  “Mr. O’Dell.”

  They had grown less comfortable and more formal with each other as the years had crept by.

  He came nearer, close enough for Joy to notice the care in his dark eyes. “We must have had the same thought.”

  Joy swallowed, bobbed her chin, and managed, “Grant’s birthday.” Her eyes skittered away from the man’s probing gaze.

  “You brought flowers,” he commented.

  “Yes. I . . . roses. This year’s first. Grant loved roses.”

  “Their scent is heady testimony to Mr. Wheatley’s green thumb.”

  Joy only nodded. She cast her eyes beyond O’Dell, toward the marker on Grant’s grave.

  Edmund O’Dell noticed. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other. “I will leave you to your privacy. I apologize for intruding on this sacred moment.”

  Joy came to herself. “There is no cause to apologize, Mr. O’Dell. I simply was not expecting to see you.”

  She was not expecting to see Grant’s best friend? Their greatest ally in the troubles that had surrounded and swept over them three years past? Their son Edmund’s namesake?

  “Thank you for remembering him today, Mr. O’Dell,” Joy whispered. “I-I thought I was the only one . . .”

  “I miss him, too.”

  Joy blinked hard against the welling tears.

  She willed them away.

  They ignored her efforts.

  A single rebellious drop leaked out and dribbled down her cheek.

  O’Dell stayed planted where he was for another uncomfortable minute before, in a quiet voice, he offered, “Would you like me to wait for you by the road? I left my motorcar there. I could see you home, if you wish it.”

  Joy swiped the moisture from her cheek and ventured a furtive glance up at him. What she saw undid her.

  Love.

  Raw, deeply held, long-abiding love.

  Long-suffering love.

  And longing.

  O Lord! What am I to do? I still love Grant . . .

  Joy started at her own prayer. Well, of course she still loved Grant! What kind of silly, inane statement was that?

  I will always love Grant! she declared to herself in no uncertain terms.

  Another voice replied. Then why does Edmund O’Dell’s presence unsettle you so?

  She licked her lips, terrified at the possible answer.

  “Joy? Are you all right?” His concern had caused him to slip into familiar address.

  Joy tried to smile and failed. “Yes, of course. I fear I am a little emotional. That is all.”

  But was it ‘all’?

  “Do allow me to drive you home. I am in no hurry; take as much time as you wish. Or, of course, if you prefer, I will leave you in peace. I have no wish to distress you. Please say the word.”

  Joy looked toward Grant’s grave and down at the wealth of blooms cradled in her arms. Suddenly she did not relish the walk back to the trolley stop after she had laid the flowers. Did not want to endure the long wait for another trolley and the longer ride home.

  Did not want to be alone with her heartache.

  Did not want to be alone.

  Alone. That word summarized so much of her life these past three years.

  Taking meals in the house with Mama and the others of Palmer House—but still alone.

  Catching the trolley to work each morning with her employees, Sarah, Corinne, and Billy—but still alone.

  Spending long, solitary evenings in the cottage near the back of Palmer House’s grounds with Blackie as her only companion.

  Tossing fitfully in the bed she had once shared with Grant.

  Alone, alone, alone.

  Alone—for three, long years.

  She was grateful for Blackie, the black-and-white shepherd-mix dog she had raised from a pudgy, curly-haired pup. His soulful devotion to her had been and remained a comfort through the long nights. And yet . . .

  As much as I adore my sweet Blackie, he cannot hold me or fill this aching void in my life.

  Alone.

  I do not want to be alone any longer, Joy was disconcerted to realize. More than that, she did not want to be far . . . from O’Dell’s comforting presence.

  What? But-but . . .

  Joy was reluctant to examine her last thought too closely, so she swept it away.

  O’Dell had watched the play of emotions flit across Joy’s face, had watched her clamp them down. He gave his round derby a last twirl at the end of his fingertips and slipped it on his head.

  “I wish you a good day, Mrs. Michaels. Again, I apologize for intruding.”

  “Oh! N-no!” Joy stammered. “I mean, um, I mean, thank you for your kind offer. If-if you truly do not mind waiting . . . I would appreciate your seeing me home.”

  She glanced up again and saw the troubled clouds clear from his eyes.

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Thank you. I should be no more than ten minutes.”

  “Take as much time as you need, Joy. I am in no hurry.”

  Take as much time as you need, Joy. I am in no hurry.

  The words seemed to pulse with meaning.

  Joy looked down again and nodded, and O’Dell, tipping his hat to her, trod toward the road and his waiting automobile. Joy stood blinking at the grass. Then she stepped toward Grant’s headstone.

  She put her handbag and the flowers to one side and knelt in front of the headstone, much as O’Dell had. With eyes squeezed closed, Joy reached for the marker. Its polished marble was icy. No matter how many times she had touched it, its penetrating cold shocked her.

  I expect Grant’s warmth to greet me. I am always disappointed.

  Joy’s fingers traced the chiseled inscription

  Grant Aubrey Michaels

  Beloved Husband and Father

  1878-1911

  She wept then. She gave herself to the flood of grief.

  I wonder how many tears I have shed for Grant and Edmund? she asked herself. Is there ever an end to such mourning?

  Unbidden and unwanted, a passage of Scripture answered her.

  To every thing there is a season,

  and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

  A time to be born, and a time to die;

  a time to plant, and a time to pluck up

  that which is planted;

  A time to kill, and a time to heal;

  a time to break down,

  and a time to build up;

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  a time to mourn, and a time to dance

  The verses resonated in her heart as though heralded from on high.

  Joy whispered her doubts aloud. “But, Lord! Is there truly a time to laugh after weeping for so long? A time to dance after such great mourning? My heart is still wounded. Distressed. I cannot fathom ‘a time to heal!’ I cannot conceive it.”

  She sniffed, removed a hanky from her pocket, and wiped her eyes. When she was more composed, Joy reached for the brown paper package. She unrolled its length and, one shoot at a time, removed the roses.

  She kissed a golden-yellow bud, half-blown, and placed it in the vase embedded at the base of the headstone. “Our love was as sunny
and as constant as this flower, Grant.”

  Next, she selected a shoot of dewy pink blossoms. “I was but a fresh-faced girl of eighteen when we met, as innocent as these blooms. How can thirteen years have passed?” She pressed her lips to the silky buds and slid them into the vase.

  Joy lifted three long stems bursting with crimson color from the paper and buried her nose in their scarlet fragrance. “These remind me of the blood of Christ, Grant. Jesus saved and cleansed us with his life’s blood.”

  One red-budded stem. “You.”

  Another. “Me.”

  The last bloom. “And Jesus. Our love and our marriage were grounded in our fellowship in him, in our common salvation.”

  Only the sunset roses remained. Their petals were streaked and variegated in pinks, yellows, golds, and oranges so intense, so vivid, that Joy lost herself in their mesmerizing kaleidoscope.

  “Such beauty,” she murmured. “Such brilliance. Such was our love.”

  She arranged the flowers in the vase with the other roses and sat back to observe her work. The glowing sunset roses seemed to outshine the others. She tucked them a little deeper into the vase, but the effect was the same: She could not take her eyes from them.

  Sunset roses.

  There is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

  “A sunset is an ending, a conclusion. Is there also a season and a time for a sunset, Lord?”

  A voice seemed to call on the breeze. I anoint the good end of all things with greater beauty than the beginning.

  “Is there a good end ahead for me? Is there, truly, Lord?”

  Joy bowed her head and, although she acknowledged in her heart that Grant could not hear her, she spoke to her husband anyway.

  “Grant, my love. How I miss you! Every day I feel your absence as surely as I ever felt your presence. Three years have passed, and I still grieve for you. Three long years, and I do not even have our son to care for, to comfort me.

  “And now something . . . something is changing. I do not understand it; I do not know where it will lead. I-I do know, though, how much you loved and trusted our dear friend, Mr. O’Dell. You loved and trusted him . . . to the point of naming our son after him when you knew you were dying.”