Home to Walnut Ridge (26 page)

Tracey started to unroll the wad of
tissue. “No, it feels like‍—‍” She turned to look at Noah. A flash
caused her to look back at her father, wondering why he took a
picture before they were ready.

“
Tracey, c’mon‌—‌you’re
killing me here,” Alex prodded. “It feels like what?”

Tracey’s mouth opened as the tissue
fell to the floor. She gazed back at Noah just as he dropped down
to pick it up . . . then remained where he
was.

On one knee.

“
It feels like a ring?” he
asked as another camera flash went off.

“
Yes,” Tracey whispered,
staring at the diamond solitaire in her hand. “But‍—‍”

“
No buts, Tracey,” he
said, his face beaming with expectation. “I need to ask you a
question.”

“
Uh oh,” someone uttered
from the back of the room.

They all turned to look at Lester who
grinned mischievously.

“
Oh my goodness, “Alex
breathed as she and Sadie moved over beside Buddy. She carefully
set down the cup and saucer then clasped her hands together against
her mouth. All eyes returned to Tracey and Noah.

“
Tracey Jolene Collins,
will you marry me?”

Unable to speak, she simply nodded as
a tear slipped down her face.

Noah stood up, slowly sliding the
diamond on her finger. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

For a split second, no one said a
thing. Then spontaneous celebration filled the room, echoing
against the rafters of the old house.

Time stood still as Noah and Tracey
laughed through tears of joy.

“
For heaven’s sake, Noah!”
Alex shouted, “Give her a kiss!”

And so he did.

Epilogue

Of course, the Lincoln teacup and
saucer in my hands aren’t authentic. Years ago, Aunt Lucille told
me she bought the set in a gift shop at the Smithsonian in
Washington. Still, I prefer to imagine the china I’m now carefully
placing back in my hutch had originally been a gift from dear old
Abe himself. Perhaps young Craggie Collins, or another White House
employee like him, had dropped by the Oval Office to say goodbye.
And who knows, maybe the President gave him the set as a parting
gift. Knowing all too well that the First Lady had already ordered
a new pattern since this one hadn’t stood the test of time, perhaps
Lincoln and Craggie had a brief farewell
exchange . . .

“
Sure sad to see you go,
Mr. Collins,” Abe says, extending his hand to the young man. “But I
thank you for your service these past few years.”

Craggie shakes his hand as
they head for the door. “You’re welcome, Mr. President.”

Beside the door, a tea
service sits atop a tall table. The President peeks around the
corner then lifts the cup and saucer. “Here, son. As a token of my
appreciation. A little keepsake, if you will.”

“
Oh, Mr. President, I
couldn’t!”

Abe motions for Craggie to
open his satchel. “Quick, before the First Lady catches me. She’s
been on a tirade about this blasted china.” Safely securing the
pieces, Abe closes and latches the young man’s leather bag. “Just
think of it as a favor you’re doing for me.” He gives Craggie a
wink, then pats him on the shoulder and sends him on his
way.

Or something like that.

I take a deep breath and bask in the
faux-memory. Funny, but when I imagine these scenes in my head, I
can smell the musty air in that famous old building. I can hear
Abe’s clock ticking over on the mantel. I can see the dark circles
under the President’s eyes and the sadness hiding behind his kind
countenance. I’ve never written historical novels, but I have to
say it’s pretty fun hobnobbing with the movers and shakers of our
past. I say that, but then I hear a gunshot ring out on an April
night at Ford’s Theater . . . and I realize all
stories eventually come to an end.

I shake it off, this gray cloud of
darker days in our nation’s history. Time to change gears and start
thinking about my next novella. I’ve been so distracted lately, I’m
having trouble remembering which teacup goes with this new story.
The setting is back east somewhere in the vicinity of Boston, I
think?

My cell phone rings and I dig it out
of my jeans pocket. On the screen I see Mark’s picture and my heart
does a little two-step.

“
Hey, Mark! How’s it
going?”

“
Morning, Luce! There’s
something I need to know.”

“
Ask away, big guy,” I
say, twirling a curl of my hair with my fingers.

“
Did Noah man up and come
back for Tracey?”

I’m glad he can’t see me
because my smile is so oversized, I look spastic. I know this
because I see my reflection in the glass of my hutch. But
how
sweet
is he?
Most of the guys I’ve gone out with in the last decade couldn’t
care less about my fiction world. The best I ever got was, “Well,
uh, you done yet with that, uh, little story . . .
thing?” Pathetic.

But Mark? He not only
knows where I am in my current project
—
he
knows
my characters’ names.

“
I could tell you,” I
respond, “but then I’d have to kill you. Which would never work
because we have plans tonight, right?”

“
We absolutely do. And
speaking of that, don’t forget to wear your crew shirt,
okay?”

“
It’s ironed and ready.
Anything else?”

“
No. But I can’t wait to
see you tonight.”

“
Me, too. You. Too,” I
stammer, as usual. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“
Bye, Luce. See you at
six.”

I drop the cell phone back in my
pocket then lean back to look down the hall. There on my bedroom
door hangs my brown bowling shirt. Go ahead. Have your fun. Laugh
all you want. Me—Lucy Alexander—bowling? I have to admit, I hated
it at first. I warned Mark I’d be the laughingstock of the entire
UPS fleet in our region. But he was so excited about introducing me
to his friends and their significant others, how could I say no?
If, however, you’re expecting a detailed summary of my efforts to
stay out of the gutters at Ten Pin Alley, forget it.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes. I’m trying to remember which
teacup. Then suddenly I see it and remember. It’s always been one
of my favorites because I have such vivid memories of sipping tea
from it all those years ago the summer I visited Aunt Lucille. And
oh, what a story it has to tell . . . a story of
unrequited love, a mysterious legend, and those who have never
forgotten its curse.

I can hardly wait to get
started!

Acknowledgments

With every book comes help from old
friends and new, and Lucy’s newest novella is no exception. On her
behalf, I would like to thank the following:

To my favorite local proofreaders,
Glenn Hale and Sally Wilson. And to my new proofer extraordinaire,
Bev Harrison, who has given my story its extra sparkle with her
Australian expertise. Thanks to all of you!

To my favorite biker babe, Terry
Young, and her wonderful husband, Ivan. Thank you for educating
this motorcycle-challenged author and making sure I didn’t
embarrass my characters with any misguided faux-Harley lingo. I
hope I got it right. I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for those
who love the open road. Love you ttmab.

To Sharon Jacob and Julie
Harrel of
Vintage Shabby Chicks,
whose shared passion for restoring “used,
discarded, and sometimes broken furniture and giving it new life,”
was the inspiration for Alex and Tracey’s new business. Thank you
for a business model that so flawlessly mirrors God’s promise to
give us new life through Jesus Christ. Sharon, thanks for taking
time to educate me on your painting magic and showing me so many of
your beautiful transformations. To learn more, check out Sharon and
Julie’s website at:
http://www.vintageshabbychicks.com

A special thanks to Marian
Parsons—a.k.a. Miss Mustard Seed—for permission to include her
fabulous
Miss Mustard Seed Milk
Paints.
To my readers, you can visit her
website at:
http://www.missmustardseedsmilkpaint.com
.
Take my word for it, you simply must pamper yourself by ordering a
copy of her beautiful book,
Inspired You: Breathing New Life into Your Heart
and Home.
I guarantee you’ll be
inspired!

Also, special thanks to my
new favorite artist, David Arms. Last January, God surely led me
into your quaint barn gallery in Leiper’s Fork, Tennessee just
after I began working on this story. The moment I saw it, I knew
this was the perfect setting for Tracey and Alex’s converted
smokehouse, both inside and out. Thank you for graciously allowing
me to borrow its charm for my cover art. To my readers, I invite
you to spend some time visiting David’s website. There you can read
his story, visit his studio, learn about his unique use of
symbolism, then treat yourself by browsing through his amazing
portfolio. I know you’ll find his work as unforgettable as I have.
Visit David at:
http://davidarms.com

To my beloved aunt, Lucille McKeag
Hale, whose gift of teacups inspired the stories of this novella
series. I miss you so much.

And as always, a huge thanks to my
husband Ken who continues to make my dreams come true every single
day. I love doing life with you. Next time we do El Jardin,
dinner’s on me.

About the
Author

Born in Texas and raised in Oklahoma, Diane
Hale Moody is a graduate of Oklahoma State University. She lives
with her husband Ken in the rolling hills just outside of
Nashville. They are the proud parents of two grown and
extraordinary children, Hannah and Ben.

Just after moving to
Tennessee in 1999, Diane felt the tug of a long-neglected passion
to write again. Since then, she’s written a column for her local
newspaper, feature articles for various magazines and curriculum,
and several novels with a dozen more stories eagerly vying for her
attention.

When she’s not reading or
writing, Diane enjoys an eclectic taste in music and movies, great
coffee, the company of good friends, and the adoration of a
peculiar little pooch named Darby.

.