The Wishing Jar Read online

  Devin took the Wishing Jar out of Abby’s hands and set it on the mantel. “There,” he said. “Now it’s officially your home.”

  “But—,” Abby stammered. “Even with the insurance money, we can’t afford to rent a place like this. And what about the owner?”

  “The owner offers it as a gift.” Devin smiled and averted his eyes.

  “Wait a minute.” Abby stared at him. “What was all that you said about being a caretaker? You led me to believe you owned nothing except your fiddle and the clothes on your back!”

  “That’s pretty much true,” he responded quietly. “No one owns the land, the sky, the stars, the music. No one except God. Everything we’re given is on loan to us. What matters is what we do with it. We’re all simply caretakers.”

  Leaving Mama and Neal Grace to explore the house, Devin took Abby’s hand and led her out onto the deck, where the mountains fell away before them in layers of sunshine and shadow. He put an arm around her shoulders and let his eyes wander off into the distance.

  “I think I need to explain a few things.”

  Abby raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I believe you do.”

  “Before you get your hopes up that I’m some kind of eccentric closet millionaire, let me clarify. This house is not mine. Not by any definition of ownership.”

  “Then who—?”

  “It belongs to my brother-in-law, Benjamin, and his wife. One house among many. They also have a lodge in Aspen, a beach house in Cozumel, and a villa—just a small one—on the French Riviera. This one they use as a retreat once or twice a year.”

  “Must be nice,” Abby mused.

  “Depends on your perspective. In a way,” he went on, “I am a caretaker. I look after this house for them. In return, they gave me three acres and the cabin down the mountain.”

  “You’re telling the truth. You’re not rich.”

  “No, Abby, I’m not. I was, once. But it didn’t satisfy me.”

  She turned and stared at him. “Go on. I’m spellbound.”

  “I married young, in my twenties. Her name was Laura, and I loved her. In many ways, we were very happy—at least early on. But she was ambitious, and I—well, I wasn’t nearly enough of a go-getter to suit her.” He shrugged. “She was born to money. I was born to music. For a long time—years—I set aside my passion and tried to become what she wanted me to be. A business tycoon, in her brother’s real-estate investment firm.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a very good fit,” Abby said.

  “It wasn’t. I was miserable, and yet I kept on, for Laura’s sake.”

  “What happened?”

  Devin sighed. “Shortly before our third anniversary, we had a baby—a little girl named Audrey. She was a beautiful child, the light of my life. When I looked into her face, when she hugged me, everything made sense. When I’d play my fiddle for her, she—”

  He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat. “The year Audrey turned six, Laura decided to take her to Colorado—to spend her birthday learning to ski. I stayed home because I had an important real-estate deal to close that weekend. On their way to the lodge in Ben’s private jet, they ran into a bad snowstorm. The plane went down, and—”

  Abby clutched his arm. “Oh, Devin, how awful! I can’t imagine!”

  He squeezed her hand and swallowed hard. “Anyway, after the funeral, I began to rethink my life. I had known for a long time that Laura’s dreams and ambitions weren’t my own. I left the firm, sold our big house in Biltmore Forest, and—much to my brother-in-law’s dismay—gave most of the money away. I invested enough of my savings to live on, but that and the cabin are about the extent of my property.” He smiled. “I spend my time writing music and playing it. A couple of my piano pieces have been published— but of course royalties on sheet music aren’t likely to make me a millionaire again.”

  “Being a millionaire doesn’t matter,” Abby said softly. “You’re living the kind of life that feeds your soul.”

  He turned and gazed at her, a look of wonder on his face. “Then you do understand.”

  “Yes, I think I do. It’s a matter of calling. Of becoming who you were created to be. Of living the life you were destined to live.”

  “I never dreamed I’d meet anyone who might be able to share that life with me,” he said quietly.

  She reached out and took his hand. “In the past few months, Devin, I’ve wasted a lot of time and energy wishing for my life to be different. Wondering what might have been if John Mac had lived. And all the while, everything that was really important was right in front of me. Love. Faith. Contentment. Mama and Neal Grace—and now that grandchild she’s carrying. And you.”

  “Me?” His eyes opened wide.

  “Yes, you. From the moment we met, I knew there was something different about you. Different—and wonderful. It scared me and attracted me all at the same time. I think we have much to give to each other, much to learn from each other. Enough to keep us busy for years to come.”

  Devin’s blue-sky eyes lit up with that incredible smile. “I won’t pressure you in any way,” he said. “This house is yours for as long as you need it. No strings attached. Whatever might develop between us—” He tilted his head. “Well, we’ll just take that one step at a time.”

  “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” she warned. “Quinn women have a reputation for being strong-willed. Maybe even bullheaded.”

  He ducked his head and chuckled. “I’ll take my chances— with all three of you.”

  Abby’s thoughts drifted to the Wishing Jar, sitting on the mantel inside. Cracked and smudged with grime, a bit the worse for wear. Yet still the phoenix soared, rising up from the ashes to a new life and a sweeter song.

  She sighed and leaned against the deck rail, gazing out over the mountain vista below. She only had one wish remaining, one prayer left to be prayed.

  And it had already been answered.

  Epilogue

  The Wish That Never Was

  Quinn House

  June 2003

  Edith awoke to the sound of a baby crying. In her dreams, too, an infant had been wailing, until she took the child in her arms and breathed on her. Then the tiny girl quieted, nestling into the crook of her elbow, easing back to sleep.

  She blinked back the darkness, overcome by a momentary sense of disorientation. And then she smiled.

  Her great-granddaughter. Edith Grace Quinn McDougall. One week old today.

  In the rebuilding of Quinn House, a second bedroom had been added on the first floor, and for a few days—at least until Neal had healed enough to go up and down the stairs—the new mother and daughter were occupying the room next door.

  Neal had been worried that the noise might bother her grandmother. But how could Edith possibly be disturbed, when her great-granddaughter’s every cry was one more evidence of the miracle?

  She heard footsteps on the stairs and muffled voices from the adjoining room. Apparently Devin and Abby were awake, too, checking on their new grandchild. In a week or so, when Neal was stronger, they would return to their cabin on the mountain and resume what Edith could only describe as their extended honeymoon. Abby had taken a six-month sabbatical. She and Devin had been married almost four months and showed no signs of tiring of each other’s company.

  But now that Gracie had been born, Edith knew Abby wouldn’t stay away from Quinn House for long. Already she was talking about coming in after work to help take care of the baby once Neal started college in September. And Devin wanted to get in on the act, too. He had no intention, he said, of letting the Quinn women have all the fun with his step-granddaughter.

  The sound of Devin’s laughter drifted through the wall, and Edith pushed back the covers and slid her feet into her slippers. Since everyone else in the house was up, she might as well join them.

  She went into the hallway and turned on the light, pausing to gaze at the gallery of Quinn family photos that hung there. Reproductions salvaged from co
pies Abby had found in a trunk in the basement that had survived the fire. All the faces she knew and loved, with a few new additions.

  Abby and Devin’s wedding photo was there, as well as a closeup of Neal Grace and her infant daughter. Abby had taken the picture in the hospital, then had it enlarged, framed, and hung before Neal even got home with the baby.

  Edith lingered a moment before the photo of her great-granddaughter, then moved down the hall to the picture of herself and Sam on their wedding day. “I wish you could have been here,” she whispered, touching a finger to the image of her husband’s face. “You’d be so proud of Neal Grace, of the woman she’s becoming and the daughter she’s produced.”

  Sam didn’t answer—not audibly, anyway. But someone else did.

  “Mama?” Abby poked her head out of Neal Grace’s bedroom door. “What are you doing up?”

  “Same as everybody else, I suppose.” Edith smiled. “How’s our little girl?”

  “Neal, or Gracie?” Abby chuckled. “They’re both fine. Come on in.”

  Edith followed her daughter into the bedroom, where Neal sat rocking in the chair next to the bed with little Gracie in her arms. “Sorry to wake you, Granny Q. I’ve fed her and changed her, but nothing seems to help. She’s just kind of fussy tonight.”

  “Nonsense.” Edith drew closer, looked down at her scowling, bawling great-granddaughter, and laughed. “She’s got your lung power; that’s for sure.”

  “Don’t tell me I was ever this loud,” Neal protested.

  “No, you were worse.” Edith leaned down and held out her hands. “Here, let me try.”

  Neal shifted the wailing infant into Edith’s arms, and Edith held her and looked into her face. For an instant—just a fraction of a second—the baby looked at her. Really looked. And in that moment Edith saw Neal Grace and Abby and her own infant self. And beyond herself, her mother, Abigail, and her grandmother, the original Gracie Quinn.

  “Get me the Wishing Jar,” Edith whispered to Abby.

  Abby left the room and returned with the jar. Edith held it up, and little Gracie reached out toward it. “This,” Edith murmured, “is your great-great-great-grandmother’s Wishing Jar.”

  The baby quieted a bit, as if listening to every word.

  “It holds a certain kind of magic,” Edith went on, “but only for those who are pure of heart and faithful of soul.”

  She heard music behind her and turned. Devin stood in the doorway with his fiddle, playing a lilting melody that wove through the room and entwined with Edith’s words. The tune rose and dipped, like the flight of the phoenix itself—now quiet and subdued, now soaring and powerful.

  “Listen to the music of the phoenix, little Gracie,” she whispered. “The most beautiful song in all creation. When its time comes to die, it goes down singing. But then, miraculously, it emerges from the ashes to new life again.” She paused and looked down at her great-granddaughter. “Like this house. Like the Quinn family itself. And when the phoenix rises, its song is sweeter than ever before.”

  Edith shifted little Gracie in her arms. “Sometimes we get what we wish for,” she mused, half to herself. “But once in a while we’re blessed with something far greater than we ever dreamed.” She held the child and the Wishing Jar close to her breast. Abby and Neal Grace gathered close behind her.

  As Devin kept on playing, the light from the bedside lamp caught the gilding on the Wishing Jar. The phoenix seemed to come to life, ruffling its feathers and stretching its wings.

  “You are that miracle, my darling Gracie,” Edith breathed. “The wish that never was, and yet came true.”

  Little Gracie yawned and closed her eyes. And as the music and the love swirled around her, she wrapped her tiny, perfect hand around her great-grandmother’s gnarled finger, sighed, and drifted off to sleep.