Orchid House Read online

  © 2008 by Cindy Martinusen

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Page Design by Casey Hooper

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  ISBN: 978-1-59554-151-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  08 09 10 11 12 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  THIS IS FOR AND WITH

  NIELDON AUSTIN B. COLOMA

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  PROLOGUE

  June 1840

  Hacienda Esperanza

  Province of Batangas, Philippines

  They would never tell a soul.

  For how could they explain what drew them out the grand hacienda doors and into the depths of that summer night?

  He released her hand and pulled her closer. The house stood silhouetted against the night sky.

  “It is finally quiet,” he said with a chuckle. Their adult children and young grandchildren kept the many rooms and corridors filled with life-giving noise and activity. The image of them sleeping brought tears to his eyes.

  “We are no longer young,” she whispered, but neither regretted it. The years of love and memories were there between them. And beneath a tropical moon with the earth cool beneath their bare feet, they felt nearly as youthful as the night they found each other during that great Philippine storm.

  He took the basket of orchids from her arm, and they walked along the dirt path away from the house. The imposing gates didn’t take long to reach, and then they found the property’s cornerstone in the moonlight. It was a metal spike, hammered into the earth decades earlier by her ancestor, the One-Armed Spaniard, who first built upon this land.

  “You do the first one,” he said, extending the basket. The light pink petals of the orchid seemed to glow in the moonlight.

  She took a blossom in her hand and remembered the day she’d found the orchid. She had been at her lowest, but that day turned into the beginning of a life that was more than she had hoped for or imagined.

  These orchids were different from all the other ones she’d ever seen, not at all like those that grew in the fields near the hacienda house. Once she’d found a book of varieties, and even there she could not find the orchid now called by her name, in her honor.

  “Do you remember?” he said, knowing that she did.

  “Do you?” she said coyly.

  “I have remembered every day of my life since then,” he said, touching her cheek. “Now go ahead, my beloved.”

  With a nod, she bent down and dug at the fertile soil, placing the orchid blossom inside. Her husband bent beside her and covered the flower.

  She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross at her breast and spoke aloud.

  “My ancestors built something here, and it has been blessed with growth and prosperity. My husband and our children and I have continued to prosper with many harvests and, more important, with great love and joy even in the years of hardship.

  “Now, together we will go to the corners of our land and bury a blossom of this orchid—the flower that bonded us together. They will not sprout in these places. No one will know what we have done, except You, God Almighty, who sees all things. We do this as a symbol of Your presence upon this land and our request for Your continued protection and blessing in the ages to come.”

  She opened her eyes and gazed into the starry sky. Then she grasped his arm with worry in her expression. “There will be times of much adversity. Blood and tears I can nearly smell upon the future.” A wave of panic washed over her.

  “Do not fear, my love. We can do nothing but one thing. It is all the more reason for us to ask for divine protection and guidance.”

  She knew he was right, and yet how she grieved to sense that pain was creeping along the fringes of future decades or more away.

  He took her hands, and they stood. With his strong grasp and steady gaze, she felt her fear and grief diminish.

  Then he spoke with the gentle strength he’d shown all his days. “Father God in Heaven. Creator of life, love, mercy, and grace. Bless our children, grandchildren, and our descendents to come. Draw them to know this place on earth and to discover Your will and Your ways. And through the years of hardship to come, sustain them, protect them, and restore again and again.”

  Their prayers continued, and peace came as the blessing was complete.

  He took her hand. “Let us walk the border and ask God’s feet to follow.”

  And as they walked, she wondered about all their descendents to come. It amazed her to think of the lives already born from the love they shared. Though some might travel far away and times of adversity would come and go, this land would be their refuge.

  This she did not doubt.

  ONE

  June 1991

  North Beach, San Francisco

  A death and a foreign land.

  B etween the one and the other, Julia moved through the days. Her grandfather was gone; she’d witnessed the months until his final breath. And in two days she’d hop an airplane for Manila—to a land more alien, though closer to her own heritage, than any she’d yet experienced. No wonder the disjointed feeling persisted.

  And on that morning between a death and a foreign land, as an unusually cold wind howled deep and hollow beneath a clear San Francisco day, Julia saw Nathan for the first time in six months. She was hurrying down the street, arms crossed tightly at her chest, holding her thin jacket closed against the wind. As she reached for the door of the Blue Mill Bakery, he pushed it open from the inside. “Julia,” Nathan said, holding the door with his foot. The wind whipped around them.

  They had loved this place once. They had loved each other once as well. Now they were nearly strangers, and yet not strangers at all.

  “Hi,” came from her lips, then a moment without words. Finally she said, “Still drinking cappuccino, I see.” She looked at the two cups he held. She had not heard if he and his girlfriend were still together. Maybe he was married, for all she knew. Their common friends were few now, and even fewer the ones who spilled details whether she wanted to hear them or not.

  “It’s black coffee. I ended up lactose intolerant.”

  She used to find his sheepish grin so endearing. He was as handsome as ever.

&nb
sp; “Too bad,” she said, thinking about the cappuccinos they’d learned to love in the coffeehouses of Vienna. The wheels of change gave such things and took them as quickly. “Does that mean no almond fudge ice cream either?”

  He grinned again. “Well, sometimes I can’t resist.”

  He must have suddenly grown aware that she was shivering and motioned her inside. The scent of yeast, cinnamon, and baking bread surrounded her as the door closed, shutting out the wind but not the chill creeping deep into her bones.

  He held the cups awkwardly. “This weather is stunning. What happened to spring?”

  Julia glanced through the window to the tree-lined streets that sloped down toward the bay, where sailboats would be skimming happily through the whitecaps. Their old table by the window was empty, she realized. She hoped he hadn’t noticed her glance that way.

  “I wasn’t here for spring,” she said quickly. “Hopefully we’ll get warmed up soon.” Then she realized she wouldn’t be here for that either.

  He set the cups on a table behind them. “I heard about your grandfather. Did you get my message?”

  “Yes, Lisa told me you called.” She’d seen his name on a list titled “Sympathy Calls” that her roommate had compiled until Julia returned to her condo. “Thank you for that.”

  “Jules,” he said softly in the voice that tugged at memories resting long and buried deep within her. She realized she’d been trying to look everywhere but directly at him.

  “I can’t imagine how hard it was. Were you with him when he died?”

  A woman came toward them laden with a purse, several books, and a large cup of hot chocolate. As she opened the door, the wind sent a dollop of whipped cream right across Julia’s jacket. The woman went on her way without seeing the mishap; Julia stood with her arms hovering at her sides, staring as the stain soaked into the material.

  Nathan muttered apologies as if he were at fault and grabbed some napkins from the condiment counter. He came toward her, and without thinking Julia stepped backward.

  “I’m sorry. Just trying to help.” He handed her the napkins instead.

  “It’s okay, I didn’t mean anything.” She dabbed at the stain and watched it spread wider. “It’s just . . . I’m not used to you being close. I’m . . . not used to you at all.”

  A pained expression came and went across his face in an instant. “I guess that’s what I get,” he said.

  He handed her another napkin, and Julia wondered what he expected after all this time, after all the hurt and loss.

  She sought a way to leave him now, glancing toward the display case of freshly baked goods.

  He held her with more conversation. “Lisa told me you were coming home, but not for long.”

  “Yes, I leave for Manila on Wednesday. My grandfather will be buried there, and I’m the family representative for the land—whatever that means. I’ll contact the lawyer as soon as I get there.”

  “The political climate isn’t good in the Philippines. Assassinations, government coups, Communist rebels, Muslim and Christian conflict in the southern provinces. Though they do have the first female president in Asian history.”

  “You been doing research?”

  He smiled, and she tried to decide if she liked his smile. Once it had been nearly everything to her.

  “Actually, I have. Did you know it’s the most Christian and Westernized nation in Asia? It can feel more Spanish in heritage than Oriental—the islands were occupied by Spain for three hundred years.”

  “You have been reading. So are you going to try to talk me out of it too?”

  “Oh no. Have others?”

  “Most of my family believe it’s too dangerous for a single woman to visit. My step dad did research as well. And as you may recall, anything regarding my grandfather, my mother is never overly supportive of. My uncle was supposed to come, but he’s having surgery. No one else could get away, and my grandfather wanted me to do this.”

  Julia paused and then spoke with a confidence that surprised even herself. “And I need to do it. I’m off to go ‘find myself,’ as someone I know often told me to do.”

  Nathan nodded and rested his elbow on the railing, leaning ever so slightly toward her. “Well, I’m proud of you.”

  “You are? Why?”

  “Well, going to find yourself is something many people run from their whole lives. This is a pretty big thing to do alone. Third- world country, burying your grandfather with people you don’t know, facing who knows what kind of adventure across the sea.”

  She thought of casually brushing off his remarks, but then she felt the weight of all that he’d said. “Yeah, I guess it is a big deal. I’ve been so tired, with so many details to tend to, part of me hasn’t really thought it through. Perhaps I will find some adventure.”

  There was a look in his eyes she knew well, and she wondered if Nathan was thinking the same thing she was—that if they’d remained together, he’d have been part of these past four months with her grandfather. He would be going to Southeast Asia with her now.

  They were silent until it turned awkward.

  “It was good seeing you,” she said, sounding as if they were old friends, not former lovers.

  He was the one who had ended what they had, though they’d both struggled for a year. Still, she wondered if he ever missed her. He’d had several girlfriends, while Julia’s dating life was sporadic. Nathan said once that he’d moved on and so should she. He said she had lost herself along the way. He said that she stayed with him because their relationship was safe for her.

  “Did you hear that I’m doing freelance marketing now?”

  “No, I didn’t hear.” She felt a wave of anxiety with all these memories flooding through her. “Congratulations. Is it going well?”

  “Too well. I need some employees or other freelancers to share the accounts I’m getting. You interested?”

  “Uh . . .” Unbidden, something her grandfather had said before his death came into Julia’s mind.

  During the last two weeks of his life, Julia spent Grandpa Morrison’s wakeful hours at his bedside. They no longer worked on puzzles of covered bridges on the card table or watched Jeopardy! or talked about his garden or shared the latest gossip—about movie stars or their own family. Instead, for fourteen days, Julia sat with her bedridden grandfather as other family members, including her mother, came and went. Grandpa asked Julia to remain.

  Sometimes he called the name of Julianna, and though Julia came and held his hand, she knew he longed for another. His heart and mind could not forget his Julianna, long dead and buried far away. He talked about sugarcane fields that needed to be burned and projected yields. He promised his Julianna they’d take the Cadillac to the bamboo grove on the next Sunday whether it rained again or not.

  In his lucid moments, Grandpa Morrison was no longer the quirky, endearing man she’d always known. He asked her to bring his logbooks, and he’d scribble down instructions to be faxed to a man named Raul, the hacienda foreman, and to Markus, the hacienda lawyer. He’d said, “Markus Santos sounds like a great young man on the telephone—sharp as a whip—and he loves the hacienda as well.”

  The papers she faxed made little sense to her, and she didn’t try deciphering them, with the worry over his sudden decline. An urgent intensity encased him.

  “When in your life were you the most at peace?” he had asked one night, staring at her with probing blue eyes.

  “I don’t know. I guess when Nathan and I were together.”

  He’d shaken his head. “No, dear girl, that’s not it. He was a nice young man, but you weren’t yourself during that time. But perhaps you’ve never been truly at peace.”

  Julia had not responded, but asked instead, “What about you, Grandpa? When were you most at peace?”

  The answer, long in coming, surprised her. “There was a night during the war.”

  Grandfather spoke often of the years when they feared America had forgotten its men in the
Pacific theater while it chased Hitler around Europe.

  “There was this night . . . ,” he said again. “I cannot forget it. The war in the Philippines had destroyed the land. Chaos and death were everywhere. People did whatever they could to survive. My men and I had seen so much fighting, such terrible scenes of slaughter, and still we were forced to continue on. On this night, we were hungry. We’d been hungry before, but not this much—and so tired I think even the hairs on my arms ached.”

  He sighed as he remembered. “And then we reached Hacienda Esperanza, where your grandmother’s family hid our small band of soldiers. It was then I knew a trust and faith among the men and that family so strong you could nearly touch it. I found peace in the courage of a family who’d already experienced the ravages of war but continued to do what was right. The family that would become my very own. Your family.”

  Julia had memorized the map of lines in her Grandfather Morrison’s face; they grew deeper nearly every day from the loss of weight. She wished to kiss his forehead and bring such peace to him again. She settled in for a story that would last until he fell asleep.

  “We were a mixed bunch, separated from our original units. Americans, Filipino guerrillas, an Australian soldier who was killed by a sniper days later. But that night we slept in a small shanty within the safe boundaries of the plantation with bowls of rice and bits of the lone chicken the family sacrificed for us to share. And you know, my dear, I was amazed by the peace that was felt throughout the room.

  “Esperanza means hope, my dear Julia. When you have your most peaceful times, they will also bring you hope. You must remember such times—though I think they are impossible to forget.”

  Ironically, she knew that night how the simplicity of the past months with her dying grandfather could be numbered among her most happy times. There was peace with him.

  On another day Grandpa Morrison advised, “Listen, dear girl. You must return to certain pasts. But only those you have not finished building. Some things we are made to walk away from. Others are for returning and completing.”

  Standing now with Nathan in the Blue Mill Bakery, where they’d sat for hours with hands entwined, talking of the future, Julia wondered if he was something unfinished in her life, something to return to and complete. Or was that relationship forever past, something meant to “walk away from”?