Robin Lee Hatcher | Ribbon of Years

Ribbon of Years

And the angel showed me a pure river with the water of life, clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb. (Rev 22:1)

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Named a Top Ten Favorite Novel of
2001 by Christianbook.com!!

In 1936, 15-year-old Miriam Gresham of River Bluff, Idaho, wanted nothing more than to be a famous actress, just like Greta Garbo. But God had other things in mind. The remarkable story of her life of faith comes to light at an estate sale ... and to restless Julianna Crosby, it's a priceless find!

Bring out the tissues, folks. This is a story from the author's heart, no doubt, and her best so far. No contrived plot lines or stereotypical characters here. If this is the type of book to expect in the future from Ms. Hatcher, I can't wait for the next one. (4 1/2 Stars, Top Pick for July) — Romantic Times Magazine

In what I found to be one of the most gratifying, heart wrenching story this year, RIBBON OF YEARS carefully winds the reader through nearly seventy years of Miriam Gresham’s life... I have long been a fan of Ms. Hatcher’s books, but RIBBON OF YEARS became my favorite. It is not an easy read emotionally, the spans involving the bombing of Pearl Harbor, World War II, and the effects war has on the townspeople can easily relate to today’s War Against Terrorism. This poignant view of one woman’s life is a superb read, and one I am glad I did not miss! Be sure to grab a box of Kleenex first, and curl up with RIBBON OF YEARS. — Romance Reader's Connection

Miriam's story examines how trust in God can bring people through difficult times. Readers who enjoy strong character depictions will especially enjoy this story, but keep the tissues handy. Miriam's life isn't sugarcoated, but a testament to triumph over adversity. — CBA Marketplace

Hatcher writes with a strength and compassion that celebrates the impact of one devout woman on the people around her. Highly recommended. — Library Journal

In her 39th novel, the award-winning Hatcher ambitiously alternates between the past seven decades and the current one to show how the influence of a life of faith can shape the destiny of others. Juliana is 44, and wishing she could start over with a clean slate. When, at an estate sale, she happens across a box of old trinkets marked "My Life," she hears firsthand the saga of Miriam, the owner of the box, from those who loved her best... Hatcher progresses through Miriam's escapades as a teenager to her eventual death, interrupting her life story with the present-day reflections of Juliana, who comes to grips with her need for God. The writing is smooth, there's some nice historical detail and Hatcher manages the time switches with aplomb... Hatcher, a past president of the Romance Writers of America, won a Christy Award last year for her novel Whispers [From] Yesterday. With five million books in print, she has built a loyal following among fans in both the Christian and romance markets... — Publisher's Weekly

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JULIANNA, August 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 ultra-thin — 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 10:00 a.m.”

“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 1950's, 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 loveseat, a recliner, an upholstered wing-back – 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 that had been 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 with a black marker:

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 milkshakes 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, baldheaded, 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 onto 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 thumb tacks from the four corners of the poster and snatched it from the cork board.

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 back street 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 before this.

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 ...