My Heart Remembers by Kim Vogel Sawyer

harsh tone, his message had let her know he was keeping her, girl or not. She knew why—he’d spent three years training her, trusting her, molding her to take over the photography business. Even at the tender age of twelve, she’d known it wasn’t affection that made him keep her, but a need for her services as apprentice and assistant.
    It wasn’t until five years later that she discovered he’d grown to love her. His death had proved it.
    A series of hard knocks on the hotel room door jerked her from her reverie. She jumped up and crossed the floor with a wide stride. Swinging the door open, she discovered the hotel clerk in the hallway.
    “Sorry to bother you . . . miss.” His gaze drifted briefly down the length of her wool trousers, then bounced up again, his cheeks stained pink. “If you’re interested, the First Baptist Church is having a Christmas Eve service. It’s for the whole community.
    There’ll be singing, and the preacher’ll speak, and then we’ll have cookies and hot apple cider. It’s always a real good service.”
    Maelle’s heart twisted with desire. Uncle Richard had spent Sundays sleeping off his Saturday evening binge, which had left her to her own devices. So she’d visited churches, searching faces, always hoping for a glimpse of Mattie or Molly. And in a little church in Spring Arbor, Michigan, Maelle had met someone who would never be taken away from her. Since then, her reason for church attendance had become two-fold. She still sought her brother and sister, but she also sought to grow in her knowledge of Jesus.
    “Where is the church?” she asked.
    “Seventh Street.” The man gestured. “You go west on Cyprus Street, then turn north on Seventh. You can’t miss it. Church has a real nice steeple and cross, and there will be candles burning in the windows.” He paused, his attention once more jerking from her britches to her eyes. “We all . . . uh . . . put on our Sunday best for this particular service.” His glowing face rivaled the bulb dangling from a twisted cord overhead.
    Maelle’s lips quirked. “Thanks for your kind invitation, but I’ve got a photograph to develop. Good night.” She closed the door on his repentant expression and headed directly for the private bath to enjoy a leisurely soak.
    Later, listening to the crunch of wagon wheels rolling past the hotel, Maelle regretted her hasty decision. She sighed, rubbing a soft cloth over the finished image of Georgie standing proudly on shell-scattered ground with buckets dangling from his dirty hands. Loneliness smacked hard. Maybe she should get dressed and go to church, after all. But then, remembering the clerk’s comment about “Sunday best,” she shook her head, causing her still-damp tumbling curls to spill across her shoulders.
    She set the photograph aside, gathered the errant waves of her waist-length hair, and deftly formed a loose braid. As she braided, her gaze drifted to the carpetbag and she envisioned the contents. For a woman, “Sunday best” meant a dress. There were no dresses in her bag. There was one dress in the wagon— wrapped in tissue and resting in the bottom of a wooden box beneath her bunk—but she’d never put it on. Not again.
    Maelle awakened Christmas morning with a dream hovering on the fringes of her mind. A familiar dream, one in which she, Mattie, and Molly played together in the New York flat while Da watched from his chair, his chuckle rumbling in response to their antics, and Ma stirred a pot on the little stove in the corner. She smiled, allowing the images to linger for as long as they would remain, until finally—like smoke drifting from Da’s corncob pipe—they faded away into nothingness.
    Ignoring the lonely wrench of her heart, she threw back the light covers and stood, stretching. A glance out the window told her it was still early, the sun a rosy glow on the horizon, but she surmised little Georgie and his fellow shuckers were already at work. She