Hearts That Survive Read Online Free

A hint of a grin tugged at her mouth. "I don't have a Bible with me."
    He dared a smile. "After we retire to our cabins, I'll knock on the door of your suite and lend you my Bible."
    She shook her head. "I'll have Marcella retrieve it from you."
    So much was said in a simple sentence. Their eyes met for less than an instant before they looked away, as if having to confirm that neither would behave improperly. They were careful with their words, with their actions. They planned their moves. That other night, they had not planned, otherwise it wouldn't have happened.
    "Shall we retire for the night?" It was early. But they had played at life too long, pretended all was well.
    She nodded and they strolled along the polished teak deck. He did not put his arm around her waist. They spoke casually to others standing by the railing or walking past them.
    Upon reaching their private promenade deck, neither offered the usual tender kiss. She opened the door to her sitting room. Marcella, in her white cap and apron over a black dress, walked into the sitting room and gave a brief nod.
    John said, "Good night." He went to his bedroom on the other side of Craven's. He hoped Craven would follow his normal routine and not seek him out. Since he'd locked his door it had remained so and he supposed Craven had locked it on the other side to ensure privacy. He picked up his Bible from the nightstand. When the light tap-tap sounded, he opened the door and handed the book to Marcella.
    Marcella took it, then made a small gesture of a curtsey. She turned away and John's focus fell upon the steward, who served several of the nearby suites.
    "Anything I can get for you, sir?" the steward asked.
    "No, thank you, George. I'm fine." John had not been accustomed to having anyone curtsey, nod, or constantly refer to him as "sir" before coming into the good graces of Cyril Beaumont. Such gestures made him uncomfortable. That was Lydia's world. The company's interest lay in the design of his toy trains. He could manage without the deference, and without first-class accommodations, fine as they were, but could not imagine life without Lydia.
    Reminding himself he had other matters to think about, he closed the door and sat at the desk. He took his notebook from the top drawer of the nightstand, and the fountain pen and poem from his pocket.
    He prefaced his intentions with closed eyes and a prayer. At the "amen" his eyes opened and his gaze moved to the window that would have been a porthole in a lesser ship. All ships were lesser to this hotel on water. Or perhaps a better description was a palace afloat.
    John could imagine how one might become overwhelmed by such luxury. He shook aside those thoughts. Despite the lighted cabin, the medium blue sky was visibly aglow with brilliant starlight. That disappeared as he stared into the distance where his creativity existed.
    His fountain pen became an instrument of emotion and feeling. Words poured from his heart and soul. He prayed for God to give him the proper way to make his poem a work of skill and beauty, not just idle thoughts, so that it would express exactly what he meant. He continued with the English adaptation of the Italian sonnet form. This too would be a quatrain to attest the genuineness of his love for Lydia and their child.
    After a couple hours spent composing several drafts, he had the next four lines. He opened the desk drawer and took out a piece of White Star stationery and meticulously copied the first quatrain he'd read to Lydia on the promenade deck and added the second quatrain.
    Perhaps morning would bring fresh thoughts, but this was his best for the moment. He tucked the sonnet into the notebook and closed it. He couldn't follow his routine of reading the scripture before turning off the light. His intent to lie in the dark and think of Psalm 51 was halted by an unbidden verse.
    "Faith without works is dead."
    Words too, without works, were dead.
    A burden swept through him. He