chapter thirty-six

Exactly one hundred years to the day since Elijah Harper and Amelia Rose Whitaker stood beneath the willows and made their vow. The morning dawned with a sky so clear it felt like the heavens had polished it for the occasion. A light frost silvered the grass—unexpected for August, but no one in the family was surprised. The air carried the crisp bite of autumn sneaking in early, mingled with the sweet, heavy perfume of ripening peaches from the orchard that now numbered exactly ninety-nine trees. Today they would plant the hundredth. Six generations gathered on the creek bank: Ethan and Emily—ninety-five and ninety-four, moving with careful grace but eyes bright as ever—seated in rocking chairs brought from the porch; their four children, now in their fifties and sixties, with spouses;