The truth unfolded like a shaky ladder in Quenby’s mind.
Lady Ricker wasn’t just some aristocratic woman bent on harming her country. Janice Ricker was the mother of Rosalind. And Quenby’s great-great-grandmother by birth.
She grieved deeply in that car, for the people who’d died at Lady Ricker’s hand, for the children during the war who’d lost their parents, for children today who continued to lose them. This wasn’t someone else’s story any longer. This was her story, rooted in a muddy reality. And she couldn’t make peace with her past, she realized, until she cried. Couldn’t love again until she grieved her loss.
Lucas didn’t try to stop her. Instead he reached out and pulled her close to him. She wanted to say something witty, something smart to keep him at bay, but the strength of her aloneness seemed to siphon out of her. And in its place was a weakness—not of character or physical power but of a deep heart’s desire to have someone there next to her, someone who wasn’t afraid of her tears. Or her story.
He kissed her hair, kissed the tears from her cheeks.
She leaned back. “I know God has forgiven my sins, but there are so many ghosts roaming around in my past.”
“A clean slate—that’s what you and I have in Christ, Quenby. Whiter than snow.”
And she saw it in her mind, the powdery snow of a ski slope, waiting to be forged. Everything was changing for her. After today, she was no longer alone. She had family left in this world—a grandmother who’d been racked with guilt as well over Jocelyn’s leaving. A grandmother who said she’d welcome Quenby into her life and her home.
She couldn’t change her past, like any of the children here, but it didn’t define who she was today. Nor did she have to hide behind someone else’s script, play a role like Hannah and Rosalind had once done.
She had the power to write a new story from this moment forward. Her story. One where the past molded and then empowered and strengthened instead of crippled her. A new story filled with strong, healthy relationships with people she loved and a heart open to trusting God and Lucas as well.
A heart willing to forgive.
She prayed silently that God would help her forgive her mother for what she had done. She’d never forget what happened, but she wanted to let go of the bitterness that she’d kept locked inside her, stop using it as a weapon against anyone who wanted to love her.
Lucas rolled down the window, and images fluttered into Quenby’s head with the breeze, pictures of a new story. She and Lucas together, following wherever God led. A smile when she thought of the good memories with her mother. Prayers for those trapped, like Jocelyn, in an addiction.
She glanced out the window, at the tree branches fluttering in the breeze. “What do we do now?”
“We fly to Solstice Isle for the reunion of a lifetime.”
Quenby nodded; that’s exactly what she’d hoped he would say. “Are you going to call Mr. Knight?”
“I tried, but Eileen said he still couldn’t talk on the phone.”
“We need to leave soon.”
He nodded. “Quenby, you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
She almost told him that she wasn’t, but it would be a lie. She was terrified.
“If you’ll have me,” he said, “I won’t leave you.”
She looked into those dark-brown eyes that had captured her days ago. “You can’t promise that.”
“I won’t run or walk away—how about that?”
“You hardly know me, Lucas.”
He smiled. “It’s been a pretty educational two weeks.”
“Indeed it has.”
“The real question is, would you dare to take a chance with me?”
Quenby thought back to that meeting with Chandler before she met Lucas—at the pictures her boss had pulled up online. She’d thought Lucas arrogant, but she had built the same type of wall around herself. And yet here they were, hearts exposed.
“I think I just might,” she said.
His kiss was quite gentlemanly, but she felt it all the way down to her toes.
Bridget Ward drove her scooter right up to the jet at Leeds Bradford, eyeing the flight of steps that led into the craft. Before they left Adler House, Hannah had warned Quenby about the last time Bridget had tried to fly, of her sister’s fierce claustrophobia.
But there was no Jetway leading onto this plane. No pilots on a strict schedule. They could wait all day and night, if they must, for her to overcome her fear.
“We’ll have a scooter waiting for you on the island,” Quenby promised, her hand resting on the woman’s seat back.
“Is it pink?”
“I have no idea.”
Bridget’s smile was strained. “I suppose any color will do.”
Quenby patted her shoulder. “You can do this.”
Bridget gave a sharp nod. “I’ll regret it if I don’t.”
“Would you like a hand?” Lucas asked, stepping up beside them.
“More like two feet.”