Mama Lily was like Jesus to her. She chose forgiveness when, in those early years, Brigitte could not.
After the war, Brigitte ate sparingly as her stomach began to adjust to the regularity of food—bacon and eggs and Lily’s black pudding. She adored the woman who became like a mother to her and the sister who followed in her footsteps. But still she slept with her bedroom door locked, the night lamp turned on. And she never spoke German in Lily’s house, terrified as to what the older woman would do if she discovered Brigitte’s heritage.
The German people killed Lily’s husband, her beloved child. Brigitte thought Lily would surely hate her, a German girl, and she couldn’t blame her for it. Her people had killed millions in their hatred, and she didn’t want to add to Lily’s grief.
Now she knew differently. In hindsight, Lily surely heard the accent that Brigitte had tried to stifle as a child and chose to love her anyway. Even as she grieved, Lily refused to hate the men who’d killed her family. If she did, she said she would be just like them.
Lily adopted the two orphaned girls after the war, and those who knew her rejoiced that God had given her a family after losing those she’d loved. The girls’ presence helped bring healing to Lily. And her little farmhouse, all neat and clean and comfortable, saved their lives.
When Brigitte had first stumbled toward Lily’s house, a decade ago, she’d feared there would be another witch inside, but two cows resided in the pasture beside the Wards’ house and baby girl had stopped crying. The baby, she’d realized, would never cry again if she didn’t get milk.
Long ago, Dietmar had rescued her, and Brigitte knew that she must rescue Rosalind’s child like he’d done with her.
Thankfully, Lily Ward was no witch. She’d known exactly what to do with a baby, feeding her fresh milk from bottles, milk that revitalized her cries. Then the cries turned into laughter and the war was over. Mama Lily and Brigitte began to smile, too, when baby girl blew bubbles or purred like the cat she adored.
The spring following her twenty-third birthday, Brigitte borrowed Lily’s car and followed the river south. To the Mill House. She didn’t dare go inside the house, fearing that Eddie’s corpse might still be there, but in her hands was a pot sprouting the tender leaves of a magnolia tree, purchased from a local nursery.
Her own prayers had been answered. She had a mother who loved her. A sister who was becoming a friend. And neither Olivia Terrell nor Lady Ricker knew where she had gone.
She dug a hole for the tree, then a second one nearby to hide her final letter for Dietmar, enclosed in a metal box. If he searched for her, he would find this tree. He’d know she was well and that, like her, he was free.
CHAPTER 49
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The houses around Narcoossee were a mix of high-end mansions and mobile homes, surrounded by swampy wetlands and neatly swept orange groves. Quenby had closed her eyes on the drive down from Jacksonville, but there’d been no sleep for her after reading the file on her mother.
Their driver found the address for Chase Merrill—the boyfriend—on a dusty lane flanked by knobby roots of cypress trees, Spanish moss draping over the branches like sleeves on a wizard’s robe.
She thought they’d find a dilapidated cottage at the end of the road, like the Mill House, but instead there was an elegant yellow lake house, trimmed with white to match the picket fence around the lawn. In the driveway was a Jeep.
Lucas eyed the house. “You want to talk to him alone?”
“I do.”
“Take as long as you need,” he said. “I’ll wait for you here.”
She guessed it wouldn’t be a long discussion, but while she was in Florida, she wanted to meet the man who’d stolen her mother from her. Or at least, that’s what she’d gathered from the file. Chase Merrill was the last strand to Jocelyn.
Stone pavers led to the front door, and as she moved toward it, she tried to steady the racing in her heart, breathing deeply, in and out. Tension knotted her left shoulder, and she massaged it as she stood in front of the doorbell. It felt as if she were about to interview a hostile contact, as if he might throw her out on her backside when she explained her intent.
This visit didn’t really change anything about her current life, and yet it seemed everything had changed.
The window to the right of the door was cracked open. The blinds were closed, so she couldn’t see inside, but she heard the loud thump of music behind them. Taking another deep breath, she rang the bell.
A man fully entrenched in midlife answered the door, dressed in a black rash guard, wakeboarding shorts, and flip-flops. A dark beard, salted white, covered his chin, and his skin was a leathery tan.
“Are you Chase Merrill?” she asked.
“I am.” He glanced at the sedan waiting in the driveway. “Do I know you?”
“No, but you knew my mother.”
His laugh made her cringe. “I’ve known a lot of women in my life.”