The Finding Emma Collection (Books 1-5)

by Steena Holmes

  With a sigh, she rolled over and rubbed her eyes. When she opened them, she saw a solemn Emma staring down at her. For a very brief moment, Megan wished for that happy little girl from her dream instead of the quiet one in front of her. Just as quickly, Megan pushed that thought away.

  “Emma, sweetheart, why are you up so early?”

  Emma shrugged and held out the book she’d been holding to her chest.

  Megan mustered a smile as she swung her legs out of the bed and sat up. She saw the new recipe book she had bought the night before and left on the kitchen table. She preferred to do her shopping at night, leaving the girls at home and away from prying eyes. She hated the stares and sweet words of encouragement from those who meant well. Emma always tensed up. Megan didn’t like putting her daughter in situations like that.

  With the kids on summer break, she thought it would be a good time to do some baking with them. Emma seemed to enjoy helping out in the kitchen, so when Megan had spotted the copy of Kids Can Bake Too while she had been out shopping, she didn’t think twice about buying it, even though she had a cupboard full of cookbooks.

  Megan glanced at the clock and groaned. She’d slept in and probably already missed Laurie for their morning run.

  “It’s a little early to be baking, isn’t it?”

  Emma shook her head and tendrils of hair escaped the braid Megan had plaited the night before. Her daughter’s brows furrowed, and Megan caught the way her fingers tightened around the book.

  “Let me shower and have some coffee first, okay?”

  A sparkle shone in Emma’s eyes, and a glimmer of the girl from Megan’s dream peeked through. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have that girl back.

  To see the smile on Emma’s face was all it took for Megan to give in. It was a rare treat. The counselor said it would take time for Emma to readjust to her new life, but Megan hadn’t thought it would take this long.

  Emma needed time, the counselor kept saying. Time to grieve, time to accept the change in her life, and time to accept her new family.

  That last bit was what hurt the most. They weren’t her new family. They were her only family. If Megan could, she would erase the last two years when Emma lived in that country farmhouse with an old couple who could barely take care of themselves. But if time was what Emma needed, then time was what she would get.

  “Why don’t you pick out a recipe and wait for me downstairs?”

  Emma turned on her heels and skipped toward the door. She paused before tilting her head and then gave Megan a questioning look.

  “Promise, Mommy?”

  Megan smiled. She couldn’t help it. Even though it had only been a month since Emma’s return, she still cherished every time her baby called her Mommy.

  “Of course. I’ll be right down.”

  She picked up the towel Peter had left on the floor of their bathroom. A month ago, her goal had been to find her daughter and heal the rift in her marriage. Now it was to help her daughter heal while continuing to look for a way to stop her marriage from crumbling.

  Setting his cup of tea on the coffee table, Jack sat down in Dottie’s old chair and reached for the multitude of bags she kept to the side of it. Last week, he’d found a box full of knitted scarves, mittens, and hats tucked away at the back of the guestroom closet. He’d taken them into town and dropped them off at the Catholic church. The priest promised that they would find use in wintertime.

  It was hard getting rid of Dottie’s things, but he felt like he didn’t have much time left, and the last thing he wanted was someone else going through her things when he wasn’t around anymore.

  The first bag he grabbed held balls of yarn. Pink, white, and yellow. Jack dug his fingers into the yarn and knew right away that these had been meant for Emmie.

  Dottie was forever knitting that girl homemade dresses and doll clothes. He considered tossing it all in the donation box, but something stopped him. Did Emmie’s mom knit? Maybe she would appreciate the yarn. He could mail it to her and explain . . . what? That Dottie bought it to make Emmie things? That would not go over well.

  He set the bag off to the side. The next one he grabbed was heavier. Jack lifted it over the arm of the chair and dropped it into his lap. He pulled out a long brown-and-blue scarf, its soft wool caressing his calloused hands.

  He remembered the day Dottie bought this yarn. She’d come home excited to have found the perfect color for him. He’d shaken his head at her enthusiasm while she held the ball of wool up to his face. Complemented his eyes, she said. He wasn’t sure that he needed a scarf that matched his eyes. Yet here it was, ready for him to wear.

  Jack wound it around his neck, disregarding the warm summer air. Dottie had spent hours knitting this for him, and he was going to wear it.

  Jack pulled out the remaining item. It was a book with a creased, untitled black leather cover. Even without opening it, he knew it was Dottie’s journal. It had been a long time since he’d seen this particular one.

  She had called this journal a record of her “darkest time.” When she’d first said that, Jack didn’t understand. It was around the same time Emmie came to live with them, a time Jack thought of as the best years of his recent past. But now he knew what she’d meant.

  Now he understood why it was her darkest time.

  In their bedroom was a bookshelf lined with Dottie’s journals. Each cover was a different color, with each hue symbolizing her feelings. The years he had been off at war were all black. Every one of them, except for the first and last.

  Jack had bought the first journal for her before he left. He chose one with a soft yellow cover because he thought it would make her smile. He’d asked her to write letters to him in that journal. He never thought he’d be gone for so long.

  The last journal—which Dottie had written in after Jack was listed as MIA—was one he was never tempted to read. The white daisies dotting the soft pink cover symbolized new hope. But the hope she’d then held in her heart wasn’t for his return. She’d thought he was dead. The hope was instead of future love. Dottie later confessed that Doug had given her that journal for her birthday.

  Even now, Jack hated that cover.

  The day he’d returned from war, Jack had brought his Dottie a gift from the shop on base. It was another journal for the love of his life. His return was the start of their new life. He’d even bought Mary one, sure that Dottie had passed along her journal-writing passion to their daughter. The journal he’d bought for Dottie was bound in a pretty baby-blue material with small yellow flowers. He still remembered his first night back home. They sat on the bed, both a little shy to immediately rekindle the intimacy they’d had.

  “What are you doing, Dottie-mine?” Jack had asked when she laid a pink journal in her lap. Dottie’s eyes had filled as her fingers ran along the white daisies.

  “Putting an end to the black days,” she’d whispered.

  Jack watched her as she slowly opened the journal he’d bought her to the first page. She wrote the date at the top righthand corner and then glanced over at him.

  “What will you write?” he’d asked.

  Dottie wrote three words on the page in the flowing script he’d grown to love.

  Jack is home.

  With a teary smile, she closed the cover. Jack reached for the journal and tossed it on the floor before gathering the woman he loved more than life into his arms.

  After all their years together, all the nights they had shared a bed, that night was the most memorable. They’d created another baby that night, only to lose their son one month after he was born. Basil Jack Henry. They named him after Jack’s father.

  Jack glanced down at the black journal in his hands and knew he couldn’t read it. Not yet. But when he rose to head for bed, his tea forgotten on the coffee table, his hold on the journal didn’t loosen.

  Two

  The smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies wafted through the air as the oven timer dinged. Megan set down the p
icture in her hands and reached for her worn red oven mitts. She’d have to be careful she didn’t burn herself through one of the many holes. She kept meaning to buy a new pair but always forgot.

  “Is it my turn now?”

  Megan turned and saw Emma standing in the kitchen doorway. Her hopeful tone made Megan smile. It wasn’t quite the laughter from her dream, but it was close enough. She could hear the other two girls laughing at some cartoon they were watching in the family room. They’d already made their cookies.

  After two years of searching, all Megan had wanted was to have Emma back home. Even when everyone told her she should move on, she’d never given up, never forgotten that her baby girl was out there somewhere. To find out that Emma had lived only twenty minutes away on a farm with the older couple who had kidnapped her . . . Megan wasn’t sure she’d ever forgive herself for not looking hard enough.

  Megan bent down as she opened the oven door and then turned her head as a heat wave engulfed her face. One day she’d learn to let that initial heat burst escape first. When Emma’s unbound, curly golden hair swung out of her line of sight for a brief moment, Megan’s breath hitched and held until her daughter’s chubby cheek pressed against her arm.

  “Careful, honey, this is hot,” Megan cautioned as she pulled out the tray of cookies and set it on the cooling stand.

  “Can I make my cookies now?” Emma pulled a stool over to the island counter and climbed on it. A new batch of dough sat in a bowl with an open bag of mixed candies beside it.

  When Megan had come downstairs after her shower, the three girls were sitting at the kitchen table arguing over which cookie to make. Emma held firm to the cookbook and wouldn’t let it go. Hannah wanted oatmeal raisin, Alexis went for chocolate chip, and Emma asked for monster cookies. Luckily, Megan had supplies for all three.

  Megan opened a side drawer and searched for an apron that would fit Emma’s small frame. She pulled out a pink flower apron her mother had sewn for Hannah when she was smaller and held it up for Emma to see.

  “Here, kiddo, let’s put this on you to keep your pretty dress clean.” Emma had a fondness for dresses. She rarely wore the jeans or shorts Megan had bought for her after she came home. Actually, it was rare for Emma to wear anything Megan had bought for her. If Emma had her way, she’d always wear the clothes that had been packed in her suitcase. The clothes the others had provided for her.

  Emma turned around on the stool and lifted her arms so Megan could tie the apron strings around her waist. She had to wrap the fabric twice before tying it in a knot.

  “Grandma used to do that too,” Emma whispered.

  Megan froze at Emma’s words. She forced herself to take in a deep breath, fighting past the tightness in her chest. Her teeth clenched as she reminded herself to count to five, nice and slow.

  “She did, huh?” Megan lifted her gaze from the bow she’d just made to see Emma nod. Her daughter rarely spoke about the woman who had kidnapped her from their front yard.

  One night, Emma had overheard Detective Riley Thompson, the man who’d been the one to locate Emma after Megan took that picture at the fair, when he’d dropped by to tell them of Dorothy’s passing. Emma should have been in bed, but she’d been sitting at the top of the stairs waiting for Peter to give her a good-night hug. It was Megan who heard her small cry. But it had been too late. Megan knew Emma heard her say “Thank God” when she learned that Dorothy was dead.

  Ever since that night, Emma rarely smiled, unless she was playing with Daisy.

  Megan made sure there was now a smile on her face. The hesitation in Emma’s eyes slowly disappeared as she lowered her arms and leaned her elbows back down on the island counter. In the beginning, Emma would bring up Jack and Dorothy all the time, asking questions and telling stories. Eventually she stopped. Peter blamed Megan for that. He didn’t mind the stories, saying that it helped them to get to know her again. But to know her daughter, Megan didn’t need to hear stories of a life lived without her.

  “Did you do a lot of baking with her?” She refused to call the woman grandma. Despite what Kathy Graham, their family counselor told her, Megan would never accept the relationship between the kidnapper and her daughter.

  Emma smiled for a moment, and Megan winced. It bothered her that Emma would be free with her smiles for that woman. She straightened her shoulders and her thinking. Emma was her daughter. If anyone was going to earn Emma’s smiles, it should be the one who loved her the most—Megan.

  Emma jumped off the stool and washed her hands at the kitchen sink, holding her hands up high for Megan to see.

  “Good job.” Megan nodded. “We always need to make sure our hands are clean when we’re baking.” She moved to stand beside Emma and repeated the same motions. Emma dried her hands on the red dish towel draped over the oven door handle.

  “Hey, do you remember when we used to make giant cookies and put faces on them with the candies?” Megan casually brought up a memory she was sure Emma would recall. Emma ignored her, just like she always did.

  That bothered Megan more than she wanted to admit. Sure, Emma had been young, but she had to remember something from before she was kidnapped. Even Alexis could remember things they’d done before she was three years old.

  Every day, Megan would ask her daughter questions about things from before—before she was taken and raised by another family. She knew she shouldn’t, that Emma had been too young and that she might be putting too much pressure on her, but she couldn’t help it.

  When Emma returned to the chair, Megan handed her the bag of candies. “Okay, kiddo.” She sighed. “These are your cookies, so put as much as you want in.” Emma’s eyes widened in delight as she reached for the bag and peered inside.

  “All of them?”

  Megan pretended to think about that. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes as she gazed at the bag. Emma slowly lowered the bag, the smile disappearing from her face. But when Megan finally nodded, she squealed.

  Her daughter actually squealed. Megan couldn’t stifle the laughter bubbling up inside her. For the first time in weeks, the heavy weight of sorrow had ever so briefly lifted from her daughter’s small shoulders.

  Megan wished Peter were home to see this. He’d been so worried about Emma, wondering whether they’d done the right thing by cutting off any ties she had with the older couple. But if he could see her now, he’d realize that all she needed was time. Time to realize this family—her real family—loved her even more.

  Megan smiled. Contentment filled her soul, and it felt good. It had been so long. The last time had been only a month ago at the farmhouse when she had finally, after two long years of search- ing, held Emma in her arms again. Since then, the emotional roller coaster seemed to never end. She handed her daughter a wooden spoon to mix the candy into the cookie dough.

  She caught sight of Emma’s dog on the patio. The cute little yellow retriever that came home with Emma had grown into an awkward dog but still managed to worm its way into her heart despite her insistence that she hated dogs. Other than the suitcase full of clothes, a few books, and some dolls, Daisy was the only other connection Emma had to the people who had kidnapped her.

  “Do you want to scoop the cookies or would you rather go outside to play with Daisy?” Megan dipped the cookie scoop in a cup of hot water while Emma glanced behind her where Daisy sat near the sliding door.

  “Grandma said you always have to finish what you start.” She bit her lip and looked back from the sliding door to the mixing bowl.

  Megan moved to stand beside Emma and reached for the apron bow she’d tied earlier. “Tell you what, I’ll finish the cookies while you go grab Daisy a treat from the cupboard. She’s been waiting for you like a good little dog.”

  It warmed her heart to watch Emma jump off the chair without hesitating and grab a dog treat from the cupboard. Little by little, she was going to erase that woman from Emma’s mind.

  She scooped cookie dough onto the pan as Em
ma stood in the doorway watching her. Daisy was jumping up on the glass wanting to be let in, and Megan was doing her best to ignore it.

  “Mommy?”

  She raised her gaze from the cookies and realized Emma was now standing next to her at the counter. In her hands was a drawing she’d made last night before bed. Megan had found it this morning on the kitchen table. It was a picture of Emma holding hands with her and Peter.

  “Can we mail this today? To Papa?”

  Megan tried to hide her sigh. “You didn’t make that for me or Daddy?”

  Emma shook her head. “This is for Papa. Can we send it to him today?”

  It was impossible to say no while looking at her daughter’s beaming face. Emma honestly thought she was going to mail the drawing. The sparkle was still in her eye. Megan wasn’t about to take that away from her, not if it meant the smile would stay, but neither would she lie.

  Instead, she kept quiet.

  Soft giggles drifted in through the open window and wrapped around Megan’s heart, squeezing it until she was sure it would break. She placed the lid on the last Tupperware container full of freshly baked cookies and left it on the counter. She’d made sure to combine all the cookies so that there would be some of each kind in every batch. A few containers were now in her freezer, with one in her fridge. No doubt this one would soon be empty.

  She glanced around her kitchen and realized she had nothing to do. She’d already cleaned up after the cookie fiasco this morn- ing, lunch dishes were in the dishwasher, and the girls were outside playing. Her house was spotless—how could it not be when she was home every day with little to do but clean? Maybe she’d make some coffee and read through the stack of unread magazines sitting in the foyer. But the thought held little appeal.