Catching the Wind

by Melanie Dobson

  Rosalind had passed away five years ago, but before she died, Alexander had pressed her to tell him all of her story. She talked at length about the theater, the costumes and glamour and opening nights, but he said he wanted to know about the years before the West End.

  Finally she told him about the Rickers. About her mum and the safe house and about Brigitte. Brigitte, his mother had told him, was a hostage as well, but if Rosalind knew where she’d gone after the war, she never told her son.

  Rosalind never met her half sister or half brother—Anthony Ricker had preceded Rosalind to the grave, and she had no desire to meet Louise. After his mother’s death, Alexander connected with his aunt. In fact, after Quenby e-mailed her, Mrs. McMann was the one who’d called him, warning him not to talk with her, but Alexander said he’d never seen eye to eye with his aunt. In small part, he wanted redemption for his mother. To tell the world that she was an overcomer in spite of what Lady Ricker had tried to do.

  Neither Lucas nor Quenby told Alexander they were searching for Brigitte. But if they found what happened to her, perhaps they would find Rosalind’s daughter as well. She and Alexander could meet at last.

  Quenby asked Alexander if Rosalind had any regrets about leaving her daughter, but if she had, she’d never told him. He said she’d left her baby behind because she thought Brigitte could take better care of her. And if Lady Ricker had found Rosalind and the child, she would have killed them both.

  Or at least, that’s what Rosalind thought. Somewhere in her mind, perhaps polished and justified over the years, she’d come to the conclusion that she had done what was best under the circumstances.

  Quenby nudged Lucas’s leg, and he glanced over at her. He looked so handsome, lying on the sand. Eye candy was what Chandler would call him. Anyone else on the beach would probably think he was full of himself in his confidence. She’d certainly thought, in her own insecurity, that he was arrogant when they first met, but now she wondered if he hadn’t trusted her, like she hadn’t trusted him.

  She’d seen far past his facade in their time together and had come to appreciate much more than his features. He was a man who spoke his mind about his family, his doubts, his faith. A man who seemed to want what was best for her.

  She took the envelope containing Mr. Knight’s file from her handbag. “I think I’m finally going to open it.”

  He sat up. “And you need some space?”

  “For just a few minutes.”

  He didn’t look irritated at her request. In fact, it seemed that he understood.

  “I won’t go far,” Lucas said as he leaned toward her. “Call me when you’re ready.”

  When he kissed her cheek this time, there was no awkwardness between them. One friend caring for another friend.

  Then he left her.

  The children before her laughed as they flew their ladybug kite, and she flashed back to her Dumbo ride again. Back then, with her mother watching, she’d felt as if she really could fly.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the smile on her mother’s face when, in hindsight, she shouldn’t have been smiling at all. But Quenby had known something was wrong even though she couldn’t put it into words. Wrong because her mother was happy.

  Had the thought of leaving her daughter filled her with joy?

  Her stomach turned as she opened the envelope and saw the neat stack of corporate paper, stapled together. A dossier. Whoever Mr. Knight hired to research had done their job well.

  The first page was polished and precise, lifted from the biography on the syndicate’s website. It was the kind of description one used to portray a life neatly put together, every piece in perfect place. College, writing credentials, her love of English literature and all things British. Of course, no one’s life was perfect, and no one could truly contain a synopsis of twenty-eight years on one page.

  The next page dug a little deeper into her childhood. Where she was born (Nashville). The short background on her father, Trevor Vaughn, an aspiring country music artist who’d died in a motorcycle accident when he was twenty-three.

  A brief background on her mother, Jocelyn Vaughn, a flower child growing up in the decade after being a flower child was cool. Quenby had never known her mother’s maiden name, and the dossier didn’t mention it.

  Trevor and Jocelyn had met at a country music festival in Atlanta, their mutual passion for music solidifying a bond that lasted six years. And the story began to unravel from there, chock-full of details that Quenby hadn’t known.

  There was the story of Grammy, who’d left Germany two decades after World War II with her American husband, a soldier stationed in Berlin before he went to Vietnam. About Grammy’s father—Quenby’s great-grandfather—a devout Nazi who had fought for the Wehrmacht. About Grammy’s uncle who’d died when his plane was shot down in Poland in 1939.

  Quenby closed her eyes for a moment, processing the words on paper. Grammy had told lots of the Grimm stories, but she’d never talked about her own childhood. And no wonder. The shame from her family’s devotion to Hitler must have been overwhelming for a woman who loved almost everyone, except perhaps Jocelyn.

  Grammy had tried to hide her contempt for her daughter-in-law when Quenby was young, but there was no hiding it after Jocelyn abandoned her. As a girl, Quenby remembered being glad that someone understood her pain, even as part of her heart still yearned for love and approval from a woman who could never give it.

  There were three pages left in the report. The top of the next page was a photocopy of a newspaper article that ran in the Orlando Sentinel, two days after Jocelyn disappeared. Beside the column of copy was a picture of Quenby’s mother on her wedding day, wearing a crocheted dress, white cowboy boots, a wreath of flowers around her head.

  Quenby tentatively flipped the page. Mr. Knight’s file followed Quenby’s life from college to England; then the final page began to detail her mother’s movements after she stepped away from Dumbo.

  Her fingers brushing over the top of the page, she tried to steady her breath. Then she lifted her gaze and watched the tail of the kite as the boys rushed away. Finally, after all these years, perhaps she would finally find out what happened to her mother. Courage was what she needed. An internal strength as she sought truth about her own story.

  As she prayed for that strength, her gaze fell back to the paper.

  According to the investigation, Jocelyn left Disney World that Thursday afternoon and drove to a man’s house in a place called Narcoossee. Her boyfriend’s house, the record said, though Quenby hadn’t known her mother was dating anyone. The last few lines in the profile sounded so impersonal, an outsider’s sketch.

  When she finished reading, Quenby slammed the file shut, her chest void at first, and then tears began falling down her cheeks.

  Seconds later, Lucas slipped onto the sand beside her again, waiting quietly at first before he spoke. “Are you okay?”

  She pulled the file to her chest. “I will be.”

  “Does it say what happened to your mother?”

  Nodding, she took a deep breath. “My mother’s dead,” she said simply, her words seeming to come from someone else’s mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Quenby.”

  “The police told Grammy, but she never told me.”

  “She was probably trying to protect you.”

  “I know.” Grammy had loved her dearly. She wouldn’t have done anything purposefully to hurt her.

  “How did your mother die?” he asked.

  Her gaze fell back to the paperwork, her stomach churning. “She overdosed on methamphetamines.”

  He reached for her hand and gently covered her fingers. Instead of fighting him, she sat quietly beside him as sorrow streamed down her cheeks, neither of them moving again until the tide swept salty tears of its own across their toes.

  Chapter 48

  Rodmell, April 1953

  Lily Ward lived in the village of Rodmell, five miles north of Newhaven. She’d lost her husband
during the Battle of Britain, and then she’d lost their only child, a six-year-old daughter, when a bomb dropped on her school’s playground. Much later, Lily told Brigitte that God gave her two new daughters, not to replace her first one but to redeem what had been lost.

  It was in Lily’s house, years after they arrived, that Brigitte finally began to believe that God might indeed be good. That He gave each person the opportunity to cultivate His creation and care for those in need. And that He sacrificed His Son to redeem hearts laden with bitterness and hatred. Some of His children still chose evil, but He was even willing to forgive those who’d murdered the people Brigitte loved, if they would repent and turn from their sins.

  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

  _____

  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.”

  “Her name was Jocelyn.”

  He stopped laughing. “Jocelyn’s been dead for twenty years.”

  “From a drug overdose, I’m told.”

  “How did you find me?”

  She shrugged. “Everyone leaves a trail.”

  He stepped forward, his hand pressed against the doorpost. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know—”

  “Money?”

  “No.” She paused. “I just want to know the truth of what happened to my mother.”

  “My wife and I have been married for twenty-five years.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you understand?”

  She didn’t have to be a genius at math for those calculations. “Clearly.”

  He glanced at the stretch of windows behind him, at the expanse of lake outside, palm trees perfectly framing the view. “The truth is messy.”

  “It usually is.”

  “Are you Quenby?” he asked.

  She nodded. Perhaps Jocelyn had told him about her after all.

  “Stay here,” he said, as if she might lift a memento from his house to take with her.

  The room beyond the entry was decorated nautically with a wooden ship’s wheel, pictures of sailboats, glass bottles filled with seashells. And a large photograph of Chase Merrill and his wife.

  Had Jocelyn known he was married?

  She stepped through the propped-open front door into the Merrills’ house. A boat flew by on the lake, hauling a wakeboarder who rode up a ramp, then flipped when he reached the top, landing in perfect form on the other side.

  If only they could all ride up the ramps of life, twisting and turning and landing without injury on the other side. But in real life, often the person who was being towed ended up getting dragged underwater.

  The boat turned toward the dock behind the house as Chase returned, carrying a dust-coated storage box. He dropped it on the floor and riffled through papers before he pulled out a thin album. “I was with her in the hotel room when she died. I called for the ambulance—”

  “Noble of you.”

  “This was in her things.” He held the album in his hands. “She wouldn’t have wanted her mother to have it.”

  Quenby flinched. “You knew my grandmother?”

  “Not personally.” He gave her a curious look. “You don’t know her?”

  �
�No.”

  He glanced toward the back windows and then shoved the album at her as if he were handing her an envelope stuffed with cash, exchanging it for her silence. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t know Jocelyn had a daughter until I found this.”

  Bitterness bubbled in her throat. “She left me for you.”

  He didn’t seem to be fazed by her words. “She was addicted to meth, Quenby. That stuff makes people do crazy things.”

  “Who gave her the meth?”

  Instead of answering, he glanced toward the windows again, at the woman and two teenagers strolling up the lawn. Then he pointed to the front entrance. “You have to leave.”

  She didn’t move. “Who was Jocelyn’s mother?”

  “I don’t remember her name.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t believe you.”

  The woman called for Chase from the patio, and he shoved Quenby back outside, the album clutched to her chest.

  “The truth might be messy,” she said, “but it tends to come out in the end.”

  “It’s not the end for me.”

  “For me either,” she replied, but he’d already slammed the door behind her and slid the bolt as if she might burst inside and ruin his life like he had ruined hers.

  Instead of moving away from the stoop, she opened the worn album.

  There were pages of baby pictures, each one labeled in a flowery script. Quenby’s first steps. Quenby’s first Christmas. Quenby with Mommy and Daddy, riding in a boat on Old Hickory Lake. Then there were pictures of her parents’ wedding and some silly ones after it, at a carnival and a concert.