Cover image: 1988 Diary © SVGiles, courtesy of Getty Images, Inc.
Cover design copyright © 2013 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2013 by Jenny Proctor
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-62108-529-4
To my husband,
who never stopped
celebrating this journey
Acknowledgments
It was my mother, in the earliest days of my childhood, who taught me to respect words, to use them wisely, and to recognize how powerful they can be. I’ll always love her for that. And my sister—oh, my blessed sister—I never could have written anything without you. You were tireless, always willing to hash out story ideas and work wonders with your editing eye. I am a better writer because of you. My other beta readers—Lindsay Anderson, Valerie Walz, Kimberly Vanderhorst, DeNae Handy—your advice and counsel mean so much. Thank you for your willing, critical eye. I also owe a tremendous amount to my wonderful editor at Covenant, Samantha Millburn. As a first-time author, my questions might have been a bit excessive, but, Samantha, you were the epitome of kindness and patience as you led me through this extraordinary process. To my husband and children, thank you a hundred times. Your patience and, of course, your tolerance, were essential to my success. To my author friends, Melanie Jacobson and Annette Lyon, thank you for your endless advice, encouragement, and support. And finally, to my high school English teacher, Mrs. Gorsuch, and to all high school English teachers, thank you for inspiring young writers, for instilling love and respect for fine literature. Magic happens in your classrooms—I’m sure of it.
23 June 1844
I do not know if I will ever find the truth I seek. I have grown weary of the searching, the sermons, the pastors and preachers all claiming to know the way to salvation. The way for whom, I ask them, your two hundred parishioners alone? What of the rest of us, then? When and if I find the truth, I believe I will feel peace and joy in my heart like I have never known. I will know of the truth because God will reveal it unto me. He has not let me down yet. I do not believe He will let me down this time either.
—Diary of Ian Wylie, 1801–1850
Prologue
Mary Walker sat in her quiet living room, trying to enjoy the soft light of late afternoon. A large oak tree stood outside the bay window, filtering the sunlight and casting small leaf-shaped shadows onto the pages of Mary’s book. Her restless mood seemed at odds with the tranquility of her surroundings. Distracted, she set her book aside with a sigh and reached for the family photo album she kept on the end table, hoping perhaps to dispel the feelings of unease and discomfort embedded like nettles in the margins of her consciousness. Mary slowly turned the well-worn pages of the album, each one a catalog of memories and moments long gone. She smiled at one picture in particular and gently touched the faces of each of her three children. The tip of her finger lingered for a moment longer on a fourth child in the photo—a wild, dark thread woven into the lighter fabric of her own fair-haired offspring.
“Kate,” she whispered softly. Kate was Mary’s niece. It still stung Mary to think of the sudden and tragic accident that had left her without a sister and orphaned Kate when she was just seven years old. Even now, more than twenty years later, Mary missed her sister every single day. The accident was difficult for everyone, but Kate suffered the most. To lose a mother and father all at once, move to a new house, start a new school—it still made Mary’s heart hurt to think of Kate’s first years in their home. The one thing that helped Mary through the difficult time following the accident was knowing she had to be strong for Kate. It had been easy to love her. Her place in Mary’s heart had been immediate and permanent. But the little girl held herself apart, Mary thought, in fear of forgetting her own parents, afraid to love a new mother out of loyalty to the first.
Mary’s middle child, Leslie, had been Kate’s saving grace. Only six months apart in age, it hadn’t taken long for the girls to become completely inseparable. When Kate would retreat into the quiet corners of her own suffering, it was Leslie who could always pull her out again. Eventually, the raw edges of Kate’s heart healed, and she settled into the comfortable patterns and rhythms of the Walker household.
Mary shook her head in disappointment as she thought of the cousins, once so close, now locked in a bitter and painful battle. Kate hadn’t been home in years, not even when Leslie’s husband had died.
“Foolish girl,” Mary said to herself with a sigh. It wasn’t her battle to fight, though she would love to see reconciliation. She had tried to encourage the girls, but she couldn’t make them talk, couldn’t make them listen to each other. She knew they would have to talk eventually. Life would require it. Of that, Mary was certain.
She stood and stretched, trying to shake the weariness from her bones.
The doorbell rang.
Mary moved to the door and greeted the mailman, returning his friendly smile through the screen of the storm door.
“You’ll have to sign for this one, Mrs. Walker,” he said. “Certified mail.”
She took the thick legal-sized envelope to her desk in the sunroom. At first she did not sense the fear and suspicion that softly tiptoed in behind her, but as she opened the envelope and started to read, they quickly took hold of her heart. She read silently for several minutes, one hand clasped tightly over her mouth, her eyes wide with disbelief.
It couldn’t be true; not after all she’d done, all she’d endured in her fight to keep the house. The nightmare wasn’t over after all.
The pain started slowly—a heaviness just below her sternum that pushed upward then over into her left arm. With each breath, Mary found it more and more difficult to fill her lungs. She clung to the side of the desk, the room spinning around her. She lurched forward, trying to reach the phone, but it was too late. When she hit the floor, the papers in her hand slipped under the heavy mahogany desk.
No one would ever look for them there.
Who would think to look when no one even knew they existed?
Chapter 1
The lobby of Blanton Advertising was designed so that even on the cloudiest of days, the space still seemed full of crisp, clean sunlight. Tall mirrors stretched from floor to ceiling all along the back wall, and large triangular skylights beckoned upward, pulling the light down into the expansive room below. It was Kate’s favorite part of the building.
The morning Aunt Mary died, Kate still went to work. She was screaming, nearly falling apart on the inside, but as she struggled to process the news of her aunt’s death, work seemed the easiest option. There, Kate could pretend her world was still perfectly normal, unaffected by loss or sadness. But it was pretending, and Kate eventually found herself in no position to keep up the charade. As she walked through the lobby of the building, she didn’t appreciate the patterns of light reflecting and bouncing off the mirrored walls and marble floor. She didn’t see the faces of her coworkers or hear their friendly chatter as she passed by. As she pushed deeper and deeper into the people and patterns she knew so well, the foolishness of coming to work finally began to c
atch up with her.
Desperate to be alone, she raced toward the peace and solitude of her own private space. Her latest promotion had come with a corner office—the biggest one on the floor and, much to Kate’s sudden annoyance, the one most distant from the elevators. She pushed blindly past unsuspecting coworkers, waving her hand in dismissal to anyone who dared notice her discomposure.
Kate’s personal assistant, Veronica, met her at the door to her office, ready to hand her a cup of coffee and a copy of the morning schedule.
“Good gracious, Kate!” she exclaimed. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“Not now,” Kate hastily whispered. “Not now.”
She swung open the large walnut door and slammed it shut behind her. Leaning into the door, she slid to the floor and pressed her forehead against the smooth grain of the wood, clinging to its surface, trying to anchor herself against the spinning room around her. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her breath came in shallow gulps until, finally, the tears dammed up behind fear and guilt and shame burst through—a torrent of raw emotion Kate could not control. She wept for her aunt Mary. She dug into her soul’s deepest corners and wept for her cousins who’d just lost their mother and for her own mother and father, lost years ago. And then she wept for herself.
When the tears stopped, Kate sat in weary silence, a crumpled shell of a person on her office floor. For years, she’d been trying to convince herself that she had managed to change her reality, but clearly, all she had done was ignore it. Now the past had roared back into her life with a vengeance, like razor-sharp fangs piercing the most tender spot of her flesh. Mary was dead. Kate couldn’t ignore that. It was time for her to go home and face her past.
It saddened her to think that death was the only thing that could shake her into realizing her paradigm needed to shift. Slowly, the haze that hung over Kate’s heart began to clear. For the first time, she recognized the excuses she’d clung to so desperately for so long as nothing more than trivial hang-ups. But was it too late? To ask for forgiveness and mend the broken, battered fences with her family seemed a nearly impossible feat. But if those fences weren’t mended, Kate wasn’t sure she could handle the pain of losing Aunt Mary. She needed her family. She wasn’t sure they would want her, but she had to try. Mary would have wanted her to try.
Kate sat in quiet, inward reflection until a soft knock sounded behind her.
“Kate,” Veronica called gently through the door. “Are you okay? Can I come in?”
Kate stood up and moved to her desk.
“Come in,” she called.
“I just lied to half the people in the office,” Veronica said as she shut the door behind her. “Your schedule’s clear until noon. Shall I clear out your afternoon as well?”
“What did you tell everyone?” Kate asked as she circled her desk and sank into her chair.
Veronica hesitated. “Well, I told them your mother was dead. I figured that was a pretty safe lie since no one really knows you lost your mother a long time . . .” Her words trailed off when she saw her boss’s reaction. “Oh no, Kate,” she said softly. “Someone really did die, didn’t they? I’m so sorry.”
Kate nodded her head in quiet affirmation. “My aunt Mary died of a heart attack last night.”
“Were you really close?” Veronica asked.
Kate was silent for a moment.
Not as close as we should have been.
“I guess so,” she finally said. “We hadn’t talked in a while.”
Kate started searching through her desk drawer for some tissue. She had no mirror but imagined how dreadful her tearstained, swollen face must look. “My cousin Leslie called me this morning to let me know.”
“Kate, why are you here?” Veronica moved across the room and sat down across from Kate. “People don’t work when family members die. They get in the car and go home. They spend time with family and friends and eat casseroles the neighbors bring over. You shouldn’t be here. Let me clear your schedule and talk to Mr. Blanton for you.”
Kate managed a weak smile and then sighed as she leaned her head into her hands. “You’re right,” she said quietly. “I don’t know why I’m here. I just . . . I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Go home,” Veronica said again. “Blanton will understand. He won’t deny you the right to a weekend away for something as important as this.”
Kate nodded her head. She knew it was the right thing to do. “Go ahead and clear my schedule.” She sighed. “Keep me informed if anything comes up or if Blanton needs me for anything that can’t wait.”
Veronica nodded, acknowledging Kate’s need to be continually in the loop. Kate did not spend a great deal of time away from the office and had never been really comfortable doing so. But Veronica had been her assistant for nearly three years and had proven herself capable of handling things. She could manage the next few days without her.
“Thank you, Veronica,” Kate said. “I appreciate your help this morning.”
“Just doing my job,” she said. She walked to the door then hesitated. “Do you want me to tell Steve?” she asked.
“Steve?” Kate said. “No. I’ll go by his office before I go.”
Veronica nodded one more time then slipped silently out the door.
Kate was grateful it was only Veronica who had seen her in such a vulnerable state. It would have been much more difficult had it been Mr. Blanton who’d discovered her, tearstained and upset . . . Worse yet, it could have been Steve.
He often came to see her first thing in the morning. It made Kate tired to think of how he would have responded. They had been dating off and on for almost a year, but in the past few months, Steve had pushed for a more serious relationship. But something held Kate back. Steve Carson was the kind of guy who always said and did the right thing. On the surface, he was perfect. But Kate always found herself questioning his sincerity. She couldn’t shake the feeling that deep down, the person Steve cared about most was and always would be Steve.
Kate found the little travel pouch of tissue she’d been looking for and, with a bottle of water and the compact from her purse, attempted to clear the mascara from her red and splotchy face.
Let Steve get a look at me now, she thought to herself. See how he feels about puffy eyes, swollen cheeks, and a red, runny nose. She wiped away the last of the mascara from her cheeks and put on some powder, then pulled the clip from her thick chestnut hair. She used her fingers to loosen it, then shook it out around her shoulders, hoping it might conceal a bit of her morning suffering. Noticing her sunglasses in her bag, she toyed with the idea of slipping them on.
No, she thought. Better to look sad than hung over.
She stood and looked around. With Veronica taking care of work, there was nothing left to do but say good-bye to Steve and go home to pack.
Steve’s office was two doors down from Kate’s. Though they worked for the same company, they were, in many respects, rivals: like two football players competing to play quarterback for the same team. They claimed it didn’t affect their relationship, but each secretly knew the other would love to be the one who brought in the next big client. Steve talked about working together, forming a partnership that would be even more powerful and persuasive than their individual efforts, but Kate didn’t buy it. She suspected that given the opportunity, he’d boot her out of her corner office as quick as he could move himself in.
She stopped outside his door and listened before knocking, not wanting to interrupt anything.
“Gosh, Ms. Sinclair, you look awful!”
Kate turned and looked at Lacey, Steve’s assistant, who sat wide-eyed behind her desk. “You musta had a rough night, huh? Were you and Steve out late partying?”
Kate sighed, suddenly grateful for the tact and kindness of her own assistant. Lacey had never been known for exemplary people skills and had a habit of believing that anyone’s business ought to be her business as well. On any other occasion, Kate probably would have said som
ething to her about discretion and professionalism, but after the morning she’d had, she just didn’t have the energy.
“Is Steve busy?” she asked. “I’m on my way out and need to speak with him before I go.”
Lacey glanced at the phone on her desk. “He was on the phone, but, oh, wait, there he went. He just hung up. Shall I let him know you’re here?”
“No. I’ll just go on in.” Kate walked into Steve’s office and closed the door.
“Sometimes I wonder where you found that exasperating woman,” she said.
Steve looked up from his desk. “Oh, she’s not that bad.” He smiled. “I like her Southern charm.” He stood up to greet Kate with a kiss on her forehead. “Kate, what happened to you? You look awful,” he said.
“A fact already well established this morning,” she said tersely. Looking into his eyes, pale blue and piercing, Kate saw that he was confused by her tone. He wasn’t trying to hurt her and had no idea what her nerves had been through that morning. He didn’t deserve her rudeness. She took a deep breath and tried to soften her tone. “I’m going to North Carolina for a week or so. My aunt just passed away. I’ve got to go to the funeral and spend some time with my family.”
“Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry,” Steve said. “Were you and your aunt close?”
Kate closed her eyes in exasperation. Why must everyone ask that question?
“Yes, we were close,” she answered simply.
“Do you . . . do you want me to come with you?” Steve asked.
“No!”
Steve was obviously stung by her hasty rejection, but Kate was not moved. The idea of returning home was complicated enough. The pressure of having him along would only make things more difficult.
“Kate, I wish you’d let me be there for you,” he said softly.
“It’s not exactly the best place for you to meet my family, is it? A funeral? What would everyone think?” she said.
“I’m not really concerned about your family,” he said. “I was thinking more about you and I being together. Work has us so busy; it might be nice to get away for a while.” He backed up and sat on the edge of his desk. “Or maybe not.”
The House at Rose Creek Page 1