by Liz Johnson
“Remember, it’s due by the first.”
Anne nodded, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder.
“Every month.”
“Uh-huh.” Clamping her mouth closed lest she get herself in trouble, she spun and walked outside.
The sun had almost disappeared beneath the unfurling clouds, a red carpet for the coming storm. She could relate. Her whole life, she’d just been making the way for things to go from bad to worse. She hadn’t thought it could get much worse, but maybe God had brought her to Savannah to kill her off in a hurricane. That sounded about right.
Except that usually the bad consequences were her own fault. She didn’t have a thing to do with the coming storm.
She strolled around the outside of the white-brick building, which was at least a century and a half old. The shutters had been painted green, and wrought-iron lamps at the front door flickered a welcome that Lydia didn’t know how to reflect. The top two stories had been converted into apartments, but the rooms were about as big as they had been when the building served as a boardinghouse before the Civil War. That meant rent was low and she didn’t have much space to furnish.
Stopping by her car, she snagged her hat and lunch box from the passenger seat, then dragged herself up the metal stairs on the outside of the building.
Her hand was already in her bag, hunting for her keys, when her phone began ringing. Digging through the rest of her keep, she peered into the abyss. A faint blue glow was her only beacon, and she clasped her hand around the vibrating phone.
“Hello,” she panted before even looking at who was calling her.
“The hurricane. Lorenzo. It’s supposed to be bad.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Well, hello to you too. Are you prepared for this thing?”
Anne nodded before remembering that her mom couldn’t see almost three thousand miles through the phone line. “Don’t worry,” she said, opening up her apartment and slipping into its muggy interior. “I’m watching the news. I’ll be fine.”
“You can come home, you know.”
“I know, Mom.” It was more something she said because it was what her mom wanted to hear than reality. Because she really couldn’t. Going back to California wasn’t an option. It hadn’t been in exactly two years, three months, and twelve days.
Her mom paused, and there was a long silence on the other end of the line. She leaned harder against the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder as she threw her bag on the counter, waiting for the sound of the television in the background. It usually served as both a distraction and a conversation piece—especially when Anne had already seen the cheesy made-for-TV movie that her mom couldn’t turn off. But tonight there was no spirited dialogue, and the bright strings in the background were missing.
“Is this about money? I know things are tight.”
That was an understatement. But it also wasn’t the deal breaker. Money was an issue, but California was the issue.
“Thanks, but no . . . I’m fine. Really.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself, and she didn’t like it one bit. Or maybe she really was trying to convince herself. That was even worse.
Falling into the lone chair in her living room, she put her face in her free hand and sighed. In all honesty, the weatherman on channel 11 had done a terrific job of scaring her pants off. Lorenzo sounded like a pretty nasty dude, and he was supposed to make landfall right along the Georgia coast sometime before midnight.
She’d done everything the newscasters had recommended. She’d picked up bread and milk—the last half gallon at her grocery store. She’d even splurged on an extra jar of peanut butter—before she’d given her last twenty-one bucks to Lydia downstairs. Just in case. She’d charged her phone in her car. Also in case.
In case her power went out—pretty likely. In case her phone died—almost certain. In case she was cut off from the rest of the world—she already felt like that most days, so this wouldn’t be much different.
But no amount of planning could really prepare her for what was ahead. The unknown.
“I’ll buy your plane ticket. I’m sitting at my computer and can get it for you right now. It’ll just take a minute.” Suddenly the once-silent background was filled with the clicks of a mouse and the frenzied typing on an ergonomic keyboard. Anne could picture it. It hadn’t changed in ten years. Not since before she’d . . . well, before.
In her life there was only a before and an after. And never the twain shall meet. Her life was defined by one solitary event, and the whole of her history was divided by it.
Her parents’ computer had been the same in both. A black tower and jumbo monitor and that oddly shaped white keyboard with the gel wrist pad. She’d used it a lot before, but only once after—right before she’d left for Savannah.
“Please don’t. I can’t come home.”
The silence was so loud on the other end of the phone that she prayed her mom would turn on a movie. Even the news. Anything to break up the deafening silence. She didn’t.
“You mean you won’t.”
Anne meant both. But it didn’t really matter. She couldn’t explain. There weren’t enough words in the world to make her mom understand that when she’d left California, she hadn’t been leaving her parents. She hadn’t been leaving the sweet memories of her childhood or the joy of her first two years of college.
The library had had a book about words for which there was no precise English translation, and she’d savored every strange and wonderful page. And right about now she wondered if she should be included in that book. There was a pain inside her with no exact translation. Not when her mom had hugged her so tight. Not when a tear had slipped down her dad’s cheek. Not even when her kid brother had begged her to stick around for his college graduation.
Her heart was filled with a mixture of regret and sorrow and the deepest certainty that what had been done could never be undone.
“Annie?” Her mom’s voice changed to the one she always used when her children were ill. “Please. Come home.”
“I . . . I love you, Mom.”
“Then trust that we love you too. And we’ll take care of you.”
If only she could. If only it were that easy. It would be so simple. She had only three weeks’ worth of tours booked. And then . . . Then she could pack up everything she owned into her Civic. It would fit easily.
And then what? She’d go back to a place where memories slammed into her at every turn, crushing and relentless.
Her mom sighed. “Honey . . . you’ve got to let this go. You’ve paid for it.”
“According to who?” She spit the words out, instantly regretting them. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . you don’t know what it’s like.”
“You’re right. I don’t. But I know that you’re my daughter and I love you. I want you to be happy and safe and cared for. Please.”
“I want those things too.” But wanting them didn’t mean she deserved them. Even in her dreams, she couldn’t imagine deserving happiness. She certainly didn’t deserve to be cared for. At least no more than the state of California had cared for her for almost six years.
“Mom, I can’t explain what it’s like facing that city. Every corner of Santa Barbara has a memory. It’s a museum, a monument to every stupid, trusting decision I made. Every second I’m there is nothing more than a reminder that I . . .”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“The jury disagreed.” She pressed her toe into the stained carpet of her living room, remembering the narrowed eyes and tight mouth of the jury foreman. He’d stared at her hard as he read the verdict, and she’d wanted to slide beneath the table. But there was no hiding from the judge and jury in the courtroom. She’d deserved every ounce of his disdain.
“I could have stopped it.” Anne sighed. “I should have.”
“Your dad and I love you. You always have a home with us. Okay?”
“Okay.”
But she’d moved as far fro
m the California coast as she could, and she wasn’t going back. Her parents’ home wasn’t big enough for all her baggage.
And try as she might, she couldn’t set it down.
Acknowledgments
Daughter. Sister. Writer. Friend. These are some of the names I’m called, identities I’m known for. And the people who call me by them are the reason you’re holding this book in your hands. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to them.
To my mom and dad, who call me daughter and let me disappear for months at a time to write a book they won’t get to read for many more. Your love story might not have come from the pages of a novel, but it is stable and steady and has given me wings to dream.
To Micah and Beth and Hannah and John and their families, who call me sister and Auntie E. You’re the best encouragers around. I love being part of this family.
To the team at Revell—Vicki, Karen, Hannah, Michele, Jessica, and so many more—who call me writer and friend. Thank you for cheering me on. Thank you for believing in my stories and helping them become the best versions of themselves. What a privilege and a joy to work with this team.
To Rachel Kent, who calls me writer, client, and friend. Knowing you has been one of the great joys of my writing journey. I could not ask for a better agent.
To Amy Haddock, who calls me friend and willingly reads my very first drafts, red pen in hand. As always, your feedback is invaluable. Your friendship more so.
To Jessica Patch and Jill Kemerer, who call me friend. Your encouragement is such a boost, especially when I hit a rough writing patch. I look forward to each and every Vox from you both, knowing you’ll have wise words and so much laughter to share.
To my heavenly Father, who calls me his own. The name you’ve given me is the one I cling to. Thank you for inviting me to join you on this creative journey.
Liz Johnson loves stories about true love. When she’s not writing her next book, she works in marketing. She is the author of more than a dozen novels—including The Red Door Inn, Where Two Hearts Meet, and On Love’s Gentle Shore—a New York Times bestselling novella, and a handful of short stories. She makes her home in Arizona, where she dotes on her five nieces and nephews.
LizJohnsonBooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Books by Liz Johnson
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
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Epilogue
Sneak Peek at the Next Georgia Coast Romance
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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