One Lavender Ribbon Read online

  Young Adult Novels

  by Heather Burch

  Halflings

  Guardian

  Avenger

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2014 Heather Burch

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781477823149

  ISBN-10: 147782314X

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014900302

  Dear John,

  I’m a writer. Words are my lifeblood and yet I find all of them inadequate to tell you how much I appreciate, need, and love you. If what I’m doing is good, then you made it good. If my words reach beyond the paper veil and into someone’s heart, it’s because you’ve reached into mine. And if I live a thousand years, I still won’t find words suitable for how I feel.

  Your wife,

  Heather

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Present Day

  Will sat in the front row, knowing the room was full without turning to see. The unmistakable sense of people squeezing in tighter to pay their final respects and all the sorrowful tension that accompanied them filled the space with an awkward silence.

  He glanced down at his fingers. He’d rolled up the little leaflet, something he was sure one shouldn’t do at a funeral. Will swallowed the lump in his throat. Grown men weren’t supposed to cry. No worries—he was certain he could hold his emotions at a safe and reasonable distance.

  Until a tiny little hand slid into his palm.

  “Daddy, are you sad?” Giant dark eyes blinked on a small angelic face, now creased with a frown.

  It undid him.

  Will cleared his throat, a futile attempt to remove the surge wrecking his last shred of composure. “Yes, baby. Daddy’s sad.”

  The frown deepened, causing her eyes to darken and fill with tears. “Then I’m sad too.”

  He reached down and scooped her into his arms. She strained to look in the casket, but only for a moment, then turned and wrapped her little arms around his neck. Will held her close. If not for the deceased, he wouldn’t have his young treasure. Music filled the air. Short breaths warmed a spot on his shirt. “Daddy,” she whispered, “when we get home will you tell me the story again about you and Mommy?”

  He tilted to look down at her face. “Sure.” He’d tell her a thousand times if she wanted. Because there’d been no real life until that day Adrienne Carter knocked on his door with a stack of old letters.

  Letters,” Adrienne Carter whispered, and ran her fingers over the contents of the small open box in her hands. Thunder sounded outside, causing the attic window to rumble. She glanced at it, then above her head to the rafters, where the box had been just moments before. Adrienne adjusted the flashlight under her arm and reached to the floor, where an old broom—her weapon against the onslaught of attic spiders—rested, perched between an empty trunk and a stack of old magazines. With a soft pool of light guiding her, she tilted the broom into the corner, keeping the metal box pressed against her chest. This was something . . . unique. Of that she was certain. The intrigue almost caused her to forget her prior plan of tinkering with the breaker box. If the lights didn’t come on soon, she’d return to it; but right now, letters from a distant past waited. And that took precedence over everything else.

  The attic door groaned as Adrienne threw her weight into pushing it shut. Old houses didn’t always comply with the rules . . . simple things like doors fitting into doorframes, the same frames that had cradled them for nearly a century. This one insisted on puffing up. She’d called her dad and asked about it right after she’d moved in. But he’d just said, “Old houses. They breathe. Humidity and all. It’ll fit better in the winter.”

  Whatever that meant. Like southern Florida had winters. She’d also consulted the hardware store guy, but he’d just suggested she hire someone to shave off the edges where the frame had scraped until bare wood shone beneath the wood stain. Hire someone. Yes, that’s what she needed to do for about a billion jobs in this renovation.

  Her feet padded down the attic stairs, through the upstairs hallway, and finally onto the stairs leading to the first level of her new . . . old home.

  The flashlight cast shadows as she moved, highlighting and then shrouding various rehab projects in multiple areas, all at different levels of completion. If she ever actually got a few done, she’d throw a party. If, of course, she had any friends. Which she didn’t.

  Her light skittered across some ominous thing in the corner, causing her to pause halfway down the stairs. Just a sheet thrown over the recliner. Adrienne released the air she’d sucked in hard and scanned the area, orienting herself and looking for other monsters. None.

  She hated being without electricity. It always happened at the worst possible time, during window-rattling thunderstorms. Actually, the whole place looked better in the softened radiance—where the scars of life hid behind the muted glow of lantern and flashlight.

  The tart bite of fresh paint greeted her at the base of the stairs. Her hand had grown sweaty around the small metal box. Adrienne’s heartbeat picked up, and she scurried to the couch to open the first letter.

  June 1944

  Dear Gracie,

  I fear where this war will lead me. I fear the dark unknown that hovers in the distance and takes men captive—if not their flesh, their very hearts. The thought of you keeps me moving forward, forces me to refuse the desperation that threatens. Before we met, I was alive, but empty. From the moment I saw you, there was no doubt you were all my heart had yearned for. My mind slips back to that day. You and Sara were at the park. Your golden hair danced in rhythm to the gentle wind. Your white sundress flowed around you, and as you laughed, all the world sprang to life. I desperately wanted to come and speak to you. But I dared not. Perhaps you were only a figment of my imagination, and if I approached, you would disappear like fog on a cool morning. I watched you walk away and could feel my heart going with you. For many minutes I waited, staring at the horizon, hoping you would reappear over the hillside, but you didn’t.

  Gracie, of all the things that have brought me suffering, being apart from you is the most excruciating pain I have ever experienced. But please know, I would suffer this a thousand days to spend one day with you. And there will come a time when we will walk together along the ocean, watching sunsets and sunrises. But we will be together in honor. You told me in your last letter that your mother was pleased with my decision to join the Army. I pray it is so. I refuse to be at odds with her. You and Sara are all she has. Of course she wants the best for you. I know you have been melancholy about my decision, but it is
the only way.

  I will come back to you.

  And I make you this promise: upon my return, we will celebrate for an eternity. We will celebrate life and love, and nothing ever, ever will pull us apart again. Pray for me, Gracie. Give Sara my love.

  Forever yours,

  William

  In one long whoosh, all the air left Adrienne’s lungs. Her grip softened on the letter as her gaze drifted to a dark spot in the hallway. She stared into the nothingness, unable to focus. Only able to feel. What’s it like to get a letter like this? Have someone hold you in such adoration that he’d die a thousand deaths to spend a day with you? She couldn’t imagine. The love she’d experienced with Eric had proven to be a lonely road on her part and a self-absorbed dictatorship on his part.

  Each fingertip throbbed where she touched the letter. The pulses sent unnamable sensations flowing through her, potent and uncommon and able to caress the desperate places of her heart, allowing her to wish. To hope.

  Allowing her to dream.

  Lightning flashed outside, causing Adrienne to jump. The living room lit up in strobe light flashes, a giant camera snapping photographs of her holding a letter so intimate, she felt like an intruder in her own home. Adrienne pressed the faded page to her heart in an attempt to absorb all that it was. Her free hand reached to touch the rusted metal box that had likely been its home for more years than she’d been alive. Beyond the window, the storm continued its assault.

  She drew the envelope closer in the lamplight. For the first time since she’d bought the rundown Victorian house, she was thankful for the quirky wiring. Without it, she’d have never found the letters.

  But still, she added calling an electrician to her ever-growing list. She looked at the envelope more closely.

  It had grayed over the long years, but the names and addresses were legible, the postmark unmistakable. Nineteen forty-four. That would have been World War II. When she read the address line, her breath caught. Her home, 722 Hidden Beach Road, and the names: To Grace Chandler from William Bryant.

  The roar of the ocean momentarily grabbed her attention. She paused and listened to the angry sea as a barrage of palm fronds smacked the side of her house. Adrienne set the box down on the wooden coffee table and leaned back, melting into the couch.

  How many times had she entered the attic and flipped the breaker, unaware of the delicate silver package hovering above in the rafters? If not for the spider and Adrienne’s ninja skills with the designated spider-broom, the box would still be up there, safely hidden from prying eyes, with an old-fashioned ink pen; a black-and-white photograph; and lastly, the stack of letters tied with a faded lavender ribbon.

  Earlier in the night, Adrienne had almost given up on the on-again, off-again wiring and gone to bed, when the lights flickered, went off, and stayed off. But oil lamps made one brave, and the thought of waking at 3:00 a.m. to a house with its own set of imaginary ghosts and strange noises had forced her up the creaky attic stairs. Now she was glad she’d gone. Maybe she was finally getting used to the turn-of-the-century house. And being alone. She hadn’t thought about it until her first night in the creaky old Victorian, but she’d never been alone. Not ever. She’d gone from her folks’ house in Missouri to college with a roommate—four years of fun; and then to being married to Eric—almost six years of torture. But never alone. Until now.

  Her neighbor Sammie had warned her about the violent Florida storms and recommended she purchase the lamp along with the candles and flashlights. Oh, she did have one friend: Sammie. But the two of them together could hardly be considered a party. There was also Ryan, the college guy who’d helped move in her belongings. They’d shared a few fun dinners and beach strolls, but Ryan wasn’t what she needed. Fun college boys might have appealed a few years back, but not now. Even if she did get some major remodeling done on the house, a party with her only two friends would be laced with more obstacles than the clearance section of the lumberyard. No party.

  She reached for the oil lamp. The soft flame danced in flickering waves that grew taller as she turned the lever. Shadows snaked to the corners of her living room. Her living room. In the house she’d bought after a five-minute inspection. Really, when she thought about it, it was crazy. So she didn’t think about it. Messy divorces had a way of tweaking one’s common sense. Adrienne had spent the last few months tweaked.

  But the house was growing on her. Sort of. It was becoming a home. That’s what she told herself. Well, one thing for sure: it looked a whole lot better now than it had when she’d flown down from Chicago and made an immediate offer—which had been accepted almost as fast.

  Adrienne touched the edge of the ribbon. “Nice to meet you, Grace Chandler and William Bryant.” Who were they, the faceless names in the letter? Grace had lived in this house. Sara must be her sister. Each had occupied one of these rooms. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening for the past. Did they live here long? Did William return from the war? With the light brighter, she reached into the box and found the photograph. A handsome young man in a crisp Army uniform stood smiling, with a young girl at his side. Adrienne’s finger ran along the opposite side, which sported a jagged yellow edge. Someone had ripped that section off. She flipped the photo over. The date, 1942, adorned the back, but no names.

  This could be William. What about the girl? She couldn’t be Grace. The girl in the pretty polka-dotted dress was just a child, years younger than the boy.

  He was strikingly good-looking, with an eager grin that made Adrienne want to smile back. Eyes sharp and focused, he looked out at her from inside the picture. Poetry danced in those eyes, not unlike the poetry of the letter. Surely this must be William.

  After extinguishing the oil lamp, Adrienne rose and carried the box to the kitchen table. The flashlight tucked beneath her arm fell across a local phone directory—the town was so small it still printed them—splattered with bits of sheetrock dust and spackle. Her fingers gently drummed the tabletop the way they always did when she was considering something ridiculous. William Bryant, WWII veteran, in the directory and still here after so many years? Not likely. Or Grace Chandler? No. It was an eternity ago, yet the words in the letter had come alive in her hands, the love seeming as fresh and new as it must have been when he wrote them.

  She chewed her bottom lip. It was nearly raw from her chewing it during the day’s work of stripping the fireplace mantle. Since moving to Florida, she’d discovered a few things about herself. One, she was pitifully deficient when it came to renovating houses. And two, when she discovered she was pitifully deficient at something, she gnawed her lips to shreds. One glance at the envelope and her fingers were finding their way through the directory pages. B for Bryant.

  Halfway down the page, William Bryant waited.

  William Bryant—known to everyone as Pops—rubbed a hand over the fifty-year-old scar on his left leg. Humid mornings brought a stiffness he’d learned to live with but didn’t relish. He rose from the bed slowly, letting old bones and joints awaken as he moved to the window and peeled back the curtain. Lonely strands of light sought to illuminate the room, leaving hazy streaks across the space.

  A few personal items and pictures sat here and there, but not quite enough to make it feel like home. He tried to keep the room tidy enough to please his grandson Will, yet cozy enough to please himself, but when he’d tripped on a stack of books in the middle of the night, Will’s desire for a safe, streamlined area overruled Pops’s affection for creature comforts.

  The notion of a stroll encouraged a second glance out his window. Morning dew cloaked the backyard with a glistening splash of moisture. No walk to the pier this morning, he decided, tossing a look at the gray sky. With the sun’s inability to break through the clouds and burn off the dew, everything remained slick. He wasn’t afraid of a little moist grass, but Will worried about him, so he would honor his grandson’s wishes.

  He didn’t despair over Will’s desire to protect him. Will had sac
rificed much of his valued personal space to make room for his only living grandfather. The boy had even forfeited half the library where Pops’s treasured books waited for him, meticulously positioned and ready.

  He let the curtain fall back in front of the window, bathing the room in quiet darkness. Weather-imprisoned and joints throbbing, he allowed himself the indulgence of self-pity. But sometimes pity, though she had an edge that could cut, was a welcome companion. After all, it was hard for a man like him to admit age was overtaking agility. Time was conquering dexterity.

  He had few regrets. At age eighty-one, not too bad. He’d married a good woman. They’d had a beautiful son. And now he had Will. The memories were first rate. So he’d wake up every morning, open his eyes, and see what was in store for him. At this age, what more could he ask for?

  One day, he would simply close his eyes and not open them. That’s how he envisioned it. Now Will, on the other hand, had a recurring nightmare where Pops took out the boat late at night and drowned. Will was a worrier. Not too much Pops could do or say to change that. “It’s just a dream,” Pops assured him. He’d even gone into his grandson’s room when he heard him thrashing about. Soothed his forehead, like he’d done a thousand times while Will was growing up. Pops understood nightmares. A man didn’t survive the second World War and return without knowing the power of bad dreams. But that wouldn’t be the end of life for Pops. No. He’d go to sleep and awaken on a fair morning in Glory. Where there wasn’t any arthritis, and there wasn’t any dew to threaten the path to the pier. Pops smiled.

  Weathered fingers reached to the table lamp and fumbled with the switch. He slid his Bible closer, his thumb finding its way down the tattered leather edge.

  He read, starting from where he’d stopped the previous morning, pulling the words deep into his soul. He closed the book and felt a quickening, an earnest expectation of something new, something fresh on the horizon.