In Search Of Her Own

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Copyright

Victoria’s pulse quickened.

Philip laughed gently. “Really, Miss Carlin, you don’t expect me to give away trade secrets, do you?”

Embarrassment colored her cheeks. “It’s just so fascinating. If someone were looking for…someone,” she persisted, “you would be willing to go out and search for him—or her?

” He studied her. “Are you looking for someone, Miss Carlin? A missing child?”

She averted her gaze, her thoughts drifting off to a familiar darkness. Yes, I see a nameless, faceless child; my sweet little boy lost; heart of my heart, my very life. I never stop looking, and yet I wouldn’t know him if I passed him on the street.

Victoria’s hands were trembling. “I never said that, now, did I, Mr. Anders?”

His gaze remained unflinching. “Sometimes a person’s silences say more than their words.”

writes from the heart about contemporary issues facing adults. Considered one of America’s bestloved Christian fiction writers, Carole was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi. She is the recipient of two Pacesetter Awards and the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award. Over eight hundred of Carole’s stories, articles and poems have been published in more than one hundred Christian periodicals.

A frequent speaker at conferences, schools, churches and women’s ministries around the country, Carole finds fulfillment in being able to share her testimony about the faithfulness of God in her life and the abundance He offers those who come to Him. Carole and her husband, Bill, have three children and live in Moreno Valley, CA.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow: though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

Isaiah 1:18

March, Easter Sunday

I went to the cemetery this cold, slate gray morning—had to, felt compelled, driven, as if the choice had been made for me. I stood with my back rigid, my hands doubled into fists, the wind whipping my hair, a torrent of tears dammed behind my eyes.

I had to be with Mother.

Hard to believe; the terrible reality still bombards me, like barbs in the flesh, sudden, unexpected, stealing my breath, leaving me reeling.

My mother is dead

Nearly a month now since she died.

I stood in the light powdery snow for what seemed forever—yes, mud-rippled snow and frozen ground on this Resurrection Sunday; no sign of spring, no tree limbs budding with the promise of life. My feet and hands grew numb; my throat ached, raw with the cold

I realize now I should have worn the heavy nubby coat Mother gave me when I began teaching at the university—a long, tailored, practical coat, a deep teal green, a color Mother said brought out the red in my auburn hair and accented the aqua-green of my eyes. I remember she got the coat on sale at Harris’s, or was it RobinsonsMay? Mother never paid full price for anything in her life. It was a wonderful buy, she said; it would last me for years, she said.

I accepted it gratefully, profusely grateful, as I accepted all of Mother’s gifts She shouldn’t have, I told her; it was more than I deserved—I, the daughter who never measured up.

But not even Mother’s marvelous coat could have warmed me today I knew it as I approached the grave site. The coldness in my bones didn’t come from winter’s lingering chill. It was the coldness of death, like a rock in my chest, hard, frigid, unmoving. Today at her grave I noticed the earth was still scarred, not smooth and untouched like the land around it. It was the only sign, the remnant clue, that a funeral had occurred, a burial taken place

Where my mother lies, the frozen earth still speaks of the deed, bears witness to it In time it, too, will take on the bland, anonymous, impeccable look of a rich man’s lawn. I accept that fact, as I accept the fact that my mother is gone, her soul is in heaven.

But can I ever accept her going?

This morning I knelt down and placed a perfect white lily on her grave. White on white, life and death blending into a milky blur—the smooth creamy flesh of the lily against the gritty, icy blue snow. There is no marker yet. The headstone will take several weeks to make. It will match my father’s stone nearby—that proper, solemn slab of granite with his name precisely carved in large letters