

### 2020 Vision  
A Collection of Diverse Short Stories

_2020 Vision: A Collection of Diverse Short Stories_ is a collective work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The following works were used by permission and agreement:

_I Can See Clearly Now_ Copyright © 2020 by C.D. SUTHERLAND

_The Trunk_ Copyright © 2020 by JUDY BURFORD

_What To Do, What To Do_ Copyright © 2020 by WANDA BUSH

_A Charmed Life_ Copyright © 2020 by BEVERLY FLANDERS

_Secrets_ Copyright © 2020 by DONNA M. COPELAND

_A Shift in Time_ Copyright © 2020 by CAROLE LEHR JOHNSON

_And No More Goodbyes_ Copyright © 2020 by SUSAN HIERS FOSTER

Cover photography © 2020 by RAY POHL

Unless otherwise noted, scripture quotations marked ESV are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version) copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Concerning the anthology itself:

_2020 Vision: A Collection of Diverse Short Stories_ Copyright © 2020 C.D. Sutherland

Published by Narrow Way Press LLC

www.narrowwaypress.com

Cover design by C.D. SUTHERLAND

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-937366-26-1

eBook ISBN: (Kindle) 978-1-937366-27-8

eBook ISBN: (EPUB) 978-1-937366-28-5

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the contributing authors.
Dedication

To Cindy Marie Sutherland  
for her tireless editing of  
our collective muses.
Table of Contents

About the Short Story

I Can See Clearly Now by C.D. SUTHERLAND

The Trunk by JUDY BURFORD

What To Do, What To Do by WANDA BUSH

A Charmed Life by BEVERLY FLANDERS

Secrets by DONNA M. COPELAND

A Shift in Time by CAROLE LEHR JOHNSON

And No More Goodbyes by SUSAN HIERS FOSTER

About the Authors

Judy Burford

Wanda Bush

Donna M. Copeland

Beverly Flanders

Susan Hiers Foster

Carole Lehr Johnson

C.D. Sutherland
About the Short Story

Cindy Marie

By C.D. Sutherland

It was more than forty years ago,

In Korea by the Yellow Sea,

That a maiden traveled whom you may know

By the name of CINDY MARIE;—

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to be forever with me.

I was an Airman, and she a Soldier,

In Korea by the Yellow Sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than just love—

I and my CINDY MARIE—

We flew separately back and rejoined in the states

Together, her and me.

She turned in her rifle, I strapped on my jet,

And many good homes had we,

Where dusty winds blew, and cotton grew

Me and my CINDY MARIE;

So that our lovely daughters came

And grandchildren from some did flee,

To live with us, as a family

Together with her and me.

But flying, ended with a final landing,

So turned to writing, did me

Yes!—that was my destiny—as readers know,

Wolves, dragons, and a bloody sea;

T'was editors polished my skill to write,

But my perfection was CINDY MARIE.

And our love is stronger by far than the love

Of when we were younger you see,

Though there's many books by me;

But whether a novel or short story prose,

She reads and remarks, my editor she;

Our stories are stories straight from our soul

Mine and my soulmate's, CINDY MARIE:—

For my muse never flows without bringing me dreams

Of my Seoul mate, CINDY MARIE;

And my dragons never fly but I feel the love ties

Of my soulmate CINDY MARIE;

And so, every night, I lie down by the side

Of my darling, my prize, my editor, my bride

Our adventure is wherever are we—

Since we left Korea by that distant Sea.

This publication stands as a testimony of the third year a group of authors have assembled their collective muse to create an anthology celebrating the short story. The last two years' anthologies, _Celebrating the Short Story_ and _Over the Moon Travel Treasures_ , were great successes in advancing the craft of Christian fiction writing in Louisiana. This year, six veteran anthology authors have been joined by one new author to produce the wonderful collection of diverse short stories you're now viewing, _2020 Vision_.

The short story has long endured since the creation of language. It is a useful vehicle for presenting an account, more often concentrating on the creation of a mood rather than a plot. A short story can range from a cleverly crafted sentence all the way up to 20,000 words. Whatever the length, a short story is typically centered around one plot, one main character, and one central theme. This stands in contrast to a novel, which is capable of weaving multiple plots and themes among an array of central characters. The writing styles used in short stories can be somewhat unusual or surprising to its readers, sometimes their writers use literary techniques which might wear down a reader if employed through the length of a novel. Being short, by definition, they provide the perfect fodder for being assembled into collections, usually with some unifying theme or common element to tie them together.

The seven short stories contained in _2020 Vision_ are as diverse in technique and theme as our previous years' writings; nevertheless, they are united in the fact that a mention of the eyes is a common element. We invite you to take notice of the techniques used by this array of talented authors to weave those eyes-related appearances into their stories. If you are able to attend the ACFW Louisiana's 5th Annual Aspiring Writers Workshop at Bossier Community College on 13 June 2020, you might have some questions about those techniques answered for you.

Enjoy these seven adventures as they take you places you probably have never been. C.D. Sutherland examines how a couple of young boys, Sam Strong and his best friend Nigel Caruthers deal with bullies and personal crisis in _I Can See Clearly Now._ Share Savannah's struggles with finances and grief in the aftermath of inheriting her grandmother's estate in Judy Burford's _The Trunk_. Experience how an emotionally damaged man, Stephen, deals with the loss of his father and the discovery of family secrets in Wanda Bush's _What To Do, What To Do_. Explore the symbolism and value of memories in Beverly Flanders' _Charmed Life_ adventure of a lost and found heirloom. Deal with the suspense of Glenys Perkins' concealed past being uncovered in Donna M. Copeland's _Secrets_. Come along and experience Katherine and Tammy Stewart's time-traveling, romantic adventure as revealed in Carole Lehr Johnson's _A Shift in Time._ Finally, see how the lives of family and friends overlap through the years with Susan Hiers Foster's debut short story, _And No More Goodbyes._

I CAN SEE CLEARLY NOW

**By: C.D. Sutherland**

"Sam, you've got to help me. I need an eye chart." The desperation in Nigel Caruthers' voice caused me to pause. While he had a reputation for pulling pranks on me, the urgency glowing from his eyes reminded me of a dying man. He was my best friend long before we started the eighth grade. Of course, I would help him. Then he added, "My life depends on it."

"Follow me." Hoping it wasn't a set up for a joke, I made my way toward the medical reference section in the library. "It'll be over here, but how does your life depend on finding one?"

"Trust me." Nigel looked over his shoulder the way a robber goes into a bank in the old movies, worried the sheriff might notice him.

"Whatever." I shrugged and pulled a reference book from the shelf. I quickly turned to a description of the Snellen chart. I ran my finger down the page and said, "Designed by Herman Snellen, a Dutch ophthalmologist."

"Funny name," Nigel muttered as he scanned the page with his eyes squinted. "What's an ophthalmologist, an eye doctor?"

"Yep." I had won a blue ribbon on my science fair project about vision problems way back in the sixth grade. That was two years ago, but I still remembered much about the subject and didn't mind sharing. "Ophthalmology is a branch of medicine dealing with the diagnosis and treatment of eye disorders."

"Whatever." Nigel frowned. I wasn't sure if he already knew what ophthalmology was or if he didn't care. He squinted at the page and then said, "1862? Snelling?"

"Snellen."

"What?"

"His name is Snellen."

"Whatever." Nigel rolled his eyes. "Gee whiz, Sam. 1862 was a long time ago. I need a modern chart. How about a 1978 version? Where are they kept?"

"They still use this one."

"No way." Nigel sneered at me, oozing disbelief.

"Way," I said, lifting my chin slightly. All Nigel needed to do was read a few more lines, and then he would have known it without me telling him. I tapped the page, and his eyes returned to the book. "It says here, it is a ubiquitous standard in medical offices."

"You bicky is who?" Nigel shrugged and gave me his best deer-in-the-headlights look.

"It means they are found everywhere. Think about it—our eyes work the same way they have since creation, so once someone made a good chart, why would anyone need to invent a new one?"

"I don't know," said Nigel. "What if somebody memorized the chart and tried to cheat on an eye test?"

"Who would do that?"

"Nobody." Nigel took a deep breath and then grinned. "Doesn't matter. I need to check out this book."

"You can't," I said, shaking my head. "It's a reference book. There's only one copy in the library. You'll have to look at it here."

"But I need this chart."

"For what?"

Nigel didn't answer me. Instead, he scratched his head and looked around as if to make sure nobody was watching. Then, he slowly pulled at the page, causing it to tear. The sound hit my ears as if the book screamed for help. I grabbed his hand and half whispered, half growled, "Nigel, stop."

As I tried to take the book from him, he held to it like a fourteen-pound bass fighting the skinny hook on my grandpa's old bamboo fishing pole. Appalled at his resistance, I gave the book a big yank. I thought I had won the battle, but he grabbed the poor book with both hands and nearly took me off my feet as he jerked it backwards. Still, I persisted. As we wrestled for possession, I feared we were about to tear it in two. "Stop."

"I need this chart." He whispered at me through his gritted teeth as he glared at me.

"You can look at it here, but you can't take it with you, nor can you damage this book." Not that I was an ardent fan of the Snellen chart, but I used reference books often and knew it was important they remain intact. This same reference book had provided me with valuable information during my science project. It was public property, and nobody had a right to destroy it, not even my best friend.

"If we keep this up, the book will rip in half. It'll be your fault. I only want one page."

"A book needs all of its pages."

Nigel's features softened, and a smile crept across his face. "Of course, how silly of me. I'll simply look at the book here." He raised his eyebrows, and I felt his grip relax slightly.

"You won't damage it?" I sensed he was tricking me, but I hoped he was relenting.

"No." He stretched the word as he said it. "I'm not going to do that. You've convinced me. I just want to look at it here in the library." His broad smile seemed fake to me, but maybe it was real. I wanted it to be.

"I'm going to trust you," I whispered.

"Good. And thanks for helping me find it. I'll see you after school." He nodded as I released the book to him. He took a chair at a nearby table and laid the book in front of him. He looked up at me and smiled. "I'll see you later."

My next class was in the gym, so I knew I couldn't stay to make sure he didn't vandalize the book. Nigel's last period was study hall, which allowed him to remain in the library. As I reached the exit door, I looked back at Nigel and saw him watching me, still grinning.

He is going to steal that page.

*****

After the last bell, I met Nigel at the bike racks. He'd already mounted his ten-speed Schwinn Paramount Touring bike and had one foot on the rack, which held him upright as he sat on the bike's narrow racing seat. His bike was faster than mine, but it didn't look as cool as my Schwinn Stingray. My chopper handlebars and banana seat were the envy of every ten-year-old in Port Angeles. The fact that I was thirteen didn't crush my enthusiasm for it. The bright red paint reminded me of my Uncle Chuck's cherry-colored Galaxie 500 sedan, which was basically a street-legal racecar. The night after my father's funeral last year, Uncle Chuck had let me drive it. I'd kept that a secret, known only by Uncle Chuck and me, lest Mom find out.

"Come on, Sam," said Nigel. "I haven't got all day."

"What's your hurry?" I asked as I wrapped my bike's security chain around the chrome bar, which extended just above the back of the Stingray's seat.

"I've got an appointment with Doctor Ayin. You can come with me if you think you can keep up." I smiled at his challenge, but before I was in the seat—he bolted, as was typical for him, giving himself a head start. We both knew it would be impossible for me to catch him. Complicating any effort to do so, a pack of sixth graders was watching me at the bike rack. Not wanting them to remember me struggling to catch up with the speeding Nigel, I decided to showboat a little.

I crouched my upper body forward to put much of my weight over the handlebars. With the Stingray rolling slightly, I positioned the pedal cranks to the 11 o'clock position, then pushed the pedal down as hard as I could, while pulling up on the handlebars simultaneously. The front-wheel came off the ground, and I immediately leaned back, but not too much, and continued to pedal. Popping a wheelie, actually made my start a little slower than it could have been. Still, the cool factor of impressing the ogling, younger kids was worth it. Little did they know that it had been Nigel who taught me how to pop a wheelie less than a year ago.

After I let the front-wheel drop back to the ground, Nigel was already way ahead of me. I pedaled with all my strength. Even then, I knew I'd have to cut him off on the corners before I could close the gap between us.

As we barreled along, I saw some bad-news boys at a phone booth in front of Herbert's Auto Parts Place. They were more of a loosely affiliated mob than an actual gang because they had no formal name, like the Jets, the Sharks, or Hell's Angels, but for the kids in junior high, they were a scourge.

The bad-news boys' favorite targets were the timid ones or the kids walking alone. They hustled them for their lunch money and any spare change they had on them. Of course, they preferred the ones who wouldn't fight back, so they singled them out regularly. Some kids would walk a mile out of their way to avoid the sidewalks those punks trolled.

Additionally, they harassed the girls, who had to guard their skirts against mirrors the cretins put on their shoes to peek at their underwear. Obscenity-laced threats of their reprisals intimidated their victims from complaining to any teachers or parents. That, coupled with the general belief that nobody would do anything to the thieving punks, empowered their lowly reign of terror. They often said they would _Watergate_ anybody that snitched on them.

When I was just a kid in November 1972, President Richard Nixon won reelection with a landslide. He got almost 61% of the popular vote along with 520 electoral votes, carrying forty-nine states—a record-setting landslide. Who could have known that within four months of beginning his second term, multiple congressmen of his opposition party would submit impeachment resolutions in Congress?

Initially, some people wanted the President impeached for authorizing bombing in Cambodia. According to my Dad, who was there, Cambodia was a routine haven and supply system area for the communists waging war against Americans in Vietnam. Some folks in Congress were concerned those operations _derogated_ the power of Congress to declare war. That was new a word for me. That's when I first learned the power of dictionaries. It means the same as _disparage_ or _detract_ , but lawyers prefer to use it to make themselves sound smarter than the rest of us. The fact that Congress had not declared war since the bombing of Pearl Harbor, probably did more to disparage or detract their power than anything Nixon might have done.

What was Vietnam, if not a war? What was Korea? Maybe Congress should have been impeached. For years, they provided the funding to deploy hundreds of thousands of American citizens to go fight battles in faraway lands without debating and voting for a declaration of war to support them. That seems nearly criminal to me.

But what do I know? I'm just a kid who reads books. A kid, who lost his Dad to Agent Orange, but something seems wrong about all of that. It's enough for a fellow to lose confidence in his government.

A year after those first charges, there was a great flood of other allegations relating to an alleged break-in at some Washington D.C. hotel called Watergate. Then it was as if the entire country turned against the President, the same President who had just set a record for popularity. Somehow, his political enemies convinced him to voluntarily surrender his tax records. Then those politicians, who were already against him, on a congressional committee insisted he owed taxes. Interestingly, Nixon's accountants had not listed those alleged taxes when preparing his filing, and get this, the IRS had not noticed or even cared about it for years. Yet, a group of Congressmen wanted to impeach him over that.

How does that happen?

First, he's charged with crazy crimes, and every time he cooperates with their investigation, they charge him with worse crimes. After a year of public hearings, which mostly ruined television for kids like me, his once adoring voters turned against him. His victorious united political party abandoned him. Then he resigned in dishonor. Now, that's his legacy. Maybe he should have fought back. Perhaps that's an important lesson for future Presidents.

I don't understand all of it, but I do know Nixon got us out of Vietnam. It was too late to save my father from Agent Orange. We'll never know how many American lives Nixon did save by ending what appeared to be an endless war. Hundreds? Thousands? My mother once read me a news article that predicted American children not even born yet would eventually fight and die in Vietnam. They were wrong, but it upset Mom at the time. She was worried about me. If Nixon had been President earlier, maybe we would never have gotten into that Southeast Asian war in the first place. Unless somebody invents a time machine, we'll never know. I do know that I miss my Dad, and I miss the life I would have had with him.

How do you defend yourself from a dozen or more expert liars swearing you are lying or had committed some crime? If the bad-news boys swore they saw you smoking pot or said you did something like threw a brick through a store window, how do you convince your parents and the police that you're innocent? You couldn't say, "I am not a crook," because nobody would believe you. That defense couldn't even save the most popular President in history from his accusers. He had to resign in disgrace, and that's not an option for a junior high schooler. Therefore, some kids paid the extortion while others walked the extra mile to avoid the confrontations. It's how we survived.

Jamie Young was the mob leader. I'd seen the switchblade he carried in his back pocket. It looked a lot like the one used by Jay Shaw, played by the actor James Caan, in that Alfred Hitchcock movie, _Memo from Purgatory_.

Some kids say Jamie once killed a man, but I doubted the truth of that rumor. If he had, how did he avoid going to jail? His parents owned the local dry-cleaners and were rich by our standards, but not rich enough to bribe their way out of a murder charge. Mr. Herbert was Jamie's uncle, who should know if Jamie was a murderer or not. Nobody in their right mind would let a murderer loiter outside their business, much less hire them to sweep up their store. Besides, nobody ever gave the dead guy an actual name. I tried in vain to find any story about it in the newspaper archives at the library. It had to be a lie.

At seventeen, Jamie was practically a grown man, but he wasn't smart by any measure. This was his third year in the eighth grade, and nobody expected him to ever get to high school. If he did, I imagined those older guys might give him more resistance than he could handle. For now, he presented a problem for us younger kids. Jamie's sloping forehead and bushy black eyebrows cast a permanent shadow over his eyes, and he always smelled like an ashtray. He was something like a caricature of an R-rated Fred Flintstone who had survived a forest fire. A puff of smoke rose above him as he pointed at Nigel, who was rapidly approaching. Jamie said something to the two boys skulking there with him, and they moved to intercept Nigel.

Joe and Orville Schlager were brothers. Orville was a narrow-shouldered, small-headed lad with handlebar ears, and was covered in large, brown freckles. His oversized front teeth gave him a gopher appearance. He wasn't much of a threat when he was alone, but Orville was rarely alone as he usually followed along in the shadows of Jamie and Joe, his older brother.

Joe was nearly as tall as Jamie, but he was built like the Pillsbury doughboy with a pear-shaped head along with a lower lip extending downward like a flap on his chin as if he were losing a battle against gravity. I thought fat Joe looked part English bulldog, but minus all the cuteness of the ugly breed. In response to Jamie's command, he waddled into Nigel's path with Orville trailing close behind.

As Joe reached for him, Nigel abruptly veered his bike away. Joe grabbed at empty air and then involuntarily gave his best impression of Humpty Dumpty. The road broke his fall but little else. I zipped by as Joe struggled to get back to his feet with help from Orville, who as stifling a laugh. Joe's angry face was red, and he shouted some obscenity at me.

_What did I do?_ For that matter, what did anybody do to deserve his harassment? His fall was his own fault.

*****

When I pulled up to Doctor Ayin's office, Nigel was already there. He was sitting on the front stoop under the giant spectacles sign, reading his history book. I unwrapped the chain from the seat of my Stingray and secured my bike to the same streetlight pole where Nigel had chained his ten-speed and said, "How about fat Joe? I thought he was going to get you."

"Ha! He's lucky I didn't run into him. My afterburners were lit." Nigel was fond of telling me he was destined to become an Air Force pilot, so he liked to pretend his blue bike was a supersonic jet.

"If you had," I said. "We'd still be trying to find your bike."

We both laughed, realizing the bad-news boys presented a formidable threat to two skinny teenagers like us, but neither of us would say it out loud. Our best tactic would be to run away. In such situations, having bikes was a blessing.

"What's up with this?" I pointed at Doctor Avin's business. "You need your eyes checked?" I walked toward him, wondering if he was studying for our upcoming Civil War test. It was supposed to be a tough one. "What're you reading?"

Nigel popped the book closed and said, "Momma made the appointment after the last parents/teachers conference. Old lady Wilson says I squint when I look at the chalkboard."

"You do squint a lot." I noticed he had a large piece of paper bookmarking where he had been reading.

"Hey, sometimes the sun gets in my eyes. So what? Besides, I'm going to be a pilot, which means I need 20/20 vision."

"I guess we'll see how that goes in a few minutes."

"Don't make me punch you." Nigel scowled and shook his fist at me. "I already told you that I'm going to test 20/20." While Nigel often threatened to punch me, he was always joking. We had been friends for years, and at least so far, we'd never seen a need to hit each other.

"I hope you test well, but how do you know you will?"

Nigel pulled the bookmark out of his history book and handed it to me. I knew what it was immediately. He had ripped it out of the library reference book. I felt my face tighten as I said, "Nigel! I told you not to do that."

"Look who's squinting now. Sorry, but I needed it." Nigel shrugged. "Besides, it didn't hurt you. You have no need for a Snelling chart."

"It's a Snellen chart."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said _Snelling_ , the word is _Snellen_."

"Whatever. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

"What? That's not the same thing at all."

He waved me off and said, "I needed it."

"Why?"

"If you really need to know—I needed to memorize it, so I can pass my eye exam."

"You don't study for an eye exam," I said as I folded the pilfered page. Somehow, I needed to return it to the reference book.

"You might not," said Nigel. "But I do."

"It's cheating."

"I study in preparation for all kinds of tests. An eye test is the same."

"It's cheating yourself." I put the folded page into my shirt pocket for safekeeping. "If you need glasses, maybe the test is the best way to help your vision."

"No, it's not the best way! Remember—for me to be an Air Force pilot, I have to have 20/20 vision."

"Faking an eye test will not change your vision. Besides, I've seen Air Force pilots wearing glasses. Maybe you're wrong about that rule."

"As long as I'm officially 20/20 while I'm applying, I'll be fine. The Air Force allows pilots to wear glasses after they're in, but if you have glasses before you're accepted, they reject you."

"Why such a hardline rule? A lot of brilliant people wear glasses, it seems like the Air Force is limiting its pool of potential pilots."

"For every pilot slot in the Air Force, there are a thousand guys with perfect vision standing in line, hoping to be selected. It's not just about being smart, it's about the magic that goes into making a pilot the perfect leader."

"Perfect? Nobody is perfect. What about the pilots that crash their airplane?"

"Airplanes can break or get shot down, but when they crash, and it's the pilot's fault, those are the guys that leaked through the filters."

"Do you mean like the ones who cheated on eye exams?"

"Don't make me punch you, Sam." We both laughed and went inside.

*****

As Nigel confidently strode toward the exam room, I looked around the empty waiting room to select the best metal and green vinyl chair. I headed for the one with the most reading material near it. Nigel turned and winked at me, then gave me a thumbs up, as if he were Chuck Yeager or somebody else special. The door closed behind him, and I patted my pocket with the page I had tucked away. The crinkle told me it was still there. Somehow, I needed to get the page back into the reference book.

I plopped down on the thick cushion, and it made a familiar but rude noise as the air rushed out of it. Fortunately, nobody else was in the waiting room, so I didn't have to stand up and sit down again to prove the noise was the cushion and not me. Even then, it would have been embarrassing. Merely thinking about that caused the back of my collar to heat up. _I hate those chairs._

I dug through the stack of magazines on an end table, hoping to find something interesting. A sports journal had an article about Pete Rose getting his three-thousandth major league hit, the thirteenth player in major league history to do so. The writer of the article suggested Pete Rose had a chance to break Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak record. Still, I figured the odds were against it. That record had stood for over thirty-seven years. Baseball wasn't my favorite sport, but from the looks of things, Pete Rose could do no wrong. I thought it must be nice to be born with such talent, he had it made. Good for him, but I doubted if anyone could ever break the legendary Ty Cobb's record of 4191 hits.

A newspaper was under the side table. I picked it up and discovered it was today's edition. There had been an explosion at Northwestern University in Illinois. During the Vietnam War, there had been many bombings, but this one seemed out of place. What could somebody be protesting now? Prosperity? Peace? Maybe it was merely some crazy guy waging war on the world. Whoever he was, I was confident that the authorities would eventually find him. When they did, I bet they would discover he was crazy.

I glanced over another article explaining how the Volkswagen Beetle would be discontinued after this year. It made sense. They were cute cars, popular with girls and some sorts of guys, but obsolete. People were tired of the design, so the Beetle's popularity was finally over. In a few years, I imagined they'd all wear out, and you'd never see them anywhere except for reruns of _The Love Bug_ with Dean Jones, Michele Lee, and Buddy Hackett.

Never cared for playing slug bug anyway.

I thought about my Uncle Chuck's red Galaxie 500 and its 427-cubic-inch engine. That's a real car. How many twelve-year-old kids ever had a chance to drive a racecar? Even though I'd seen my father buried earlier that day, that was probably the best night of my life. Uncle Chuck shared some great secrets with me. My dreams of eventually traveling into space weren't something I could share with anyone, not my mother, and not even Nigel. Well, maybe Nigel could know, assuming we were on the subject someday.

The exam room door opened, and Nigel came out with his head hanging low. His eyes were puffy, and his nose was red. He didn't look at me. Instead, he headed straight to the exit. I followed him outside. Standing by our bikes, Nigel bawled like a baby.

"What happened?" I asked, slightly embarrassed for him.

"I read all the lines correctly." Nigel gritted his teeth between sobs and said, "It's not fair!"

"What's not fair?"

"After I passed the test, he asked me to read the last line. I couldn't help myself, I knew the answers, but he didn't believe I had 20/10 vision."

"20/10? I don't believe many people have 20/10 vision." As I unchained my Stingray from the pole, I said, "Statistically, it's probably less than 1% of people who do." I remembered that fact from the research for my science fair project in the sixth grade.

"I don't care what the statistics are," shouted Nigel, shaking his fist at me. "I knew the answer, so I gave it, but then he got another completely different chart." Nigel stomped his foot and cried some more. "He tricked me!"

"What happened then?"

"He shined a light in my eye and said my left eye was shaped like a football."

"Oh, I bet he was referring to your cornea. When they're oblong, it means they don't refract light properly, which degrades your vision. It means you have astigmatism."

"It means—" Nigel gritted his teeth and fixed his swollen, red eyes on mine. "—I need glasses."

"At least he found the problem, now you will be able to see better."

"What I can see is my dream of being a pilot is dead."

*****

Nigel's mother wanted him to cheer up. She told me that buying him lightweight metal glasses with extra-large lenses shaped like traditional pilot sunglasses would make him feel better. Nigel wore his prescription aviator glasses as directed, but he hated them. No design would have pleased him. The first day he had them, I tried my best to encourage him as we mounted our bikes for our ride to school.

"Those are cool, you look like a pilot."

"Looks don't matter if you can't walk the walk." Nigel sniffed. "I'll never be a pilot now. That dream is dead. The best I can hope for is to be a navigator."

"That wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

Nigel rolled slightly ahead of me on his ten-speed and said, "If you don't mind being Luke Skywalker's R2-D2 or Superman's Jimmy Olsen."

"Those are fictional characters." I pedaled my Stingray right up beside him, so I could hear him better. "Real-life is a little different."

"Really?" Nigel gave me a hard look. "How about Charles Lindbergh or Chuck Yeager? I bet you can't name their navigators. Even Neil Armstrong was a pilot before he became an astronaut."

"When Armstrong flew to the Moon, he had a lot of people making it possible."

"Name one."

"Charles Strong," I said, maybe a little too proudly. "My Uncle Chuck, he works at NASA."

"Okay, name another! If you weren't related to your uncle, you wouldn't know him."

I paused for a few seconds, trying to remember the guy who ran mission control back then. Before I could answer, Nigel spoke again.

"Another example—Jimmy Doolittle, he was a famous bomber pilot, but nobody knows his navigator's name. Go ahead, book worm, tell me Doolittle's navigator's name!"

I didn't like being called a book worm, but I let it slide. "Nigel, is the only reason you want to be a pilot is for a lot of people to know your name?"

"No, I don't really care what other people think." Nigel looked down at his feet on the pedals. "I just want to fly jets. What could be cooler than that?"

"Lots of people fly jets without being in the military."

"I know, but Air Force pilots get to kill bad guys. I want to do that. You can't become an ace unless you fly military jets and shoot down at least five enemy aircraft."

"You want to be an ace? Did you know that the American aces from the Vietnam War flew as members of two-man crews on F-4 Phantoms and used air-to-air missiles as their primary weapon?"

"Maybe."

"Of the six U.S. aces, only two were pilots."

"No! What were the others?"

"Two were Air Force weapons systems officers, and two were Navy radar intercept officers, also known as navigators."

"No kidding?" Nigel's eyebrows pushed his forehead into a series of deep wrinkles, reminding me of the ripples in the water when a motorboat passes you. "Where did you learn that?"

"The library." Nigel rolled his eyes. I wanted to say something that would help him develop respect for libraries. "You can learn lots of things there, especially if people don't rip pages out of the reference books."

"Sorry." Nigel bit his lower lip. "I won't do that again. Do you still have the page? I could try to tape it back in the reference book."

"I've already done that." And it hadn't been easy. Mrs. Mercado, the librarian, kept trying to help me find things. It finally took me asking an obscure question that sent her on a difficult search, to get enough time alone to tape the page back where it belonged without being seen.

"Thanks." Nigel grinned sheepishly as he said, "I could be a navigator ace, given half a chance."

"Sure, you could. You'd be a good one."

"Sam," Nigel cleared his throat and said, "there's more to it than killing bad guys."

"Such as?"

He leaned toward me, and in a rough whisper, said, "Girls."

"What about girls?"

Nigel looked up at the clouds and groaned. "Not just girls, but women. Did you ever watch _I Dream of Jeannie_?" I nodded because everybody watched that show. Then he said, "How does Tony Nelson get the babe?"

"He finds her in a bottle on a beach?"

"Funny. That's merely a metaphor for life's ups and downs. Nelson got the babe because he's a pilot. Pilots are irresistible to women, evidently more so to the most beautiful ones."

"You know that's just a TV show?"

Nigel pretended to punch me. "I know, but it represents real life."

I let out a long breath and said, "Tony Nelson, played by the actor Larry Hagman, was also an astronaut. His one-man capsule, inspired by the real-world Mercury spacecraft, comes down off-target near a deserted island in the South Pacific. He finds Jeannie's bottle while he is making an SOS signal on the beach."

"Yes! Then he pulls the stopper, and she jumps out and kisses him. Imagine that if you can!"

"Hold on." I laughed at Nigel's enthusiasm about the kiss. "Jeannie, who is played by the actress Barbara Eden, is excited about being rescued from the bottle she has been trapped in for two thousand years. Of course, she's ready to kiss him. If he'd set me free, I think I would've kissed him, and you probably would have, too."

"Don't be stupid." Nigel spat on the road and wiped his mouth. "She kissed him because he's a pilot."

"And an astronaut."

"Okay, because he's a pilot and an astronaut. Still, she kissed him. Now, I want to be a pilot... so I can be an astronaut and marry Barbara Eden."

"She's a little old for you."

"A 2000-year-old is a little old for anyone, but she's a Jeannie. They don't age like regular people."

"That's only the TV show." I laughed and said, "Barbara Eden is the actress, and in real life, she's old, something like forty-seven or forty-eight years old—that's older than our mothers. She's probably already in menopause."

"Don't be gross." Nigel frowned like he'd just stuck his finger in a rotten potato.

"Sorry, but you can't let TV shows, actors, and their flavor of fiction confuse you."

"I know it's a show, but it's also an example of life. It teaches us how to do things."

"You think so," I said, shaking my head. "Then what about Roger Healy?"

"Healy? You mean Nelson's goofy friend?"

"That's him. Bill Daily is the actor that played the character, a bumbling, jittery playboy. Still, he was also a navigator and an astronaut."

"That's right." Nigel nodded. "He was a navigator."

"Yep, in the story he was, and he was an astronaut—who could have just as easily been the one to have wound up on that deserted island instead of Nelson. In a real way, or at least in the fictional way of Hollywood, their fate was determined by some guy who simply scheduled the rocket flights."

"Wow." Nigel looked into the distance, taking it all in.

"Using your logic..." Nigel looked over at me, and a smile spread from ear to ear. "A navigator has got just as good of a chance of finding the beautiful babe as a pilot does."

*****

Maybe it was the motivation of having a chance to become an ace or even finding a Jeannie, despite his glasses, that empowered Nigel on the ride to school. Perhaps it was the ten speeds of his touring bike against the single speed of my Schwinn Stingray. Either way, he accelerated away from me, so even when pedaling as quickly as I could, I lagged way behind. To my alarm, instead of taking our usual detour, he charged straight ahead toward the bad-news boys' sidewalk. As expected, Jamie Young and his mob of punk followers were loitering there.

A pack of boys made a run for Nigel, but he eluded them with a quick maneuver up onto the sidewalk. Unfortunately, fat Joe had laid a trap for him. He was waiting next to the dumpster, concealed from Nigel's sight. While Joe was obese and slow, he proved to be big and strong. Joe abruptly stepped into Nigel's path and latched on to Nigel's handlebars, nearly throwing him off as the bike swung around in a half-circle. They came to a dead stop next to the curb as I closed in on my Stingray.

Nigel was trapped. He had a three-hundred-pound walrus hanging on to his handlebars, as Orville, the gopher-faced boy circled behind him. A mob of smaller boys gathered about and laughed as the scene unfolded. Jamie flicked a smoldering cigarette butt at Nigel. It missed but only because he had jerked his head to one side.

"Let go of my bike!" Nigel demanded.

I pulled up as Jamie said, "Where'd you get those stupid glasses, four-eyes?"

"None of your business, caveman."

Jamie lowered his brow, making his eyes virtually disappear. "Boy, watch your mouth. I'll knock you out—or worse." He moved his hand toward his back pocket, where the infamous killer knife was tucked away. The threat inspired the bad-news mob to howl with laughter. Dumb old Joe shook like a bowl of blubber as he laughed along with them.

While that was going on, Orville came up behind Nigel and grabbed the ten-speed's back tire. He attempted to dump Nigel off the bike. Nigel responded by twisting hard to his left and then swinging a hard, left hook into the jaw of the freckled attacker, who let out a high-pitched scream. _That was a great punch!_ Then it occurred to me, maybe Nigel could knock me out.

Joe pulled on the handlebars more violently, twisting the bike almost sideways, causing Nigel to stumble off. As he regained an upright posture, Jamie stepped forward and fired a right-cross into Nigel's face. His glasses shattered. Nigel grabbed his face, and blood squirted out between his fingers, covering his hands crimson red.

"Hey!" I yelled loudly, startling Jamie, who appeared as shocked as everyone else at the power of his punch, or maybe it was the sight of real blood. Either way, I had to do something, but me hitting Jamie would be like a mosquito on a weasel—besides, he still had that pig-sticker in his back pocket. I needed a weapon.

Leaning back on my Stingray, I popped a wheelie, allowing the front tire to slam into Jamie's chin. As I slid off the back of my seat and planted my feet on the ground, Jamie's arms fell to his side, and his eyes rolled upward, showing only white. Jamie's knees wobbled, his nose turned red and swelled up, and then he collapsed. After he hit the ground, his feet flopped upward, and a small mirror popped out of his shoelaces, rolling into the curb, and shattering with a sharp tinkle.

I worried that I might have killed him, but there was no way to undo what had just happened. More pressing, I knew the mob of bad-news boys were still a physical threat to Nigel and my safety unless I could make them leave us alone. There's no way I could fight them all, but I needed to make them think I could.

I pointed my finger at Joe and said, "You. You're next!" His eyes cut down to his fallen, unconscious leader, and fear swept across his face like a cold wind on Christmas Eve. After emitting a lonesome cry, he turned as quickly as any fat guy could move and rapidly waddled away with Orville jogging close behind him. The younger boys, now leaderless, scattered like cockroaches in a kitchen after somebody flicks on the lights.

*****

The surgeons in the emergency room painstakingly removed the glass from Nigel's left eye and stitched up his damaged cheek. The bandages covered half his face and head. His mother was steaming mad and promised a punishing lawsuit against the Young family. Jamie's father made a lot of excuses for his son, saying it was all an accident and offering to pay the medical bills. He kept saying there was no need to get the police involved. As the adults worked things out, I visited with Nigel.

"I'm dead, Sam." His bandages made him look like he wasn't far off.

"No," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. "You're going to be okay."

"I might as well be dead. I'm Nigel, the one-eyed, potential accountant. I'll never be a combat aviator of any kind. I'll look like a pirate with a patch over my face for the rest of my life. Who will marry me? Girls will hide from me. I'll have no chance to find a Jeannie of my own, and the guys will laugh at me. How many one-eyed jokes will I have to endure? I might as well be dead."

"God's not done with you yet, Nigel," I said, repeating words of encouragement I'd heard during a funeral long ago.

"Maybe not." Nigel gritted his teeth and said, "Maybe I should hunt down Jamie and poke his eyes out. Isn't that biblical, church boy?"

Always with the name-calling, but my feelings didn't matter at that moment. Many good folks had given me advice during my difficult times, and I needed to share it with my friend. "An eye-for-an-eye doctrine would eventually make the entire world blind. That wouldn't be a good thing. Maybe the best thing to do would be to pray for the bad-news boys."

"Pray for them? Those Schlager brothers tried to steal my bike, and Jamie may have stolen my eye, ending my destiny. Why would I pray for them?"

"The Schlager boys are losers. Fortunately, Jamie was not seriously injured when I popped a wheelie into him. The medics said that I'd hit on the lights-out button."

"Did they take away his switch-blade knife?"

"They found it. It was a switchblade, but not a knife. It was a comb."

"A comb? Jamie Young is a big fake!" Nigel laughed and said, "I thought he was going to kill me, but all he was able to do was comb my hair."

"Yes, and now everybody knows. Those three guys have lost credibility with the bad-news boys. Wouldn't it be better for everybody if they'd stop encouraging folks to misbehave?"

"Sure, but how are they going to change?"

"God can change anybody," I said. "And if they don't change, God will deal with that, too. We need to save a little vengeance for God to do, shouldn't we?"

"I guess, but what about my revenge?"

"Living well is the best revenge."

"That's good." Nigel nodded his head and said, "Did Jesus say that?"

"Close. It's actually a quote from George Herbert."

"Is that the old guy who owns Herbert's Auto Parts Place?"

"No. He's another guy—a Welsh poet and priest from back in the 1600s."

Nigel stared at me for a couple of seconds and asked, "Did you read about him at the library?"

"Yep." We both laughed.

*****

I was with Nigel and his mother the day they took off the bandages. Nigel was the closest thing to a brother that I'd ever had. We were family. I stood there beside his anxious mother as Doctor Ayin carefully unwrapped the mummy-style cloths from Nigel's head. With the exam room lights dimmed, the doctor peered into Nigel's left eye and mumbled some words I couldn't hear. He covered Nigel's right eye and then asked Nigel to read an eye chart on the wall.

As my friend boldly recited the letters without error, I assumed he was working from memory again. His mom cheered, but I hung my head, embarrassed for him in what had to be another attempt to deceive everyone.

"Young man," said Doctor Ayin. "You are quite fortunate. The corneal injuries caused by the glass fragments have allowed your cornea to flatten. It appears your eye has healed, and in the process, it has given you better vision than what you originally had. I'm amazed at this phenomenon."

"Doc, what does that mean?"

"It means you don't need glasses."

"It's a miracle," said Mrs. Caruthers.

"Maybe," said Doctor Ayin with a smile. "But then again, maybe this is the start of a new age in vision health. I must pass this information on to my medical community. At the University of Illinois in Chicago, I have a colleague, Professor Gholam Peyman, who has talked about the possibility of surgically modifying corneal refractions to improve vision. Other than him, nobody has seriously talked about this. We could be on to something with great promise of help to millions of people."

"It's a miracle." Mrs. Caruthers folded her arms and gave Doctor Ayin a smile of her own.

"Sam, did you hear?" Nigel was beaming as he said, "My future is looking up because I can see clearly now."
THE TRUNK

**By: Judy Burford**

Savannah turned into the driveway, glanced at the front of her house, and grimaced. She'd been expecting it, but the sight of the sheet of paper taped to the front door made her queasy. Pushing the garage door opener, she drove inside, closed the door, and turned off the ignition.

She sat for a moment, resting her head on the steering wheel. _Lord, what am I going to do? If that paper is a foreclosure notice, I'm surely going to need your intervention to find a solution to this mess._

The interior of her home was cool and welcoming. Everything looked the same as when she left this morning. Perhaps she was wrong. Maybe that paper wasn't a foreclosure notice.

She braced herself as she walked to the front door. The lock made a familiar click as she turned it, and the door creaked when she pushed it open. The white sheet of paper was a glaring contrast to the warm ochre of her door, and the bold black letters jumped out at her.

FORECLOSURE NOTICE

Due to failure to pay mortgage,

these premises must be vacated by October 1, 2020.

Savannah snatched the paper and carried it into the living room. Plopping into her favorite chair, she gazed out the patio door to the back yard. The world outside appeared so normal. Leaves were starting to turn scarlet and gold, and the hummingbirds performed a frantic aerial ballet as they competed for a spot at the feeders, getting ready for their trip south. Inside, her world was crashing into pieces. _How had this happened?_

Of course, she knew what brought her to this point. Part of it was circumstantial, and part of it was her fault for being so naïve and trusting. She could trace the beginning of this mess to a few years ago when Gran had to move into an assisted living home. Gran's health was good, but her mental acuity had deteriorated to the point where she couldn't be safely left alone. Gran's state of mind was such that she thought she could do things that she had always done, such as walk to the grocery store.

One evening when Savannah had just come home from work, she heard a knock on the front door. When she opened it, Gran stood on the porch, a policeman with a worried look on his face behind her.

"I wanted to get some ice cream for dinner, Savannah, but I couldn't find the store. Obviously, it's been relocated. When did it move?"

This was the third time Gran had wandered away. Savannah knew she couldn't stay home from work to watch her. She realized she would have to find a safer place for Gran to live.

Savannah felt conflicted. When her parents died in a helicopter crash, Gran had taken ten-year-old Savannah into her home. She knew the sacrifices Gran made to provide a home for her. She intended to repay Gran by caring for her in her home until she died. But that plan now appeared impossible to fulfill.

Gran was gracious when Savannah broached the idea of a move. In fact, she reminded Savannah about the long-term health care policy she'd invested in years ago. It would cover expenses for almost any place they chose, so they began discussing their options.

They paid visits to assisted living and nursing homes before they found one that suited them both. The first three they visited got a thumbs down from one or both of them. Savannah had chosen some to visit first that were nice, but not the best. She intentionally saved Fairfield Acres for last.

Nestled in a small, exquisitely landscaped park, Fairfield Acres was serene and inviting. Gran's friend, Molly Wentworth, had recently moved there and loved it; that was a definite plus. When Savannah had called a couple of days ago to explain Gran's needs and to check on room availability, she mentioned Molly to the director, Jan Hill.

When they arrived for their appointment, the guard at the gate jotted down their information and directed them to the main building.

"This is beautiful, Savannah. No wonder Molly likes it. Do you think I could live here too?"

"That's what we came to find out. Let's see what they have available."

Entering the spacious, sunlit lobby, full of comfortable chairs and sofas, in earth tones with accents of blue and grouped around a small fountain, they looked at each other and smiled. Residents were seated in several areas, and animated chatter filled the room. One of the women rose and came toward them.

"Good morning. I'm Jan Hill. You must be Elizabeth and Savannah Clary." She extended her hand to Gran.

Gran clasped Jan's hand. "I'm Elizabeth, and this is my granddaughter, Savannah."

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Hill," Savannah said.

"Please, call me Jan. We're not formal here. Let's go to my office, and I'll tell you about our facility."

Jan's office was as comfortable as the lobby. She seated Gran and Savannah and handed them a colorful brochure showcasing Fairfield Acres. There were several floorplans of apartments displayed as well as a list and pictures of the included amenities.

"Do you have anything available right now?" Savannah asked.

"Fortunately, we do have two empty apartments. If you decide to stay with us, you can have your choice. Would you like to see them and have a tour of the facility?"

"That would be great if Savannah has time for us to see everything."

"Of course I do, Gran. Today my time is dedicated to you."

They visited the apartments, saw the small gym, the beauty shop, library, game room, and finished with the dining room.

"Would you like to eat lunch with us?" Jan asked. "I'd love for you to sample one of our wonderful meals." She indicated a table across the room. "Look, there's an extra chair at your friend Molly's table. Maybe you'd like to sit with her."

No other invitation was needed. Gran hurried to greet her friend as Savannah and Jan followed. Jan assisted Gran into her seat, and a waiter appeared with a glass of ice water and a menu.

Gran glanced at the menu in surprise. "Does this mean that if I live here, I would have a choice of what I want to eat at every meal?"

"That's exactly what it means," Jan said. "We treat our residents like family. You and Molly enjoy your lunch. Savannah and I will eat at a table by the door."

Gran chose an apartment. They paid the deposit and planned the move for a month from that day.

*****

Choosing the apartment turned out to be the easiest thing they had to do. The next step was to decide which furniture, knickknacks, and clothes Gran would take to her new home. Condensing the contents of a ten-room house to fit into a one-bedroom apartment was challenging and painful. The pain was mitigated by the fact that whatever Gran didn't take with her could stay in the house. Five years before, Gran followed the advice from her trusted financial planner, Edmund Rogers. He suggested since everything was to be Savannah's anyway, that she deed the house over to her at that time. The house now belonged to Savannah.

With a yellow tablet and pen in hand, they surveyed the house. The bedroom furniture was the first to be chosen. Gran's bed, dresser, and bedside tables would fit nicely in the new apartment. They decided on a small, tapestry-covered recliner and matching love seat from the sunroom, as well as a TV from the den.

The table and chairs from the breakfast nook should work in the new eating space and double as a place to play bridge. They went from room to room and chose a couple of small end tables, lamps, and a rocking chair, before arriving in the foyer where a beautiful trunk was proudly displayed beside a stately grandfather clock.

Gran caressed the curved top of the small trunk. "Do you think we can find a spot for this, Savannah? I'd really like to take it with me."

Savannah loved that trunk too. Not just because it was a family heirloom, dating back to the early 1900s, but because Gran had filled it with all sorts of old clothes, costume jewelry, and diaries of long-dead relatives. She let Savannah browse through it whenever she wanted. Best of all, it had a secret compartment under the back of the trunk, accessible by turning one of the ornamental nails that studded the edges and the wooden bands curving over the top. Gran called the compartment their _secret place_.

"I'm sure we can, Gran. There are a couple of places in the apartment where it could go. Let's add it to the list."

In the days before the move, they met with Gran's lawyer and her financial planner in the sunroom. The men suggested that Gran have a new will, power of attorney, and living will executed. They made plans to go to the lawyer's office to complete the process and make them official.

As the men rose to leave, Gran said, "Edmund, please stay for a few more minutes. I want to speak with you in private if that's all right."

Savannah and the lawyer excused themselves, and Savannah closed the sunroom door behind her.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened, and Savannah heard Edmund say, "It will take three or four weeks to fulfill your request, Elizabeth. I'll let you know when it's ready."

*****

Gran was happy at Fairfield Acres. Savannah visited every weekend and would often drop by after work. Gran entertained her with stories of life at _the home_ as she and her friends called it.

About six months after the move, Edmund Rogers passed away. Sick with cancer, he had retired from the investment firm two months before. Savannah and Gran went to the funeral. At the graveside, they met Andy Smith, Edmund's replacement at the firm. He had a charismatic personality, and Savannah felt an unexpected attraction to him.

A week or so later, Andy called and asked if Savannah would have time to drop by his office to discuss some financial matters. They made plans for Thursday as soon as she finished work. She remembered the meeting all too well.

"Hi, Savannah. I'm so glad you could come today. When I heard about a wonderful new investment opportunity, your name came to mind. Do you have time for me to tell you about it?"

"Sure. Go right ahead."

Andy had outlined a plan to increase her investments substantially. He was earnest and compelling in his presentation.

"That sounds amazing, Andy." Savannah's brow wrinkled as she asked, "Do you think it's safe?"

"Absolutely, Savannah. I wouldn't risk my reputation or the reputation of this firm by encouraging you to invest in a scam."

"Well, why don't you use half of my money and we'll see how it goes before I invest more."

"Good idea. Always be cautious with your investments." He gave her a beaming smile.

The new investment soon returned a profit. Savannah quickly invested the rest of her savings and watched excitedly as it increased in value. She traded in the 2009 car she drove and bought a new one. She took a vacation to the beach and had a blast.

Andy called again. "Savannah, you've done well with this first investment plan. Another opportunity has been brought to my attention that is even better than the first, but it would involve a greater outlay of capital. Are you ready to go big time?"

"Sounds exciting, Andy, but we've used all my investments. I don't have any more cash resources."

"No, but you do have your house. What about a partial mortgage?" Andy patiently explained the details of a partial mortgage.

She foolishly swallowed the bait, took out the mortgage, and increased her investments with him. Things didn't go as well with her second investment, and inexplicably, it started losing money. Before she knew what had happened, her money was gone, Andy had disappeared, and a warrant was out for his arrest. A call from a lawyer alerted her to the fact that she wasn't the only one that had been snookered. When she expressed her chagrin, the lawyer kindly told her about a recent study that showed that Millennials were more likely to be victims of fraud than people over forty. Some comfort that was!

*****

Gran's physical health began to decline, and she developed congestive heart failure. One evening Savannah got a call urging her to come to Fairfield Acres. Gran was listless and agitated when she arrived. The doctor on call came and examined her. His diagnosis, in addition to congestive heart failure, was pneumonia. She would not live much longer. Savannah went home, changed into sweatpants and a flannel shirt, and returned to spend the night.

Soon, Gran slipped into a semi-coma. Savannah sat beside the bed, holding her hand. Just before dawn, Gran took one last breath. They had talked about this moment many times. Both of them had accepted Jesus as their Savior, so they knew that heaven would be their final destination, but that knowledge didn't change the fact that Savannah had lost the last remaining member of her family. In that quiet moment, one of Gran's favorite Bible verses came to mind:

"We look not at what can be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal." 2 Corinthians 4:18

After a few minutes spent crying and stroking Gran's hair, she called the nurse to tell her what happened. Gran had a burial policy with a graveside service planned, so all Savannah had to do now was call the funeral home. She kissed Gran one last time, signed the requisite papers, and went home.

Savannah hired a truck to bring Gran's furniture back to the house. She wasn't sure if all of it would stay, but now was not the best time to make that decision. Everything was unloaded into the house before she realized that the trunk and one of the dining chairs were not with the other furniture. She went to the truck, looked inside, and questioned the driver when it was apparent they weren't there.

The only clue that the driver could give her was that the truck hit a huge pothole, and the back door had popped open. He wasn't aware of it until another driver pulled up beside him at a stoplight and told him what had happened a few blocks back. He went to check and found the chair, smashed to bits, but there was no sign of the trunk.

Savannah did her own search for the trunk and put up posters in hopes that someone had seen it and would return it to her. That was almost a year ago, so she assumed she would never see it again. Gran had told her that she put her wedding ring in their _secret_ _place_ as well as a surprise. Now she wouldn't have the ring, nor would she know what sweet thing Gran had put in there for her.

*****

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed and roused Savannah from her reminiscing. Leftovers from the fridge heated in the microwave sufficed for supper. She washed her few dishes, took a shower, and climbed into bed with a book. There were a ton of things to do before the foreclosure, but she didn't feel like dealing with them now.

The next day her friend Karen called. "It's a beautiful day. If you don't have anything planned, let's hit a few yard sales this afternoon. The sellers will be marking things down by then."

Karen had no idea that all the money Savannah had right now was $45 shoved in the back of her lingerie drawer. Karen also didn't know about the foreclosure notice, and she wasn't ready to divulge that information.

Since she couldn't think of a good reason to turn down Karen's invitation, she accepted. She offered to drive since she had the bigger car, and she might as well use it while it was still hers. Karen loved to refinish furniture, so no telling what she might bring home.

After several stops without much success, they came to a sale in front of an antique/pawn shop. It looked promising. Savannah strolled among the items strewn across the front lawn, then stopped abruptly as her eyes fell on an old trunk sitting on the grass next to a ratty rocking chair. _It couldn't be, could it?_

The trunk looked like Gran's. She walked closer. The open lid of the hump-back trunk revealed a familiar forest green tapestry interior and a price tag of $100. She closed the lid, gazed at the top, and noticed a large dent in it. That must have happened when it fell from the truck. Her fingers automatically sought out a gouge in one of the wooden pieces that curved over the metal top. The indentation was smooth, sanded down by Gran, and polished by Savannah's fingers as she caressed it often.

"Interested in the trunk?" A man's voice jerked Savannah back from her reminiscing.

"I am. Where did you acquire it?"

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea where it came from. My uncle died and left the contents of his antique shop to me. In cleaning out the back rooms, I ran across this trunk. I couldn't find any paperwork on it, so I can't tell you more than that."

"Actually, this was my grandmother's trunk. It was lost out of a moving van after she died last year. I've been looking for it ever since. Any chance you would give it back? I'm in a financial bind and really strapped for cash."

The man grinned at her. "Well, I will say that is one of the most creative stories I've heard. I won't give it to you, but if you're interested, let me know, and I'll give you a good price. I don't want to haul it back inside."

As he walked away, Savannah moved to the back of the trunk. She tried not to show her excitement when she looked at the bottom and saw the metal stud that should open the secret compartment. Her fingers fairly itched with the desire to reach down and give it a twist. Should she try it?

Instead, she approached the man and asked, "How much will you take for the trunk?"

"Well, it's not something many people want in their home anymore. I was asking $100 yesterday, but today I'd take $50 just to have it gone."

"How about $45?" she asked as she pulled the money from her pocket. "This really is all I have."

"Okay. You win. But tell me the truth, do you actually think this was your grandmother's trunk?"

"I know it is. I've played dress-up too many times with the clothes Gran used to keep in it not to recognize it."

Soon the trunk was securely placed in the back of Savannah's SUV. She tried to be patient as Karen pointed the way to another sale. All she could think of was getting home. Finally, Karen had her fill of sales. She took her home and helped her unload her loot.

When she got home, she pulled into her driveway, activated the garage door opener, and parked inside. She closed the garage door, popped open the rear hatch, and jumped out of the car.

An eerie glow from a motion detector light shone directly onto the trunk. Moving it, so the back faced her, she saw the tiny knob she wanted so desperately to turn. She held her fingers in place for a few seconds, anticipating the action she hoped would take place. As she turned the knob, memories of time spent with Gran came flooding back.

Holding her breath, she watched a narrow portion of the trunk bottom slide out. Would there be anything there?

Savannah gasped as a piece of paper and a beautiful ring were revealed. The ring was a simple gold band with tiny diamonds nestled among carved golden leaves—her grandmother's wedding ring! She had spent hours scouring Gran's house for the ring. All Gran had been able to tell her about it was that it was in their _special_ _place_. She slipped the ring on her finger.

She retrieved the paper from its hiding place. Unfolding it, her eyes widened as she focused on the words Amazon.com, her name, and 250 shares. A quick Google search let her know that at today's price, she was holding something worth more than $450,000! This must be what Gran and Edmund Rogers were planning in the sunroom. _Thank You, God, for intervening when I messed up. Thanks, Gran. Thanks, Edmund. Come Monday morning there, will be no foreclosure on this house._
WHAT TO DO, WHAT TO DO

**By: Wanda Bush**

In the fall of 1965, like an undetected volcanic eruption, Stephen's parents began to spew hot ashes at each other. The ten-year-old boy had no idea what to do. From the few intelligible words he could understand, the argument seemed to be about money. He heard his mother mention a bank job, but even Stephen knew his father would never approve of her working. Often he had heard his father say, "It's a disgrace if a man can't take care of his wife."

Stephen didn't know if his family was rich or poor, but they always appeared to be able to keep up with their friends—in outward appearances, at least. He thought his father had a good job, but he didn't know what a city manager did or how much money a city manager made.

As the fight intensified, Stephen didn't know what to do. He lay on his stomach and peered down between the spindles of the staircase on the second floor. He propped his head up with his hands and listened to his parents argue, catching a glimpse now-and-then of his father's flaring nostrils and his mother's chin held high. When his mother moved towards the stairs, Stephen hurriedly backed up and crouched between an old, dark bookcase and wall. He was frightened as his mother deliberately stomped up each step in haste. She passed by him and trudged to her bedroom. His mother's perfume drifted into the corner where he hid. The rattle of her dresser drawers opening and closing sent goosebumps down Stephen's spine, and the sound of the suitcase latch flipping open was deafening.

Soon she rested her brown tweed luggage in the hall by her bedroom door. The slim day dress she had slipped into showed off her small, thin stature. The image seared into Stephen's mind. She hurried to Stephen's bedroom and looked in. He heard his closet door open and shut. She uttered the words, "Stephen, I will come back for you. I love you." When she exited, she paused, looked back into the room, and shrugged.

On return, her heels clicked loudly against the wooden floor. Stephen noticed his mother adorned with the necklace he made for her out of square wooden beads that spelled out I love you. He always felt proud when his mother wore that necklace, yet he stayed hidden in the shadows for fear the storm was not over. As she passed her bedroom, she picked up her baggage and headed to the staircase. At the stairwell, she turned around, bit her lip, and stared down the hall. His father's shouting voice from below forced her attention back to her mission, and she descended the stairs, once again pounding each step deliberately.

Stephen heard the back door slam shut. The door opened again, and the sound of it crashing back against the wall caused him to shudder. He ran to the window at the end of the hall and looked out. His mother headed for the new, four-door sedan that parked under the awning attached to a single car garage near the back of the house.

His father yelled, "You are _not_ taking the car. If you're gonna leave, you just _walk_!"

She returned fire. "This is _my_ car! You bought it for _me_!"

"I bought it for the family. I, I, I—and that's with a capital I. When you come to your senses, it will be here waiting for you. And, for your information, you're not gonna take Stephen from me. I know plenty of powerful men. Until you get that stupid, pretty head of yours on straight, don't even think I'll allow you to contact him."

Stephen turned his back to the wall and slid down to the dark floor. He wept, waiting for his mother to come back, hug him, and tell him everything would be okay. But, she never came back. Stephen's father wouldn't talk about the incident, and Stephen didn't know what to do, so he remained silent.

His entire life, he remained silent.

When schoolmates argued, Stephen shrugged and walked away, not caring to play offense or defense. He never took a stance, for he never knew what to do in such matters. If someone poked holes in his boat, he'd stop sailing. There was no need to rise and fall in the waves of challenge, no sense in patching a perpetual leak. Just get out of the boat!

Though a few girls tried, none succeeded in developing a relationship with Stephen, because he was too distant, too aloof. Intimacy evaded him. Relationships were all a farce, and he didn't need them. He preferred solitude, immersing himself in books and television. Entertainment was his escape.

After college, Stephen secured a job as a history teacher. He moved 230 miles from his father. Close enough to be a son; far enough, it's not required. Every year father and son met for their shared birthday in February and again on Memorial Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, a schedule Stephen considered tradition. He didn't find a need to see his father much more than that.

The teaching of yesteryear turned into a monotonous way of life for Stephen. The repetitive stories of record told to uninterested youth turned him into a stodgy, mono-tone teacher. But a few months of boredom was doable, for he spent his summers revitalizing his love and passion for history by way of travel. Over the years, he visited each monument in all the fantastic places around the world. He kept adventure on his radar as he searched and conquered various destinations.

When social media became mainstream, his site included teacher comrades and those he acquainted himself with during his travels. Intimate friends, he had none. Stephen used the social site to glean information. He felt no need to connect in the real world or web world unless the interaction would benefit his teaching duties or enhance his travels. His life carried on in the same repetitive manner year after year.

*****

The day Stephen dreaded arrived. At the age of sixty-five, his emotions stirred, and his soul wrenched when informed his father had passed on to eternity. A heart attack seemed an appropriate way to die for a man whose heart had ached ever since the day his wife left. At eighty-eight years of age, his father was out of his misery. At least that's how Stephen saw it.

He let himself into the old home place, and as he entered the white-framed house, he sighed. Time was gone. There'd be no more answers to any questions. All Stephen would know about his past, about his family, was locked in the mind of his ten-year-old self. He took in a deep breath. The aroma of home caused butterflies to swirl around in the pit of his stomach. On the entrance table, he set his keys, and then caressed the grandfather clock his father purchased after his mother passed. Stephen always referred to her absence as "she passed" because she passed by him and never came back.

The staircase to the upstairs bedrooms rose before him. He took each step slowly, running his hand along the banister, remembering the slides he took down when no one was looking. At the top, the dark hardwood floors showed dust in the afternoon light, as the sun streamed in from the window at the end of the hall. The bookcase sat in the same position, blackened with age and layers of furniture polish. His eyelids fluttered as he looked beside the antique. He could see his ten-year-old self crouching down, hiding in the corner during that last dreadful fight between his father and mother. He paused, grimaced, and moved on.

As he peered into each room, he realized he had forgotten nothing, for there was nothing to forget, nor nothing to remember.

Back downstairs, Stephen found his father's recliner and sat back. He laced his hands behind his head and looked around the room. _Could the sale of the house allow me to retire earlier than I hoped and still have enough money to travel and stay in my home as I age? Dad lived with good health for a long time, up until the day he died. Who knows, I'm in good shape, I may be able to travel into my nineties. I need to be sure I have enough money to last until my last breath._

A key chain on the coffee table captured Stephen's eyes. _Dad's keys_. He jingled them and wondered why his father had so many keys—five, to be exact. He examined each one. "This one goes to the house. This one is for the truck. Hmmm, the shed, and oh—two for the old Pontiac under the awning. Dad kept his word. It's still sitting there waiting for Mother to come to her senses." He chuckled.

All the work to dissolve his father's estate sent an ache to his stomach. Also, maybe he was hungry. In the kitchen, stacked on the table were old newspapers. After making a sandwich out of stale bread and questionable lunch meat, he sat and sifted through the papers. "Interesting. They're all from the same time span. The fall of 1965. When Mother left."

He picked up an edition and read intently. _Wow. Look at how many pages this thing has. It's nothing like today's newspapers, that's for sure._

He searched for clues as to why his father kept the papers and why they were on the table. He read and read. Stories of Vietnam, bank robberies, and civil rights riots were interesting, yet not relatable. The country's top-twenty songs made him grin when he saw listed at number fifteen, _I Got You, Babe_.

"I thought that song was from the 70s." He put the papers back neatly and patted them. "I wonder if these old papers are worth any money?"

After eating, Stephen went back into the living room, grabbed his father's keys, and went to check out the old Pontiac. He didn't know how many tarps his father had purchased over the last fifty-five years, he only knew the tarps that covered this car, covered his father's pain, as well.

He untied the rope that held the tarp taut, stepped back, and took a deep breath. "No reason to stand here staring. It's 2020, and the past is hindsight. Time to take a look at this baby."

Humming the familiar tune attached to his mind, he unveiled the vehicle. He let out a long whistle of admiration, and his eyes beamed. "What a beauty." He unlocked the driver's side door. After much tugging, he jerked it open, releasing a haunting creak. He slid in and gripped the steering wheel. White gloves, yellowed and deteriorated, waited on the passenger's seat. _Mother always feared she would walk out of the house without them when meeting Dad for lunch downtown. She always dressed appropriately._ He smiled at that memory. The glove box held a wrench, plyers, and screwdrivers.

He laughed. "The tools are in the glove box, and the gloves are on the seat."

He slipped out of the car and left the door open to freshen fifty-five years of stale air. He went to the trunk and put the key in the lock. It turned easily. He raised the lid and stepped back in astonishment. An ocean of money stared back at him. Greenbacks. Everywhere. He placed his hands on the rim of the trunk and looked over the stash. An old bag with the emblem of the First National Bank spooked a shiver. Sweat dotted his brow as his heart raced. He looked around to see if anyone was lurking in the shadows.

He closed the trunk, and he ran back into the house. Skimming through articles in the old newspapers, he found what he was looking for—a bank robbery at the First National Bank. _Wait a minute. The money disappeared with no suspects found. $260,000.00._ He whistled.

He rushed back to the car, reopened the trunk, and snatched up a green note. 1961. He pulled up a handful of bills—all of them were from the 1950s and early 60s. _All of them!_ He stared at the pile while tapping his finger to his lips. "What to do, what to do."

Then it came clear to him. For the first time in his life, he knew what to do— retire! He grinned from ear to ear. _The statute of limitations must have run out long ago. And if asked, I'll tell everyone it's my dad's mattress savings. Yeah, that's what I'll say—and maybe it is. I don't know where this money came from, not really._

"Woohoo!" Stephen was so excited he began to celebrate. His hands whooshed into the delightful green sea, throwing the money up in the air, releasing it from its tomb. He felt free.

"I got you, babe," his voice rang out. Again and again, he reached in and tossed the greenbacks high. His hand dove under once more, but this time it brought up a deteriorated string of beads. He gaped at the homemade necklace that spelled out I love you. With trembling hands, he moved the pile of money aside. Before him, decayed fabric clung to a human frame.

"Mother?"

*****

Luke 12:2 – KJV – For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known.
A CHARMED LIFE

**By: Beverly Flanders**

The day promised to be cool and crisp. It had been a long hot summer, so I was ready for more pleasant temperatures. I stumbled to the coffee pot sitting on the counter, filled the receptacle with water, placed a hazelnut coffee pod into the cubbyhole, and pushed Start. The blue light came on as the coffeemaker responded instantly. The gurgle and drips assured me that my morning routine had officially begun. I shuffled to the front door to bring in my morning newspaper, then settled into my comfy recliner and took a sip of my hazelnut delight. Starting the day with a printed copy of current events isn't very progressive, but it works for me.

I saw her obituary on page thirteen of Section A. My eyes were drawn to a small picture of an elderly lady with a sweet smile. Her face was lined with wrinkles earned through a life well-lived. I began to read the article.

"Mrs. Roberta Schmitz passed away peacefully at her home on September 12, surrounded by her family. There will be a time of visitation on September 15, beginning at 2:00 p.m. and continuing until the funeral service at 4:00 p.m. at Beulah Springs Baptist Church."

I scanned more of the notice informing readers that Berta was preceded in death by Joe Schmitz, her husband of 58 years; her infant son, Jonathan; and her son-in-law Michael Anderson. She is survived by her son Jeff and his wife Marsha and her daughter Jill Anderson. She is also survived by four special grandchildren, including her only granddaughter, Gretchen, who was her caregiver during the last year of her life.

I felt sad as I read the article, but I wasn't surprised. My friend had tried to stifle a rattling cough when we visited in the park that day.

I put down the newspaper and thought about my brief encounter with Berta. We met by accident, but she touched my life deeply with her words of wisdom and expressions of a faith and courage that I wanted to imitate. I'm a firm believer that God puts people in our lives when we need them, and Berta was His choice for me.

I'm not family nor even considered a close friend, but I knew I had to go to her funeral so I could share with Gretchen the impact her grandmother had on me. I reached for the pen and calendar on my side-table, turned to the page for September, and wrote Berta in square #15. I was surprised by the depth of my sadness. I only had one lengthy conversation with her, but I felt as if I had lost a dear friend. In a way, I had. I took a sip of my now tepid coffee, leaned back in my recliner, and closed my eyes. My thoughts drifted back to the day we met:

I was getting ready to take my routine jog on a Saturday morning. My mood was solemn because I was worried about a telephone call I had received the evening before when I got home from work. The recorded message was from my doctor's office, informing me that my recent mammogram showed some irregularity that would need further testing. My instructions were to call his office as soon as possible to schedule a follow-up appointment. A glance at my watch showed 5:30.

Oh drat! It's 5:30 on a Friday so my 'as soon as possible' will have to wait until Monday. I have the whole weekend to worry about what that message could mean.

I went to bed early and spent a restless night wondering about possible medical treatments that might be ahead for me.

The next day, as I got ready for my morning run, I thought about what I had accomplished in the forty plus years I'd spent on this earth. I was an ordinary middle-aged, single woman with no close family living nearby. I lived in a comfortable house, had a good job, and managed to pay my bills every month. I had been married briefly when I was in my twenties, but a tragic car accident made me a young widow. We didn't have any children, and I never remarried. My routine was simple and boring: get up early, have a cup of coffee, read the newspaper, feed the cat, and go to work. In the evenings, I come home from work, fix dinner, then read or watch TV in my plush blue easy chair with my furry cat purring contentedly on my lap. Every day was the same ritual with a moderate amount of social life thrown in.

As I continued my jogging preparations, I returned to the kitchen and finished assembling the necessities for my healthy exercise. Confident in my appearance as a seasoned jogger, I gave myself one last look in the mirror to make sure. My mood was brighter as I locked the back door behind me.

As I began my run, it felt good to be in the open air with a breeze swirling my hair freely around my face. It was a perfect day for a run, especially a therapeutic one that was intended to sort out some options in case the mammogram results meant that cancer treatment was in my near future.

I took my usual path: jog to the corner, turn right, and continue jogging four blocks. I passed the elementary school and turned right on Hamilton Park Road. At this point, I always stop jogging and transition to a fast walk so I can see if there is anyone I know in the park. I saw several children playing on the swings and slides that day, but I didn't recognize any of them nor the few adults who were supervising them.

I noticed a man sitting on a park bench. He had a reddish-brown beard, matted shoulder-length hair, and crooked teeth. Tattoos covered his exposed skin, so there were probably more on the areas that weren't visible. He whistled a non-descript tune and appeared to be in dire need of a shower. Beside him was a metal shopping cart filled with a few crumpled shirts, some cans of tuna and Spam, a light blanket, and a small pillow. He was probably homeless, and the cart held everything he owned. The sight of him made me feel guilty. My world was dull and monotonous, but I was blessed with a roof over my head and people who cared about me. It was time for me to make an attitude adjustment and appreciate my humdrum life.

*****

I must have dozed off while reading the newspaper. My cat had taken the opportunity to pounce onto my lap and take a nap too. Her leap startled me back to the present time, so I picked up the newspaper and continued reading Berta's obituary. Once again, my thoughts turned to the day we met. According to the article, Berta had passed away due to complications from pneumonia. I remembered her efforts to control her cough during our visit, so she was probably getting sick then.

That morning in the park, I noticed a shiny object on the ground. It was partially hidden under the dirt and leaves, but the exposed section glistened in the sunlight. I bent over and picked it up to take a closer look. It was a beautiful silver bracelet loaded with charms. As I examined it, I noticed its clasp was broken. I touched the charms and realized that each one must be very significant to its owner.

Wow! This is someone's life story. Its sentimental value must be even greater than its monetary worth.

I looked around the park and wondered if anyone there was the likely owner.

_Probably not the homeless man_. I looked back at the man with the metal cart and was certain the bracelet didn't belong to him.

It isn't a child's bracelet, so it doesn't belong to any of the children. The adults with them look far too young to have lived the full life that's represented by all of these charms.

As I looked at the circle of love, I tried to imagine the life of the owner.

An outline of the state of Kentucky with a star marking the city of Louisville hung from the first link on the chain, followed by a calendar page for October with a pale opal chip marking October 7.

The owner must have been born in Louisville, Kentucky, on October 7.

A heart charm followed with the names Bill and Betty engraved on it.

Their names? Their children's names?

I randomly looked at other charms. Among them was a disc with a B on it, a thimble, a typewriter, a quill and inkpot, a pair of tennis shoes, a pair of ballet slippers, a book, a gold #50, a park bench, a soccer ball, a dollar sign, a replica of flight school wings, the letter J, a church, and a calendar page marking April 15. Each charm made me want to meet the person who had lived such a full life.

I sat back and gave my imagination free rein to create a biography of the owner. It didn't take much imagination to determine the meaning of Kentucky and the date. The events memorialized on the silver circle indicated that the decade of the 1940s was when the owner was born. I imagined a southern grande dame with a husband and two children. She was a stay-at-home mom who wrote romance novels in her spare time. I visualized her sitting at a desk, tapping on her typewriter keys as she developed her plots.

As my mind's eye created her story, I heard a quiet sobbing coming from a short distance away. I looked up and saw a frail lady sitting nearby in a wheelchair. A hand-crocheted blue afghan protected her knees from the cool air. Her pure white hair was pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, accentuating her round face and rosy cheeks. Her face was familiar, but I couldn't remember where I had seen her before. Her attendant was a perky twenty-something woman with curly red hair. She knelt beside the wheelchair and held the hand of the elderly woman.

"It will be OK, Granna, we'll keep looking." The love in her voice identified her as the woman's granddaughter.

"We've looked everywhere—it's just gone! Gretchen, that bracelet is the story of my life. I wear it every day because it brings back so many happy memories, and it makes me feel close to your Grandpa."

"It's special to me too. I remember when Grandpa gave it to you. He had it specially made for your fiftieth wedding anniversary party eight years ago. He was so proud of the charms he had selected. I loved the way you looked at each other as you remembered the stories and meaning of each one."

"Yes, Gretchen, ours was a good marriage. Definitely not perfect, but it was perfect for us."

I could hear the sense of loss in her voice. "Have we retraced every part of our outing yesterday?"

"Yes, Granna, we've looked everywhere. It's time to go home now. I'm sorry."

The woman dabbed her eyes with her linen handkerchief trimmed with colorful tatting. She leaned her head back as their sad journey continued. She coughed softly.

I looked down at the charm bracelet I was holding and knew it was the priceless treasure she was looking for. As they approached my bench, I said, "Excuse me. I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, and I think I can help. Is this yours?" When I held out the bracelet, an incredible expression of joy covered her face.

"My bracelet! Oh, thank you," she exclaimed as she clapped her hands. "I thought I had lost it forever."

Her quiet sobbing turned into tears of joy, and her happiness was contagious. I couldn't remember a time when I had done something that had brought so much delight to anyone, and I liked the feeling.

"It's a beautiful bracelet. I can tell there are a lot of memories attached to it."

Gretchen lovingly massaged her grandmother's hand and then turned to me. "It's her life story in miniature. Every charm has a special memory and a story to go with it."

At that moment, Gretchen's phone pinged, signaling an incoming call.

"Yes, Mom, we found it in the park. The clasp must have broken yesterday when we were out getting some fresh air. Granna is so happy." Gretchen continued to describe the incident to her mother. A few "Yes, Ma'ams," "uh-huh's," and an occasional "What?" were apparent answers to questions her mother asked from the other end of the line.

"We'll be home in a little while, and I'll tell you all about it. Bye." Gretchen ended the call and put the phone down on the bench beside her.

As we resumed our conversation, I decided to confess. "I've been looking at the charms, and I gave my imagination free rein to attach significance to them. Would you like to hear my version of your life story?"

A twinkle came to her eyes. "Oh, my dear, that would be so much fun. Go ahead."

"In my version, your life began in Louisville, Kentucky, on October 7—I had to guess that you were born in the decade of the 1940s."

"Very good. That's exactly when and where my life began, and your guess as to the decade is accurate." I chuckled as she carefully avoided telling me the specific year she was born.

I was encouraged by her response. "I pictured you as a southern grande dame, and your name or your husband's name starts with a _B_."

"That's right! My name is Berta, but I'm definitely not a grande dame of anything." She gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up for getting it almost right.

"You and your husband were married on April 15, and your marriage lasted for at least 50 years. You had two children—a boy and a girl. Your husband was a pilot, and you were a stay-at-home Mom who secretly wrote romance novels in your spare time."

My new friend laughed out loud, and her eyes sparkled at my interpretation of her life.

"You have a good imagination. I like your version, but that isn't what really happened." She reached down to smooth out a wrinkle in her afghan. I knew she was about to give me her side of the story, and I sensed that my imagination didn't match her reality.

"Everyone should have a charm bracelet to remember the things in their lives that made a difference—good or bad. This treasure helps me keep the events in perspective and understand why things happened the way they did. It reminds me that the plans I made in my youth rarely matched what happened in my adult life. The secret is to adjust to the plans that have to be changed and keep going."

The conversation returned to Berta's bracelet. "Yes, it all began in Louisville, Kentucky—The Bluegrass State, Home of the Kentucky Derby, and Kentucky bourbon." A tinge of pink colored her cheeks as she looked down and dabbed her lips with her dainty handkerchief.

"May I tell you about my bracelet?" Her beaming smile told me that she was anxious to do just that.

I checked my watch and considered my unfinished run. I definitely wanted to stay and hear her story. I didn't want to go home to an empty house and spend the rest of the weekend worrying about what the doctor was going to tell me on Monday. I wanted to spend time with my fascinating new friend, so I couldn't resist her invitation to stay.

"I would love to hear about your bracelet." This promised to be a long conversation, so I changed positions and got more comfortable on the bench. Occasions like this don't happen very often, and this promised to be worth every minute of my time.

Berta held the bracelet in her hand. "We have already established the significance of the Kentucky charm, so let's move on to the thimble—it represents my childhood. My parents were first-generation immigrants, so we lived in a small apartment above a tailor's shop. My father worked in the shop and made a meager living at his trade. My mother took in ironing and did alterations to supplement the family income. She made our clothes, plus we had hand-me-downs and donations to supplement our wardrobes. My older brother and sister got the new clothes, but I wore hand-me-downs until I was a teenager. Our apartment was cold in the winter and hot in the summer—central heat and air-conditioning were unheard of back then."

"I couldn't live without air-conditioning!" A sudden hot flash reminded me of my dependence on the luxury of cool air.

"You could have, dear. That was in another time. How can you miss something you have never known?"

I nodded, grateful that I had known air-conditioning.

"We were poor by today's standard, but we didn't know it because everyone we knew was in the same situation. Now, we would be labeled at the poverty level or deprived, but back then, I'd never heard those words, so I didn't know that our circumstances had a name. As far as I was concerned, we had nutritious meals, a roof over our head, clothes on our back, and a school to go to. I didn't feel deprived."

Berta rubbed the heart-shaped charm engraved with _Bill and Betty_ , and the silver disc marked with a _B_. In my imagination, I thought _Bill and Betty_ and _B_ stood for their names, possibly the _B_ was for their surname, but Berta had a different story.

A tear rolled down her cheek as she looked at the two charms. "My older brother's name was _Bill_ , and my older sister's name was _Betty_. Our parents said we were their blessings, so that is what the _B_ stands for. Actually, it's our nicknames that start with a _B_ , but our parents said that was a minor detail. My brother's given name was _Wilhelm_ because old-world family custom required that the first-born son must be named for his paternal grandfather. They followed tradition but made sure he would be called the more Americanized _Bill_. My sister's real name was _Elisabet_." Again, tradition dictated that she would be named for her maternal grandmother, so her nickname became _Betty_. When I was born, it was required that I be named for my father, whether I was a boy or a girl."

"That could have been awkward. What was your father's name?"

Berta flicked a leaf off of her afghan and chuckled. "His name was _Robertz_ , so I was named Roberta. According to family stories, my mother had grown tired of the tradition of using names of specific relatives, so she balked at calling me Bobbie, Bertha, Bertie, or any other similar derivative of Robertz. Eventually, she relented and agreed to call me _Berta_ , but the family had to promise never to call me Bert. They agreed, and the matter was settled. Bill and Betty have passed away, but I still smile when I think of the memories they left behind. Sometimes I can hear them laughing with me as I recall a familiar family incident."

"Did you live in the same cramped apartment until you were an adult? Did you go to college? Did you get married?" My questions were unstoppable, but I couldn't help it. Every time Berta told me about a charm, I wanted to know more about her.

Berta turned the bracelet over in her hand. Her expression changed, and the next charms seemed to be a time of transition for her.

"We lived in the same neighborhood until I graduated from high school, although we did move into a larger apartment. I went to the nearby community college and prepared for a secretarial career. That's the significance of the typewriter on my bracelet. Back then, job opportunities for women were limited to teachers, nurses, and secretaries. I chose the secretarial program because it was shorter, more affordable, and it didn't involve blood, math, or public speaking." She blushed at her confession, but I must admit I was a little disappointed that she wasn't a novelist.

"I met my husband, Joe, in college. His dream was to take some business classes before joining the Air Force and becoming a pilot. He worked hard and was sent to San Antonio, Texas, to attend flight school. He loved flying and knew that it was the career choice for him. He earned his wings, and a miniature set of them was created for me." She held out the slightly tarnished charm so I could share her pride in Joe's accomplishment. The name _Berta_ was engraved above the wings, and _US Air Force_ was engraved below them.

"So, I was right! Your husband was a pilot." I clapped my hands with joy because I had guessed correctly.

"Not exactly. That was the plan, but that isn't what happened." She looked up at the puffy white clouds, and her eyes took on a dispirited expression.

"Sometimes you have to let go of your expectations for your future and find happiness in the life you actually live."

Berta explained their change of plans. "Joe had to undergo a series of medical tests in the process of becoming a pilot. Soon after he got his wings, doctors discovered that he had a permanent inner ear problem caused by a poorly treated case of the measles when he was ten years old. The condition affected his equilibrium, so he would never be a professional pilot."

"He must have been devastated when he heard the diagnosis." I could tell by the progression of charms on the bracelet that this happened when they were newlyweds, ready to settle down, start a family, and live their lives according to the plans they had made and prepared for since childhood.

"What did you do then?" I wondered how they had adjusted to that setback.

"We looked at our choices, made some adjustments in our plans, and kept going. We went back to Louisville, Joe continued working on his business degree, and he became a successful accountant. I got a good job as a secretary in a law firm, so I provided the family's income while Joe was in school. Back then, it was unusual for the woman in the household to be the main breadwinner."

The next charm was a calendar page for the month of April with a diamond chip on the 15th. Suddenly, I understood the significance of that charm, and I laughed out loud.

"So, April 15 honors income taxes instead of someone's birthday or anniversary?"

"Actually, it's both. April 15 is Income Tax Day and our anniversary. Joe wasn't an accountant when we got married, so we often laughed at the prophetic selection of that date for our wedding."

"Did you and Joe have children?" I looked at Gretchen's red curly hair.

"Oh, yes," she exclaimed with pride as she selected the charms with the ballet slippers, soccer ball, a silver angel, and the letter _J_ on them.

"Joe and I had three children. We didn't follow a family tradition of naming them after relatives, but we did follow the tradition of alliterative names. We included the _J_ charm because Jeff, Jill, and Jonathan were the joys of our life. The angel charm is in honor of our third child, Jonathan, who was born prematurely and died shortly after birth. I am so grateful that we were able to see him and hold him before he died."

I lowered my head so Berta wouldn't see the tears in my eyes. I marveled at the strength it must have taken to go through the ordeal of losing a child, but the aura of peace surrounding her now let me know how important it was for her to establish a sense of connection before she had to give him up.

Berta picked up the ballet slippers and the soccer ball charms as she continued her story.

"When Joe was having the bracelet made, he asked Jill and Jeff to each give him two symbols for my bracelet—one to represent their childhood and one to represent their adult life."

Berta paused, recalling a memory from Jill's childhood. "Jill is the oldest. She's a librarian now and aspires to write a great novel someday, so her adult charm is the quill and inkpot. As a child, her career goal was to be a world-famous ballerina, so her charm choice for childhood was toe shoes. For a few years, her world was full of pink tulle tutus, pink leotards, ballet slippers, and bling. She danced and twirled in pirouettes everywhere she went. She had even chosen her stage name— _Victoria June_. She saw herself as a svelte swan whenever she looked in the mirror. Unfortunately, heredity played a mean trick on _Victoria June_. She was chubby, awkward, and had big feet. She had bright red, unruly corkscrew curls that refused to be slicked back into a sleek, elegant bun. She often brought me a brush, comb, and a jar of gel as she begged me to tame her curls. It was useless to even try. The episodes usually ended in tears of disappointment for both of us. Eventually, she gave up her dream of becoming _Victoria June_ and settled for a more scholarly life."

"What about Jeff? Was he an athlete?"

Berta held the soccer ball charm between her fingers.

"Jeff loved soccer, and he was constantly kicking the ball around the house. For a while, he insisted that we call him _Pele_. He dreamed of being the player who heroically saved the game for his team with his skill. He tried hard and never missed a practice or a game, but he had inherited the same awkward gene as his sister, so his dream never became a reality either. He grew up and became a banker, so the dollar-sign charm represents his career choice. Joe and I realized early that sports and dance were not going to be in our children's future, so we emphasized academics. Things would be much more promising for them in that arena."

A silver park bench hung from a link of the bracelet.

"A park bench is important to me because it reminds me of the long walks Joe and I took every evening after supper while Jill and Jeff did the dishes. It was exactly one mile from our house to the park, so it became our exercise routine. We walked to the park bench, rested for a while, and reviewed our day, then went home having completed our nightly two-mile regimen. Sometimes we sat on the bench and remembered the years we spent sitting on bleachers cheering for our children's teams. They would never be great athletes, but they loved team sports and played with gusto!"

"This book is a symbol of my volunteer work. I have always loved to read, so most of the things I did centered around reading. My favorite project was recording books for the blind. It was a program through our local library—Jill was the one who got me involved in it. She organized our version of a Book Club that included our own 3 R's—reading, recording, and refreshments. Jill took care of the hi-tech details and kept a time schedule for us to use for recording our readings. We discovered we had a flair for the dramatic and library patrons enjoyed hearing books read by people they knew in the community. I had to give up the reading part a few months ago, but I still go to the meetings to enjoy the fellowship and refreshments." Berta's giggle made me wonder what kind of refreshments they served.

Her next charm of choice was a tiny church with a steeple. I could tell by the way she held it that it was indeed special to her.

"Joe and I got married at Beulah Springs Baptist Church, and we were active there throughout our marriage."

I jumped up off the bench and exclaimed, "I knew it! You looked familiar when I first saw you, but I couldn't place you. We go to the same church! You sit on the organ side."

"Sixth row, organ side is where my family and I have sat for many years. It's an unwritten law that no one sits on my pew." She clapped her hands and laughed at her joke.

"I always sit on the piano side—I like to claim my bench too!" We laughed as we shared the inside joke among Baptists about having assigned seats. I had seen Berta at church, but we sat on opposite sides, so we didn't really know each other. Gretchen and I discussed the unwritten seating code, and I noted that the habit was prevalent among older church members. Gretchen smiled and nodded her head in agreement.

I glanced over at Berta. She had dozed off, and I felt a twinge of guilt for her fatigue.

"I think Berta is too tired to continue her story. Let's arrange another meeting so I can hear more about the bracelet."

When Gretchen leaned over to straighten her grandmother's afghan, Berta woke up immediately and looked around. She smiled when she saw me. "Now, where were we? Oh yes, we were talking about me!"

"Granna, you've had enough excitement for one day. You're tired, and it's time to go home."

Berta pulled herself up straight in her wheelchair and said, "I feel fine, and I'm going to finish the story of my bracelet. I'm so glad to have it back. Please don't make me stop talking about it." She began to cough again and realized that Gretchen was right. She let her granddaughter tuck the afghan tightly around her. Gretchen released the levers on the wheelchair to begin their journey home. Berta winked at me and gave her charm bracelet a little shake.

After they left, I thought about what a bracelet of mine would look like in forty years. Would there be a lot of charms like Berta's, or would there only be a few? I would include those with a negative significance as well as the positive things. Both are important to who I am. Then, I got up from the bench and went home.

I planned to schedule another visit with Berta, but that didn't happen. I never saw her again. My world continued to turn in its usual way, and I drifted along with it. My appointment with the doctor turned out to be nothing to worry about. The _irregularity_ was benign calcifications, so I'll monitor that condition carefully.

*****

After reading Berta's obituary, I was filled with regret that I didn't arrange another visit with her. I'll carry that regret with me for a long time. Maybe that's why her death touched me so deeply. I realized that I couldn't change what I didn't do, but I could change what I would do to honor her memory. I knew I had to go to my friend's funeral.

On the day of the funeral, I drove to Beulah Springs Baptist Church to say good-bye to Berta. I entered the familiar sanctuary and signed my name in the guest book. I went to the casket at the front of the church and looked at the body of the beautiful Berta Schmitz with the naturally rosy cheeks. I noticed the bracelet on her wrist and thanked God for the privilege of knowing her, even if it was only for a short time. It was through her faith and testimony that my own faith was renewed.

I walked toward the back of the church and sat down on an empty pew (organ side in Berta's honor). In the background, the organist played _Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus_ , and I thought about the lyrics. I silently sang the words in my mind, and it seemed as though she were singing them with me "... and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace."

A few minutes later, Gretchen came to my pew, sat down beside me, and held my hand.

"She knew you would come." We smiled at the shared memory of our day in the park. She reached into her purse and took out a small, brightly wrapped box from Moyer's Jewelers.

"You returned a lost treasure to Granna. She often talked about how much she enjoyed telling you about her bracelet. Before she died, she made me promise to go to Moyer's and purchase this as a token of your friendship. I was to give it to you at her funeral. I wasn't sure you would be here, but she was."

I was surprised at the gesture and took the box Gretchen held out to me. I opened it and removed a beautiful silver bracelet with a tiny park bench charm attached. Gretchen gave me another hug as we both wept tears of love in memory of Berta.

As I put the new bracelet on my wrist, I saw the gift card enclosed in the box. On the card was written "2 Timothy 4:7: I have finished the race, I have kept the faith." This was the apostle Paul's farewell message to his friend Timothy, but I knew it was Berta's special message to me. Her bracelet was a testimony of the full life she had led, and her gift to me was an invitation to pick up my baton and continue the relay race of life.

The funeral service was a celebration of Berta, and I left the church feeling energized and encouraged. I clutched the little box Gretchen had given me and considered how I would honor her memory. Then it hit me like an epiphany— _Berta wants me to start my own charm bracelet!_

She had already given me the park bench charm as a reminder of our unique friendship. Following her example, I will look for a charm in the shape of Texas, and I'll put a tiny yellow rose on it to mark the town of Tyler. My calendar page will be November with a topaz chip marking the 10th—that's where and when it all began for me. I will include symbols that represent major events in my life, good and bad. My mind was spinning with ideas.

" _Who knows? Maybe a total stranger will find my bracelet someday and want to know more about_ _my_ _charmed life!"_
SECRETS

**By: Donna M. Copeland**

Glenys Perkins unfastened her seatbelt as she leaned out of her car window to retrieve the pile of mail from her floral covered mailbox. She coughed as the dust from the country dirt road swirled around her, setting her allergies in motion once again. Glenys thumbed through her mail and wondered if there would be another ridiculous secret admirer letter in the stack. She refastened her seat belt to stop the aggravation from the dinging noise and put the car back in drive. She drove into the double carport adjacent to her two-story pale, yellow house with white shutters, and sprawling front porch.

Glenys had purchased this delightful house with the money she inherited from her grandparents. Every time she approached her home, gratitude filled her heart for this generous gift. She gathered her red purse, patriotic book bag, and the mail in her hand as she exited from her midnight blue car. She unlocked the side gate, which led to the front of the house. She normally used the side door off the carport, but some days she walked up the center stairs to view the house as her visitors did.

After opening the front door, Glenys lay the mail down on the glass table in the foyer. She winced as she kicked off her red high heels. Her feet hurt, but the job required dressing up every day. Her black suit was coupled with a white blouse trimmed in red to match her shoes. She gave an appreciative glance at the Thomas Kinkade paintings hanging on the soothing green walls. Walking through the living room, she strolled to the back of the house, where the kitchen and family room nestled together. She grabbed a strawberry-infused bottle of water from the fridge, sat at the round kitchen table, and looked out the window through the white laced sheers.

Everything about this house was feminine to the nth degree. Glenys stared at her backyard and the vacant acreage behind her house. It was void of a dwelling but did present the appearance of a small forest. She loved the serenity of living in the country. Her son, Zee, could play outdoors and enjoy the benefits of living in a small town.

*****

Glenys went upstairs to change clothes and have a few more rare moments by herself before her son returned home from baseball practice. After selecting a pair of black jogging pants and a colorful purple tee, she found her black, rhinestone flip flops and down the stairs she went.

At the bottom of the steps, the mail on the foyer table caught her eye. She picked up the mail just as her phone rang. She dashed to the kitchen to answer it but didn't recognize the number, so she let it ring. If it were important, they would leave a message or call back. She lay the mail on the kitchen table. She then fumbled through the stack of mail, including the usual electric bill, phone bill, junk mail, and a host of grocery store advertisements. Glenys unfolded the grocery ads, and an envelope fell to the floor.

She bent down to pick it up and noticed there was no return address on it, but her name and address were oddly printed in all capital letters. As she opened the letter, she heard a wheezing sound and realized it was coming from her. Her eyes widened in horror, and her heart began pounding out of her chest like galloping horses at the Kentucky Derby. Glenys started sweating profusely and cried, "No, No, No!" She attempted to see through her tears and make sense of the jumbled words, but her focus deteriorated rapidly. She felt dizzy as the room grew dark. All alone in her house, Glenys fainted, and time stood still. She lay on the cold, tile floor—unconscious.

*****

"Mom, we're home," Zee exclaimed, "Where are you, mom?" Zee was accustomed to his mother greeting him at the door when he came home. He tapped his friend, Liam on the shoulder, grabbed his hand, and pulled him along as he whispered, "Come upstairs with me to find my mom." The boys climbed the stairs as Zee yelled, "Mom, I have so much to tell you," but the house was silent as a tomb. They searched from room to room.

Liam followed Zee shaking his head as they entered each darkened room. "She isn't up here," Liam said as he took charge and pulled Zee toward the stairs.

"I'm going to get Uncle Ethan," Liam said.

Liam ran down the stairs and opened the door only to find his uncle's fist in midair. Liam said excitedly, "Uncle Ethan, Zee can't find his mom. We looked upstairs but haven't checked the kitchen or her office."

Ethan's brows furrowed as he stepped inside the familiar foyer and shut the front door. "Boys, sit on the staircase steps while I check the kitchen."

*****

Ethan approached the kitchen cautiously. As he walked past the center island, he saw Glenys' legs jutting out from behind it. He rushed over to her, felt for a pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found it. He called her name, "Glenys, Glenys— it's Ethan." He grabbed her hand and told her to squeeze his hand if she could hear him. No response. Her face was white as a sheet. Perhaps, she just fainted, he thought. "Glenys, please, wake up, wake up," he pleaded. "Z—Zee is okay," he stuttered, so shaken by his findings.

Glenys stirred while moaning quietly. She licked her dry lips as she uttered, "Please help me."

Ethan calmly responded, "I'm here." He was a volunteer EMT and transformed into that mode as he went down his checklist of her responses. Ethan yelled, "Boys, I found her. She's okay, but stay where you are for a few minutes."

Glenys began to move slowly as she spoke her concerns, but she was speaking coherently. Ethan tenderly brushed the long auburn hair out of her face. He inspected and found no bump on her head. He pulled her up against him as she adjusted to sitting up.

Zee and Liam couldn't stand it anymore and rushed to the kitchen to see what was happening. Zee's eyes widened in fear when he saw his mom on the floor. Zee squatted down and hugged her as he burst into tears. Glenys reassured him she was okay. Zee and Liam stayed put like statues while Ethan hovered over Glenys.

Ethan assisted Glenys to the chair at the breakfast table. "Oh, dear heavens," Glenys said as she saw the letter and envelope in Ethan's hand. He glanced curiously at Glenys as he gave the letter to her. Her hands trembled as she held the letter in her hand.

"Someone has terrible penmanship," he commented.

"Yes, indeed," she replied in an unsteady voice.

"I didn't realize people even wrote letters much anymore," Ethan commented as he tidied up the breakfast area. He persisted with small talk so he could see how she responded to his questions and answers. They continued to communicate as Ethan moved around her kitchen, preparing grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and sweet tea for everyone. The boys shared tales of their day. Ethan was stalling so he could observe Glenys and make sure she was feeling better, though she insisted she was. She seemed to be okay after the fainting episode. Eventually, Ethan and Liam left to go home, and Glenys double-checked the door to be sure it was locked securely.

*****

Glenys made sure Zee took a bath before he got ready for bed. She sat on the edge of his bed and inquired if he was feeling better after the scary afternoon.

He sniffled as he whimpered, "I was so afraid when I couldn't find you, mom. You're all I have. Nothing can happen to you." Huge tears rolled down his face.

Glenys hugged him tight and then began rubbing his back as she assured him today's incident was because she hadn't eaten, which caused low blood sugar. She emphasized this wouldn't happen again, and she would be fine.

"Zee, when you're worried about something, you can pray. What better time to pray than right now for both of us here together?"

Glenys comforted her son as she spoke, God's Word says, "For where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am in the midst of them, Matthew 18:20." Glenys paused and smiled at her precious son.

"God knows our problems, fears, questions, and He will lead us on the right path and take care of us."

"That makes me feel better." Zee nodded.

"Now you can go to sleep thinking happy thoughts."

"Yes, I can think about hitting the home run last month," Zee interjected.

"Mr. Ethan told me he was very proud of me, but not as much as his friend, Mr. Ken was when he watched the video of the game. Mr. Ken played baseball when he was younger and in high school. Mr. Ethan told our team to enjoy our ability and not throw our talent away."

"That's awesome, Zee."

She gave him an extra tight squeeze and kissed his forehead. She pulled his covers up and tucked him in.

"I love you so much, Zee. You are my world!" Glenys whispered.

She reached over, turned off his lamp, and stood up slowly to avoid any dizziness, then walked out of his room, closing the door.

*****

She ambled downstairs to her home office. She found the hidden key in her desk drawer and unlocked a cabinet. She lifted the lid, removed a manila envelope as she sat at her desk and reminisced. She took out the newspaper clipping showing a large, dark-haired, handsome man with a gorgeous smile.

It amazed her his mug shot looked like a photo shoot, but that's how narcissistic Kenner Scott was. His large brown eyes stared back at her from the picture, and her lips quivered. She hadn't seen him in years. He was so charming when they'd first met. He had swept her off her feet. She had let her guard down only once but never again in the last ten years. She believed it was better he decided to set her free. He left her.

Well, not exactly, he was taken away in handcuffs. Her memory took her back to another time and place as she remembered the fateful night when her life turned upside down.

The magical night was perfect, and he continued to kiss her playfully. She was startled when she heard an unexpected knock on the door. She didn't want their romantic interlude interrupted. She pranced toward the door past the fireplace, which gave them warmth, light, and a cozy atmosphere. When she opened the door, two uniformed police officers stood in front of her.

"Ma'am, we're here from the Barrel Stone Police Department."

"What is this about, officer?" she inquired.

"We're looking for Mr. Kenner Scott. Is he here?"

Glenys nodded, turned to look at Kenner, but he was gone.

"He was right here. Perhaps, he just went to the bathroom," she added.

"Come in and have a seat, officers," she said, motioning to the sofa and chairs.

The officers looked at each other in surprise when they heard a motor racing. They rushed outside, jumped in the patrol car, and with red lights flashing, pursued the taillights they saw in the distance.

Glenys ran to her car and followed them. When all the drama ended, she witnessed Kenner in handcuffs, but his face was smug, fearless, and distorted with anger. His chin jutted slightly upward. The officers escorted him past her car, where she sat in shock. Kenner didn't look at her. Not once. "He's guilty," she thought.

An officer stopped at her car, tapped on the window, and asked if she was okay. The officer told her that her boyfriend had a message for her—he said for you "to go on with your life." Glenys did just as Kenner requested. She changed her phone number and accepted a new job in another city. It was several months later she realized she was pregnant with Zee. There had never been another man since Kenner Scott.

Glenys had gone down the bunny trail as she daydreamed about Kenner. She put the pictures and newspaper clippings back in the envelope, which was stored in the box. She placed the box in the cabinet and turned the key. Her secrets were hidden away safely, just like her past with Zee's father.

The past had stayed locked away until she began receiving the letters a few months ago. The letters seemed harmless, almost juvenile at first. She thought they might even be from Ethan. He was such a sweetheart. She had noticed the way he looked at her sometimes or brushed up against her, but he seemed shy around her. The letters were never signed until the one she received today. She felt a bit confused, as if the answer was right in front of her, but she was too blind to see it. She must think clearly and purposefully. She was concerned about the safety of Zee.

_Wait a minute_ , she thought. _Kenner didn't know about Zee. How could he? He was in prison. She had moved hundreds of miles away, but over ten years later, these letters began showing up in her mailbox. Kenner was playing games. This wasn't the man she knew years ago._

Glenys rose from her chair, walked out of her office, and paced around the kitchen. Suddenly her eyes narrowed as she held his letter in her hand. Wiping the perspiration from her face, she took a few deep breaths.

Her hands trembled as she removed the letter from its envelope. A moan escaped her lips as she unfolded the letter and began to read it slowly.

My Dearest Glenys,

I've forgiven you for your silence. Surely you knew I waited for your visit or phone call that never came. Did you really think I meant for you to go on with your life? How stupid. You know you were expected to wait for me. As I said, I forgive you for all your wrongdoings. That's what a good man I am. I'm sure you are as beautiful today as you were all those years ago. Pictures never did you justice anyway. We belong together. You know it's true. I'm closer to getting home to you than you realize. I was framed, but the price I paid for my misdeeds has almost come to an end.

I look forward to the freedom that awaits me. You always said we belonged together. Nothing has changed, Glenys.

I'll be coming home before you know it. Surprise! We can all be a family at last.

I love you, princess!

Kenner

Years ago, she had wished this was real in her heart of hearts, but now, older and wiser, she knew this was a bunch of bull. Her head was pounding after hearing from this arrogant piece of work.

"He sounds crazy in this letter. He's complimentary and then angry. He's a certifiable nut," she murmured. "What?" "Wait a minute," she said aloud as she raked her fingers through her hair.

"H-H-How does he know about Zee?" Her thoughts were jumbled. Fussing at herself. _Think, Glenys, think._

She played it so safe for a long time. There were few people she trusted enough to interact with. She and Zee saw no one except those at church and those who played baseball with Zee. Ethan and Liam were the only ones who had ever been to her home.

What was it that Zee had said?

" _Mom, I heard Mr. Ethan's friend, Mr. Ken, loves to play baseball too."_

She quit pacing as she reached for the chair at the breakfast table and sat down. All the bits and pieces of conversations flowed back to her. Ethan was commenting on the letter with horrible penmanship.

Oh, my gosh, did Ethan know who Kenner was? Her eyes flew open like flying saucers—as she remembered Zee's words. "Mr. Ken was so excited about my home run!"

Why would Ethan's friend be more excited than Ethan?

"Oh no," she said, shaking her head. Could it be? Was Ethan's friend Mr. Ken, Kenner? Glenys was startled by her phone notification ring. It was a text message from Ethan.

"How are you feeling, Glenys?"

"I'm feeling much better. I was about to make myself a cup of hot chocolate. I wish you were here," she said with a smile.

"I do too, Glenys. I need to talk to you about something, and it really needs to be spoken in person, but it's late, and I can't leave Liam home alone. I've wanted to discuss something with you but didn't want to jump to conclusions."

"Of course, Ethan, you can talk to me about anything," Glenys replied as she twirled her auburn hair around her finger.

"Meet me at the boys Sunday School class at the church in the morning."

"It's a date," she replied.

"Goodnight, Ethan."

"Goodnight, Glenys. Sweet dreams!"

*****

Glenys and Ethan were able to get the boys to their Sunday school class early. They left the church and walked to the coffee shop nearby.

When they arrived, the waitress took them to a table in the back corner. Ethan was the perfect gentleman and pulled out her chair for her. He moved a chair next to hers so they could talk with more privacy and ease.

"I'm so happy to see you have your color back today. You look beautiful, Glenys," he said.

"That's sweet of you to say, Ethan." she blushed.

The waitress came by and took their order. They were engrossed in their personal conversation when she appeared again with their coffee. Glenys sipped hers as she watched Ethan fidget.

"Glenys, I don't really know how to begin with this explanation except to just lay it out there for you. I hope these developments won't come between us. This is so convoluted and difficult. What are the chances?" he mumbled as he wiped the sweat from his face.

Glenys couldn't stand to see his discomfort and blurted out, "I think I know, Ethan."

"What?" Ethan said in surprise.

Ethan reached for Glenys' hands and placed them in his as he spoke.

"Ladies first, Ethan encouraged her.

"First, I have to tell you that I'm sorry. I didn't know until yesterday that my old boyfriend, Kenner, might be your friend, Ken. Zee told me you said Mr. Ken was happy about his home run. He was more excited than you, and you're the assistant coach! It didn't make sense. Then I received that crazy letter, and he signs it. Kenner signed this one. I feel like a complete idiot. I'd hoped the sweet letters I received at first were from you," she confessed.

"You are very special to me. I care deeply for you and Zee. I want to be more than your friend. We have time to go forward with us, but for now, we need to settle the past. I became involved in the church prison ministry. I recognized a childhood friend's name on the list. Man, how I hoped it was another Kenner Scott. I began visiting Ken in prison about eight months ago. I thought maybe I could bring a little light to his day and Jesus to his heart, but he wasn't very receptive. I wondered what happened to the Ken Scott I grew up with. The friend I once knew. I witnessed to him, and then I remember showing him a picture of all of us at a baseball game. He was very emotional but quiet and reserved after seeing the photo of you, Zee, Liam, and me. He didn't ask questions and never referred to it again. He must have tracked you down and began sending the letters after that."

Ethan stopped and took a deep breath. Glenys squeezed his hand.

"Ethan, my only concern about Kenner is that he leaves us alone."

"He could never make it in the outside world because he can't walk the straight and narrow." Ethan added, "He has a rap sheet a mile long."

"I'm confused. Wasn't he at the practice when Zee hit the home run?" Glenys questioned.

The waitress interrupted them as she refilled their coffee cups and asked if they needed anything. They declined and continued their conversation.

"Not in person." I was given permission to use the prison audio/visual equipment to show Ken parts of a baseball practice and game during a prison visit. I saw a strange expression on his face. He seemed so focused on and proud of Zee. He barely even looked at Liam play. He was drawn to Zee.

He said, "If I had a son, I wish he'd play just like this young boy here. His mother must be really proud of him."

"Kenner asked me to pray with him as he accepted Jesus as His Lord and Savior. He did a complete turn-around from our previous visit."

"Is Kenner Zee's father, Glenys?"

Glenys looked down and whispered, "He is. My relationship with Kenner was a mistake, but I received the gift of a beautiful son who is my whole world."

"You are a courageous woman, Glenys. Many would not have taken your path."

Glenys nodded as she grabbed a napkin to wipe her face.

"He doesn't know Zee is his son. I think he believed you moved on to another guy after he was imprisoned. You don't have to be concerned about him any longer. I received a phone call from the head of the prison ministry this morning. Kenner had a massive heart attack last night. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital, but he couldn't be revived. It was just too late. He was DOA."

Glenys sobbed with mixed emotions of grief and joy. Barely audible, she said, "His soul was saved, thanks to you, Ethan." Yet, she felt the sadness of Kenner throwing away his life and never owning up to his mistakes until the very end. At the same time, she was relieved to know Zee was safe from the dad he would never know and certainly not deserve. Zee should have a dad like Ethan. "A good man," she thought as she looked at him.

"Ethan, we now have a new motto, no more secrets," she said, wiping her face.

"Well then, I guess it's about time," he declared.

Ethan looked into her eyes as he leaned in and kissed her.

They professed simultaneously, "I love you."
A SHIFT IN TIME

**By: Carole Lehr Johnson**

Katherine Stewart drove up Elm Street in a daze, her mind still on the troubling news she'd received the evening prior. Her sister was missing.

Tammy had insisted on a solo trip to Scotland to study castles. She was an archaeology student in her final year at university, and that was her specialty. She was last seen near one that was all too familiar to Katherine.

Her thoughts wandered back several years when she'd gone with Tammy on a tour of Scottish castles. One, in particular, had drawn her attention—an abandoned, and decaying, red-stoned structure on the cliffs overlooking the North Sea. Through the decades, tourists had roamed the massive ruins, at different times, several tumbled over the jagged cliffs to their deaths while seagulls screeched overhead above the pounding waves.

She shuddered. What if her younger sister had done the same?

The hotel Tammy was staying in reported that she hadn't returned after having them pack her a takeaway lunch. The police were conducting an investigation and should contact her with an update soon.

The brakes ground out a moan as Katherine slammed the car to a halt at a red light. She rested her head against the steering wheel. No tears came. She'd cried too much last night.

"Oh, Tammy, what have you done?" She raised her head and blinked a few times to refocus, rubbing her temples. A garage sale buzzing with bargain seekers met her gaze. She smiled. Tammy always said a real treasure could be found amongst the junk.

Katherine parked the car and cut the engine. Maybe this was a suitable diversion. She strolled from table to table, browsing the many old family mementos—paintings, photos, antiquated jewelry. She paused when she spotted a dirt-encrusted, framed family pedigree chart. The earliest date went back to the birth of Ian Stewart, born in 1699. She hadn't done genealogy research in years, but could this be part of her Stewart clan?

As she studied the sepia-toned document, another person stepped up, waiting to view it. Before they could, Katherine tucked it under her arm, offered an apologetic smile, and paid for it without haggling—never once glancing at the cost. She carefully placed the chart on the floorboard of her car.

On the drive home, her mind wrapped around Tammy, the castle, and the treasure she'd discovered at the sale. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding? Perhaps her sister would show up at any moment with a logical excuse for her two-day absence.

Katherine slipped into her garage and checked her phone. No missed calls or messages. She couldn't stare at her phone, or she'd go insane. Instead, she took the framed chart inside, sat at her desk, and studied it carefully, inching her finger to each name, pausing now and again to retrieve a detail from her memory.

Arriving in the fifteenth century, she slowed her progress as she recognized a few names from her past investigations. She continued to trace through to the eighteenth century until she gasped, her heart racing. Her finger stalled over one very familiar name.

Tabitha Louise Stewart

Born 1995

Died 1789

Her sister's name. Right there on the chart.

Katherine's head swam. She grasped the chair arms for support. Was this some kind of elaborate prank or bizarre error?

Reason returned when she considered the possibility of a prank. Absurd. She dismissed that notion. But that meant...?

Scrambling to her knees, she searched for the family genealogy book among the clutter on the bookcase. Frantically, she flipped its pages until she found what she sought. A tear trickled onto the page open before her, names blurring, as she read:

Tabitha Louise Stewart, born 1995, disappeared from the northeast Scottish coastal town of Cruden Bay while touring an abandoned castle. Her body never found.

Katherine took a deep, shaky breath and reread the paragraph. She slammed the book shut and switched on her computer. Within an hour, she'd made a reservation to fly to Scotland's capital, Edinburgh, rented a car, and booked a hotel. She was going to Scotland to find her sister. The search would begin at the castle, yet something within her echoed that it was not in this time. But how can that be possible?

*****

The flights had been pleasant enough, time passing quickly, as Katherine studied the genealogy information she'd brought with her. Her black and white printed backpack bulged with papers, books, and pedigree charts. She glanced at the screen on the seatback in front of her. Two more hours and she'd be in Edinburgh where she'd take the train up to Aberdeen and pick up her rental.

She hauled her thoughts back to the journal she'd furiously scribbled in for hours—noting any piece of information relating to the castle and the Clan Stewart. Tammy had been obsessed with it all, but something kept bringing her back to this particular castle.

Her eyes grew heavy, so she thought better of continuing her research and put everything away. She needed to be focused and alert when she got to Edinburgh. The train would take well over two hours to get to Aberdeen, then she'd drive nearly an hour up the coast to her hotel, which was less than a mile from the castle. The same place she and Tammy had stayed on their joint trip. The same hotel Tammy had been staying when she'd disappeared. She'd question the staff and speak to the police in person.

Katherine woke to the slow thump, thump, thump of the train coming to a stop at the Aberdeen Rail Station. She'd slept the remaining two hours of the flight into Edinburgh and again on the train out of Waverley Station. She felt refreshed and able to make the short drive to her hotel—and to the castle.

She took in the welcoming blue of the sky, few clouds drifted above as the soft breeze ruffled her hair. After tossing her carry-on bag onto the back seat, she slammed the door, and with care, placed her backpack onto the passenger seat. The glance she gave it as she slid the car into drive made her wince. Tammy should be sitting there, not names and places on sheets of paper as if the mere presence of ink made it real.

Now she was being maudlin. She would find her sister. Wherever or whenever she was. "Why do I keep saying that?" she whispered to herself. The whole idea was absurd, but it conjured a distant memory of her sister.

Tammy was a butterfly, flitting from one historic site to the next with a time travel novel under one arm and her tools of the trade under the other. Those interests had jumpstarted at the tender age of ten when their mother caught Tammy in the backyard, digging up one of her prized roses. Tammy had matter-of-factly said she'd read in a book about time capsules, and she planned to find one and travel to the past.

When their mother had explained what a time capsule was, she'd taken it hard, uncharacteristically arguing with her. Tammy was a kind, even-tempered child—pliable unless it came to her notions of time travel and archaeology. She was driven and focused. Even in high school and college, she never dated, deeming men a waste of her valuable time.

Tears threatened as Katherine thought of her baby sister, somewhere all alone, possibly hurt or worse.

God, please let her be safe. Help me find her.

Katherine eased out of the parking space and began the last leg of her journey. Once out of Aberdeen, she chose the road that wound its way along the coast, paralleling the North Sea's shore, avoiding the motorways. Views of the sea came and went as she steered the car along the road edging ever nearer to Cruden Bay.

Arriving at her hotel, she grabbed her bags, her feet crunching on the gravel path to the hotel entrance adjacent to the golf course. In the distance, she glimpsed the sprawling castle perched above the cliffs. It was a magnificent sight, so vast, so impressive to have stood for hundreds of years. Now abandoned to time.

Time?

Katherine checked in, climbed the stairs to her room, and unceremoniously deposited the bags on the bed. She stood, hands clasped behind her back, studying the view of the castle from the window, reminiscing that they'd stayed in this room previously. Although it was early afternoon, the exploring could wait until the next morning. That would give her a full day to investigate. After freshening up, her backpack slung over one arm, she dashed downstairs to the bar. Locals would be there, and maybe someone would know something about Tammy. Dinner could be spent next door at the cozy dining room decorated with framed prints of local scenes.

She was greeted with friendly nods and 'ayes' as she walked in, heads turning from the barstools. A middle-aged woman behind the bar told her to sit anywhere. As she made her way to a small table by the window, a voice over her shoulder called, "Where ye came from?"

Katherine turned to give her inquisitor a tired smile and found him to be an older man with thick white hair and a pleasant face. "Aberdeen."

He laughed a deep throaty laugh, followed by a wry grimace. "Oh, aye? Ye don't sound like ye hail from Aberdeen."

"Sorry, jet lag, you know." She blushed, realizing her mistake. "I'm from the States."

He gave her another dry look. "Figured that. Does the U.S. not have a few cities to speak of?"

At least the stress of the past few days hadn't robbed her of all humor. She laughed. "Yes, I suppose it does. I'm from Savannah, Georgia."

"Thought I heard a southern accent there." He took a sip of his drink and held his glass up. "Would ye like a pint?"

"That's kind of you, but I was hoping for a cup of tea."

He nodded, waved at the woman behind the bar, who returned the nod. To Katherine's surprise, he stood to what appeared to be over six-feet tall and walked to her table. He tilted his head slightly and asked, "Do ye mind a bit o' company? I believe ye have some questions to ask."

Katherine started. "What?"

"I'm no loon tryin' for yer attention. Ye favor a lass that came in here a few weeks back." He dropped into the chair across from her. "The one who disappeared among the ruins."

She stared at him. "Do we really favor that much?"

The bartender approached with her tea and gently placed it in front of her. "Would you like to see the menu, dearie?"

Katherine told her yes, but that she'd have tea first.

The man held out his hand. "I'd be Benjamin Douglas."

She shook it. "Katherine Stewart."

"Had some interestin' conversations with yer sister." He sipped his drink. "Tammy's a right nice lass."

Katherine turned to peer out the window at the late afternoon sky. "Yes, she is." She brought her gaze back to his. "What do you know about her?"

When he smiled, the furrows around his eyes deepened. "Thought ye may ask."

"Yes, I came to find her. I just don't believe she'd be so careless to fall over the cliff. She's an archaeologist—a very good one at that. She'd have prepared for all situations, and she was... is exceptionally athletic. So, I know she's..."

Benjamin's face grew somber, and something in his eyes told her he knew more than he was letting on. She studied him over the rim of her cup. "Mr. Douglas, is there something you'd like to tell me? I'd really appreciate anything that you may know about Tammy and what she'd been doing here."

"It's Ben. I know I'm an auldjin, but I still like to be called Ben." His eyes crinkled. "And what do ye mean to be called?"

"Katherine," she told him without hesitation.

"What, no Kat or somethin'?"

"Nope. I've always been of a mind that if you name a child something, that's what you should call them." Another memory tugged at her. "Although, sometimes, people decide they don't like their names and start calling themselves something else."

"Like Tammy?"

"Yes. Her real name is Tabitha. She hated it from the time she could speak in full sentences and informed her family that her name was Tammy. When I questioned her, she said she refused to be called Tabby." Katherine folded her napkin over and over until it became one of the origami creations she'd learned in second grade. It lay on the table, mocking her. She'd taught that bit of craft to Tammy when she was old enough to fold paper. She watched Ben's eyebrows rise as he stared at it. He sat there, entranced, hands wrapped around his glass.

"What is it?" She touched his forearm. "Ben?"

He finally met her eyes. "Tammy made one for me." He took a hurried gulp of his drink. "The night before she disappeared." His face paled. "And..."

Katherine waited, seeing he was having trouble forming his words.

"One was found up at the castle."

She shrugged. "Why is that unusual? She'd been there exploring, probably sat to eat her lunch, and made one while she was resting afterward."

He placed a gnarled hand over Katherine's. "Aye, lass, but this one had my name on it."

"Your name?" Katherine jerked her hand back. "Why?"

"I don't know. It's strange, the whole lot, especially where it was found."

"What difference does that make?" Katherine asked, not following his train of thought.

"In a place where she wouldna' been eatin' her lunch. It was in the castle's cellar. A place where visitors go to hide what they're doin' and toss their rubbish. Tis a shame."

"Do you mean teenagers having parties and such? Yes, I've seen some things they've left there."

"Aye. Forgot that ye'd been here before and seen the place." He shook his head, thick grey hair rippling. "Shameful."

"Yes, it is. But I see what you mean about Tammy not resting in that cellar. It was dark and littered with trash. It made her angry. I wouldn't put it past her to take a light and a trash bag and go down there to clean it herself."

He chuckled. "Aye."

A sudden thought struck her. "Ben, maybe she'd made it for you and dropped it while she was doing just that—cleaning up."

"But she'd already given me one."

"Oh, well, then why did this one have your name on it?"

He studied her.

"What are you thinking?" She squinted, willing him to tell her.

He leaned back in his chair. "There was some kind of message on the paper that no one can decipher." He swallowed hard—audible. "I think she left it for me ta find."

She stretched out her hand toward him. "Do you have it with you?"

"Na. The police have it. Part of the investigation." His look was thoughtful. "Since she's yer sister, they'd let ye see it. They questioned me, but I've nothing to tell them."

"What kind of writing was it?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps a code. Only time I've seen anythin' like it afore was in a book about the great war. A codebook."

Sounded like Tammy. She used to leave coded notes for Katherine when she wanted to tell her something rather than just saying it. Humoring her made her happy. A pang of fear ran through Katherine. Was this another one of Tammy's games?

"Katherine," Ben whispered. "I think Tammy found somethin' in that cellar, and she was taken away somewhere. But she left a clue on that wee bit there."

"What do you mean somewhere?" Before she'd left, her mind had said some time. A thought like a splash of ice water hit her. "Ben!" She grabbed her backpack and frantically rifled for a copy of the page she'd found in the genealogy book and thrust it at him. While he was scanning it, she snatched her cell phone up and quickly located a picture she'd taken of the framed pedigree chart.

She showed him the picture and the copy. He studied both carefully, his eyebrows rose when she saw his finger perched over Tammy's name. He returned to the pedigree chart then stilled. "Ian Stewart."

It was not a question—but a statement. A revelation shone in his eyes.

"Does that name mean something to you, Ben?"

His response was immediate. "Aye."

Katherine grew impatient. "Well?"

He shook his head. "Don't rightly know what to make of it. Ian Stewart is one of my ancestors too. Strange. He was a kind of legend 'round here. Real hero he was. Big brute of a man, so the stories have been passed down." Suddenly he slammed his palms on the table, and Katherine jumped, the glassware skittering across the surface. Rising, he told her, "Let's be on our way to the police."

A woman's voice rose above the now bustling room, which Katherine hadn't noticed until now. Several men sat at the bar chatting, two others played pool across the room, balls clinking against one another, raucous laughter ricocheting. "Ben, ye loon, let the lass eat first. She didna' come to have you herd her 'round the countryside."

"Oh, aye. Sorry, lass." He sat with a thump.

Katherine smiled. "No worries."

He gave her a sheepish grin before waving the woman over while Katherine perused the menu and ordered. The woman gave Ben a playful slap on his shoulder before heading for the kitchen.

After a quick meal, Katherine led Ben to her rental car. He settled into the passenger seat and gave her a pointed look. "You think ye can read it? The code."

She shrugged and shared with him about her sister's obsession with ciphers and the game between them. Driving to the police station, they talked about combing the cellar for any clues—even though she'd been informed, the police had carried out a thorough search.

At the station, Ben walked surefooted across the deep gravel of the car park despite his age. A police vehicle pulled up, and a young male officer got out and approached them.

"Hiya, Ben. Still pickin' up the lasses these days, I see." The man joked good-naturedly. "Always knew you were an old letch."

"Aye, Thomas, aye. But ye got it all wonky. This fine lass found me, not the other way 'round." His eyes gleamed with mischief as he glanced at Katherine.

"Thomas Mclean, this is Katherine, Tammy's sister."

Thomas studied her. "Oh, aye." He rested his hands on his utility belt and gave her a piercing look. "Sorry 'bout your sister. Nice lass."

Katherine met his direct gaze. "Thank you. Are you working on her case?"

"I'm assisting the main investigator." Thomas kicked at the gravel and said hoarsely, "Again, sorry we've found nothing yet."

"Thomas, could you let Katherine see that scrap of paper you found?" Ben asked.

Thomas eyed Katherine. "Aye, if ye'd like. Don't know if it'd help, but come on in. It's written all the way 'round on all sides and corners. Makes no sense at all."

"I may be able to decipher it. My sister has a fondness—no—a fascination with codes since she was a small thing."

Thomas smiled. "My brother had a likin' for caves, especially mense ones."

" _Mense?_ "

Ben released a guttural laugh. "Ah, lass, that means immense. Ye may be needin' a Scots dictionary. They sell' em at the shops."

It was Katherine's turn to laugh. "Maybe I do."

They followed Thomas into the one-story, modern tan brick building and straight through the reception area to a small room with a metal desk at its center. He removed a file from the desk, thumbing through it until he found the wrinkled piece of origami nestled in a plastic sheet protector. He held it out to Katherine, who accepted it with a slightly shaking hand. She glanced over it but knew she'd need privacy to digest all the squiggles and drawings. "If you'll make a copy, I'd appreciate it. I'll go over it tonight. If I find out anything, I can call you tomorrow before I go to the castle."

Ben gave Thomas a sideways glance.

Katherine stared at them. "What?"

Ben coughed as Thomas answered her. "I think I should go to the castle with you tomorrow." He shrugged and said with a disarming smile. "For safety."

*****

Katherine rose before dawn, backpack loaded with supplies, a flashlight, and bolstered courage as she made her way down the path from the village to the castle. The birds tweeted and fluttered in the trees overhead, the forest alive with morning sounds and water gurgling in the stream running toward the sea.

After what she'd deciphered on the paper the night before, she couldn't wait any longer to go to the castle—with or without Officer Thomas Mclean.

She ambled around the castle in the dawn's pale glow, hiking boots quiet on the compacted dirt from tourist traffic. The cellar was easy to find, but as she stood in the open doorway, she peeked down into the cave-like space. It was the same as when she and Tammy had last been there together. Her flashlight revealed built-in stone cubbyholes with arched openings.

Katherine removed the copy of the drawing, holding it to her light to see the etching once again. It was a diagram of the room focusing on one particular storage hold—the one to her left facing the opposite wall. She entered the room and located the correct nook.

"How am I going to find any clues among all this trash?" She released an exasperated sigh and whispered, "God, please show me the way to find my sister."

Leaning into the space, she guided the beam along the dirt-encrusted floor and tossed trash behind her as she hunted for any trace of Tammy's visit there.

Once she'd cleared the trash, Katherine raked her gloved hand over the dirt, smoothing it out. Her hand met with resistance over one pile. She moved it with extra force and unearthed a small lumpy object. She brushed it off to reveal a small brown drawstring bag.

Katherine's breath hitched. She knew this bag. She removed her gloves and opened it, and poured the little stones into her palm, sifting through them with her index finger. Nothing else was there.

As a child, Tammy had been attracted to any pebble with a smooth, colorful surface and saved each one in a tiny pouch. This bag was undoubtedly her sister's. But was it the clue Tammy spoke of on the coded paper? This place was where she'd been when she disappeared. But how?

Katherine knelt and scuttled into the storage compartment. Her flashlight flickered, then died, leaving her in near darkness, the only thread of illumination filtering in through the entrance door from the corridor. She sighed with feeling, closed her eyes, and whispered a prayer. When she opened them, she saw a shaft of radiance in the room move, flitting from side to side. She froze, holding her breath.

The sound of footsteps, then voices, came from the corridor. She slipped, scattering debris into the room. She heard a man say, "Hey, Tom, down here."

"Tom?" Katherine said to herself, then louder she called out, "Ben, is that you?"

A bright light in her face was the answer. "Aye, there ye are, lass. Thought you'd come down here without us, we did. We were worried about ye and knowin' how determined ye were, thought we'd have a look-see."

Katherine heaved a great breath, her shoulders rising and falling with the effort. She kept her perch in the hold as Thomas entered the room, a concerned expression on his face. "Guys, while I realize your concern, I want to do this alone."

Thomas leaned in to see into her face fully. "Ahh, there ye are. Might I ask what're you doin' in there, sittin' in the dark?"

Katherine couldn't take her eyes from his. It was something in them that held her, intrigued her, though they'd only met yesterday. All she could do was hold out her hand to show them the bag and stutter a reply, "My flashlight died."

"I ken that." He smiled, extending a hand to retrieve the bag and with the other handed over a flashlight, their fingers brushing. Katherine switched on the light, attempting to ignore the thrill from his touch. She turned to explore the area again when suddenly her light, as well as Ben's, went out.

The light from the corridor dimmed to nothing, thrusting them into absolute darkness. Within seconds, the cellar was lit by candlelight from lanterns hanging around the room. Katherine perched in the cubby with Thomas hovering at its entrance. Ben was nowhere to be seen.

Thomas's jaw slackened, and he met her eyes. "Where are... what...?"

A sinking feeling twisted Katherine's insides as she stared back at him, then scrutinized the room filled with items not there only seconds ago. It was as if they were in a completely different place—yet it was the same castle cellar as before, just newer, much newer.

Katherine whispered, "Thomas? What happened?"

He took her hand and helped her from the hole but didn't let go. He reached out to touch a nearby bag of what seemed to be grain. Barrels were stacked in a corner marked with what appeared to be ale. In silence, they took it all in.

"Is this what a mass hallucination is like?" Katherine muttered. "If it is..." She stopped speaking at the sound of footsteps, clipping a staccato on wooden floors in the corridor.

Thomas pulled her behind a large barrel, shoving her down into a crouch. He put an index finger to his lips, and she raised her eyebrows and mouthed, " _Really?_ "

His noiseless response was a quirk of his mouth and an unapologetic shrug.

Voices added to the clip of shoes. "Ye canna do it. Her ladyship willna allow it. Dinna ye see?"

The response was muffled as the voices faded away from their hiding place. Katherine let out a breath she'd been holding. "Thomas, what can we do? This is unbelievable, and I'll admit downright frightening." He met her eyes. "Have we somehow traveled to the past?"

He let go of her hand and placed an arm around her shoulders. It was then she realized he was not in uniform but wearing faded jeans, hiking boots, and a brown jacket. Her gaze took him in, from head to toe—and he began to return the scrutiny, a nervous smile playing on his lips.

Someone's entrance to the cellar stilled them, locked in each other's arms. Whistling echoed in the chamber while the person rustled about the room. A curse was uttered by a man's voice. He paused, then whistling resumed, and he shuffled out of the room.

Katherine rested her forehead on Thomas' shoulder, breaths rapid, and whispered, "We've got to get out of here."

Thomas held her by the shoulders and eased her back to peer into her face, shaking his head. "I dinna know what's happened, but we must find out without being seen. You stay here, and I'll have a look-see."

She shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere—or staying here without you." Her shoulders sagged. "Thank you for coming to find me. Had this happened to me alone, I'd likely fall apart. I'm a hotel manager for Pete's sake—not Mrs. Indiana Jones!"

Thomas released a smoky laugh. "Aye. Let's go and find out where we are."

Hand-in-hand, they stepped out into the corridor and taking slow, measured steps, peered carefully into open doorways or windows. In a short distance, they stood at what Katherine told Thomas was the center of the castle, which featured a small octagonal courtyard. It was ethereal for Katherine to see the magnificent structure whole, blooming with flowers and sweet-smelling scents, full of greenery, a stone bench against each wall, and arched openings to be viewed through as one walked along a corridor on each side.

A shout shattered the quiet. "John, John! Where are ye, lad!" The pounding of many feet upon planks sounded down the corridor. Katherine and Thomas dropped to their knees just out of sight of the opening.

A man's booming voice reached them as it passed. "Aye, what ails ye?"

This time a grating woman's voice answered, "Tis Ian. Taken the girl. Dinna ken where."

The man cursed, then released a pained "'Ach, woman."

"No cursin,' ye lump. The mistress will have yer head."

"Aye, aye. Be off now. We go to find the lass." He coughed. "The mistress tis fond of the strange one since she did appear from tha' mist."

"Aye, I ken Ian toss the lass on his horse and rode north."

Katherine and Thomas looked questioningly at one another. _Tammy_.

She tilted her head toward Thomas and leaned close to whisper, the scent of musk soap, sweet and clean, meeting her nose. "I know _when_ we are."

He gave an incredulous expression.

"Thomas, you know we're at the castle in the past, right? It's the eighteenth century. Tammy has told me so much about its past and the dialect of the time. I've walked these halls and rooms with her. You see what condition it's in now—like it was just built." Katherine paused. "She's living a dream. But we're here to find her. We must go after this man who has taken her, and—"

"And get her back," Thomas said, finishing her thought with a reassuring smile.

*****

Katherine and Thomas made their way from the courtyard to the castle entrance. They'd passed through the massive structure without being discovered. Everyone must've been out combing the area for Tammy. They crouched inside an empty horse stall. One horse remained—a huge grey. Thomas led the horse from the stall and began placing a saddle and other trappings onto the beast while Katherine watched him with admiration.

She patted the horse's neck. "You appear to know what you're doing."

"Oh, aye. Know a bit about horses." He finished his task, mounted the horse with ease, and held out his hand to her. "Put yer foot there." He nodded toward the stirrup.

Katherine did as she was told, and he pulled her up to ride behind him. She grabbed him around his waist with both arms. A very fit waist. She settled in as he eased the horse from the stable. She pointed out the large opening to the hill beyond the castle that led to the village. He heeled the horse, and they flew from the grounds, making a right turn, they headed north.

Katherine noticed trees stood thickly where, in their time, it was pasture. They rode toward the cliffs edging the North Sea.

_Why would this man, Ian, take Tammy in this direction?_ Katherine turned the thought over in her head and remembered something her sister had told her on their trip. To travel by ship, one would have gone north up the coast to Peterhead to sail. _Would her sister be taken aboard a ship to who-knows-where?_

She grasped Thomas's waist tighter and squeezed her eyes shut. No, her sister would not be taken from her.

"Hurry, Ian may be taking her to board a ship. If he succeeds, we'll never find her!" Katherine shouted to be heard over the great gusts of wind, sending long grass and tree limbs into jerks and twists.

Thomas nodded and pushed the horse harder. They rode for another ten minutes or so when he slowed, glanced over his shoulder at Katherine, and signaled for her not to speak. He pointed to a copse of aspens at their left. When Katherine glanced in that direction, she glimpsed purple fabric—Tammy's favorite color, then a horse and a man sliding off it.

Tammy was talking to him, and he grabbed her arm to jerk her to him. Katherine's anger rose to new heights. Thomas steered the horse behind an outcropping of rock, got off, and drew her down after him.

She lunged forward, and he grabbed her. "Let me go. I'm going to slap that guy senseless for manhandling my sister!"

He cupped her face in one hand and kissed her fully. She tensed, but before he could release her, her arms slid over and around him, and she returned the favor.

He released her. "Are ye crazy, lass?" He waved his hand to the tree line away from Tammy and her abductor. "We'll quietly go 'round that way, and I'll grab him from behind while you get yer sister." He waited for her response.

Katherine nodded her approval, embarrassed to realize he'd kissed her only to keep her silent. They set off, crab-walking low in the grass, keeping their eyes on the pair as they moved. By the time they reached them, Tammy was sitting on a log with her back to the man.

He spoke quietly as he stood over her. "Dinna ye see, Tabitha. Tis the only way. Ye canna go back to tha' castle."

Katherine cringed. He had called her Tabitha, and she _hated_ that name. She wanted to hurt the man even more.

Tammy threw an angry glare over her shoulder at him. "Ian, I can't go back if I'm not in that castle." She gestured in the direction they'd come from.

The comment made Katherine freeze. He wouldn't allow her to return to her own time. What a jerk! And how did he know about the portal?

Thomas chose that moment to rush the man. Tammy squealed, and once they were embroiled in the fight, Katherine stood watching Thomas fight the much taller, more muscular man. Although Thomas was a policeman and in great shape, this guy seemed deadly.

Tammy jumped to her feet and began screaming, "Ian, stop! That's Thomas." She frowned and stepped forward to break the battle. " _Thomas?_ "

Katherine broke from her stupor and rushed forward, calling, "Tammy!"

Tammy turned, and her face registered shock. "Katherine, you found my clues." She rushed to her sister and grabbed her into a big hug. "But why'd you bring Thomas?"

Katherine glanced his way, where the men circled each other, waiting for the other to throw the next punch. "He didn't give me a choice."

Tammy narrowed her eyes. "Really?"

Katherine shook off the sweet reunion and grabbed Tammy by the wrist and tugged her sister forward. "Come on, our horse is over here. We'll get back to the castle and through the portal—or whatever you call it and go home."

Tammy planted her legs, refusing to budge, as she watched the men pummel each other. Thomas landed a hard blow to Ian's jaw, making him stagger. No small feat. He recovered quickly and returned the jab, knocking Thomas onto his back.

"Stop it, both of you!" Tammy broke free of Katherine and strode to Ian. The men parted just as she wrapped her arms around Ian's neck and planted a bold kiss on his lips.

Katherine gasped, and Thomas called to her from the ground. "Aye, I can see yer sister is no' happy here." He rubbed his jaw and rose on unsteady legs.

She went to him and helped him rise, then they strode to the affectionate pair.

Katherine's fury resurfaced but focused in a different direction. "Tabitha, what is going on here? I have been worried to distraction that you'd gone over the Bullers of Buchan to your death. Now I see you're playing kissy-face with some highlander. How could you?"

A low throaty laugh came from Thomas. She sent him what she hoped would be a dead-serious glare, but it didn't stop his laughter.

Tammy stepped forward, her own anger swelling. Her voice was raised to match Katherine's. "Ian was trying to stop me because he didn't want me to go back, but I wanted to tell you in person why I must return to _this_ time."

Katherine's fear and tension erupted. She pointed a finger at her sister, tears hovering. "So, you were just going to leave me for this hunk of Highlander here? Goodbye, au revoir, to you dear sister, though I'd never see you again because you died over 300 years ago! And—"

"Katherine, would you shut up and listen!" Tammy yelled, her face beet-red. She sighed, her expression softening. "You don't understand." She reached out to take Ian's hand. "I belong _here_ with my husband."
AND NO MORE GOODBYES

**By Susan Hiers Foster**

I never liked goodbyes.

As an Army wife, I'd endured too many. Overseas assignments meant long separations from family whose poor health prevented travel to far-off places. Not until later, though, when my son Charlie left for combat—first in Afghanistan and later in Iraq—did I know real pain. How do you say goodbye? After you've said, I love you a dozen times, what other words remain? Too much time, yet not enough.

With both tours, Charlie returned safely, but there was a difference when he returned from Iraq. Hardened. His eyes said it all. How could haunted eyes be blank? In conversations, Charlie would be there—yet not there. Eyes empty. He didn't look at me, Charlie looked through me.

My son did not share with me his war experiences. I did not want to know. Charlie saved the talks for his dad. After those discussions, my husband's face further convinced me of the wisdom in not knowing.

Through the years, I prayed that Charlie was putting the war behind him and moving on. Then I'd see his glazed eyes. Who could reach Charlie when he looked like that?

*****

My family and I learned our friend Vanessa had cancer. There was one month from diagnosis to home hospice. Vanessa and her husband had been our kids' youth sponsors at church. They went on mission trips and summer camps, giving the couple opportunities of doling out good-humored patience. Vanessa especially dispensed loving wisdom to those rambunctious teens. The kids were more willing to listen to her than to their own parents. Everyone loved Vanessa.

As a strong-willed teenager, Charlie challenged other sponsors and youth leaders. He was the ringleader on midnight raids into the nearest town to buy cigarettes. Charlie and a few other boys sometimes disappeared during the day instead of working on the mission's building crews. His junior year at summer camp was spent scrubbing the men's restroom after a night of spray painting the walls. The leaders complained, advising that Charlie should be banned from further trips. He was a bad influence on other kids, they said. Not Vanessa.

She'd shake her head laughing and say, "God's got special plans for Charlie. You just wait and see!"

It was time to say goodbye to Vanessa. Wasn't it only a few months ago we had cheered with Vanessa the New Orleans Saints' victory in the Super Bowl game? We had celebrated that night, such a short time ago. When had life stopped being normal?

I never liked goodbyes.

My family and I gathered in Vanessa's kitchen, quietly visiting with her husband. He told us she had not been able to talk that day, mostly sleeping. His suggestion was for us to stay a few minutes. Perhaps she would wake up, but probably not.

Charlie and his wife filed into the bedroom. He carried his toddler son, and my husband followed. I remained frozen. My husband nodded for me to join them. Reluctantly, I did. Jaw clenching, my feet dragged as we approached Vanessa's bedside.

Vanessa was propped on her pillows, even more beautiful than before her illness. Her hair was fanned behind her like a halo. Vanessa's blue eyes glowed, her face luminous—the atmosphere was filled with God's presence. There was no other way to describe it. I did not hear heavenly music, but by Vanessa's gleaming smile, I knew she was listening to an angelic choir singing nearby.

I glanced at the others encircled around the bed. Each one's expressions looked as stunned as I felt. The energetic two-year-old, always ready to run, lay content in his dad's arms, staring open-mouthed at Vanessa. We all gaped in surprise, including Vanessa's husband. What had just happened?

Vanessa spoke, her voice hoarse and weak. We understood it all. She told us what we meant to her. We told her what she meant to us. The atmosphere lingered in that loving presence, colors pearly soft, sounds hushed.

I glanced out the room's picture window overlooking a lake where families romped in waves made by passing boats and jet skis. The swimmers called out to each other in the warm summer sunshine, waving their arms, laughing. How could other people be so carefree where just a few yards away, our hearts were breaking?

Then Charlie dropped to his knees. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he clasped Vanessa's hand. "I haven't been able to cry, Vanessa. It's been so long." Charlie knew she understood—as she always had. Vanessa's voice grew stronger. "I'm very proud of you, Charlie." Together we prayed, and we hugged. It was time to leave.

Driving home, we kept asking each other if we had seen the same things, heard the same words, felt the same presence. God had unexpectedly but lovingly opened a door, flooding the room with His peace. His healing.

We learned later from Vanessa's husband that was the last time Vanessa was able to talk. The Lord took her home a few days later. In life and now in death, Vanessa gave us instructions for a party. All who attended her funeral were to dress in Hawaiian attire, colorful leis worn. No mourning in gloomy black was allowed. The white coffin, pasted with bright flower decals, surprised everyone as they entered the church. All had a Vanessa story to share. There was more laughter than tears.

Cancer took Vanessa's life, but she never let cancer be in control. Prayers had been spoken for a miraculous healing. There was healing, but it was not in Vanessa's earthly body. Charlie's restoration began on the day of our visit with Vanessa. His road back was rocky at times as he silently, painfully pushed away war's horrors. Charlie returned to college and started a business. His family grew.

As always, Vanessa had been right about Charlie, even during those rebellious teen years. God had special plans for him. Several years after Vanessa's death, Charlie entered the seminary, his plan to become an ordained minister. He graduates in 2020.

When our family recalls that day long ago, we talk about those promises of healing. A healing that has come true. Once shadowed eyes now look clearly to the future. We think about those many things we said to Vanessa, and those things she shared with us.

Yet not one time—not once—did anyone say the word goodbye.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS

**Judy Burford**

Judy Burford is a charter member of ACFW Louisiana and has served as secretary, vice-president, and multiple terms as president. She has four short stories and her personal testimony published in anthologies; self-published A Special Touch of Grace, a collection of stories about missionaries; and edited The Cross Murders, a Christian fiction detective novel written by a friend. Encouraging other authors brings her joy.

Judy is a resident of Gloster, Louisiana, a small farming community in DeSoto Parish. Judy and her husband, Hall, have two daughters and four grandchildren. They have hosted nine exchange students for six months to a year and have hosted several of the students' friends and family for extended visits.

For most of the fifty-three years she has lived in Gloster, Judy and Hall were dairy farmers, along with 100+ other DeSoto Parish farmers. Today, there are no dairies left in DeSoto Parish, and Judy and Hall, along with their daughter, Holley, run beef cattle on their farm. Judy, the daughter of a farmer, graduated from LSU in Baton Rouge, majoring and getting a degree in Agriculture Business, though her primary goal was to marry a farmer. Agriculture is one of her life passions.

Cooking (and eating), traveling, reading, growing and arranging flowers, and sunshiny days are some of Judy's favorite things. Travel has taken her to Lithuania, where daughter Lara and her husband live; Germany, Finland, and Brazil, the home of exchange students; California and Georgia, where two of the grandchildren are in college; mission trips in various parts of the world, including China and Niger, Africa.

Judy and Hall are very involved in their church, Gloster Baptist, which is conveniently located across the street from their house. Judy serves as church pianist, and she and Hall teach an adult Sunday school class. Judy arranges flowers for the Sunday worship services and sings in the choir.

When writing, Judy enjoys the way characters take on life and personalities of their own. Her short story, The Theft, began when one sentence popped into her head: "I'd like to report a theft." Then Olivia and her plight began to take shape.

Check out her Smashwords author profile page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/JudyBurford>

Other Books by Judy Burford

A Special Touch of Grace

Celebrating the Short Story (2018)

_Over the Moon Travel Treasures_ (2019)

**Wanda Bush**

Wanda's absolute favorite activity is concocting stories. She can often be found staring off into nowhere, but be assured, she is somewhere. As far back as she can remember, she has spent her days and nights imagining. Now that her two children are grown, she has more time for her new hobby of turning her tales into written narratives.

Wanda was raised in Kansas but moved to Louisiana when she was 20. She has fun gardening, working with her husband building whatever project he's creating, and seeking Jesus. She's blessed to work for an exceptionally kindhearted company as a bookkeeper.

Wanda is an award-winning author, who is an active member of the ACFW Louisiana chapter.

Connect with Wanda Bush

e-mail her at: Wanda.Imagines@gmail.com

Check out her Smashwords author profile page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/WandaBush>

Other Books by Wanda Bush

_Over the Moon Travel Treasures_ (2019)
Donna M. Copeland

Donna M. Copeland didn't decide to be a writer, but writing has been part of who she is since she first picked up a pencil. One of her fond childhood memories was a sixth-grade class assignment to write a play. She wrote a mystery and it was chosen to be performed. She still has that play!

She used her gift throughout the years as she penned letters and cards to family and friends. In recent years, she founded a Prayer and Card Ministry. Her writing echoes from her heart and soul. Donna's inspirational non-fiction, poetry, and fiction writing are gifts displaying her passion for writing.

Donna's won two short story contest awards. One of her poems was chosen to be in a Poetry Anthology. She also had a poem featured in a spiritual newsletter. Her debut short story, _Unspoken_ was published in a 2019 anthology. She is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and active member of her local ACFW chapter.

Donna is married to the love of her life. They have four remarkable children and nine precious grandchildren and counting!

She is a Production Analyst in the Oil and Gas Industry. She is a voracious reader and enjoys needlepoint, photography, antiquing, gardening, bass fishing, saltwater fishing, and rooting for the New Orleans Saints and LSU Tigers!

Donna loves her Christian path as every day is a JOURNEY WITH JESUS!

" _I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing." John 15:5 ESV_

Connect with Donna M. Copeland

e-mail her at: vinej15@gmail.com

Check out her Smashwords author profile page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DonnaMCopeland>

Other Books by Donna M. Copeland

_Over the Moon Travel Treasures_ (2019)
Beverly Flanders

Beverly Flanders lives in Shreveport, Louisiana and is an active member of ACFW-LA. She has dabbled in light poetry since childhood when a seventh-grade poetry class assignment was published in a school anthology. Her career goal was to become a teacher, but those plans were interrupted when she met Al, the love of her life, at Indiana University. He became a banker in Mansfield, Louisiana, his hometown. Her writing projects stalled for a few years as they raised three perfect children who later produced six even more perfect grandchildren.

Through the years she stayed active in her church. In Mansfield, she taught Sunday School for third and fourth graders and often wrote plays based on familiar Bible stories for the children to perform. She was concerned about the problem of adult illiteracy, so she volunteered for Literacy Volunteers of America. An eighty-year-old man who had never been inside a school building was her star student. It was a truly amazing journey and she used her writing skills in preparing lesson plans for his progress.

She became a widow in 2009 and moved to Shreveport. A friend encouraged her to join ACFW-LA. Through her association with other writers and encouragement from family and friends, her interest in writing was rekindled. Her focus turned to writing devotionals and short stories. She currently teaches a Sunday School class of delightful ninety-year-old ladies in her Shreveport church.

Growing up as an "Army brat" as well as other life experiences have provided her with a wealth of material for her writing. Whether it's devotionals, short stories, or teaching nine to ninety-year-olds, God has enabled her to use her love of writing in ways she never imagined.

Checkout her Smashwords author profile page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/BeverlyFlanders>

Other Books by Beverly Flanders

_Celebrating the Short Story_ (2018)

_Over the Moon Travel Treasures_ (2019)
Susan Hiers Foster

After two decades spent mostly overseas and in Washington DC with her Army officer husband and family, Shreveport native Susan Hiers Foster returned home. Now with 25 years since her husband's Army retirement, Susan disagrees with writer Thomas Wolfe—you really can go home again.

Susan's professional life started in newspapers, including The Shreveport Times, The South Towne Courier, and as city editor of the Leesville Leader. She wrote a children's book "Because God Tells Me So" dealing with her challenges of visiting her mother in a nursing home. Susan incorporated various family members in her tale, including a narrating pug.

In 2001, Susan was persuaded into becoming the director of the Noel Neighborhood Ministries Food Pantry. She stayed for 17 years—16 years longer than Susan originally planned. What had started as a job out of her comfort zone, would eventually become a love of working with volunteers in serving a community living with a food shortage.

She enjoys being a group leader in Bible Study Fellowship, and volunteers in the jail ministry of Purchased, a program working with women in human trafficking. Susan is currently serving as the American Christian Fiction Writers Louisiana chapter's vice-president.

As always, Susan's best days are spent with husband Rick, their two adult children and spouses, and four active grandchildren. Her second-best days are happily curled up with a book, fully appreciating someone else's hard work.

Connect with Susan Hiers Foster

Friend her: <https://www.facebook.com/susan.h.foster.395>

Checkout her Smashwords author profile page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/susanhiersfoster>

Other Books by Susan Hiers Foster

Because God Tells Me So
Carole Lehr Johnson

Carole Lehr Johnson is a veteran travel consultant of more than 30 years and has served as head of genealogy at a local library. She is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers and the president of her local ACFW chapter. She has traveled the world and prefers the rolling hills of England. A true Anglophile, Carole loves all things British, thus her branding, Tea Time for the Heart, revolves around U.K. based fiction for lovers of tea and scones, castles and cottages, and all things British. Her love of the U.K. has taken her across the pond many times to explore its gorgeous landscapes and buildings as she conducts research for her writing.

Carole lives in Louisiana with her husband and tortoise cat, Lizzy (named after Elizabeth Bennett).

Carole has published a short story in a women's non-fiction anthology, travel articles and photography, several devotionals, won a local writing contest, and has completed her first inspirational novel.

Connect with Carole Lehr Johnson

Like her at Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCaroleLehrJohnson/

Connect at Linkedin:

<https://www.linkedin.com/in/carole-lehr-johnson-87565555/>

Visit her website: www.carolelehrjohnson.com

Read her blog: www.theteacupjournal.com

Checkout her Smashwords author profile page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/CaroleJohnson>

e-mail her at:  carole_johnson@att.net

Other Books by Carole Lehr Johnson

_Celebrating the Short Story_ (2018)

_Over the Moon Travel Treasures_ (2019)
C .D. Sutherland

C.D. Sutherland is a B-52 pilot turned novelist, with his _The Chronicles of Susah_ series. These novels defy conventional classification as they blend action and emotional tension with technology and spiritual intrigue in a coming of age story wrapped in an epic adventure set in the antediluvian age. His readers have called him the founding father of Antediluvian Steampunk.

Born in Virginia, to the son of a coalminer who escaped a life in the dark Appalachian mines by joining the U.S. military, C.D. Sutherland also joined the military. After high school, he served in the Air Force for thirty-two years, seeing much of the world, flying jets and doing other such things most men have only dreamed about doing.

Connect with C. D. Sutherland

Like him at Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/TheCDSutherland/>

Follow him on Twitter: <https://twitter.com/Thecdsutherland>

Connect: <https://www.linkedin.com/in/charles-sutherland-24400a20/>

Visit his website: http://cdsutherland.com

Check out his Smashwords author profile page:

<https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/CDSutherland>

e-mail him at: Chuck@CDSutherland.com

Other books by C. D. Sutherland:

_The Dragoneers_ (2011, 2014)

_The Lost Dragoneer_ (2013, 2014)

_The Last Dragoneer_ (2014)

_Celebrating the Short Story_ (2018)

_Over the Moon Travel Treasures_ (2019)

Children's Book

_Christmas Candy Cane_ (2012)

Non-Fiction

_The Universal Formula for Successful Deterrence_ (2007)

