Twilight's Serenade
Page 1
Twilight’s Serenade
SONG OF ALASKA Three
Twilight’s Serenade
TRACIE
PETERSON
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Twilight’s Serenade
Copyright © 2010
Tracie Peterson
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Haberman Photography, LLC
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Peterson, Tracie.
Twilight’s serenade / Tracie Peterson
p. cm. — (Song of Alaska ; 3)
ISBN 978-0-0778-5 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-7642-0153-0 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-0-7642-0779-2 (large-print pbk.) 1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Violinists—Fiction. 3. Alaska—Fiction. 4. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3566.E7717T85 2010
813'.54—dc22 2010007459
* * *
To Morris and Pat James
with love and thanksgiving
that God made us friends.
Your faith has been an inspiration.
Books by Tracie Peterson
www.traciepeterson.com
A Slender Thread • What She Left for Me • Where My Heart Belongs
SONG OF ALASKA
Dawn’s Prelude • Morning’s Refrain • Twilight’s Serenade
ALASKAN QUEST
Summer of the Midnight Sun Under the Northern Lights • Whispers of Winter Alaskan Quest (3 in 1)
BRIDES OF GALLATIN COUNTY
A Promise to Believe In • A Love to Last Forever A Dream to Call My Own
THE BROADMOOR LEGACY*
A Daughter’s Inheritance • An Unexpected Love A Surrendered Heart
BELLS OF LOWELL*
Daughter of the Loom • A Fragile Design • These Tangled Threads
LIGHTS OF LOWELL*
A Tapestry of Hope • A Love Woven True • The Pattern of Her Heart
DESERT ROSES
Shadows of the Canyon • Across the Years • Beneath a Harvest Sky
HEIRS OF MONTANA
Land of My Heart • The Coming Storm To Dream Anew • The Hope Within
LADIES OF LIBERTY
A Lady of High Regard • A Lady of Hidden Intent A Lady of Secret Devotion
RIBBONS OF STEEL**
Distant Dreams • A Hope Beyond • A Promise for Tomorrow
WESTWARD CHRONICLES
A Shelter of Hope • Hidden in a Whisper • A Veiled Reflection
YUKON QUEST
Treasures of the North • Ashes and Ice • Rivers of Gold
*with Judith Miller **with Judith Pella
TRACIE PETERSON is the author of over eighty novels, both historical and contemporary. Her avid research resonates in her stories, as seen in her bestselling HEIRS OF MONTANA and ALASKAN QUEST series. Tracie and her family make their home in Montana.
Visit Tracie’s Web site at www.traciepeterson.com.
Visit Tracie’s blog at www.writespasssage.blogspot.com.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 1
Sitka, Alaska
January 1906
Britta Lindquist awoke suddenly from the grasp of her dream and sat straight up in bed, breathing heavily. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light and relaxed as she recognized her surroundings. After a six-year absence, she was home again—as if she’d never gone away.
Favorite childhood books lined the shelf where she’d left them. Dolls were arranged upon her dresser. In the corner, an ornately carved hope chest held years of dreaming—dreams that could never come true. Mother had once told her that if one dream seemed to be unobtainable, a person could always dream a new dream. And Britta had tried. God alone knew how much she wanted to clear her head and heart of the old and welcome in the new. Still, it seemed no matter how far she journeyed from home, no matter what new challenge she tried, nothing diminished her longing.
“Britta? Britta, are you awake?” a tentative voice whispered.
“Come in, Kay.”
The door opened only enough to allow a dark-haired woman to peek inside. Kalage, or Kay, as Lydia had nicknamed her, had been with the Lindquist family for the past fifteen years. Orphaned at the age of thirteen, Kay had been called “a child of the beach” by her mother’s people, though it was by no means a term of endearment. The Tlingits had shunned Kay’s mother for her disgraceful behavior as a prostitute, and her white father had long since deserted them. By the time Kalage had been born, all ties to her family heritage had been severed. The shame of her mother was upon Kay as surely as if she’d acted against the Tlingits herself. Britta’s family had taken Kay into their home when Aunt Zee found the child half dead from starvation.
“I thought I heard you. Is everything all right?”
Britta nodded. “I had a bad dream. You must have heard me tossing and turning. It was really nothing.”
Kay slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. She studied Britta for a moment. “You in trouble?”
Kay’s astute observations never failed to amaze Britta. She’d always felt close to the woman, who was only three years her senior. “I’m not in trouble,” Britta assured her.
Kay, however, refused to let the matter drop. “Then what’s wrong? I could see from the look in your eyes last night that you carry a heavy burden.”
Britta looked up and shook her head. “I can’t really talk about it just yet.”
Kay went to the window and opened the drapes to let in the light. “It’s almost ten. You don’t always sleep this late, do you?”
Britta laughed and got to her feet. “No, though I will say I was rather spoiled when I went abroad. Europeans never seem to have the same sense of urgency that we Americans embrace. While in England and Germany, I sometimes slept late. However, we were often up well into the wee hours of the morning after a concert.”
Approaching the wardrobe, Britta continued to direct the conversation away from Kay’s concerns. “California was quite lovely. I think you’d like it there. It’s very beautiful, and there is always something blooming. Speaking of blooms, I was in Holland last spring and could scarcely believe the fields of tulips. I wish you could have seen them. They took up positively acres and acres.�
�
She fingered several of her dresses, glad that she’d left her more elegant pieces in San Francisco. They would hardly serve her well here. Sitka’s climate might remain mild most of the year, but the lightweight muslins and silks were not appropriate for daily life. She decided on a wool jumper and cream-colored gown. “This should keep me warm.” Glancing to where Kay stood, Britta quickly ascertained the woman wasn’t at all interested in travel comments or fashion choices.
Britta stopped and sobered. “I can’t really talk about everything just yet. In time, I promise I will take you into my confidence, but for now I need time to consider things on my own.”
“You have come home to make a decision?”
With a sigh, Britta nodded. “That is all I will say for the moment. Will you help me dress?”
Kay came forward and reached for the garments. “I will pray for you.”
Her words touched Britta’s heart. How long had it been since someone had offered to help in that way? “Thank you.”
“It’s so good to have you home,” Britta’s mother told her. “You seem awfully thin, though. Have you not been feeling well?” Lydia Lindquist had always worried over her children, but as the youngest, Britta found that she received more than her share of attention. Especially now, after such a long absence.
“I’m fine, truly I am.” Britta reached for another piece of toasted bread as if to assure her mother. “I eat as much as Dalton.” The reference to her brother gave Britta the perfect excuse to change the subject. “Speaking of Dalton, I understand that his boat business has expanded considerably in the last few years. In fact, Lindquist boats are all the rage in California.”
“Your brother has a good eye for design. Not only that, but he’s acquired some very talented employees. Most are Tlingit and were trained at the Sheldon Jackson school,” her mother replied.
“What about Father? Is he working with Dalton, too?”
“Oh, on occasion he assists if there’s a need. He sometimes will help with a building project, but mostly he just takes care of this place. I’ve encouraged him to relax more.” She smiled. “But of course he isn’t much inclined to sit idle.”
“I can imagine. I know Dalton said they sometimes deliver boats together.”
“That’s right. In fact, they’re going to deliver one to San Francisco together in March.”
“How nice for them. Dalton really seems to enjoy Father’s company, and his life here in Sitka. He seems both happy and content. Phoebe, too. And gracious, but I hardly recognized the children.”
“Gordon will be fifteen next month,” Britta’s mother offered. “And Rachel, well she’s all but grown up at the age of eleven. She never hesitates to remind me that her birthday in April will be her twelfth. Somehow, that seems to be a magic number for her.”
Britta laughed. “She is quite pretty. She’ll break many hearts, I’m sure.”
Her mother nodded and poured Britta another cup of tea. “Alex is just like Dalton. He’s not even eight years old, but he walks and talks just like his father.”
“He was hardly doing either one the last time I saw him,” Britta said. “And little Connie wasn’t even born before I left. I feel as though I’ve missed out on a great deal.”
“Time has a way of doing that,” her mother said with a smile.
“How is Kjerstin? Does she still enjoy nursing?” Britta asked between bites of toast. “Any nieces or nephews on the way?”
Lydia shook her head. “No. Your sister is worried that perhaps she can’t conceive—they’ve been married over five years—but Matthew tells her not to fret. As a doctor, he thinks her perfectly healthy and figures the good Lord will give them children in due time. They love working with the natives in Kodiak, and the people seem to love them a great deal.”
Britta considered her sister’s life for a moment, then shrugged. “Sometimes it seems that life has gone on for everyone but me.”
“But you’ve experienced an entire world that you might not otherwise have known while you traveled and attended school.” Lydia smiled at her youngest. “I hope it was everything you wanted it to be.”
Britta hoped her smile would reassure her mother. “I could never have had the same education in music had I remained here in Sitka. My time spent under the tutelage of gifted teachers and as a part of several orchestras was truly a dream come true.”
“I can hardly wait to hear you play the violin for me,” her mother said proudly.
Britta had taken up the violin mainly to please her mother and follow in her musical footsteps. But as the years passed, Britta found the violin to be an extension of her own soul. When she pulled the bow across the strings, it seemed as though the music came from somewhere deep within Britta’s own heart.
“We shall have a wonderful time playing together,” Britta replied. “Just like we did in the old days.”
“The old days?” her mother questioned with a raised brow. “You speak as if you’re a little old woman instead of a beautiful twenty-four-year-old.”
Britta pushed back her empty plate and reached for the teacup. “Sometimes I feel old—almost as if I’ve lived a hundred years in the last six.”
Lydia’s tender expression almost drew a confession of purpose from Britta’s lips. Her mother’s love was evident, and Britta didn’t wish to keep anything from her. Still, now was not the time to explain. There were too many issues at hand. Too many ghosts that needed to be dispelled.
A knock at the front door caused mother and daughter to pause in conversation. Lydia got up and went to see who it might be while Britta gathered her wits. There was no sense in pouring out her heart. Especially when she couldn’t quite figure out what her heart wanted.
That’s not true. I know very well what my heart longs for. I simply cannot have it. She took herself to task silently and waited for her mother to return.
“That was one of the Masterson boys. Caleb, in fact,” her mother declared as she hurried back into the room. “You remember him, don’t you? I think he’s nearly sixteen. Anyway, he’d just come from the Belikov place.”
Britta felt as if a knife had been run through her heart. “Yuri’s house?”
“Yes. Marsha is about to give birth and needs my help. I sent Caleb on to fetch the doctor, but I could use your assistance, if you can spare the time. Their little Laura is only three and will be terrified to witness her mother going through labor.”
The years seemed to drop away at the mention of Yuri’s family. Britta stiffened. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good. I’ll gather my things and then we can go.”
“Should I get the wagon?” Britta asked.
“No. Yuri’s cabin isn’t all that far. It’s just half a mile or so down the coast road. It won’t take us long to get there on foot.”
Britta said nothing. Her stomach churned, and she wished she’d not eaten that last piece of bread. The thought of Yuri and his wife left her sad in a way that Britta could not ever admit to her mother. Yuri’s marriage had been the reason Britta had packed her things and left Sitka back in 1900. Seeing him with another woman was more than Britta could bear. Discovering he’d been tricked into marriage with a prostitute was even more difficult.
She wondered what he would look like now. She remembered blond hair that begged her touch and blue eyes that seemed full of mischief and passion. How unfair that the one man she had loved since childhood should belong to someone else. Someone who didn’t even love him, to hear her brother tell it.
“I’m ready now. Grab your coat and let’s be on our way,” her mother announced, coming back into the room.
Britta had second thoughts about going. “Won’t Yuri be there to help?”
Mother cast a sidelong glance as she pulled on her wool cape. “Yuri hasn’t been around for a long time. I can’t even remember the last time we heard from him.”
“What do you mean?” Britta asked, retrieving her fur-trimmed coat.
Her mother fro
wned. “I feel bad in saying this, but Yuri has very little to do with his family. He . . . well . . . suffice it to say, he hasn’t been much of a father or husband. Dalton says it’s probably for the best, as he drinks too much and has little patience for anyone.”
This was the first Britta had heard of Yuri’s behavior. She knew he liked to have a drink from time to time when they were younger. She had even heard that he was given to drunkenness on occasion. But she’d always excused it by telling herself that this was the way of many a good man. Still, to hear that he had deserted his family . . . Britta pushed aside her thoughts and followed her mother out the door.
They could hear Marsha Belikov’s screams as they neared the worn-down cabin. The building had never been much of a house, even in its conception, but now the sorry-looking collection of weathered logs looked ready to collapse at the first good wind.
Britta followed her mother into the place, wrinkling her nose at the odors. There was barely room to turn around, and no matter where Britta cast her glance, she saw stacks of dirty dishes, liquor bottles, and other piles of filth.
“Marsha?” Britta heard her mother call. She waited as her mother looked into the back room. “We’ve come to help.”
“Help by getting this brat out of me.” The woman’s harsh tone took Britta by surprise. How could anyone speak of a baby in such a way? Much less Yuri’s baby?
“And bring me some more whiskey. My head is killing me.”
Mother stepped back just a bit. “Britta, take Laura into the front room, please.”
Unsure where the child was, Britta looked about, puzzled. Lydia pointed to the corner, where a tiny girl in a filthy gown sat cowering on a blanket. The child’s matted blond hair hid her face, but Britta knew she was watching them.
“Who is that?” Marsha asked before giving out a scream of pain and a rant of obscenities.
Britta was startled by the woman’s expletives. She had never heard a lady curse in such a manner. Yet from the comments she’d heard about her background, Britta knew that Marsha wasn’t much of a lady. She cast a quick glance at the haggard woman. Stringy brown hair spilled out around Marsha’s shoulders. She looked much older than Britta had imagined.