Praise for
A Scarlet Cord
“A second chance at love, a devastating disappearance, and a moment of selfless surrender, all inextricably bound by Raney’s lilting style and her trademark mastery of emotion. Readers of A Scarlet Cord are going to love this one!”
—DEBORAH BEDFORD, best-selling author of
The Story Jar and When You Believe
“I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough! A Scarlet Cord had me holding my breath in suspense and hope. You won’t soon forget Melanie and Joel. Deborah Raney has written another winner.”
—ROBIN LEE HATCHER, best-selling author of
Firstborn and Speak to Me of Love
“A Scarlet Cord is further proof that Deb Raney has a talent for telling stories of the heart. Deb’s faithful fans will not be disappointed. This is perhaps her strongest work yet.”
—KAREN KINGSBURY, best-selling author of
One Tuesday Morning
“I love Deb Raney’s books, and A Scarlet Cord is no exception. Her warm portrayal of abiding faith in the lives of those who’ve suffered loss speaks to the heart and soul, and gently reminds us that God’s grace is always sufficient. Another winner from the pen of a perennial favorite who grows each year in her craft.”
—LISA SAMSON, author of Church Ladies
and Women’s Intuition
“Deb Raney has crafted an incredibly compelling, fast-paced story of intrigue that runs the gamut of human emotions. A Scarlet Cord is a heartrending cry for love, both human and divine. A must-read!”
—YVONNE LEHMAN, author of His Hands
“A Scarlet Cord is a winner! With her creative plot and wonderful characters, Deborah Raney has given us a book to savor long after we turn out the light in the middle of the night. And let me warn you: It will be the middle of the night because you won’t be able to put the book down.”
—GAYLE ROPER, author of Autumn Dreams,
Summer Shadows, and Spring Rain
“Captivating from the first glimpse of a scarred face in a taxi window, A Scarlet Cord offers poignant twists and turns to bind the characters and readers with a cord of love and forgiveness. The novel is as eloquent as the author, and seasoned with Midwestern warmth and charm.”
—DORIS ELAINE FELL, author of Betrayal in Paris
and Sunrise on Stradbury Square
“Deborah Raney has written yet another amazing keeper. When you snuggle up to read A Scarlet Cord, the characters will come alive in your heart. A touching story of faith, hope, and love, this is a book you’ll be tucking into your purse to read at every spare moment.”
—DENISE HUNTER, author of Aloha and Blind Dates
“A Scarlet Cord resonates with honest emotion and real faith. Deb Raney has done a wonderful job creating characters to root for even in the midst of misunderstandings and mistakes. An enjoyable and engaging read from beginning to end!”
—MARLO SCHALESKY, author of Freedom’s Shadow
and Empty Womb
A SCARLET CORD
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
A division of Random House, Inc.
Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version. Scripture quotations are also taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-55296-9
Copyright © 2003 by Deborah Raney
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Raney, Deborah.
A scarlet cord / Deborah Raney.—
p. cm.
1. Witnesses—Protection—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction.
3. Widows—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.A562S28 2003
813′.54—dc21
2003003993
v3.1
For David and Lori Keazirian,
with love and appreciation.
Wishing you God’s richest blessings for the future.
Jeremiah 29:11
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Jockeying for position beside the jaded businessmen and -women who lined the curb on 42nd Street, Melanie LaSalle hesitated, then stepped onto the pavement and raised a hand half-mast to hail a taxi.
The brisk November air filled her nostrils with an intoxicating mix of aromas—fragrant steam from a pretzel vendor’s offerings, a hundred different colognes wafting from the crush of bodies; even the exhaust from a million automobiles added its own pungent spice to the mix that was uniquely New York.
The morning sun was just beginning to peek over looming skyscrapers and high-rise apartments. Excitement rose in her at being here in the city again. Shading her eyes from the glare, she looked down the street.
Half a block away, a tall man stepped off the curb and opened the door of the Yellow Cab that had pulled up. Melanie’s heartbeat quickened as she watched him. The man’s confident demeanor, the tilt of his head, and the way his hair curled defiantly into his collar stabbed at a place deep inside her. If she didn’t know better, she could almost imagine that she knew that athletic bearing … knew how the coarse, sand-colored curls would feel against her fingertips.
Wanting to banish the unwelcome thoughts, she watched the man slam the door as his taxi eased into the flow of traffic. If she could just get a look at his face through the cab window, she could put it out of her mind.
It had happened often at first—after the letter. She would be stopped dead in her tracks by a familiar posture, an identical square jaw in profile. The shock—when the face, head on, turned out to be unknown—had overwhelmed her those first months after Joel had disappeared. Once, she’d chased a man through a congested parking lot after a concert, only to be thoroughly embarrassed when it was a stranger who turned to answer her insistent cries.
She had long a
go learned to quell those unrealistic hopes, and yet now she still felt compelled to take one look at the man’s face.
The cab rolled slowly up the street toward her. Melanie strained her eyes as the passenger inside leaned forward to give the driver instructions. As he settled back against the seat, he turned his head slightly in her direction.
Patterns of light played on the darkened windows of the cab. The glare fashioned distorted images of towering buildings and triangular patches of blue sky on the glass, but as the taxi moved into shadow, for a brief moment the face of the man inside was clearly visible. The dim light revealed a thin gash of a scar creasing his right cheek.
Melanie’s breath caught in her throat. No! It can’t be!
The man shaded his eyes and turned to look out the window. For one haunting second their eyes met, and recognition flowed both ways. Then he turned away quickly, leaning forward again to speak to the driver.
Her hands grew clammy and in spite of the chill autumn breeze, perspiration seeped through every pore. It is him! Even after all these months, there wasn’t a shred of a doubt.
It was Joel.
One
Silver Creek, Missouri, two years earlier
Melanie LaSalle looked up from her computer and leaned back in her chair as she kneaded her stiff neck with the tips of neatly manicured fingers. Her small loft office space—like a crow’s nest tucked between the rafters of the former warehouse—afforded a bird’s-eye view of the open, modern layout of the graphic design studio she managed.
In the waning hours of the late winter afternoon, thick shafts of sunlight poured through the wide expanse of antique leaded glass windows, painting angled patches of saffron on the brick walls of the old building. The light might have been intrusive had it not been filtered through a jungle of flowering plants and the gaily colored, kite-like sculptures that hung from thick oak rafters and danced in the updrafts. As it was, the sun bathed the towering space in a golden warmth that was almost palpable.
She remembered how this building—and the charming St. Louis suburb—had captivated her when she first came to work in Silver Creek. By Design had been brand new then, the brainchild of Jerry LaSalle, the man who would become her father-in-law.
She stood and tried unsuccessfully to brush the wrinkles from her linen skirt. Hearing a commotion in the foyer beneath her, she went to the sturdy wrought-iron rail that guarded the loft against a thirty-foot drop. She knew, without leaning over to look, that Jerry had just made his grand entrance. She watched, amused, as he walked through his small kingdom—issuing greetings, admiring sketches, cracking jokes—leaving secretaries and designers laughing in his wake.
The supposedly retired owner of the design firm made an appearance nearly every afternoon. “Just to keep my foot in the door,” he often told Melanie. “You never know when I might get bored with golf and sailing and traveling the world.”
She smiled to herself. Only Jerry could get away with such blatant bluster about his ultracomfortable lifestyle. At sixty-two, Jerry LaSalle had just missed the hippie era. He always said he’d been born a decade too soon, and Melanie was inclined to agree. Even now, he wore his shock of white hair in a neat ponytail, wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on his bronzed nose, and a tiny gold stud bedecked his left ear.
Melanie chuckled to herself thinking how different the son had been from the father. Her beloved Rick had been as preppy as they came—his dark hair always trimmed well above the collar, his face clean-shaven. In an industry thick with artsy, avant-garde types, Rick LaSalle’s button-down dress shirts and conservative ties had ironically set him a world apart.
It was good, she realized, to be able to feel joy over a memory of her late husband. Two months ago, the first day of winter had marked the fourth anniversary of Rick’s death. Strange how the time crawled in one sense, yet some days it seemed as though she would walk into the house after a long day at work to find him waiting for her, wearing that charming, crooked smile and singing her snippets of love songs.
She felt that familiar ache again. She was grateful when her thoughts were interrupted by Jerry’s footsteps on the winding open staircase that led to her office.
“Here she is,” he boomed, peeking over the top landing. “The girl who kicked me out of my office.”
“Hi, Jerry.”
He took the last steps two at a time, and Melanie grinned and leaned to receive the requisite kiss on the cheek.
“Is it as nice out there as it looks?” She nodded toward the west where a bank of windows framed an inviting view of the river.
“Even nicer. It must be at least sixty degrees. Not bad for February, huh? Everything going okay?”
“Just fine. Would you have time to look over a couple of ads for the Milton account?”
He looked at his watch. “I’ll make time. I’m supposed to meet Erika at 5:00 though. Don’t let me get carried away.”
“Everything is on Suzanne’s desk. Why don’t we go down there?”
He nodded. Melanie went to her desk and punched in the senior designer’s extension.
“I think you’re going to like what she and José have done with this,” she told him while she waited for the call to go through. Suzanne’s voice came on the line, and Melanie signaled Jerry to wait. “Hi, Suzanne. Hey, can Jerry and I come down and take a look at the Milton stuff?… Okay. Give us five minutes.” She dropped the receiver into its cradle and turned to Jerry. “Now wait a minute … if you’re meeting Erika at 5:00, when am I supposed to get my baby back?”
“I was getting to that.” His pale blue eyes twinkled. “I don’t suppose we could borrow her for a couple of extra hours? Grandma has a surprise up her sleeve. Something about a new Easter dress, I think.”
“That could probably be arranged,” she laughed.
Jerry opened his mouth, hesitated for half a heartbeat, then cocked one eyebrow. “Maybe you could find yourself a date for the evening?”
She held her palm up and shot him a wry warning glance. “I’ve got plenty to do without complicating things, thank you very much.” She knew Jerry only wanted her to be happy, but she didn’t appreciate his meddling in her love life—or more accurately, the lack thereof. But it was true: She had all she could handle managing the firm and raising a daughter on her own.
“We’ll feed Jerica and bring her home right after dinner,” Jerry said.
“Thanks, Jerry. She’ll love that.” A twinge of guilt pinched her conscience as she thought of her daughter. She’d put in far too many hours at the office the last few weeks, and Jerica had suffered the brunt of it. Melanie’s eyes went to the framed portrait on her desk. Now almost five, the little girl looked remarkably like her father—painfully so, Melanie thought sometimes. But it was her grandpa LaSalle’s spunky personality the little girl had inherited, and taming her spirit was sometimes a challenge. Jerica had been only four months old when cancer robbed her of a father, and with Melanie’s own parents retired and living in California, Melanie was thankful that Jerica had doting grandparents close by—and appreciated the loving support system they offered her.
Melanie put her computer in sleep mode and turned to Jerry. “Ready?”
He nodded and let Melanie lead the way down the steep spiral of stairs, past the accounting offices on the mezzanine level, and to the ground floor where the design team worked.
While Jerry exclaimed over the vibrant illustrations spread out on Suzanne Savage’s desk, Melanie’s pulse quickened. She breathed in the excitement that always seemed to permeate the air when a project came to fruition. Sometimes she missed working in this wing of the building where the flow of creative juices was almost palpable.
She had come to By Design as a graphic designer fresh out of college. Jerry had introduced her to Rick, who, just out of school himself, was training under his father to manage the firm. The mutual attraction had been immediate, and they’d married a year later.
Melanie still treasured the memories of those early days
with the company. The excitement of finding success in the career of her choice, the thrill of being newly in love, the introduction of Jerry and Erika—mentors both—into her life.
And though she still loved her work at By Design, the new pressures placed on her since Rick’s death sometimes weighed heavily. Four years ago she never would have dreamed that she could develop the business acumen it took to manage a firm this size with efficiency and authority. Yet she had done just that. And in spite of the aching sadness over the tragic blow life had dealt her, Melanie usually found deep satisfaction in the life she had made for herself and Jerica.
Jerry had been wonderful to come out of retirement to carry the bulk of the burden after Rick’s death. Financially he had been more than generous. Between Rick’s insurance, her salary, and the fact that she would someday inherit a share of the firm, she would never have to worry about money. Still, she sometimes thought she would trade it all in for a chance to return to that earlier carefree time.
“This is topnotch work, Suzanne, José. I’m impressed.” Jerry’s enthusiastic voice prodded Melanie from her reverie. He nodded at the two young designers in turn, then shrugged. “What can I say? You guys are the best.”
Melanie gave her designers an I-told-you-so smile. “I think we’ll be seeing this front and center at the Addys next year,” she said, referring to a coveted advertising award.
By Design had received more than its share of regional and national recognition over the thirteen years the firm had been in business. Melanie’s own office sported an impressive array of design and advertising awards. Several of her pieces had been selected for inclusion in national and international design annuals, so her praise carried more than a little weight with these employees.
José Lorenzo ran a hand through thick, jet-black hair. “I’m just a little worried about how these colors will translate to print,” he ventured.
“I agree,” Suzanne said. “It might be worth sending it to Hadley’s this time.”
Jerry didn’t hesitate. “You guys do whatever it’ll take. This one is worth doing right—even if we have to eat some of the costs. What do you think, Mel?”
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