Eliza suddenly felt desperate to be alone. She hurried to her apartment and shut the door firmly behind her. In her living room, she dropped to her knees beside her couch and, through her tears, offered a pleading prayer to her Father in Heaven. “Just let them find her,” she prayed. “Please keep her safe until they do.”
* * *
Forty-eight hours later, there was still no sign of Amber. Eliza had called everyone she could possibly think of that might have had information, but no one knew anything at all.
Even Dawson had sounded innocent enough. He insisted they hadn’t made any official plans, and he never would have supported or encouraged her running away from Rockbridge. Amber’s grandmother and parents were now on campus, watching the activities of the search with fear and trepidation. When dusk fell on the second day and the search parties had started to trickle back in, Eliza’s heart sank lower than it ever had before. When Flip emerged from the woods, weary and worn, it was more than Eliza could bear.
She reminded herself that Dr. Adler had been in favor of Amber’s excursion trip, had supported Eliza’s suggestion from the start. But Eliza couldn’t shake the feeling that if she had handled Amber’s counseling better, they would never have wound up in such difficult circumstances.
Eliza should have been more in tune. She should have understood what Amber really needed. The guilt Eliza felt was eclipsed only by the thought of Amber being out there somewhere, cold, hungry, and completely ill-equipped to take care of herself.
And it’s my fault, Eliza thought to herself. Amber could be dead, and it’s all my fault.
* * *
Eliza wasn’t sure if he would want to hear from her. But through the turmoil of the past forty-eight hours, she’d longed for Henry’s steadying presence. She needed him to look in her eyes and tell her everything was going to be okay. Somehow, it felt like if he said it, she’d have to believe it was true.
Wherever he was, Henry wasn’t answering his phone. It took three tries for Eliza to find the courage to leave him a voice mail. “Henry? It’s Eliza. I know you’re out of town, but I wish you were here. There’s something going on. Amber has run away, and I just . . . I don’t know. I think my head works better when you’re around. I miss you, Henry. I hope you’re coming home soon. Please . . . come home.”
Chapter 31
Henry pulled his car into a gas station just three miles away from Bill Harrison’s home. It was an unusually warm afternoon for the fall, warmer than the mountains, especially, and Henry found himself uncomfortably hot.
He was annoyed when he realized the catch on the gas pump that held the nozzle trigger in place was missing, leaving him with no option but to stand in the heat, feeling the sweat bead up on the bridge of his nose.
Wiping the wetness away with his free hand, he stood and stared at his reflection in the window of his car. He tried to conjure up the aged face of his biological father—remember the details etched in his memory from their brief encounter at Rockbridge earlier in the summer. If he tilted his head just right and wrinkled his forehead, he could see him in his own face in the window.
The gas pump clicked, and Henry sighed. There was nothing to hold him back now. He was out of excuses, out of reasons to stay away from Bill Harrison. But that didn’t make it any easier to get back in his car and drive the short distance left between them.
By the time he pulled down the gravel drive, with the GPS on his phone confirming he had arrived at his destination, his heart was beating so quickly he had to take several slow, deep breaths before even feeling comfortable enough to get out of the car. He said a quick, silent prayer, then sat for a moment staring at the small house in front of him.
The house was green stucco with a terra-cotta tile roof and cement-slab front porch. Landscaping was almost nonexistent. The lawn was mostly dirt. A few straggling patches of grass clung to life here and there, and a row of meager shrubs hugged the exterior wall of the house.
The only spot of brilliance in the otherwise drab surroundings was a vibrant oak tree, its leaves flaming red, standing in the far corner of the yard. The sun shone brightly on the tree, creating the impression that it was light itself, glowing with its own source of brilliance and warmth.
Henry closed his eyes. The beauty of the tree felt like a gift from God—a reminder that someone far greater than Henry was in control. With renewed vigor and a calm heart, Henry got out of his car and walked to the front door of the little house. Before he lost his nerve, he raised his fist and knocked three times, sharp and quick. Immediately, his heart started racing again. He was surprised when it wasn’t Bill Harrison who opened the door but an elderly woman instead.
“Hello?”
Henry cleared his throat. “Hi, I, um, was looking for William Harrison—uh, I mean, Bill. Is he home?”
The woman was quiet for a moment, her gaze resting purposefully on Henry’s face. “Henry?” she said softly.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Henry Jacobson.”
He offered his hand, and she took it, limply, then turned and glanced over her shoulder. “You better come inside.”
Henry followed her into the living room, sparsely furnished but clean and well kept.
“I’m Bill’s sister, Stella. Can I offer you something to drink? Tea? Water?”
“No, I’m fine,” Henry said. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure? Maybe just a glass of water?”
Henry sensed a growing feeling of unease in the woman. She stood in front of the couch, looking almost longingly at the kitchen. It felt as if she were looking for a way to escape.
“I’m really fine,” Henry said again. “Is everything all right?”
The woman sighed and sat down directly across from the couch, where she motioned for Henry to sit.
“There’s quite a resemblance,” she said. “You’ve got the look of him, that’s for sure.”
Henry nodded. “I realized as much when he came to Rockbridge—that’s the school where I work—a few months back. I’m afraid I wasn’t in a state of mind to speak to him properly then.”
The woman’s face was passive, her eyes cast down. “He told me,” she said. “He didn’t blame you though. Said he never should have surprised you like that.”
“I was surprised,” Henry said. “But I shouldn’t have been rude.”
Stella leaned back in her chair and grasped her hands in her lap. Henry could tell she was preparing to speak and wondered if her words would bring clarity or perhaps more confusion to the oddity their interaction was turning out to be.
“I always told Bill he shoulda looked you up sooner,” she said. “But he’d have nothing of it. He said it was your life and you deserved to be happy without having him meddle in your affairs. I told him he was your daddy, had every right to call you up and ask you how the day was, but he wouldn’t hear it. Then one day, somebody called the house—” She paused and raised her eyebrows in question. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
Henry only nodded.
“Well, that phone call got him all worked up, said he knew in his gut it was you trying to call. So he went down to the library and had the woman at the research desk look up that school of yours, the name he’d seen on the caller ID. Sure enough, there you were.” She shifted in her seat and, with her lips pursed, looked at Henry pointedly. “If I could be so bold,” she said, “why did you call if you didn’t have anything but rudeness for him in your heart? He only came to see you because he believed you had tried to call.”
“I was scared,” Henry said simply. “I called because I was curious, but then I got scared.” Somehow, it felt easier being honest with a stranger.
His answer seemed to satisfy her enough that she continued with her story. “Well, after he came home,” she said, “things just went from bad to worse.”
Henry’s unease heightened. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Stella’s lips tightened into a thin line across her face. “Bill knew he was sick, see? But it was like h
e suddenly stopped caring, stopped fighting after he went to see you.”
“I still don’t understand,” Henry said. “Did Bill . . . Is he . . . ?”
“You came too late. Bill died last Thursday.”
The words settled over Henry like bits of broken glass. He certainly hadn’t been looking forward to a reunion with his biological father, but he never would have chosen for it to end this way. This was awful—like severing a limb and, instead of stitching up the wound, leaving it open, gaping, a mess of raw flesh and blood.
“Was . . . ?” Henry’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, starting again. “Was there a service?”
“Just a small one down at the funeral home,” Stella said. “He wouldn’t have wanted much fanfare.”
“I wish you had called me about the service,” Henry said, his voice now more controlled. “I would have liked to attend.”
“Well, I guess you missed your chance, son.” Stella didn’t try to hide the contempt in her voice. It was clear she held Henry responsible for her brother’s untimely demise.
“All my life,” Henry said, speaking more to the floor than to the woman who sat across the room. “All my life I believed he didn’t want me. I remember the look on his face when he signed those papers, when he . . . I just . . .” He didn’t know how to finish. How could he express in words what he didn’t understand? He felt angry and disappointed, confused and overwhelmed, but mostly he just felt sorry—sorry that he’d missed speaking to his father, sorry that it was his own anger that had kept him from doing so.
“I’m sorry I was late,” he said. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get the chance to speak with him.” Henry felt a catch at the back of his throat—a sob he had no desire to release in the presence of . . . his aunt? She certainly wasn’t treating him as someone she regarded as family. He cleared his throat and stood.
“I guess I should get going,” he said. “It was kind of you to let me in. And I am sorry, truly sorry that you’ve lost your brother.”
He didn’t wait for her to get up. He hurried across the room and pulled the door open. He suddenly felt desperate to escape, to be far away from the wretched living room, from the contemptible woman who blamed him for the death of a man he didn’t even know, from the hot, boiling anger raging inside him. Once inside his car, the last shred of Henry’s reserve crumbled away, and for the first time in more years than he could account for, he allowed himself to cry for the man he had never known as his father.
Several minutes later, he sat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, his head leaning forward on his hands. The sun was heavy, hanging low in the sky, and was no longer visible from where Henry sat. As a result, the house and yard were cast in dreary shadow. Crying had felt rather cathartic, and Henry found himself in a sort of peaceful stupor. He was startled when he heard a soft tap on the driver’s side window. He looked up and saw Stella standing beside the car, a small box in her hands. He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then rolled down the window.
“Sorry,” Henry said. “You probably thought I’d left.”
“It’s not that he didn’t want you,” Stella said. Her voice was still distant, but it no longer had the edge that had dominated their previous conversation. “He just wanted what was best for you. He wanted you to have a life he knew he couldn’t give you.”
Henry nodded. “I understand that now.”
“Here.” Stella handed him the box she was holding in her hand. “It isn’t much, just whatever made it into the newspaper. Even when he was locked up, he had me keep an eye on the papers in case you ever showed up.”
Henry opened the box and found a handful of newspaper clippings—a picture of his state championship Little League team, his graduation picture announcing him as a Morehead scholar finalist, his wedding announcement with Allison.
“I just thought you might like to have them,” Stella said.
“Thank you.” Henry placed the clippings back in the box. “I appreciate your giving them to me.”
Without another word, Stella turned and headed back toward the house. But then she hesitated and walked back to Henry’s window.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Henry nodded. “I think I’m going to be just fine.” Only this time, he actually believed it.
* * *
Back at his parents’ home, Henry was grateful that his mother and father were out for the evening. He was still trying to make sense of his afternoon and wanted, even needed to be alone for a while. He sat on the back porch swing, his feet propped on the small wicker table in front of him, and stared into the darkness of his parents’ backyard.
Across the lawn, a family was having a party, the privacy fence between the yards not enough to keep the happy noises from drifting over to where Henry sat. The bursts of laughter and upbeat music somehow brought Henry comfort, as if to remind him that happiness was always within reach.
The funny thing was that Henry knew what Stella had told him was true. His adoption really had been the very best thing that could have happened. Why, then, had he allowed himself to carry his anger through life like a millstone hung about his neck?
A moment of clarity buzzed through him like a jolt of electricity. Anger was easier. He was angry because if it wasn’t his father’s fault for leaving him, then it was his. And that was what he’d been afraid of all his life—that he wasn’t good enough, that the people who got close to him would all decide he wasn’t worth sticking around for.
It was what his father had decided. It was what Allison had decided. And if he let Eliza get too close, it was what she would eventually decide too.
And yet the contents of the little box tossed on the seat beside him indicated otherwise. He flipped through the newspaper articles one more time. Henry would never have the opportunity to know Bill Harrison. But it wasn’t too late for him to forgive and move past the bitterness that had always accompanied the man’s name.
In the peaceful dark of his parents’ porch, Henry slipped quietly off the swing and lowered himself to his knees. With the neighbors partying cheerfully in the background, Henry offered a prayer of marked sincerity.
Into Jesus’s waiting arms, he turned over the anger and crippling fear he’d been hiding behind for so many years. He turned over the animosity he felt toward Allison. He pleaded with the Lord to help him bridge the distance keeping him from AJ. And then he thought of Eliza. He smiled inwardly as he realized how desperately he’d been trying to run from her, to keep her out of his heart.
But Eliza was a force of nature. There was no stopping her.
Henry opened his eyes. “I’m in love with Eliza,” he said out loud. He threw his head back and laughed. Standing up, he ran into the yard and just short of the fence that kept him from the party guests on the other side, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hey! I’m in love with Eliza!”
The noise of the party was too loud for anyone to have noticed, but Henry didn’t care. He felt himself a new man. He was lighter, happier than he had been in years. Realizing he’d never concluded his prayer, he looked heavenward. As he gazed at the stars, he talked to his Father in Heaven once more. Help me be worthy of her, he prayed. And if you could manage it, perhaps you could help her love me too.
* * *
The next morning, after an early breakfast with his parents, Henry left for Rockbridge. He missed AJ and wanted to see him. And, of course, he wanted to find Eliza. Or did he? In the brightness of morning light, it seemed a little more difficult for him to so readily admit his feelings. What if she didn’t feel the same way? What if he’d waited too long and she’d fallen in love with Flip? The questions kept swirling as he pulled onto the interstate that would take him back into the mountains.
Remembering that his cell phone had died the night before, he pulled it out of his pocket and plugged it into the car charger. He hoped there weren’t any messages from Rockbridge. His fellow faculty had been gracious when it had c
ome to filling in for him in spite of his hasty departure. He hoped they hadn’t had any trouble in his absence. To his relief, there were no messages from anyone, except Eliza. He listened to her message once, and then again and again.
He couldn’t close the distance between them fast enough.
Chapter 32
Flip stood on the crest of the ridge, his arms folded resolutely across his chest.
“Flip, there’s no way she would have headed down that ravine,” Frank Adler said. After two days of searching, both men were beginning to feel a little tense. Flip knew that time was running out. Amber would have had a small amount of food with her, and water was easy enough to find in the forest, but what little she’d taken wouldn’t have lasted her this long.
As they looked down the steeply declining slope of the mountain, Flip was having a hard time convincing Frank it was the way they should go to continue their search.
“She would have looked for the easier way,” Frank continued.
“I’m not so sure,” Flip said. “I’ve just got a feeling, Frank. I think I have to ask you to trust me on this one.”
Frank was quiet for a moment. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and stared at Flip, his eyebrows raised. “Okay,” he finally said. “Lead the way, then.”
Together, they descended the ravine one treacherous step at a time. When they reached the bottom, they moved a short distance apart and started walking through the dense undergrowth of the forest. Like this, rather than walking side by side, they had a better shot of catching any clues that would lead them to Amber’s whereabouts.
An hour later, Flip was beginning to question his intuition. The terrain was awful—thick and tangled and steep. If it was difficult walking for the two of them, it seemed near impossible for someone with Amber’s inexperience to have made it through. Flip cast his eyes upward. “God, help me,” he said softly. “Help me find her.”
“Flip, I think we need to change our direction,” Frank called. “This is getting too rough.”
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