“Exploring until you returned. I’m green with envy over Marcia’s gardening prowess.” Betsy dropped her enormous purse and began rummaging inside it until she pulled out a book.
Harper stared down at the cover with its moonlit lake and a glowing bank of flowers. A rickety boat rested partially in the reeds like it was ready to take readers on an adventure.
She looked up. “How did you find it?”
Betsy inched the book forward, a grin lighting her face. “Someone owed me a favor.”
“Did you already reread it?”
“Maybe.” Betsy winked. “I’m curious to hear what you think.”
“I’ll start tonight,” Harper said. “How much do I owe you?”
Betsy shook her head. “It’s a gift.”
“No—”
“To remember your mom.”
Harper hugged the book to her chest. “That’s the best kind of gift.”
“Angeline was a firecracker.”
Harper smiled. “I wish I could share it with her.”
“I’m sure you’ll be thinking of her as you read.”
That night, Ingrid Lamb returned her call and invited Harper over for coffee in the morning. Then Marcia texted directions to the children’s home, saying she wished they could visit the old property together.
After coffee with Mrs. Lamb, she would visit the former orphanage. Sit on its porch and remember her mom.
While she wanted to find out what happened all those years ago to her mother, some mysteries, she knew well, would never be resolved. Her mom had lived with that reality her entire life.
Harper settled into a living room chair that night to readMoonflower Lake.
Uncovering her mom’s story might be impossible, but she would search until she found out what happened to Olivia Belle.
24:Isadore
MARCH 1942
“Thank you,” Izzy said, retrieving her daughter from Professor Farrow’s arms.
“Our little angel did wonderfully.” The professor stood slowly from his parlor chair. “She just woke up from a nap.”
Greta stroked Izzy’s face. “Mama.”
“I’m here, sweetheart.” Izzy nuzzled her tiny hand and then smiled at the professor. “Thank you again for watching her.”
A brisk nod in return as if he had a dozen other pressing tasks to attend. While he continued to be gruff with Simon, the professor enjoyed every moment spent with Greta, and Izzy was quite certain that he’d do anything possible to protect his now one-year-old granddaughter from harm.
“I found this.” He handed Greta the prettiest rattle, the bulb softened by rose flannel, its silver handle reflecting the lamplight.
“You spoil her,” Izzy said, the bells inside jingling when Greta shook it.
“A little spoiling won’t hurt.”
“Perhaps not.” Like the professor, her mom and dad doted on Greta whenever Izzy took her to Elms. Never to stay—her parents simply couldn’t care for all of them unless Izzy worked at the mill—but some days she was so homesick that it pained her to remain in Winfield. Some days she fantasized about working the night shift just so she had something to do outside the house.
