Chapter One
Canada Place Cruise Ship Terminal, Vancouver, British Columbia
Staring out the street side window of her decorating boutique, Lyn hugged herself. Her own shop.
She studied the early morning foot traffic on the pier. Seeing nothing particularly interesting, her gaze fell to the love seat occupying center stage of the display beside her. She straightened a lopsided throw hanging precariously over the arm. Couldn’t have that. This window invited passersby to come in and browse. Nothing but perfection must meet their eyes.
Satisfied the throw lay as it should, she glanced again at the street outside, amazed she’d managed to land a space on Vancouver’s famed Canada Place Cruise Ship Terminal. Dwarfed by the pizza parlor on one side and the fish market on the other, her tiny shop stood alone like a forgotten entrance—a door and two side windows. One quick blink of an eye and the sightseer would miss it. But in spite of that, being stuck in the middle of one of Vancouver’s busiest ports promised the little storefront could generate a thriving business in the future.
Outside the door, in the nook where the entry joined the building, the edges of her sign shimmered.
FaceLift
Interior design and refurbishing on a budget.
R.J. Rogers, Owner
That name belonged to her. Rosalyn James Rogers—R.J. for short—Lyn to friends. She’d worked so hard to get to this point. Had spent a lifetime fighting for her dream. Battling poverty. Facing down hostility. Waiting on God.
Past struggles filtered through her mind. Bitter memories bounced like pebbles skipped across a pond, leaving nothing but ripples in their wake. For the first time in many years, Lyn stood on firm ground—established and strong enough to confront a world that had often been unkind to her, believing she’d been abandoned by the One she needed most.
She stepped away from the view, satisfied that the boutique’s window display appeared professional and perfect. Nothing out of place. Cruise line travelers would come seeking souvenirs. Vancouver’s elite would solicit her decorating skills. The curious wanted to browse. Lyn didn’t care. Business had been swift here since her opening a month ago, receipts boasting that in time she could pay her bills.
Time.
Life always boiled down to time.
She turned to the interior of the store. A box of new arrivals waited in the center—intricate, handmade pillows suitable for a variety of decorating tastes. She hummed as she worked, taking each pillow from its hideaway in the cardboard box and arranging it among complimentary hues of its brothers and sisters. Visual presentation was everything in this trade. She couldn’t afford to let anything slide past her critical eye.
Finished with the box, Lyn glanced up at the oversized clock on the wall—almost ten—time to open. Her gaze fell upon the calendar directly beneath the timepiece—fifteenth of April—first day of May two weeks away. The knifelike pain she’d experienced every May for the past nine years, that spring day when her world imploded, seized her heart. The final reminder she’d failed. A mistake which not even God had forgiven. She turned away from the calendar before grief overwhelmed her.
The door jingled, announcing the arrival of a customer. Lyn caught the moisture in the corner of her eye with a knuckle, praying no lingering mascara streaked her cheek. Wouldn’t be the first time. She turned, smiled, and picked up the last of the pillows, ready to greet whoever had come to shop.
A petite woman, eyes bright and smile fixed, wandered through the individual room groupings, stopping in the center of each one and studying the furniture arrangements. Her tastes in furnishings appeared to vary as often as she switched displays. She moved from a partial room section that featured a traditional sofa accessorized with vintage lamps into a more modern collection of sleek minimalist settings. Here modern design focused on a subtle understatement of form. Bare bones decorating, in Lyn’s opinion. But customers seemed to like the emphasis on function and aesthetic appeal.
The diminutive woman moved to another space, one that featured a Queen Anne chair with an ornate side table. That had been one of Lyn’s favorites to configure. Either the woman had come to windowshop, or she hadn’t decided what style she preferred. Lyn moved toward her.
“See anything you like?”
The patron glanced up, startled, then lit up like she was shopping for Christmas. “I’m in a bit of a pickle.” She pulled out a sheet of paper with something written on it, hands trembling. “I know nothing about decorating, but my employer sent me to find a decorator to refurbish two rooms in his house. He said to decorate the rooms the way I’d like them to make my job more enjoyable.” She held out the paper.
“Sounds like a nice man to work for.” Lyn smiled, taking the sheet, hoping to alleviate the woman’s fears. “I’m R.J., the owner here, and I’ll bet together you and I can figure out what you’d like.”
“I’m Charlotte Mayberry, the head housekeeper. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand. “That is a sketch of the two rooms and some preliminary measurements my Toby took for me.”
“Your Toby?”
“My husband, miss. We work for the same employer.”
“I see.” Lyn studied the dimensions.“These appear to be linked, like a suite.” She turned the paper sideways. “Is that a balcony?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Charlotte’s head bobbed as if the tension of the project weighed on her.“One of the rooms has been closed off for nearly twenty years, but my boss has decided to open it up and make the suite available for guests. The other room is his.”
“Is there a budget we need to work within?” Lyn handed the sketch back to Charlotte.“That will help me better understand where to start.”
“No, ma’am.” Charlotte’s head swiveled back and forth as fast as it had bobbed. “Mr. Hollingsworth said to spare no expense.” The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Trust me. He’s good for the money.”
Lyn swallowed hard. Goosebumps crept her arms. Cold sweat formed along her brow. It couldn’t be, could it? Not after all this time. But the name couldn’t be claimed by anyone else that she knew. Especially here in Vancouver.
Loyal Hollingsworth, a man from her past. A trusted friend. A substitute father. A man who had loved her unconditionally, just because she’d won the heart of his son. And someone who must never learn of her whereabouts. Too much was at stake.
Her mind raced with excuses why she couldn’t consider the assignment. Discovery might lead to consequences she couldn’t endure. People with agendas would consider such action a double-cross. But at the same time the prospect tempted her. Referrals from a job like this might launch her shop into high-end clientele overnight. Did she dare even think about it? She’d be a fool not to.
“Where is this home?” Lyn had to be sure she wasn’t wrong.
“Near Victoria.” Charlotte grew more nervous. “And it’s not just a home. It’s a mansion. Dating back to the 1880s.”
Lyn nodded. This had to be the Hollingsworth Victorian. The entire layout of the house flashed in her memory. She’d spent too much time there not to remember.
Oh, Peter.
Her heart ached at the thought of him.
The two bedrooms in question must be the family suite, including Peter’s old room.Those blue and gold walls remained as vivid in her mind as they had when she’d stood in them twenty years before, Peter’s arms wrapped around her shoulders.
If only.
Uncertainty plagued her. Could she work on a project that would pick at the scars of her heart? Did she want to open those wounds? The bigger question—how could she take the job knowing she might be recognized?
Reason shouted at her. Don’t do this. Her heart cried. But I want to. The forces battled within her, a tug of war attacking every inch of her mind. Dare I try, Lord?“I should tell you that the house is on an island on the Strait of Georgia. You’d have to come by boat. Mr. H. hasn’t yet put in an airstrip, though he is considering it.” Charlotte stood waiting for her response. “I know that will be inconvenient.”
“How many other decorators are bidding on this?” Lyn groped for a way to turn the offer down. Nerves made her fingers tremble. She didn’t think she could contract this assignment.
“You are the first I’ve asked.” Charlotte clasped her hands together. “I didn’t know where to start.” She glanced around the boutique again. “But I can tell from your room arrangements here that you’d be good for my job.” She dropped her hands and tilted her head. “I’d be most grateful if you’d say yes. I don’t want to spend a lot of time searching.”
Lyn’s heart creaked open a crack. This opportunity seemed too good to be true. The danger of it offered a challenge. She could enter the house that still haunted her dreams, redecorate the room she’d longed to revisit, and satisfy the chasm in her heart left vacant in the wake of tragedy. With the high rate of employee turnover in the house’s history, most of the household staff would have changed by now and not know her. Charlotte didn’t. Hollingsworth’s presence, if he were on site, didn’t mean he would recognize her, but the chance of him even getting involved in the project was minimal. That worked in her favor.
Twenty years had changed her. She’d done her own personal facelift. Her hair had ages ago switched to blonde instead of the dark mahogany color with which she’d been born. The long hair that had mesmerized Peter was now a wedge at the back. Easier. Practical. Ordinary.
Years of hard living had left lines on her forehead. A scar down one cheek daily reminded her of the existence she’d left behind to rise from the ashes of her life, of the turning point that shocked her out of melancholy, of the path she’d finally set her feet upon.
“My shop is closed on Mondays so I can visit sites and take measurements.” Lyn faced Charlotte. “Is that a day I could come take a look?”
“Not sure. I get Sunday and Monday off.” Charlotte sighed. “My busy day is Tuesday. Thursday we shore up the house for weekend company that usually arrives on Friday.” She brightened. “That leaves Wednesday.”
“Hmm. I can’t come then. I hate to disturb your day off. Any chance you’d be able to let me in to do that?”
“I’ll make sure Monday will work. Mr. Hollingsworth often takes the boat to the mainland early to see his attorney and usually stays most of the day. Carl, the boat captain waits around for him unless he has passengers to transport. When you are finished, Carl will take you back to the mainland. Then he’ll wait for Mr. H. to return. How’s that sound?”
“Doable. How long is the boat ride?” Lyn remembered the route as if it were yesterday. She couldn’t let on that she knew.
“About ninety minutes one way. But the yacht is a scenic way to travel.” Charlotte pulled out a calendar. “Can you get started next Monday? Carl will be here about ten.”
“Two Mondays from now.” She didn’t want to risk crossing paths with Loyal. She ran a finger down her phone calendar. “Give me a description of the boat and I’ll be there.” She could still see the yellow top bobbing on the water.
“Thank you, R.J. Thank you so much.” Charlotte touched a finger to her chin. “I’ll make sure Cook has some refreshments for you.”
Lyn reached into her pocket and retrieved a business card. “Here’s my phone and website. Let me know if something comes up.”
“I will.” Charlotte tucked the card in her wallet. “Thank you, R.J.”
When the bell over the door jingled, then slammed shut, Lyn collapsed on a nearby loveseat. What had she agreed to? Did the risk of being discovered merit the opportunity to once again visit the place of her fondest memories? To dredge up the source of her most frightful nightmares? Oh what have I done?
Millionaire businessman Loyal Hollingsworth strode down the dock to his yacht, briefcase in hand, suit coat draped over an arm. Fog from the Strait of Georgia had slithered in along the Vancouver Island coast last night, blanketing his island in silver. But now, like a spotlight aimed at center stage, the sun speared the haze. He closed his cell phone and pocketed the device. The brisk stride, combined with his squared shoulders and erect carriage of his head, made him feel younger than the six decades he’d celebrated last February. Thinking of his task today, he might as well be eighty.
Hollingsworth waved at his yacht captain. “Hey, Carl. Let’s get underway, shall we?”
“Breakfast meeting?”
“I’ve had breakfast, but I’m sure I’ll be grabbing coffee with Timothy while he eats. The man never breakfasts early. Don’t want to be late.”
“Yes, sir.”
The two men disappeared inside the main cabin. With the motor warmed, the yacht puttered away from the pier, reversed course, and chugged through the inlet onto open water.
Loyal fidgeted as the boat braced the choppy waters. He had waited nearly twenty years for this morning’s news. His attorney, Timothy Richards, had located a teenager he believed to be Loyal’s granddaughter, a girl he’d never met but who often haunted his dreams. She’d lived in foster care for the past nine years, hidden away by classified documents and procedures implemented to keep the child safe. These officials in the Child Welfare Services took their jobs seriously. He couldn’t fault them for that.
Timothy, though, said he had news, having worked long hours recovering what little information they had to proceed. Loyal refused to hope. The unending search with no answers had exhausted his ability to believe. Even now he had no real proof this girl was related. This meeting today was one of many he’d attended looking for a breakthrough. Timothy promised him he wouldn’t be sorry today. The state of Oregon had granted them access to the girl’s file. That was a big deal, according to Timothy. Perhaps Loyal could dare to dream again.
The yacht docked and Carl shimmied up to the pier. “Here we are. Safe and sound. In spite of all the rain squalls.”
“Thanks, Carl. You are the best.” Loyal stepped on the dock. “Timothy and I will finish late today. Plan on a four o’clock pickup.”
“Yes, sir.” Carl leaned forward and handed him his briefcase. “You’ll need this.”
Loyal tipped his head back and groaned. “I think I’m a little rattled this morning, Carl.” He took the briefcase and shrugged into his suit coat. “I hope the weather holds. The air had a bite to it on the ride over.”
“Squalls come and go, but the Strait is navigable.” Carl hopped back on the boat deck and pointed, his attention drawn toward the northern end of the dock. “Good thing it is, too. I have passengers for the return trip.”
He looked where Carl had indicated. Loyal’s niece, Madeline DuPont, and her daughter, Vanessa Fitzpatrick, waved as they hurried toward them. Loyal was surprised to see the pair. He frowned. “They don’t usually visit so early in the week.” Paula Birmingham—his house manager and Carl’s wife—hadn’t mentioned visitors to him. “Does your wife know?”
“Yes. They called late last night and asked to come.” Carl picked up a coil of rope. “Their plans changed, giving them free time. Madeline is anxious to exercise her horse.”
“That’s a good thing. Her mare is getting a little round.” Loyal waved at the two women and then checked his watch. “Well, I better be on my way. See you at four. Weather permitting.”
“I’ll get you home regardless.”
“Thanks, Carl.” Loyal turned and hailed a taxi. He opened the door and spoke to the driver. “Richards Law Firm, please.” Once seated, he closed the door and the taxi pulled away.
Timothy waited on the sidewalk when he arrived, gesturing for Loyal to join him.
“Let’s catch breakfast.” Timothy pointed at a café across the street. “I had a late start this morning.”
No surprise there. Loyal nodded and followed Timothy’s lead.
They jaywalked and entered the small coffee shop. Six tables filled the room with counter seating available near the kitchen. Timothy nodded toward the center. “Feel like a chair or a bar stool?”
Loyal gestured to the counter. “Those two stools on the end will give us a little more privacy.”
Timothy led the way. Once they were seated and had ordered, Timothy laid his briefcase open between them. He lifted a cluster of documents from the interior, then shut the case. “These are the official records I was able to obtain from the girl’s file.” He spread four pages in a fan. “The proof I presented of your paternal rights as a grandfather convinced the state-appointed attorney to open the file and give her situation another look.” Timothy tapped the pages. “After that Jamielyn was easy to find.”
“Are we sure this is the right child?”
Timothy lifted a page and underscored a name with his finger. “Rosalyn James Rogers.” He slid to the next line. “Mother.”
“I wonder what happened to Rosalyn.” Loyal fought the sudden interference of moisture in his eyes. He frowned at how soft he had gotten in his later years. “I never thought she’d be a bad mother.”
Timothy shrugged. “Something made her run. We don’t know what that was.” He studied the document in front of him. “But she never came to any of Jamielyn’s parent-child meetings after the state made the girl their ward.”
“Strange. All of it.” Loyal gripped the edge of the counter, the proof before him making him light-headed. He closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer of thanks. Finally, Lord. Let this be the beginning.
The waitress brought them a plate of pastries and two cups of coffee. Loyal held the warm cup to his lips and let the brew trickle down his throat, savoring the richness as well as the moment. He looked at Timothy. “I never thought this day would come.”
Timothy grinned. “Frankly, neither did I.” He slid the pastries toward him. “You look like you could use a little sustenance. I don’t want to lose you now that we are hot on the trail.”
“That would just do it, wouldn’t it?” He laid a napkin on the counter, picked up his fork and stabbed a scone. “I’m fine, just anxious about your news.” Cutting the pastry, he sampled a bite. “Blueberry.” He grinned at Timothy. “Do you suppose she likes scones?”
“I’d say we’re well on our way to finding out.” Timothy dug into his own scone. “Now we have to plan our strategy.”
Loyal sat thinking. “What would you think of me writing a letter inviting her to come to Holling’s Head for a weekend visit?”
“That might work.” Timothy paused to take a bite. “But it might be too much too soon.” He forked another bite. “She needs to meet you first, I think.” Timothy scraped the last bits of his scone from the plate. “I’ll run the idea by her caseworker.” He laid his fork down. “You write the letter.”
“I’ll have Paula help me. She’s good at everything. Usually better than me.”
“Does she know about Jamielyn?” Timothy looked at him. “Or am I wrong in remembering you and Emily decided to keep Rosalyn and Peter’s dilemma a secret?”
“No. You’re right.” Loyal closed his eyes. “Peter confessed he and Rosalyn had crossed the line and asked my forgiveness. He knew how I felt about purity. With their wedding only weeks away, Emily and I decided no one needed to know.”
“Not even Paula.”
“I’ll tell Paula.” Loyal looked at Timothy. “If she is to help me with this reunion, she needs to be told.”
“But Jamielyn is your granddaughter.” Timothy ran his thumb around the rim of the cup. “The letter needs to sound as if you wrote the invitation.”
“It will. Paula understands the enormity of the loss Emily and I endured when Peter’s accident happened. Especially Emily. She never recovered from Peter’s death. She so wanted a grandchild. We both did. Rosalyn’s disappearance only added to the pain. Telling Paula about Jamielyn will complete the story.”
Timothy straightened. “I’ll make contact with the caseworker. You pen the letter. Jamielyn will be eighteen on the seventeenth. We’ll need to work fast before she leaves the state’s protection.”
“I wish we knew where Rosalyn is. Do you suppose she’s changed her name? Or shortened it?”
Timothy put the documents back in his briefcase. “That will be a quest for another day.”
Loyal stood and shook Timothy’s hand. “Thanks for working so tirelessly on this, Tim.”
“Peter was my best friend, remember. I owe this to him.”
“I’m willing to bet you wouldn’t mind finding Rosalyn, either.” Loyal pressed his lips together. “I know Peter stole her from you.”
“That water swept downstream twenty years ago, Loyal.”