Catching the Wind(86)

“Required reading at secondary school.”

“I’m impressed you remember.”

“I’m here to impress you,” he quipped. “How did you remember that last line?”

She shrugged. “English lit minor and Bront? aficionado. It’s like Brigitte was burying her life to start anew.”

“She’s conflicted, but I think she still wants to see him.”

She folded the letter and put it back into the box. “Some people really want to disappear.”

“She isn’t your mother, Quenby.”

“I know, but perhaps there was a good reason that she wanted to start again. Perhaps Rosalind’s daughter thought that Brigitte was her mother.”

“You’ll have to ask Brigitte when you find her.”

She took a blossom from the magnolia tree and placed it in her handbag along with the letter. It didn’t particularly matter whether or not she should continue searching for Brigitte as the letter in her hand was another dead end. A soft wind left no path. Someone might have felt it rustling once, but they would never remember.

She and Lucas hiked out of the forest as Brigitte’s words replayed in her mind. She’d said her good-byes and left to live her life. Saying good-bye to Dietmar—her past—probably freed her to embrace her future.

Had Brigitte forgiven those who’d wounded her?

Quenby needed to do the same thing as Brigitte, this letting go of her own past, but she knew she couldn’t do this on her own.

Jocelyn had been addicted to a drug that made people do strange things, and in her craziness, she’d probably thought she loved Chase Merrill. It wasn’t an excuse for what she had done, but it helped Quenby understand.

If she truly forgave her mother, would God take away her pain even if her memories remained? Perhaps that was the superpower she needed most. The power to let go. And the power to love again.

Shivering, she glanced at the man walking beside her.

She needed to finish this assignment for Mr. Knight and say good-bye to Lucas. At first he’d gotten on her nerves, but somehow he’d maneuvered his way under her skin, precariously close to her heart. He’d been a friend to her, a good one. Like Mr. Knight had been to Brigitte. But like Brigitte, Quenby had to step into the wind and let it take her wherever she needed to go.

“Should we call Mr. Knight?” she asked when they reached the mill ruins.

“I suppose.”

“At least he’ll know she was safe after she left the Mill House. Perhaps that will keep him from worrying.”

They stopped beside the waterwheel, and Lucas dialed the number, putting it on speakerphone so Quenby could hear. Eileen answered the call.

“He’s too ill to speak tonight, Mr. Hough.”

Lucas shot Quenby a look of alarm. “What did Dr. Wyatt say?”

“For him to rest, but he isn’t resting well. He keeps asking for Brigitte.”

“I’m afraid we may not find her,” Lucas said. “But she left him a letter telling him that she is well.”

“Can you read it to him?” Eileen asked. “I’ll hold the phone to his ear.”

Lucas glanced at Quenby. “Will you read it?”

She lifted the letter and read Brigitte’s words before she folded it back into the metal box.

There was a long silence on the other end, and then Eileen spoke to them again. “I think he heard you. He opened his eyes for a moment.”

Tears spilled from Quenby’s eyes as Lucas reached over, taking her hand. She clung to his.

“Thank you, Eileen,” he said.

“It’s good for him to know that she survived the war. It will give him comfort.”

After he disconnected the call, Quenby wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I wanted to find Brigitte for him.”

“You gave him the gift of her words.”

“But where did she go from here?” A motorboat sped up the river, and she glanced up the rural road to the north.

She didn’t want to stop searching yet. Not when they were so close to finding her. Perhaps Lucas was right—they could continue looking, and if Brigitte still didn’t want Dietmar to know her location, Quenby would keep her secret. “I’d like to visit the cliffs where Rosalind last saw her,” she said. “And then I want to stop in Rodmell.”

But even as she said the words, her eyes began to grow heavy. Unlike Lucas, she hadn’t rested well on the airplane in either direction, not with everything racing through her mind.

He tucked his phone back into his pocket and held up the keys as they walked toward the car. “You want to drive?”

She shook her head. “Wake me up when you find the cliffs.”

The sunroof open, they began driving north. The road was flat here, but according to sat nav, it curved away from the river a few miles up and climbed between farmland and trees. Then they would have to hike to the cliffs.

Her eyes closed, she thought about Mr. Knight locked away in his fortress. He had the best of care, yet his body wouldn’t hold on forever. He’d been hanging on, it seemed, until she brought him word about Brigitte. Perhaps this final letter was what he needed to let go as well.

“What in the—?” Lucas blurted, and he swerved suddenly to the left, toward the trees.

Quenby’s eyes flashed open, and she saw a gray lorry on the road ahead, barreling toward them, stirring up the dirt into a blinding cloud. At first she thought it was Kyle, trying to flare his feathers again, but the driver, it seemed, had lost control, racing toward a head-on collision. If he didn’t stop, he’d kill her and Lucas both.