Catching the Wind(88)

“It’s trashed.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It wasn’t your fault, Quenby. It’s my fault for wrangling you into this mess. I’m calling it off.”

“Calling what off?”

“Our search.”

“You can’t cancel it. I have a contract.”

“You’ll get your money,” he started, an odd coolness in his words.

“I don’t want the money, Lucas. I want to find Brigitte.”

He smiled again, pushing her hair away from her forehead. “You’ve searched with your heart, Quenby.”

“I suppose I have.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be telling any more stories if we continue our search for this one.”

“Did you get Brigitte’s box?” she asked.

“I did. Along with your purse.”

“What if Brigitte’s letter wasn’t actually a good-bye? What if it was a clue?” Her mother’s words came back to her again, how she’d loved to talk about the wind in the grass. “There’s something else, Lucas.”

She closed her eyes again, trying to remember her dream. It had been based, she thought, on a happy memory with her mother, one that had been stuffed deep. Her head ached, and it wasn’t solely from the accident. There were new pieces to the puzzle, poised to fit together, but she couldn’t even make sense of the frame.

“In the car . . .” He clung to her hand. “For a moment, I thought I’d lost you. It’s not worth it, Quenby, to find someone who disappeared long ago.”

He did care for her, as more than just a colleague. Enough to call off the search for Mr. Knight. He couldn’t cancel it, not for her sake, but his kindness eased some of the pain.

“How’s my patient?” The woman who walked into the room reminded Quenby of a fairy with her snowy hair and elf-like body under her pale-blue shirt. The wrinkles fanning from her eyes flared with her smile.

“My head aches.”

“A side effect, I’m afraid, of playing chicken with a lorry.”

“This is Dr. Eaton,” Lucas said as the woman scanned her chart. Then she took Quenby’s blood pressure and listened to her heartbeat with a stethoscope, asked Quenby to wiggle her fingers and move her feet.

“Everything appears to be in working order,” Dr. Eaton said, taking off the stethoscope. “But no playing sports until after you see a neurologist in London.”

“Or climbing trees,” Lucas added.

“And no electronics, for at least a week.”

Lucas leaned forward. “When can she travel?”

“I’d like you to stay at least one more night nearby, just in case.”

“In case of what?” Quenby asked.

Dr. Eaton slipped the chart back into its box. “In case you miss me.”



There was only one bed-and-breakfast in the village of Rodmell, and the owner—Clara—had two rooms available, with an interior door between them. Lucas made Quenby promise to keep the exterior one to the hallway locked and barricaded, just in case the man in the lorry decided to show up for an encore.

Her bedroom was painted a warm olive color, and there were white hydrangeas in a large vase on her nightstand. At the foot of her bed were two curtained windows and a case made of ash wood and glass, filled with dozens of trinkets.

She fell back asleep quickly, as if she hadn’t slept in days, and when she woke again, the clock beside her bed blinked 6:45. Her headache was finally gone and she was itching to use her iPad, but she followed the doctor’s orders and took a shower instead.

Lucas tapped on the door an hour later, looking vastly relieved to see her out of bed and ready for the day. He kissed her cheek. “How is your head?”

“A hundred times better.”

“I’m glad.”

“I think I could climb a tree.”

“Not on my watch,” he said before escorting her downstairs to the breakfast room.

With her ban on electronics, she carried the stack of files about Brigitte and the Rickers to review with Lucas over breakfast. Clara already had sausage, grilled tomatoes, and fresh fruit waiting for them along with coffee that she’d roasted in the barn.

Quenby placed her files on the table beside her food and set Princess Adler on top. Then Clara pulled up a chair at their table. “What brings you two to our little village?”

“We’re trying to find someone who might have lived here near the end of World War II,” Quenby explained. “A woman named Brigitte.”

Clara shook her head. “I’ve lived here my entire life, and I’ve never known anyone by that name.”

Quenby reached for the top file, moving the princess to the side of her plate. “I have her picture here.”

Clara examined the photo of the girl with the braids and bow. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize her.”

Quenby returned the picture to the file and placed Princess Adler back on top.

“That’s strange,” Clara said, reaching out to touch the wooden princess.

“What is it?”

“Where did you find this toy?”

“Brigitte’s best friend gave it to me. He made it for her when they were children.”