Forgiving Paris: A Novel(49)

And what about him? He had joined the FBI because he never wanted love, never wanted a family. God had taken the three people he loved most, so there was no reason to ever love again. Better to be an island. Fight hard, rescue people, put away bad guys, and stay on mission. Until one day a bullet pierced not just his shoulder… but his heart. His head.

Deep breath, he told himself. What about Eliza, God? She doesn’t even know what love is. A part of him wanted to show her, to stop pretending and let her know how much he cared for her, the child he had rescued that long-ago day. He could tell her about that life-altering event and how he was the one who had saved her. They could at least be friends, then.

The possibility dissolved. None of it could happen. They had more work today, and in a few sunsets they’d be back in San Antonio. Where he’d be thankful that he’d stuck to the job, and that he hadn’t let himself really fall for her.

Thankful that moments like the one in the back of the bookstore were few and far between.



* * *



THE ACTION ON the beach was about to pick up, that’s what Eliza had told him. Jack spread a blanket down on the sand and the two sat side by side, leaning back on their hands, shoulders touching. It was only ten in the morning, but they wanted to be here early. So they wouldn’t miss a thing.

So no other child was taken into captivity before Jack and Eliza had the chance to help.

There were only a few couples on the beach. Eliza wore a straw sunhat and a white lace cover-up over her bathing suit. He wore the navy swim trunks he’d worn in Belize and no shirt. The only way traffickers would believe he was a tourist on his honeymoon and not an agent.

Jack breathed in the sweet salty air. He wrapped his little finger around hers. “I got sad news today.” She was an informant now. She might as well know something of his work. Especially when it came to Belize.

“You did?” Eliza leaned her shoulder into his. “One of the agents?”

“No.” He breathed in the scent of her hair, her suntan lotion. It’s a job, Jack. Put her out of your mind. “On the day I met you, earlier that morning, I went to a Mennonite village called Lower Barton Creek.”

“You did?” She sat straight up and faced him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t about you.” He sat up and faced her. “I met with the town’s old historian. A man who I hoped would give me information about the disappearance of a different little Mennonite girl.”

“Oh.” She was wearing her sunglasses again, but he could still see her confusion. “I hope he helped you.”

“He did. But I just got word… he passed away.” Jack slid closer to her and eased her back against his chest. They both faced the water, and their conversation was easy. Gone was the snappy tone she’d used when they first landed in Nassau. “He told me that an American woman showed up one day with gifts and promises to host his granddaughter and her children at their beach house.”

Again Eliza sat up. This time she got up on her knees and faced him. “What… was the man’s name?”

“Ike. Ike Armstrong.”

Eliza gasped and she was suddenly on her feet. “Walk with me. Please.”

Jack had no idea what nerve he’d struck, but he did as she asked. He grabbed his backpack, his go-bag if something went terribly wrong during their time here today. With his free hand, he took hold of hers. “Eliza.” There was no one in earshot, so he used her real name. “What is it?”

She wanted to run, he could feel it in the way she gripped his hand. But she kept her pace even with his. When they were a long way down the beach, she stopped and faced him. Like a lover unable to keep her eyes from his, she framed his face with her hands. She was shaking. “Jack… Ike Armstrong… he’s my great-grandfather.”

Jack took a few seconds, but then he shook his head. “No… no, he told me his great-granddaughter’s name. He was very worried about her.” He searched her face. “The girl’s name was—”

“Lizzie.” Eliza moved into his arms and brought her face alongside his. “Lizzie James, Jack. That’s me.” She lowered her hands and eased her arms around his bare waist. Then she pressed her face to his chest and did something that absolutely wasn’t an act, something Jack had never expected with Eliza. She started to cry.

“I should’ve told you I was from Lower Barton Creek. I was trying… trying to keep my two worlds separate. It was the part of my past I wanted to keep to myself.” She closed her eyes for a moment before looking at him again. “And now… now my great-grandfather is gone.”

Her crying was too soft for anyone to notice but him. Still, he could feel her tears spilling onto his skin. Jack didn’t care if someone was watching them or not. He ran his hand along her hair and then wrapped his arms around her.

This can’t be happening! Eliza was Lizzie James? That meant that the woman Ike had talked about—Agnes Potter—was probably Betsy Norman. He felt sick. How come he hadn’t connected those dots sooner?

And why hadn’t he pushed her about where she’d been from? She had told him she couldn’t remember, but of course she could. And of course the girl was from Lower Barton Creek. The whole thing made sense now.

“Eliza, I’m sorry.” He moved back a few inches and faced her. “I didn’t know you were from Lower… How come I didn’t see it?”