A Scarlet Cord
Authors: Deborah Raney
Praise for
A Scarlet Cord
“A second chance at love, a devastating disappearance, and a moment of selfless surrender, all inextricably bound by Raney’s lilting style and her trademark mastery of emotion. Readers of
A Scarlet Cord
are going to love this one!”
—D
EBORAH
B
EDFORD
, best-selling author of
The Story Jar
and
When You Believe
“I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough!
A Scarlet Cord
had me holding my breath in suspense and hope. You won’t soon forget Melanie and Joel. Deborah Raney has written another winner.”
—R
OBIN
L
EE
H
ATCHER
, best-selling author of
Firstborn
and
Speak to Me of Love
“
A Scarlet Cord
is further proof that Deb Raney has a talent for telling stories of the heart. Deb’s faithful fans will not be disappointed. This is perhaps her strongest work yet.”
—K
AREN
K
INGSBURY
, best-selling author of
One Tuesday Morning
“I love Deb Raney’s books, and
A Scarlet Cord
is no exception. Her warm portrayal of abiding faith in the lives of those who’ve suffered loss speaks to the heart and soul, and gently reminds us that God’s grace is always sufficient. Another winner from the pen of a perennial favorite who grows each year in her craft.”
—L
ISA
S
AMSON
, author of
Church Ladies
and
Women’s Intuition
“Deb Raney has crafted an incredibly compelling, fast-paced story of intrigue that runs the gamut of human emotions.
A Scarlet Cord
is a heartrending cry for love, both human and divine. A must-read!”
—Y
VONNE
L
EHMAN
, author of
His Hands
“
A Scarlet Cord
is a winner! With her creative plot and wonderful characters, Deborah Raney has given us a book to savor long after we turn out the light in the middle of the night. And let me warn you: It will be the middle of the night because you won’t be able to put the book down.”
—G
AYLE
R
OPER
, author of
Autumn Dreams,
Summer Shadows
, and
Spring Rain
“Captivating from the first glimpse of a scarred face in a taxi window,
A Scarlet Cord
offers poignant twists and turns to bind the characters and readers with a cord of love and forgiveness. The novel is as eloquent as the author, and seasoned with Midwestern warmth and charm.”
—D
ORIS
E
LAINE
F
ELL
, author of
Betrayal in Paris
and
Sunrise on Stradbury Square
“Deborah Raney has written yet another amazing keeper. When you snuggle up to read
A Scarlet Cord
, the characters will come alive in your heart. A touching story of faith, hope, and love, this is a book you’ll be tucking into your purse to read at every spare moment.”
—D
ENISE
H
UNTER
, author of
Aloha
and
Blind Dates
“
A Scarlet Cord
resonates with honest emotion and real faith. Deb Raney has done a wonderful job creating characters to root for even in the midst of misunderstandings and mistakes. An enjoyable and engaging read from beginning to end!”
—M
ARLO
S
CHALESKY
, author of
Freedom’s Shadow
and
Empty Womb
A SCARLET CORD
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
A division of Random House, Inc
.
Scripture quotations are taken from the
King James Version
. Scripture quotations are also taken from the
Holy Bible, New International Version®
. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
eISBN: 978-0-307-55296-9
Copyright © 2003 by Deborah Raney
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Raney, Deborah.
A scarlet cord / Deborah Raney.—
p. cm.
1. Witnesses—Protection—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction.
3. Widows—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.A562S28 2003
813′.54—dc21
2003003993
v3.1
For David and Lori Keazirian
,
with love and appreciation
.
Wishing you God’s richest blessings for the future.
Jeremiah 29:11
Contents
Prologue
Jockeying for position beside the jaded businessmen and -women who lined the curb on 42nd Street, Melanie LaSalle hesitated, then stepped onto the pavement and raised a hand half-mast to hail a taxi.
The brisk November air filled her nostrils with an intoxicating mix of aromas—fragrant steam from a pretzel vendor’s offerings, a hundred different colognes wafting from the crush of bodies; even the exhaust from a million automobiles added its own pungent spice to the mix that was uniquely New York.
The morning sun was just beginning to peek over looming skyscrapers and high-rise apartments. Excitement rose in her at being here in the city again. Shading her eyes from the glare, she looked down the street.
Half a block away, a tall man stepped off the curb and opened the door of the Yellow Cab that had pulled up. Melanie’s heartbeat quickened as she watched him. The man’s confident demeanor, the tilt of his head, and the way his hair curled defiantly into his collar stabbed at a place deep inside her. If she didn’t know better, she could almost imagine that she knew that athletic bearing … knew how the coarse, sand-colored curls would feel against her fingertips.
Wanting to banish the unwelcome thoughts, she watched the man slam the door as his taxi eased into the flow of traffic. If she could just get a look at his face through the cab window, she could put it out of her mind.
It had happened often at first—after the letter. She would be stopped dead in her tracks by a familiar posture, an identical square jaw in profile. The shock—when the face, head on, turned out to be unknown—had overwhelmed her those first months after Joel had disappeared. Once, she’d chased a man through a congested parking lot after a concert, only to be thoroughly embarrassed when it was a stranger who turned to answer her insistent cries.
She had long ago learned to quell those unrealistic hopes, and yet now she still felt compelled to take one look at the man’s face.
The cab rolled slowly up the street toward her. Melanie strained her eyes as the passenger inside leaned forward to give the driver instructions. As he settled back against the seat, he turned his head slightly in her direction.
Patterns of light played on the darkened windows of the cab. The glare fashioned distorted images of towering buildings and triangular patches of blue sky on the glass, but as the taxi moved into shadow, for a brief moment the face of the man inside was clearly visible. The dim light revealed a thin gash of a scar creasing his right cheek.
Melanie’s breath caught in her throat.
No! It can’t be!
The man shaded his eyes and turned to look out the window. For one haunting second their eyes met, and recognition flowed both ways. Then he turned away quickly, leaning forward again to speak to the driver.
Her hands grew clammy and in spite of the chill autumn breeze, perspiration seeped through every pore.
It is him!
Even after all these months, there wasn’t a shred of a doubt.
It was Joel.
One
Silver Creek, Missouri, two years earlier
Melanie LaSalle looked up from her computer and leaned back in her chair as she kneaded her stiff neck with the tips of neatly manicured fingers. Her small loft office space—like a crow’s nest tucked between the rafters of the former warehouse—afforded a bird’s-eye view of the open, modern layout of the graphic design studio she managed.
In the waning hours of the late winter afternoon, thick shafts of sunlight poured through the wide expanse of antique leaded glass windows, painting angled patches of saffron on the brick walls of the old building. The light might have been intrusive had it not been filtered through a jungle of flowering plants and the gaily colored, kite-like sculptures that hung from thick oak rafters and danced in the updrafts. As it was, the sun bathed the towering space in a golden warmth that was almost palpable.
She remembered how this building—and the charming St. Louis suburb—had captivated her when she first came to work in Silver Creek. By Design had been brand new then, the brainchild of Jerry LaSalle, the man who would become her father-in-law.
She stood and tried unsuccessfully to brush the wrinkles from her linen skirt. Hearing a commotion in the foyer beneath her, she went to the sturdy wrought-iron rail that guarded the loft against a thirty-foot drop. She knew, without leaning over to look, that Jerry had just
made his grand entrance. She watched, amused, as he walked through his small kingdom—issuing greetings, admiring sketches, cracking jokes—leaving secretaries and designers laughing in his wake.
The supposedly retired owner of the design firm made an appearance nearly every afternoon. “Just to keep my foot in the door,” he often told Melanie. “You never know when I might get bored with golf and sailing and traveling the world.”
She smiled to herself. Only Jerry could get away with such blatant bluster about his ultracomfortable lifestyle. At sixty-two, Jerry LaSalle had just missed the hippie era. He always said he’d been born a decade too soon, and Melanie was inclined to agree. Even now, he wore his shock of white hair in a neat ponytail, wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on his bronzed nose, and a tiny gold stud bedecked his left ear.
Melanie chuckled to herself thinking how different the son had been from the father. Her beloved Rick had been as preppy as they came—his dark hair always trimmed well above the collar, his face clean-shaven. In an industry thick with artsy, avant-garde types, Rick LaSalle’s button-down dress shirts and conservative ties had ironically set him a world apart.