Unforgotten
UNFORGOTTEN
DIAMOND OF THE ROCKIES
The Rose Legacy
Sweet Boundless
The Tender Vine
Twilight
A Rush of Wings
The Still of Night
Halos
Freefall
The Edge of Recall
Secrets
Unforgotten
Echoes
Unforgotten
Copyright © 2005
Kristen Heitzmann
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-2828-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Heitzmann, Kristen.
Unforgotten / by Kristen Heitzmann.
p. cm.
Summary: “In this sequel to ‘Secrets,’ Lance is caught between the two women he loves as he uncovers unforgotten truths that could change them all forever”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 0-7642-2828-5 (pbk.)
1. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.E468U54 2005
813'.54—dc22 2005009757
To Jim, always
I have given them the glory that you gave me,
that they may be one as we are one:
I in them and you in me.
John 17:22–23
This book would have been impossible without the generous
assistance of both my new and my tried and true friends.
From the Belmont neighborhood in the Bronx:
Robert Lupo, Dominick D’Auria, John DeAngelos,
Ida at the candy store, the two Vinnies, the shop owners and
residents who made our treks through your streets a true
pleasure. To all of you,
grazie molto.
To Ken and Carolyn for your memories, my gratitude.
To my Bronx stomping partner, Kelly—way too much fun.
To Karen—awesome prayer support and friendship.
To Betty, Kelly, Theresa, Mary, and Doug for reading.
Kati, Romona, and all my sisters and brothers in the Lord.
To my editor Karen Schurrer for attention to detail and
all the relevant questions. To all the people at Bethany House
whose partnership I so appreciate, my thanks and respect.
For the praise and glory of His name. Thy kingdom come.
Contents
A moonless night invites deceit,
empty sky glutting the stars with self-importance.
T
he scritch of my fountain pen stills as I raise my eyes to the chill night slipping through my window. I wait; I listen. No tones of Kate Smith from Nonno’s radio, only the raspy yowls of two cats tangling and the throbbing crickets’ refrain. Only the quickened pulse of the night.
I should curl up and sleep, ignore the feeling inside of something creeping just beyond my thoughts, but there is a bitter tang in my mouth like sorrow. And Papa’s words haunt me.
“Take Nonno and hide if trouble comes.”
What trouble, Papa? But I know its name.
Arthur Tremaine Jackson. Eyes with no depth, like pewter plates, that look as though he knows everything and has a right to know it. Papa didn’t argue when I said that. He merely answered, “Some people want too much.”
I don’t want too much, only what I have. But lately I find myself looking at a vine bursting with blossoms that will become grapes, at a path I have walked a thousand times, at Papa especially, and I feel a seizing sense of loss. Nonna Carina called it angel sight, my knowing things before I should.
“You have a gift, Antonia. Do not fear it.”
But I fear it now as the little hairs rise on my neck, as my hands grow cold with speculation. The sides of my mouth are dry as chalk. The only other time it was this strong was when Momma died and I felt the angel of death pass down the hall. My hands clench with remembrance.
At a sound outside, I spring to my feet. Tires on the drive and the hum of an engine. I snatch up my diary—no prying eyes will see it— turn off the lamp and hurry to a front window. A car is coming, but not Papa’s Ford. It skims the side of the drive and slinks in among the trees lining it. The engine stops; the lamps go off.
But I know the shape of that Packard convertible coupe. Someone gets out the far side. Though I can’t see his face, I see him move with stealthy purpose, keeping to the shadows. The driver climbs out, nearly invisible in the trees, but with the flicker of a match cupped near his mouth, I see the glint of Arthur Jackson’s hair, his sharp features. Red ash glowing, he leans on the fender and looks up. Though I cannot be seen in the darkened window, his metal gaze pierces me.
Does he want us to know he’s here? This could be planned; a meeting with Papa maybe. Or will Papa be caught by surprise? My heart clutches. I have to warn him!
But his instructions were clear.
“If trouble comes …”
Is this trouble? It feels like trouble.
I shove the diary into the waist of my skirt and run downstairs, praying with each step, then into the room off the kitchen that is Nonno’s place. I shake him awake, the words trembling on my lips. “Come, Nonno. Hurry. There’s trouble.”
His eyes jerk open, confusion swimming in their gray depths. “Trouble?”
My heart lodges in my throat at the furtive rattling of the front door. “Someone’s here. We have to hide. Quickly.” I’ll see Nonno safe, then think what to do about Papa.
Nonno brings his limbs over, but slowly, so slowly to the floor. I search for his cane as he slides his feet into his shoes, but there’s no time. I sling his arm over my shoulders. Leaning on each other, we pass through the kitchen, still smelling of warm bread and garlic.
The front door wrenches open.
“Hurry, Nonno!” I help him into the pantry and shut the door behind us, hardly breathing. Together, we grope past jarred tomatoes, jams, vinegary peppers, wheels of cheese, and sausages hanging from the ceiling. At the back wall, I feel my way down the shelves. There. My fingers slip into the hole, find the lever and release the catch that opens the wall.
I’ll see Nonno safely into the cellar. But Papa will come, and when he does …
My heart lurches at the sound of footsteps in the kitchen, steps of stealth and malice. I close the wall panel behind us, leaving only a pantry. But in the blackness of the other side, I lean and listen. Either he, too, waits and listens, or the prowler has moved on. He’ll find the house empty, report it to Arthur Jackson.
Then go away! Go away before Papa comes home
.
There’s no gas or electricity in the cellar, so I light the kerosene lamp hanging on a hook and look down to where Papa said to hide. I promised, but how can I hide when he might come home to a trap? I swallow the lump in my throat. First things first.
Nonno is too old to run, too unsteady to fight. I grab a metal rod from the corner and stick one end into the gears, then wedge the other end into the wall, pressing, then banging with my palms. No one will reach Nonno through this door.
With the lamp in one hand and Nonno leaning heavily, I start down into the cellar that holds racks of red Cabernet and Pinot Grigio. The DiGratia vines yield fruit regardless of Prohibition, and Nonno will not allow their waste. Our last bottlings we’ve sold for sacramental use, but Papa and Nonno argued over this year’s vintage, blessed by extra weeks of sunshine, no frost, no moldering damp.
And so the wine waits. Papa will not let it go cheap; Nonno refuses to consider an illegal sale. He says the government will soon see its folly. Papa tells him governments gorge on folly and there is no glut in sight.