Coming Home to Morningside: Book 1 in the Devon Trilogy

By Felicity Nisbet

Flora McIntyre is going home. She boards her train, overcome with relief as she leaves behind the ordeal of having reunited with her sister after fifty years.
Rachel Benson is running away, for the second time. When she steps onto a train going north, her life changes forever.
Gabrielle Carrington is a runaway bride. From the moment she boards the train that will take her away from everyone and everything she has ever known, she becomes a different person, a person whom she can respect.

Coming Home to Morningside is the story of three women from disparate walks of life who come together to find their common ground and to form an unlikely friendship.
Flora, having rebelled against her austere upbringing, embraced life as a flower child of the sixties. She has recently lost her beloved husband and has reunited with her sister.
Rachel, who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and was all but invisible, has just turned eighteen. She is on the run, but this time not from a mother who does not see or want her, but rather from an abusive man who preys on young girls.
Gabi, an entitled princess, is on the run from a domineering family who is insisting that she marry an equally entitled man whom they have chosen for her. Because they will not hear her protests and do not care that she doesn't love the man, her only escape is to run.

Due to nature's inclination and perhaps the guidance of those looking down on them and very possibly synchronicity, these three women are brought together on a train and later in a hotel where they are temporarily stranded. Recognizing their fear and desperation, Flora invites the two young women to come home with her. They create an unexpected family, one that includes Flora's grandson, Camden, and her chauffeur, Luke, another of her rescue projects. The frumpy woman who turns out to be anything but, ends up giving the two younger women something invaluable. Instead of simply finding the escape they had been seeking, they are accepted for who they are. They too give Flora a great gift, one of appreciation and love and deep friendship. With one another's help, they all find what they didn't know they were looking for. Rachel finds her courage. Gabi finds her voice. And Flora finds a way to rebuild her life. They are indeed kindred spirits who have found home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Felicity Nisbet
• Release date: Nov 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005149055

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Well, Daniel, I’m still here. My last day. But then you probably already know that. Flora McIntyre looked skyward as she spoke. She shuddered from the cold air as well as the fact that she was standing in a hospital parking lot in not-so-sunny Southern California, talking to her dead husband.

It’s been so many years since I’ve seen her, she said softly. But it’s about time, don’t you think? It’s like coming full circle, I suppose. It will be good to have her back in my life. It might just help fill the void that seemed to be growing by the day.

She waited for a response, then remembering that she wasn’t going to get one, continued. I just wish you were here with me. It would make this so much easier. I know I didn’t have to come alone. Camden would have come with me, but I made the choice. One she was trying really hard not to regret. But I’ll be okay, she said as if attempting to convince her husband when it was really herself, she needed to convince. I’ll be fine. I’ll be returning home soon. Her home which hadn’t been the same since Daniel had died. But it was still home. And right now it sounded wonderful.

Flora stood beside the hospital bed, staring down at her sister whom she barely recognized. Maisy had always seemed so strong, so fierce, so powerful. Now she just looked small and frail. Her skin was wrinkled and sallow, her face ashen.

She shouldn’t have been surprised to see that Maisy had changed. After nearly fifty years, what had she expected? To find the young woman of twenty-two whom she remembered? She had been here for three days now, visiting her sister in the hospital, sitting with her, holding her hand, but it hadn’t become any easier. Or less shocking.

She felt the doctor’s hand on her shoulder. It’s time, he whispered softly.

She stepped away from the bed and followed him across the room. Are you sure I should leave? she asked.

Yes. It’s good that you came, but now it’s best if you go on home. She needs a lot of rest and time to heal. Give her a few months.

Will she be able to come home with me at that point?

It’s possible. It depends mostly on her attitude and her determination to heal. He offered a wry smile. And how well we do our job.

What about her children? Shouldn’t they be here with her?

She’s still adamant that they not know.

So she hadn’t changed her mind, Flora thought. She didn’t want her children to see her like this. To know what she had done.

Flora could understand that. But where were they that they didn’t know? And where was her husband? She’d seen no evidence of him at Maisy’s home. Had he died? But if he had, would she have hidden away his photographs? Or had he left her? Chills tingled the length of her arms, and she suspected her last thought was accurate. Intuition validated. A belief that Flora had always held. One that Maisy would find disturbing.

She exhaled a deep sigh. She knew so little about her sister, her life, her family. The photographs of Maisy’s children told her there were two. Two girls. All grown up now. And she had never even met them.

You’ll contact me when you think I should come back? Flora asked the doctor.

Of course. He looked straight at her as though he were studying her. Of course he was. He was a psychiatrist. That’s what they did. Studied people. Like specimens. You haven’t seen her in a long time, is that correct?

Forty some years. Closer to fifty actually.

He winced. Do you mind my asking what happened?

She was aware that he probably knew a lot about their relationship already since he had read her sister’s suicide note, but she indulged him anyway. Maisy didn’t approve of my lifestyle.

He nodded. And your parents?

They didn’t either.

His smile was amused. You were the rebel, I take it?

If you mean, I escaped the restrictive and suffocating life my parents had raised us in, and found another one, then yes. She smiled up at him. It was the sixties, you know.

He nodded again, as though he understood. Considering your estrangement, I’m surprised she addressed the letter to you.

You and me both. She hadn’t heard from her sister since her family had basically disowned her. So, why now? Why in her moment of desperation had she reached out to her of all people?

Can I call you if I need you to fill in some of the blanks?

Of course. Anything I can do to help her heal.

You’re a good sister, the doctor told her.

I’m just glad to have her back in my life. Although I would have liked the circumstances to be different .

I’m sure you would have. I’ll leave you alone to say goodbye. With that, the doctor left the room.

Flora returned to her sister’s bedside. She reached for her hand that was limp, indicating that she was still asleep. She held it for a couple minutes before bending down and kissing her wrinkled cheek. She looked older than her seventy years. A lot older.

I love you, Maisy, Flora whispered to her sister.

Maisy opened her eyes and looked up at her. Her smile took some effort, but it was perceptible. Thank you for coming, Flo.

Of course, I would.

Maisy’s eyes reflected her doubt at that comment. I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed you too.

Will you come back?

Absolutely.

You promise? It was the first time she could remember her big sister sounding so desperate.

I promise.

You’ll stay with me a while when you come back? I mean, after I get to go home?

That thought sent shivers up and down her spine. Maisy’s house was the most depressing place she had ever seen. She could have stayed there during this visit, but she couldn’t bring herself to. She had visited it enough times to help her familiarize herself with her sister’s life, but she had chosen to check into a hotel.

I have a better idea, she said. It wasn’t one she had thought through, but it was one she knew was necessary.

What? Maisy asked.

I think you should come stay with me.

Stay with you? In Northern California?

Yes. It’s very beautiful there.

For how long?

As long as you’d like.

But why? Why would you want me?

Because we’ve missed too much of each other’s lives as it is.

But after what I did to you—?

Flora shook her head. It hadn’t been her sister’s doing. It was her parents’. Their parents’. You were only doing what Mother and Father wanted you to do.

But I turned my back on you. I shunned you. And you were so young.

I survived. And she was all the better for it. So, what do you think?

Tears filled her sister’s eyes, and Flora realized she had never seen her sister cry before. Not even when she was eight and had fallen off her roller skates and skinned her knee. She was the stoic one. Always.

I think I’d like that.

Flora gave her hand a squeeze. Good. Then I’ll start preparing a room for you.

Are you sure you have enough space for me?

Flora stifled her laugh. Yes, there’s plenty of space. But unfortunately there was no downstairs bedroom, and she had a feeling her sister would need that. She would simply need to convert a room or two.

But her house wasn’t the only thing that would be changing, she realized. So would her life. She had no way of knowing exactly how. Or how much.

She kissed her sister’s forehead before leaving her room. She walked quickly down the hospital corridor, suddenly anxious to leave. She couldn’t get on that train soon enough. And back to the comfort of home, the home Daniel had built for them. The only place she had ever really considered home.

Come on, baby, wake up.

Rachel Benson struggled to stay asleep. She knew that voice. Vince’s voice. It wasn’t just his voice, it was the tone. He wanted something.

Wake up, baby, we have company.

Let her sleep, a gruff voice said.

Rachel was grateful for the words, but it was followed by a disturbing laugh.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe she’ll like it better.

Oh, God. No. Not again. She felt hands all over her. At least four. No six. She tried to hide further under the covers, but she knew it wouldn’t help. Nothing would. She was at his mercy. Their mercy.

She opened her eyes for only an instant. She was right. Three men. Six hands. She closed her eyes tightly again as if that would make it go away. Make them go away. It didn’t work. It didn’t make them go away, but it did help her survive it. Again. She pretended she was somewhere else. At a fair, riding high on a carousel. Soaring through the air on a beautiful white horse with flowers around its neck. Something she had done once in her life. With her father. Before he’d left.

When it was over, when they were finished with her, she crawled back under the covers and pulled the pillow over her head so she didn’t have to listen to their laugher and comments on how it had been. How she had been.

She didn’t open her eyes again until she heard the apartment door open. That was when she saw it. It wasn’t just friends sharing their girls like Vince claimed it was. It was something else. She saw the two men hand Vince cash. A lot of cash. Fifty dollars? A hundred? And in that moment, she knew the truth. No matter how much money it was, or how little, that was all she was worth.

Gabrielle Carrington stared at her reflection in the mirror. She looked ridiculous. Hideous. How could her mother expect her to wear this? In front of five hundred people? In front of anyone?

Don’t you just love it, darling?

Love it? Gloria Carrington had finally lost her mind. Gabi wanted to scream that no, she didn’t love it! She hated it! But as usual, the words wouldn’t come out. Not even in anger. But this time, she did manage to say something.

I really don’t like the veil, Mom.

Of course, you do. It’s perfect. Don’t you think it’s perfect, Sally?

Exquisite, Mrs. Carrington, the shopkeeper agreed. What else was she going to say?

Actually, I think I’d prefer a wreath of flowers in my hair.

Her mother snickered before her laugh emerged. So you can look like a hippy? Don’t be silly, Gabrielle. Besides, flowers would never work with an elegant dress like this, to say nothing of the accessories you’ve chosen.

She’d chosen? She didn’t remember choosing a single accessory. She cleared her throat and forced out the words. I was thinking . . . I really don’t think I want to carry the muff. And the stole is a bit much too.

Her mother groaned and reached out to straighten the skirt of her gown. Of course you want to carry the muff. It will be perfect, especially once the florist adds the red rosebuds. You’ll love it. Besides, it’s unique. How many weddings have we attended over the past few years? Have you seen a single muff? Or fur stole?

No, and for good reason, she couldn’t help thinking. They looked absurd. At least on her, they did. She was only five-foot four. She didn’t have the height or stature to carry off this look. Besides, she was in Southern California, not Alaska.

You’ll love them. Trust me.

Her mother was wrong. She wouldn’t love them. She hated them. And the dress and the shoes and the church and the flowers. She hated everything about this wedding. And right now, she was pretty sure she was hating the groom. She didn’t want anything to do with any of it. Or him.

She yanked her hands out of the muff, pulled the stole off her shoulders, and tossed them both on the nearest chair.

Gabrielle! Be careful with those! her mother scolded.

Sorry, she mumbled. She reached behind her back to unzip the dress, but the shop owner, undoubtedly worried about her mood—and the dress—beat her to it.

Gabi stepped out of the gown and climbed back into her street clothes. She couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough. Once she was on the street, she could breathe again. At least until her mother appeared behind her.

Gabrielle, what on earth is wrong with you?

I couldn’t breathe in there. Clutching her chest, she said, It just doesn’t feel right.

What doesn’t?

None of it.

The dress?

The dress, the accessories, the wedding, the church, Jeffrey.

Her mother rolled her eyes in that discounting manner Gabi knew so well. You just have cold feet, darling, that’s all.

It’s not all, Mom—

But her mother had stopped listening. If she had ever started. She was too busy motioning for the valet to pull their Mercedes up to the curb.

Come on, darling. I’ll take you shoe shopping. We’ll get you some new shoes for your honeymoon. That will make you feel better.

Gabi shook her head even as she climbed into the car. Shoes were not going to make her feel better. Any more than ice cream did when she was a little girl. Shoes nor ice cream were going to solve this problem. Nothing was. Except maybe leaving. Running. As fast and as far away as she could get.

CHAPTER TWO

Flora settled into a window seat on the train. It didn’t look as if there were many passengers today, so she didn’t bother putting her suitcase in the luggage rack. Instead, she set it down across from her, keeping her satchel and purse on the seat beside her.

She was the first one in that particular car. Maybe she was going to have the entire car to herself, she thought, not really comforted by that prospect. But a moment later, a middle-aged man had entered and chosen the seat closest to the exit, followed by a young couple who were holding hands. They chose a seat not far from the man’s, returning Flora’s smile with a brief nod.

At least she wasn’t alone, she thought as she glanced at her watch. Only two more minutes until departure. And these trains tended to keep to their schedules. But just as she thought that, a young woman with dark straggly hair boarded the train. She was dressed in a black turtleneck with a long tunic sweater over it and black leggings. Her thin corduroy jacket would do little to keep the cold and rain at bay, Flora thought. The long boots would help a little, but she doubted they were waterproof. She was carrying only a purse and a small backpack. She sat down in a seat across the aisle from Flora’s, immediately bringing her knees up to her chest. A nervous traveler? Flora could understand that on a plane, but trains were not particularly intimidating.

Where was she going alone? With her unkempt appearance she looked like a teenager. A runaway? Flora felt her inner rescuer on the rise. Just then the girl looked up and saw her watching her. Her first glance was filled with suspicion. But as soon as Flora smiled, her eyes softened. She attempted to smile back, but it was a pitiful effort. At least she had tried.

Do you have a long trip ahead? Flora asked.

The girl shrugged, and Flora wondered if that meant she didn’t know where she was going or didn’t know how long it would take. Or if she was simply shrugging her off.

I’m headed to Northern California, to the foothills east of Sacramento, she said, determined to at least make an effort.

The girl nodded. She was shivering now. Afraid or cold?

Would you like to borrow my coat? Flora reached for her navy blue wool-lined raincoat and held it up, but the girl shook her head.

This time when she attempted a smile, it was actually detectable. Thank you, but I’m fine.

Well, if you get cold, just let me know. I have a couple sweaters with me as well.

The girls’ big brown eyes widened. Flora could tell she was considering asking her a question, but managed to stifle herself.

Are you going on a trip or heading back home? she asked.

She was startled when the question provoked not just pain but fear in the girl’s eyes. In response, she simply mumbled, Neither.

That didn’t make much sense, unless she had gotten it right the first time and the girl was a runaway. She wanted to ask more questions, or at least strike up a conversation that involved give and take, but the girl had turned away. A clear message. She was finished talking. At least she had smiled before she turned toward the window. She had manners, Flora assessed. And she cared about other people’s feelings.

Just when she felt the rumbling of the train’s engine and thought the last passenger had joined their car, another young woman hurried down the aisle, sitting a few seats in front of them. She was older than the other girl, but not by much. Her hair was lighter, almost blond and curly, but, equally long and disheveled. And she was just as nervous.

Again Flora smiled. You made it just in time, she offered.

The blonde nodded.

Are you okay?

Fine, the woman said, swiping at her eyes as if Flora’s question caused her to realize something was not right with her appearance. It was then that Flora noticed. One of these young women had sorrowful brown eyes, the other had lonely blue eyes. Both pairs were slightly red and damp. They had both been crying.

Going far? she asked in an effort to strike up a conversation.

The young woman answered with a shrug, much the way the other one had.

I’m headed home to Northern California, she offered. To the foothills east of Sacramento. How about you?

The woman’s forehead wrinkled in surprise, and Flora detected that she didn’t travel often, and when she did, she was not used to friendly passengers. Or nosey ones.

She should have let her off the hook and ended the conversation, but for some reason, she couldn’t get herself to turn away. Not because of the woman’s unfriendliness but because of the vulnerability she saw in her eyes.

She could almost see the woman debating whether or not to ignore her, but she was clearly well-bred, and her manners would not allow that. She offered a slight smile and said, I haven’t decided yet.

Satisfied that she had fulfilled her required part in the conversation, she then turned away. Even knowing that the young woman had put an end to the conversation with that one gesture, Flora could not stop watching her.

Despite being well-dressed, her overall appearance was disheveled. Perhaps she had been running to catch the train. She could hear her own mother’s voice in her head . . . and her sister’s. What is it with young people these days? Don’t they realize what a special treat it is to be able to travel? On a train? Do they not see it as worth dressing up for? Fixing their hair for?

Both her sister and mother would scorn the two young women for their inappropriate appearances. They would fail to notice the pain the women were in. The fact that she had noticed, didn’t make her a better person, Flora cautioned herself. It simply meant that she tended to see the world through different eyes.

Not wanting to hear those particular voices in her head—especially not now, not after having just left her sister’s bedside—she focused on the second young woman who was obviously in distress. She was dressed well. Designer clothes, if Flora wasn’t mistaken, although not an expert on the subject. A dark green wool dress with a matching mini jacket and short designer boots. Her beige wool coat was on the seat beside her. Definitely a designer handbag and carry-on bag and suitcase. Her mother couldn’t criticize those things, except perhaps for what she would consider the young woman’s blatant extravagance. Something her mother had no tolerance for. Why was she even considering her mother’s opinion, a woman whom she hadn’t seen since she was eighteen years old? The only reason that made sense was that she had just reunited with her sister after all these years.

The blonde looked quite elegant, but for her untidy hair that was long with curls that flowed over her shoulders. And the fact that tears were now streaming down her cheeks, causing her mascara to smear. Flora had an urge to go to her, to comfort her, but she knew better. It was none of her business, and her effort would quite possibly bring unwanted attention to whatever issue the woman was dealing with. Besides, the woman had given her a clear message. Mind your own business. Something Flora wasn’t particularly good at.

Another runaway? she wondered. Perhaps she was running more from her life than her circumstances. She was older than the waif across the aisle, at least into her early twenties. What could have gone so wrong in her young life that she was crying on a train for all the other travelers to see? Not that there were that many. Only the three of them plus the middle-aged man who was now slumbering in his seat and the happy hand-holding couple whispering romantically, immune to everything and everyone around them but each other. A pang of envy struck, causing her to suffer the pain of missing her beloved Daniel. A familiar pain that she quickly pushed aside as she returned her focus to the young woman.

Flora had a feeling this woman’s upbringing would not allow her to indulge in a public display of emotion. At least judging from her stiff back and the tears that she continually chased by surreptitiously swatting them away.

When the woman’s soft blue eyes met her own once again, Flora did not look away as good manners might dictate. This time there was a moment of connection as if the young woman were reaching out to her, seeking something, compassion perhaps? Understanding? Or perhaps simply a connection to assure her that she wasn’t alone.

But as quickly as it came, it went, and this time, out of respect, Flora forced herself to look away. Enough invading these strangers’ privacy. After all, they would only be riding a train together for a few hours. It wasn’t as if they would be in her life permanently. She should be reading her sister’s journals as she had intended to do.

Her eyes focused on her satchel where her sister’s journals sat, the exact place that she was avoiding. She would have to confront the words eventually. Otherwise, why had she taken the journals in the first place? She pulled out the one on top, opened the worn leather-bound book and glanced down, shutting it again and stuffing it back inside the bag with the others. She couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not even if it meant finding the answers she was seeking. Having read her sister’s letter had been enough for now.

She looked forward just as the train started to move down the tracks. At least she had made an effort. The window with the rain pouring down on the other side seemed to be her only refuge.

Other than the night her husband had died, Flora didn’t think she had ever felt so weary, so completely drained. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and let the motion of the train lull her into a deep, soothing sleep. But she couldn’t, because every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was her sister lying helpless in a bed in the psychiatric ward of that hospital.

Why had Maisy done it? Had her life really become so unbearable?

She released a heavy sigh and leaned back in her seat, feeling as if her shoulders were carrying the weight of the world. She knew better than to dwell on the questions because she might never find the answers.

A sudden bolt of lightning caught her attention, and she turned toward the window again, not surprised to see that the rain had been joined by thunder and lightning as well as hail. She found some relief in that. The weather matched her mood. She didn’t feel quite so alone.

It was her own fault, really. She could have taken her grandson up on his offer to drive her or at least accompany her on this journey. But she hadn’t wanted to burden him. Or was she afraid of what she would discover and wanted to protect him from it?

The smile she allowed to form on her lips was sardonic if anything. She knew the truth. It wasn’t her grandson she was trying to protect. It was herself. Camden didn’t know anything about that part of her life, the part that involved the family she had been born into. She’d just as soon keep it that way. At least for a little while longer.

After all, she didn’t want to ruin his Christmas. She wondered if he’d remembered to get a Christmas tree for the formal living room. She smiled to herself. Of course he had. Despite his rolling his eyes at her and telling her she had too many trees as it was—one in the entry, one in the library, and one in the dining room—he would do her bidding. And he would put on the lights, but wait until she arrived home to decorate it with him. She would be too tired to do it tonight. Something to look forward to tomorrow, she thought, grateful she was on her way home. And that Camden would be there when she arrived.

He was a good man. Her pride and joy. How he had turned out so well, she would never understand. He was definitely not his father’s son or his mother’s son. Thank God. Perhaps he took after her dear departed husband. She’d like to think so. She’d like to believe that she and Daniel had more of an influence on him than his parents had.

Camden’s father, to put it simply, was a snob. She was grateful that Camden had not taken on that attribute or attitude. Stephen had been hard on his son, with expectations beyond humane. He had disapproved of every gentle and kind bone in the boy’s body. She had recognized that the moment he had disapproved of his son’s interest in the arts, and, even when the boy was only five, had steered him toward sports when he’d rather be drawing or cutting out structures and designs.

Stephen had urged him to be strong, which he seemed to equate with cruel. Rather than encouraging the boy to rescue the rabbit that was being chased by the neighbor’s hound dog, he had urged his son to shoot it. Fortunately Camden, at age twelve, had shown his true strength and stood up to his father and refused. And rather than admiring his son’s natural proclivity for solving disputes diplomatically and kindly, Stephen had enrolled him in martial arts classes in an attempt to bring out his more masculine side.

Stupid man. Stupid, stupid man. Camden was plenty masculine. And, as far as Flora was concerned, being comfortable embracing his feminine side was simply more proof of that. She had never liked Stephen. And she had believed, from the moment Isla had brought him home, that he had only been interested in their daughter because of her family’s wealth and name. Both of which he equated with power.

And then there was Isla, Camden’s mother, who had failed her son in every possible way. Not just by not standing up for him, by not circumventing her husband’s attempts to turn him into someone he wasn’t. But by being completely absent in his life. If not physically, definitely emotionally and mentally.

Fortunately, his parents had often tired of him and dumped him on his grandparents who cherished every moment with the boy. And, she would like to think, encouraged him to be the truly kind and courageous person he was. Or maybe all that credit went to the boy himself. He had survived one cruel parent and one indifferent parent. And he had come out a better man for it.

Flora frowned and gazed toward the window again. The hail was gone, but the rain was heavier now. As was her heart, which it always was when she thought of her younger daughter. That was when the thought crossed her mind—not for the first time. If Isla had failed her son, hadn’t she, herself, failed her daughter?

She shivered involuntarily and reached for her drab navy blue sweater to wrap more tightly around her shoulders. What could she have done differently? Been stricter? Kinder? Guided her more? Nagged her less? Loved her more?

But it wasn’t only her younger daughter whom she had failed. It was both of her daughters. While Isla had been the needy one and had learned to play the helpless victim, Aileen had been the entitled one and had learned to play the princess.

She sighed a deep sigh that cut through all the way to her heart as her next thought invaded her mind. It too was a familiar one, one she’d had numerous times over the years, but one she would take to the grave with her. She wasn’t the one to blame. Her beloved Daniel was. Despite her warnings over the years, he had been the one to spoil both of their daughters.

Even as she allowed that thought to invade her mind, she recognized another truth. She herself had been the one to fail their son. But unlike Isla was with Cam, she had at least been present for Jameson and tried to reason with her husband not to be so hard on him simply because he was the male offspring. But she hadn’t been able to temper Daniel’s unreasonable expectations of their only son, expectations that he would follow in his father’s footsteps. Clearly, she had not done enough. She had failed Jamie.

Her shoulders sagged as she shook her thoughts from her mind. She reminded herself to be grateful that Daniel had changed by the time their oldest grandson had come along. He had realized his errors with his only son, and, as a result, he had been as gentle with Camden as he’d been harsh with Jamie. He had accepted Camden as he was, and he had never tried to turn him into someone he wasn’t.

She turned and looked up and saw that the young girl was still huddled in the corner of her seat. Her body was pressed against the window now, her knees still hugged tightly to her chest. Despite the awkward position, something in her body language said that she was perched as if ready for a quick escape.

None of her business, she reminded herself. Besides, she had enough on her plate. She wasn’t sure her sister’s issues were her business either, but somehow, by default, they had become her business. She was okay with that. Especially if it meant that after nearly fifty years, they could finally become friends again.

She fingered the top journal and slipped it from her bag. Eventually she would have to read Maisy’s words, seek some kind of understanding, find a way to connect to her sister whose scars apparently ran far deeper than her own. It was the only way to salvage their relationship. To know Maisy’s innermost thoughts, to understand what she was going through—had gone through—in order to reconnect with a person who had been out of her life for far more years than she’d been in it. A person she no longer knew. A stranger, really.

She sighed and once again shoved the book back into her satchel and turned back to the rain. It was something she needed to do. But not today. She had been through enough of her sister’s pain this past week. Facing her sister’s truths would have to wait.

Rachel Benson hugged her knees more tightly to her chest. She had been sitting in this position the entire trip. Even though her legs were starting to cramp, she couldn’t seem to let them go. As if they were protecting her. A barricade to the rest of her body. But she knew better. Nothing could protect her. No one could.

She shivered again, and even as she knocked on her head as if it were wood, she told herself that it was going to be okay. She was at least an hour north of Los Angeles. She’d made a clean getaway. Vince probably didn’t even know she’d left yet. And he’d certainly never think she’d have the money to take a train. He had made sure of that. He had kept it well hidden from her so that she was completely helpless and dependent on him. But thanks to Mr. Sampson from the apartment across the hall, she did have money.

The sweet man must have known what was going on. And he must have known she needed help. He had told her she could stay with him. He had an extra bedroom and would keep her hidden. But it was way too risky. Vince would find her, and she didn’t even want to think what he’d do, not just to her, but to the old man.

Mr. Sampson had realized she was right. It was too dangerous, and instead he had offered her enough money to get out of there, to start a new life. It wasn’t much. Three hundred and forty-five dollars, but she had a feeling he’d been saving it up to give to her. She had accepted it. Out of desperation and with the promise that one day she would pay him back.

She missed the old guy already. He had always been so kind to her. She had taken refuge there more than once, hiding out in the comfort and safety of his modest apartment that he’d managed to make a home. It had been all she needed. Food, books to read, a comfortable couch. And no one touching her.

She swiped at the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to cry. Crying was a waste of energy. But, even knowing she was indulging in a round of self-pity, she couldn’t help it. The sadness that had become her life was like a tumor festering inside of her.

She hated to admit it, but her first mistake had been the day she had run away from home. What had she been thinking? She was barely seventeen. How was she supposed to support herself? But she hadn’t been thinking. She’d only been reacting. She couldn’t take being invisible anymore.

Invisible looked really good right now. The pain of living with a mother who never bothered to ask about your day or your friends or your school work and failed to notice if you even had friends, was better than what she’d put herself through.

Second mistake, believing anything that came out of Vince’s mouth. She could understand why she had trusted him. She was young and naïve and alone. And he was handsome and charming. He had seemed so sincere. And wasn’t it sweet of him to offer to let her stay at his place? So thoughtful. So generous.

She shook her head and remembered that she had promised herself that, as soon as the train started moving, she would not think about him ever again. And yet, for the past hour, he was pretty much all she’d been thinking about. And wondering how she had been taken in by such a slime. Why she had let him take advantage of her that way? Why she had stayed for so long?

Her thoughts were eating away at her, continuing the damage that she had allowed him to do. She forced herself to recall what her grandmother used to say. If you don’t want to be thinking about something, don’t tell yourself not to think about it. Just find something else to think about. Something that brings a smile to your lips.

Like you, Grandma, she whispered aloud. Now the tears were pouring down her face, much like the rain outside the window, matching her mood. She didn’t mind. It helped her feel not quite so alone.

She inadvertently glanced upward as if she could see her grandmother looking down at her. She had promised she would. Always and forever, she had told her. She would be there in the heavenly skies, watching over her beloved granddaughter.

Rachel reached inside her pocket for the paper towel she’d gotten from the station restroom. She dabbed her eyes and cheeks in an attempt to absorb the ever-flowing moisture. If only her grandmother were still alive. She could go to her. Go home. But if she were still alive, she never would have left home in the first place.

It was because her grandmother had died that she’d left. She hadn’t been able to stand the loneliness anymore. She’d grown up with it. And because she hadn’t known anything else, she had learned to live with it. But then when her grandmother had moved in two and a half years ago, that had changed. She couldn’t do much for herself, but she could talk and ask her how her day had gone. And she would listen. Really listen. They had tea together every afternoon. And they played card games once Rachel had finished doing her school work. She was her best friend. Her only real friend.

And then she had died. Leaving Rachel alone again. Only this time it was much worse because she knew what it was like to have someone in your life who cared. And when the pain became too great, and after hearing one too many times, "The best day of my life will be the day you turn eighteen and I can kick you out, she had actually responded. She had told her mother, Let me save you the trouble." And she had packed a small backpack and walked out of her mother’s house.

As far as she knew, her mother had not come looking for her. It had been eleven months and six days, and she had not heard a word from her mother. It was probably the best day of the woman’s life. She had probably celebrated with a bottle of champagne . . . or, more likely, cheap beer. She didn’t have to deal with a lonely pathetic teenager anymore. She could go out dancing and drinking and cruising for men to her heart’s content. Actually, having a daughter had never prevented her from doing those things.

Thinking about her grandmother wasn’t helping, Rachel realized. She needed to focus on something else. Unfortunately she hadn’t brought a book with her. Mr. Sampson had offered her a couple paperbacks, but she hadn’t had space in her tiny backpack. Now she wished she had squeezed one in. She had tried to sleep, but hadn’t been able to keep her eyes closed. She had become too vigilant this past year since living with Vince. She never knew what she was going to wake up to. Or whom.

She turned her attention to the other passengers in the train car, grateful that there were so few. And they all seemed harmless. The man who was snoring away. The man and woman who were obviously in love. And the blond girl who wasn’t much older than she was, but a lot richer. Crying. Had been on and off for a while now. What did she have to cry about? Rachel wondered. Judging from the way she was dressed, she had it good. Real good. But then, money didn’t solve everything, she reminded herself. Maybe the girl had been in a bad relationship. Maybe she had escaped an abusive boyfriend or husband. Despite her envy for the obvious wealth the woman displayed with her jewelry and designer bags, Rachel felt a twinge of sympathy for her.

She turned her focus a little to her right. The old lady. The one who had spoken to her, actually seen her when she’d first boarded the train. And had even offered to loan her a coat. She had a kind face. A gentle soul, Rachel decided. She reminded her of her grandmother. She was simply dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a heavy sweater. Middle class, Rachel figured. Not particularly wealthy, but comfortable enough. Everything about her spelled comfort. Except for the pain she saw in her expression now and then. Especially when she looked down at the book she kept pulling out of her bag but then kept putting back without opening it.

Rachel knew she was going home. She had heard her tell the blond girl that when she had tried to strike up a conversation with her. Home from a trip that she suspected hadn’t been all sweetness and roses, as her grandmother used to say. She smiled to herself as she continued her people-watching. This was something she had done since she was a tiny girl. Everywhere she went, she found herself imagining what people were like. Who they were, what lives they lived. And if they seemed nice enough—not necessarily wealthy, just nice—she would pretend that they were her real parents. That she had been adopted and had finally found her birth parents whom she had been stolen from. Because they never would have given her up voluntarily. And they would discover the truth and whisk her away to live with them . . . happily ever after.

Because, even as young as four years old, she had always come to the same conclusion. Anyone she saw in the park or at the market or a diner would be better than the father who had abandoned her and the mother who blamed her for it, and for all intents and purposes, had abandoned her too.

Gabrielle Carrington straightened her back as if that would suppress the tears that refused to stop by themselves. She was just fine on her own, she tried telling herself. She did not need anyone else. She had made this decision, and she could live with it. She would live with it.

Automatically she reached inside her purse for her cell phone before remembering that she had not brought it with her. For the same reason she hadn’t brought her car. Too easy to trace. And she wasn’t tech savvy enough to prevent that. Her shoulders fell and she leaned back against the tacky seat, wondering who had sat here before her. And if they were disgusting, like the trashy girl who was sitting not too far from her now. At that thought, she quickly sat upright again.

She had never been on a train before, any form of public transportation actually except airplanes on which she had flown only first class. And limousines, of course, if they could be considered public transportation. But never a train. She should have taken a plane.

She swallowed hard against the desperation rising in her throat. There was a good reason she hadn’t taken an airplane. More than one reason, actually. She hadn’t wanted to waste the little cash that she had on a plane ticket. She had credit cards galore, but if she used any of those, there was a good chance Jeffrey could find her. Or her parents. And there was one other tiny detail. When you board a plane, you need to know exactly where you’re going.

Not that she hadn’t bought a ticket for a specific destination on the train, but there were plenty of stops where she could get off and stations where she could buy another ticket if she chose to continue her journey. But that would take more of her money. She had a little over a thousand dollars on her. That wouldn’t get her very far. Wherever she got off, she had to find a job. Immediately. But doing what? She didn’t have any skills. She was twenty-five years old and hadn’t worked a day in her life. She had gone to college, but so what? She’d majored in English. What job could she get with that?

She heaved a deep sigh, then suddenly self-conscious, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. The man in the back was still snoring away for all the world to hear. And the disgusting love birds were too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else. The loser girl was still busy crying. And the old lady seemed to have that dazed look she got whenever she stared out the train window. Clearly the other passengers were too distracted to notice a single sigh from a lonely young woman sitting by herself.

She cringed when she realized how she had labeled herself. Lonely. But it was true. That’s exactly what she was. But the other realization she had was even worse. The voice inside her head—that tenaciously judgmental voice—sounded just like her mother’s. As did the labels she had given the other passengers on the train. That’s exactly how her mother would see them. As a disgusting man snoring inappropriately in public. A couple even more inappropriately expressing their feelings for each other. A girl who looked as if she’d just climbed out of the gutter. And a frumpy old woman who didn’t know how to dress for travel, and if she did, she probably didn’t have enough money to buy decent clothes.

She almost laughed at the irony of her thoughts. Because the truth was, her mother would never be caught dead traveling alone on a train. Traveling on a train at all—except maybe in Europe. And certainly not in anything but first class. And it wasn’t her mother saying those things now. She was the one saying them. As if her mother were there. Her mother from whom she was so desperately seeking refuge.

She hated thinking this way. She had suffered from anxiety every time her mother took her anywhere because she spent the entire time putting down everyone around her, judging them for how they looked. Why couldn’t she look beyond their appearance, their hair style, clothes? Maybe they were really nice people, she had always thought. But she’d never said those words. Her mother would have rolled her eyes at her and said something like, how could they possibly be a nice person when they’re dressed in those shabby clothes? Gabi had learned at a young age not to question her mother for any reason, particularly her judgmental comments. And now she was thinking thoughts that were just as judgmental.

Would she ever be free of them? Would she ever have her own thoughts and beliefs that hadn’t been instilled in her by her family? First she had to escape the people who had, for so many years, had such a pervasive influence over her. Which was exactly what she was trying to do. She knew she would see them again eventually. She was okay with that. But it had to be after she’d had time to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, how she wanted to live it, and after she felt strong enough to stand up to her family. And it definitely had to be after her wedding date had come and gone.

She would be terribly naïve if she actually believed that they wouldn’t find her. It wouldn’t take more than a five-minute phone call from her father to his favorite detective agency. And then, within twenty-four hours, they would know where she was. On a train going north. They probably already knew where she was headed.

She only had one friend outside of the elite community where she had been raised. A college friend whom she hadn’t seen since they’d graduated, but with whom she’d managed to stay in touch via email. Marie Matthews. She lived in Reno, Nevada. Gabi had no idea where, but she figured once she got there, she could find her. If that’s where she ended up getting off the train. She hadn’t made that decision yet. She would have to in the next few hours, but not yet. It was, after all, one of the places her family and Jeffrey would think to look for her. Once they realized she hadn’t gone to stay with a friend who lived locally.

She really hadn’t thought this through at all. She had simply reacted. Looking back now, she could see that it had been building for months. Ever since Jeffrey had proposed. Ever since they had started planning their wedding. Their wedding. Hers and Jeffrey’s. Except that not one thing, not one single thing had been her choice.

If it wasn’t her mother’s choice, it had been Jeffrey and his mother’s. Her mother had selected the wedding gown. Despite Gabi’s insistence that she didn’t want a strapless gown because it wasn’t flattering to her shoulders, her mother had persuaded her.

"This one is perfect, so elegant. I’m sure you’ll be happy with your choice."

Or rather, ignored her. "It’s not my choice, Mother. I really think I’d prefer this other one."

Her mother had turned and looked aghast at her selection. A simple, elegant gown, but not strapless. Plenty of beads and lace, with a fitted bodice and draped skirt. But not strapless.

"You really don’t want that one. It had not been a question. She had quickly turned back to her own selection, practically swooned and reiterated, Yes. It’s perfect, absolutely perfect."

It all came down to one sentence. Her life came down to one sentence. "You really don’t want . . . ." Fill in the blank. Or change the want to like or think. Her mother’s automatic response when she wanted or liked or thought something her mother didn’t approve of or disagreed with. Such as the dress she had wanted or the invitations or flowers. Or the groom.

And Jeffrey and his parents had decided that a large, austere and very impersonal church would work well for the ceremony, and that the country club was the perfect setting for the reception. Gabi had wanted to get married in a quaint country church she had always loved. She hadn’t cared so much about the location of the reception, but she really wanted to walk down the aisle of that warm, intimate church.

"You don’t really want to get married in that pedestrian church," her mother had said, ignoring her when she had responded that yes, she did.

"You can’t be serious, had been the first words out of her mother-in-law-to-be’s mouth. That church is far too small. And it’s for . . . for other people. Not us."

"Of course she wasn’t serious, Mother," Jeffrey had said right before giving her a stern glare.

From there it had gone downhill. The lilacs and lilies she wanted were too mediocre and provincial. And not appropriate for a winter