Silent Memories

By Elle H. Raye

Crystal Welch woke to face a new world—one not of her choosing. Three years earlier, Crystal was found beaten and left in a bar ditch near the small town of Quitman, Texas, for dead. Since that tragic day, amnesia has lingered.

 

Painting, drawing, and teaching art at the local high school joyfully fills her heart. Determination drives her decision not to let her past dictate her future. But a few questions persist in the back of her mind…what is her true name...does she have a family…somewhere?

 

Resolved with her newly established life, she embraces what God has for her future as He imparts His promises. She doesn't see what is coming with a widower, Eric Parker, and his teen daughter.

Life has a way of rearing its ugly head, and it does such when a stranger arrives in town asking questions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle H. Raye
• Release date: May 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223605973

Elle H. Raye

Elle H. Raye writes God’s message with inspirational tales in an array of romantic dips and bends. Small-town living flourishes in her novels, novellas, and short stories. The author makes her home in the deep Piney woods of East Texas with her Boxer, Honey, whose favorite pastime is playing squirrel tag.

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SILENT MEMORIES

A black tree with leaves Description automatically generated with medium confidence

ELLE H. RAYE

Silent Memories

Copyright © 2021 Elle H. Raye

Revised 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or

other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher,

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and

certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Thank you for downloading this eBook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author

and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy

from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Scripture quotations or paraphrases are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version ®,

NIV ®, Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc. (TM), and used by permission of Zondervan.

All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously.

Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

IBSN: 9798223605973

First printing edition 2021, in the United States of America.

Cover Art by Heaven’s Touch Designs, Delia Latham, www.delialatham.com

~ Table of Contents ~

~ Chapter One ~

~ Chapter Two ~

~ Chapter Three ~

~ Chapter Four ~

~ Chapter Five ~

~ Chapter Six ~

~ Chapter Seven ~

~ Chapter Eight ~

~ Chapter Nine ~

~ Chapter Ten ~

~ Chapter Eleven ~

~ Chapter Twelve ~

~ Chapter Thirteen ~

~ Chapter Fourteen ~

~ Chapter Fifteen ~

~ Chapter Sixteen ~

~ Chapter Seventeen ~

Shadows In Emma’s Heart Excerpt

~ About The Author ~

~ Dedication ~

To my Lord and Savior, Christ Jesus, through Him, all things are possible.

~ Key Verse ~

Do not be conformed to the pattern of this world, but transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approved what God’s will is—His good, pleasing, and perfect will.

~Romans: 12-2~

~ Chapter One ~

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Stage whispers, heel clicks, and soft soles squeaked, reverberating off partitioned walls. Each segmented space held the exquisite works of the Masters. Alone and settled on a white leather bench, Crystal tucked a fist beneath her chin as she examined ‘The Sacrament of Ordination’ by Nicolas Poussin—her favorite. His techniques intrigued even the novice.

This piece is just beautiful. It’s his best. Don’t you agree? A man stated.

As Crystal’s head snapped up, she tried to connect the voice to a face. But the person remained aloof, so she didn’t respond until a shadow crossed the artwork. Her eyebrows knitted. Must you?

She adjusted her position, and the leather seat squeaked. Crystal’s eyes squeezed shut. The visitor might resent the noise, however slight. A split-second flashed when he most assuredly voiced his opinion.

Must you?

She dared not respond or give the stranger a satisfying eye roll. The room grew still, interrupted only by the sudden burst of the air conditioner, carrying the scent of Aramis cologne. Although the fragrance was hauntingly familiar, the smell proved too elusive for her limited memory.

The stranger’s silhouette moved again and hovered near Crystal. A quick side-glance downward exposed a pair of expensive men’s black shoes—expected. One immaculate toe tapped on the white and gray striations of Carrera marble floors. Just another arrogant man.

Her attention returned to the still life, but curiosity warranted another peek. An astute survey lifted upward to flawless dress pants and a dark blue suit coat. The top button on his crisp white shirt opened. Her sight moved on to a handsome, clean-shaven face, a slightly darker-than-olive complexion.

When their gaze met, a cocky grin lifted on one corner of the man’s lips. May I? He gestured toward the space beside her.

Certainly. You paid your fee.

His thumb and forefinger slid the jacket button loose, and he sat next to her, too close for Crystal’s comfort. She quickly moved toward the edge, as always when unfamiliar men expressed interest. Self-preservation, but not from experience—something she sensed more than understood.

Hello, my name is Marc Winters. He offered his hand, and a brilliant smile set off his tanned features.

She ignored the gesture. I’m Crystal. Do I know you?

No, but I’d like to get acquainted.

She shot a slit-eyed stare at the gentleman. I don’t talk to strangers. Especially to the ones I don’t know. She hiked her chin, then turned her attention to the exhibit.

I don’t understand. How can we get to know each other unless we speak? And, for that matter, how do you know I’m a stranger?

She pulled in a breath, then shifted toward him. Well, we’ve never met before, so you’re a stranger. You introduced yourself, so you’re a stranger. I’m not interested in getting acquainted with any stranger. Is that plain enough for you? I’d like to enjoy my quiet time without you, if you don’t mind. I also paid my admission. She cringed at the unkind words she spoke and then chided herself.

No problem, I’ll leave. I don’t want to get your feathers bunched, Miss Crystal Peacock, or whatever you prefer. The man stood, glaring at Crystal.

Thank you. Goodbye, Mr. Winters. She resisted the urge to give him a dismissive hand wave so he would leave sooner.

Later, Ms. Peacock.

I hope not. She turned her attention back to the art.

He shook his head, whirled on his heels, and took his leave.

Crystal twirled a strand of hair around one finger. Then she massaged a dime-size scar on the side of her head. That was weird. I wonder if I know him. It’s been about three years since Nicole Hart found me dumped on the side of the road, tied up, shot, beaten, and near death. Who would do such a thing? And why me? What happened, and who am I? I know who I am today, but who was that forty-year-old woman then? What was her life? Did she have a husband, children, or maybe grandchildren? What secrets are in my head that I can’t get out?

A quick scan of the room assured her the stranger was gone. She stood and continued to the next display. Her gaze traveled over every brushstroke, wishing her talent were even a tenth as good.

Despite her initial reluctance to converse with the stranger, she longed for someone who appreciated art as much as she did. Maybe Eric Parker could come next time. After all, it’s been two years since his wife, Lisa, passed away from cervical cancer. Shari, his fifteen-year-old daughter was wise beyond her years. I like them both, and Shari likes me—that’s a good start. She’s a sweetheart. I’m glad she’s taking my art class next fall. I’ll invite them.

Yummy aromas from the museum’s cafeteria wafted in the air. An angry grumble broke the quietness. She looked around the immediate area to see if anyone had noticed the embarrassing tummy talk. Her hasty early breakfast seemed to vanish in an instant when the delicious, tantalizing scents made it to her nose. Hush, down there. We’ll eat soon. Just a few more artworks left to see.

After finishing the self-guided tour, she navigated through the gift shop and reached the small café. A sideways lean around the corner revealed a lengthy line, but she refused to let it put a damper on her wonderful day.

Crystal found herself next in line and stepped up to the counter. The gourmet delicacies were displayed to appeal to all appetites. Various salads, sandwiches, and a couple of soups tempted the taste buds. Good afternoon, Tina. How are you doing today? Crystal had enjoyed their brief chats since she discovered the museum a year ago. This place was a quick getaway when stress overwhelmed her, and her lack of memory produced frustration like earlier when she talked to the stranger.

I’m fine, and you?

Great, I’m here at my favorite place. Well, except for an irritating man. Crystal glanced around and then turned her attention to the server.

Oh, him. She waved a dismissive hand.

A suspicious stare at the lady sought more information. Do you know this guy?

Not really. I noticed this man a while ago when he’d visited two to three times a week. He described you to a ‘T.’ He acts like the two of you are friends.

Crystal struggled for breath. This Marc person was asking about me. Could he try to harm me or be the one who… I’ve never seen him before today. Again, she shot a sideways glance to view the line. Do you think he’s a stalker?

A lady from behind interjected. Can your conversation wait until after I get my food?

Crystal lifted a chagrined smile. I’m sorry.

Tina raised the ladle toward a large pot. Would you like to try the new soup?

No, I’ll stick to the tomato basil.

Turkey sandwich?

Yes, please.

You’re such a creature of habit. You’ll eat something different one day, and I’ll collapse right here on the floor. Tina chuckled.

Don’t be too sure. I might never change. Maybe one day I will, or have I already?

Well, we’ll see. You have a wonderful day. Tina handed off the order.

Thank you. You too.

The contemporary seating area was packed. Couples held hands, and friends in groups of three or more chatted and laughed. A small, unoccupied table alongside a stunning view of the atrium attracted her—amid the beautified space, a bronze statue of a female form appeared to float. Blooming Indian Hawthorn hedges surrounded the bulky base, and a sudden mist burst from the sprinklers. In her ballerina’s stance, the statue came alive and danced.

Settled in her chair, Crystal bowed her head and offered a silent prayer of grace for her meal. As she blew on her soup, her attention was caught by a man sitting nearby. Marc.

His audacious grin set her teeth on edge, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of letting him see the effect. So she turned her attention to the ballerina, enjoying the fine details of the sculpture.

But the irritating man wouldn’t relent his staring. A twinge hit her gut. She pulled out a pink faux diamond-covered phone and laid it on the table. When a server drew Marc’s attention momentarily, she snapped a picture.

As if he wasn’t bothersome enough, he made a frazzling racket by bouncing a pen off the table, accompanied by a growing grin. He’s so annoying.

Suddenly, the guy stopped staring long enough to jot something in a small notebook. Who is he? What’s he writing? Is he a detective?

Marc finished his meal, stood, tucked the pen and pad inside his coat pocket, and headed toward Crystal. He held her gaze, and her heart sank. Was he going to stop at her table? Her heart pounded even faster as he neared. In a blink, he continued past and into the gift shop.

Well, that was rude. His brown eyes are nice. I guess he’s not totally without possibilities.

She scolded herself at the unexpected thought. His manner is strangely familiar yet unfamiliar at the same time. Don’t let that guy occupy your thoughts, girl. You’re interested in Eric, maybe he’ll be interested in me someday.

Crystal finished her meal, swallowed the last bit of mint tea, and then stood and strolled through the gift shop. She peeked down each aisle, part of her glad when Marc was nowhere in sight.

After taking several minutes at the information desk to inquire about who the next artist would be exhibited, she headed to her car.

Within a few feet of her vehicle, she gasped when the guy burst forward—his hand stretched outward, and a sneer etched across his lips. May I escort you to your car?

She took a stuttering step backward and shot him a wary glare. You scared me. That wasn’t nice or even smart. What if I have a gun?

His brow furrowed, but he kept his hand outstretched. Oh, wow. It never crossed my mind. I was only trying to be polite. Really, I just want to get to know you.

I don’t need you to escort me anywhere. Do me a favor and just leave. Goodbye. She followed through on her previous impulse and gave him a dismissive wave.

I’ve never taken ‘no’ for an answer. I’ll see you again. Soon. His creepy chuckle echoed off the parking garage walls.

Will he see me again? Was that a threat? I hope not. She scribbled down his plate number as he backed out of his space. Then she hurried to her car, locked the doors, and started for home, keeping a vigilant eye in the rearview mirror for a tail.

As she approached the corner of South Main and East Goode in Quitman, Texas, she noticed the Speakeasy Coffeehouse was still open. Oh, good. Maybe she’d treat herself to another herbal tea and a scone.

After placing her order, she withdrew cash from the side pocket of her purse. A business card slid out from between the folded bills. Marc Winters, Stockbroker, Dallas, Texas. The oddity was it had no phone number. She handed the money to the barista and flipped the card into a trash bin beside the counter.

Settled into a camel-colored chair, she waited for the late-afternoon treat. She picked up a magazine off the side table. On the last page, a brokerage firm advertisement caught her attention. Marc’s business card came into focus in her mind’s eye. I hope I’ve seen the last of you, Marc Winters.

Tapping a single number on her phone to speed-dial Nicole’s. No one answered, and her friend’s voicemail didn’t activate. That’s strange. She calls me at least once a day, and her phone is always turned on since the nursing home added her to standby.

After finishing the raspberry scone, she snapped the lid on the herbal tea and drove home to a mid-century clapboard painted a modest