Page 45 of Hometown Girl

Dear Heavenly Father,

She’s gone. Our little girl has been taken from us, and her case seems to have gone cold. Harold says he’ll keep searching, that justice must prevail, but Lord, I know in my heart my daughter is with You. I don’t know why You’ve allowed this to happen to us, but I will continue to praise You and believe in Your goodness and your mercy. I beg You to fill my husband with peace, as we may never know what happened to our Jessica. He is too intent on finding the truth. I’m worried about him, and I know I need to trust You. Bring us the closure we so desperately need, and if it’s Your will, bring something to light so we can properly mourn the loss of our beautiful girl. Only one person can give us the answers we need, but perhaps he is too fragile to remember. Send peace to him, Lord.

I don’t have the strength to carry on, not without Your help. Please be my source. I give Fairwind to You and ask that it will be what You’ve always wanted it to be—a place to restore families and remind people of Your goodness.

I’m sad and my heart is broken, but my life is now and always will be Yours.

Sonya

A small newspaper clipping had been stuck to the last page—an article about the missing girl, Jessica Pendergast. Beth tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

They’d been the same age, but Jessica had been homeschooled, and if it weren’t for the photo in the article—a snapshot of the nine-year-old girl—Beth wouldn’t have remembered what she looked like. She’d been taken from the property, but that was all Beth knew, thanks to overprotective parents who’d shielded them from the truth. She didn’t know any details about what had become of her—no one did. The case had never been solved.

Now, reading Sonya’s prayer, Beth wondered if anything she’d heard about the previous owners had been true.

Everyone said Mrs.Pendergast had died of a broken heart, but her words were peaceful, as if she’d accepted the outcome and reconciled her feelings with God.

Beth marveled at the idea. She’d been so heartbroken over Michael, so devastated by her own shortcomings, she’d been holding this grudge against God for years. How had Sonya Pendergast kept the anger away after the tragic loss of her only daughter? Beth had been angry at God for allowing her to fall in love with a cheater—Sonya had to have been angry at God for allowing her child to be taken from her own property, never to be seen again.

Hadn’t she?

Beth’s own betrayal, her heartache—they seemed so trite and pointless by comparison.

She ran a finger over Sonya’s handwritten name, suddenly intrigued by the woman who might’ve sat in that very spot and poured out her heart to a God she trusted and loved, in spite of everything.

Beth wanted to live that way, certain of God’s goodness and without a shred of doubt. She wanted all the anger and confusion to disappear, and she wanted her life to mean something. Even if she still lived in Willow Grove.

It was all she’d ever wanted. It was why she worked so tirelessly. Surely God saw the countless hours she put in to make sure she did her very best. That kind of dedication had to count for something—and yet, it never seemed to be enough. There was always more work to be done, always something else to prove—to herself, to her dad, to God.

It was like something deep down, some child trapped inside her, was asking,Are you proud of me yet?

But the person she’d wanted to please most had spent his final days trying to dig them out of the mess she’d made.

“I worked so hard to make sure you were always taken care of,” her dad had said. “You know that, Beth. You’ve never done something so reckless before.”

He was right. She hadn’t. She’d never let him down so badly, and still, he’d never told a soul. Not even her mother.

As she sat there in the stillness of the old, holy chapel, two words echoed in the corners of her mind.

Trust Me.

And for a few welcome moments, all the stress of her situation, all the wrestling to figure out her next move, all her doubt and fear and worry and the staggering need to succeed fell away.

“It’s not You I don’t trust,” she said. “It’s myself.” She was, after all, the one who’d picked the wrong man to give her heart to, the one who’d made the wrong business move. How could she ever hope to trust her gut instinct again? How could she trust that she was actually hearing God’s voice when she’d been so wrong about hearing Him before?

Trust Me.

“I don’t know how, Lord.” The words shamed her. She should know this by now. She’d had twenty-nine years of practice. And yet, trust didn’t come easily to her.

You know what to do.

Did she, though?

Her heart and head were at odds with each other.

She stilled, hands wrapped around the small black journal. There were so many emotions inside its pages—grief, gratitude, forgiveness. She could draw strength from the women who had gone before her. Even if the task of restoring Fairwind Farm seemed daunting. Even if she didn’t know what she was doing. Even if she failed. Again.

Was it crazy that a part of her wanted to try?

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