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  Praise for A Sparkle of Silver

  “Johnson pens an evocative tale of family intrigue and dashing romance sure to delight fans of Melody Carlson and Susan Anne Mason.”

  Library Journal

  “A mystery, a treasure hunt, and a split-time romance—all set within a beautiful chateau on St. Simons Island during its 1920s heyday and its beautifully restored present. What more could we want? Especially as Liz Johnson also delivers a sigh-worthy ending. Enjoy!”

  Katherine Reay, author of Dear Mr. Knightley and A Portrait of Emily Price

  “This is a sweet story with likable Christian characters and chaste hints of romance. . . . Johnson’s many fans and all gentle romance readers will be delighted.”

  Booklist

  “Liz Johnson does it again! A Sparkle of Silver is a charming romance about real people triumphing over real problems. Add in a dash of mystery, a treasure hunt, and old family secrets, and you have a story that will warm every corner of your heart.”

  Victoria Bylin, award-winning author of Together with You

  “In A Sparkle of Silver a winsome protagonist takes the reader on a journey through time with the help of an old diary. Lovers of history will enjoy this treasure-seeking adventure through a historic estate, and readers will appreciate a story that turns up riches of the lasting kind. This sparkling tale of mystery and romance will delight fans of Liz Johnson!”

  Denise Hunter, bestselling author of Honeysuckle Dreams

  Books by Liz Johnson

  PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND DREAMS

  The Red Door Inn

  Where Two Hearts Meet

  On Love’s Gentle Shore

  GEORGIA COAST ROMANCE

  A Sparkle of Silver

  A Glitter of Gold

  © 2019 by Liz Johnson

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2019

  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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1777-3

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Published in association with Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  For Hannah and John and Julia,

  who brainstormed this idea with me and helped me find the story I was looking for.

  And for Mom,

  who walked the squares of Savannah and the beaches of Tybee Island with me. You’re my favorite research partner.

  Being part of this family is the best.

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for A Sparkle of Silver

  Half Title Page

  Books by Liz Johnson

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek of the Final Book in the Series

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

  Matthew 6:21

  one

  Anne Norris knew two things for certain. Some things could be forgiven. And some things most certainly could not.

  At this moment, she was wondering if her mom would ever forgive her.

  “I don’t understand.” Her mom sighed heavily into the phone. “Hurricane Lorenzo is supposed to be bad.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you prepared for this thing?”

  Anne nodded before remembering that her mom couldn’t see her. “Don’t worry,” she said, opening her pantry door and surveying the meager rations. “I’m watching the news. I’ll be fine.”

  “You can come home, you know.”

  “I know, Mom.” But it was more something she said because it was what her mom wanted to hear than reality. Because she really couldn’t. Going back to California wasn’t an option. It hadn’t been in exactly two years, three months, and twelve days.

  Her mom paused, and there was a long silence on the other end of the line. Anne leaned against the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder as she traipsed across the sparsely furnished living room and peeked through the blinds to the street below. The wind had already started making the trees dance, and sporadic drops of rain had begun painting the sidewalk. But this would all be a walk in the park compared to the fury Lorenzo was about to unleash.

  “Is this about money? I know things are tight.”

  That was an understatement. But it also wasn’t the deal breaker. Money was an issue, but California was the issue.

  “Thanks, but no. I’m fine. Really.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself, and she didn’t like it one bit. Or maybe she really was trying to convince herself. That was even worse.

  Suddenly a lone figure entered her view. Hunched shoulders. Arthritic hands clenching a grocery tote in one hand and a pink leash in the other. Mrs. Kane hadn’t exactly been on the welcome wagon, but she was her closest neighbor.

  “Mom, can I call you back?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Anne reached for her shoes, untying the knots in the laces. “I need to check on my neighbor and her dog. I’ll call you in a few minutes.” She hung up without any more explanation.

  She darted out the door and down the steps from her second-story apartment, reaching Mrs. Kane just as the older woman began her slow climb to the apartment in the back of the building. Princess, her fluffy Pomeranian, bounced at her feet as she clung to the metal railing and pulled herself up.

  “Mrs. Kane! Mrs. Kane!”

  The woman turned around, squinting in Anne’s direction. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s your neighbor, Anne.”

  After a long pause, Mrs. Kane nodded. “Okay then.”

  “You’re still here.” Anne didn’t know what else to say. She’d assumed that Mrs. Kane had evacuated with the other half of the city.

  “You sound surprised.” Mrs. Kane’s voice was loud enough to carry the half mile to the river and back. Her hearing aids were probably turned off. “My son wanted me to come stay with him in North Carolina, but that wife of his never liked me much.”

  “I, um . . .” Maybe this had been a stupid idea. Swallowing her sputter, Anne tried again. “I just wanted to see if you needed anything. You know, before the storm hits.” A lone raindrop splattered against her cheek, a reminder that it wasn’t far away.

  Mrs. Kane managed a flicker of a smile just as the little ball of fur at her feet yipped. It had to be eighty degrees and 400 percent humidity outside, but she looked perfectly pleased in her yellow velour track sui
t. “It’ll take more than a Category 4 to scare away Mavis Kane. I always could sleep through the storms, my mama said.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Kane was a Savannah native and not naive to the ways of hurricanes that sounded intent on tearing the whole city down. “Well, if you need anything, I . . .” Anne lost her words, not sure exactly what she wanted to say, so she began to turn.

  “Do ya have any peanut butter? Princess gets awfully cranky without her afternoon treat.” Her gaze dashed to the dog.

  “Peanut butter?” Anne’s tongue felt like it was coated with the stuff. With every ounce of her very last, very expensive jar.

  “Yes. Prinny just loves it, and the store was plumb out of it.” She held up her grocery bag. “You know, all those greedy hoarders storing up.”

  Yes. She knew them. She probably qualified as one in Mrs. Kane’s book.

  Anne nodded slowly. “I’d be happy to share.”

  Mrs. Kane’s face softened. “We’d be grateful.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The rain had already begun to make the metal slick, but she hurried up the stairs to her home. Her air conditioner chugged in the window on the far side of the room, barely making a dent in the weight of the air, but it was better than being outdoors.

  When she opened her pantry door, she cringed. The shelves were small and contained a couple ten-cent packets of noodles and two jars of peanut butter. Hugging the unopened jar to her chest, she closed her eyes.

  This—and the bread and jam in her fridge—was all she had. But it was enough to share.

  As she walked past her counter, she snagged her purse and hefted it over her shoulder. She might as well face her landlord too before the storm hit.

  Mrs. Kane took the peanut butter and cradled it as though it was treasure. “Thank you.”

  Anne managed a full smile. “You and Princess take care of each other, okay?”

  “We always do.” With that the older woman shuffled up the steps to her apartment.

  The rain had grown steady by the time Anne reached the front door of Maribella’s. The coffee shop took up the entire first floor of the white brick building. Before the Civil War, it had been a boardinghouse, and the upstairs rooms had been converted into apartments—all managed by Lydia Robin.

  Anne cringed as she stepped inside, already preparing for the run-in.

  “You’re late,” Lydia said from behind the counter. The smile she offered to her customers was conspicuously absent.

  Anne had been paying her rent at this counter for more than a year, and Lydia’s scowl was about as welcoming as a shark at the shore. “I know.” She dug into her floppy bag, her fingers searching out the sharp corners of the check she’d written earlier that morning. She tried to give Lydia a smile, but her effort faltered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Forget Southern hospitality. Lydia had skipped the serving of sweet peach pie in favor of a double portion of sour apples.

  Anne sighed and repeated her apology. She didn’t want to apologize again. She just wanted to find the check, which was playing a pretty convincing game of hide-and-seek in the depths of her purse while she jabbed her hand into the darkness. She’d spent five years and seven months cowing to bitter women who took advantage of their positions. And she’d moved three thousand miles to try to forget it all.

  Taking a deep breath, Anne tossed her bag onto the midlevel counter between them. Something inside cracked against the wooden slab, and Lydia clucked her disapproval. Anne gave her a tart smile before diving into her handbag/luggage. Her dad always said she’d throw her back out carrying around something this big, but if she’d learned one thing over the last seven years, it was to keep the important stuff close by. At all times. This bag was pretty much her whole life.

  Business license? Check.

  ID? Check.

  Rental agreement that said her payment was three days past due? Check.

  “Rent is due on the first of the month.”

  Anne didn’t have to pull her head clear of her bag to sense Lydia’s frown. “I know.” She pushed a red scarf and clean white shirt—part of her daily costume—out of the way and caught sight of a pale blue slip of paper. “Got it!” She yanked it free, waving it like it was a golden ticket and Lydia was Willy Wonka.

  In a decidedly un-Willy-Wonka-like move, Lydia snatched the check. “Next time there will be a late fee.”

  “I’ll be on time next month.” She hoped. But the pirate tours she gave six days a week hadn’t been as full as the summer before, and her pennies had already stretched as far as they could.

  Her business, this life in Savannah, was supposed to feel like freedom. And it did, to an extent. Her living conditions were certainly preferable to her previous situation. But on overcast afternoons like this when she’d only had two people on her tour and knew she’d have to make a jar of peanut butter last another week, the cage was just as effective even if it looked different.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Anne stepped into the onslaught and leaned into the wind. It had grown noticeably stronger in just five minutes, and she had to fight her way around the building and up her stairs.

  By the time she made it inside, her hair hung limply around her face, her T-shirt and jeans dripping. Falling into the lone chair in her living room, she put her face in her hands and sighed. The weatherman on channel 11 had done a pretty terrific job of scaring her pants off. Lorenzo sounded like a nasty dude, and he was supposed to make landfall right along the Georgia coast sometime before midnight.

  She’d done everything the newscasters had recommended. She’d picked up bread and milk—the last half gallon at her grocery store. She’d charged her phone. But no amount of planning could prepare her for what was ahead. The unknown.

  A little voice inside her cried out to call her mom back and accept the ticket home. Her mom was probably sitting at the old family computer, the air filled with the clicks of a mouse and the frenzied typing on an ergonomic keyboard. Anne could picture it. It hadn’t changed in ten years. Not since before she’d . . . well, before.

  In her life there was only a before and an after. And never the twain would meet. Her life was defined by one solitary event, and the whole of her history was divided by it.

  Digging her phone out of her purse, she called her mom back. “I can’t come home.”

  The silence was so loud on the other end of the line that she prayed her mom would turn on a movie. Even the news. Any background noise to break up the deafening silence.

  She didn’t.

  “You mean you won’t.”

  Anne meant both. But it didn’t really matter. She couldn’t explain. There weren’t enough words in the world to make her mom understand that when she’d left California, she hadn’t been leaving her parents. She hadn’t been leaving the sweet memories of her childhood or the joy of her first two years of college.

  “Annie?” Her mom’s voice changed to the one she always used when her children were ill. “Please. Come home.”

  “I . . . I love you, Mom.”

  “Then trust that we love you too. And we’ll take care of you.”

  If only she could. If only it were that easy. It would be so simple. She had only three weeks’ worth of tours booked. And then . . . Then she could pack everything she owned into her Civic. It would fit easily.

  And then what? She’d go back to a place where memories slammed into her at every turn, crushing and relentless.

  Her mom sighed. “Honey . . . you’ve got to let this go.”

  “According to who?” She spit the words out, instantly regretting them. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . you don’t know what it’s like.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. But I know that you’re my daughter and I love you. I want you to be happy and safe and cared for. Please.”

  “I want those things too.” But wanting them didn’t mean she deserved them. Even in her dreams, she couldn’t imagine deserving happiness. She certainly didn’t dese
rve to be cared for. At least no more than the state of California had cared for her for almost six years.

  “Mom, I can’t explain what it’s like facing that city. Every corner of Santa Barbara has a memory. It’s a museum, a monument to every stupid, trusting decision I made. Every second I’m there is nothing more than a reminder that I . . .”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “The jury disagreed.” She pressed her toe into the stained carpet of her living room, remembering the narrowed eyes and tight mouth of the jury foreman. He’d stared at her hard as he read the verdict, and she’d wanted to slide beneath the table. But there was no hiding from the judge and jury in the courtroom. She’d deserved every ounce of their disdain.

  “But the judge, even the prosecutor—they didn’t agree. The judge said so after—”

  “I could have done something to stop it.” Anne sighed. “I should have.”

  “Your dad and I love you. You always have a home with us. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  But she’d moved as far from the California coast as she could, and she wasn’t going back. Her parents’ home wasn’t big enough for all her baggage. And try as she might, she couldn’t set it down.

  Carter Hale III slammed his elbow into his keyboard and dashed a line of gibberish across his computer screen as he launched himself at his ringing cell phone.

  “Please be Mr. Leighton,” he mumbled to himself. Better yet, be Mr. Leighton willing to donate enough to cover their operating budget for another year. Or two.

  Scooping up the phone off his desk, he frowned. The number wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t even a Savannah area code. Not Reginald Leighton, wealthy shipping magnate and prospective donor, returning his call. Maybe it was someone else with an extra hundred grand sitting around, looking for a nice tax deduction.

  Shooting a prayer heavenward, he answered. “Hello?”

  “Dr. Hale, this is Jemima Smythe with the Atlantic Coast Museum in Charleston.”

  Jemima Smythe was not a wealthy donor. But she might still be able to help him out.

  Carter plopped back into his chair and dug his heels into the hardwood floor before he could roll away. “Yes. Thank you for calling me back.” Shuffling a stack of papers, he scanned each page for his notes until a scrap of yellow legal paper caught his eye. He snatched it from the pile.