Page 70 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

“Me too,” she said softly before they both got out of the car. Rounding the vehicle, she took his hand again while he stood rooted to the pavers, staring at the house where his life had been shredded into a million irretrievable pieces. He emitted a tenuous breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. No, not irretrievable, he supposed, remembering the Scripture Aunt Lilly had pounded into his brain the night he’d given up his battle with God:

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.

“And you are, Breccan,” she had said with such assurance, he’d actually believed it.

Then.

He swallowed hard. Not so much now.

Molly hooked her arm through his. “I have to admit I’m grateful the renters are in Florida for the winter, my friend.” She tipped her head to peer up at him, apparently concerned he wasn’t moving. He just stood there, staring with the keys in his hand, paralyzed like a statue, his emotions hard and cold. “Can I have the key?” she asked softly.

His Adam’s apple shifted hard before he handed over the keyring the rental management agency had sent him, eyes never straying from the carved wooden front door. Inlaid with three panes of etched frosted glass, he remembered the night two of them broke when his mother slammed the door so hard, they splintered into hundreds of jagged shards. He’d sliced his fingers trying to help pick them up at the tender age of ten despite his mom’s objections, causing his heart to bleed as much as his hands.

“Where to?” Molly whispered once she ushered him inside the open door, quietly closing it behind.

“Upstairs.” His voice was dead, and yet the pain was still very much alive. Battles fought and wars never won drifted through his brain in fractured memories he’d never been able to forget. Walls that could weep an ocean of tears, and still it wouldn’t be enough to wash away the grief.

“Take me to the attic,” Molly said softly, and so he did, not even daring to glance at the open room down the hall, where his mother’s life had ended and his nightmares had begun.

Rifling through his keychain, he found the key to the attic and turned on the light, holding the door open for her to climb the squeaky steps while he followed behind. Stepping into the high-ceilinged room, he caught his breath, unprepared for the sudden rush of memories that flooded his mind. His father tugging box after box of Christmas decorations from the shelves while Brec tore into his beloved train set that would circle the tree. The delight on his mother’s face when she rediscovered the ice-castle music box that only came out once a year. Giggling like a little girl, she’d wind the key with a shriek, then grab Brec’s hand to dance ’round and ’round to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas.”

Tears threatened as he wondered how something so wonderful could have turned out so badly.

“Today I have given you the choice between life and death, between blessings and curses ... Oh, that you would choose life, so that you and your descendants might live!”

Aunt Lilly’s words from Deuteronomy 30 the night he’d rededicated his life came rushing back with an overpowering awareness of just how right she’d been.

“Why, Aunt Lilly, why?” He’d pounded his fist on the table with a ferocity that rattled the dishes. “How could a happy family like ours end up so tragically?”

“Sin,” she’d whispered, as if she couldn’t bear to say it any louder. “Your father and mother loved each other, Brec, and they loved you—very much. But somewhere along the way, your father got off-track, choosing his own plans instead of God’s—affairs with other women, neglecting his wife and his son, alcohol—sins that wounded your mother deeply. So much so that she, then, got off-track too—with anger, bitterness, depression. Until sin destroyed them both, along with their marriage, your family, and eventually their lives.”

“But if your heart turns away and you are not obedient, and if you are drawn away to bow down to other gods and worship them, I declare to you this day that you will certainly be destroyed.”

Destroyed. A shiver crawled up his spine like a thousand tiny spiders, confirming in his heart that Aunt Lilly was right. He reflected on one of his good friends on his soccer team in Ireland, a quiet Christian man who lived a quiet life of obedience, and the only one on their team who did. Whenever Brec chided him about not joining the team on their weekly drunks, Tim would just smile and decline, joking his name meant, “one who honors God,” so he dare not. Like a lens to a blind eye, Brec suddenly realized Tim was the only one of his friends who seemed happy. The only one who had a great marriage, a beautiful family, and a quiet peace Brec seldom saw in anyone else.

Except Aunt Lilly.

And now, Molly.

“Where should we start?” Molly said quietly, and he jolted from his reverie with renewed purpose.

“Over here.” Taking her hand, he led her to a wall of shelves filled with boxes that were neatly labeled per his mother’s obsessive propensity for order. A primal need, no doubt, to restore order to her life.

Photo Albums.

He spotted them instantly, two large, see-through plastic containers side by side, which held the story of his life in pictures.

At least the good part.

“Hey, what’s this?” Molly picked up a stack of envelopes off one of the shelves, tied with a piece of twine. Tucked between two photo albums, it lay on its side so the top envelope was in clear view.

Brec. His name, barely legible, was emblazoned across the front of the envelope in his father’s no-nonsense style—black ink slashed across the paper, bold and uncaring, as if he hadn’t the time to write it carefully, thoughtfully.

Brec’s mouth thinned into a hard line. But then, that made perfect sense. His father had always been a busy man. Too busy to come home. Too busy to take the time to write legibly. Too busy for his marriage.

Too busy for his son.

“Wait … these are the letters you refused to read,” she muttered, her tone laced with shock as she flipped through each with a crimp in her brow. Each addressed to him, Brec knew, and each slashed with red in the same uncaring scrawl: