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“Good guess.” A crooked grin. “It worked out well all ways around. The thrift-shop owner relocated a few blocks away, and the landlord liked my offer enough to accelerate the transfer of title. I hired the construction workers; Barbara hired the staff. The doors open in a week. We just need your final okay. Which is why we’re here—to get it.” Lane got out of the car and walked around to offer her a hand. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”
She did as he asked, placing her fingers in his and walking up the front steps. It took her three tries to unlock the door, her fingers were trembling so badly.
Stepping inside, she sucked in her breath, taking in the parquet floors and soothing aqua walls. There were three distinct sections—a semicircle of chairs that was clearly the women’s conversation center, a small room filled with toys and books for child care, and a card table, set up with jars of Snickers and Milky Ways in the center.
On the wall just inside the front entranceway was a framed photo that Morgan knew like the back of her hand—the beloved and final photograph she’d taken with her parents, dated November 16, 1989, with the words Jack, Lara, and Morgan calligraphied at the bottom in her mother’s hand.
It was just like the original. Only better. Because it had been enlarged and enhanced, cropped with absolute precision. It was as if her parents were right there in the room with her—and with all the other women who’d now walk through these doors for support and camaraderie.
Tears glistened on Morgan’s lashes. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Lane replied. “Spend a few minutes alone with your parents. I’ll be waiting outside.” He turned to go.
“Lane.” Her voice was watery. “I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too.” With a quiet click, the door shut behind him.
Morgan stood still for a moment, just staring at the photo and letting its impact sink in. Essentially, it was the same photo she’d been staring at night after night, drenched in sweat from her nightmares.
This experience was different. Hanging here, in this center dedicated to her mother, the photograph was no longer a prelude to death. It was a living testimonial. A celebration of her parents; a fulfillment of their dreams.
A way for them to endure.
This building was no longer the embodiment of a nightmare.
It was the embodiment of hope, a promise for the future—everything Lara had wanted and worked for.
Her throat tight with emotion, Morgan ran her fingertips over the wooden frame, the glass casing that protected the photograph beneath. A sanctuary, she thought, tracing every beloved line of her parents’ faces. This center was a sanctuary. Not only for the women in desperate need of refuge, but for her. It was a meaningful, tangible place for her to come and to be. To visit, to help out, to feel that precious connection to her parents.
They weren’t lost to her. Thanks to Lane’s gift, they never would be.
Turning, Morgan walked slowly around the room, feeling her parents’ presence with every step she took, and letting the memories flood back. She smoothed her palm over the card table, smiled at the candy bars that would soon serve as winnings, and felt a sense of inner peace that, until now, had eluded her.
That’s what Lane had brought to her life, she acknowledged. He’d taught her to accept and give love again—not half measure, but fully and without reservation. He’d taught her to trust. And he’d taught her that love meant risk. It sometimes meant pain. But a life without risk—worse, a life without love—was no life at all.
Finally, and for the first time, she could put the past to rest. Her parents weren’t gone. They were with her—always. And their legacy would live on at the Lara Winter Women’s Center.
On that thought, Morgan retraced her steps to the doorway. She paused to gaze at the photo again, silently acknowledging her feelings, saying good-bye and yet knowing it would never really be good-bye.
Then, with a tranquil smile, she left, closing the door behind her.
