Something Beautiful and Lacey's Retreat: Something Beautiful / Lacey's Retreat. Lenora Worth
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a sportswear company.”
He nodded, then pounced. “So why is she here now? I mean, why is she all of a sudden canceling bookings and not returning phone calls to her agent?”
Lorna rolled her eyes. “You know these things for true?”
“I know what I see.” He lowered his voice, his words for her ears only. “Does Willa have some sort of eating disorder?”
Lorna laughed out loud. “Oh, my, non.” Patting his hand, she added, “Willa’s eating habits are perfectly normal. She’s like any other woman in that regard. She loves food but has to watch every bite that goes in her mouth.”
Lucas breathed a sigh of relief. “Then she’s not sick or anything.”
And that’s when he saw it. The little flair of apprehension in his baby sister’s expressive green eyes.
His heart seemed to go still in his chest. “Lorna?”
Lorna got up, busied herself with clearing away the table dishes. “It’s late, brother. Go home and try to get some rest. Mick should be by any minute for a late dinner, then I’m turning in myself.”
Lucas stopped her, dishes and all. “Lorna, tell me.”
She turned to stare at him, worry coloring her face. “It’s not for me to tell, Lucas.”
He let her go, then pushed away from the table. “Then I’ll just go and ask Willa.”
Holding plates to her white jacket, Lorna tried to stop him. “Lucas, please. Don’t do that.”
But he was already out the door.
On the other side of the huge, sprawling gardens, Willa sat on a bench in a pretty white Victorian gazebo, the scent of trailing wisteria and running roses mingling around her.
Although her bedroom was lovely, she hadn’t been able to go to the isolation of that particular place. So she’d walked through the narrow footpaths, letting the moonlight guide her, until she’d found this idyllic spot.
Now, in spite of the mosquitoes buzzing hungrily around her ears and ankles, she sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the night.
Remembering the sound of Lucas playing the saxophone.
It was the song. That was what had made her cry. That was what had made her long for something she couldn’t envision, couldn’t grasp. It was a lovely song—sweet and full of a tender yearning. Willa longed to know the words to the tune that lingered in her head like a music box being wound over and over. She also longed for answers to her confusing questions.
“Child, what are you doing out here all by yourself?”
Whirling, Willa was surprised to find Hilda Dorsette making her way up the path to the gazebo, the doorknob tip of her trusty walking cane gleaming silver in the night.
Getting up to come and help her, Willa said, “Oh, Aunt Hilda, you startled me. I thought I really was alone out here in the dark.”
Hilda gave her a penetrating look. “Would you prefer it that way?”
“No, not at all. In fact, I’d love some company,” Willa admitted, surprising herself. Then she sniffed.
Aunt Hilda placed an aged hand on her arm. “Have you been crying?”
Willa waited as the older woman settled onto one of the cushioned box seats. Then she sank down across from Aunt Hilda. “I…yes…I was feeling sorry for myself, I guess.”
“Then you were not alone, after all.”
“What do you mean?” Willa asked, wiping her damp face.
“God was here with you, Willa.”
Willa held her breath, then let out a tired sigh. “Then I hope He was listening.”
“Oh, He was. You can be sure of that. The Lord is always in His garden. It’s here that He walks with us and listens to us—just as the old song says.”
Without thinking, Willa said, “Then maybe that was the song—the one Lucas was playing earlier on the saxophone.”
Hilda nodded. “Yes, I heard my nephew playing. Decided to take a walk myself.” Then she gave Willa another sharp-eyed stare. “The song moved you?”
“It did. It was so…pretty.”
Aunt Hilda settled, adjusting a flowing silk floral scarf around her shoulders. “I know the song he played. It wasn’t the one to which I was referring, but it is another favorite of mine,” she said, one hand on her cane as she sat on the bench. “It’s a fairly modern church hymn, written by William Gaither in 1971. It’s called ‘Something Beautiful.’”
Willa closed her eyes briefly, wondering why Lucas had picked that particular song to play tonight. And wondering why it had moved her to tears as she’d stood there in the shadows, watching him play.
Opening her eyes, she asked Aunt Hilda, “Could you tell me the words?”
Aunt Hilda nodded. “I could—it’s all about how the Lord takes us when we are broken and makes something beautiful out of our life. But I think it would be better if you came to church Sunday, as my guest, to hear the words for yourself. I’ll make a request to the choir director.”
“Church?” Willa held the one word near her heart, felt it settle there with a gentle tugging. “It’s been so long—”
“Too long, perhaps?” Aunt Hilda asked, her smile all serenity and light. “It doesn’t matter, you know. He welcomes all of us back with open arms.”
Willa lifted her head. “Aunt Hilda, can I ask you something?”
“Of course, darling.”
“Would it be…wrong of me to begin praying to God now, after not having done it for so very long?”
“Prayer is never wrong, love. And besides, He’s always with you, even when you’re not completely with Him.”
Willa digested that, then shook her head. “It just seems as if…well, now that I’m facing some unpleasant things in my future…it just seems almost foolish to turn to Him now. I never appreciated my blessings when things were going great for me. I just went about my life, thinking I had things under control.”
“And now, you’re finding you’re not in control at all?”
“Not even a little bit. And I’m so tired. Just so tired.”
Aunt Hilda held out a plump hand. “Come here, child.”
Willa couldn’t resist that invitation. She crossed the small space between them, then settled next to Aunt Hilda on the rounded bench, tears brimming in her eyes.
Aunt Hilda took her into her arms, hugging her close. “Rest then. Rest here as long as you need. You’re safe now. You’ve come home to the Father.”
Willa couldn’t speak. So instead, she wept. Gently, with little sound, but with deep, cleansing, purging tears of relief and restoration. If only her haughty, distant adoptive mother would have ever held her in her arms. If only she could have known her real mother. Could have. Would have. There were so many things she needed to know, so many things she needed to take care of. Urgent, frightening things.
But not tonight. Tonight, in spite of her growing feelings for Lucas and her determination to curtail those feelings, she felt safe and secure, as if she truly had returned home from a very long journey.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said into Aunt Hilda’s lace collar. “I’m acting like a big baby.”
Hilda chuckled, then patted Willa on the arm. “Not a baby, dear. A child. A child who needs desperately to be held and loved.”
“How did you know?”
“Oh,