Suzanna's Surrender

It was crazy, he told himself. And it was time to put an end to the whole insane business.

“Listen,” he began. And the portrait of Bianca crashed to the floor.

Coco gave a piping squeak and jolted out of the chair. “Oh, my. Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, patting her speeding heart.

Amanda was already racing forward. “Oh, I hope it isn't damaged.”

“I don't think it will be.” Lilah released Holt's hand. “Do you?”

The clear and steady gaze made him uncomfortable. Ignoring her, he turned to Suzanna. Her hand was like ice in his. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” But she gave a quick shudder. “I think you'd better check the portrait.”

He rose to go over where the others were crouched. As he did, Suzanna looked down the length of the table at her great – aunt. Colleen's white skin had paled like glass. Her eyes were dark and damp. Without a word, Suzanna rose and poured her a brandy. “It's going to be all right,” she murmured, laying a hand on the thin shoulder.

“The frame cracked.” Sloan ran a finger along it before he rose. “Funny that it would fall that way. Those nails are sturdy.”

Holt started to shrug it off, but when he bent closer to where the frame had separated from the backing, he went very still. “There's something between the canvas and the back.” Hefting the portrait, he laid it facedown on the table. “I need a knife.”

Sloan pulled out his pocketknife and offered it. Holt made a long thin slit just beneath the cracked frame and slid out several sheets of paper.

“What is it?” The question was muffled as Coco had her hands pressed to her mouth.

“It's my grandfather's writing.” The emotion sprang up strong and fast. It churned in Holt's eyes as he lifted them to Suzanna's. “It looks like a kind of diary. It's dated 1965.”

“Sit down, dear.” Coco put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Trent, would you pour the brandy? I'll brew some tea for C.C.”

He did need to sit, and he hoped the drink would steady him. For now, he could only stare at the papers and see his grandfather. Sitting on the back porch of the cottage, watching the water. Standing in his loft, slashing paint on canvas. Walking on the cliffs, telling a young boy stories.

When Suzanna came back to lay a hand on his, he turned his palm up and gripped her fingers. “It's been there all this time, and I didn't know.”

“You weren't meant to know,” she said quietly. “Until tonight.” When he looked at her again, she curled her fingers tight around his. “Some things we just have to take on faith.”

“Something happened tonight. Something upset you.” “I'll tell you. Not yet.”

Composed, Coco brought in the tea, then took her seat. “Holt, whatever your grandfather wrote belongs to you. No one here will ask you to share it. If after you read it, you feel you prefer to keep it to yourself, we'll understand.”

He glanced down at the papers again, then lifted the first sheet. “We'll read it together.” He took a long breath, kept Suzanna's hand tight in his. '“The moment I saw her, my life changed.”'

No one spoke as Holt read through his grandfather's memories. But around the table, hands linked again. There was no sound but his voice and the wind breathing through the trees outside the windows. When he was finished, the room remained silent.

Lilah spoke first, her voice thick with tears while others slid down her cheeks. “He never stopped loving her. Always, even though he made a life for himself, he loved her.”

“How he must have felt, to come here that night and find out she was gone.” Amanda leaned her head on Sloan's shoulder.

“But he was right.” Suzanna watched one of her tears drop on the back of Holt's hand. “She didn't take her own life. She couldn't have. Not only did she love him too much, but she would have tolerated anything to protect her children.”

“No, she didn't jump.” Colleen whispered the words. She lifted her snifter with a trembling hand, then set it down again. “I've never spoken of that night, not to anyone. Through the years I've sometimes thought what I saw was a dream. A terrible, terrible nightmare.”

Determined, she cleared her blurred vision and strengthened her voice. “He understood her, her Christian. He couldn't have written about her that way and not have known her heart. She was beautiful, but she was also kind and generous. I have never been loved as I was loved by my mother. And I have never hated as I hated my father.”

She straightened her shoulders.. Already the burden had lessened. “I was too young to understand her unhappiness or her desperation. In those days a man ruled his home, his family, as he chose. No one dared to question my father. But I remember the day she brought the puppy home, the little puppy my father would not have in his home. She did send us upstairs, but I hid at the top and listened. I had never heard her raise her voice to him before. Oh, she was valiant. And he was cruel. I didn't understand the names he called her. Then.”