Chasing Sunsets.

Eva Everson.

To those who have loved, lost, and loved again.

Acknowledgments.

Years ago, while looking for a place to "get away and write," my author-friend Janice Elsheimer and I headed toward the west coast of Florida. We'd heard of a place called Cedar Key. A haven, we were told, for writers. I fell in love with it immediately. The stories of past glory and present beauty called out to me. And so I begin my "thank you" list with Janice. Thank you so much for daring to go the first time and for returning with me again and again.

Thank you, Kristy, for trusting me with pieces of your story and a glimpse into the world of a single mother. This isn't your story-it's the story of so many. But you inspired me to write it.

Thank you, Ramona, for reading the first pages and telling me if it "hooked" or not. Thank you, Gayle and Rene, for your willingness to read as I wrote . . . and rewrote . . . and rewrote again. Thank you, Rene, for your honesty in saying, "I don't like it," which forced me to start over, work harder, and make it happen for Kimberly and Steven . . . and the reader. Thank you to my wonderful novel group (Larry, Linda, Sh.e.l.lie-who read the entire ma.n.u.script!-Loyd, Craig, and Edwina). Thank you to Christian Writers Guild Word Weavers Orlando. You be awesome! Thank you, Linda Morgan, for your medical expertise. Thank you to ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) for having all the answers when all I have is questions; to Nicole and Emanuel Rivera for the lovely song interpretation; and to the best freelance editorial voice I have, my daughter Jessica. And a special thanks goes to Patt Dunmire, who read when I couldn't read another word.

Thank you to the folks in Cedar Key who gave so much of their time so I could interview them. For anyone who is so inclined to now take a trip to paradise, there really is a Kona Joe's, a Dilly Dally Gally, a Tony's with its World Champion Chowder, a Coconuts, a Cook's Cafe, and Cedar Key Market. Some of the people are figments of my imagination, others are flesh and blood. So, thank you to Edie and Kona Joe, to Anne Graham Miller, extraordinary photographer, to Andy Bair (of the Island Hotel) who talked with me for such a long time about history and ghosts, to the good folks at Park Place who put up with me on my visits.

Of course, thank you to the team at Baker/Revell. Extraordinary editors Vicki Crumpton and Kristin Kornoelje rock!! And who could possibly rock more than my agent, Jonathan Clements? No one!

Thank you to my fans who continue to think I write good stories. I love you and appreciate you, every one!

Finally, to those who stand beside me and around me, supporting me always and in all ways: my sweet Savior-my first love-Jesus, my honey-hubby Dennis, and all those who have come from that love, one way or another.

Prologue.

Last night I dreamed of Cedar Key. In my dream, I returned to the vacation home of my childhood by way of State Road 24 and our family's dark blue '79 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham station wagon.

My father drove.

The year was 1982. I know, because in the dream, I was twelve.

My mother-looking remarkably like Princess Diana since she'd had her hair cut and highlighted as the trend demanded-sat on the pa.s.senger side of the front bench seat. From where I sat, I had a perfect side view of her. Her head lolled against the headrest; she kept her eyes closed behind large white-framed shades. After a moment, my eyes drifted from her face. I counted the odd-shaped freckles that danced across her tanned shoulders, exposed by a strapless floral sundress. Every so often she took in a deep breath and sighed; even in that, I thought her to be the most magnificent creature.

Mom was pregnant with my baby sister Ami, though no one knew it at the time. In my dream I knew it, in that ethereal way one has of knowing those kinds of things.

My sister Jayme-Leigh, whose nose was stuck so far into a book it was a wonder she didn't just fall right in, rode between our youngest sister, Heather, and me. At the backseat pa.s.senger's window, Heather's face turned upward toward the afternoon sun to ward off car sickness. She held tight to her Cabbage Patch doll. Her lips were moving in perfect time to the lyrics of the Lionel Ritchie tune playing on the radio; anything to keep from throwing up. I tried to make out the song, but in my dream it was oddly distorted.

Such is the way of dreams.

"We're nearly there, girls," Dad said, as he always did when we neared the road leading to our waterfront property.

Mom's eyes opened on cue. She pulled her shades down to the tip of her pixie nose, turned toward the three of us, and said, "All right, pets. Let's get our stuff together. No need scrambling when we get there." She shifted to face the front again, and when her eyes locked with mine, she winked. "Did you bring your camera?" she asked.

I nodded.

Soon enough the car rolled up to the house, which was elevated by cypress boards and veiled behind the dripping moss of a dozen ancient live oaks. Dad slid the gearshift to park. Four doors opened simultaneously, and we tumbled out. Within seconds I could taste sweat on my upper lip, could feel it beading in my armpits. Mom went to the back of the car, gently dictating orders of who was to carry what to the house, while Dad, keys rattling between his fingers, took heavy steps toward the front door.

Heather was the first to ask when we could go swimming. Mom, as she always did, reminded us that suitcases had to be unpacked and groceries put away. We hurried-my sisters and me-as fast as we could at twelve, eleven, and eight, our feet barely skimming the gleaming pine floors as we scampered for our shared bedroom. Suitcases were emptied, closets and drawers were filled, swimsuits were donned, and then, like horses being set free from the barn, we barreled down the narrow z-shaped outdoor staircase. I quickly spied Dad sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the cement platform near the water's edge and raced to reach him first. Hearing my arrival, he turned his handsome face-cast in shades of bronze by the sun, which had begun to dip toward the marshy horizon-and smiled. "There's nothing like this, Kimberly-Boo," he said, using the name by which he'd called me my whole life. "Not a place in the world like Cedar Key."

I squared my shoulders. "How do I look, Dad?" I asked. "Do you like my new bathing suit? Mom bought it for me at Burdines."

Before he could answer, Jayme-Leigh and Heather were with us, both breathing hard. "Why do you always have to do that?" Jayme-Leigh asked me. "You always have to get to Dad first. Like he's some race you're trying to win."

"I do not," I said.

"You do," she insisted just as Dad said, "Girls, are we going to the city park or are we going to stand here and argue?" The city park was Cedar Key's public beach area.

Heather slipped her hand into Dad's and squinted up at him, her white-blonde ringlets already damp from perspiration. Magically, we were then standing in the Gulf of Mexico, sun shimmering atop its water like crushed diamonds on gla.s.s. Seagulls flew overhead, cawing to each other, and Dad sat in a lawn chair along the sh.o.r.eline. He now wore bathing trunks without a shirt. Bronze skin and chest hair glistened under suntan oil.

"Dad!" I called out. "Come in the water with me!"

He answered with a chuckle then pointed to the medical journal he'd been reading. "You play," he said. "I've got some reading to do."

"I'm going to stand on my hands underwater," I said, undeterred. "Watch me, okay?" I physically prepared myself for the balancing act by putting my feet together and arching my spine. "Dad? Okay?"

Just then the sound of a boat's motor interrupted my persistence. I turned toward the roar. It was Mr. Granger-Steven's dad-returning to the nearby dock with another group of tourists on board. Thirteen-year-old Steven stood next to his father. He wore frayed cutoff jeans and a light blue tee with Granger Tours written in large letters displayed in an arc across his chest.

Seeing me, he waved.

I waved back, a little too anxiously, though maybe not for a twelve-year-old. In doing so, my foot slipped from the grainy Gulf floor beneath . . .

. . . and in the early morning hours, in the master bedroom of my Glenmuir Mediterranean-style home, I fell out of bed.

1.

The Juvenile and Family Courthouse is cold, no matter the time of year. And it always smells the same, like heartache and justice, wood polish and sweat, leather and lace. The effect it has on me, from the moment I turn down the long stretch of road leading to the white brick building, never changes. My stomach clenches, then flips. I break into a cold sweat. My head spins.

Today was no different. I pulled my four-year-old white Honda CR-V into the parking area, my eyes scanning for an empty s.p.a.ce and, at the same time, my ex-husband's sparkling new Jaguar XJL. Supercharged and gun-metal gray. I was unsure as to whether I hoped he would be there before me or not, but when his car was nowhere in sight, I felt instant relief.

I parked under the shade of a blooming pink crepe myrtle, turned off the car, took a deep breath, and sighed. "G.o.d be with me," I said out loud. I gave my watch a quick glance. It was nearly 1:30 in the afternoon; our hearing was set for 2:00.

Set for 2:00, but experience told me we could be sitting there for several uncomfortable hours before our case was called. I reached over the console for the short stack of manila folders I brought with me, each one meticulously labeled.

DIVORCE PAPERS.

CHILD SUPPORT.

CORRESPONDENCE/CHARLIE AND KIDS.

CORRESPONDENCE/CHARLIE AND ME.

EVIDENCE OBTAINED BY C. JEFFERSON.

A tapping at my window startled me, and I jumped. I turned toward the noise as I pressed my hand against my chest. "Heather!" I let out a breath. "You nearly scared me to death."

My younger sister stood bent over at the waist, her pretty face just inches from mine, separated only by the window gla.s.s. She smiled, even as her brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"

I opened the car door. "I am now." I returned the smile as I swung my legs toward the asphalt. "You're here."

"Where else would I be?" She wrapped me in one of her delicious hugs as soon as I stood. "You're my big sister and you need someone to be here with you. So, here I am."

I hugged back then pulled away. "I can always count on you."

Unlike my relationship with Jayme-Leigh, Heather and I shared a bond like that of twins. We understood each other's needs, sometimes even before we knew them ourselves. And, other than always being right about everything, she was so easy to get along with. Her laughter came effortlessly, her close-set blue eyes sparkling. Always.

Sometimes a tad too much. I closed my car door. "What are the kids up to?" I opened the back door to retrieve the matching jacket to the flared floral skirt I'd chosen for the hearing.

"Swim practice. It never ends, even when school is out." She tossed her head. Her white-blonde curls, which refused to be tamed, even when clipped at the back of her head, shimmered in the harsh Florida sunlight. "But don't worry about the time; now that Toni and Tyler are old enough to drive, my role as Mommy is dwindling."

We walked toward the courthouse. "What does that mean?" I asked.

Heather shrugged. "Nothing." I thought I detected a choking in her voice. "Just that with the twins at seventeen and Lenny at fifteen, there's not much they need from me these days."

"Other than cooking their meals, washing their clothes, picking up after them, making sure they're home by curfew . . . other than that?"

Heather looped her arm with mine. "You'll know soon enough, Kimberly-Boo," she said. "Chase is fourteen already, and with Cody being-what?-eleven, pretty soon the three of you will be ships pa.s.sing in the night."

We ascended the courthouse steps as I said, "But doesn't this give you more time with Andre?"

My sister snorted, an annoying habit she's had her whole life. "He's always so busy putting in those long hours at the drugstore . . . at least that's where he says he is."

My brother-in-law Andre has worked as a pharmacist for CVS "since it was Eckerd," as he puts it. While I was sure it was true his hours were demanding, I was equally as positive some of his time spent away from home was to avoid a sometimes overly clinging wife. "I'm sure he is exactly where he says he is," I said just as we reached the double gla.s.s doors, which I opened for us.

Heather stepped in ahead of me. Viewing her from the back-and her dressed in a floral sundress, odd-shaped freckles splayed across her shoulders-I was reminded of the dream I'd had the night before. I felt an emptiness fall from the middle of my throat to my stomach, missing Mom again more than I thought possible.

Of all us girls-Jayme-Leigh, Heather, Ami, and me-Heather looked the most like Mom. We all had Mom's square jaw, china-doll lips, and blonde hair. Ami had more of Dad's oval face and dark features. In recent years, Jayme-Leigh had taken to dying her hair auburn because-she said recently during a family dinner-as a pediatrician, she was taken more seriously.

That comment caused me to frown. After all, I'm not only blonde, I'm an educated schoolteacher.

"So what does that make me?" Heather had asked across the great length of my mother's dining room table with our father at the head and our stepmother sitting properly at the other end. Quiet and reserved, Anise closed her eyes and shook her head so slightly I wondered if anyone other than me even noticed it.

Baited for a fight, Jayme-Leigh merely blinked and raised her brow. "Exactly what you are, Heather. A homemaker. And before you start something, I'm not belittling your role within your family." She looked over at Andre, whose broccoli-filled fork was suspended between his plate and his O-shaped mouth. "I'm sure Andre and the kids would be lost without you."

"Why is it," Heather now said as she dropped her purse onto the belt of the security scanner, "that I always feel the family is trying to convince me of Andre's undying loyalty or my children's need for me?" At the direction of the pretty but stoic-faced police officer on the other side of the metal detector, she walked forward.

I gave a smile to the officer standing at the head of the x-ray scanner as I dropped my purse, my jacket, and my files onto the conveyor belt. "How are you today?" I asked him.

"Good," he said, not smiling. "And you?"

"Good, thank you." I gave a glance to the officer sitting at the monitor. He looked to be all of twenty-one. Dedicated, his eyes never left the screen.

I followed my sister's steps through the metal detector. It went off.

"Step back through, ma'am," the officer on the other side of the metal detector said. Her face continued to reflect her no-nonsense att.i.tude.

My shoulders drooped, but I dutifully went back through. The officer at the head of the belt said, "It may be your shoes."

I looked down at the black linen strapped wedge sandals I'd worn in hopes of looking a little less like a teacher and a little more like a serious mother. Whatever that meant. I slipped off the shoes, placed them in a small tray on the conveyor belt, and stepped back through. This time I didn't set off any alarms.

Minutes later, Heather and I sat side by side on a hard bench near Hearing Room 102S. From our position, which I had purposefully chosen, we had a perfect view of the front door. My body temperature had already started to drop; I eased my arms into my jacket just as the front door swung open, letting in a blast of hot air and blinding sunshine . . . and Charlie. All six-foot-three of him.

"Well, there he is," Heather said under her breath. "Mr. Suave and Sophisticated himself."

I watched numbly as he casually dipped his tanned hands into the pockets of his khaki chinos. Ralph Lauren, I'd wager. He swore by Ralph Lauren. He drew out the contents and placed them in a bowl on the conveyor belt. His wallet and brown leather belt followed. All the while he conversed with the same officer I'd briefly chatted with earlier. To look at them, one would have thought them old chums. Yet I knew the chances were slim they'd ever seen each other outside of this courthouse.

Charlie stepped through the metal detector but not before sharing a chuckle with both the officer at the head of the conveyor and the one viewing the monitor. Even the stoic-faced officer on the other side seemed to be in on the little joke.

I absentmindedly chewed on my bottom lip. Beside me, Heather was adding her two cents, but I couldn't make out a single word she said.

The metal detector sounded in alarm.

Charlie smiled, only one side of his mouth going up as he looked down at the officer who I could see was smiling up at him.

"My gosh, he's a charmer," Heather said.

This I heard. Like I needed to.

"I know."

"Even gray hair looks good on him."

"More silver than gray."

"What did he do, have one of those tans you paint on?"

I started to laugh, then m.u.f.fled it. Charlie returned through the detector, removed a large gold link bracelet previously hidden by a starched long-sleeved white shirt. This time the alarm didn't go off.

"Who wears long sleeves in this heat?" Heather said.

I looked at my arms cloaked by my jacket. "He knows how cold it can get in here." I glanced at her bare shoulders. "You'll be freezing before you leave here."

She shook her head. "I'm never cold. I think I'm going through the change already."