By the Light of the Silvery Moon

I am thankful for my friend Kristen Gaffney who read this book as I wrote it and was the first one to care about the characters along with me. Also, thank you to those at the Titanic Experience in Branson who treated my family to your amazing museum. Months and months after being there we’re still talking about it. We have recommended you often.

I also appreciate my editors, Rebecca Germany and Traci DePree, and the rest of the Barbour team!

I’m also thankful for my agent, Janet Grant. You not only brought this idea to my attention, but your influence and encouragement keep my afloat. And my assistant, Amy Lathrop, who takes care of everything business-like so I can write!

And I’m thankful for my family: John, Leslie, Nathan, Alyssa, Cory, Katie, and Clayton Goyer. Also my grandma Dolores who does all my laundry and covers me in prayer daily. My family means everything to me, and I love when I can reunite families within the pages of a book.

Finally, to my best friend, Jesus Christ. None of this would be possible without You. Thank You for rescuing me from the depths and giving me a new life in You….

Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends.
J
OHN
15:13

But without faith it is impossible to please him:
for he that cometh to God must believe that he is,
and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.
H
EBREWS
11:6

Q
uentin, honey, don’t get too close to the dock.”

Quentin’s footsteps stopped short as he looked back at his mother. His bright smile faded. Her gaze had already returned to the party on the top of the hill. He had run as far as he could, but even here at the edge of the estate pond, the high-pitched laughter and constant chatter followed. Even here those voices, those people, held his mother’s attention.

Quentin had cheered when his mother agreed to take him away from the party for a while. Now he panted, out of breath. He bent over and placed his small hands on his knees, sucking in an especially large gulp of air at the sight of the house, their house, on top of the hill. Though it was not yet dark, Quentin’s eyes widened at the patio lights sparkling in the distance. They danced in the wind like forest fairies in the books his mother read to him.

Chords of laughter rang in the distance, stirring Quentin back to reality. It was most likely his brother, humoring the crowd, charming their parents’ friends. Quentin stuck out his tongue at the party, almost wishing his mother saw him do it. She hadn’t. He wiped one hand down a red, sweaty cheek and ran to her side.

“Mama, ‘Ring around the Rosie’? ‘Ring around the Rosie’?” His fingers glided over her silky dress and the long curls that trailed down her back.

“Not right now, son. Maybe later.” She offered a half smile. Her fingers mindlessly played with the strand of pearls clasped around her neck.

He grabbed her hand. “Please … please … please?”

Her blue eyes met his gaze. “Quentin, honey, just run around for a bit, yes? We need to get back up there soon. I already feel bad for leaving the party. I’ll give you two minutes. Go.” She patted his bottom.

Quentin didn’t answer, and he didn’t run. Instead he walked to the edge of the pond where the water lapped against the grassy shore. He folded his arms across his chest, stuck out his bottom lip, and plopped down. Dampness seeped through his good pants.

Why did they have to move to this big house? At their old place, his mother used to play with him. She used to hold him—hold him tight—snuggled close to her heart.

With no more than a glance in his mother’s direction, Quentin jumped to his feet and scurried down the dock. Down to the very end. He eased himself onto the last wooden plank and dangled his feet over the dark green water. Tall lake grass quivered just beneath the surface, waving ever so slightly at him. Quentin moved his legs back and forth, allowing the tips of his black dress shoes to skim the water. The thrill of it took his breath away.

“One more minute,” his mother called without looking back.

Quentin frowned and considered kicking off his shoes. He imagined them hitting the surface and then descending through the lake grass until they plopped onto the slimy bottom. Maybe if he kicked them off, he wouldn’t have to go back to the party. Maybe he’d have to go to his room instead and Mama would have to talk to him, spend time with him. Even a scolding would be worth it.

A small green turtle surfaced and snapped at his shoes. He jumped with surprise. Quiet laughter escaped Quentin’s lips as he wiggled his shoes, luring the turtle closer. Instead it swam the other direction.

He reached toward the small form. “No, wait!” he called, and suddenly the air had more hold on him than the dock. With a splash, he fell into the water. Cold wetness enveloped him, pulling him into its depths.

Quentin’s hands opened, fingers splayed. He reached toward the surface, toward the dock, but the lake grasses held him tight. His eyes widened. Legs kicked, body twisted. Lungs burned. The light so far, far away.

Someone called his name.

Help me!
He opened his mouth to scream. Water poured into his lungs, burning, choking him. A fuzzy blur filled his vision. The force of a body jumping in next to him stirred the waters.

Mama.
He reached for his mother and grabbed a piece of her, but his grip gave way.
Mama.

Hands unwrapped the tangled weeds around his legs and propelled him toward the dock. His numb fingers grabbed the rough wood. His face surfaced. Coughing, he struggled to suck in air.

He pulled with all his might, but lifting himself onto the dock was impossible. Quentin dragged his body along the wooden edge toward the shallow water. Only when his shoes hit the slimy, muddy bottom did he look back. Where was she? Quentin struggled onto the grass.

“Mama!”

No response.

“Mama!” he screamed again, louder.

He searched the dark water. There! Bubbles surfaced no more than ten feet from the dock. His heart pounded as he retraced his steps down the weathered wooden planks. Wet and shaking, he leaned down and reached one hand toward the water. His mother struggled just beneath the surface.

Crying, he called to her—but she would not come to him. She would not come.

It wasn’t until the bubbles ceased that Quentin turned and ran to the house as quickly as his legs would carry him. Held tightly in his fist was the strand of pearls from around his mother’s neck. When had he grabbed it? He couldn’t remember. The clasp broken but the pearls intact, it streamed behind him like a trail of tears.