Hope Between the Pages Pepper Basham (thriller book recommendations TXT) 📖

boy who’d given out an early Christmas present. Clara curbed the desire to lean over and kiss him, especially since that could very well lead to their deaths off a cliff. But what a way to go!

“It’s amazing. Cliffs and oceans! We don’t have anything that looks like this off the coast of North Carolina.”

“And your surprise happens to live in a house with a view of the sea.”

She stared at his profile as he turned through a set of gates onto what appeared to be a driveway. Her surprise was a person? Who in the world could he possibly want her to meet? Her smile softened. Maybe one of his grandparents? Or a friend?

Max pulled the car to a stop in front of a beautiful two-story, whitewashed limestone house with a massive yew on either side, their knotted trunks twisting up to create an archway over the front of the house.

“What a wonderful place!” Clara leaned forward, taking in the tall windows on either side of the simple wooden door, a wreath hanging on display. “Is every spot in England like stepping into a book?”

“I’m only showing you the best,” Max answered. He exited the car and met her on the other side. “To give you every incentive to return.”

She tugged on his jacket lapel. “I have pretty good incentive already.”

The look he gave her, so tender, drew her forward, and he captured her lips with his. Maybe Clara was dreaming, lost inside of a storybook in her head, because this little taste of romance captured almost every daydream she’d ever imagined.

“I never expected you,” he whispered, searching her eyes.

“Nor I you.” She gave his lapel another tug, her lips tingling from the touch of his. “I think a higher hand certainly worked some heavenly magic into this meeting.”

His smile softened and he slid a strand of her hair through his fingers before stepping back. “I’ll stay in the car.” He gestured toward the door. “She’s expecting you.”

The sudden warmth of his closeness vanished. “Wait, you’re not going with me?”

“You don’t need me for this, Clara.”

He nudged her toward the door and she shuffled forward, looking back at him as if he’d lost his mind. How could he up and leave her at a stranger’s door, especially right after they’d engaged in such wonderful displays of affection?

She paused, but he nodded, his grin barely held in check. Oh, amused was he? She narrowed her eyes at him, drew in a deep breath, and marched toward the door. The doorbell resounded deep inside the house and Clara cast a look back at Max, who only winked and returned to the driver’s side of the car.

With the sound of turning locks and then a click, the door opened to reveal an older woman with beautiful mocha-colored eyes and a head haloed in white hair. Her little round mouth opened into an O and she pressed a palm to her chest. “Oh heavens, you look just like her.”

Clara blinked, sent another look over her shoulder to Max, and forced words into the silence between them. “Like who?”

“Who?” The woman shook her head, her smile growing. “Why, your great-grandmother, Sadie Camden, Blackwell, as was.”

It was Clara’s turn to stare, speechless. Had she heard correctly?

“Camden? You mean, she and Oliver were married?”

“You didn’t know?”

Clara wasn’t sure whether she shook her head or not, but the woman laughed. “Well now, my name is Mrs. Margaret Sadie Rivers Wilson, and I was named after your great-grandmother.”

Clara grabbed the doorframe, her knees growing weak. “You were named after Granny Sadie? How…how can that be?”

With a gentle touch to Clara’s arm, Mrs. Wilson guided Clara forward through the entry. “Well now, that’s exactly why your friend, Mr. Weston, found me.” Her dark eyes brightened with a smile. “I have a wonderful story to tell you, and you have an ending to tell me.”

“Your great-grandmother is quite the fable in our family.” Mrs. Wilson led Clara into a sitting room with more modern furniture than the old-fashioned exterior of the house presented. A brown leather couch with two blue Heywood chairs and matching ottomans made up the sitting spaces, and a coffee table stood in the center covered with photos.

“I…is she?” Everything about this series of events was unbelievable. Clara’s mind failed to keep up. She nodded to another woman in the room, a younger version of Mrs. Wilson, and took the proffered chair.

“This is my middle daughter, Esme Jenkins. She lives here with me.” Mrs. Wilson sat across from Clara and gestured toward the photos. “I’ve a suspicion, from your initial surprise, that you don’t know much about Oliver Camden?”

Clara shook her head, glancing down at the photos. “No, not much at all. I know he met Sadie at Biltmore, his family used to live in Camden House, and he died in World War I.”

“Then I suppose you don’t know much about Victoria, Oliver’s sister?”

Clara scratched her memory for an answer. “Was she the sister Sadie saved?”

Mrs. Wilson’s smile brimmed and she rocked back in her chair. “Yes, exactly. Victoria Camden Rivers was my mother.”

“Your…your mother?”

“Yes, and the only surviving child of Heathcliff and Caroline Camden, since both of their sons died in the Great War.”

Clara looked from the photo-laden table back to Mrs. Wilson. “Is that how you learned about Sadie?”

“An excellent question.” She raised a finger. “But first, let us clarify a few things. How many children did your great-grandmother, Sadie, have?”

“Only one. A son. She never told us who the father was.”

“Oh Mother, it must be! Look at her eyes.” Esme Jenkins reentered the room with a tray of tea. “After all this time?”

My eyes?

Mrs. Wilson moved to the edge of the couch, a magnetizing light in her eyes. “Do you know the date of your grandfather’s birth? Sadie’s son?”

Clara looked from Mrs. Wilson to Esme and back. “Yes. He was born November 12, 1916. John Oliver Blackwell.”

Air burst from Mrs. Wilson’s nose and she brought her hands together. “We didn’t know for