target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#u7363f4a7-9cb7-5d64-aa7d-83d10443617e">Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed this story. I loved writing it. I’ve always been a big fan of spy movies and novels. What better way to explore amnesia than using a spy who did some things that blurred and even crossed moral lines. But that was Grace’s past. Maybe it’s your past too. But it’s not who you are anymore. In Christ, you are free. You get a clean slate. You get to be a new creation, making new and better choices. No longer are you a slave to sin. And you are forgiven. Completely. Thoroughly. Utterly. No more shame. No more guilt. That’s the beauty of salvation. Of mercy. Of forgiveness. Grace finally realized that, and it gave her the liberty to pursue her dream—to love Hollis fully. I pray that if you are battling the same feelings as Grace, you’ll take comfort from this story. Cling to truth, and walk in freedom, friend. It’s yours.
I love to hear from readers! Please drop me a line and visit me at www.jessicarpatch.com.
Warmly,
Jessica
Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.
—2 Corinthians 5:17
To Dad—for giving me a love for spy movies, especially James Bond.
Special Thanks:
My agent, Rachel Kent, who has been one of the biggest blessings in my life. You are my friend and champion!
My editor, Shana Asaro, who makes everything I write so much stronger and better. I am thankful for you.
Susan Tuttle, my brainstorming partner and friend. I wouldn’t have a great story if you weren’t there to help me turn it into something worth pursuing.
My family, who always supports, understands and encourages me to keep writing and dreaming.
Contents
Note to Readers
Grace Thackery was living on a borrowed name; she’d lost every single memory prior to the past year and a half since she’d awakened from a six-month coma. But as she breezed into the kitchen at the Muddy River Inn, inhaling the smell of cinnamon and yeasty dough, she had no doubt she’d loved cinnamon rolls. How could anyone not? She rubbed the round locket around her neck. At least she thought it was a locket, but it wouldn’t open—it was as locked as her memories. Had it been a gift from a family member, a friend...a boyfriend, fiancé or husband?
Tish LaMont looked up and grinned, her plump face colored pink from the oven heat; the lines around her lips and eyes showed she’d spent most of her life happy. She slid a pan of rolls onto the butcher block island and waved a pot holder over the steam. “If this rain doesn’t let up soon, we’ll float away. I can’t tell you the last time we had this much in Cottonwood. April showers are supposed to bring May flowers. Not more showers,” she drawled in a rich, Mississippi accent.
Grace snickered and helped herself to a cinnamon roll; the fresh hot glaze dripped onto her dessert plate. She’d lick that up last. It had been raining the past eight days straight. Gray and dismal. Something about it felt familiar, teetering on the edge of her fuzzy mind but unwilling to surface. “If I ever lose my memory again, there’s no way I’d forget these.”
Tish snorted and used her wrist to push away a strand of bobbed gray hair. According to Tish, women over fifty needed to let go and let God. And that meant allowing
