Table of Contents
Using the mysterious key she had found in her uncle’s old desk,
Allison opened the safety deposit box…
The box held one sealed envelope. No name was on the outside. She slit the seal and took out a single sheet of paper. She scanned the document, then read it carefully. With a trembling hand, she returned the box to its proper place in the vault and put the envelope in her purse. The document she’d found had solved the mystery of why Harrison Page had left her a fortune and now Allison wished she didn’t know, for her life was shattered.
She wanted to pray, but a wall of anger and hurt feelings separated her from God, and the only prayer she could muster was a plea for guidance.
“Dear God,” she prayed aloud, “I don’t know if I can bear this alone…”
IRENE BRAND
This prolific and popular author of both contemporary and historical inspirational fiction is a native of West Virginia, where she has lived all her life. She began writing professionally in 1977, after she completed a master’s degree in history at Marshall University. Irene taught in secondary public schools for twenty-three years, but retired in 1989 to devote herself full time to her writing.
After a long career of publishing articles and devotional materials, in 1984 her first novel was published by Thomas Nelson. Since that time, Irene has published fifteen contemporary and historical novels and three nonfiction titles with publishers such as Zondervan, Fleming Revell and Barbour Books.
Her extensive travels with her husband, Rod, to forty-nine of the United States and twenty-four foreign countries, have inspired much of her writing. Through her writing, Irene believes she has been helpful to others and is grateful to the many readers who have written to say that her truly inspiring stories and compelling portrayals of characters of strong faith have made a positive impression on their lives.
Heiress
Irene Brand
Do to others as you would have them do to you.
—Luke 6:31
Chicago wasn’t at its best on a snowy January day, but Allison Sayre had lived in Illinois’s largest city all her life and she was accustomed to the capricious climate. The inclement weather hadn’t caused her mournful face and melancholy mood. Today, Allison had started delving into the past and she had reached a momentous decision. If she ever intended to bury Donald’s memory, today was the time to do it!
Allison glanced around the bedroom that she had occupied the first twenty-three years of her life until a year ago when she had moved into a nearby apartment. Scattered around the room were the mementos of her defunct romance, a lifetime relationship that had ended two years ago with a “Dear Jane” letter. She took the note out of her Bible and read it, although the words had been seared into her memory since the day the postman had delivered the message:
Allison,
I can’t go on with the marriage. I’m sorry.
Donald
Donald Brady had been the boy next-door, occupying a brick bungalow identical to the one owned by the Sayres along a row of modest single-family dwellings built in the 1930s. He and Allison had started kindergarten together and continued their education at the same schools. It had been easy to change from friends to sweethearts. Donald had entered the navy after his graduation from high school, while Allison had attended the University of Illinois at Chicago, an easy commute from her home, and they had set their wedding date for the week of her graduation. Donald had had a month’s leave for the wedding, and she had no idea anything was wrong until she received his note.
As Allison had looked at the wedding dress spread out on the bed, the pain of rejection and resentment was as sharp today as it had been on the day Donald had jilted her. Days went by now without a thought of Donald, and she would think she had forgotten him until something happened to stir her memory. A photo album had been her downfall today, and she was sitting on the floor with it spread out before her when the door opened.
“What are you doing?” her sixteen-year-old sister, Cleta, asked as she glanced at the littered floor. “You’ve about wrecked this room.”
“I started out to rearrange the chest of drawers and closet, but my cleaning turned into a journey down memory lane.” She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.
“Why, Allison—are you crying?”
“A little, I guess.”
“No wonder you’re crying. Your beautiful wedding dress!”
Cleta ran to the bed and carefully lifted the garment from its paper wrappings. Allison remembered how many hours her mother had slaved to make this gown of white slipper satin styled along colonial lines. The yoke of nylon marquisette was outlined with folds of lace-edged satin and caught at intervals by clusters of pearlized orange blossoms. Tiers of lace trimmed the hemline of the pickup skirt, which ended in a court train edged with matching lace.
Cleta