CRITICAL PRAISE FOR
RUTH AXTELL MORREN
LILAC SPRING
“Lilac Spring blooms with heartfelt yearning and genuine conflict as Cherish and Silas seek God’s will for their lives. Fascinating details about nineteenth-century shipbuilding are planted here and there, bringing an historical feel to this faith-filled romance.”
—Liz Curtis Higgs, bestselling author of Whence Came a Prince
WILD ROSE
“…the charm of the story lies in Morren’s ability to portray real passion between her characters. Wild Rose is not so much a romance as an old-fashioned love story.”
—Booklist
“…a beautiful, believable love relationship…Richly defined characters and settings enhance this meaningful novel.”
—Romantic Times
WINTER IS PAST
“…inspires readers toward a deeper trust in the transforming power of God…. [Readers] will find in Winter Is Past a novel not to be put down and a new favorite author.”
—Christian Retailing
“Ruth Axtell Morren writes with skill, sensitivity and great heart about the things that matter most…. Make room on your keeper shelf for a new favorite.”
—Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling author
“…faith journeys are so realistic all readers can benefit from the story. Highly recommended.”
—CBA Marketplace
Lilac Spring
Ruth Axtell Morren
MILLS & BOON
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For the town of Cutler,
from where I drew my inspiration for Lilac Spring.
My thanks also to the guys at The Boat School of Washington County Technical College in Eastport, who allowed me to ask many questions and observe them as they worked on their wooden boats.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lilac Spring book club discussion questions
Prologue
Haven’s End
Maine, 1861
“You’re the new ’prentice, aren’t you?” Cherish asked the boy hunched over one of Papa’s drafting tables.
He twisted around, a startled look on his thin face, as if she’d caught him doing something wrong.
Cherish stepped through the doorway of the boat shop and approached the table, her rag doll, Annie, swinging back and forth from one hand.
The boy swiped the edge of his palm against the corner of his eye, watching her silently as she neared.
“Aren’t you?”
Staring at her through disconcertingly gray eyes, he finally answered, “Yes.”
“Why’re you crying?”
“I’m not crying!”
“Yes, you are. I can tell. Your eyes are all red.” It suddenly occurred to her that maybe, being a big boy, he didn’t want to admit to crying. She never minded crying; it usually made her feel better afterward. The only problem was it usually followed a spanking.
“Whatcha’ doin’?” she asked curiously, peering beyond him to the drafting table.
“Nothin’. Just looking.”
“That’s Papa’s model.” She stood on tiptoe at the edge of the table, eyeing the wooden half-hull sliced in sections like a loaf of bread cut lengthwise.
She dragged another stool over to the table and climbed up on it. “I waited till Papa was down at the yard ’fore I came over this morning. It was a long time! Then I was ’fraid Mama wouldn’t let me walk over.” She smiled. “She thinks I’m outside playing with my kitty-cat.”
The boy said nothing.
“I cried yesterday,” she told him, settling Annie on her lap. “Mama sent me to my room.”
He continued eyeing her as if deciding whether she was friend or foe. He had nice eyes, she decided. Green-tinged gray, like a choppy sea. “What did you do?” he asked.
“I pulled kitty’s tail. I was trying to tie her to my dolly’s stroller, but she wouldn’t ’bey me.”
She could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and that made her glad.
“Kitty scratched me. See?” She pushed up her sleeve and showed him the bright red line running up her forearm.
“Papa never sends me to my room or spanks me. Mama says I’ll be spoiled if someone don’t spank me. Papa says I’m his little lady and should never be spanked.”
The two sat quietly for a few moments. The boy’s attention, she could see, had returned to the pieces of carved wood on the table. “Are you from far away?” she asked, shifting on the hard stool.
“Real far,” he murmured.
“Where?” she asked, finding it hard to picture anything beyond Haven’s End.
“Swan’s Island.”
“Swan’s Island,” she repeated in awe. Her mama had just read her a story about a swan the night before. She imagined a beautiful island full of snowy-white swans.
“Do you have a mama and papa?” she asked when