Prologue

I use to think that nothing in the world was scarier than staring down the barrel of a gun. But that feeling doesn’t hold a candle to the feeling I have now. I landed at Antigua International a few hours ago and after finding my bags and making my way to a payphone, I called Johnny’s friend. All I knew about Christian Church was that his name was quite weird and that he was an acquaintance of Johnny and lived down here in the islands. I guess it is all luck or something that Christian is here and so am I and everything seems to be working out like it is. I honestly thought this was a lost cause. But I’ve been proved wrong before.

The nerves didn’t hit me until the island of Barbuda, a dependency of Antigua, came into view in the late Caribbean afternoon. The ferry was rather steady, but I still felt quite sea sick and it wasn’t because of the rough waters. I got this feeling when I received a letter a week ago with a check for fifty thousand dollars. It was signed by her and dated a few days earlier than when I received it. I wouldn’t have known where she was and I wouldn’t have taken it as a sign, only a promise fulfilled ten years later. But there was one thing about the check that made me take notice and that was the one word question, “Ready?” written in the Memo line.

I told her not to worry about the money but she had insisted that I be repaid.

I had left her on that private jet tarmac in Orlando, alone, broken and confused about her life and her existence. It terrified me to see her leave with a one way ticket to somewhere in the Caribbean. I felt like I needed to protect her for the rest of her life. I needed to show her that it was ok, that she would be ok and that she’d always have me there to support her when she fell. Ten years later I think I finally realize that she needed to learn to protect herself and learn that she’d be ok, even without me, without him, without anyone but herself.

A return address on the back of the envelope told me what I needed to know.

After making a few calls and flying Trace out to Memphis to help me make the right decision, I found myself back at that old tarmac in Orlando, but this time I wasn’t saying goodbye. This time I was going to go a long damn way just to say hello.

As Christian walked with me off the ferry, he helped me flag a local cab, and asked me for the address. I reached into the pocket of my shorts and pulled out the envelope I had kept with me every day since I received it. I showed it to the cabby and he smiled at me.

“Ahh, Sarah’s place,” He said in a thick Caribbean accent.

I took a deep breath and realized this was really happening.

Before I could get my head around everything, and before I could even think to take in the scenery of where she’d been the past ten years, the door was opened and I stepped out in front of a small wooden beach house painted bright blue with a wrap around porch.

And now I’m standing here, unsure of what to do or say or think. Wind chimes hang all over the porch and a small boat lies turned upside down by the side of the house. A bike rests against the front steps with a basket and I smile. I wonder what she looks like, what she sounds like, God, what she acts like now. I wonder if she still has that shy smile and I hope to God it’s brighter. I hope she found what she was looking for here.

I hope she found herself.

I pay and thank the cabby and pick up my luggage at my feet. I watch him drive off and embrace the strange feeling of fear and excitement rushing through me simultaneously. I take a deep breath and step forward.

“But when will I know?”

“Know what?”

“Know that you’re ready?”

“You will. You just will.”

I sigh. It’s been ten years and all I know about her is from the random postcards she’d send me a few times a year. I don’t know what to expect and I don’t know if she’s changed her mind.

God, I hope she’s ready.