Page 35 of The Summer We Kept Secrets (The Destin Diaries #4)

S weat. Water. Panic.

Jonah thrashed left to right, covered in perspiration—or was it seawater?—knowing one thing. Only one thing. The baby was… gone . He was gone! Where did he go?

One moment, Jonah was walking along the beach with Atlas—just like they had that morning, those tiny toes squirming against his chest, sun on his shoulders. Then the sky had gone black. The waves rose like giant fists, swallowing the shore, pummeling them to the sand.

He lost the baby in the surf. But someone kept calling him.

“Jonah! Jonah!”

Who was that? Wait. He knew that voice. He loved that voice. It was his mother, screaming his name as he jerked from side to side, searching and searching , but all he could hear was his mother calling.

Her voice from the sidelines of a football game. Her voice from the front door when he was on his bike. Her voice from…heaven.

She was calling him from a place where he’d never been and would never go.

“Jonah!”

Where was she? And where was the baby? He tried to shout, but every time he opened his mouth, nothing would come out, and saltwater slipped between his lips.

Finally, he saw a woman in the surf. But that wasn’t Melissa Lawson. That woman had curly blond hair tumbling over her shoulders. She wore a Baby Bjorn around her neck. It was empty.

“Where is Atlas?” she screamed.

Carly.

“You lost him, too?” Her voice roared like the waves. “You lose everybody, Jonah! You are cursed!”

Her face turned dark, covered in blood and tears and?—

He shot up from sweat-soaked sheets with a soft cry. He was trembling, a black, hot pit of fire in his stomach, tears pouring down his cheeks and into his open mouth.

He gasped for air, the sheets tangled around his legs and his skin clammy with sweat. The monitor light glowed, green and silent.

Blinking into the near darkness, he peered at the bassinet where his baby son slept peaceful and safe, his little chest rising and falling with life. No waves, no voices, just…baby’s breath.

Letting out a groan of raw relief, Jonah flung the covers off and swung his feet to the floor. It was second nature now, this middle-of-the-night check-in. But tonight, it wasn’t just duty. It was panic.

He stood on shaky legs, trying to wipe away the terror that had gripped him. The words that Carly had shouted at him.

You lose everybody, Jonah! You’re cursed!

Of course he was. He was living under a dark shadow of disaster and so was anyone who had the misfortune of loving him. Mom. Carly. Who was next?

Now adjusted to the darkness, he gazed at Atlas, his heart breaking. Exhaling shakily, he reached down, gently brushing the baby’s round, fuzzy head. Not him. Please, God, not him.

“Sorry, bud,” he whispered. “Just a bad dream.”

And of course he was having nightmares, now that he knew Sally and Gary Danes would be knocking at the door in exactly two days, threatening to take his child away. They’d called earlier that evening and said they’d be here on Saturday morning, the day after tomorrow.

Except tomorrow was already today.

So, no, the dream wasn’t random. It was a stark reminder of…everything.

Was poor Atlas doomed at birth? Did this curse cross generations? That thought seemed awfully… biblical .

The word landed in his head as if it were an actual direction. Like a GPS voice saying, “Turn here. Go there.”

To…the Bible?

He switched on the light next to his bed, the one Aunt Vivien said was specially designed not to wake a baby.

His heart thumped like a warning bell in his chest, the words echoing. You lose everybody! You’re cursed!

His gaze drifted toward the dresser, to the Bible his dad had left for him right after he’d arrived with Atlas. It was untouched, still at the same random angle in the same spot Dad put it. Jonah hadn’t so much as cracked it. But it was there, full of…Mom.

Could he find that passage again? The one Dad read that had Mom’s handwriting? “Taste and see,” it said. With his initials.

Had she written anything else that could help him?

He pushed up and grabbed the book, opening the cover, which announced that this was A Journal Bible. Underneath that, someone had written a short note.

For my friend, Melissa Lawson—may you find Him on every page.

With Christ’s Unending Love,

Deborah Sutherland.

It was dated…four months before the day she died.

He vaguely recalled a producer at her TV station named Deborah who’d spoken at his mother’s funeral, but he didn’t remember a word she’d said. She must have been important to give Mom her first and only Bible.

He flipped the parchment-thin pages, opening to the one marked with a long blue ribbon, hoping it was the passage Dad had read.

But it was just a bunch of gibberish evidently written by someone named Isaiah. The only ink on the page was the word “Jesus” with a question mark, but that was definitely his mother’s feminine, tidy handwriting.

He stared at how she’d written the word “Jesus” as though she’d taken her time with each letter. He recognized her distinctive J with a curve at the top, a long-buried memory punching into his consciousness.

He could hear her voice…feel the touch of her hand over his.

“Just imagine an umbrella, Jonah. See? That’s your J. The first letter of your name. J is for Jonah.”

A tear fell and landed on the page. The ache for her rose up and strangled him, as it still did from time to time, even fifteen years after losing her.

He turned a few pages, feeling a different pang. Suddenly consumed with the need to find more of her writing and a message that had to be for him, he started flipping madly through the pages.

He found something titled “The Book of Jonah” that gave him hope, but it was just that old Bible story about some dude swallowed by a whale.

She hadn’t even written a word in that book, which he thought was weird. Where did she write?

The paper made a rustling sigh as he turned, finding his way to a fog of words titled “Ezekiel.” Wrath. Wheels. Warnings. Something about dry bones. Wait a second. Is that where Mario Kart got the character name?

Toward the last third of the whole book, there was much more of his mother’s writing in the books that even a heathen like Jonah recognized as the gospels.

John had held Mom’s attention, with scribbling up and down both sides of almost every page.

Words underlined like grace and love and abide in Him with three exclamation points.

Full paragraphs highlighted in yellow, pink, and green.

Notes and questions on both sides, filling in the lines he imagined made this a “journal” Bible.

But no message to poor, cursed Jonah.

“Come on,” he muttered as he flipped from section to section. “There has to be something in here for me.”

He turned back to Psalms, which looked promising—lots of cries for help and ill will on enemies. Plenty of underlined verses, not many notes.

Then he landed in Proverbs and noticed the frequent mention of the word “son”—and nearly every time, she’d circled it and written his initials again. JFL .

With a kick of hope, he flicked through the pages, and stopped at one that was covered in her writing. Proverbs 17 was starred, underlined and highlighted.

He skimmed the words about strife, prudent servants, and deceitful lips.

Why did she?—

And then he saw it. Highlighted in neon green with the word GRANDCHILDREN written in capital letters. He squinted at the scripture, reading out loud.

“‘Children’s children are a crown to the aged, and parents are the pride of their children.’”

His throat tightened as he lifted the book to read the tiny script she’d written.

“Children’s children are my grands!!” She’d actually drawn a little crown, which was so Mom, it almost hurt.

His gaze dropped to the note beneath it, again reading the words out loud.

“‘Dear Lord, let me be a grandmother someday. Let me hold Jonah’s baby and hear that child’s voice.

Let me kiss Meredith’s little girl (has to be!) and rock her to sleep.

Let my children know they are not the end of a broken line, but the part of one that is highly favored.

Bless these babies that aren’t yet conceived, knit them with love, and help them know You above all.

That is this Someday Grandma’s prayer.’”

He couldn’t breathe.

Her words hit with the weight of a thousand tears and fifteen years of grief.

Bending over the book, he gave in to a full-body sob and let the tears pour over his face and onto the page. His shoulders heaved, his chest let out a groan, yet all he could feel was…peace.

Absolute, indescribable peace.

He didn’t look up until Atlas kicked his little night sac, and let out a weak pre-cry, the one that sounded like a mouse squeak.

Jonah was next to him in an instant, lifting his tiny body to hold him against his chest.

“Atlas,” he whispered. “Your grandma prayed for you before you were born. Well over a decade before. Did you know that?”

He whimpered, eyes glued shut.

“Well, it’s true,” he said, the tears flowing. “She blessed you before she knew your name. Before Carly, before anything, before she died. She blessed you and me and the whole next generation.”

He stroked the warm, bald head and kissed him again.

“She knew,” he said. “She knew I could be a father. And that my child and your child and all the little Lawsons that will come in the future would be a blessing. Not a curse! No word of a curse!”

Atlas made that “eh eh eh” sound that was a sure sign he was waking.

“Good. I want you to wake up,” Jonah said. “I want to tell you all about your most amazing Grandma Melissa. She was beautiful. Funny, smart. Never dropped the ball in life, you know? And still she found time to pray for you and me.”

Tears fell again, and Jonah wiped his face with the back of his hand, rocking the probably very confused and hungry baby. His baby. Her grandchild.