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  PRAISE FOR

  Winter in Full Bloom

  Winter in Full Bloom will grab your attention right away and it won’t let go until you finish each satisfying word. Anita Higman has written a beautiful story with well-rounded characters that reminds us what it means to be family.

  Kristin Billerbeck, author of The Scent of Rain

  At a poignant crossroads in her life, Lily Winter heads off to Australia to track down a family secret, armed only with a clue given by her mother, an eerily cold woman. In Melbourne, Lily finds who she was looking for, aided by a handsome stranger with a few skeletons in his own closet. But she ends up with more questions than answers and her faith is tested in ways she never expected. The results transform not only Lily but her entire family.

  With a touch of humor, romance, and heartache, Anita Higman pens a beautifully written story of hope and healing drawn from the lives of wonderfully complex characters. Winter in Full Bloom will stay with you long after you read the last page.

  Suzanne Woods Fisher, bestselling author of Stoney Ridge Seasons

  Anita’s Australian-inspired novel is as warm as a koala, creative as a platypus, and filled with more twists and turns than a billabong. G’read, love!

  James Watkins, award-winning author of thirty books including Writing with Banana Peels

  Winter in Full Bloom had me from the first paragraph. Why is this woman who hates flying on a plane headed for Australia? Then throw in trying to redeem her truly dysfunctional family, and Anita Higman’s heroine will capture your heart.

  Neta Jackson, bestselling author of The Yada Yada Prayer Group series and its sequels.

  © 2013 by

  ANITA HIGMAN

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.

  Edited by Cheryl Molin

  Interior design: Design Corps

  Interior image: Botond Horvath / Shutterstock.com / 90744185

  Cover design: John Hamilton Design, LLC

  Cover image: Stephen Carroll / Getty Images

  Author photo: Circle R Studios Photography

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Higman, Anita.

  Winter in full bloom / Anita Higman.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-0-8024-0580-7

  1. Family secrets—Fiction. 2. Adoption—Fiction. 3. Family reunions—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.I374W56 2013

  813’.54—dc23

  2013015831

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  We hope you enjoy this book from River North by Moody Publishers. Our goal is to provide high-quality, thought provoking books and products that connect truth to your real needs and challenges. For more information on other books and products written and produced from a biblical perspective, go to www.moodypublishers.com or write to:

  River North Fiction

  Imprint of Moody Publishers

  820 N. LaSalle Boulevard

  Chicago, IL 60610

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed in the United States of America

  Winter in Full Bloom

  is lovingly dedicated to my son-in-law, Alex McMullen, whose Irish ways not only beguiled my daughter, but enchanted us all.

  The Irish touches in this book,

  including the bagpipes, come from his merry influence.

  (You play them delightfully, Alex.)

  Contents

  PART ONE: The Adventure

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  PART TWO: The Homecoming

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Note to Readers

  Anita Higman

  “If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  I sat on a 747, trying to talk myself out of a panic attack.

  The jet still sat on the tarmac, but already I could imagine—in electrifying detail—the fiery crash and then the watery pull into the briny depths of the Pacific Ocean. Lord, have mercy. What had I been thinking?

  Fool that I was, I’d left the sanctuary of my own home, which was safe, and hygienically clean, I might add, to board this death trap. Too late now. I’d taken a leave of absence from work, stopped the mail, given all my indoor plants to my neighbor, and said a dozen goodbyes to my daughter, Julie. The trip was set in stone—the igneous kind that the geologists liked to talk about at work.

  While I sat there sweating, my mind got out its magnifying glass to examine my inner motives. All in all, the journey had a grab bag full of miseries attached to it. For me, getting on the plane proved that my empty nest had driven me over the edge like the biblical herd of pigs. Since my Julie had left the house, was I trying to find a person to fill that void … that vacant place at the table … the perpetual silence of the house and the clocks, ticking away the rest of my tedious life? Probably. And yet finding my sister in Australia would be no less than wonderful, whether Julie was at home or not.

  I looked out the small plane window at the heavens with my anxious puppy dog eyes and could almost hear the Almighty chuckling. Yes, I know, God. I must keep You entertained.

  But back to the fear at hand. I rechecked my seat belt and pulled it so snugly I felt my pulse throbbing in my legs. My stomach busied itself doing the fandango. What had I eaten in the airport? A double bean burrito with a side of green chilies. Not a good travel choice. Did I already have motion sickness? The plane hadn’t even taken off yet. If I were to exit the plane right now, would they give me a refund? Probably not. I’d already used the restroom, crumpled the magazines, and troubled the flight attendant for a ginger ale. Lord, I need a friend. I need backup.

  “You have to ask yourself: what am I most afraid of?” It was the voice of a child.

  I turned toward the sound. “Excuse me?” Straight across the aisle sat a child no bigger than a thimble—a girl with moon-shaped eyes, a Pooh Bear T-shirt, and a wad of gum she was chomping as if it were a lump of tough meat. Surely this child isn’t backup, Lord. I think God enjoys showing off His sense of humor.

  �
��You’re scared to fly. Right? I was too, but I got over it.” The girl blew a bubble and let the purple gum pop all over her face. She gathered up the gum and put it back in her mouth for another round.

  “How can you tell that I’m afraid to fly?”

  “All that sweat. Dead giveaway. And you look like you’ve just swallowed a Boogie Board.” She exploded into giggles.

  I had no idea what a Boogie Board was. And in spite of the silliness the kid talked as if she were thirty, although she couldn’t be more than nine or ten. I had to know her secret—how she managed to rise above her fears. And something about her little turned-up nose and soft brown eyes reminded me of Julie when she was little. “And so how did you get over it … the fear of flying?”

  The girl looked at me, her big eyes gobbling me up. She lost all the playfulness when she said, “I watched my grandma die of cancer. Her body stopped working, but she was still in there. It was a bad way to die. When I get old I don’t want to go to heaven that way. Maybe dying on a plane isn’t so bad. I mean, I know God doesn’t ask us, but we might as well give Him a list of our pref—choices.”

  I wasn’t sure if her reasoning reassured me or alarmed me, but I leaned toward her and said, “I’m sorry about your grandmother.”

  “Yeah, me too. She always played dolls and Mario Kart with me. Every kid needs a grandma like mine.”

  “So true.” If only my Julie would have had a grandma like that. When the girl said no more I turned my attention back to the plane, which now taxied toward the runway. My body wanted to flee. Each time I took in air it didn’t seem to be enough, so I breathed in more.

  Did I smell fuel? My head went so buzzy I’d only heard half of the flight attendant’s speech. What was that about oxygen masks and exit doors and life vests? Oh, my. I fanned my face.

  I clutched at my heart, which was now beating itself to death. Would I pass out? Throw up? Go crazy? All the above? The cabin felt like a cauldron. Maybe the air conditioner was malfunctioning. Maybe deep within the belly of the plane other more important electrical devices were failing. Things that kept the plane aloft—things that kept us from plummeting to the earth in a fiery heap. I mashed my damp bangs away from my face.

  “Just so ya know …” The little girl crossed her legs. “I also found out that you can’t die of a panic attack.”

  Her tone came off so pragmatic I looked at her again just to make sure the words were coming out of her petite mouth. “How do you know I was having a panic attack?”

  She cocked her little Freudian head at me. “Classic symptoms.”

  Who was this kid? And where were her parents? I unbuckled my seat belt. “I don’t think I can do this.” I jumped up and bumped my head on the overhead storage.

  “We’re about to take off,” the girl said with maddening calmness.

  I collapsed back onto the seat and rubbed my throbbing head. The contents of my stomach threatened mutiny. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Here.” The girl handed me a little folded bag. “It’s a fresh one. Never been used.”

  I was in a tin can with wings, and there was no way out. The plane took off then. I gripped the armrest as the jet tilted upward at a steep angle. I was now officially airborne. My body felt a little weightless, but it might have been because I was sitting on the buckle of my seat belt, which made my posterior go numb.

  “Know what? You remind me of Eeyore.”

  It was that kid again. How could anyone make chitchat at a time like this?

  I said nothing to her, since I was busy concentrating on my terror, the vibration of my seat, and the roar of the jet. After she glared at me for a full minute, I asked, “Why do you say I remind you of Eeyore?”

  “You’re wearing Eeyore clothes, and it’s almost spring where we’re going,” she singsonged as if she couldn’t imagine anyone so ill-informed.

  I’d forgotten. If it’s nearing autumn in America it’s almost springtime in Australia. I’d barely thought of it. Perhaps the girl was right about my connection to Eeyore. Wait a minute. Did Eeyore even wear clothes?

  “Just so ya know … taking off and landing are the two most treach—”

  “Do you mean treacherous?”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Those are the two most treach-er-ous parts of the flight.” The girl wiggled her eyebrows while continuing to thrash on the wad of gum. “If we were going to die, it would have been back there. Of course, we could also crash on landing.”

  “Good to know. Thanks.” I continued to grip the armrests since I was somehow convinced that my gesture helped the pilots keep the plane in the air.

  “Just so ya know, I’m Jenny.” The girl held out her hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Mrs. Winter.” I let go of one of the armrests to shake her hand. “You may call me Lily.”

  “So, why was it so important for you to get on this flight?” The dainty psychiatrist turned her big, round eyes at me again. “Talking about it might help.”

  “Oh it’s a very long tale of woe. I’d hate to bore you.”

  “Hey, what else have we got to do? It’s better than thinking about our plane catching fire and bashing into the sea.” Her finger made a little nosedive into her palm.

  Cute. “True.” But I feared the telling of my story would be my undoing. Where could I begin, anyway? Maybe with the visit I’d had with my mother. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  She nodded her head with wild abandon.

  “Well, okay. My dark story starts with a recent visit I made to my mother’s house. It’d been ten years since the last time I’d seen my mother.”

  Jenny pursed her lips. “Nobody does that. Everybody has to see their mom, right?”

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t my choice. But when I got to my mother’s house, the visit turned out to be as shocking as sticking my finger into a light socket.” I frowned. “Don’t ever do that, by the way.”

  “I know.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “I’m not a child.”

  “Right. Okay. Well, in my story I also meet a woman named Dragan.”

  She giggled. “Sounds like dragon.”

  “True. Dragan was my mother’s housekeeper, and believe me, her name fit her well.”

  Jenny sat up poised, resting her cheek on her index finger. “I wanna know more.” She smacked her gum, waiting for me to go on.

  “All right.” Lord, be with me. I rested my head back on the seat, inviting the memory of that infamous day into my life.

  First a jumbled mess of sensations trickled in, making me shudder. Then mist burned my eyes, thinking of Mother’s notorious secret and a lifetime of deception. The smarmy residue from being in her house stole over me like a dark slithering fog. Soon that day—the one that changed my life—began to unfold in my mind, so intensely that the remembering and the telling of my story became one and the same….

  Standing at my mother’s front door, the seconds ticked by like a hundred frenzied clocks. I glanced around the old place, trying to ignore the negative self-talk in my head and Houston’s sweltering August heat, but it was no use. I’d already surrendered to both.

  The old plantation-style house still looked the same—its pillars like guards and its darkened windows like eyes that always stared at me without really seeing. Hmm. Suddenly, empty nest with my Julie off in college felt lonelier than ever.

  More seconds passed. Mother didn’t seem to be at home. Guess my thirty-minute drive across the city was in vain. But maybe that was best. It had been ten years, after all, and ten years was enough time for a goodbye to harden into something permanent. After hearing my pastor’s stirring message on reconciliation I had vowed to reach out to my mother—even though she didn’t want it—not just for my sake, but for Julie’s sake. For now, though, I’d have to let go of my promise.

  As I turned to leave, a deadbolt unlocked behind me. Oh, no. The front door moaned its way open as if wailing over my arrival. I hugged myself.

  A stranger stood in the doorway, loo
king as lost as I felt. “May I help you?”

  “Does Iris Gray still live here?” My voice made a flutter. “I’m her daughter.”

  The woman adjusted her red-rimmed glasses and blinked like the slow shutter speed on a camera. “But Mrs. Gray doesn’t have any children.”

  “I’m afraid she does.” I smoothed my dark pantsuit. “I’m Lily Winter … her only child.”

  “I’m Mrs. Dragan Humphreys.”

  What an odd name. Sounded Hungarian or something. The woman wore a faded Hawaiian muumuu, and her hair looked like a tossed salad, which gave her a bedraggled air. As my gaze wandered downward, I saw that she wore tattered red flip-flops too. Well, at least they matched her red-rimmed glasses.

  “Your mother never mentioned you.” The woman sort of impaled me with her words.

  “What? Wait.” Jenny suddenly interrupted my story, waving her hands. “What did that dragon woman mean? Your mother never talked about you?” My tiny flying companion looked at me with her hand over her gaping mouth.

  “I know. Hard to imagine. Even with our estrangement, it is shocking that my mother never mentioned anything about me.”

  The girl took my hand and squeezed. “You poor thing.”

  Where did Jenny come from anyway? So much sensitivity in such a little package.

  “Is that why you’re going to Australia? You’re running away from home?”

  “No, adults don’t run away from home.” Although maybe she had a point.

  “It’s a pretty good story so far. Does it have a happy ending?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed. “I’m still living the story.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jenny leaned toward me and drummed her fingers on the arm of the seat. “I’m not sleepy yet, so maybe you better tell me some more.”

  “All right.

  “My mother’s housekeeper, Dragan, pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose. ‘I guess I can see the resemblance,’ she said to me. ‘You have the same gray eyes as your mother and that sad Mona Lisa smile.’