Betsy St. Amant - Return To Love

The families slowly began to disperse, but Carter remained fixed against the wall, his legs unable to move and his heart unwilling to let them. He had to see Gracie, talk to her. But what would he say—sorry for the last seven years of silence? Sorry for not finding you at my father’s funeral? Sorry for that night on the pier that ruined a lifetime of friendship? Nothing seemed sufficient, nothing seemed capable of quelling that distrust in her eyes.

She’d never believe the truth even if he told her.

And why would she? Disloyalty was all she knew from him, all he’d ever bothered to show. Regret coated his stomach, and Carter blinked against the emotion rising in his throat. Seeing Gracie after all this time rendered him somewhat senseless. But he was a changed man now. And it was time to show her.

loves polka-dot shoes, chocolate and sharing the good news of God’s grace through her novels. She has a bachelor’s degree in Christian Communications from Louisiana Baptist University and is actively pursuing a career in inspirational writing. Betsy resides in northern Louisiana with her husband and daughter and enjoys reading, kickboxing and spending quality time with her family.

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If you, O Lord, kept a record of sins, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness; therefore you are feared.

—Psalms 130:3–4

To my daughter, Audrey. You were with me from the

beginning of this novel, even before either of us knew.

I love writing books with you!

Thank you to my husband, Brandon—

your encouragement keeps me going. I love you!

Also to my parents—deadlines are much easier to

meet when you willingly babysit! And to my

Super Agent, Tamela, and my awesome editor

Emily—you guys are the best.

An extra special thank-you to Tom Dyer at the

Aquarium of the Americas. You answered endless

questions about your beloved birds, and I’m so

grateful for your patience and help.

And a huge thank-you to Dallas Weeks, a talented

singer, songwriter and friend who generously allowed

me to use the lyrics to “Blue Eyes” in this story.

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

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Questions for Discussion

Feeding time—Gracie Broussard’s favorite part of the day at the Aquarium of the Americas. It was worth the chaos, watching a dozen or more awe-stricken young faces press against the display glass in glee. Sometimes she didn’t know who bounced the most—the excited children, or the penguins.

She stroked the top of Ernie’s slick head, then leaned over to check the thermometer in the pond. Still sixty degrees. She wiped her wet fingers on her khakis. Ernie let out a high-pitched squawk.

“I know, little man. I feel the same.” She grinned and adjusted the microphone clipped to the collar of her tan polo. Time to perform. Several families were already gathered in the dim walkway. One child mashed his lips against the glass and made a fish face.

Gracie smiled. She used to be nervous speaking in front of the visitors each day, but the more she did it, the more she realized the facts and statistics she rattled off during the short presentation were all but ignored in light of the spunky black-and-white birds at her feet.

“Hello, there, and welcome to Aquarium of the Americas. I’m Gracie, and these are my favorite guys in the world.” She gestured to the penguins, some perched on the rock display, others diving into the murky waters.

Her assistant Jillian entered the exhibit through the side door, a five-gallon bucket of fish in her hand. The penguins waddled toward her on cue. Huey and Gumbo fought for position on the slippery rocks, and a little girl in the hallway laughed.

Gracie brushed some feathers from a boulder near the pond and perched on the edge as Jillian settled beside her, notebook balanced on her knees. “These are African penguins, and as you can tell, they’re just a little hungry.”

The adults smiled and the children pressed their hands against the window as if hoping to reach right through and touch the birds.

“As I tell you about my friends here, Jillian will record the data of each penguin’s feeding habits. These records help us determine which penguins are sick, and which species of fish each bird prefers.”

Gracie plucked a slimy squid from the bucket at her feet and offered it to Ernie. He mashed it in his beak once, then tossed up his head in approval. The fish slid down his throat, with a little help from his tight neck muscles. Jillian jotted the note in her record book.

“Most of you probably know penguins can’t fly.” Gracie tossed a fish to Gumbo and glanced at the group gathered around the glass as she reached for another. As she continued to expand on the many wonders of her feathered friends, she let her gaze wander over the gathered crowd. She stopped mid-sentence when she saw a familiar mop of curly brown hair and a pair of broad shoulders.

Her heartbeat quickened. That hair, that stance…No, it couldn’t be, not here in New Orleans. She’d left him—no, actually, he’d left her—seven years ago on his parents’ private dock on Cypress Black Bayou Lake. Walked away with that guitar pick he was always fiddling with, a curt nod of his head…and her heart. But regardless how much time had passed, there was no mistaking the dimple in his chin or that square jaw.

Gracie’s heart pounded in her chest, and she was sure the crowd could hear it on the other side of the glass. No, no, it can’t be him. But the truth refused to be denied.

The sleeves of his rust-colored sweater were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the muscular lines of his forearms. She couldn’t help staring through a foggy lens of memory. Those strong, tanned arms that once hoisted her from the murky waters of the Black Bayou onto the pier, that wrapped around her shoulders in comforting side-hugs, that arm-wrestled her for a week’s worth of chewing gum, now were crossed firmly over his chest—a much wider, broader chest. Laugh lines softened the once hard planes of his face, and a layer of dark stubble clung to his lower jaw. Time had been awfully fair to Carter—which was a lot more than he deserved.