Toils and Snares

  An Alaskan Grace Christian Suspense Novel

  Alana Terry

  Note: The views of the characters in this novel do not necessarily reflect the views of the author, nor is their behavior necessarily condoned.

  The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form (electronic, audio, print, film, etc.) without the author’s written consent.

  Copyright © 2024 Alana Terry

  Scriptures quoted from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

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  Contents

  1. CHAPTER 1

  2. CHAPTER 2

  3. CHAPTER 3

  4. CHAPTER 4

  5. CHAPTER 5

  6. CHAPTER 6

  7. CHAPTER 7

  8. CHAPTER 8

  9. CHAPTER 9

  10. CHAPTER 10

  11. CHAPTER 11

  12. CHAPTER 12

  13. CHAPTER 13

  14. CHAPTER 14

  15. CHAPTER 15

  16. CHAPTER 16

  17. CHAPTER 17

  18. CHAPTER 18

  19. CHAPTER 19

  20. CHAPTER 20

  21. CHAPTER 21

  22. CHAPTER 22

  23. CHAPTER 23

  24. CHAPTER 24

  25. CHAPTER 25

  26. CHAPTER 26

  27. CHAPTER 27

  28. CHAPTER 28

  29. CHAPTER 29

  30. CHAPTER 30

  31. CHAPTER 31

  32. CHAPTER 32

  33. CHAPTER 33

  34. CHAPTER 34

  35. CHAPTER 35

  36. FROM THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Last night, I dreamed I went back to the cabin. The wind rushed against my face as I rode my father’s four-wheeler down the familiar wooded path. The summer sun shone through the trees. I breathed in the fresh air, trying to remember the last time I felt so at peace. So alive.

  And then the cabin came into view, not the trash heap that exists today, but the charming cottage of my memory. Mom would cluck her tongue and tell me it was only for a few weeks, remind me that if I wanted to come home I could drive the four-wheeler to the lodge and call her to pick me up early. And I would laugh and tell her that as soon as summer was over I’d be back with her in Anchorage, with its traffic lights and its noise pollution and its depressing concrete sidewalks. I’d voluntarily return with her to that world where litter floated around empty parking lots, where Mom and I stressed together over the money that wasn’t in the bank, where landlords could force you to move with only a month’s notice, where Mom and I fantasized together of a better life without care or worry. For three seasons of the year, I was her anxiety-ridden shoulder to cry on, a younger version of her care-worn self.

  But not in summer. In summer, I wasn’t the shy girl who alarmed her schoolteachers because I was skinny and malnourished. I was Snow White, spending my enchanted days outside with woodland creatures, cheerfully keeping house for not seven, but one mysterious forest dweller I adored more than life itself. There I spent the happiest days of my childhood, my fingers stained nearly black from the juice of the wild blueberries, my skin bronzed and freckled from the 24-hour sunlight that streamed in as I trudged behind my father, who hiked and fished and tracked black bears. There I learned the distinct sounds of the Alaskan wilderness, recognizing every bird call, knowing the time of day or night by the angle of the sun, breathing in fresh mountain air so pure that when I returned home ready to start another agonizingly tedious school year in Anchorage, I felt like the city air might suffocate me.

  The cabin of my childhood no longer exists. I know that if I were to find my way down that overgrown path today, what waited for me at the end of the trail wouldn’t be a tangible representation of all the happy magic of my younger self. Instead of my summer home, there would be only rubble and ash. A pile of debris, a makeshift memorial, and memories I’m not strong enough to confront.

  I’m no longer a girl, running carefree through the mountains. Now I’m a woman, my soul burdened with the crushing weight of all the truths I know … truths I can never go back in time and change, no matter how hard I wish.

  No matter how hard I pray.

  CHAPTER 2

  “You were talking in your sleep again,” my roommate tells me.

  I try to wipe away the fogginess from my brain as I rub my aching temples. “Sorry,” I respond. “What did I say?”

  Becca shrugs. “The usual.” She looks at me with so much sympathy and understanding that I wish I hadn’t asked. I look away, feeling ashamed and exposed.

  “Anyway,” Becca says, “I’m late. I’ve got to be at work in ten minutes or Danny will lose her mind.”

  I’m thankful that Becca knows me well enough to change the subject, and I look at the clock. “You want me to start some coffee for you?”

  “Nah,” Becca answers as she flashes me that winsome smile that gets her so many great tips at Danny’s Diner. “The way you make it, you’d put me into a sugar coma. I’ll get my caffeine fix at work.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I tease. “You won’t have a single minute to yourself your entire shift.”

  Becca grins. “You miss the bustle, admit it. By the way, did I ever tell you that the guys at Table 20 still ask about you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Only every single day.”

  I don’t want to talk about the diner. I don’t want to tell Becca that I actually miss working at Danny’s. It would feel like a sort of betrayal, especially with as much time as we used to spend together complaining about the hard work and the more miserable customers we still had to serve with plastered-on smiles, degrading ourselves for the hope of a better tip, draining our energy for a dollar here, an extra percentage point there. Sometimes I feel like the most ungrateful woman in the state of Alaska.

  Who but a masochist would actually miss working at a place like that?

  A few minutes later, I’m sitting at the table, staring into a cup of steaming coffee when Becca steps into the kitchen. She tosses me a bridal magazine she picked up last week. “You chosen your design yet?”

  I fidget with the ring on my finger, still unaccustomed to its feel, still not entirely convinced the last year hasn’t been some sort of bizarre dream. Maybe James doesn’t even exist. I’ve created some elaborate fantasy to cope with the horror show my life has felt like ever since my father’s death, my mother’s diagnosis. I’m a vivid enough daydreamer I wouldn’t put it past me.

  “Hello? This is Earth calling Daphne Winters. Come in, Daphne?”

  I glance up at my roommate and blush. She’s always catching me drifting off into my own world of thoughts. “What did you say?”

  “I asked if you liked that Lily Beaumont empire gown I earmarked.”

  I look at Modern Bride and the multicolored Post-Its Becca has plastered on every other page. “Yeah,” I answer even though I have no idea which specific gown she’s referencing. “It was nice.”

  “Nice?” Becca’s eyes widen. “Girl, if I were engaged to a Maxwell, I’d be channeling my inner Bridezilla and demanding that Lily Beaumont herself personally make me some kind of custom design.” She grins mischievously. “What’s the point of marrying into all that oil money if you don’t plan on using at least some of it?”

  Talk like this about my future in-laws makes me uneasy. Becca knows I’d be in love with James if he lived in a tent next to Ship Creek. The fact that his family is so well-known in Anchorage feels like a liability more often than an asset, especially given my past.

  I let out a sigh. I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I’m more nervous this morning than normal. Yesterday was the day our engagement announcement appeared in the paper, and I’ve been on edge ever since. I hate being the center of attention, and I’m terrified that someone will see it, someone from my hometown, someone who knows the hidden truths about my past and where I come from.

  Becca slings her purse across her shoulder. “You have any big plans for the day?”

  I keep staring into my coffee. “Mrs. Maxwell’s stopping by this morning.” I can’t for the life of me remember if we’re meeting with the wedding planner, interviewing caterers, going over guest lists, or something else entirely.

  Becca’s shaking her head at me, that look I know so well, the one that says, You have no idea how good you’ve got it. “Well, ask her if any of her fancy rich friends have any handsome, eligible sons and send them over to my section at Danny’s. It’s no fair that you get all the good luck.”

  I force a smile, but Becca’s already turned her back and grabbed her keys. “All right, Starry Eyes, I’ve gotta run.” She looks over her shoulder and flashes me one last dazzling grin. “Some of us plebes still have to work for a living, you know.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Once Becca leaves, I refill my coffee and add enough sweetener to waken the dead, which in a way is exactly my aim. Seated on a folding chair at the card table Becca and I use as a dining room set, I let the steam from the mug rise to my face. It’s still early, and I have hours stretching out ahead of me before Mrs. Maxwell and I are scheduled to meet. I get anxious every time I even think about James’ mom, so I banish her from my mind and prepare my space.

  I remove my roommate’s dinner leftovers from the wobbly table, along with a few pieces of junk m
ail and Becca’s gifted copy of Modern Bride. Now that I have room to work, I grab my backpack and spread out my supplies. Ever since I first heard of the idea of a prayer trigger, unpacking my bag has taken on almost ritualistic qualities. The individual items each remind me to pray for something specific, and I’ve matched the first letters of each of my supplies to something on my prayer list.

  As I take out my journal, I pray for James. The mnemonic is easy to remember, J for journal as well as my fiancé’s first name. I figure with our different backgrounds and family histories, we need all the help we can get as we prepare to start our lives together, and so I hold my notebook in my hands and the love of my life in my heart.

  Next comes out my sketch pad. The S reminds me to pray for the sisters of mercy who take care of my mom. It’s not a religious nursing home, and her favorite caretaker, Gus, is a guy friend I’ve known since high school, but somehow the association was made and now it sticks.

  The pens I pull out make me think of a pulpit, and so I pray over the church that James pastors. Technically, Anchorage Grace is my church home too, although after all this time attending, I still wonder when I’ll start to actually feel like I belong. These thoughts signal dangerous territory, however, so I quickly pull out my Bible and open to the Song of Solomon.

  Sometimes, Scripture journaling feels like one more thing to check off my list, nothing more than a somewhat unique way to have my quiet time with God before I jump into the busier parts of my schedule. But this morning, with hours of free time stretching out before me, I allow myself to daydream as I copy various verses, changing up the fonts and the colors with no obvious pattern or plan, trusting my creative instinct to make the final product something cohesive and complete by the time I’m done.

  I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine … It’s still so hard for me to wrap my brain around the fact that I’m here, doodling in my prayer journal, asking God to bless my engagement and future marriage to James Maxwell. Not all that long ago, I wouldn’t have dared to dream a love story like ours was even remotely possible. I think back to the first day we met last year. Becca and I were enjoying a much-appreciated lull between the breakfast and lunch crowds at Danny’s when she grabbed me by the arm and eyed the man who just walked in the door. He was tall, confident, well-dressed, the exact type of customer my roommate loved to ogle.

  “Flip a coin?” she asked, but I told Becca it was up to the hostess whose section he sat in. Sometimes she teases that she wishes she’d taken her chances with a coin toss. I know it’s a joke, good-natured. Nothing at all like the rumor that later started circling Danny’s, the speculation that James’ mother secretly paid the hostess to seat her son in my section, as if someone like me needed to be handpicked by my future mother-in-law in order for a man like James to even notice me. I did my best to ignore the whispers, even though they did nothing to bolster my already shaky self-esteem.

  “They’re just jealous,” Becca would always remind me. “God knows if I had the chance I’d love for someone rich and handsome to swoop in and rescue me from a life of waiting tables.”

  The irony was that in spite of how desperately Becca wanted to find true love, romance was the farthest thing on my mind when I met James last summer. My mom had recently moved into a nursing home. She was only in her fifties, but early-onset dementia had already been stripping away her identity for several years. I was still reeling from the guilt of abandoning her, suffocating under the grief, mentally and spiritually exhausted from watching our worst nightmares come true as she deteriorated before my eyes. I spent my days back then in such a stupor, I didn’t even notice James return and become a regular in my section until Becca pointed it out.

  And in case I ever wonder if miracles really do happen, one year later I’m here with my Bible journal, wearing the Maxwell family heirloom on my left hand.

  You are altogether beautiful, my darling. My pens move as fast as my thoughts, first flitting to memories of the diner, of James’ sweet nature and charm, the night he proposed, how happy we are together. My colors darken and my thoughts shift to my mother, the hymns she used to sing to me, the light shining in her eyes before snuffed out by disease, her brain, shriveled now both literally and figuratively, the day I drove her to the Pioneer Peaks Nursing Home and left her there, my heart splintering into pieces like shards of breaking ice.

  I miss my mom even though I visit her every single day.

  I miss her so much.

  My cell phone beeps, and I glance at the incoming text. Morning. Hope you slept well last night!

  I smile and type James a response, adding a cute little gif of two cartoon bunnies hugging under a heart. It’s cheesy, but I want him to know how much I love him, how excited I am to be starting our lives together. If it was up to me, we’d have a simple wedding as soon as practically possible, but James’ mom seems convinced that you need at least a year and a half to plan an appropriate ceremony. As soon as the engagement ring was on my finger, his family expected me to quit my job at Danny’s Diner and spend my days as a full-time bride-to-be. The good news is I’m not bored. A flexible part-time job at the church, daily visits to my mom, and time spent with James and his family keep me plenty busy. So much has changed in this past year this gift of time could be seen as a blessing, at least when you look at it in a certain light.

  I stare at my journal, trying to decide what else it needs. Next I plan to color something to hang on Mom’s wall. She’s lost the ability to read, but I still try to do what I can to keep her room bright and cheerful. If I were living in that home, I’d want any extra splash of color I could get my hands on. The thought leaves me with that all-too familiar sense of guilt. Maybe now that I have more freedom in my schedule I should consider moving her in with me. I’ve ruminated over the idea almost every day, spent hours talking about it with Gus at the home, but as many times as I’ve examined the issue from every conceivable angle, the logistics don’t add up. Mom gave up her lease when we moved her into Pioneer Peaks, and rent in Anchorage has become exorbitant since then. We’d never find something for the price she was paying. As for this place, I can’t just kick Becca out, and even if I didn’t have a roommate, this little third-story apartment isn’t designed to accommodate an Alzheimer’s patient with gait issues.

  Once James and I get married, we could move Mom into the spare bedroom of the parsonage. Right now there’s nothing in there but a bookshelf, an old rocking chair, and a doggy bed for his springer spaniel. In addition to his salary from the church, James still has a trust his grandparents set up as well as shares from when he used to work for his dad’s oil company. I don’t know all his financial details, but he’s certainly well off enough that we could pay for a hospital bed and minor adjustments to make the log cabin more accessible.

  But as hard as it is to admit, what my mother needs is a round-the-clock caretaker. All my love for her aside, she’s simply too much for me to watch over by myself.

  The thought makes me cringe, and the shame has poured itself onto my journal where I’ve doodled half a dozen looming spirals in dark blacks and blues and browns. No, that’s not what I wanted. I flip to a blank page. Maybe it’s not the right type of mood to be in Song of Solomon. When I’m bombarded with guilt and anxiety and every other negative emotion in the thesaurus, my usual portion of Scripture is Psalms, which is where I turn now, waiting for the right verse to catch my attention.

  Keep me safe, my God, for in you I take refuge. Before I know what’s happening, the words are on paper, scrawling teals and magentas that cover the entire sheet. My heart’s racing with an almost indescribable excitement, a reckless abandon where I’m lost in my art, my prayers, my creation.

  Keep me safe, my God, for in you I take refuge. The letters are done, but now the artistic maximalist in me won’t stop until there’s not a single white spot on the paper. I don’t know if it’s minutes that pass or hours, all I know is that when I’m done, I hardly remember the work I did at all. It’s almost as if I’m looking at someone else’s artwork for the very first time.

  Keep me safe, my God, for in you I take refuge. The verse is calming, meant to give promises of hope and assurance. The rest of the page is a splash of colors and shapes and emotion. And then the abstract begins to coalesce in my field of vision. It’s happened to me before so now I don’t even bother to wonder at the process. While working, I’m adding colors and textures and shade in what feels like a random manner, but then after I look at the final piece, I often see images and meaning I never consciously chose to convey. That’s what happens to me now, and I feel a heavy sinking in my heart.