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  Praise for As Waters Gone By

  “A tattered life finds rebirth in Cynthia Ruchti’s latest gem. Skillfully crafted, the characters step off the page as they struggle with questions of faith and forgiveness, ultimately discovering God’s plan for a new and beautiful future.”

  —Lisa Wingate, national best-selling author of The Prayer Box and The Story Keeper

  “This story is like one of the recipes served up at the Wild Iris Café—delicious, nourishing, and not to be missed. From the food to the setting, the winsome characters, and the beautiful wordsmithing, readers will escape to a remote island only to return nourished with the truths and healing found inside the pages. More than just a delightful and satisfying read, this story will give you hope.”

  —Susan May Warren, RITA & Christy Award-winning, best-selling author of the Christiansen Family series

  “Ruchti is one of the most beautiful writers in the market. Her newest novel, As Waters Gone By, is a mesmerizing and lovely tale of second chances and love that survives in spite of trials. Highly recommended!”

  —Colleen Coble, author of Seagrass Pier and the Hope Beach series

  “I just read the last page and closed the book with a deep, contented sigh. Emmalyn’s tender story transported me like no other story has in a very long time. I’ve read everything Cynthia Ruchti has written and declare this novel her best ever.”

  —Deborah Raney, author of The Face of the Earth and the Chicory Inn Novels series

  “Cynthia is adept at crafting tender stories of quiet hope. She includes just enough jagged-edged characters to make us see ourselves between the pages and opt for courage in our own lives. Her stories will stir your emotions and settle your heart by the time you turn the last page.”

  —Robin Jones Gunn, best-selling novelist and author of Victim of Grace

  “Ruchti has a way of wrapping the reader with her words . . . like a cozy blanket. As Waters Gone By is a touching, tender novel exploring the hard question of ‘How do you love when life doesn’t go your way?’ With a look at injustice, Ruchti brings her characters full circle into love and healing. She’ll take you there too. Excellent read.”

  —Rachel Hauck, award-winning, best-selling author of The Wedding Dress and How to Catch a Prince

  “Know how you keep a highlighter in your hand for underlining ‘jewels within the pages’ in your favorite nonfiction book? You’ll need one for Cynthia Ruchti’s latest work of fiction. You may even need two; As Waters Gone By is filled with them! Mine started with ‘Isn’t that what the homeless do? Wander?’ in chapter one and ended with ‘Daddy!’ in the final chapter.”

  —Eva Marie Everson, author of The Road to Testament

  “Cynthia Ruchti puts her readers in a ferry boat and takes us over waters of hope and forgiveness to new shores. With skill, she introduces us to unique characters that are relatable and loveable. Her prose warms the heart. The relationships falter between husband and wife, step-mother and child, daughter and mother and friends . . . and they change, just the way relationships do. As Waters Gone By is an authentic story told with grace. I loved this book!”

  —Jane Kirkpatrick, best-selling author of A Light in the Wilderness

  “With a cast of charmingly eccentric characters, Cynthia Ruchti once again brings a lyrically written story of trial-tested faith and hope that glimmers in the dark. As Waters Gone By is a stay-up-all-night story best read under a cozy quilt with a cup of hot chocolate and a large box of tissues.”

  —Becky Melby, author of Tomorrow’s Sun, Yesterday’s Stardust, and Today’s Shadows

  “A beautifully written story that will never let you go—a woman’s sacrifice to find the joy of love.”

  —DiAnn Mills, Christy Award-winning author of Firewall and Double Cross

  “With characters so real they jump off the page and into your life, As Waters Gone By is the newest don’t-miss release from award-winning author Cynthia Ruchti. I laughed and cried along with the main character throughout the true-to-life plot. Ruchti’s got another winner on her hands. Highly recommend.”

  —Robin Caroll, author of Hidden in the Stars

  “A feast for the soul. An exquisite blend of richly drawn characters, truth, and triumphant hope, As Waters Gone By is truly a book worth savoring.”

  —Jocelyn Green, award-winning author of the Heroines Behind the Lines Civil War series and co-author of The 5 Love Languages Military Edition

  “Cynthia Ruchti weaves hope with each beautifully written word through a love story that captures your attention—and your heart. With each turn of the page, As Waters Gone By captures God’s power to heal a heart, fan the flame of love, and connect distant hearts.”

  —Pam Farrel, author of 40 books, including best-selling Men Are Like Waffles, Women Are Like Spaghetti; Red Hot Monogamy; and 10 Best Decisions a Couple Can Make

  “Please. Read this book. It is deeply moving and profoundly important, especially in these days when our collective understanding of justice has gone awry. As the mother of an incarcerated son, I wept, laughed, and nodded vigorously as I related to both Emmalyn and Cora with their evolving and complicated thoughts and feelings. Ruchti writes, ‘How many humiliations had he known behind bars? And where did the line lie between “You deserve this” and “Designed to break you”?’ The humiliations and brokenness are experienced not only by the incarcerated person but everyone who cares about him. And yet, when justice, grace, and mercy roll down like waters, every heart can be healed. This book is one candle lighting that path.”

  —Sue Badeau, author of Are We There Yet: The Ultimate Road Trip Adopting & Raising 22 Kids, speaker and board member of Justice for Families

  Other Novels by Cynthia Ruchti

  They Almost Always Come Home

  When the Morning Glory Blooms

  All My Belongings

  Abingdon Press

  Nashville

  As Waters Gone By

  Copyright © 2015 by Cynthia Ruchti

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68299-810-6

  Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202

  www.abingdonpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Macro Editor: Jamie Chavez

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been requested.

  Scripture quotations unless noted otherwise are from the Common English Bible. Copyright © 2011 by the Common English Bible. All rights reserved. Used by permission. www.CommonEnglishBible.com.

  Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. All rights reserved throughout the world. Used by permission of International Bible Society.

  Scripture quotations marked (NLT) are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the ones from whose heartache

  this story is drawn

  And the One from whose heart

  hope is born.

  Acknowledgments

  Many of the same people infl
uence, inspire, or otherwise deserve acknowledgment for every book I write. I could start anywhere on the map of where this book has been and find key people who talked me through, prayed me through, or prodded me though each landmark.

  Thank you to my husband, Bill, for first showing me that enchanting island a ferry ride away from Bayfield, and for being willing to stop at that elbow in the road because I fell in love with a yellow-leafed tree and the water over its shoulder.

  Special thanks to Kelli Illick from Second Wind Country Inn for accompanying me back there on a blustery day to see if it still held the enchantment it once had. It did.

  I’m indebted—as always—to the team at Abingdon Press for their tender care of the stories I write, their attention to detail, their refusal to settle for less than the absolute best cover for each story, and their waves of endless encouragement. Ramona Richards, Cat Hoort, Katie Johnston, the marketing team and sales team, and all who serve as conduits of hope through story, thank you.

  Freelance editor Jamie Clarke Chavez held my feet to the flames, but in such a gracious way that I thought it was to warm my toes. Which it did. Jamie, your excitement about these characters lingers in my heart.

  I can’t imagine walking this writing journey without my agent, Wendy Lawton of Books & Such Literary Management. We live too many miles apart, but Wendy, I feel your influence on me and the impact of your wisdom as I write.

  Mike, thank you for helping me craft certain scenes with accuracy they couldn’t have had without your input.

  Jeannie, thank you for not holding back when I needed details about what it’s like to sustain a marriage that far away from the one you love. Bryan, thank you for loving her well. May your own story of boundless grace and dauntless hope reach far.

  My writing friends at ACFW, AWSA, CAN, and other associations are a much treasured source of encouragement. Those who’ve devoted themselves to walk the path with me—Becky, Michelle, Jackie, and my faithful readers—keep me from sliding into ditches.

  Family—nuclear and extended—you mean so much to me. Everything I write somehow traces back to my love for you and for the One from whose heart hope is born. May that hope anchor you, my incomparable family, and you, my cherished readers, no matter how severely the wind howls.

  You will surely forget your trouble,recalling it only as waters gone by.

  Job 11:16 NIV

  1

  Too far to swim.

  The moat-like stretch of Lake Superior glinted in the October sun as if the waves were rows of razor wire.

  Once her feet hit the island in the near distance, the floating drawbridge ferry drawn up for the night, the shore of Madeline Island would form the walls of her existence.

  Max talked about the concrete walls of his prison as if the confines protected him from the outside world. Was it too much to hope sand and rocks and deep water would do the same for her?

  Did I do the right thing, Max?

  One last ferry for the day. She’d missed the next to the last. Three minutes late. Only three minutes. The sluggish gas pump could be blamed. Or her failure to check the website for the ferry’s off-season hours. Emmalyn Ross had one more chance before dark, or she’d be forced to stay in Bayfield overnight, forced to talk to people, risk having to explain what she was doing there and why she was alone.

  Five years ago, she’d been three minutes late getting to Max’s desperate voice mail message. “Emi, I’m in trouble. Can you come get me?” His smudged words stuck like indelible mascara smears. She hadn’t noticed the message until he’d already left the restaurant-slash-tavern, until he’d already pushed the accelerator toward their incomprehensible future.

  A ferry attendant tapped on the car window. Emmalyn fumbled for the button to lower it. The rear window responded. Wrong button. She raised the rear window and lowered the driver’s.

  “Missed this one.” The attendant, a middle-aged woman with a portable credit card reader in hand, gave Emmalyn the impression she was a retired teacher in a second career.

  “I see that.” Emmalyn looked past the attendant at the maze of orange cones—any empty maze now—where vehicles must have waited for the ferry she was supposed to have taken.

  “There’s another.” The attendant pointed to the schedule in her hand. “Last one of the day. Wanna pay now? You can do that.”

  Why would Emmalyn hesitate?

  “Unless,” the attendant added, “you think you might change your mind.”

  “I can’t.”

  The attendant’s eyebrows registered surprise at the velocity of those two words.

  Emmalyn smiled a third-grade-picture-day smile that seemed normal at the start but stretched her lips too taut. “Yes, thank you. I’ll purchase my ticket now.” She had forty-five minutes or more to kill. Paying ahead would use up—

  Three of them.

  Across the water lay a room at—she checked the computer printout on the passenger seat—The Wild Iris Inn. When the attendant swiped her credit card, Emmalyn felt the now familiar reflex. The swipe sounded like the slash of a knife. It sliced a deeper gash in resources that at the peak of her career, before The Unraveling, could have borne a thousand swipes without a conscious thought.

  The house in Lexington—people always assumed Kentucky, not Minnesota—emptied quickly once she’d crunched numbers to a fine dust. Losing Max’s income, then losing hers when the economy decided chefs in high-end restaurants were expendable, and the slow demise of her catering venture . . .

  “Thank you.” She slid her credit card and the receipt into her purse and followed the attendant’s gestures for exiting the parking lot.

  Some towns chart well on graph paper. Nice, even streets. Identically sized blocks of buildings. Every street running either parallel to or perpendicular to the others. Not Bayfield, Wisconsin. It had more curiosity going for it than just its location on the northernmost point of the state, along the largest body of fresh- water in the world, within sight of the geographic and geologic curiosity of the Apostle Islands.

  Some streets wandered. A handful of them played by the rules. The rest curved and sauntered and climbed at steep angles—posing threats to weak clutches and tires on ice—or meandered until they ended abruptly at the water’s edge. The marina. The city park. The ferry line.

  Emmalyn resisted the lure of an organic coffee shop and the gift shops along Rittenhouse Avenue. She chose a wandering street. Seemed fitting. Isn’t that what the homeless do? Wander?

  At the elbow of the backstreet she’d chosen, she pulled her Prius to the curb beside a junkyard. No, a park. Both.

  Several decrepit boats sat at odd angles, paint worn away to its gray roots, boards missing, jagged holes in the hull, decks unsafe for their intended purposes. Shipwrecks. Emmalyn followed the path that wove among them. Hand-carved benches invited her to stop and take in the history of ships dragged from—or retired from—the waters a few feet away, and the well-landscaped garden tucked around the unseaworthy vessels.

  The deeper into the park she walked, the tighter her jaw tensed. “You don’t make gardens out of life’s shipwrecks.”

  A tenacious late-blooming rose—an intense fuchsia color—nodded toward her. She ignored it, driving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket.

  “Not from shipwrecks. I ought to know.”

  Emmalyn retraced her steps to the car. It held no appeal. She’d sat in the driver’s seat for six hours getting this far north, this far away from The Town That Knew Too Much. Half a block away, a massive boat—would it qualify as a yacht?—was being cinched onto a trailer hooked to a heavy-duty pickup. The boat dwarfed the truck so profoundly, it reminded Emmalyn of the tugboat pulling a cruise ship in a children’s book among those she’d collected. The lower two-thirds of the hull dripped water, like a fish held aloft by a proud fisherman.

  The book, buried now under other useless stuff in the storage unit, had probably seen its last peek at daylight. House. Life. Career. Hope of children. Gone. Marr
iage? Yet to be determined. What hadn’t she and Max messed up?

  The yacht, following obediently behind the truck, headed for winter quarters. A season of inactivity. A season. Not a lifetime.

  A ripple of irony’s laughter coursed through her. She was jealous of a boat’s hopes for the future.

  Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she crossed to a grassy area near the marina. She noted the gazebo first, then the playground beyond it. Of course. A playground. Pink noise—sweeter than white noise—lured her to the water’s edge. Waves against rocks. Startlingly clear water, burbling in pockets between the bowling ball–sized boulders lining this portion of the shoreline. Round and oval pebbles a hundred yards closer to the center of town. Sand beach somewhere. Rugged cliffs only a mile away. Such a changeable shoreline.

  Madeline Island stretched long and low in the distance. A twenty-minute ferry ride, if she remembered correctly. Against the expanse of green forest fancied up with the yellows, reds, and oranges of a north woods autumn, a spackling of white marked the landing spot in the village of LaPointe, the island’s only civilization center. A room waited for her not far from the landing. The real adventure wouldn’t begin until morning when it was light enough to survey the mess Max had gotten her into.

  Her wedding ring felt tight on her finger. The pretzels. Too much salt. In her thirties, salt hadn’t bothered her like this. When she hit forty . . .

  The day was grayer than she’d hoped. They all were. Scudding clouds made the marine blue shrink-wrap on the dry-docked boats all the brighter. Like a shower cap for watercraft, the plastic hugged the forms, protecting them from the winter too quickly approaching. Within a couple of months, the ferry would be retired, too, thwarted by ice several feet thick, she’d heard.

  A shiver wiggled its way north from her toes.

  She knew cold. She knew cold and lonely. Now she’d know cold, lonely, and stranded.