Lost and Found Read online

  Praise for Lost and Found

  A fascinating and helpful read about a woman caught in the web of another person's deceit, manipulation, crazy making, and abuse and how God gently opens her eyes and leads her step by step out of bondage and into freedom.

  —Leslie Vernick, counselor, speaker, coach, and author of The Emotionally Destructive Relationship

  Like an executive chef in a five-star restaurant, Ginny Yttrup serves up an exquisite story, breathtakingly rich, with layers of flavor and the choicest of ingredients. Her characters are precisely and artistically carved and set atop a decadent bed of circumstances that tug at both heart and soul, with a grace to match each flaw. A story simultaneously rare and well done!

  —Cynthia Ruchti, author of the Carol nominated novel They Almost Always Come Home, and one of the authors of the devotional collection His Grace is Sufficient . . . Decaf is Not

  From Ginny's understanding about life's challenges but also an abiding life with God, she offers us the sort of heroine I love: a drifting woman whose growing trust in God gives her courage to reexamine her approach to life and make gutsy decisions.

  —Jan Johnson, author of Enjoying the Presence of God and editor of Madame Guyon: An Autobiography

  Ginny Yttrup writes with fire as she probes the depths of passionate faith and healing friendship. Like the vines in the Bouvier vineyards, this plot twists and turns and always surprises.

  —Pamela Binning Lott, author of Dancing on Glass

  Lost and Found by Ginny Yttrup is an exquisitely written book, lyrical and poetic, charming in its presentation. More important, the message goes deep and takes the reader along on a pilgrimage toward the Father's heart, which is ultimately the purpose of every human being on the face of the earth. Thank you, Ginny, for reminding us of that simple fact in such a lovely and refreshing way.

  —Kathi Macias, speaker and author of more than thirty books, Golden Scrolls Novel of the Year Award, and Carol Award finalist

  Copyright © 2012 by Ginny L. Yttrup

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-7171-5

  Published by B&H Publishing Group

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: FRIENDSHIP—FICTION FAITH—FICTION PSYCHOLOGICAL ABUSE—FICTION

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version, copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.

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  To my soul friends . . .

  Laurie Breining—God drew us together for His purpose. Daily, you reflect Him to me—His mercy, His grace, and His unconditional love. I look forward to journeying together as He continues to reveal Himself and His purpose to each of us. You are a treasured gift.

  James Warrick—Life Coach and Spiritual Director. You walked alongside me as I learned what it meant to lose my life for Christ's sake. You showed me Christlike love and the comfort of the Holy Spirit. You live your life for Him and I'm honored to call you friend.

  Acknowledgments

  A NOVEL IS NEITHER written nor published alone; instead, it takes a community of unselfish souls sharing their knowledge and gifts. During the writing of Lost and Found I was blessed with such a community.

  Thank you to James Warrick, who quoted Madame Jean Guyon during one of our coaching conversations and set me on a road of discovery. Thank you, too, for your support as I learned what it meant to pick up my cross and follow Christ.

  Leslie Vernick, your book, The Emotionally Destructive Relationship, offers hope and healing to many. It changed my life. Thank you for the many hours you graciously spent reading this manuscript and advising me on characters and plot. May those who recognize themselves in the pages of our books turn to God for healing and freedom.

  Cretia Martinson, your training with the Meyers and Briggs' personality types and your willingness to share your knowledge with me as I created characters was both great fun and so helpful. Thank you.

  Dr. Orville Easterly taught me the important principle that when we live to please others we will always fail and we will always lose ourselves. I used that principle to inform this story and also as a direct quote from one of the characters. Thank you, Dr. Easterly.

  Thank you to Steve Burlingham, family law attorney, for your interest in my writing and your willingness to share your knowledge with me regarding family trusts. Your phone call with the exact answers I needed was invaluable. Your love for God is so evident and a gift to your clients.

  Thank you to Dee Bright, Neil and Sharol Josephson, and Laurie Breining. You each provided a refuge and a home for me as I wrote. As I pressed toward the deadline, Laurie cooked, cleaned, and kept the dogs quiet (a major feat) so I could write.

  Jan Johnson and Tricia Rhodes both shared their knowledge of Madame Guyon's life through their books and e-mails, answering my many questions and encouraging me. I am so grateful to both of you.

  Glenna Salsbury, your teaching on Matthew 10:39 was invaluable, and your friendship is a blessing.

  Thank you to Linda Sommerville for advising me on the scenes involving spiritual direction and for answering my many questions. I love calling you "friend."

  I owe a debt of gratitude to Rick Acker, who helped me move forward with the story by brainstorming the business and financial fraud plot with me. I couldn't have done it without your expertise.

  To my writers group and incredible friends who read early drafts of Lost and Found—you advised me (over and over), prayed for me, and cheered me on. I love you all!

  Karen Ball, editor and friend—I love working with you! Thank you for your wise insights and your willingness to let the story go where I wanted it to go. And thank you for talking me off the ledge a time or two when I was sure I wouldn't make my deadline.

  Steve Laube, as always, I value your expertise and advice as my agent. I also highly value your patience with my unending stream of questions.

  To my B&H Publishing family—you are a group of gifted souls who works hard each day for the glory of God. I am blessed by each of you.

  And finally, to my sons, Justin and Jared—Justin, you advised me on cars and always willingly answered my e-mails or texts about what cars are cool. Thank you. Jared, thank you for listening to me over lunch one day and offering insight into the business plot I was struggling with. Thank you both for your interest and enthusiasm in what God is doing through my books. Thank you, too, for your understanding when I had to say no to lunch or dinner dates because I was working. More than anything in the world, I LOVE being your mom!

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35<
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  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

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Dear Reader

  Discussion Questions

  What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.

  FREDERICK BUECHNER FROM GODRIC

  I am lost and hope never to find myself. God is.

  JEANNE GUYON

  Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.

  MATTHEW 10:39

  Lose yourself and you will find yourself again. In doing this you will begin to experience the new life.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER ONE

  Jenna

  I LOSE THINGS.

  Oh, I don't mean to, despite Brigitte's accusations.

  The latest items I've lost include a watch. Platinum. Diamond bezel. The one Brigitte loaned me until my own watch was repaired. I told her I'd keep it in the safe in our cedar-lined master closet. But . . .

  I noticed the watch missing the same evening I went to the safe to remove my wedding ring to wear to dinner. The ring was a family heirloom passed from Brigitte to the only Bouvier heir, Brigitte's son, Gerard. I pulled the ring from its black velvet box and slipped it onto my finger over the platinum band I wear every day. I looked down at it, and tiny, empty prongs mocked me.

  The four-karat, marquise-cut diamond was missing.

  I open the safe for what must be the hundredth time since last week and look again for the watch. I run my fingers over the shelves feeling for the loose diamond. But neither is there. I close the safe and sigh. The missing jewelry, I sense, is an outward manifestation of something inward.

  Gerard hasn't noticed the lost items. There is, it seems, a benefit to his detachment after all. Nor has he noticed the most essential thing I've lost.

  Myself.

  What isn't lost is the irony: Brigitte owns all three missing items.

  I walk from the closet and stand in front of the mirror in the master bedroom. Downstairs, I hear guests arriving. I take a deep breath and, out of habit, glance at my reflection. I don't allow my eyes to linger on the image reflected back to me. I turn with the intent of heading downstairs for the charity brunch Brigitte and Gerard are hosting this morning, but once I reach the first floor of the house, I turn toward the solarium rather than taking the final flight of stairs to the ballroom.

  I slip into the solarium through the open double doors. I ease the doors shut, not wishing to draw attention to my presence. I need a few moments alone. Time to prepare myself for the event ahead—the stares of those who don't know me.

  The averted glances of those who do.

  I used to enjoy such events—raising money for a worthy cause. I sat on the boards of various charities and planned many events. I built relationships. I found a place for myself. A purpose.

  But that was before.

  I walk to the middle of the room and stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which offer an expansive view of the city and the bay. I breathe deep and bow my head, releasing all thoughts of what is lost and focus instead on what is found.

  Solitude is my companion and peace its offered gift.

  Love swells within.

  With eyes closed against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, I feel a flutter against my cheek. I lift my hand and tuck the loosed strands of my dark hair behind my ear. A breeze swirls.

  Refreshing.

  Restoring.

  The aromas of honeysuckle and jasmine encircle me as the strains of a string quartet soar in crescendo. The wind catches the end of the chiffon scarf around my neck and it tickles my bare shoulder. My mind searches for words but none convey the stirring I sense. I wipe away the tears slipping to my chin.

  Wind rushes.

  Love calls.

  Somewhere behind me a door clicks shut. I raise my head, open my eyes, and strain to focus against the light. White linen fabric drapes across decorative rods and pools on the floor on either side of the paned windows around the room. The linen billows in the breeze.

  As my eyes focus, I step forward to close the windows, wondering who opened them. But then I see they are closed.

  Latched tight.

  The drapes settle.

  My breath catches and my skin prickles.

  "Jenna!"

  I jump.

  She hisses through clenched teeth. Her heels tap in military precision against inlaid marble as she comes up behind me. I turn from the windows to face her just as she reaches for me. Her acrylic nails dig into my upper arm.

  "We. Have. Guests."

  "Yes. I'll be right there. I'm sorry."

  I chide myself for apologizing—again.

  "You'll come now!"

  She pulls on my arm and I stumble. Once she has let go of me, I find my stride behind her. At seventy-six her gait is still swift. With each step she takes the red soles of her Christian Louboutin pumps flash against the white, gray, and black marble of the solarium floor. When she reaches the doors, she stops. I stumble again, trying not to bump into her. She turns on one heel and looks at me. Her gaze lands on the jagged scar that follows what was my jawline on the left side of my face, pulling my mouth into an awkward smirk. "You called Dr. Bernard, yes?"

  Her French roots slip out in her phrasing. There are times her accent almost sings. Other times, like now, it drips with the attitude so often attributed to the French: disdain.

  "No." I lift my chin intending to meet her gaze, but with just one glance my heart beats like the wings of a hummingbird and I end up staring at the floor.

  "I'll call him myself. I've told you, he can fix . . . that."

  "It isn't that simple." I force my gaze to meet hers.

  "Mais oui, it is." Then her look moves to the red, crescent-shaped welts on my arm. "Slip your cardigan over your shoulders before you return to our guests." She opens the door and speaks to one of the staff in the hallway. "Hannah, find Jenna's cardigan and bring it to her." With that, she turns and walks out.

  I wrap my arms around myself and exhale. I turn back toward the wall of windows and see the bay glistening in the distance. I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath—the scent of honeysuckle hangs in the air. Just as I turn to go, I notice the drape on the end window nearest the French doors stir and billow again. I smile and feel the right side of my mouth rise up to meet the left side.

  "Jenna, your sweater." The staff dispensed with Mrs. Bouvier soon after I arrived—not out of familiarity, or even fondness, as I would have hoped, but instead upon her orders. Hannah reaches to place the sapphire sweater, the exact color of my eyes, over my shoulders, but stops.

  "You'd better put it on." She holds the sweater out for me as I slip my arms into each sleeve. "You also better watch yourself and stop wandering off. You know your role here. Madame Bouvier's made that clear."

  Hannah looks at my jaw. Do I imagine her sneer? She turns and walks out ahead of me. I hesitate at the open door. The quartet plays, glasses clink, conversation drones. I lower my gaze to the floor.

  Yes. I know my role. Help me . . .

  I make my way across the formal entry, and
down the staircase to the lower level ballroom. The ballroom shares the same exposure as the solarium and opens to the gardens surrounding the mansion. The San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge set a stunning backdrop.

  The Georgian-style mansion was built in 1912 and is one of the crowning jewels of the Pacific Heights area. An invitation to a soiree at the Bouvier home is coveted in many circles. Even today's brunch, a benefit for the de Young Museum, is a gold star on the social credentials of those who paid to attend.

  I walk into the ballroom and stop a moment to admire the scene. The room is set with round tables, covered in pale sage damask, with tall fluted vases burgeoning with trailing ivy and white spring blooms as centerpieces. The china is the finest antique Limoges paired with Baccarat crystal and antique French silver, each piece stamped with a boar's head. The staff floats among the guests serving flutes of Domaine de la Bouvier St. Helena 2004.

  I take a glass offered by one of the servers and drain the flute of champagne, then return the glass to the tray and reach for another. I take a deep breath and exhale. My heart rate returns to somewhere near normal and I attempt to put the scene with Brigitte out of my mind. I've become adept at denial, but now, it seems, there's a chink in the gear of that mechanism.

  "There you are." Gerard places his hand on the small of my back and guides me to the head table. "We've been waiting on you. The committee chair wants to make a toast to the hosts before brunch is served. Stay close, Jenna." Gerard, with a slight nod of his head, signals my arrival to the waiting de Young trustee.

  A knife clinking against a Baccarat flute calls the guests to attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank our gracious hosts, Madame Brigitte Bouvier and Mr. and Mrs. Gerard Bouvier . . ."

  I raise my glass and sip, this time allowing the bubbles to play on my tongue.