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  Praise for Ginny Yttrup

  Writers and readers alike have been singing the praises of Ginny Yttrup since her debut novel Words. Now I understand what all the excitement is about! Her writing is fresh, winsome, and deeply spiritual. Faith isn’t merely a thread woven through the story; faith is the fabric upon which Invisible is stitched with a loving hand. Healing and hope can be found among these pages—not only for each character, but for the reader as well. A fine effort from one of Christian fiction’s brightest new voices.

  —Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times

  best-selling author of Mine is the Night

  Ginny Yttrup is one of the new luminous writing stars on the Christian fiction horizon. Her words inspire my spirit and grip my consciousness like few others do. She received the Christy award for her debut novel Words. Publishers Weekly described her second book Lost and Found as inspirational and entertaining. I have the happy privilege of commending her third book Invisible as yet another inspiring and riveting story of a woman who learns her dress size does not rule out romantic love. She can cook and eat but can she allow her heart to be fed as well? Her struggle with self-image and the ever-present inner voice of condemnation is a recognizable battle we all wage against the hurtful messages from our past. You will be encouraged, entertained and energized by the message of Invisible.

  —Marilyn Meberg, speaker and writer with

  Women of Faith and author of Constantly Craving

  In Lost and Found by Ginny Yttrup, Jenna Bouvier used to have it all. Marriage to a wonderful man, wealth and a wealthy lifestyle, good health, and she had her freedom. Now she’s losing her hold on her life. She’s not in good health and has some physical side effects, she feels like she’s losing her husband, and now her controlling mother in law wishes to have total and complete control of every facet of Jenna’s life.

  As Jenna goes through some upheaval, she finds a true friend in a spiritual advisor named Matthew. He helps her learn how to walk the Christian walk with integrity. They have such a unique connection to each other that it’s amazing to watch their friendship and spiritual advisement grow. But when Jenna’s mother-in-law tries to intervene, Jenna has some weighty decisions to make. Will she continue to follow the path she believes God has put her onto? Or will she bow to the wishes of others as she has always done?

  A deeply moving story that will hit each reader differently. It will bisect your own walk no matter where you are at in that walk with God. Be seeing the flaws of Jenna and other characters, such as Jenna’s brother’s girlfriend, Andee, we can recognize glimpses of ourselves. I was amazed at the twists and turns in the road and how one person’s path would bisect another’s road. I loved watching God map everything out to eventually bring glory to Him. I also appreciated the insight into the lives and thoughts of those who are abused or oppressed. Jenna faces a lot of mental and emotional abuse and hearing her inner thoughts helps give the reader a new understanding and sensitivity to those in an abusive relationship.

  —One Upon a Romance

  Invisible, Digital Edition

  Based on Print Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Ginny L. Yttrup

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-7168-5

  Published by B&H Publishing Group

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: SELF-ACCEPTANCE—FICTION SELF-ESTEEM—FICTION SELF-DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR—FICTION

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

  To my grandmother, Enid Virginia Foster

  Thank you for the many times through the years that you’ve told me I’m beautiful. You’ve helped me to believe it’s true. I love you.

  Acknowledgments

  I spent a month living in Mendocino, California, the setting of Invisible, as I wrote this book. It is a month of my life I will cherish forever. A few days of that month were spent with dear friends who came to visit, but the rest of the time I was alone. I sat in a soft leather chair, gazing out a picture window at the rugged coastline and always-changing sea and sky. Mesmerized by the beauty of God’s artistry, I found writing difficult. I also struggled with nagging health issues that made writing a challenge. In fact, the emergency room scene in this book came directly from my own experience—I just changed the names and added a handsome doctor.

  I returned home with an incomplete manuscript and an unmet deadline. So first, I want to thank my gracious fiction team at B&H Publishing Group for understanding my health needs and extending my deadline. I am so grateful for the work each of you does and the love with which you do it. Thank you also to Karen Ball, my fabulous editor and friend. You flexed your schedule several times for this manuscript and, as always, made it better than it was when you received it.

  God’s timing is always perfect, even when we believe we’ve failed, and my late manuscript was no exception. Because of the delay, I connected with two wonderful authors and speakers after my original deadline. They consulted with me, offering their expertise and experience as I finished the manuscript, and then gave their endorsements of Invisible. Thank you, Liz Curtis Higgs and Marilyn Meberg—you are both delightful to work with and God blessed me through each of you.

  I also want to thank my dear friend, Dr. Laurie Clark. Laurie, you offered your medical knowledge each time I asked a question either about Ellyn or about myself. You advised me to seek medical attention while I was in Mendocino, which was exactly what I needed. You are gracious, patient, lovely, and so dear. I love our friendship.

  Thank you, Anna Rathbun, for the month of nutritional advice and research you offered while I was in Mendocino. I returned home stronger and a few pounds lighter. Thank you, too, for the tour of Corners of the Mouth and access to the store and you during that month. I am grateful for all I learned from you.

  A special thank you to the writers who connected with me through the ACFW e-mail loop when I asked if anyone was willing to share their personal experience with anorexia nervosa. You know who you are. I appreciate your vulnerability and the information you shared with me.

  I am especially grateful to my writers group who prayed me through this book along with a host of other dear friends. Your prayers were needed and appreciated. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Rebecca Qualls, who read this manuscript as I wrote and offered her insight and encouragement along the way.

  James Warrick, you told me several times not to edit my life as I wrote this book. So, I didn’t. Thank you. This is a work of fiction but there is a lot of me in these pages. And Laurie Breining, you are a great and patient cheerleader.

  Beth Thompson, thank you for stepping away from your own writing one afternoon while we were in Mendocino together and brainstorming titles with me for this book. We landed on the perfect one.

  I am awed, as always, by the depth of my Heavenly Father’s love and His consistent provision for me. Lord, I will always remember the days we spent together in a little house in Mendocino overlooking the grandeur of Your creation. Thank you for that precious time.

  So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.

  Genesis 1:27

  Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering.

  Saint Augustine

  Now to the Ki
ng eternal, immortal, invisible, the only God, be honor and glory forever and ever. Amen.

  1 Timothy 1:17

  Who will enable me to find rest in you? Who will grant me that you come to my heart and intoxicate it, so that I forget my evils and embrace my one and only good, yourself?

  Saint Augustine

  Chapter One

  Ellyn

  I love butter.

  If stranded on a deserted island, given the choice between a pound of butter and a man, Honey, you know I’d choose the butter. Any woman worth her weight can catch a fish and I’m worth every plentiful pound. I don’t need a man to provide. But barbeque that fish over an open flame without a drizzle of liquid gold, and all you have is dandruff-dry flakes of flavorless flesh. With butter? That same flaky flesh becomes a gourmand’s delight.

  But do I love butter more than I love God?

  That question nibbles at my peace, like I nibble at a cookie when others are watching.

  I tap the rubber spatula I’m holding against the bowl on the mixer. It’s a ridiculous question. I tap again. Butter and God can’t be compared—that’s like comparing baklava and broccoli.

  But if it’s so ridiculous then why does it leave dainty bites in my sense of serenity?

  The Hobart HL600 mixer drones, but not loud enough to muffle the ongoing debate in my head. In my heart, I don’t want to love anything or anyone more than I love God. But in my stomach . . .

  Stop condemning yourself, Ellyn.

  I set the spatula down, swipe my index finger across the pound of butter softening on a marble slab on the kitchen’s stainless countertop, and then stick the finger into my mouth. My taste buds dance at the sweet cream and hint of salt. I lick my finger clean. “Mmm . . . heaven.”

  Paco, my sous chef, walks past and swats my upper arm with a towel. “Hey, Ellyn, you have a phone call. Time to stop flirting with the butter, Bella.”

  Doubt returns. See, even Paco knows where my loyalty lies—or at least my attraction. I grab a towel and use it to mop my forehead, then walk to the sink, wash my hands, and dry them on the apron tied around my waist. I remove the apron and toss it, along with the towel, in a basket for the laundry service. I run my hands over my black chef’s coat, smoothing it over my hips.

  I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing beached-whale white.

  Then I turn, sidestep through the entrance to the office, and pick up the receiver. “Hello, this is Ellyn.”

  “Ellyn, this is Dee at Dr. Becker’s office calling to confirm your appointment. 9:00 a.m., Monday the 29th.”

  I lean back in the desk chair and look at the ceiling.

  “Ellyn?”

  “Um, yes, I’m here. What . . . what is the appointment for? I don’t recall—”

  “Your annual physical.”

  “Oh, right. You know, that date isn’t great. I may need to resched—”

  “You’ve rescheduled twice before.” Dee’s voice softens, but her admonishment is clear.

  “Oh . . . well, okay, the 29th it is. I’ll make it work. See you then.” I hang up the phone and look at the calendar on the desk. I count the days until the appointment and mentally tally how many pounds I can lose before then. “Phooey.”

  “What phooey?”

  I swivel in the office chair. Rosa, my dining-room manager, leans into the office. “Phooey! Who makes a doctor’s appointment for a Monday morning? Women always weigh more on Mondays.”

  “Dat so? What phooey anyway? You fine.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Si.” Rosa smiles, her dark curls bouncing as she nods. “Napkins? We talk napkins now?”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “Later, okay?”

  “Later? It’s always later with you. Camarón que se duerme, se lo lleva la corriente.”

  This is one of the times I’m grateful that I’m not fluent in Spanish. Though I keep trying to learn. It’s survival in this area, especially inland where Mexican workers maintain the vineyards. The California wine community owes its success to the laborers.

  And so do I.

  I grab a pad of sticky notes and scrawl a reminder to discuss napkins with Rosa this afternoon. Then I heft myself out of the chair. As I stand, my knees creak and the arthritis in my feet accuses.

  I sigh.

  Stupid phone call.

  Fatigue tempts me to sit back down. Instead, I walk out of the office. “Paco, I’ll be in the garden.” I shout this over my shoulder and then walk out the back door of the restaurant, letting the screen door slam behind me. I trade my kitchen clogs for my garden clogs and then limp my way across the patch of grass between the renovated Victorian house and the garden.

  A physical? I shake my head. As much as I try to deny it, not having one annually would be irresponsible. There are employees, families, who depend on me for their livelihood. Keeling over in the kitchen won’t do.

  I stop at the edge of the garden—organic herbs and vegetables glisten in the morning sun, droplets of dew like prisms of crystals on the leaves. I sigh again.

  I need to keep a grasp on my health.

  Health? How about your weight? If you weren’t so—

  “Shut up, Earl.” I do not want to hear another accusation from my inner critic.

  The sensation washing over me because of that appointment reminder is as well known to me as Earl’s voice. However, the sensation and I are not on a first-name basis. I simply call it what it is.

  Shame.

  That’s what causes me to question my love for God, too.

  I push the thought aside. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

  Just like you’ll eat healthier tomorrow?

  Earl knows as well as I that tomorrow never comes.

  Fine, so I’ll see Dr. Miles Becker on Monday morning, the 29th. I wish, as I have many times before, that I could make an appointment with a female internal-medicine specialist, but with the lagging economy in Fort Bragg not many new doctors are setting up practice. Oh well, I’ll step on the scale and don a paper dress for Dr. Becker—again.

  I smile to myself. “That, Ellyn, is called a safe relationship. The man is married and he knows how much you weigh.”

  I turn my face to the sun and let it warm me, then reach for my hair and pull the clamp out of the back, letting the curls fall over my shoulders.

  Those hair clamps induce more headaches than hormones.

  But a day of sunshine on the Mendocino coastline will cure almost anything—maybe even my foul mood. I listen to the sounds of the village coming to life—bells ringing on shop doors, the grinding gears of delivery trucks, and the occasional conversation from the street outside the restaurant.

  A lone gull squawks overhead.

  “You single too?” I shrug. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  The scents of rosemary and basil growing in the herb section of the café’s organic garden calm me. My shoulders relax and I draw in a deep breath of moist air. I look back down at the garden, a patchwork of colors. I eye the blue curled Scotch kale I planted two weeks ago. I use it for garnish in the restaurant—the blue-green foliage adds a pop of color on our white square dinner plates.

  I reach for a basket on the potting shelf at the garden’s edge and head for the herbs. Then an idea hits me and I look back at the kale. “Of course, a juice cleanse!” A juice cleanse has to be good for at least a pound a day—maybe more.

  Seven pounds in seven days.

  Perfect.

  The weight on my shoulders lifts like a coastal fog.

  I push open the door of the old Baptist-church-turned-health-food-store, Corners of the Mouth, on Ukiah Street and brace for the smell of vitamins. Good Lord, You could not have created that odor. That has to be something man conjured up after the fall. But, as always, I’m
surprised by the scent of fresh produce and the loaves of Café Beaujolais’ bread they sell. There’s a nutty warmth about the place.

  I nose around the aisles for a while and land in front of the essential oils. I open small bottles and sniff the aromas. Lavender. Eucalyptus. Thyme. Then, I wander toward the refrigerated cases in the back.

  “May I help you?”

  I turn around and face . . . her nametag says Twila. The tattoo of—what? A branch of thorns?—across her right cheek says I’m desperate for attention. “Hi, Twila. Yes, I’m going to do a juice cleanse. You know, get all those disgusting toxins out of my body. Any suggestions?”

  “Sure.” Twila gives me the once-over, likely making her own judgments. “So, like, do you also want to lose weight or is it just a detox?”

  I give twiggy Twila my most charming smile. “Well, if I lose a few pounds in the process that wouldn’t be all bad, now would it?”

  Twila shrugs. “It just means you’ll do a different cleanse. No nut milks—just organic fruits and vegetables. Do you want something prepared or will you do the juicing yourself?” She looks at my chef’s smock, pants, and clogs. “I bet you’ll do the juicing yourself.”

  “Good call.” I like her, despite her thin frame and cry-for-attention tattoo.

  “Okay, so maybe a book with recipes and information about nutrients and antioxidants?”

  “Great.”

  “The book section is in the choir loft with the herbs.” She points me to the stairs. “You’ll find several books on juicing. I recommend a three-day juice cleanse.”

  “Thanks, Twila.” If three days is good—seven must be better.

  “Sure. Come find me if, you know, you have questions or whatever.”

  I don’t know that I’ve ever climbed the stairs to the choir loft—I’ve always thought of it as the area where they keep the voodoo stuff. Healing herbs? C’mon, herbs are meant to enhance the flavor of foods. Then I see all the loft has to offer, and my eyes widen. Jars filled with mixtures of dried herbs and teas line the shelves—each a delicious health aid—there are teas that energize, teas that calm, and teas and herbs that aid sleep. There’s also a selection of teacups, pots, and infusers.