Honor's Promise

by Sharon Sala

  Honor grasped the journal tightly, picked up her purse from the floor by her chair, neither looked nor spoke to either man, and walked from the room.

  Trace watched her go with a heavy, aching knot in the pit of his stomach. Then he turned to the lawyer.

  “I’ll be at the motel a while longer. If she contacts you, let me know.”

  Rolly Hawkins nodded and wiped his forehead in frustration.

  “This is just a hell of a mess, boy,” he said to Trace.

  “Yes, sir,” Trace agreed. “And for me, it’s just begun.”

  * * *

  Honor entered her house, closed the door, and slowly walked through the empty rooms, her footsteps echoing down the tiled hallway as she headed for the kitchen. She laid her mother’s blue journal on the cabinet, put her purse on a bar stool, and picked up the phone.

  “Hank,” Honor said, as her bartender answered the phone. “I’m not feeling well. Will you call in some extra help? I think I’ll take the day off and rest. Yes, thanks,” she said quietly in response to his concern, and hung up the phone.

  She walked back through the house, oblivious of her surroundings, and pushed open the door of her bedroom. Although her mother’s taste had run toward western and southwest furnishings throughout the house, Honor’s bedroom had escaped the same treatment. Instead of clay pots, mesa browns and reds for the furniture colors, and Indian artifacts hanging here and there, Honor’s bedroom was like walking into a time warp.

  A high, canopied, four-poster bed with sprigged muslin draperies stood in the middle of the room. A Persian-style carpet covered most of the shiny hardwood flooring. And an antique dresser sat against a wall, its oval, beveled mirror reflecting the image of the tall, dark-haired young woman who’d just entered.

  Honor didn’t even recognize herself. And then she smiled crookedly at the thought and at the stranger looking back at her in the mirror. “Of course I don’t recognize myself,” she said to the image in the mirror. “I don’t know who I am.”

  The words were a death knell. She didn’t want to be anyone else. She liked being Charlie O’Brien’s daughter. She buried her face in her hands and turned away from the mirror, for the time being unwilling to face what lay ahead.

  A numbness settled throughout her body. She stepped out of her shoes and began unbuttoning her blouse and slacks, letting them fall in unaccustomed abandon at her feet. Her underclothes were next as she turned to face the mirror.

  The full-breasted, ivory-skinned body with the tiny waist and gently flaring hips looked familiar. She ran her hands cross each feature of her body with an innocent, exploratory touch. She couldn’t see or feel the turmoil raging around her heart, but it was there. She shook her head in a silent motion of denial, turned away from the mirror, and headed for the shower. The urge to wash away the last few hours was suddenly overwhelming.

  It was late in the evening before Honor could bring herself to touch the blue journal. And when she did, she had to restrain herself from throwing it away. She didn’t want to know; didn’t want to face what was between the covers. But its very presence would not allow her to ignore its existence.

  She took it to her room. Wearing an old, comfortably soft cotton nightgown, faded and shapeless from too many launderings, she finally crawled between the bedcovers and opened the book. A single page fell from the front fly leaf into Honor’s lap.

  My darling daughter, Charlotte wrote. And for me, that’s what you’ll always be. If you are reading this letter, I expect you’ve already accused Rolly Hawkins of lying, rebuked the bearer of the letter I sent to J. J. Malone, and shut yourself in the house, away from the rest of the world, and the truth.

  Honor felt the blood draining from her head and leaned back against the headboard as the book fell limply from her hands. Her heart raced. Her stomach hurt. She didn’t want to know this. She blinked back angry tears and pushed the pillows behind her into a more comfortable position. Anything to interrupt reading the rest of the letter…and the journal.

  You have every right to be angry, but not with them. I’m the only one guilty of deception. And I selfishly chose a coward’s way out of facing you. I waited until it was too late to see your pain and anger, my love. While I lived, I couldn’t face losing your faith and trust. What they have told you is true.

  Honor moaned aloud. The tears that had threatened began to flow. This was going to kill her! Her hands shook as she read the last few lines of the letter.

  I can make no excuse for why, other than, as God is my witness, I was out of my mind with grief at the loss of my own baby girl. The day after she died, a telegram from the War Department destroyed what was left of my sanity. My sweetheart was gone, my child was gone. I barely remember the next few weeks. The first clear memory I have after receiving the telegram was seeing you in your stroller, obviously unattended. I watched your face light up. You laughed, held up your arms to be taken, and so I did.

  I began the journal after we came to Odessa. I don’t remember much about how or why, but what was left of my world was glued back together by your smile. God will forgive me. I know this, because he knows what’s in my heart. I pray some day you will be able to forgive me, too. Love, Momma

  Honor put aside the letter, opened the first page of the journal, and began to read.

  April 9, 1966

  It’s so warm here compared to Colorado. I’m glad I came to Texas. Honor loves it. I let her lay in her bed uncovered. She plays with her toes and laughs as if she’d just tickled herself. She’s such a happy baby. I’m blessed.

  April 15, 1966

  I’m so lucky. I got a job today. Willis and Tiny Lawson run a diner. Their waitress quit. There are two rooms over the diner that Willis will let me use. I took a cut in pay as payment for the rent. Tiny loves my Honor. I have a job, a home, and a babysitter. Everything is finally going to be all right.

  * * *

  Honor read silently, pausing only once to go to the kitchen and pour a soda into an ice-filled glass before going back to the journal and her bed. She hadn’t eaten all day. Food was the last thing on her mind, although she was craving liquids. She supposed she’d cried just about every drop from her body and it was simply demanding to be replenished.

  As Honor read, the days and weeks of Charlotte’s story rolled into months, and then into years. She read voraciously about a time in her life that she was too young to remember. She became suspended between the pages of her mother’s journal and the truth it contained.

  And then the entries grew fewer and far between. Their lives were changing and growing. There was less time to write. More time was devoted to work and a growing daughter. It was the year she started to school that sharpened her attention.

  May 5, 1970

  I’ve got to remember to send for Honor’s birth certificate tomorrow. I’ll need it for her school this fall. I don’t know why I can’t find it. I guess I lost it when we moved. I don’t remember much about that time. So much sadness.

  Honor gasped. It read as if Charlotte were innocent of the knowledge of what she’d done. How could that be? Surely she’d not deceived herself so well that she’d refused, even to herself, to accept the truth? Honor desperately searched the delicate, faded script for an answer.

  June 10, 1970

  There’s been a terrible mistake. I received my Honor’s birth certificate today. But it’s wrong! It has to be. I don’t know how to fix it! It’s too late. Oh, God! My baby isn’t dead. She’s not! She’s almost six years old. She’s going to start first grade this fall.

  Honor’s tears began again. It was obvious from the rambling, disjointed thoughts Charlotte had writ ten that she was finally faced with unequivocal facts that she couldn’t ignore or hide. Not even from herself. She continued to read.

  What have I done? Dear merciful God, what have I done?

  The entries stopped for two months. And then one single entry ended the entire journal.

  August 24, 1970

  My daughte
r started school. What’s past is past. I’m not strong enough to undo what I’ve done. Only time…and God…will tell.

  Honor closed the journal, thinking that was all of her mother’s story, when a few phrases on a page at the back of the book caught her eye. She read her mother’s last entry.

  January 1, 1990

  It’s New Year’s Day. But it’s not a new year for me. It will probably be my last. It’s finally come. My judgment; retribution for my one moment of weakness; call it what I may. I have cancer. It’s inoperable, of course. God let me have these years with Honor, but I’m finally going to receive what, I suppose, is my due. I will never live to see her find love with that special man, nor see her children. I took her away from her family, kept her, and the secret, all to myself. Now, when I’m gone, she’ll have no one. I’ve got to make it right. Maybe then God will finally forgive me. Or, maybe it’s myself I need to forgive.

  * * *

  Honor closed the book, turned over, and turned out the lamp by her bed. Her fingers were shaking, her heart pounding. The book fell to the floor as she pulled a pillow from behind her back and buried her face in its fluffy softness. She was bruised, weak, and empty; disoriented by the emotions tumbling around inside her brain. Her hands clutched in the tangle of the sheet as she cried.

  “Momma! Momma! What have you done to me? Dear Lord! What have you done?”

  Her broken cries echoed in the darkness. She fell asleep, and as she slept, she dreamed. And when she awoke, she knew what must be done.

  * * *

  Trace lay flat on his back, and stared at the water stain on the ceiling above. He was nearly at wit’s end, trying to think of a way to undo the damage he’d caused. Getting emotionally involved with Honor at such a crucial time in her life was disastrous. He’d promised J. J. that he’d bring her back to Colorado Springs, but now, because of his actions, Honor O’Brien wasn’t even speaking to him. He had to find a way to undo the harm he’d caused. Her goodwill was vital if he was to fulfill his promise to J. J.

  And her opinion of Trace, the man, was vital to his sanity. She’d been so open and loving, and then he’d had to watch her trust of him wither before his eyes. He didn’t think he was ever going to get past that look of shock and betrayal on her beautiful face.

  The phone rang. Trace grimaced. If it was J. J. again, he was going to hang up. He’d told him over and over that if he had any more news he’d call.

  “Hello,” he growled, and then swallowed the next angry retort hanging by a syllable on the tip of his tongue.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” Honor said shortly. She hadn’t forgiven the man for his deception. But he was her only link with a journey that must be made.

  “Honor!”

  He sat straight up in bed. The tone of her voice hurt, but at least she was speaking to him. “Yes, I’m still here,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

  “What do you think?” she asked angrily.

  “I think you’re scared,” he answered, and heard her sharply indrawn breath. “And I think you’re mad. But you don’t know for certain who to be mad at.”

  Honor ignored the pain in her chest and blurted out, “Are you leaving soon?”

  “Will you come with me?” Trace retorted.

  One long, silent moment hung suspended between them on the open phone line, and then she answered.

  “Yes, it seems I must.” But she quickly qualified her statement. “But I’m not staying. I’m just going back to fix what my mother…” Her voice shook. “What Charlie broke. After that, I make no promises.”

  “That’s all I ask, Honor,” Trace said softly. “That and a chance to make it right between us.”

  “There is no us,” she said sharply. “I can leave by tomorrow. Come get me when you’re ready to go. It’ll take me until then to organize the restaurant staff.”

  A sharp click echoed in his ear. He didn’t know whether to be worried that she still hated his guts, or whether to be glad that she’d made the first step toward reconciliation with her lost family. One thing was certain. J. J. Malone was going to be ecstatic.

  Chapter 4

  Honor didn’t speak more than ten words the entire journey. They’d been through one small and two large airports, and were now on the last leg of their trip home. Not only would she not speak to him, she had refused to look at him. But she’d made the first step. She was here with him and they were almost home.

  Trace sighed and shifted in his seat. He peered over Honor’s shoulder, and then touched her arm before pointing out the tiny window by her seat.

  “Those are the Rockies,” he said against her ear. “We’re almost there.”

  Honor turned with interest, forgetting her anger. Her words were rich with surprise.

  “There’s snow on the mountaintops.” She leaned closer to the window. “And everything is so green.”

  Trace smiled.

  “Will there be snow in Colorado Springs?” Honor asked. “I didn’t think much about the weather when I packed. I may have to buy a few things.”

  “No,” he answered. “Right now, there’s only snow on the mountains. But it’s almost October. It won’t be long before we get snow. You’ll love it! The trees are beautiful then.”

  “I don’t plan on being here that long,” Honor snapped, and withdrew back into her quiet, angry shell.

  Trace bit the inside of his lip to keep from saying something he’d later regret. He already had more than enough regrets about the woman sitting beside him. He looked up as the stewardess came down the aisle, then muttered as he dug in the seat beside him, “Fasten your seat belt, Honor. We’re about to land.”

  Her face lost all expression. Her hands shook as she reached for the seat belt and then struggled helplessly with the catch.

  Trace leaned over, aware of her panic, and fastened the buckle in one clean movement before he leaned back in his seat. He didn’t say a word.

  Honor’s heart was beating fast, too fast. She wanted to run, but there was nowhere to hide. She heartily wished she’d never left Texas. Her fingers gripped the armrest until her knuckles turned white.

  Trace felt her panic. He would give a year of his life to make this easier, but he couldn’t. All he could do was be there for her. If she’d let him. He threaded his fingers through hers and ignored her angry resistance.

  Honor looked up in stubborn fury and started to argue. The expression on his face changed her mind. It was somewhere between a plea and warning. She pressed her lips tightly together, leaned her head back against the headrest, and closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at the sympathy in those dark eyes. And she wouldn’t acknowledge his presence, yet she could not refuse Trace or herself the comfort of his touch.

  Then they were in a cab, en route to the rest of Honor’s life.

  * * *

  The majesty of the mountains that surrounded Colorado Springs held her speechless. There were signs and billboards all along the highway proclaiming, by colorful advertisement, exactly what was available for the public to enjoy. There seemed to be everything from the view at Pike’s Peak to enchanting depths of caves and caverns, all open for tourists’ delights. There were train rides up mountains, and even a train ride available across something called Royal Gorge.

  Honor couldn’t ignore a twinge of interest and knew if she’d been here on vacation that she’d be having the time of her life. It was all so different from the flat, almost treeless plains of west Texas.

  But her interest disappeared as the cab left the business district and started winding its way up a steep street through an obviously exclusive residential area. Nearly all of the homes they were passing were set back from the street. Their privacy was maintained with big iron gates, or fences and tall shrubbery. The area made Honor wonder, for the first time, exactly what her family did for a living. Earlier she hadn’t stopped to care. It had been more than she could face just to admit that they existed. What they were, in society’s eyes, had never
occurred to her.

  She had a sudden vision of how she would appear in her casual clothing and then instantly squashed the thought with another, more honest reaction. She really didn’t care what kind of an impression she made on them. Charlie’s opinion had been what mattered most in her life.

  She sighed and relaxed against the back seat of the taxi. Suddenly all of her tension and apprehension dissipated. Honor didn’t know why, but she knew she was not facing this crisis alone. The peace within had come after thinking of her mother. Honor smiled to herself and thought, Maybe I’m not alone.

  Trace had watched Honor’s face with each block they’d traveled. He knew when her interest had turned to fear. He’d seen a frown deepen the furrow between those stormy eyes. And then he saw Honor smile. He watched in fascination as the single dimple flashed an appearance before it disappeared. He couldn’t resist asking, “What were you thinking of just now?”

  Honor turned, and for several seconds remained silent as she gauged the true measure of his interest.

  “My mother,” she finally answered, and then with a shrug of near indifference, continued. “I just remembered that she had a reason for everything she did. I’ve been so angry about her letter and deception. I didn’t want to know about this part of my life. But I was wrong. All I have to do is go along with this…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “This new wrinkle in my life and then find a way to iron it out before I go on. I’ll find a way. Momma always said there’s a way out of the darkness. And the answer is usually inside yourself.” She turned, gazing absently out of the window. “All I have to do now is wait and see what happens. Then I’ll know what I have to do.”