Tapestry of Trust

by Mary Annslee Urban

  She swung the tendril of hair from her face, took in a long breath, and let it out slowly.

  Charlie stood. For a moment he watched for some sign of reply. Nothing. She just sat there, her eyes slightly glazed, her hands resting in her lap.

  He moved to the sofa and sat beside her. “Isabelle.” He laid a finger on her cheek and turned her to face him. “I want you to know I never stopped caring about you.”

  She didn’t resist his touch. Didn’t turn away from his gaze. A beat passed, then another. “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out differently,” she mumbled.

  An understatement. He nodded.

  “However,” she continued, her voice flat, “I have no plans of going back.”

  Charlie let his hand drop as her words sunk in. Going back? He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to move forward.

  A flash of lightning lit up the room. Charlie glanced toward the window. Another twisted bolt charged the sky, and the sound of gusty wind and rain echoed. At the moment, being in the squall felt more appealing than the tension ratcheting the air between them.

  “It’s late.” Isabelle muttered. And before he could stop her, she was on her feet and halfway to the door.

  Why was she being so stubborn? Charlie joined her in the entry, knowing whatever he had left to say, he’d better say it quick. “So this is it?”

  With a nod Isabelle hesitated and took a breath. “Yes.” She dipped her gaze, turned and opened the door.

  Nothing in her body language supported her claim. Charlie wanted to shake her. “Here we are, both miserable, and you’re OK with that?”

  Her startled laugh crackled like lightning. She rounded back, hands firmly at her hips. “Excuse me? You think I’m the problem?”

  “At the moment yes, Miss Crafton.” Charlie crossed his arms and held his ground. Now they were getting somewhere. “You seem to be the stalemate in this conversation.”

  For an instant her expression softened, then just as quickly, her brow scrunched. She raised a finger. “You know six years of rejection—”

  “Yep.” He took over. “I know the feeling. However, I never rejected you.”

  “I waited for your calls, Charlie. Waited for you to tell me everything would be OK.”

  “I’ve asked myself over and over why I was so numb. Why it took me over a week to pick up the phone and call you. I suppose I was in shock. I wish you had contacted me again. ”

  Isabelle leveled her green gaze on him. “I wasn’t going to beg you.”

  Charlie raised his hands. “And you shouldn’t have had to. It was my fault, and I accept the blame for taking ten days to grow up enough to call you. But you disappeared for six years. Why? Why change everything? One lapse of judgment. An accident. Although unfortunate, as it turned out, no lasting consequences.”

  She arched a brow at him. “No lasting consequences? Are you insane?”

  Moving closer, he reached out. “I know about the miscarriage. My mother, your aunt, they told me. I know, it had to be difficult but―”

  “Consequences!” Isabelle drew back and threw up her hands. “Do you want to hear about consequences?”

  Stiffening, Charlie only nodded.

  “Well, here’s a few.” Her voice went shrill, her face red. “I was sent to live with one of my aunt’s friends in Tyler, where, by the way, I knew no one. I couldn’t finish my semester of classes, and the only person I heard from was Aunt Myra.”

  Charlie’s mind stumbled to keep up. “I don’t understand. Why stay with your aunt’s friend? And why couldn’t you finish school? You had a miscarriage early on.”

  Isabelle shook her head, her eyes boring into him. “Twenty-nine weeks, seven hours in labor, and an emergency C-section isn’t considered a miscarriage.”

  A wave of nausea rippled through his abdomen and swirled up into his esophagus. “Twenty-nine weeks?” He breathed deep, hoping he’d heard wrong.

  Isabelle’s stormy gaze told him different.

  “How, I mean…why would your aunt…my mother?” He thrust a hand through his hair. “Isabelle, didn’t you think as a father I needed to know these things?”

  Isabelle stared at him, the color drained from her face. “You never contacted me. I—I didn’t think you cared.” She hesitated, as if weighing her words. “My aunt…she told me she’d called to let you and your family know.”

  “Know what?” Charlie’s gut twisted. “What happened to the baby?”

  After an endless moment, Isabelle let out little ragged breaths and slammed her eyes shut. A tear trickled down one cheek. “It was too soon. His lungs, they weren’t—”

  “His…a boy?” Charlie heart nearly stopped and rose to his throat.

  “David Charles.” Although Isabelle’s voice faltered, she continued. “He lived forty-one hours before the Lord carried him home. I gave him your name and my father’s. He needed some semblance of a lineage.”

  “My son.”

  “Our son, Charlie.” Her voice, a whisper now, and it occurred to him how much she’d gone through without him.

  “Isabelle.” He said, trying to recover. “I’m sorry. I never knew.”

  Isabelle opened her eyes, her face paled. “Well, then, it’s only fair you know now.”

  Fair? Charlie fisted his hand, tempted to put it through the nearest wall.

  Nothing about this seemed fair.

  12

  A blinding light exploded against the window. Charlie paused in the doorway, narrowed his eyes then proceeded into the darkened room, using the glow from the entry lamp to guide him. The storm kept on as relentless as the thoughts pelting his brain—thoughts that refused to budge and memories he couldn’t shake. He collapsed into his recliner and exhaled, long and low.

  Isabelle. Her sad, accusing eyes. The distress on her face, as if he’d known the truth about the pregnancy, about the baby, about their son. Charlie scowled. Lord, how did this happen? He closed his eyes, hoping to clear his mind, but all he saw was Isabelle’s face.

  Gritting his teeth, Charlie rubbed at the headache pounding between his eyes, undecided at who angered him more—his mother, Myra Hinson, or himself. A miscarriage. Such a trite answer. Even when his mother called touting the news, he’d been skeptical. Less than a week after Isabelle vanished, no less. Seemed a little too convenient.

  All right, he admitted he’d felt somewhat relieved. He figured Isabelle did, too. Although her aunt kept Isabelle’s whereabouts a secret, he fully believed she’d contact him when she was ready.

  Ready never came.

  Sighing, Charlie slumped further back in the seat.

  She still wasn’t ready. That very thought shook him to his core. Why hadn’t he trusted his hunches? Pushed harder for answers? Maybe then…

  Forget it. Charlie rubbed his hand over his face. Regrets, no longer mattered, because the truth would remain the truth: He’d lost Isabelle and his son.

  Lord, help me.

  ****

  Isabelle moved into the living room and dropped into a chair, trying to put the pieces together. As much as she wanted to be angry with Charlie, to finally pound the last nail into the coffin of their past, she couldn’t deny how pale and wide-eyed he’d become when she mentioned the baby. How could he not have known?

  The question pressed on her heart like a ton of bricks. Isabelle rubbed against her forehead as if she could reorganize her thoughts. Differentiate the truth from the lies.

  Six years had passed and yet the sting still remained. Her thoughts tumbled back to that horrible day. The day she’d lost her son. She had clung to her aunt and together they wept. Heartbroken and exhausted, Isabelle didn’t have the stamina to contact Charlie or his family. Aunt Myra promised she would tell them.

  If her aunt had chosen not to tell…Isabelle bit her lower lip, fighting the urge to cry. The past that she remembered would be a lie. The implication was horrifying.

  Isabelle wrapped her arms around her legs, burying her head in her knees. She squeezed he
r eyes shut to hold back the welling tears. From the moment she’d agreed to meet with Charlie, she knew it meant treading onto painful soil. She wasn’t prepared to hear a new version of their history.

  Her aunt was the one person she’d fully trusted.

  Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  Despite Isabelle’s effort, tears leaked from under her closed eyelids and flowed onto her knees.

  “Meee-oow.”

  Isabelle snapped out of her musings. Sitting up, she wiped her cheeks and glanced down at her cat, whose little face peeked from under the coffee table. “At least I have you.” She scooped him up, and held him close. “That is, if you’d decide to stick around.”

  Humphrey hissed.

  Figures. “The perfect end to a crummy day,” she muttered, scratching Humphrey behind his ears. Deep down, she’d actually like to believe Charlie’s plea of ignorance. Not in hopes to start fresh, but to remember him a bigger man than she once thought. Not a hero, but less of a coward.

  And coward was totally opposite of how Charlie acted tonight. She’d been touched by his emotion. It took a good deal of restraint on her part not to wrap him in a hug and mourn with him like they should have done years ago. She kissed Humphrey on the nose, thankful better judgment prevailed. Exposing those feelings would have gotten her nowhere. At least, no place she wanted to be.

  Humphrey started to squirm. She set him on the floor, and he capered across the carpet toward the scratching post in the corner.

  Impulsive little thing. Isabelle drew her knees to her chest, hugged her legs, and watched as her crazy cat raked his paws along the carpeted post. A gentle purr accompanied his actions. Funny how nothing hindered her feisty pet. Not the shampoo mishap, the dreaded bath, even being lost for days in the cold and rain. He was still spontaneous and playful as ever. Unlike her cat, she had lost much of her awe for life when one wrong choice erased her dreams and left her heartbroken.

  She’d never forget that night. One foolish night of passion during Christmas break from college. A night that changed her life.

  Images of winter roses sprang to mind, fiery red, the symbol of love. Charlie’s atonement, she assumed, when he arrived at her doorstep the morning after their night of compromise. “Isabelle. I know last night shouldn’t have happened, and I’m sorry. Although…it was incredible.” She remembered how his eyes shimmered, while her own moistened with regret.

  Fighting off the bitter thoughts, Isabelle crimped her eyes shut, but too late... Memories spewed to the surface and flowed freely, hot and volatile as volcano ash.

  The day before she’d left for East Texas, Charlie’s mother, Sharon, sat across from her and slammed her fist on Aunt Myra’s table, sending a teaspoon flying out of the sugar bowl and bouncing across the tablecloth. “Isabelle, you can’t imagine how frustrated I am.”

  Frustrated? Isabelle fought not to cry. Did this woman actually think she had the corner on frustration? What about not hearing from Charlie in days? Nothing could be so frustrating. She swallowed hard and reminded herself, this woman wasn’t worth her tears, nor was her son.

  Aunt Myra bustled around the table and placed cups of hot tea in front of her and Sharon. Isabelle clenched her hands in her lap, furious at herself. Her aunt didn’t deserve this.

  “We’re going to get through this. That’s all.” Her aunt’s optimistic words defied the strain in her voice.

  Isabelle opened her mouth, ready to agree, but Sharon, with nostrils flaring, jumped in first.

  “Of course, we’ll get past this.” She paused, eyeing Isabelle directly. “The sooner Isabelle takes care of this, the sooner we can all move on.”

  “Takes care of what?” Isabelle cried.

  “Termination of the pregnancy, of course. You know you can’t have this child.”

  Isabelle sucked in a gasp. How could she think such a thing? “I would never consider—”

  “You planned this, didn’t you?” Sharon jabbed a finger into her face. “To get Charlie to marry you.”

  Isabelle jerked her head, banging against the chair back. “Absolutely not. I—I would never…” She wanted to say something. Something to diffuse suspicions. But her thoughts only scattered when Sharon leaned closer, furiously wagging a finger in her face. “I won’t let you ruin my son’s life.”

  “Charlie’s life?” Isabelle straightened in her chair. “This isn’t about Charlie.”

  “Stop, Mrs. Hamilton.” Aunt Myra clapped her hands, her southern manners lost. “You know as well as I do, Charlie is as much to blame.”

  “Blame?” Sharon stood so quickly her chair skidded across the floor and into the wall. Shaking her head, she glared down at Isabelle. “I warned Charlie about you. The only thing I blame my son for is not listening to his mother.”

  Isabelle looked away and let the words sink in. Warned Charlie? Warned him about what? That she’d turn out like her mother. Unmarried and pregnant. In reverse order of the right way to live as her Grandma Tyler used to say. Such a disappointment to everyone.

  Like me.

  No. Isabelle blinked the bitter memories away.

  She thrust her head in her hands. Years ago, she’d vowed to stop comparing herself to her mother. She needed to keep her eyes on the truth. No matter the mistakes in her life, she was a new creation in Christ.

  Besides, despite her and her mother’s shared lapse of judgment, she wouldn’t have abandoned her child. No matter what.

  Humphrey thumped onto the chair beside her. Her eyes popped open. She inclined her head toward her stretching Persian. “We’ve been through a lot haven’t we, Humph? And we’ve done OK.” Despite what everyone thought. Isabelle sighed. She’d graduated with honors, made new friends, was now living a Christian life. Forgiven. Moving forward.

  She cringed. Until Charlie showed up.

  Frustrated all over again, Isabelle bit the corner of her lip. How could she put the past behind her, with her mind whirling around Charlie’s version of their history.

  Thanks a lot, Charlie.

  ****

  At the sound of her name, Isabelle sprung up in her seat, her hand pressed against her thumping chest. She squinted into the shadows.

  “Isabelle.”

  Hearing her name again, she blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness.

  Kate stepped up and into the dim light spilling from the tableside lamp. She crouched beside her. “Why aren’t you in bed sleeping?”

  Good question. Isabelle adjusted the throw pillow behind her back. The last thing she remembered was mulling over her evening with Charlie. Charlie. Yes, exhausting. “I guess I dozed off. What time is it anyway?”

  “Eleven-thirty. Past your bedtime.” Kate patted her shoulder.

  “Yep.” Isabelle yawned and then proceeded to her room. “Six thirty will arrive soon enough. Good night.”

  “Hey, one question.” Kate’s curious voice came from behind her.

  Isabelle took a step backward and poked her head around the corner. “Let’s talk in the morning. I’m beat.” Emotionally and physically.

  Kate ignored her and moved closer. “So, how’d your evening go?”

  Quickly, Isabelle combed over the details in her mind. Although not as horrific in some respects, the new information dancing through her brain certainly wasn’t something she wanted to share. “Fine.” She didn’t look at Kate as she spoke but peered beyond her into the dusky room.

  “Fine, as in, Charlie wasn’t as bad as you thought?”

  Isabelle bit her bottom lip, still avoiding eye contact, and shrugged her shoulders. “Fine, as in, survivable.”

  Kate chuckled. “Fine. Survivable. Sounds intriguing.”

  More like dizzying. Isabelle swung her gaze back to Kate and slowly shook her head. “Hardly.” She tried to sound strong, unemotional, even as tears bathed her eyes.

  One of Kate’s brows slipped up. “What happened?”

  A terrible sadness poured over Isabelle. Maybe it was time to confide in her friend
. But knowing Kate had been raised in a Christian family and was in love with a respectable man, Isabelle doubted she’d understand. Kate lived life right. No skeletons in her closets. No bad memories tucked away.

  “I’m a great listener.” Kate reminded, her eyes glittering in the shadowed light.

  “I know.” Still, Isabelle wondered if her story would change things between them. Although she was almost too tired to care at this point. She drew in a breath and waved Kate into her room. “All right.” She’d skirted the truth long enough.

  Kate didn’t hesitate. As swift and agile as Humphrey, she scrambled past Isabelle, plopped on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs and smiled. “I’m all ears.”

  Great. She thinks were having a slumber party. For a brief moment, Isabelle shut her eyes and bowed her head. Lord, give me the words.

  She exhaled and cleared her throat. Too worked up to sit, she paced the room, back and forth, occasionally raising her eyes to the window and into the endless night.

  Kate stayed quiet, her eyes wide.

  By the time the conversation wound to a close, Isabelle felt exhausted. Drained of emotions. Numb and confused. She paused, glancing to where Kate sat on the bed. Something in her friend’s gaze made her heart skip. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut?

  Kate rushed up and smothered her in a hug. “I’m sorry for all you’ve been through. I only wish you’d told me sooner.”

  Isabelle hugged her back and started to cry. The tightly wound knot in her chest finally loosened. She was finally free from the secrets of her past.

  Still, there was one question yet to be answered: would Aunt Myra have lied?

  13

  Impetuous. That’s the one thing Isabelle knew she wasn’t.

  At least not anymore. She had learned that lesson the hard way. As a result, she’d resolved to think things through, not make rash decisions.

  So, why then, she asked herself for the hundredth time, was she in the car driving on a Thursday afternoon four hours to Denton after working all day and being exhausted from her late night chat with Kate? Hardly rational. In fact―impetuous. She sighed and took another swig of gas station coffee, hating it when her emotions overrode common sense.