Tapestry of Trust

by Mary Annslee Urban

  Punching down the accelerator, she merged onto I-35 North. Even as every cell in her body screamed for rest, she couldn’t bear to sleep another night without knowing the truth, or at least attempting to prove Charlie wrong.

  She took another sip then forced the paper cup back into the holder. Cold and yucky. She smacked her lips. Nevertheless, caffeine and the donut she’d bought should boost her adrenaline. She needed all the help she could get. Blowing out a breath, she tightened her fingers on the steering wheel and willed her eyes to stay open. Mind over matter.

  “Yeah, right.” She snorted. As if she ever listened to what her mind had to say…or her instincts. If she had, she would have stayed away from Charlie and been spared his twisted version of history. Not-to-mention, she wouldn’t be headed on a wild goose hunt to Aunt Myra’s house.

  Nothing less than impetuous. She groaned.

  All for the chance Charlie might be telling the truth.

  Whoa. Isabelle squashed that thought. She knew better. Her aunt could never be that cruel. Who’d stuck by her? Aunt Myra. Not Charlie. Of course he’d lie. He had nothing to lose.

  In contrast, Isabelle had everything to lose. To find out she’d been betrayed by someone else...unthinkable. She shook her head. Not going there. Still she needed to set the record straight once and for all. Charlie had abandoned her, end of story.

  She finished her donut then wiped crumbs off her lap. Reaching down, she adjusted the radio until she found the Christian station. The newest rendition of Amazing Grace roared through the speakers. Cranking up the sound, her left leg jiggled with the music as she bobbed her head back and forth, singing along. For the moment she felt relaxed.

  Until the city lights of Denton came into view. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe.

  Get a grip. She sucked in air and expelled it slowly.

  She was going home where comfort and safety reigned. She cruised onto the exit ramp. “Everything will be fine.”

  At Elm, she took a right and continued through the downtown area. The glow of antique streetlights lit the historic buildings. The scene brought her back to high school days. She passed the specialty shops, the impressive clock tower, Ruby’s Diner, Sweetwater Grill. Nothing had changed. Even a few lights on Tasty Strudel Bakery’s sign were still missing.

  She smiled, remembering how she and Charlie nestled in a corner booth after a Friday night football game and indulged in fresh baked pastries. So much warmth in that place, bakery scented air, cozy ambience.

  Sighing, Isabelle’s skin tingled. She rubbed at the emerging goose bumps along her arm and focused on the road, silencing the melancholic thoughts.

  She turned onto Trident Street, continued to the end of the road, then pulled into Aunt Myra’s driveway. After parking in her old spot beside the ivy-covered arbor, she grabbed her bag and sauntered up the stone walkway leading to the house. A half stride from the steps, the porch light blinked on, and the front door flung open. Aunt Myra stood in the threshold, her arms open wide. “Isabelle, welcome.”

  Isabelle bounded up the steps and fell into her aunt’s embrace.

  Home at last.

  Inside the foyer, she dropped her bag. An unexpected calm embraced her. A moment’s respite from the memories, as if Aunt Myra could shelter the past. Temporary, she knew, for tomorrow her questions would begin.

  Aunt Myra took a step back and crossed her arms, her blue eyes crinkling. “Look at you, all grown up and as lovely as ever.”

  Isabelle chuckled as she caught her reflection in the entryway mirror. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and several tendrils escaped her ponytail and straggled her cheeks. Hardly lovely. She looked more like… well, like she felt―a mess. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Thanks, Aunt Myra. You look great, too.” And she did. Dressed in a tailored pantsuit with her silver hair smoothed into a bun. Poised and graceful. As always.

  Her aunt blushed. “Maybe for an old woman.”

  “You’re not that—”

  A shrill whistle drowned out her words. Aunt Myra spun on her heels and was halfway to the kitchen before she paused and looked over her shoulder. “The water in the kettle is ready. Make yourself at home.”

  Isabelle settled into one of the cushioned armchairs in the living room and breathed deep. It felt good to be home. Good to be in familiar surroundings. Nothing ever changed here, from the antique furniture, to the fresh flowers spilling from a milk-glass vase on the mantel. Everything looked exactly like she remembered.

  She blinked, except for the walls. Now green instead of white.

  Isabelle held her breath and darted another glance around the room. Several new knick-knacks mingled among the old, and a floral painting replaced the vintage seascape. Her breath went out in gasp. She coughed into her hand to cover it.

  OK, the house needed updating, but she’d always found solace in her aunt’s predictability. Something she needed now more than ever.

  Aunt Myra entered the room carrying a large tray laden with cups, a pot of steaming tea, creamer, and a plate of cookies. She set the silver platter on the small table and took the seat across from Isabelle. “Help yourself. They’re warm.” She gestured to the snacks then raised one of the steaming cups and gently blew on the hot vapors.

  Isabelle forced a polite smile. “Thank you. They smell wonderful.” She reached for a cookie.

  Aunt Myra placed her cup into the saucer with a soft clink. “So, you must have Friday off this week?”

  “Not exactly.” Isabelle finished her bite of cookie and cleared her throat. “It’s exam week and proctors administer the tests.” No need to mention, the begging that took place before the principal agreed to the last minute trip.

  Her aunt nodded, clasping her hands together on her lap. “I’d hoped now that you’ve graduated you’d come home more often. Traveling to see you isn’t as easy for me as it used to be.”

  Ignoring the guilt, Isabelle nibbled her cookie. Yes, she should visit more often. She regretted neglecting her aunt, but regretted even more the reason for the trip. Self serving, she knew, especially since she had to leave Drew to fend for himself during end of grade testing. She swallowed her bite along with a sigh.

  “Are you OK, dear?” Aunt Myra leaned forward, peering at Isabelle over her spectacles.

  Hardly. “Fine. Just tired.” Isabelle mumbled, sliding her gaze from her aunt’s. “So tell me about this wall color, the new painting, the knick-knacks.” With her cookie, she made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the room.

  “I’m glad you noticed.” There was a flash of excitement in Aunt Myra’s tone. “I decided it’s time to make some changes. Bring the house up to date. Something I’ve wanted to do for years.”

  “For years?” Isabelle swallowed, forcing down a cookie morsel stuck in her throat. “I had no idea.”

  “No, I suppose you didn’t.” Aunt Myra gave a quick chuckle. “You know, I haven’t changed the place much since Harold died. Although I never cared for his taste in decorating.”

  Isabelle paused and leaned slightly closer. “Uncle Harold?”

  “Yes.” A brief wistful smile touched her aunt’s lips. “He’s the one who liked the white walls and drab furnishings.”

  Isabelle studied her aunt, not quite comprehending. She’d been widowed for over forty years and rarely spoke of her husband. Hard to believe she’d kept the same décor all this time in memory of him. Forever love, Isabelle concluded, until something more feasible dawned on her—forever stuck in the past.

  Like me. Isabelle’s stomach curled into a tight knot.

  Her aunt’s silver brows drew together. “So, what do you think?”

  Giving herself a moment to gather her wits, Isabelle moved her gaze slowly around the room again. “I like the changes. I’m glad you’re redecorating.”

  “Yes, it’s time. I’ve hired Kayla Stevenson to help. She’s the best decorator in Denton.”

  “I remember her.” Isabelle recalled the woman’s designer touch at
the Hamilton’s house. Although, too much of Sharon’s taste still lingered. Floral couches with burnt orange accents, glass tables and wrought iron lamps. Isabelle preferred warmer hues and traditional furnishings. Nothing in the Hamilton’s house suited her taste except the Returning Home tapestry that graced the dining room wall.

  Aunt Myra chattered on about her plans. Half listening, Isabelle added an occasional “um-hum,” while she struggled to keep her mind off the Hamiltons. This was why she didn’t visit more. Everything about Denton reminded her of the past.

  A low chime sounded and her aunt, deep in conversation about her decorating plans, paused. She picked up a napkin and daubed the corners of her mouth. “It’s late. We’ll catch up tomorrow. Fresh linens are on your bed.” She lifted the tray of dishes and carried them to the kitchen.

  The hands on the mantel clock read nine. The golden hour. Isabelle breathed easier. At least some things hadn’t changed.

  14

  At Millie’s Restaurant on the outskirts of Denton, Isabelle sat across from her aunt at a table tucked beneath a large window. The turn of the century building still possessed the same cozy ambience Isabelle remembered. Distressed wooden beams lined the high ceiling, historic photographs hung on the wall and rustic antiques filled every room.

  Warm and inviting.

  Isabelle settled back in her seat, opened the menu, and glanced over the food choices. The waitress hovered at her shoulder.

  “So you’re a teacher. That’s something I thought about being. Such a noble profession.”

  “I agree.” Isabelle nodded, deciding between the Cobb salad or grilled chicken wrap.”

  “My daughter’s third grade teacher is wonderful and very proactive. She recommended we look into math and science camps at UT or San Marcos for Eliza.”

  “That’s great.” Isabelle lowered her menu and glanced at the waitress over the top. “Make sure you pick a program that’s fun. You don’t want to push your daughter too hard, or she might get burned out.”

  The young woman’s shapely eyebrows winged upward. “Thanks, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Isabelle started to offer another suggestion, but instead swallowed when Aunt Myra kicked her leg under the table.

  “Cobb salad for both of us, thank you.” Aunt Myra handed her menu to the waitress.

  Good. Decision made. Isabelle closed the menu.

  The waitress blinked then smiled. “Only salad? How about some soup? Best jalapeño cheddar around. One of my daughter’s favorites.”

  “Just salad for me.” Aunt Myra looked at Isabelle. “Would you care for soup?”

  “No thanks. Salad and rolls will be great.” Isabelle handed the waitress her menu.

  The woman whisked away. Isabelle rested her forearms on the table and clasped her hands. Two days since she’d arrived, and this was the first opportunity she’d had to really talk to her aunt.

  “That Ellie.” Aunt Myra chuckled, picking up her coffee cup. “She’ll go on forever if you let her.”

  “Well, there’s a lot to consider when raising a child.” Isabelle would have been the same way.

  Her heart slipped a little.

  She breathed deep and firmed up her chin. “I guess I always think like a teacher.”

  “As you should.” Aunt Myra smiled and Isabelle relaxed, feeling more comfortable with her aunt than she had since arriving.

  She cleared her throat, scooted her chair closer and rested an elbow on the table. Stay cool and collected. The best way to bring up the past. “I haven’t been here in forever.” She drew in another breath and peered around the room, taking in timely antiques along with some of Denton’s most prominent women. “Looks like Denton’s socialites still frequent the place.”

  Aunt Myra unfolded her napkin and arranged silverware on either side of her doily placemat. “Yes, it attracts a nice local crowd. The food is made from scratch, you know.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Ellie set a basket of rolls in the center of the table. “Fresh from the oven. My daughter likes them with jam or honey butter.”

  “Thank you.” Isabelle took one, added honey butter and tasted a bite. “Delicious. Your daughter is right.”

  Ellie smiled. “The rest of your lunch will be right out.”

  Aunt Myra pulled a roll from the basket and slathered butter across the center. “I wish I’d known you intended to visit. I would have eased up on my schedule.”

  “No, no.” Isabelle flapped a hand. “I’ve enjoyed discussing decorating plans. But I’m glad we can visit now.”

  “You’re right. We haven’t had a good conversation in awhile.” Aunt Myra took another bite. “Aren’t these the best rolls? This is why I love to eat here.”

  “Yes, delicious.” Isabelle swallowed her bite. “So, you come here a lot?”

  “Not too much. Although, last week I met Dottie Myers here for lunch.” She leaned in. “Fortunately, Ellie was off.”

  “She seems to be a good waitress. Just a little chatty.”

  Aunt Myra raised her chin. A smile etched her face. “Which makes visiting with your lunch companion challenging.”

  Then I better talk fast. She pulled another roll from the basket and tore off a piece. “I remember Charlie’s mother used to like this place. Do you ever run into her?” Another honorable member of Denton’s elite.

  Aunt Myra’s lips grew thin. “I try not to notice.”

  Understood. “I suppose she hasn’t changed much. Still a bit overbearing?”

  There was a sharp intake of air as Aunt Myra cast her gaze out the window again. For a moment, only silence. “Have you noticed how lovely the spring flowers are this year? Must be from all the rain,” she finally said.

  Isabelle was being ignored and she knew it. Still she followed her aunt’s stare. Red and white geraniums in charming disarray splashed over sides of clay pots that bordered the flagstone patio. “Yes, beautiful. The red are my favorite. They remind me of the roses Charlie used to bring me.” She watched for her aunt’s reaction.

  Aunt Myra snapped her gaze back, her slender eyebrows raised to the tip of her silver-white bangs. “Not a very good comparison, dear.”

  Isabelle shrugged. “Funny, sometimes memories just reappear.” All too often lately.

  Aunt Myra cocked her head, her face suddenly stony. “Take my advice. Some memories are better left forgotten.”

  “Like those of Uncle Harold?”

  Aunt Myra splayed a hand beneath her neck, her eyes stormy. “Of course not. I cherish those memories. But you and Charlie and…all the tragedy.” She shook her head. “I forgot about that nightmare years ago. I think it’s best you do the same.”

  A hard lump formed in Isabelle’s throat, and she tried to swallow. Had her aunt forgotten about her son?

  Images of her baby filled her mind. So tiny and frail, lying in his incubator in the Neonatal ICU and covered in a tangle of wires and tubes. The doctors allowed her to stay at his bedside. Gently, she’d touch him, stroking his skin, studying him. His teeny hands and feet, soft black downy hair. His precious face—every perfect little feature.

  Over and over, she’d whispered, “I love you.” Never had she experienced such love. A love she never wanted to forget.

  A stilted silence followed.

  Tears flickered in Isabelle’s eyes. She blinked them away. She wasn’t ready for this. Talking about Charlie was hard enough. “Those experiences, Aunt Myra, although tragic, led me to Christ. His grace carried me through even when my son died.”

  Her aunt’s face blanched white. She picked up her drink and took a long sip.

  This wasn’t going well.

  Isabelle breathed in a shaky breath and let it go. “I hate to dwell on the past, but there are a few issues I still need resolved.”

  Aunt Myra did not comment, only shifted in her seat and sighed. Meaning? Isabelle couldn’t decide.

  Isabelle leaned in. “Aunt Myra, I know this subject is unpleasant, but I need to k
now something. After I left for East Texas, did Charlie ever—”

  Aunt Myra made a sound in her throat, her body stiffening like a prim ballerina. “Speak of the devil.”

  “Charlie?” Isabelle repressed a little shudder and didn’t dare turn to look.

  “Worse.”

  “Sharon?”

  The sound of a high-pitched cackle of laughter answered Isabelle’s question.

  She held her breath. Her heart pounded. For a long moment neither spoke, neither she nor her aunt. Then, as if nothing happened, Aunt Myra brightened, picked up her coffee, and took a sip. Isabelle knew she should do the same, ignore Sharon’s presence. She popped another bite of roll into her mouth and chewed, willing herself to focus on something more productive—her empty stomach. That worked for about ten seconds before her eyes strayed to the opposite side of the room and lingered. Sharon stood, wearing a too-snug black dress, waving her hands and tottering around a corner table hugging friends. Still as social and friendly as ever―to those of influence, that is, which never included Isabelle.

  Isabelle swallowed, no longer hungry. She whipped her gaze back to her aunt and assumed a calmer tone than she felt. “Hardly the person I hoped to see today.”

  Aunt Myra lowered her cup. “Well, pretend she is, dear. Because it looks as though she’s coming to say hello.”

  “What?” Oh, Lord, help me. The prayer came automatically. Good thing God knew what she needed, because every reasonable thought tumbled from her brain.

  “Sharon, how are you?” Aunt Myra glanced up, smiling.

  “Doing well.” Sharon nodded at Aunt Myra, then cocking her head, she glared at Isabelle. “Isabelle Crafton, it is really you. My, my, it has been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Not long enough. Isabelle rallied and lifted her chin. “Six years.” She hated the crack in her voice. Still she forced a smile. “I don’t get back often.”

  “Six years? Time does fly.” Sharon repeated, her gaze bouncing between Isabelle and her aunt.