by Vivi Holt
Isabella covered her mouth and wept.
After Isabella schlepped through the rain and mud in her mother’s gumboots and rain jacket, found Hector in the barn, and checked on the horses, the rain suddenly stopped. The last few fat drops landed in the puddles by the stable door as the sun appeared, warming the already humid day.
She had that date with Baker for lunch, and had promised to stop in to see Cindy first, so she went inside to shower and change before driving to town. As she pulled out of the long driveway and onto the main road, she spotted a tractor going up and down the length of her neighbour’s field. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes narrowed. Dad had told her that Hubert Hilton, the neighbour, hadn’t been well, but he must have improved to be out there. He looked to be spraying his crops.
The tractor pulled closer to the boundary fence as she drove by, and she slowed the car to look out and wave. But it wasn’t Hubert – it was his son Sam. From what she remembered, Sam had been living on the Gold Coast. He must have moved back to the farm to help out when his dad fell ill. Sam tapped his hat in salute, and she drove on.
Fifteen minutes later she was inching down Heartstone’s quiet main street. She found a parking space without any difficulty and hurried into Cindy’s Antiques. Her aunt looked up from behind the cash register, her spectacles balancing on the tip of her nose, her red lips smiling. “Well, good morning, my favourite niece!” She hurried out from behind the counter to embrace Isabella.
“Your only niece,” corrected Isabella, her face pressed against Cindy’s purple cardigan.
“Yes, well, that’s a minor detail. You’re still my favourite. How are you, my darling?”
“Okay, I guess. How about you?”
“Buried in a sea of paperwork.” Cindy grimaced and returned to the cash register. “I can’t seem to make sense of the whole incoming and outgoing cash thingy. Oh heavens above, what did I just press?” She slapped the cash drawer shut.
Isabella laughed. “You never could work that old thing. Maybe it’s time for a new one.”
Cindy’s eyes widened. “Not on your life! I’m sure it would be worse, much worse. Oh, there we go,” she sighed as the drawer dinged open again.
Isabella sat on a barstool that was pushed up to the counter and turned it side to side, her feet swinging with the movement. “Kim says I probably won’t be able to sell the farm for at least six months,” she said quietly.
Cindy’s eyebrows arched and her lips puckered. “Oh?”
“Yeah, something about the estate. Anyway, I guess I’ll have to stick around until then – I can’t very well leave the animals and the hives to their own devices. I’ve called Helen and she’s packing up my things and shipping them to me.”
Cindy counted a wad of $20 bills, wetting her fingertips with her tongue as she flicked through the notes. When she finished, she wrote the total in a ledger beside the register. “That’s very kind of her,” she said with a smile. “Though you could always sell the horses, Hector, the hives … then you’d be free to go back to Sydney.”
“I thought you wanted me to stay in Heartstone?” objected Isabella, chewing on a chipped fingernail.
Cindy laughed. “I do, but I also want you to be happy.”
Images flashed through Isabella’s mind of the animals, the farm, the hives … Baker … “No, I don’t think I could sell them.”
“But if you sell the farm, you’ll have to.”
Isabella’s heart dropped. “Yes, you’re right. I guess I just didn’t think about it that way.”
“Well, darling. I’ll support you whatever you do, you know that. But I would love to have you around all the time. That would just be so wonderful.”
“Hey, can I ask you something?” asked Isabella, tipping her head to one side.
“Of course, Honey. What is it?”
“Do you know why Mum and Dad were atheists? I mean, they were for my whole life, but Meg told me they became Christians about six months ago, and they didn’t tell me anything about it. So I’m just wondering if you know …”
Cindy’s face fell. “Oh, honey. I didn’t realize they hadn’t told you.” She tucked a stray curl behind one ear, her eyes full of compassion.
“You knew?”
“Yeah, of course – I saw them every week.”
“And?”
“And they’d changed. They were happy – happier than I’d ever seen them before. They almost glowed with it. So I went to church with them, and made the decision to follow Jesus myself, about a month ago.” Her eyes filled with tears again and she brushed them away with the back of her hand, her acrylic nails clicking against one another.
Isabella’s brows drew low. Cindy as well? What was going on?
“You asked why they were atheists. I’m not sure … I guess for your mum and me, it was just because that’s how we were raised. I mean, our parents didn’t even let us celebrate Christmas. When all the other children were sitting around a tree opening gifts on Christmas morning, we were eating cornflakes just like any other day. We didn’t know any different. But your mum made sure to let you celebrate Christmas, and Easter too. She didn’t want you missing out the way we did.”
Isabella nodded. “Yeah, she always made sure we had a big Christmas together as a family.” She let her eyes drift shut, and a tear meandered down one cheek.
Cindy cleared her throat. “Well, enough of that. I don’t think I can take anymore tears today – I’m parched beyond belief. Did I show you the latest rocking chair I found?”
Isabella shook her head, sniffling.
Cindy bustled out from behind the counter, shoving the register closed as she went. “Well, come take a look. It really is magnificent.”
Isabella followed her aunt through the aisles of lampshades, chairs, rolled-up rugs and statues, her mind racing. She had so many questions, and her parents weren’t there to answer them. And there was Baker and their kiss … She ran a hand over her eyes, wiping them dry, even as her lips tingled.
The Horned Owl was furnished with secondhand furniture, some of it probably bought from her aunt’s antique store. The tables and chairs were tasteful and eclectic, and the walls were lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. New books, with their new-book smell, perched invitingly on the shelves, and the customers seated alone around the cafe sipped on lattes, ensconced in the latest thriller or romance novel to grace a New York Times bestseller list.
Isabella was early – Baker hadn’t arrived yet – so she ordered an eggnog cappuccino to try and get into the Christmas spirit. There was no getting around it – this Christmas would be heartbreaking, lonely, sad, a thousand other miserable things. She’d remember it forever as the Christmas she’d lost her parents. But she could try to pretend to enjoy it. At the very least, pretending might make it bearable.
She sat in a booth with a big square glass window that looked out onto the main street. Cars buzzed by, people hurried past, and the summer sun beat down on it all, making the tarmac soften under its unrelenting gaze.
What was she doing here? Why was she waiting for Baker? She’d known him almost her entire life, at least since the age of four when she’d attended the local Uniting Church preschool. She didn’t remember it, but he’d have been there – they all were. And from kindergarten through to her final year of school, he’d been there – tall, skinny, and usually with a basketball balanced between his large hands.
In high school, she’d been the girl who’d attended all the parties and ended up passed out on someone’s front lawn or making out with whichever boy happened to be close by at the time. He was the quiet, serious one who stood in the corner, watching but never joining the revelry. There was no doubt in her mind he’d been judging her – he, the boy who attended church every Sunday and never missed youth group on a Friday night. And she, the girl who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) say no, the one voted Most Popular right before graduation.
How was it after all these years he’d decided to overlook her past? Or wa
s there something else going on? Why had he asked her out? Why that kiss?
She shouldn’t be thinking about him right now – she was in mourning. She had enough on her plate to keep her occupied. A relationship would only complicate things. Perhaps that’s why she’d let herself feel things for him – because her emotions were so heightened.
There was no doubt in her mind, they were certainly attracted to one another – the kiss they’d shared had been electric, passionate. But what else could they possibly have in common? He was a father of two who pastored a church. She didn’t have any kind of faith. She’d never be good enough to become a part of his ready-made family, not that he’d asked her to … oh, it was just too complicated.
When the cappuccino arrived, she lifted the enormous mug to her lips, the scent of nutmeg wafting up to greet her. Just as she took a sip and grimaced at the sickly-sweet flavour, the bell over the door jangled. Baker walked in and laughed at the sour look on her face. “Nice to see you too, Issie.”
As he slid into the booth across from her, his eyes sparkled.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Ugh. Don’t order the eggnog cappuccino, whatever you do – it’s disgusting. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She pushed the cup to the centre of the table and shook her head.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiled, his cheek dimpled and her heart skipped a beat. “So how are you?”
She nodded. “I’m okay. Not super thrilled about all the Christmas stuff.”
His eyes were dark and full of compassion. “It must be hard for you.”
She glanced down at the table and twisted her fingers together. “It’s the first one, you know? The first Christmas without them. And I know there’ll be lots of firsts – the first birthday, first family get-together, lots of events they’ll miss. But … this feels a bit overwhelming …” Her voice broke.
He put his hand over hers, and her skin sparked beneath his touch, setting her pulse racing. “I’m sorry.”
She sobbed and screwed her eyes tight, not wanting to cry in front of him again. She’d cried enough in recent weeks to last a lifetime. And as the sadness faded, anger took its place. It rose up from her gut like bile and spewed forth from her mouth. “So what would your God say about it?” she spat.
He frowned. “He grieves for your pain …”
Her laugh was hollow, bitter. “Really? Then why’d he take them?”
“I thought you didn’t believe He was real.” His voice remained gentle, his gaze steady on hers.
“I don’t, but for argument’s sake – if he were real, why would he take them?” She frowned, feeling the adrenaline buzz through her veins. Fighting with Baker was the only thing she could think to do with her rage.
“You know why you’re asking these questions? Because you have a sneaking suspicion He just might be real.”
“So answer my question!” she shouted, her cheeks burning, heedless of the other patrons’ stares.
He arched an eyebrow. “Okay, I will. Here’s my answer: God is good – always. Everything good in the world comes from Him. But there’s evil in the world as well.” She tried to interrupt him, but he took her hands and cupped them between his. “Bad things don’t happen because of God – they happen because our world is broken.”
She frowned. It all sounded so strange. She couldn’t focus on his words, her head buzzed and the restaurant seemed to spin around her. “Well, I can’t believe in a God who would let something like this happen to me.” She pulled her hands loose, stood, and the table lurched, sending the eggnog mixture slopping over the sides of the mug.
“Issie …”
“No, I can’t. I don’t know what you think is going on between us, but you and I – we’re very different people. I can’t be the person you want me to be. Just … leave me alone.”
“Isabella, wait.” He stood, his eyes pleading.
She sobbed, covered her mouth with both hands and ran from the cafe. She wondered at her words even as they fell from her mouth. Why she was pushing him away? Seeing the hurt look on his face made her heart lurch, but she still couldn’t help herself – there was too much anger in her to bottle up. She stumbled down the street, her vision blurred by tears that filled her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.
Baker had done nothing but be there for her and offer her his compassion and friendship. All she’d done in return was yell at him and storm out. Well, she likely wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him again while she was in Heartstone. Before too long she might be headed back to Sydney, never to see him again. The thought of that made her sob all the louder.
Isabella reached her car, opened the door with fumbling fingers, then slouched into the driver’s seat with a cry. Pain constricted her throat and she leaned her head against the steering wheel as she sobbed, regret trailing nausea in its wake.
7
10 December
Isabella stood at the door of her parents’ office, peering inside. It smelled like them. Everything reminded her of them.
Kim had told her she should do a stock take so she could start familiarizing herself with the estate. As their newly acquired lawyer, Kim hadn’t had the opportunity to go through their assets line by line yet and wasn’t entirely sure of the extent of their investments. They’d had an appointment booked with her to do just that … the day after their accident.
Isabella went in and stopped, glancing around. Both had their own desks. Her mother’s stood bare save for a mug filled with pens and a notebook. Her father’s had piles of papers scattered across it, an empty, stained coffee cup on top of one stack as if it were an unwieldy paperweight. On a corner was the last ledger she and Baker had read through in their search for answers about the hives.
She went to her mother’s desk and sank slowly into the chair. It squeaked and leaned back as she sat, and she jerked forward to stop it from tipping over. She closed her eyes a moment and allowed her breathing to calm, then opened the top drawer. Pens, pencils, an eraser, sticky tape, the usual. The second drawer held a series of notebooks, the third a small set of hanging files. She flicked through those – they appeared to be bills, accounts and receipts.
Returning to the second drawer, she took out a notebook – black with a leather cover and a loose piece of elastic holding it shut. She pulled the elastic free and flipped it open. It was a journal. Her pulse raced – she hadn’t known her mother kept a journal. Though it seemed lately there was a lot she didn’t know about her parents.
This book contained recent entries, with the first page dated the beginning of the year. As she read through her mother’s new year’s resolutions, she found herself intrigued. This was a woman she’d always known – someone she’d loved and spent more time than with anyone else – yet reading what her mother had jotted on the lined page, it felt as though she was reading about someone she barely knew.
Her mother had written about her dreams and plans, her love for her child, the heartbreak she’d felt all those years ago when she’d realized there’d only be one. Interspersed were daily activities, observations, even prayers. The first time God was mentioned, Isabella’s eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open. She’d never heard her parents speak about God. And yet halfway through the year, the journal transformed into a love letter to a being she couldn’t see or understand. It was astounding.
She stood, hands on her hips. Coffee – she needed coffee. Almost half the day had gone by as she’d read without her noticing it. She padded to the kitchen in bare feet and pyjamas and foraged in the dishwasher for the coffee pot.
While the coffee brewed, she perched on a barstool and munched on a piece of toast lathered with butter and fresh honey – one of the perks of owning beehives. She stared hollow-eyed at the wall and licked at a wayward trickle of honey that had dripped down her chin as she waited. Once it was done, she poured a travel mug full of coffee and carried it back to the office to continue reading.
She picked up the notebook and flipped back a few pages, to
the place where her mother described in detail the first night she’d met the one she called “Papa God.” It’d been at a “revival meeting” at Baker’s church. A visiting speaker was there, and Cindy had dragged them both along with the promise of a free meal in the church hall afterward.
But something the man had said, about how God had created each person on Earth with a purpose and a destiny, had resonated with Mum. How there was an ache inside that each one of us had since the beginning of time – the desire to be valued, noticed, loved beyond measure and to make a difference with the time we had – that most human of conditions, was put in us by a Creator who wanted us to long for Him, for relationship and a destiny with Him.
Isabella frowned. The way her mother described the encounter, it was as if she’d been searching for that her whole life and had finally found it. She wrote that her life was transformed in that moment, and she experienced joy she’d never known before.
With a sigh, Isabella stuck a finger between the pages and lay back on the floor, resting the book on her abdomen before opening it again.
She noticed her name in the next paragraph and her heart quickened. She lifted a finger to trace the line of the letters on the page as she read:
I want to tell my darling Issie about our new faith. We both do. But when we talk to her on the phone, she’s distant and distracted. I really want to tell her in person. It’s too important to explain over the phone. I’m afraid she’ll misunderstand what I’m saying, won’t see how much it means to me, to us. She says she’ll visit around Labour Day. We’ll tell her then.
Tears wound their way down her cheeks. They’d wanted to tell her. But she didn’t give them a chance. And she’d cancelled the Labour Day trip at the last moment, when Simon promised her a long weekend away together, just the two of them. One more way she’d let her parents down. An intense ache filled her heart. She sobbed and put her hands over her face as a feeling of longing consumed her.
