Unspoken (35 page)

Bryce took the stairs down quietly Monday morning shortly after six a.m. so as not to wake Charlotte, put on coffee, then walked back to his office. He liked the early morning starts to the day. He didn’t have to wonder if the work he did mattered. Lives were being impacted by the decisions he made. There was a blessing in simply being trusted with the work, and every day he crossed the threshold of his office, he felt it. He often thought he now had the best job in the world.

At the right time, in the right amounts, funding made an organization flourish. Money was the easy part of the equation when it came to ministry. A clear vision and plan, well-trained leaders and staff, enthusiastic volunteers, opportunities to meet people’s needs—those were more vital to the success or failure of a ministry than the funding, and he was the last part of the puzzle. But he and Charlotte could partner with them and make a difference when the time was right.

Bryce turned on the lights in his office.

A large sketch rested in the center of his desk, a cookie in cellophane resting on top of it. He opened the cellophane wrapper. Chocolate chip. He smiled, tugged it out, and took a bite. Charlotte had discovered his weakness for chocolate chip two weeks ago and bought him a fresh-baked cookie when she was passing the bakery.

He lifted off the sheet of tracing paper she had placed to protect the drawing. His mom, his sisters—smiling, eating pie, having leaned together for a photo.

He gently traced the edge of the paper. At least sixty hours of work. He’d watched Charlotte build these photo-like sketches. She’d humored his mom and removed the gray hair, given his sisters the earrings they’d be receiving at Christmas. His mom had her hand resting on Josephine’s, and their wedding rings were lightly touched by the sunlight flowing across the table. Charlotte would have a snapshot on her phone of the three of them, had been able to transform that into this. The gift she had for drawing was truly remarkable.

A year ago he hadn’t realized how much he was missing from life. Sharing the days with Charlotte made life enjoyable in a way that he couldn’t have imagined or easily put into words. The real gift she’d given him was not the money; it was having her as his wife.

He placed the sketch on the credenza for Ellie to frame for him. Charlotte had drawn eight family sketches for him now. She was beginning to know his family and love them, and it showed in her sketches. He wondered if she realized it or if the family dynamics had gradually absorbed her, and a year from now she’d look back and realize with surprise they were now her family too.

The family had extended and made her welcome as his wife, created her a place. If there was something this marriage could offer her that mattered, it was his family and that absolute acceptance that came with it. She was one of them.

Out of habit Bryce glanced at his calendar. There was another birthday in the family tomorrow. Rose was turning six. He’d have a reason to go shopping with Charlotte this afternoon. They had a common love affair with toy stores, so it would be a laughter-filled couple of hours. Courting his wife by finding reasons to hang out with her and make her laugh . . . he liked the simplicity of it. One of these days she was going to laugh, turn and hug him without even thinking about it. The baby steps were adding up slowly and taking them somewhere.

He finished the cookie with his coffee, smiled as he glanced again at the sketch, then turned and started his workday.

B
ryce was glad they had planned a trip north to Shadow Lake. Charlotte dozed during the five-hour drive, wrapped up in his jacket, her tote bag with an extra sketchbook at her feet. The dogs were asleep in the back seat. She needed the rest. She’d told him about the third man, and now seemed to struggle to push back the memories that went with it. She was getting up in the night to spend a few more hours at her drafting table, working on the final details of the Florist sketch. Bryce wanted to break the pattern but wasn’t sure how.

Bryce drove to the lake, taking the road from the east so as to avoid Graham Enterprises and all the reminders of what she had left behind. He crossed the river that fed into the lake, then turned south around the lake past John’s home to arrive at Fred’s house. Ellie was there to meet them before Charlotte stepped out of the car.

He eventually left Charlotte with Ellie, surrounded by paint strips and carpet samples, talking about cabinet choices for the remodeled kitchen. Ellie would help her relax more than anyone else could. Bryce walked with the dogs down to the lake.

John had built out the dock so a couple of fishing boats could comfortably tie up, built a small boathouse to store fishing gear, and right now was in the process of putting in an outdoor
sink and work surface as a convenient place to clean fish. Bryce thought it was the perfect addition to the property, and only regretted Charlotte didn’t enjoy the water so he could take her for a boat ride while they were here.

John finished storing tackle. “You made good time.”

“Traffic was light. Joseph had a woman with him in the tailing SUV.”

“Kimberly Beach. I’ll introduce you next week. She’s going to be the new security with Ellie and Charlotte when they’re out shopping. Easier for her to blend in than one of the guys.”

Bryce nodded. “Appreciate that thought.”

John pulled out cold sodas for them from the refrigerator next to the bait cold-storage box and handed one over. “I got a call from Ann Falcon yesterday, checking in on Charlotte, asking me to think back on the kidnapping and what Charlotte might have said about the two men killed—who they spent time with, who they trusted, had Charlotte ever discussed what or who they spoke about. I’d say you tipped over a pretty determined hornet’s nest with whatever you said. I didn’t have much I could give her, but she was asking the right questions.”

“Interesting that Ann called you and not Paul.”

“Not so surprising. Ann’s been a friend for a long time.” John offered the dogs each a biscuit. “Don’t get disappointed when they hit a wall, Bryce. Cops have looked before.”

“If that’s what happens, I’ll deal with it. Charlotte’s having trouble sleeping.”

“I can imagine, given she read what Gage has written. You don’t stir those kinds of memories without it causing her problems. Charlotte’s memory . . . it’s not memories, Bryce, not like you think of them. She described it once as a ‘black suffocating blanket.’ She doesn’t want the details. The emotions of it are hard enough. It simply takes her time to build a distance again so she’s not feeling that during her waking hours.”

“She’s blocked out most of what happened?”

John shrugged. “It’s there. But she remembers as little of the specifics as her mind can get away with. She’ll sleep easier when this isn’t so close to the surface.”

“Does anything help?”

“Work. Time. She’ll get past this, Bryce. She always does.”

Bryce leaned against his car and watched the moon rise over Shadow Lake. The evening breeze had picked up. He glanced over as Charlotte joined him, bundled in his jacket.

“Ellie is making good progress remodeling the house. We had fun.”

Bryce smiled and opened the passenger door for her. “It looked like you two were having a good time.” John had cooked out at his place for the four of them, hamburgers and hot dogs, and they had lingered on his back patio until the sun went down, watched the water reflecting the colors of the fading sunset in the clouds. Charlotte had spent another few private hours talking with Ellie while he and John watched a ball game. “We can stay the night in Madison if you prefer not to make the long drive tonight,” he told her.

“I’ll let you make the choice since you’re driving. I’m fine either way.”

“Then let’s go back to Chicago tonight. Traffic is light, and it’s a beautiful night.” Unspoken, he hoped the long car ride would help Charlotte sleep for a few more hours. He found a station playing her kind of music and turned it on low.

“If Ellie would just marry John, life would be really good right now,” she said, leaning her head against the headrest.

He smiled. “I’d say they’re figuring out how it might work. She was finishing some of his thoughts, and he was directing her help on the meal preparation without having to say much.”

“I noticed. She’s comfortable with him.”

“Will you tell me one day about Ellie’s history, Charlotte?”

“No. She may tell you herself. It’s darker than mine and did more damage.”

“I’m very sorry for that.”

“So am I. She was five.” Charlotte frowned. “I try not to mention even that, so forget I said it.”

“I like her, Charlotte. Whatever her history, it’s not changing that.”

“It’s not that. It’s just her story to tell, not mine.”

Bryce let a long moment pass, then decided to risk a question. “Are the oil paintings hers? Is Ellie the painter
Marie
?”

His wife turned her head to look at him. Bryce hadn’t expected to see sadness. There were emotions there, deep and dark, swirling in her eyes. And sadness was dominating. “I can’t answer that,” Charlotte said softly.

“Last month there was a trace of oil paint on the back of Ellie’s jacket sleeve,” he offered quietly. “And walnut oil has a faint smell, but it’s distinctive. There was the whiff of it when she walked into the office last week.”

“You observe well.” Charlotte reached over and rested her hand on his arm. “Let it go, what you’ve seen. It’s not a simple answer, of using a different name to keep some privacy. The truth is far more complex than that. She’ll tell you one day. She likes you, and that’s a large part of her decision. She eventually told John. She’ll probably tell you.”

He accepted that. “I won’t mention it.”

Charlotte nodded her thanks and closed her eyes with a sigh. “To think I used to run a full day at Graham Enterprises and have energy left over. Those days are gone.”

“They’ll return once you get some decent sleep for more than a night or two.”

“Hope so.” She gave him a tired smile. “It was nice, Bryce,
being their guests. I’ll invite Ellie and John to come to dinner next week and return the favor.”

“I’d like that.” He made the turn that would take them across the river that fed into Shadow Lake. “Neither one of them ever mentioned the money.”

“Did you expect them to?”

“No. I just realized that fact and find it interesting. The only two people in our lives who know about the size of the wealth didn’t find it significant to mention or ask a question about it.”

“You’re enjoying giving the money away. They can see that when you talk about your days. I’m enjoying having a studio again and a chance to get back to some detailed drawings. They saw that too. They’ll be happy to help if there’s a problem, but otherwise it’s just our life now.”

“Anything you would change about that life?” Bryce asked, curious if she’d answer.

Miles passed by.

“I think I’d like to kiss you good-night sometimes.”

“Okay.”

“I heard that smile.”

“Did you expect me to say no?”

“I’m just thinking about it.”

Bryce glanced over. Her eyes were closed and she was drifting. He smiled, and didn’t break the silence. He was thinking about it now too.

Bryce checked the time and then the upcoming exits. They were four hours into the drive home, and he decided not to take the last of the exits they occasionally used when they stopped for gas or food. It would be better to simply get home. Charlotte was watching traffic pass by in the opposite lanes. He’d break the silence with a topic for conversation but wasn’t sure what
would help. He was beginning to recognize the distant expression she got when the memories were pressing on her.

“I need to tell you something, Bryce. Something that is going to be very hard to hear.”

“I’ll listen, Charlotte.”

“They kidnapped a child the third year. A boy, a few months old. I can’t stop hearing his cries.”

He took the car off cruise and dropped their speed.

“They were going to get a nice ransom from his family. Three days later they shook him to death because he wouldn’t stop crying. I tried to intervene to stop it. They broke my wrist. I was nineteen, and an infant died because I couldn’t get him to stop crying.”

Bryce kept his silence by strength of will. If he interrupted, she was going to stop, and she desperately needed to say the words.

“I grieved for the child. I stopped eating. I gave up. I’m not really a survivor, Bryce. The cops simply found me before I died.”

He reached over, wrapped his hand around hers, felt her struggle not to pull away—and then she turned her hand, interlaced her fingers with his, and held on tight. “I can’t stop hearing his cries,” she said, her voice breaking.

She shielded her eyes when he turned on the kitchen lights. He eased her out of the jacket. “Go lie down on the couch, Charlotte.”

“I’m going upstairs.”

“I’m not letting you cry yourself to sleep behind a locked door. Stretch out on the couch, or take my bed and I’ll sit in your chair. Don’t ask me to listen to you cry and walk away. I won’t do it. I can’t do it.”

She changed directions to the living room.

Spare blankets were in the hall closet. He pulled out a couple of them.

Charlotte moved to the couch, and Bryce brought a chair over. It took an hour and half a box of Kleenex, but her breathing finally turned deeper. He watched her for a few more minutes. She looked so incredibly sad. Tomorrow was going to become the second most difficult day of their lives together. He reached over and shut off the end-table light.

“You’re not designed for that chair.”

He opened his eyes and sighed.