When Willows Weep Read online

  When Willows Weep

  Charlay Marie

  www.urbanchristianonline.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One - TAMARA

  Chapter Two - CLAIRE

  Chapter Three - CIARA

  Chapter Four - CLAIRE

  Chapter Five - MARK

  Chapter Six - CIARA

  Chapter Seven - MARK

  Chapter Eight - TAMARA

  Chapter Nine - SARAH

  Chapter Ten - MARK

  Chapter Eleven - SARAH

  Chapter Twelve - TAMARA

  Chapter Thirteen - SARAH

  Chapter Fourteen - CIARA

  Chapter Fifteen - SARAH

  Chapter Sixteen - TAMARA

  Chapter Seventeen - CLAIRE

  Chapter Eighteen - SARAH

  Chapter Nineteen - CIARA

  Chapter Twenty - TAMARA

  Chapter Twenty-one - SARAH

  Chapter Twenty-two - MARK

  Chapter Twenty-three - TAMARA

  Chapter Twenty-four - SARAH

  Chapter Twenty-five - CIARA

  Chapter Twenty-six - CLAIRE

  Chapter Twenty-seven - MARK

  Chapter Twenty-eight - SARAH

  Chapter Twenty-nine - TAMARA

  Chapter Thirty - CLAIRE

  Chapter Thirty-one - MARK

  Chapter Thirty-two - SARAH

  Chapter Thirty-three - TAMARA

  Chapter Thirty-four - CLAIRE

  Chapter Thirty-five - SARAH

  Chapter Thirty-six - MARK

  Chapter Thirty-seven - CLAIRE

  Chapter Thirty-eight - TAMARA

  Chapter Thirty-nine - SARAH

  Chapter Forty - MARK

  Chapter Forty-one - CLAIRE

  Chapter Forty-two - TAMARA

  Chapter Forty-three - SARAH

  Chapter Forty-four - CLAIRE

  Chapter Forty-five - TAMARA

  Epilogue - MARK

  Questionnaire

  UC HIS GLORY BOOK CLUB!

  What We Believe:

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to give thanks to God for blessing me with the ability to write a second book. In no way, shape, or form am I deserving of such favor, and yet the Lord blesses me daily. That goes to show His great love and mercy for us. Even though we aren’t perfect, His love is. I am ever so grateful for that love. I will always give God the glory, first and foremost.

  To all my family, friends, and readers who have supported me during this journey, thank you! Your support means the world to me! I’ve had multiple people rave about my first book, Under the Peach Tree, saying they can’t wait to get their hands on this book. It means so much that I can give When Willows Weep to all of you, as well. I hope all my readers learn something from reading this book, as it is meant to inspire, restore, and teach.

  The books that I write are God’s will. If they were my own, I would’ve written a paranormal romance series. God always has a different plan for us, a better one. Instead, He put it in my heart to please Him and to write for His glory. I like to write about the two attributes of God that are my favorite, which are His forgiveness and His mercy. He affords us forgiveness and mercy, especially when we need it most, which happens to be after some sort of life mistake we’ve made. He always shows us how to grow from our trials as He leads us through them. The characters in When Willows Weep understand these traits of God all too well, as they face their fair share of trials. Always remember that none of us are perfect, not even the highest of saints. We should always correct with love and never cast stones, as Jesus has taught us. Thank you, God, for being loving and merciful! And thank you all for reading! God bless.

  Chapter One

  TAMARA

  “My God,” I whispered to myself as I looked down at Ciara’s puffy cheeks, which were stained with tears. I felt the deepest type of pain. No six-year-old child should ever have to lose his or her mother to a car accident; no child should ever have to suffer the way she was suffering. This little girl had no one. She had never known her father, and now her mother, my best friend, was gone.

  Dead.

  I did everything in my power to keep the tears from clouding my vision as I drove. Lord knows, I didn’t want to die the same way Ciara’s mother had just died. The thought of the car accident made me want to stop my car and break down, but someone had to be strong for this little girl.

  Ciara hadn’t said a word to me since the funeral this morning. I figured she was mentally drained from seeing her mother in that casket. What child wouldn’t be? The image of her mother lying in that casket made me weak. The sad thing was that this was only the beginning for her. Soon, children’s services would be knocking on my door, trying to take her to a foster home, trying to take her away from the only thing she had left. Me.

  I was in the delivery room the day she was born. I saw those hazel eyes stare directly at me as she smiled for the first time. I was there for every birthday, every Christmas and Thanksgiving, watching her grow and experience the joys of life. She called me Auntie Tamara. She looked to me to help her through losing her mother, and I couldn’t even tell this little girl that soon she wouldn’t even have me.

  Children’s services would take her from me. I had already asked around about the chances of me getting custody of Ciara, and none of the feedback had been positive. God knows, they wouldn’t let me keep her, not with my low-paying job, and the fact that my crazy ex-boyfriend was in jail for almost killing me didn’t help matters. I had also been sleeping on Candace’s couch for a week, having gotten evicted from my apartment. They would deem me unfit based on those reasons and would put her in a messed-up home with a couple who probably abused children and would feed her nothing but ramen noodles and white bread. She’d get put into a school in the middle of the hood and would probably be pregnant by fifteen. Who knew what trouble lay ahead for a little girl with no mother or father? The only thing I could do was pray that the good Lord covered her and protected her, even when she got snatched out of my hands.

  If only there was something I could do to make sure she didn’t end up in the system. I wished there was a way I could find her father and take her to him, but I didn’t even know his name. I wasn’t even sure Ciara’s mom, Candace, had known the man’s full name. The only thing I knew was the story she had once told me about him and how they’d met.

  He was a middle-aged white man, and she met him while she was at Montrose Beach, not too far from where she lived in Chicago. He showed her around, took her to dinner, and ended up in her hotel room. When Candace woke up that next morning, he was gone, but he had left behind a picture of the two of them, one they’d paid a photographer to take while they were at the beach. A few weeks later, Candace found out that she was pregnant.

  I never did ask her why she never searched for him and let him know he had a baby on the way. I figured she didn’t know much about him or maybe didn’t care. Now I wished I had asked more questions.

  “I’m sleepy,” Ciara said, tossing uncomfortably in her seat. I couldn’t tell if her puffy eyes were from exhaustion or crying. Maybe both. I reached over and gently rubbed her shoulder.

  “We’re almost home,” I assured her.

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “What?” I asked in surprise, almost pushing down on the brakes, which would’ve caused a multiple car pileup.

  “I don’t have a home,” Ciara said again, staring out her window. “My home is with Mama, and Mama ain’t here no more.”

  For the hundredth time today, tears began pouring from my eyes, making it difficul
t to see. I quickly pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned it off. I turned as much as my seat would allow me so that I was facing Ciara, who was still looking out the window. She was such a pretty little girl, with curly hair, which her mom had always braided in two pigtails. She had big, beautiful hazel eyes that complemented her fair complexion. Her mom couldn’t step outside without people coming up to her, telling her how beautiful Ciara was. She was an angel, a blessing, and I just hoped whichever family took her in saw the rarity of her beauty as well.

  Ciara was a gifted little girl; she always knew when something was wrong. She could sense people’s emotions without them even talking to her, and she had the wisdom of someone twice her age. I’d had to watch what I said around her ever since she was two years old, because she seemed always to understand what my words meant, especially bad words.

  A word at church was spoken over Ciara about the fact that she had the gift of discernment. She would always be able to discern what was true and real and to sniff out any wolf in sheep’s clothing. This minister had also said that Ciara would one day change lives, and I believed every word. She’d already changed mine.

  Letting her go was something I dreaded more than her mother’s death. The fact that I was powerless to help her hurt even more than having to give her over. Would Ciara blame me for not being able to keep her? The better question was, did I deserve the blame?

  I took a deep breath. “Ciara, your home isn’t where your mommy is, but where the memories and happy times are. Do you remember that one time we had that ice cream fight with your mommy in the kitchen and we won? Remember that?”

  Ciara nodded, with a smile, but it never reached her eyes.

  “How fun was that? Mommy might not be here, but that memory is. All you have to do is think about all the good times with Mommy, and you’ll be okay. As long as you keep Mommy in there,” I said, pointing to her heart, “then she’ll always be with you, wherever your home is.”

  My response seemed to satisfy her briefly, but her mood changed just as quickly as a cloud passing under the sun, causing the shadows to shift. I could tell she was growing sad by the way her shoulders slumped and her head rested against the seat in defeat. When she finally turned to me with glistening eyes, I patted her knee and tried to smile reassuringly. I could only imagine how fake it seemed, but I didn’t know what else to do.

  “They’re gonna take me away from you,” she said softly. “I heard two women talking about it today. They said they felt bad because I ain’t got no family, and I can’t stay with you, because you ain’t blood. They gonna put me in another home.”

  I was furious, beyond upset that some foolish women would talk about Ciara’s situation without first checking to see if anyone, especially Ciara, was within earshot. Here I was, literally driving myself crazy, trying to figure out what I was going to do about her living situation and how I was going to tell her, and she already knew. Although I should’ve been honest with her, I couldn’t. I knew Ciara would be able to tell I was lying, and yet I still couldn’t look her in the eye and confirm what she had said.

  “Ciara, I’m not gonna let nobody take you away from me, okay?” I knew the lie would come back and bite me, but I couldn’t let this little girl worry. That was my job to do for the time being. I was going to find a way to keep her, and if I couldn’t keep her with me, I’d find out who her father was and send her to be with him. She’d be better off with real family, not with people who wouldn’t care about her.

  And so I continued stressing over finding a way to save her.

  Later that day, I tucked Ciara into bed and found myself sitting in Candace’s room with a bottle of red wine. I usually didn’t drink, but I found it necessary in order to deal with all my problems. I had been so concerned with trying, unsuccessfully, to find Ciara a home that I needed a form of release. I found myself sitting there for quite a while in a daze.

  In a moment of inspiration, I began digging through her dresser drawers, searching through files, trying to find something that hinted at distant relatives or even Ciara’s father, but I found nothing. Candace was an only child who had never known her own mother. She had grown up with her grandmother, who had passed away on her eighteenth birthday. There were no aunts and no uncles.

  Just when I was about to give up, the shimmering letters on the cover of a Bible caught my eye. I slowly picked it up, feeling a sense of relief. My last resort was usually God, and He was the only one who could help me in my time of need. I held the Bible in my hand, running my fingers along the gold letters, and smiled. Yes, God was always with us.

  I sat on the bed and opened the Bible, and from it, a picture fell out. I picked the picture up from the floor and examined it. My good Lord, I was staring at the images of Candace and a white man, who seemed to fit the description of Ciara’s father that Candace had once given me. He was tall, with dark hair, and had a seemingly genuine smile. He seemed like the type of man one couldn’t help but like. His eyes were kind.

  In the picture, they stood with their backs facing a beach, his arms draped around her shoulders, her smile big and goofy. I could see why she had been with him. They looked happy, like an actual couple. Seeing her standing there, smiling brightly brought tears to my eyes. I wished I could see her smile one last time, but this picture would have to do.

  I turned the picture over and saw a bit of sloppy handwriting. The message read:

  Hopefully, we will meet again, my love,

  Mark Douglas

  I practically knocked over my bottle of wine as I jumped up and down with excitement. I finally had a name and a face. Candace had told me she knew only his first name, but it was as clear as day on this picture that the mystery baby daddy indeed had a last name. She must’ve had her reasons for never contacting him, and for a moment, I wished I could ask her what those reasons were. I pulled myself out of that sad thought and focused on the man’s name. Mark Douglas. I was one step closer to making sure Ciara had a home. I grabbed my phone, went to Facebook, and typed his name in the search bar, hoping I’d find a match.

  Chapter Two

  CLAIRE

  The house was spotless, my husband’s favorite roast was slowly cooking in the oven, I was wearing his favorite dress—the white one with the pearls sewn into the neckline—and my shoulder-length blond hair was neatly curled, with not a strand out of place. I was the ideal housewife. I was one of those women on the TV shows with a nice house and a cool, collected demeanor. A woman who stood strongly behind her husband and took care of her family’s needs. I was a woman to be valued and cherished by her husband, and yet my husband, Mark, still didn’t look at me.

  Most days, Mark would come home from doing whatever being a preacher and a lawyer required of him, and he’d go straight for the food, take a plate into his study, and disappear until midnight. I spent that time trying to figure out a way to make him notice me again.

  I’d recently bought new lingerie to wear to bed, but he hadn’t noticed. I even wore a new perfume. One time, I let the house go unclean for an entire week to see if he’d notice. Did he? Not at all. The housemaid got a free week of paid vacation for nothing.

  God said a man was supposed to love his wife. One would think that my husband, being the preacher over our church, would follow this command as perfectly as he could. Looking in from the outside, people would think I got all the affection in the world. They’d think my family was happy and perfect, but then they’d all be wrong.

  I did pride myself on being the preacher’s wife. Every Christian woman I knew in our suburb of Highland Park in Chicago looked up to me and tried to model her own marriage on what she thought my husband and I had. It didn’t help that I lied to these women. Sunday brunch was the perfect place to lie and brag about what my husband did for me. All the ladies would marvel at me like I was Martha Stewart herself... and I’d let them.

  But they didn’t know how my house was crumbling, how my daughter, Sarah, hated me and would much rather
live alone with Mark, doing away with me altogether. Thank God the neighbors never saw the look she got on her face whenever I walked into a room. Sarah blamed me for everything, even when it was obvious I wasn’t the cause, but they’d never know that, because Sarah knew to smile when people were watching.

  Sarah and I had once been close, but that was before she hit puberty, when every other sentence she uttered was about how she loved me. I remembered how she used to run into my arms after school and spend hours telling me all about her day in a rush of excitement. The older she got, the farther the distance between us was.

  I was good at hiding how my household was beginning to unravel. I was also really good at lying to myself about how willing I was to just give it all up. If I could walk away, I would; however, I was more concerned with my image and how others viewed me. I’d rather live in an unhappy marriage than leave it as long as others looked up to us as the prime example of how they wanted their marriage to be. We were Christians, after all.

  The only thing that got me through my day was the false image I’d created of myself. I loved to live through other people’s high opinions of me, and sometimes I almost believed them. I almost believed I had a great marriage, a wonderful home environment, and a loving daughter who adored me. I almost believed that I was happy.

  Almost.

  Leaving my roast slowly cooking at home, I headed to a five-star restaurant, and as I walked inside, I took in the aroma of the food, the wine, and the expensive cologne. I had a standing brunch appointment with some church members, and we met up at this restaurant every Sunday, shortly after church. We had a small church, with one service that started at eight and was done by eleven, giving us the time needed for our Sunday brunches. I took a look at myself in the long mirror just inside the restaurant doors. My knee-length white sundress looked lovely paired with the blue heels and the matching hat I wore. I’d chosen a new necklace, one that complemented my pearl neckline, and a brilliant diamond bracelet I’d purchased at Saks, knowing it would impress the ladies.