“I’m sorry, Abigail.” The simple words revealed the huge, yawning divide between them. “I wish it was that simple. But it’s not. And I’m...so damn sorry.”
She had no words to express how much that hurt her. How much he hurt her.
When she failed to speak, he gave a small nod. An acknowledgment that there was nothing more to say. “I’ll show myself out.”
He turned on his heel, Ruby following behind him.
Abigail covered her mouth with her hand to make sure she didn’t call after him. Ruby, at least, spared her a glance back before they walked out of her house.
She felt something wet hit her collarbone and realized tears were sliding down her face. She swiped at them impatiently. No way would she spend tears on a man who hid behind his work at the expense of a real connection with anyone.
At the expense of love.
Closing her eyes, she didn’t want to acknowledge that thought. She couldn’t have possibly let herself fall in love with a man who would never risk his heart for her. And if she had, she wanted to go on denying it until her own heart stopped breaking.
Thirteen
The next morning, Abigail stared listlessly at her sketchbook.
Charcoal in hand, she hoped to draw something—anything—to take her mind off her worries for her baby. She hadn’t slept all night, fear for her unborn child sending her to the internet to read everything possible about kidney defects detectable in utero. That, of course, only frightened her more.
And while it was wrong of Vaughn to join her for the ultrasound if he didn’t plan on sticking around, she could recognize today that her reaction had been fueled by fears for her little girl. Emotions had been running high yesterday.
Now, she also had to contend with the hole in her own heart over losing Vaughn. She gripped the charcoal tighter between her fingers and sighed. She’d been in her seat by the studio window for almost twenty minutes now, and she had nothing to offer the blank page. No inspiration. No emotion.
She wished she could at least express her anger. Her frustration. But her tears were spent now after a sleepless night. Even the anger had faded since she’d vented her emotions on Vaughn the day before. She still felt the same crushing disappointment about what he’d done, yet, she sure did regret the way she’d expressed those things to him. Setting down the charcoal, she shoved aside the sketchbook and stared out the window instead, her gaze tracking a hummingbird bobbing around the special red feeder she’d installed so she could watch them drink. Bright emerald and blue, the bird darted in to press its long beak into the sugar water.
Not even the sight of her favorite feathered friend inspired her.
She regretted accusing Vaughn of not living his life. And, knowing how hard he battled his PTSD, she regretted suggesting how he should honor his fallen comrades in arms. It hadn’t been her place. She would have bristled if someone told her how she should or shouldn’t be honoring Alannah’s memory.
There was no right way to grieve.
Restless, she moved to her carving tools instead, taking a seat at a table where she did detail work to play with a thick piece of hickory that hadn’t spoken to her yet. The grain was wavy and warped, the lines moving in unexpected directions—maybe a branch had fallen away, giving the tree a lumpy knot to heal over. She traced the misshapen bits with her finger before tugging on a pair of gloves and picking up a gouge.
There was interest in the misshapen. Unlike things that were traditionally beautiful—perfectly formed with symmetry that pleased the eye—there was a different kind of beauty in nature’s scars. The odd line that made you look a second time. The unexpected angle that forced the eye to linger.
The healed-over scars were strong. The lumpy branch had gone on long after a part had fallen away. Tough but thriving.
Abigail gouged deeper and deeper. Around and around. She formed circles, not sure where they were going but liking the feel of the wood in her hands. The smoothness she brought to the wood without taking away the erratic look of the grain. She had moved onto the chisel, finding figures in the wood as she worked.
A baby in the middle of it all.
Just a tiny form, but a uniting presence in the center. And arms going around it. Fluid, slender arms. Then, around those, another pair. Strong and muscular.
The chime of her phone beside her dragged her from intense concentration, making her realize that she’d found inspiration at last. Over an hour had vanished without her realizing it. For a moment, she nursed a foolish hope that it might be Vaughn.
But she didn’t recognize the number on her caller ID, dashing the idea right away.
“Hello?” Straightening from her worktable, she juggled the phone to her ear and peeled off her gloves.
“Abigail?” a male voice asked. “This is Dr. Hutchinson.”
She tensed, waiting to hear more news about her baby. “Thank you for calling,” she said, managing to get the words out even though she felt like she’d been robbed of breath. Fear and hope made her neck prickle as she prayed the news was good. “Did you learn anything new?”
She’d been uncertain of his next steps when she left the hospital the day before, thinking she’d quiz Vaughn about it more when they got home. But after their argument, Abigail realized she’d never gotten to do that.
“Nothing definitive.” His voice was even, the sounds of the hospital around him—monitors beeping, a phone ringing, the PA system making an announcement in the background. “But I spoke to a colleague who specializes in hydronephrosis—the condition I suspected your child might have.”
She’d read about that, too, a dilation of the kidneys. The problem could range in seriousness and required monitoring after birth, but it wasn’t life-threatening
