A Gentle Whisper

By Kathy Koonce

Charly Stevens road to adulthood has been paved with betrayal and heartache. Trusting only in her singing ability, she experiences the ultimate betrayal when her award-winning music career falls apart. Hopeless, Charly contemplates suicide on a lonely Los Angeles canyon road. Her desperate attempt to end her life is interrupted by a series of mysterious events that lead her back to her rural hometown on the outskirts of Miami. There, she is reunited with her estranged, God-fearing aunt, Nan Barclay, who has patiently awaited the return of her prodigal niece. Charlys journey home forces her to confront her dysfunctional past when long held family secrets are revealed. Faced with the new revelations, she must decide to either run away from her problems again, or accept the freedom only God can give. A lot is at stake as this could be Charlys last opportunity to discover the power of faith, forgiveness and true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512781229

Kathy Koonce

Kathy Koonce is an award-winning screenplay writer and A Gentle Whisper is her first novel. A graduate of Florida State University’s School of Criminology and a life-long Floridian, she enjoys bringing intriguing fictional characters to life on the page in thought-provoking mysteries. Kathy is married and resides with her family in South Florida. You can find her online at www.kathykoonce.com.

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Copyright © 2017 Kathy Koonce.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-8123-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-8124-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-8122-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017904553

WestBow Press rev. date: 07/06/2017

Contents

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part 2

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Part 3

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue

To all of God’s seed planters:

Keep planting. Your work is not in vain.

Dedicated to my devoted mother,

and to the loving memory of my father.

Acknowledgments

To my husband, Nate, thank you for your unending support in all my endeavors.

To all my family and friends, thank you for your encouragement, and most of all, your prayers.

To Lisa and Laura Bunbury, Kate Burgauer, and Theresa Bradman, thank you for your outstanding editing work. Your attention to detail made all the difference.

To Felicia Bryant, Deborah Cooper, Karen Hawkins, Chelsea Koonce and Pamela J. Moore, thank you for reading this story, and all the others, over, and over, and over again.

To Pastor David and Lisa Hughes, and the Church By The Glades family, thank you for your continued efforts to achieve unity within the body of Christ.

Foreword

I KNOW KATHY KOONCE WELL, BOTH as an author and a friend. In her latest work, A Gentle Whisper, Kathy invites us into the life of Charly Stevens, a talented promising young singer who experiences both success and true betrayal. Charly is faced with a choice; surrender to the disappointment and dysfunction of her past or discover the power of faith and the freedom only God can give.

As we journey with the main character, Kathy wonderfully weaves powerful and relevant themes such as the inevitability of trials and God’s subtle yet sure involvement in our lives. This story of heartbreak and redemption reminds us that God never allows more than we can bear. Even when we feel betrayed or abandoned, God always keeps his promise to never leave nor forsake us.

A Gentle Whisper is a moving fictional account of God’s faithfulness. It reminds us that even when we are tempted to give up on ourselves, God never gives up on us. Everyone who reads this book will be encouraged, knowing God is with us, even during our most difficult times.

David Hughes

Senior Pastor

Church By The Glades

Part 1

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Why should I feel discouraged; why should the shadows come,

Why should my heart feel lonely, and long for heav’n and home.

When Jesus is my portion, my constant friend is He;

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

I sing because I’m happy.

I sing because I’m free.

For His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

His Eye Is on the Sparrow

Civilla D. Martin, 1905

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Chapter 1

T HE AFTERNOON’S ICY BITE FROSTED every inch of concrete and asphalt surrounding ten-year-old Charly Stevens, who sat reading a book on the steps of her elementary school on the South Side of Chicago. Positioned between an office building and a bank, the two-story structure looked out of place in the business district with its oversized, painted mural of a diverse group of children carrying international flags. At nearly one hundred years old, the school was a historic landmark and a popular site for events celebrating Chicago’s educational system.

An hour had passed since Charly had been released from Mrs. Peterson’s fifth-grade class. The students, tasked with completing a book report on an important historical figure, had spent a portion of the school day in the library, where they searched rows of books to find their person of interest. Charly selected a worn hardcover book on Benjamin Franklin, partly because she was fascinated by the old man and his kite and partly because the only other books left were about people she’d never heard of.

She finished reading the account of Franklin’s life, condensed into twenty-five pages for young readers, and tucked the book inside her schoolbag. She smiled, confident she knew enough about the founding father and his kite to write a report worthy of Mrs. Peterson’s praise. Charly spent a few moments getting a head start on her opening paragraph by reciting sentences in her head, and then she scanned the school yard. Concerned, she stood and turned in a full circle. She was alone.

The streets were usually busy during the afternoon rush hour, but the unexpected cold front had caught the city’s workforce by surprise—arriving midday and a day earlier than predicted. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since noon and was predicted to level off in the single digits.

Sitting in the frigid weather was beginning to take its toll on Charly’s petite frame. Her radiant, cinnamon-brown skin was ashen, while her lips were turning blue and cracking. Desperate to stop the numbing sensation consuming her tiny ears, she hunched down into her jacket and pulled up the collar.

Charly received glances from passing commuters. Some even displayed concern by extending a second look as they hurried to find their own reprieve from the cold. The stares made Charly uncomfortable. She wondered if her thin jacket or tattered shoes drew their attention. In any case, each gaze made her feel she was sitting in a fishbowl, adding to the misery of the cold and the hunger pangs ripping through her belly. Charly wished her father would hurry; she desperately wanted to go home.

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At a distant corner on the other side of the street, a woman holding a small paper bag stood like a sentinel at the streetlight. She wore no coat over her black A-line skirt and starched white blouse. The matronly outfit perfectly framed her long, slim torso.

A male pedestrian standing nearby found the woman curious. He concluded, from her appearance and the lack of an overcoat, that she was a teacher at the nearby elementary school. He thought some sort of emergency must have compelled her to abandon all common sense and brave the elements in her modest attire.

Undaunted by the piercing cold or the pedestrian, the woman tipped on the toes of her three-inch black heels, looking for someone or something in the distance. Seconds later, she settled back on her feet and smiled.

When the light changed, the man took cautious steps across the icy intersection. He was surprised by the teacher’s ability to navigate the frozen landscape, and he decided she would be able to handle whatever urgent need lie ahead.

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Bored, Charly unclenched her cold fingers and popped them out of her jacket sleeves. She had an urge to pass the remaining time by drawing. She unzipped her tattered backpack and found a piece of notebook paper. She dug a little deeper to fish out an old felt pen. By the time she had gathered her drawing supplies, her knuckles were blue with cold. She dropped her book bag on the curb and blew three short bursts of air into her cupped hands before picking up the pen.

Rocking back and forth, Charly drew the first lines of her etching. She thought of the words from a hymn she’d known as long as she could remember. She couldn’t recall when she’d learned it or who had taught her. She just knew it was a good song. At first, she hummed the tune, and then she began to sing: All to him I freely give. I will ever love and trust him, in his presence daily live.

As Charly returned to her humming, an elderly couple turned the corner and headed in her direction. The two clung to each other for warmth and balance. Charly stopped drawing to watch the couple and thought they resembled one large bundle moving on four legs.

Her thought was interrupted by the elevated voices of a young couple passing by. Angry and determined to have the last say in their disagreement, the man raised his voice and stormed ahead of the woman. With careless disregard, he brushed hard against the elderly couple crossing his path. Get outta my way! he shouted, continuing on.

The old woman teetered and lost her balance. Henry! she yelped as her purse slid off her frail arm and onto the cold pavement.

The old man gathered the strength to break her fall. I got you, Edna. It’s okay. I got you, he said, cradling her in his arms.

The young woman stopped short and picked up Edna’s purse. I’m sorry, ma’am, she said, handing the purse back. Then she rushed from the scene.

What are you doing? the young man yelled from the distance.

That woman nearly fell down! his companion screamed back.

Who cares? he replied with his arms stretched out wide.

Charly watched the young couple argue until they were out of sight. Their fighting reminded her of her parents’ last shouting match, on October 5, and the troubles that followed. She picked up the felt pen and returned to her drawing. Her thoughts drifted back to the night of the fifth as she sang the hymn’s refrain: I surrender all, I surrender all, all to thee, my blessed Savior, I surrender all.

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The arguing was fierce and loud. Barely asleep, Charly was aware of the disturbance happening outside the small, barren bedroom she shared with her little brother, T. J. She refused to open her eyes. There was no point. The commotion blaring a few feet away wasn’t a bad dream. Everything she heard was real.

Charly was accustomed to her parents’ quarrels. Some of the disputes lasted longer than others, but all were loud and occurred after Ed Stevens escorted his beloved children, Charly and T. J., to their room for their bedtime story and prayers.

Once the arguing began, Charly’s curiosity would lure her from her room. Finding a hiding place within earshot of the confrontations wasn’t difficult for the slight child. Her small size gave her access to areas no one else would even consider large enough to hide in.

She watched and listened from her secret place long enough to gather the details. Most of the arguments dealt with her mother Maxine’s two-timing ways. It took Charly a while to figure out that the term meant her mother had a lot of boyfriends.

Charly thought Maxine always won the fights in the end. She’d see her mother walk out the door, dressed to the nines, while her father sat quietly in a corner. Charly pitied her father and secretly hoped one day he’d stand up to Maxine, but she knew he wouldn’t. Even at her young age, Charly was keenly aware that Ed Stevens worshipped the ground his wife walked on, even if they did fight.

The curious child always ended her surveillance the moment she felt the weight of her eyelids. Regardless of the juicy tidbits waiting to explode from her parents’ lips, she’d force herself to return to bed. Anything she missed would be pieced together the next time.

The October 5 argument was different. Charly remembered the date clearly. It was the day she brought home two gold stars from Mrs. Peterson’s class, one for good behavior and the other for a perfect score on her vocabulary test. Her parents appeared proud of her, though Maxine was less enthusiastic than Ed.

On that night, Charly had left the top bunk when she heard the muffled angry voices. Her feet hit the floor and she adeptly worked her way through the dark to the door. Aside from the bunk bed, the room contained a battered toy chest with more toys out than in and a small armoire for storage.

Charly didn’t mind the cramped room or the lack of things other kids talked about at school. Her parents moved frequently, and she’d learned to detach easily from things and people. As long as she was with her father and brother, all was well.

Maxine was another story.

The voices increased in volume as Charly opened her bedroom door. Afraid the noise would wake T. J., she quickly shut the door again and entered the closet across the hall—a familiar hiding spot. She cracked the closet door open to gain a view of her parents, but their constant movement required her to shift to a more advantageous location.

You’ve never understood me, Maxine shouted at the top of her voice.

For Pete’s sake, woman, what are you talking about? Ed replied in anguish.

A brief silence filled the small living room. Maxine circled Ed with her arms tightly folded. She was tall and graceful, a stark contrast to her husband. Her honey-brown skin perfectly accented her dark, shoulder-length hair and deep-brown eyes. She was a woman who took great pride in maintaining her youthful appeal, and she used a great deal of Ed’s sparse earnings to finance her battle with the aging process.

Ed, on the other hand, was weathered. Earlier in his life, he’d caught the attention of many women. He was the essence of tall, dark, and handsome. But his six foot two inch frame was now compromised by sagging posture and an expanding waistline. His once dark, wavy hair was graying rapidly and thinning at the temple. Worry lines and a bad case of arthritis made him appear older than his fifty years. He was fifteen years older than Maxine, and it showed.

I need more, and you can’t give it to me, Maxine said in a hushed tone, hoping Ed would respond to her calmed voice.

What more do you want? Ed pleaded. I’ve given up everything for you.

Frustrated, Maxine turned up the volume. I just told you: what I want you can’t give.

Down the hall, Charly saw her chance to escape from the closet. She emerged and darted to the edge of the hall, where her thin body was concealed behind what Maxine once told her was a treasured antique hope chest. From that position, Charly could see every move her parents made. It was indeed the best seat in the house.

Look, Maxine. We’re gonna wake the kids. We can talk about this in the morning, Ed reasoned, grabbing her arm.

Have you listened to me at all? Maxine responded, snatching her arm out of his grip. There’s nothing more to talk about.

Not knowing what else to do, Ed scanned the bare room. He hadn’t noticed the suitcase by the door until then. Nor had he noticed that Maxine was dressed in one of the many expensive dresses she’d convinced him to buy when he knew the money was needed elsewhere.

He regretted the power she had over him, but he knew he’d forfeited his control and pride the moment the former Maxine Barclay consented to be his wife. Unashamedly, he would admit he’d endure and relive every pain and heartache if he had to do it all over again—just to keep her.

The moment Maxine picked up her suitcase and walked toward the door, fear and panic swept through Ed. "How