Who I Am with You

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, thou knowest it altogether.

  Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me.

  “O God,” she whispered, “there isn’t a word in my mouth that You don’t know. You have put a hedge around me. Your hand is upon me. Help me to remember that whenever I forget how much You love me.”

  It was the first real prayer she had prayed in months, and something shifted in her spirit as she spoke the words aloud. A broken, secret place way down deep inside began to heal. She couldn’t have explained how she knew that was true, but she knew it all the same.

  KUNA, IDAHO

  Monday, April 20, 1931

  They buried Frank Greyson on a beautiful spring day, the pungent scent of turned earth conveyed upon a breeze. The sun shone warm upon the mourners as new leaves in the trees swayed in a gentle dance.

  Andrew’s father-in-law had lingered longer than the doctor expected, but he’d never regained his ability to communicate following his stroke. His passing seemed a mercy, as it had been hard on everyone watching him lie there, trapped in a once-robust body that had now betrayed him.

  At the graveside, Andrew stood behind his wife, watching the slight shudder of her shoulders as she wept. He almost put his hand on her waist, an offer of comfort, but he stopped himself. The gesture wouldn’t be welcome. He knew why, although he hadn’t admitted it to anyone but himself.

  His wife was in love with another man.

  While the minister spoke, Andrew’s gaze swept over the people standing opposite him. Was the man among those who mourned Frank Greyson? Was he a friend of the family? Was he someone Andrew spoke to on Sundays after church? The questions plagued him. Had plagued him for several weeks. But all he had were questions. Never any answers. Helen had given him no clue as to the man’s identity. Had she been discreet out of respect for her father? Or did she have other reasons?

  Sorrow welled inside Andrew and tears stung his eyes. He blinked them back, ashamed to give into them. Ashamed that the tears were about Helen and not her father whom he’d loved and respected.

  He heard those around him murmur “Amen” and realized the minister had closed the graveside service with a prayer. People approached the family to offer their condolences, and again Andrew watched every man who took Helen’s hand and spoke words of comfort.

  It seemed forever before the family stood alone at the graveside—Helen and her mother, Andrew and his parents. In silence they made their way to the waiting automobiles. Andrew shook his father’s hand and hugged his mother while Helen helped her own mother into Frank’s 1929 sedan. As Andrew slid behind the wheel, his wife beside him, he knew they couldn’t go on this way much longer. Something had to change.

  “Open rebuke is better than secret love.”

  It took him a moment to remember where he’d read those words. Proverbs, of course. While still in Portland, he’d been challenged from the pulpit to read a chapter of Proverbs every day throughout 1931. He was nearly finished with his fourth time through the book, but he didn’t recall that verse having made any special impact upon him when he’d read it last. Yet now the words spoke in his heart as if long memorized.

  He knew what they were saying to him. He couldn’t be passive if he hoped to save his marriage. He must take action.

  Chapter 11

  Jessica hadn’t been inside Hope Springs Community Church since the Friday of the funeral. At first it was because she couldn’t bear to remember that horrible day, those two coffins sitting at the front of the sanctuary. Then she didn’t return because she felt distanced from God, remote, cut off. And finally it was because she didn’t think God wanted her to be there. She had failed Him, failed to be faithful.

  Nerves tumbled in her belly as she got out of her car on Sunday morning. She’d arrived late on purpose, wanting to enter the sanctuary without being seen. At least not seen right away. Her plan worked too. She slipped into the back pew after the greeting time and while one of the elders was giving announcements. No one else was in the back row so she didn’t have to smile at anyone. She could simply sit and give herself time to feel at home again.

  “Hey, there,” came a soft voice from beside her.

  Her eyes widened as she looked at Ridley. Nerves erupted inside her for the second time that morning.

  He whispered, “I wondered if you went to church here.” Then he turned his attention toward the front of the church as Mick Phelps stepped behind the pulpit.

  Jessica did the same. At first it was difficult to focus on what the pastor said. It was as if she’d fallen out of the practice of listening. But little by little, she began to hear the sermon. Not the words so much as the spirit behind them. It was enough for now.

  At the end of the service, Jessica felt nerves begin to churn inside of her again. She wanted to flee before she had to speak to anyone. Even to old friends.

  “Don’t be in a rush,” Ridley whispered. “It’s a safe place.”

  She looked at him and saw understanding in his gaze. Despite having met each other less than two weeks before, he seemed to know her. Did she like it that he could read her so easily? She wasn’t sure. She didn’t think so. She’d been hiding her feelings for such a long time. Hiding them even from herself. Now, the way Ridley looked at her made her feel exposed, vulnerable, almost in danger.

  “I’ll bet you know everybody here,” he said, no longer whispering.

  “Just about.” She picked up her purse and hung it from her shoulder.

  “I attend a large church in Boise. Impossible to know everybody.”

  She might have asked the name of his church, but she was interrupted by the appearance of Billie Fisher.

  “Jessica, I’m so glad to see you,” Billie said. “I never called you this week about lunch. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Billie’s gaze shifted to Ridley with obvious interest.

  “This is my new neighbor. Ridley . . .” Jessica let her voice drift into silence, suddenly uncertain if he was still keeping his last name a secret.

  “Chesterfield,” he filled in for her as he offered Billie his hand.

  She took it, smiling. “I hope you’ll like living here.” Judging by Billie’s expression, Ridley’s last name meant nothing to her.

  “Actually,” he answered her, “my folks bought the place, and I’m staying there for a few months.”

  Billie faced Jessica again. “Lunch Tuesday?”

  Habit screamed for her to decline, but she forced herself to ignore it. “Sure. Where?”

  “Meet at the Riverside? At noon.”

  “Okay.”

  Billie gave a little wave of goodbye, the gesture taking in both Jessica and Ridley, before she walked away.

  “That went okay,” Ridley said softly.

  He was right. It had gone okay. Better than okay.

  When Ridley looked at Jessica Mason, he was reminded of a wild colt, skittish and ready to bolt. But she’d relaxed a little after Billie Fisher left them. For some reason, that made him feel good. As if he’d had something to do with it.

  Face it. He was attracted to Jessica. He had been from the first time they met. He liked her smile and her laugh. He wanted to see and hear both of them more often. Whenever he saw the sorrow come into her eyes, he wanted to erase it. He had an almost overwhelming desire to rescue her in some way.

  Not the best of desires. In the twenty-first century, a woman didn’t want to be rescued by a man. She wanted to be equal to him. Many, it seemed from his personal experience—much of it painful—expected to be superior. But while Jessica was strong, there was something fragile about her as well, and it seemed to draw him closer. It made him want to protect her from any more hurt.

  He walked with Jessica out of the church, pausing when she stopped to speak to someone, then moving on with her when it was time.

  “Thanks for letting me sit with you,” he said when they reached the sidewalk.

>   “Did I have a choice?” She tried to hide her smile but wasn’t successful.

  “Not really. But thanks anyway.”

  “I owed you for your help with the crib.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything, Jessica.” It bothered him that she’d put it in those terms. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it did. More rescuing impulses? He’d best put a stop to them. “I need to head home.” He took a step back, then, before he could check himself, added, “If you want to ride into town together on Sundays, I’d be glad to drive. For as long as I’m in Hope Springs, that is.”

  “That’s a nice offer, Ridley. I . . . I’ll let you know.”

  He walked to the parking lot and got into his vehicle but didn’t start the engine immediately. He was still mulling over his feelings for the pretty—and pregnant—widow he’d left at the front of the church. It went against reason to be interested in her. Sure, he could be kind and neighborly, but he was afraid that wouldn’t be enough for him. Afraid that the longer he stayed in Hope Springs and the more he got to know Jessica, the more interested in her he was going to be.

  A couple of weeks ago, he’d told his mom that he trusted God but he didn’t think he could trust most people yet. Not soon, anyway. Had Jessica changed that? Was he ready to trust her? And if so, why? What made her different from, say, Selena or Rachelle or Tammy? Hmm. Interesting that all of the names that popped into his head belonged to women. Maybe it wasn’t most people he wasn’t ready to trust. Maybe it was most women.

  His jaw set, he turned the key in the ignition and drove out of the parking lot. But instead of following the road home, he turned the opposite direction and drove through town. Before long he followed the river highway north, a CD playing over the stereo. For a long while he thought of nothing but the lyrics, singing along to his favorites, but eventually he realized he was hungry. Moments later, like an answer to prayer, he saw a sign for a restaurant up ahead. He slowed and pulled into the gravel parking lot. It was nearly full at midday. Not surprising for a Sunday during the summer.

  Inside the log restaurant and gift shop, he found a place to sit at the bar. To his left was a mother and her young daughter. To his right a portly man with white hair and a full beard to match. Add a red velvet suit and the fellow would be a dead ringer for Santa Claus.

  Ridley perused the menu and was ready to place his order when the server appeared. The waitress looked to be no more than sixteen and wore a snug white top and denim shorts, along with a very disgruntled expression.

  “What can I get you?” She held a pencil over her small order pad, ready but disinterested. He could almost hear her tapping her toe on the floor in impatience.

  “I’ll have the Trapper Burger with the works and a Diet Coke.”

  “Fries or a salad with it?”

  “Fries, please.”

  “Okay.” She turned away without once meeting his gaze.

  Ridley chuckled as he spun his stool around so he could look out the windows at the back of the restaurant. The river beyond the glass was wide and calm. Much different from the stair-step rapids that crashed and broiled a mile south of this area. Beyond the flowing water and a golden-hued meadow, aspens and pines stood thick on the side of the nearest mountain.

  The man to his right dropped two five-dollar bills onto the counter and placed a fork on top of them. Then he left the restaurant—as well as the newspaper he’d read while eating. Ridley stared at the folded paper for several moments. He’d avoided all forms of the news for several weeks, but now the temptation was too strong. He reached for the newspaper and slid it toward himself.

  Drawing a deep breath, he unfolded it and scanned the front page. A bit of national news. Discussions of water concerns in the northwest. A tease about baseball to draw the reader to the Sports section. It worked for him. Better to stick with baseball news for now. He’d risked enough heartburn looking at the front page. The Treehorn campaign was no longer on page 1. He could be thankful for that. Perhaps the vultures had moved on to some other poor fool by now.

  He closed his eyes and gave his head a slight shake, not liking the tone of self-pity that crept over him on occasion.

  “Here’s your Diet Coke.”

  He opened his eyes again to see his sullen server as she set the sweating glass on the counter in front of him. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” From the pocket of her small apron she pulled a straw, wrapped in thin paper. “There you go.” She set it next to his glass.

  “Thanks again.”

  She finally lifted her eyes to meet his. She didn’t actually smile, but her expression changed enough to no longer resemble a scowl. “I’ll be back with your Trapper and fries.”

  He chuckled to himself as she walked away, disappearing into the noise of the kitchen. For some reason, the encounter made him feel . . . normal. It was hard for a guy to feel normal when he was hiding out.

  Laughter faded but the smile remained as he picked up the newspaper and turned it to page 2. Local news. If he was going to read anything unpleasant with his name in it, this was where he would find it.

  KUNA, IDAHO

  Friday, April 24, 1931

  Despite Andrew’s resolve to confront Helen about their marriage, to discover the truth and then begin working to improve their relationship, opportunities to do so alone were nonexistent in the days that followed the funeral. There were other people in the house—bringing casseroles, paying their respects—and Helen always seemed to retire before him and to be asleep when he entered their bedroom.

  But on this Friday evening, she went for a walk in the gloaming. She slipped away without saying a word to anyone, but Andrew saw her go and followed soon after. He didn’t try to muffle his footsteps. It didn’t matter. She didn’t seem to hear anything. She walked with her head down, her arms crossed over her chest, her steps slow and languid.

  It wasn’t until she reached the grove of trees near a small pond that he called to her. “Helen.”

  She stopped but didn’t turn.

  “Helen. Wait.”

  Now she looked over her shoulder.

  “We need to talk.” He approached her.

  Defeat was written in her expression, but she tilted her chin in a temporary show of defiance.

  He stopped before her, looking at her, remembering how very much he loved her. His heart ached, so sure he was that she didn’t feel the same. Finally he motioned toward a fallen tree that had become a bench of sorts over the years. The top had been carved flat with an ax and smoothed. “Let’s sit.” He gently cupped her elbow to steer her in the right direction.

  She went without argument.

  A pair of ducks floated on the surface of the pond. He and Helen were like them, he thought. Swimming in circles, feet paddling beneath the surface. He shook his head, disliking the image in his mind.

  They sat, space between them. She kept her arms crossed, as if warding him off.

  “Helen, what’s happened to us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “It’s been hard with you away, with Father so sick and then dying. We never have any money. It’s been a struggle almost from the start. And I don’t feel . . . I just don’t feel—” She broke off abruptly.

  He drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out. “Who is he?” From the corner of his eye, he saw her head turn toward him. He mirrored the motion, meeting her gaze. “Who is he, Helen?”

  “What do you mean?” she repeated in a whisper.

  “You know what I mean.” A little louder he added, “You know who I mean.”

  “Andrew . . .”

  “Be honest, Helen. At least you can be honest with me.”

  A glimmer of tears welled in her eyes. After a few moments, she lowered her gaze. “You don’t know him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Henry.”

  “Henry what?”

  “Henry Victor.”

  “How did y
ou meet him? Where did you meet him?”

  “He’s a . . . a friend of Sarah Knight. I met him at her house the week after you left for Portland.” Her voice fell to little more than a whisper. “I never meant for anything to happen, Andrew. I felt so lost after . . . after everything. After the baby and after you went away. Henry’s handsome and funny, and he’s so attentive. He thinks I’m beautiful.”

  “I think you’re beautiful too.” Pain tightened his chest. “Do you love him, Helen?”

  “Yes. I think so. Yes.”

  He’d known it in his heart already, but it hurt even more to hear her confirm his suspicion. “What do you mean to do about it?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” She drew in a breath but still didn’t look at him. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, Andrew. It just . . . it just did.”

  It surprised him that he believed her in that regard. However, believing her didn’t ease the pain of her betrayal.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” she whispered.

  “Helen.” Resolve stiffened his spine. “I meant what I said on our wedding day. I married you for better or worse. I married you until death do us part.”

  She sucked in a soft breath. “But if I love him—”

  “I’m your husband.”

  “But I thought, once you knew—”

  “I’m your husband.”

  She stood abruptly and moved away from the log bench, stopping at the water’s edge, her back still to him. “You expect us to go on, as if nothing has happened?”

  “No.” He stood, too, but remained by the bench. “No, that’s not what I expect. I expect we’re going to have to work hard in order to put things back together. I expect we’re going to have to learn to be patient with each other. I expect we’ll have to forgive and to be forgiven.”

  At his last words, she spun around. “You mean I need to be forgiven.”

  “I need forgiveness too. If I’d done what I should have done, you wouldn’t have sought comfort from another man.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

  He wished he could see her expression, but evening had come in earnest by this time, and his wife had become little more than a darker shadow against lighter ones.