Who I Am with You

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “Perhaps you should go stay with your parents for a while,” she said.

  “I’m staying with you.” He shook his head. He might not be certain about much, but he was certain of that. Separation wasn’t the answer. In fact, it had been part of the problem. “No, my place is here. Besides, your mother needs my help. There’s a lot to be managed, now that your father is gone.”

  She turned to face the pond again. “Why has God punished me this way?”

  “I don’t think He’s punished you.” He took a few steps forward. “Or us.”

  “First you lost your job so that we couldn’t stay in our apartment. Then I lost the baby. And now Father is dead. You don’t think that’s punishment?”

  “I don’t think it’s punishment.” He wrestled for a moment with his answer before adding, “Papa says that God’s with us through all the trials of life. He’s here to comfort us, Helen, if we let Him.” Count it all joy, he added silently, needing the reminder while struggling with how he was supposed to accomplish it.

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

  He opened his mouth to insist they go on talking, then shut it quickly. In this she was right. He’d said enough for tonight. God, give me wisdom. Inhaling another slow breath, he said, “Let’s walk back to the house. Your mother will be wondering what’s happened to us.”

  Chapter 12

  Ridley stepped into the narthex of the church and paused, listening to the silence. So different from yesterday when the entry, sanctuary, hallways, and classrooms had bustled with activity. Following the instructions he’d been given over the phone, he turned left and made his way to the church offices. When he entered, the woman at the front desk looked up with a welcoming smile.

  “You must be Mr. Chesterfield,” she said. “Pastor Phelps is expecting you.” She pointed toward a connecting doorway.

  Before he reached it, Mick Phelps stepped into view. “Good morning, Ridley.”

  “Morning, Pastor.”

  Mick motioned him to enter his office.

  Ridley drew in a deep breath as he stepped into the small room and sat on one of the chairs near the desk. The wall behind the desk was taken up entirely by bookshelves, and every shelf was filled with books, some of them stacked horizontally on top of the ones stored vertically. The titles he could read here and there told him the pastor’s interests went beyond theological.

  “You like to read?” Mick asked as he closed the door.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Me too.”

  “I can see that.”

  The pastor chuckled. “Guilty as charged. My wife and daughters know they can never go wrong with buying me a book for my birthday or Christmas or our anniversary.” He sank onto his own chair. “Biographies are my favorite, with histories running a close second.”

  “I’m partial to science fiction myself.”

  Mick nodded without comment.

  “When I work out at the gym or go for a run, I listen to audio-books.”

  “Ah. Another audiobook fan. I like them too. I have quite a collection if you ever want to borrow a listen. I download and keep them on an old iPod.”

  “Do you have good internet service here?”

  The pastor cocked an eyebrow.

  Ridley guessed what the look meant. “My folks’ place isn’t connected to anything yet. I’ve been in a black hole since I got here. No internet. No television. Not even LTE service on my cell phone.”

  “Except for the latter, I take it the black hole is by choice.”

  “By choice.” He shrugged. “I came up here to get away from the news for a while.”

  “Well, the answer to your question is yes, we’ve got good internet service. Not perfect, but it meets our needs. I’m able to download books and music without extra data charges, and our service rarely goes down.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “However, the network in our church could use a major upgrade.”

  “Maybe I could help with that. It’s part of what I do, after all.” As soon as the offer was out, he wondered if he should have said it was what he used to do.

  Mick straightened in his chair. “That’s quite an offer, Ridley.”

  He shrugged. “I like to help when I can.”

  “Even to just have your advice would be appreciated. You wouldn’t have to do the work itself, unless you wanted to. I’m sure we could hire that out. But it would be nice to have an expert opinion about the best way to go. What equipment we should buy. Service choices. That sort of thing.”

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  The pastor leaned back in his chair, his expression suddenly sheepish. “I’ll bet you didn’t come to see me about books or internet service.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly.”

  “No need to apologize, Mick.”

  “I do apologize, all the same.”

  “Accepted.”

  “So, tell me what brought you here.”

  “I was hoping for some advice.” Ridley drew in a breath and let it out. “You know what’s been in the paper or on the news in recent weeks.”

  “About you and Ms. Treehorn?”

  “Yeah. The thing is I came up to Hope Springs to get away from the newshounds, and so I’d stop reading everything that was being said on social media. It was like driving by a wreck and craning my neck to see the carnage, only to find out that I was the accident victim. There’s plenty of what you’ve read or heard that’s got just enough truth in it to be hard to dispute outright. And yet it really isn’t the truth either. I don’t know if it’s better to let things go and wait for it to all blow over or if I should . . . I don’t know . . . Try to do something about it.” He raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I thought I’d decided to do nothing, to say nothing. I thought I’d made up my mind. But now I’m wondering if that’s the right thing to do.”

  “Ridley, would you mind if we stop for a moment and ask the Lord for wisdom in this matter?”

  “No.” He let out a sigh. “I think that would be a good thing to do.”

  The Riverside was a rustic restaurant in a beautiful setting. It had been built in the 1920s and had long been a popular stopping point for travelers driving the east-west river highway. But in recent years what caused people to make a special trip to eat at the Riverside in its out-of-the-way location was the chef, Philippe Benoit. His specialty dishes were North American Elk, Muscovy Duck, and Sautéed Idaho Trout, to name only a few.

  Jessica entered the restaurant a little before noon on Tuesday. The last time she’d been to the Riverside had been with her mom and grandmother. Over a year ago already. She’d been clueless about the heartache that awaited her before the end of the year. How could she have known? On the other hand, she hadn’t been unaware that her marriage was in trouble, that Joe was gone more from home, and when he was there he still seemed far away. But she hadn’t said anything to her mom and grandmother at that luncheon. She’d smiled and pretended all was well.

  “Jessica.”

  She looked across the open room and saw Billie already at a table for two overlooking the river. She put on a smile and made her way there.

  “I’m so glad you could make it,” Billie said when she arrived.

  “Me too. I haven’t been here in a long time.”

  “The truth is I’m a wretched cook and would rather eat here than at home. It isn’t like we have a lot of dining choices, living in Hope Springs.”

  “No. That’s true.”

  “The Burger Joint doesn’t serve salmon or calamari.”

  Jessica laughed softly. “No. They don’t.”

  “Then let’s look at the menu and decide what we want to indulge in.”

  Unless the menu had changed since her last visit, Jessica knew what she wanted—the grilled steak sandwich with mushrooms and caramelized onions. Of all the amazing choices on the Riverside’s lunch menu, that was her favorite. After months of staying ho
me and eating her own inadequate cooking, she felt like splurging. It wasn’t as if she had to watch her waistline. It had disappeared a couple of months ago.

  Their server, a fresh-faced young man in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, arrived with tall glasses of water, lemon wedges sitting on the rims. “My name is Evan, and I’ll be your server today. Would you like to know the specials?”

  “Please,” Billie answered, looking interested.

  Evan rattled off several options, ending with, “Would you like a little more time to make up your minds?”

  “No.” Billie glanced at Jessica. “I think we’re ready.”

  Jessica nodded.

  Billie ordered soup and salad.

  “I’ll have the grilled steak sandwich,” Jessica said when the server turned toward her. “And a glass of lemonade, please.”

  After the young man walked away, Billie leaned forward on her chair. “Jessica, I’m not very good at small talk, so I’m going to get right to the point. How are you? Really.”

  The frankness caught her off guard. Perhaps that’s why she answered honestly. Or perhaps it was her more recent decision to stop pretending. “I have good days and bad days.”

  Billie waited, her expression patient.

  “Most of them are good now. The house doesn’t feel as empty as it did at first. I still cry when I remember happier times. I still miss holding Angela close.” She glanced down at her expanding belly. “But I’m looking forward to meeting my son or daughter.”

  “You don’t know what you’re having?”

  “No, I wanted to be surprised.” She shrugged. “Silly, I guess.”

  “Not silly if that’s how you want it.”

  Jessica ran the pad of her index finger around the top of her water glass. “My pregnancy came as such a shock. At first I thought I’d missed my period because of grief. We’d wanted—” She stopped and drew a breath. “I’d wanted another baby, but I gave up on it happening. Then when it did happen—” She broke off a second time, unable to continue. She hadn’t lied yet, but if she continued, she would have to lie.

  “I’m so sorry, Jessica. So very, very sorry.”

  She inhaled deeply and let it out. “It’s okay, Billie. You didn’t ask anything you shouldn’t. But let’s talk about you now. Are you enjoying the summer off?”

  “Yes. But it’s funny. I start missing my students after only a week or two without them. By July I’ll be playing with lesson plans and going through all of my supplies for the umpteenth time. And by the first of August, I’ll be anxious to get started again.”

  “In other words, you really don’t take the summer off at all.”

  Billie laughed. “I suppose not.”

  Jessica felt a sting of envy but hoped it didn’t show on her face.

  Still, Billie must have sensed it was time to change the subject again. “Tell me about your new neighbor.”

  “Ridley?”

  “Is there another one I don’t know about? Yes, Ridley.”

  “He’s nice. Single. Taking the summer off work.” That seemed a polite way to say it. “He rescued a stray dog when he first got here. He’s been repairing the outbuildings and fence, and he painted his mom’s kitchen yellow. Plus, he put together the new baby crib for me when it arrived. He’s been very kind to me.”

  “My goodness. That doesn’t sound like the man we’ve heard about on the news.”

  “You recognized his name. I thought maybe you didn’t.”

  “Are you kidding? My entire family are political junkies, and not all of us on the same side of the aisle either. You can’t read about Tammy Treehorn without hearing about Ridley Chesterfield.” Billie cocked her head slightly to one side, her gaze searching. “It seems you like him.”

  “I do like him.”

  Honesty had forced the answer out of her mouth before prudence could stop it. But then she realized she didn’t want to stay silent. I do like him, she repeated silently, enjoying the way the words made her feel. She hadn’t expected to like any man ever again. Not in the attraction kind of way. She still didn’t expect to trust a man again. At least not any time soon. Yet she already liked Ridley Chesterfield . . . and she already wanted to trust him.

  Evan arrived with their lunches. It gave Jessica enough time to think of a different topic of conversation. Thankfully, Billie followed her cue.

  KUNA, IDAHO

  Thursday, May 7, 1931

  Andrew stopped on the porch of the Greyson farmhouse and turned to watch the sun set—a large orange ball, trees silhouetted before it, wisps of pastel-colored clouds feathering out against a darkening sky. A soft breeze brought the scents of rich soil and green grass, as well as the sounds of animals settling down for the night.

  Andrew hadn’t wanted to be a farmer, like his father and his father’s father before him and his father’s father’s father before that. Not that Andrew didn’t have a love of the land. He did. But his passion was numbers and problem solving. He’d dreamed of entering the business world. For a time his work goals had seemed within his grasp, but he didn’t have time for dreams now. His days were filled with work from before sunup to after sundown. There were times when he wondered how on earth older men like his father managed to keep up with it all.

  In the fading light, his gaze dropped to the toes of his boots. He would need a new pair soon. He didn’t think these could be repaired again. But maybe . . .

  With a sigh, he turned and entered the house.

  His mother-in-law, washing a teacup in the sink, glanced toward the door. “Andrew, there you are. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks, Mother Greyson. I think I’ll wash up and head to bed.” He looked toward the hallway. “Has Helen retired?”

  “Yes.” His mother-in-law’s eyes were filled with concern. “Some time ago.”

  He gave her a nod and strode down the hall. His footsteps slowed as he passed the telephone. Earlier today he’d heard Helen talking to someone on it. She’d hung up the instant she saw him, but her flushed cheeks had told him everything he needed to know about who had been on the other end of the line. Henry Victor.

  How long, Lord, do I put up with it? It’s humiliating. I want an end to it.

  Andrew had made a point of learning more about Henry Victor after Helen told him his name. Henry, known as Hank to his closest friends, was an attorney who lived and worked in Meridian. Andrew also learned that Henry Victor had spent a great deal of time in Kuna over the autumn and winter months. About the same period of time Andrew had worked in Portland. Henry Victor hadn’t visited Kuna nearly as much this spring. Coincidentally, the period of time following Andrew’s return from Portland.

  Clenching his hands into fists at his sides, Andrew stopped in front of the bedroom door. No light spilled from beneath it, although he knew the light hadn’t been off when he’d entered the house. If he went into the bedroom now, Helen would pretend to be asleep while lying on her side, hugging the edge of the mattress, putting as much space between her and Andrew as possible.

  His heart aching, he moved away from the door and entered the small bathroom. There he washed quickly with the cold water from the tap. At least he didn’t have to haul water from a well or from an outside spigot. He could be thankful for that.

  Drying his face with a towel, he stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His jaw was dark with the shadow of a beard. His features seemed sharper to him, gray half circles beneath his eyes. He looked far older than his twenty-six years. Did Helen think so too? Or did she even see him anymore?

  Rather than lie in bed, sleepless, thoughts churning, he made his way to the living room and took up the book he’d left on the end table the previous night. He wasn’t far into The Maltese Falcon, but he was far enough along for the story to have captured his imagination. Hopefully, he could lose himself in it again tonight. He’d rather think about the detective Sam Spade than about Helen and her lover.

  Surprisingly, once he set aside
the book and retired, Andrew slept hard, and when he awakened, the room still dark, he knew what he meant to do that day, as soon as his chores were finished. His decision never wavered throughout the morning, and by eleven o’clock he was driving the Greyson Model T toward Meridian. He found the law office of Henry Victor on Main Street and parked the automobile on the opposite side of the street.

  The small town was quiet on this Friday morning. Two women stood outside a shop on the next block, talking to each other, and a few cars were parked on either side of Main Street. To the north, a flock of birds swooped above tall trees before disappearing into their leafy branches.

  Andrew turned his eyes toward the office building across from him, unsure what his next step should be. Should he go in and pretend to be someone else until he got a good look at the man? Should he walk through the door and punch Henry in the nose? Should he try to reason with Henry Victor’s better nature? Assuming he had a better nature.

  He gripped the steering wheel, lowered his head, and closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose and releasing it through his mouth. Finally he whispered, “What do I do? Don’t let me make a mistake.”

  He didn’t know how long he sat like that, wishing for some kind of divine guidance. A loud, audible voice would have been best. Something like he imagined had come to Moses from the burning bush. But he would have settled for a still, small voice in his heart. Neither happened.

  At long last, he looked at the office opposite him again, drew another deep breath, and got out of the automobile. He glanced both ways, half hoping for there to be a rush of traffic. But the street remained empty. With nothing to stop him, he crossed the street and entered the law office.

  A middle-aged woman with dark, bobbed hair turned from a filing cabinet. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to see Mr. Victor.”

  “And your name?”

  “Andrew Henning.”

  “May I ask the nature of your business?”