Dry as Rain

by Gina Holmes

  Kyra made a face at him. “Back off, Benjamin. It’s my birthday, not yours.”

  “So you like it?” he asked.

  She stared up at it and finally, reluctantly, turned to me and gave me a hug. It wasn’t the reaction I dreamed of all these months, but it was more than I hoped for.

  “I’m going to need someone to help me manage it,” she said.

  “Guess I’m free for the next twenty years,” I said.

  Her skin flushed. “I’m not talking about getting back together.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Just a business partnership.”

  “That’s all,” I agreed. “You’re going to need somewhere to stay, aren’t you?”

  “We have an extra bedroom,” Benji offered—a little too eagerly, I thought. I wanted to tell him to go easy so he didn’t scare her off.

  She gave me a stern look. “Just until I get my own place.” Turning back to the sign, she smiled. “So, when do we open?”

  “It’s up to you,” I said. “It’s Kyra’s by the Sea, not Eric’s.”

  Looking at her profile, my heart melted.

  “Can I show her the rest?” Benji asked.

  “There’s more?” she asked.

  I took her hand and walked her over the hill. I pointed to the docked troller in the distance. “That’s Benji’s.”

  She furrowed her brow. “The pier?”

  “No, the boat. Dad bought it for me,” Benji said. “We’re in the fishing business now too.”

  “We are?” she asked, not realizing what she’d just implied.

  “We’re renting it out for now. We’ve got a deal with a local guy: in addition to rent, he has to supply all the seafood we need for the restaurant.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I feel like I went to sleep and woke up in Wonderland.”

  I slipped my fingers into hers. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “Just that I’m happy.” She looked down at our hands together and back up at me. “This doesn’t mean we’re back together.”

  “I know,” I said, though neither of us let go.

  Forty-One

  Days turned into weeks as the three of us worked to put the finishing touches on Kyra’s by the Sea. By day, you would never know we were anything but a happy little family, working side by side to accomplish a common dream.

  By night, we mostly did our own thing. Her on her side of the rental house, me on mine. Gradually, she joined Benji and me in front of the TV. At first she sat on the opposite end of the couch, then closer and closer, until one night, it hit me that she was lying beside me watching the evening news, with her hand in mine and my ring back on her finger. I was afraid to say anything about it for fear I would ruin the miracle I’d been given.

  The day before our grand opening, Benji walked through the restaurant door holding a bag. Kyra finished the song she had been practicing and walked over to him. “Did you get it?”

  He pulled a small lamp out of a shopping bag and handed it to her. “Is this okay?”

  She held it up like it was some kind of trophy. “It’s perfect.”

  I watched her walk over and set it on the small table beside her piano. “Hey, baby, if you need more lighting I could turn up the spotlight,” I offered.

  She grimaced. “Please don’t. I’m already going to need sunglasses to play.”

  “So, why the lamp?”

  Her fingertips trailed down the small column base. “I just don’t want to ever forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  She gave me a look that told me I ought to know. “Do you really have to ask?”

  I started to say no, I didn’t have to ask, but I was working hard to break myself of that habit. Instead of pretending to know what I didn’t, I said, “I have no idea.”

  She frowned. “What color is this, my love?”

  “Tan.”

  “Try again.”

  Then it hit me and I smiled. “The beige lamp.”

  “You’re as smart as you are good-looking.”

  “We’ll pretend that’s a compliment,” I said.

  She wrapped her arms around me. “Let’s not pretend anything anymore, okay?”

  I kissed her forehead. “Deal.”

  She went back to stringing white lights on the artificial trees we were using to brighten dark corners, while Benji disappeared into the kitchen to double-check that our newly hired chef had everything he needed for the following day.

  I was behind the bar polishing glasses when the red of a woman’s dress caught my eye. She was tall, curvy, and pretty enough to be a swimsuit model. My eyes flew to Kyra, who glanced up at her, then went back to winding the string of lights.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, stepping out from behind the bar.

  She flipped her long dark hair over her shoulder. “The place looks great.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  Her eyes moved slowly down me, then back up. “Word on the street is that you’re looking for a waitress.” A flirty smile lifted her glossy lips as her painted fingernails traced the base of her neck, just above her cleavage. I refused to let my eyes wander. Instead, I looked at Kyra, who was now watching us intently. I smiled at my wife, thinking how much more beautiful she was than this, or any other, woman and turned back to the brunette. “I’m sorry, but the word on the street is wrong. I have all I need.”

  Epilogue

  I turned to Kyra to answer the question she had just asked me and found myself, once again, not really seeing her. Sometimes, it was like I was looking through the glasses perched on my nose, vaguely knowing they were there, but not being fully conscious of them. And so, like I did every day for the last twenty years, I forced myself to not just look at her, but actually see her.

  Her hair was no longer red, but silver, reminding me more of moonlight than the sunshine it used to be. Although her sweet face was now fractured by fine lines, her skin was still the same lovely porcelain it had always been, and her blue eyes shone every bit as bright as they did on our honeymoon . . . and I thought of that too. Of how she’d made love to me the first time and how I couldn’t imagine anything ever comparing. But I had been wrong.

  Somehow, even after decades of marriage and familiarity, there were moments we shared, even today, that made that first time pale in comparison. I lived for those moments, and every one in between.

  As it turned out, Benji wasn’t a commercial fisherman after all, though he seldom spent a day off not trying to put a hook through a gill-breather. To the surprise of all of us, though, he was an incredible cook.

  Looking more content than we’d ever seen him, he worked alongside Jim Kelly, who had been the head chef at Sonny’s and was now ours, learning all there was to learn. Jim wasn’t exactly young anymore, but what he lacked in stamina, he made up for in knowledge. He and Benji made a great team and kept our customers and the critics happy.

  It was good to have the chance to watch my son as he discovered his place in the world and even better to have a part in it. Besides helping run our kitchen, he handled the bookkeeping and business end of things. He was surprised to find out what I had known all along: not only was he a natural at business, he actually enjoyed it.

  I, on the other hand, did not, so I decided to give fishing a try.

  While Benji built his life running the most successful restaurant in Braddy’s Wharf, my wife and I dabbled in what we loved—she playing the piano for our patrons and me struggling to earn my captain’s license.

  Kyra had said it would take a lifetime for her to get over what I’d done, but it didn’t. In the end, she forgave me far sooner than I forgave myself.

  Looking back on my life, it’s strange to think just how far I’d fallen and how far I had to claw my way back up. When I’d first become a Christian, I read what Adam and Eve had done in the Garden of Eden, and it really ticked me off. Now, I knew that I was no different than they were. I guess none of us are.

&nbs
p; I would give anything to go back and undo my infidelity, but true to His word, God had used even that for my good. If Kyra and I hadn’t weathered our drought, I don’t think we would have really appreciated the rains when they finally came. Like Alfred said, without the desert, an oasis is just another watering hole.

  A Note from the Author

  Dear reader,

  Dry as Rain is a story of infidelity and one couple’s decision to forgive and heal together.

  There are clear, biblical reasons to divorce, and infidelity is the clearest of all. While we are admonished to forgive, that doesn’t always equate to staying together. Realistically, I doubt that most husbands or wives who have done what Eric did repent so quickly or love so deeply.

  If you have found yourself in a similar situation and were not willing or able to make your marriage work after such a betrayal, please know that this novel is not standing in judgment of that decision. I, as the author, certainly am not.

  If you are struggling with the unfaithfulness of a spouse, know that God sees your struggle. He hears your cries.

  While I haven’t myself been in exactly this situation, I do know what it’s like to feel abandoned and worthless in other ways. I’ve been in the dark tunnel where tears fall freely but hope does not, and where all I could do was cling to the promise that God would never leave me.

  There is light at the end of that tunnel, and it is so worth the forgiveness and time that will get you there. Boy, is it.

  Thanks for reading.

  Gina Holmes

  About the Author

  Gina Holmes is the author of the bestselling and award-winning debut novel Crossing Oceans. In 1998, Gina began her career penning articles and short stories. In 2005 she founded the influential literary blog Novel Journey. She holds degrees in science and nursing and currently resides with her husband and children in southern Virginia. To learn more about her, visit www.ginaholmes.com or www.noveljourney.blogspot.com.

  Discussion Questions

  1. Just when Eric has taken what could have been the final step away from his marriage, he gets a phone call telling him that his wife has been in an accident. How does that help keep him from doing any further damage to his marriage?

  2. Have you ever been in a situation where a seemingly random event made you stop and think twice about something you were doing or were about to do? How do you explain such happenings?

  3. Eric decides to let Kyra remain in ignorance about the state of their marriage, and specifically about what he has done wrong. Do you think that was the right decision? Why or why not? What would you have done in his position?

  4. Did you like Eric at the beginning of the book? Why or why not? In what ways could you relate to him? How did your opinion of him change as the story went on?

  5. Eric and Kyra both try to boil down the problems in their marriage to one or two specific things the other spouse did—or failed to do. How have you been guilty of that same approach in some of your relationships? What are some practical ways we can try to step back and see the bigger picture when we are tempted to oversimplify things?

  6. Eric is disdainful of his friend Larry’s Christian faith. Did you feel Larry was obnoxious or off base in the things he said? Why or why not? In what ways was Larry a true friend to Eric?

  7. Some of Eric’s issues stem from the loss of his father at an early age. What losses have you experienced that have affected you in profound ways? What are some ways you can work on forgiving (if necessary) and otherwise letting go of these things?

  8. In some ways, Eric has never felt worthy of Kyra’s love. How does that feeling contribute to some of his poor choices? How can we avoid making the same mistakes?

  9. Everyone close to Eric advises him to tell Kyra the truth. But he resists that advice for a long time. Why is it so hard for him to be honest with her? What is he afraid of?

  10. Can you think of a time in your own life when you were afraid to be honest with someone? How did that situation eventually work out?

  Nothing deepens a stream like a good rain . . . or makes it harder to cross.

  Just a few hundred feet away from the home I’d sworn never to return to, I sat on the smooth surface of a boulder. With my jeans cuffed and toes wiggling in the cold water, I reflected on how recent rains had caused these banks to widen and swell.

  Perhaps a decent relationship with my father might also rise as a result of the storm we’d endured. Much could happen in six years. Maybe my absence had, as the adage promised, made his heart grow fonder. Maybe my homecoming would be like that of the Prodigal and he’d greet me with eager arms. Together we’d cry for all that had passed between us—and all that should have but didn’t.

  Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  It’s going to go just fine, I told myself as I traced the slippery surface of a moss-covered branch with my foot.

  “What’s funny, Mommy?”

  Isabella’s voice startled me. I didn’t dare admit that what my five-year-old interpreted as mirth was really a grimace, because then of course she’d want to know what was the matter. “Nothing, sweetness.”

  She threw a pebble at the water, but it dropped inches from its goal, clinking against slate instead. “You were smiling like this—” She bared her teeth in a forced grin.

  Gently, I pinched her cheek.

  “You’re beautiful, Mommy.”

  “Thank you, baby. So are you.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  I smiled at that. I smiled at just about everything she said and did.

  “Mommy, why’d we drive here ’stead of Cowpa’s house?”

  Cowpa was her name for grandparents of either gender. I probably should have corrected her long ago, but I found the odd term endearing. Besides, I reasoned, she’d grow out of baby talk all too soon without any help from me. I found myself wondering what other lessons she would learn in my absence.

  The thought overwhelmed me, but I refused to cry in front of my daughter. Unloading my heavy burden onto her delicate shoulders was not an option. I might not be able to control much in my life lately, but I could still protect her. Nothing mattered more.

  “This was my thinking place when I was a little girl. I wanted to show it to you in case you wanted to think sometimes.” I breathed in the area’s familiar fragrance—a combination of damp leaves, pine, and earth—and eyed my surroundings. Same trees. Same sounds. Nothing much ever changed in this spot. That, more than any other reason, was why I loved it so much. Especially now.

  I’d spent half of my life here, sitting on this unyielding rock, trying to make sense of the world. The loss of my mother. My father’s neglect. The sometimes-sweet, often-bitter, words of my ex-boyfriend, David. It was here I’d first gotten real with God, begging Him not to take my mother. Railing at Him when He did.

  Isabella bounced on one foot. “What did you think about here?”

  I poked my toes through water, watching droplets glide down my pink toenails. “Well, when I was little, I thought of catching frogs and grasshoppers and wondered whether I would ever have a best friend to share my secrets with.”

  “Did you find your best friend?” A dangling pine needle twirled from one of her curls.

  Love overwhelmed me. “Yes, sweetness. I got you.”

  She gave me one of her endearing smiles, pulled the debris from her hair, examined it, then dropped it in the stream. I scooped a handful of the cool water and let it slip through my fingers like the life I’d just left behind—my studio apartment that never really felt like home, the corporate ladder I’d just begun to climb, my coworkers who never became the close friends I had longed for. All of it now gone, as though it had never existed at all.

  My daughter looked at me askance. “I wanna go.”

  The hum of nature faded. The only thing I heard now was the sharp tick of my wristwatch reminding me just how short time was. Standing, I assured myself that I could do what I had come to do. For Isabella, I could do it. I slipped my damp feet into my Bi
rkenstocks and brushed off my rear before collecting my daughter’s chubby hand in my fingers.

  I forced one leg in front of the other and made my way past my car, along the winding dirt road.

  A familiar picket fence dressed in tangled braids of morning glories came into view. I clutched my daughter’s fingers tighter, feeling more like child than mother.

  Placing a hand over my heart, I stopped and took it in. I’d forgotten how beautiful my childhood home was and how much I’d missed it. As I remembered running barefoot through this yard and cannonball jumping into the pond out back, joy pricked at me . . . until my gaze settled on the bare dirt beneath the stairs. How many times had I hidden under that porch, wounded by my father’s words? Too many. My smile died.

  Isabella looked up at me eagerly, giving the motivation, if not the courage, I needed to continue. Ghosts of summers past faded as the fragrant scent of roses washed over me, and with it another wave of doubt so tall and wide, I felt as though I might drown in it.

  What if my father wouldn’t receive me? Or worse, what if he didn’t accept my daughter? I felt sure Mama Peg would embrace her, but could he? Accepting me had proven impossible for him, but perhaps a child as charming as Isabella could thaw his arctic heart.

  Now on the second stair, I paused to look behind me at the road, feeling a sudden urge to retreat. Isabella bounced on the balls of her feet, anxious to continue.

  When we reached the porch, I squatted to her level. “Are you ready to meet your grandpa and great-grandma?”

  The longing in her maple syrup eyes needed no words, but she added them anyway. “Jane has a cowpa, Natalie has a cowpa, Carter has two cowpas, and . . .” She gave me a look that said, Must I continue?

  “Okay, I get it.” I stood and lifted a fist to the door. Before I could knock, Isabella lurched forward and did it for me. She tapped her sandaled foot twice, then reached to knock again.

  I grabbed her hand. “Give them a chance.”

  The oversize wildflower wreath swayed as the door creaked open. An elderly woman with thick gray hair fashioned into a bun stood before us, oxygen tubes protruding from her nostrils. Deep wrinkles fractured her leathery skin. Her eyebrows were bushes, her lips were shriveled like raisins, and a heavy, floral perfume emanated from her.