“This will all get straightened out,Mom.”
“Will it?” I met her gaze. “How?”
She sat on the chair to my right. “You can’t think the stuff she said is true. Dad isn’t capable of cheating on you. Not with her or any other woman.”
I saw them in my mind—the receptionists, the secretaries, the administrative assistants, the bookkeepers. All the women who had worked at In Step in the years since the foundation moved from our home and into the office building. So many women, most of them young and pretty, most of them idealists who hoped to change the world.
Most of them filled with admiration for Brad.
I remembered the easy camaraderie my husband enjoyed with everyone he knew. He made friends wherever he went. People loved Brad.
Women love Brad.
Emma grabbed hold of my hand. “Listen to me. Nicole is lying. Anyone who knows Dad the way we do won’t give credence to what she says.”
Ah, my dear daughter. Headstrong and opinionated, sometimes a rebel, but also an optimist who looked for the silver lining in every situation. Was she really so naive? Didn’t she know that people would believe the worst, not the best? Even some people who knew Brad would believe the worst.
Do I believe it? My chest hurt. No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m afraid. What if it’s true? Why would she lie?
Through the years, I’d sat with brokenhearted wives, holding them while they wept bitter tears. What had I said to them? What words of wisdom? Had I spewed platitudes or offered real comfort?
Platitudes. I hugged myself. That’s all I had to offer them. I didn’t know any better.
“Mom, I think you should get showered and dressed and come home with me.”
I shook my head. “I have things to do.” I always had things to do, although right then I couldn’t think what they were.
“Nothing that can’t wait. Come on. It’ll take your mind off things. I’ve got some homemade soup and fresh-baked bread to warm up for lunch.”
Run away and hide. That’s what I wanted to do. I supposed Emma’s home was as good a hiding place as any.
Emma and Jason’s two-bedroom north-end bungalow was about seventy years old. It hadn’t been in the best of shape when they bought it a year ago. But they’d worked wonders with a little money, lots of ingenuity, and plenty of elbow grease.
“How about helping me put together the baby’s crib?”Emma asked as she opened the front door.
I shrugged in response.
“I’m worried, Mom. I’ve never seen you like this before.”
Perhaps that was because her dad had never been accused of adultery before.
“You ought to do something. It’ll keep you from going over the same stuff in your head again and again. Come on. Help me with the crib.”
That was another platitude I’d uttered to friends in the midst of their suffering: keep busy and you won’t think about whatever awful thing is happening to you. I no longer believed that. Nothing could stop the questions and worries and fears from circling in my mind, like vultures over a decaying carcass.
“Let’s go to the nursery.” My daughter’s arm went around my shoulders. “I need your help.”
I looked at her. “I’ve never been good with screwdrivers and hammers.”
“Fine. You can read the instructions. I know you’re good at that.”
Anal-retentive was what she meant. That was what she sometimes called me. The dictionary defined the trait as “excessively orderly and fussy.” I knew because I’d looked it up. But I was neither of those things. Yes, I liked to keep up appearances. I wanted my home to be neat, everything in its proper place, and I did my best to keep myself in shape too. But I wasn’t excessive about it. Besides, was there anything wrong with wanting to do and be one’s best for God? I preferred to think of myself as a woman striving to follow the example of Proverbs 31.
Who can find a virtuous and capable wife? She is worth more than precious rubies. Her husband can trust her, and she will greatly enrich his life.
Hot tears stung my eyes. My husband could trust me. But could I trust him? Could anyone trust him?
“Come on, Mom. I need you.”
Emma drew me away from the window and into the nursery, where she commanded me to sit in the rocking chair. I obeyed without argument. What was the point? She wouldn’t listen. She was determined to make me do this. She was determined to make me feel better.
“Here are the instructions. You read them aloud, and I’ll put it together.”
A large, now-empty box leaned against the closet doors. A crib-sized mattress leaned against the box. Other pieces of the bed were scattered around the hardwood floor. Emma knelt in the midst of it.
“Where do I start?” she asked.
Before Nicole’s appearance on Our View, I would have loved nothing more than to help Emma with this. Before this nightmare began, I would have admired the stencils on the wall and commented on the color scheme of the room and oohed and aahed over the baby clothes in the dresser drawers. But now . . .
I lowered my gaze to the printed instructions in my hand. The letters swam on the page. I blinked, bringing the words into focus, and began to read.
By the time the crib was assembled and stood against the wall, a pretty yellow blanket draped over its lowered side, I did feel somewhat better. Emma had talked nonstop, covering a vast array of subjects, pausing only when she needed me to read the next item in the instructions. Her monologue worked, much to my surprise. I hadn’t thought about Nicole Schubert or her claims about Brad for at least an hour. Maybe more.
“It’s lovely,” I said as Emma put the finishing touches—a teddy bear and a yellow pillow—into the crib. “You’ve done wonders with this room. With the whole house.”
“Thanks.” She stepped toward me and took hold of one of my hands.“Why don’t we go sit in the living room? I’d like to pray for you and Dad. Then we’ll have the lunch I promised you.”
“Couldn’t we just eat? I’m famished.”
My desire to refuse prayer took me by surprise. Perhaps it was because I—the woman with the perfect life—had been the one who always offered to pray for others. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d requested prayer for myself. At the close of Bible study each week, when the women went around the room, sharing prayer needs and writing them down, I asked on behalf of others: “Please pray for my mother who is planning to sell her home in Arizona . . . Please pray for Harvest’s pastors and their wives as they go on retreat . . . Please pray for our church’s missionaries in the Philippines . . . Please pray for my friend Susan to come to know the Lord.”
If Emma guessed the real reason that I asked to eat first, she didn’t let on. And she didn’t give in either. “It won’t take long for us to pray. Your stomach can wait.”
As we neared the living room, I heard the soft chime on my cell phone that told me I’d missed a call. Emma must have heard it, too, for she turned to look at me and gave her head a slow shake.
“I need to look,” I told her, “or it will keep beeping at us.”
I reached into the pocket on the side of my purse and withdrew my phone. With a punch of a button, I displayed the missed calls. Three of them from Brad.
“Come on,Mom.” Emma took the phone from my hand and dropped it into my handbag. “That can wait.We need to pray.”
I’d spent most of my life surrounded by people of faith, and I knew a few things about prayer. I’d participated in twenty-four hour prayer vigils, fasted, visited the sick and dying. I’d approached God’s throne with the awe and respect that was due the Almighty, memorizing Paul’s prayers from Ephesians for revelation and spiritual empowering, asking to be clothed in the full armor of God, seeking to be filled with the knowledge of His will. Sometimes I’d prayed the Psalms aloud, loving them for the poetic richness of language. No, I was not ignorant about the spiritual discipline of prayer.
But my youngest daughter’s prayers were nothing like mine. Never had been. T
here wasn’t anything formal or poetic in the words she used when talking to God. I imagined her crawling into Jesus’ lap the way a small child does with her daddy, holding up the pinky that hurts, asking him to kiss it better.
That was how she prayed for me—with passion and abandon and complete confidence that her Father in heaven heard and would answer.
Ten
“LOOK. DAD’S HOME EARLY.”
As Emma turned her car into the driveway, I saw Brad step out of his pale-green Tribeca and close the door. He stopped when he saw us.
The same emotional exhaustion that I felt was written on my husband’s face. In any other circumstance, I would have hurried to his side, wanting to encourage and strengthen him. But this wasn’t any other circumstance. This was what it was. Wishing wouldn’t change it.
Emma turned the key in the ignition. The engine fell silent. From the corner of my eye, I saw my daughter glance at me but I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her. I sat still, scarcely breathing.
Emma got out of the car and walked toward her father. She stopped in front of him, said something, and then hugged him, holding him close, turning her head and pressing her cheek against his chest.He leaned down to hide his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder.
Brad and Emma had enjoyed a special bond from the time she was a toddler. I never minded. I loved seeing how close they were. I was thankful for it when Emma entered the teen years and began to push boundaries, sometimes annihilating them altogether. Back then it was Brad who could most often help her see reason, Brad who was able to stop her from running headlong into disaster.
Today their closeness bothered me. It bothered me because I was afraid she would believe anything he said. Believe him without question.
The way I’ve always believed him.
I reached for the handle and opened the door. Brad lifted his head, meeting my gaze as I stepped from the car.
“I tried to call you,” he said. “I got worried when you didn’t answer.”
Emma turned to face me, one arm around her dad’s back. “I took Mom over to my house. We put together the baby’s crib and had lunch together.”
“Sounds like you had a good time.”
If I opened my mouth, I would begin to bawl. I could feel the tears behind my eyes, waiting to break loose.
Brad glanced toward the street.“Maybe we should go inside. The press were hanging around the office this morning. They might show up here next.”
Those words turned the blood in my veins to ice water. I hurried toward the front door, reaching into the side pocket of my purse in search of my keys. Where were they?
“Here, Katherine. I’ve got mine. Let me.” Brad placed a hand on my shoulder as he reached for the door with the other.
I pulled away from his touch.
He looked at me, and I saw my pain mirrored in his eyes. I was sorry for that, but it couldn’t be helped. The door swung open before me. Brad took a step back, giving me plenty of room to enter without getting close to him.
I lowered my eyes. “Thanks.”
Nothing had changed in the house in the hours I’d been away, and yet it felt strange to me—the home of another woman, another couple, another family. I’d spent years decorating it to my tastes, painting these walls and selecting each piece of furniture throughout the house, perusing catalogs, shopping for bargains. I’d chosen the new carpet when the old needed replacing. I’d worked hard to make this a home for my family and a reflection of Brad’s success. But now it seemed foreign to me, a place filled with secrets.
Had I lost all the happiness I’d known here? All the joyful memories? Everything that made my life what it was, what it was supposed to be?
In the kitchen, I set my purse on the counter next to the small TV. A light blinked on the answering machine. One message, the tiny window told me. I pressed the Play button.
“Katherine, it’s Betty Frasier. Listen, I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. I know this must be hard on your entire family. I’ll be praying for you. But I’m afraid I’ll need to miss the Bible study for a while. Maybe I can return in the fall. We’ll have to see. But I’ll let you know. Take care and know I’m thinking of you. Bye, now.”
So Betty was the first to leave. Would there be others?
I felt abandoned and alone.
I turned to find Brad standing in the kitchen doorway. Had he heard the message? Did he understand what was happening? But then, maybe I didn’t understand either.
“Where’s Emma?” I asked.
“She went home. She said she’ll you call later.”
I took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with ice and water from the refrigerator door.
“I talked to Mike this morning,” Brad said.
“Sorenson?” Our pastor.
“Yes. I’m going to meet with him late this afternoon.”
To confess? Oh, the traitorous thought.
I pressed the glass to my lips to take a drink, but my hand shook so hard I couldn’t tip it upward. I set it on the counter instead.
“Will you go with me, Kat?”
“Maybe you should meet with him alone.”
Brad sank onto one of the chairs at the table. “I need you there.”
How was I supposed to respond to that? A part of me wanted to hear what he would say to our pastor. Another part wanted to remain ignorant. Because what if the truth was worse than what I imagined?
The truth would set us free, so the Bible said. I shouldn’t be afraid of it.
I would have to go. It was my place to be at Brad’s side in times of trouble. We’d pledged to be together for better or worse. I was his wife. If he asked me to go with him, I should go. I had to go, if only for appearances’ sake.
“What time?” I asked softly.
“Four o’clock.”
“What time do we leave?”
“About three thirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”
That was a lie. I wouldn’t be ready. Not for the meeting with Mike Sorenson. Not for what might appear in the paper next or on Channel 5 next. Not for what our neighbors thought. Not for what our friends thought.
Not even for what, God forgive me, I thought in the depths of my heart.
I would never be ready. Never.
Emma
EMMA CRIED ALL THE WAY HOME, HER HEART ACHING FOR her parents. With everything in her, she believed in her dad’s innocence, but she also believed things were going to be hard for them. Maybe hardest for her mom because she was such a perfectionist. She cared so much about appearances and what other people thought. In Emma’s opinion, her mom cared too much about those things.
When she arrived home, she went into the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the ottoman, her back against the couch. With a tissue, she dried her cheeks and blew her nose.
She thought about calling her sister again, then decided against it. Hayley was too angry right now. She’d decided their dad was guilty and thought their mom should leave him now before things got uglier, and nothing Emma had said to Hayley could change her mind.
She didn’t understand her sister’s reaction. How could she doubt their dad, of all people?
But maybe Emma knew why. She suspected Hayley wasn’t as happy in her marriage as she made out to be. She and Steve fought a lot. Emma had heard them on more than one occasion.
It was funny, in a poignant sort of way. Hayley had always been the golden child, the favored one, the daughter who could do no wrong. She’d been the best student with the top grades, had excelled in both music and dance lessons, and had married a rising young attorney from a family of established, wealthy attorneys. Hayley hadn’t caused her parents one moment of worry.
Emma, on the other hand, had tried single-handedly to turn her parents’ hair gray and had given them more than one sleepless night. She’d pulled when told to push, gone right when told to turn left. And when she fell in love, it was with a guy who spent his first years after hi
gh school as a missionary and now worked in an electronics plant.
Emma closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of thanks for her parents. Without them—especially her dad, who’d shown her unconditional love through the hardest of times—who knew what would have become of her? Then she thanked God for Jason. Many well-meaning friends and family members had warned them not to marry so young; on their wedding day, Emma had been nineteen and Jason twenty-three. But all of those people had been wrong. Every day their marriage grew stronger and their love multiplied.
Ironic, wasn’t it, that the family’s wild child should be the one with the healthiest marriage?
Ironic and sad.
Eleven
MIKE SORENSON HAD BEEN BROUGHT ON STAFF AT Harvest Christian Fellowship as the youth leader about thirteen years before. But when the senior pastor fell into poor health and decided to retire, Mike was unanimously approved to step into the vacated position. A large bear of a man with an outgoing, fun-loving nature, he had a room-rattling laugh and a preaching style that was fun and down to earth. His wife, Annabeth, was his complete opposite—petite, soft spoken, serious minded, and shy.
I’m not sure how I felt when Brad and I were ushered into Mike’s office and I saw Annabeth seated in a chair beside her husband’s desk. Waylaid? She wouldn’t be there if they hadn’t expected me. Brad must have called Mike.
I sat in the first chair I came to and kept my purse on my lap. It gave me something to hold on to.
Behind me, I heard Brad ask, “Did she call you?”
Mike answered, “Yes.”
Who did they mean? Nicole? Surely she wouldn’t call our pastor.
“I told her I had nothing to say to the media.”
Not Nicole. Ms. St. James.
I glanced toward Annabeth. Perhaps I hoped her expression would tell me what to feel or, at the very least, how to handle whatever was about to happen. Her eyes were filled with compassion.
I heard the door close. Brad stepped to the chair beside me while Mike moved to the opposite side of his desk and sank onto the large black executive chair. His gaze moved from Brad to me.
The Perfect Life Page 5
