A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace

by Karen Kingsbury

  “Actually . . . I promised Abby I’d stay away from you as much as possible.”

  Charlene’s eyebrows raised. “She knows about us?” The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, and the look in her eyes grew confident as though she’d notched some kind of victory. John wasn’t sure why, but her reaction bothered him.

  “How could she not know, Charlene? We’re together all the time. People talk.” He thought a moment.

  What remained of Charlene’s frustration and fear faded even further, and he could see in her eyes again the carefree, youthful exuberance he so deeply appreciated about her. “So I have to stay away, huh?”

  Seeing her there, dark hair falling over her shoulders, green eyes glistening even in the fluorescent lights of his cramped office, made him long to take her in his arms and . . . His mind filled with the memory of their kiss, and he gritted his teeth. Show a little control, Reynolds. “We both have to stay away. I promised Abby.”

  Charlene’s mouth curved into a full smile and she stood to leave. “Okay, if that’s the way it has to be.” She quickly kissed her two fingers and then touched them to his lips. “Whatever happens, I’ll be here for you. If you need to talk, anything. I live alone, remember? I can make sure no one ever finds out. That way you can keep your promise to Abby.”

  With that she turned and walked away, weaving her lithe body between the machines and free weights and leaving without ever looking back.

  The air in John’s lungs leaked out slowly as he ripped the baseball cap from his head and tossed it on his desk. Charlene’s words rang in his mind: “I can make sure no one ever finds out . . . that way you can keep your promise to Abby.”

  If that’s how she felt, Charlene didn’t know the first thing about keeping a promise. Doubts began to nibble at the ankles of John’s conscience. What sort of future did he hope to have with a woman who could lie so easily? Who could justify an affair without a second thought? He had no answers for himself.

  A sudden image flooded his mind—him kissing Charlene in the moonlight of the empty Marion High football field—and he hung his head. He had no room to judge her. He didn’t know the first thing about keeping a promise, either. At least she’s gone. Maybe she’ll stay away until fall, and then . . .

  Then maybe he and Charlene would find a way to make it work; maybe theirs would be a better relationship because of what he’d learned the first time around with Abby.

  He turned his attention back to the stack of “Nutritional Supplements” tests that lay on top of the pile of player profiles and camp applications and advertisements for football equipment. Normally it took him less than an hour to correct tests like this— multiple choice answers and single-word fill-ins. But today he’d already been working on it for two hours and he wasn’t even halfway done.

  Focusing on the task at hand, he narrowed his eyes and made himself concentrate, but all he could think about was Charlene— how she’d looked and smelled and so easily presumed he’d take her up on her offer of being available and secretive.

  “I can make sure no one ever finds out . . . no one ever finds out . . . no one ever finds out.”

  Who would have ever dreamed things would get this complicated with Charlene Denton? As if in response, he heard Abby’s voice from years ago: “I don’t like the way she looks at you, like she doesn’t care a bit that both of you are married.”

  He set down his pencil and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands together behind his head and closing his eyes. Forget the tests. The only way to figure out how things had gotten so complicated was to go back to the fall of 1993, the year Charlene was hired to teach at Marion High. The same year things between Abby and him went from fun-loving and unforgettable to busy and stressful.

  Nicole had turned thirteen that year, and every hour the girl spent at the junior high seemed to require another two hours of Abby’s time to sort through Nicole’s problems and help her understand the pains of growing up. And of course there were the sports activities. That year Kade was ten and building a name for himself in youth football leagues around Southern Illinois. When there wasn’t football there was baseball or basketball.

  Abby always seemed to be driving Kade one place or another, and Nicole was just as busy. She needed to get to youth group and swimming lessons and piano recitals and soccer games. On top of everything else, there was Abby’s father. The man lived alone, but he’d lost much of his independence since being diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. He’d sold the old house in Wisconsin in 1993, along with much of his furniture, then packed up his few belongings and moved to a retirement home ten minutes from John and Abby’s. So in addition to the kids’ schedules, Abby took time to stop in and see her dad several times a week. Where once he and Abby had spent Sunday afternoons watching fall football, that year she spent those hours with her father.

  Most of the time Abby was so busy she’d drive three-year-old Sean over to the weightroom at Marion High and leave him with John so she could attempt the insurmountable schedule of the day.

  It was so different from those early years, back when the children were young and the only thing on Abby’s agenda each afternoon had been getting the kids down to the high school so they could run around the grassy hills and watch the Marion Eagles’ football practice. By the fall of ’93, not only was Abby too busy to watch his team practice, she was no longer interested: “It’s the same thing, year after year . . . Besides, it’s too cold out there on the hillside.”

  He could hear her excuses and even now, years later, they still hurt. In the early days she couldn’t wait to hear who went out for the team and who made it. She’d pepper him with questions about players and strategies and upcoming games until long after practice was over.

  Those were the days.

  John opened his eyes and reached for his water bottle, taking three long swigs before setting it back down and staring hard again at the family photo. Why had she changed? Did football lose its appeal somehow? Or was it him she’d grown tired of? Either way by the time Charlene started teaching at Marion, life at the Reynolds house was little more than a functional blur. At least four out of five nights, John and Abby would see each other only when they met back at the house long after dark to grab a quick meal before putting the kids in bed.

  Late evenings—a time Abby and John once had reserved for each other—became the only opportunity to clean dishes or fold laundry or for Abby to edit a magazine piece due the next day. Each season they told themselves things would get slower, they were bound to get slower.

  But they only got busier. And the busier they got, the more lonely life felt.

  John remembered the in-service training three days before school started in 1993, when Charlene came up and introduced herself to him. She had been twenty-five then, young and fresh and bound to catch the attention of hundreds of high-school boys. John had heard about her from one of the other coaches, but even their praise hadn’t prepared him for the impact she made in person.

  “Hi, I’m Charlene Denton. You must be Coach Reynolds.” She held out her hand and he took it, taken aback by her directness.

  “I guess I just look like a Coach Reynolds . . .” He grinned at her, and she laughed in a way that Abby had long since stopped doing.

  “State title, 1989; quarterfinals, 1990. I’m a big Eagles football fan, Coach. Everyone knows who you are.”

  John pondered her statement now. Maybe that was why he’d felt so attracted to Charlene. She was a football fan, his fan. The way Abby had been before the hillside grew too cold and practices became too routine.

  He remembered how he’d felt lost in her wide-eyed gaze that afternoon. “Well then, it’s a privilege to meet you, Ms. Denton. We can always use an extra fan around Marion High.”

  That should have been the end of it, but Charlene was persistent— and he was weak. Surprisingly so. She stayed by his side, clearly enjoying his company and pumping him for dozens of details about the team and its chances that season.r />
  “My husband’s a fan, too.” She casually tossed the comment his way, and he remembered feeling himself relax, relieved to discover she was married. There would be no threats for either of them that way.

  Before the training session was over, he had found a way to invite her and her husband over for dinner that weekend. “Just to make you feel welcome,” he’d told her.

  Abby had been puzzled when John brought it up later that evening.

  “We don’t even know them, honey. I mean, it’s the busiest time of the year. I have an article due Monday and school shopping for the kids. I wasn’t exactly planning to entertain this weekend.”

  John had shrugged like it was no big deal. “She’s new on staff, that’s all. Besides, I don’t think she and her husband are Christians. It’d be a good witness.”

  Abby thought about that and smiled that weary smile she’d picked up by then. “Oh, all right. We’ll barbecue. And maybe if you help me with the cleanup . . .”

  The night had been a disaster from the beginning.

  Charlene and Rod arrived, and it was obvious from the way they avoided each other and spoke around each other that they were fighting. Introductions were simple, and though Charlene was polite to Abby, she stayed by John’s side throughout the night, pulling football stories out of him and laughing hysterically at anything he said that was even remotely funny.

  Why didn’t I see it back then? Maybe none of this would have happened . . .

  John’s question wasn’t really directed at anyone, and there was no magical answer in response. He let his thoughts drift back again. The evening had been enjoyable enough for him, but Abby had seemed tense almost from the beginning. When Charlene and her husband left, Abby shook her head and headed for the kitchen. John remembered following her and asking—innocently—whether something was wrong.

  Abby slammed the dishrag on the counter, splattering soapy water across the floor. “Come on, John. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

  John had been baffled. Was she jealous? Just because a beautiful young woman enjoyed his company? “Notice what?”

  Abby huffed. “Charlene.”

  A laugh escaped before John could stop it. “I don’t believe it. You’re jealous of her. Come on, Abby, be realistic.”

  Abby seemed to struggle with whether to scream or break down and cry. Instead she pushed her hands in a controlled manner, palm down, until her arms were straight. Then she cocked her head, a gesture that meant she was forcing herself to be calm. “In case you weren’t watching, the woman got all drippy around you and hung on everything you said.”

  “Come on, honey. She’s married.” John had approached Abby, but she took a step backward.

  “You’re married, too, and that didn’t stop you from playing right into her little plan.”

  At the time, John honestly hadn’t known what Abby meant, and her accusation roused his own anger. “Wait a minute, don’t go blaming me about her actions. I can’t help it if—”

  “If what?” Abby’s voice was louder than before. “If that woman has a crush on you? Well, for the record, John, I don’t appreciate you inviting her here to parade around my house flirting with my husband eating my food at my table. Are you reading me?”

  John had stormed out of the house then, refusing even to acknowledge Abby’s tirade. Back then it had seemed ridiculous. Like maybe it was that time of the month or possibly Abby was frustrated about her hair or something. Looking back . . . well, he knew that she’d been more right than he could have imagined. From his current vantage point, it seemed Charlene had used the dinner to make her attraction to him known.

  John leaned forward again and sifted through the papers on his desk. He’d asked Charlene about the dinner since then, and each time she’d denied having an agenda. “How could I have known things would get like this between us?”

  How did they get like this, anyway? John had asked himself the question a hundred times if he’d asked it once. It wasn’t really Charlene, was it? It was Abby. Too busy with the kids and their schedules and her father to even ask about his day let alone attend Friday night games. Basically, she had forgotten about him. Left him to live his own life while she managed the lives of everyone else around her, always complaining about something. Ever since life had gotten busier, she was constantly blaming him, accusing him of not helping enough around the house, not being involved enough with the kids’ lives. He was doing everything he knew how to do, but it was never enough. She’d turned into a meanspirited shrew.

  All things considered, any man would have been weak in those circumstances.

  At first it had been lunch with Charlene in his classroom, and then an occasional phone call after work. Still, it wasn’t until four years later that Charlene began having serious trouble with Rod.

  “I have no one to talk to,” she’d tell him. “Meet me here before school. I just need someone who understands.”

  And so—without telling Abby or the kids—he began getting up earlier and arriving at Marion High half an hour before classes. John remembered that not once that year did Abby even ask why. It wasn’t every day, of course, but in time he and Charlene began meeting in the weight-room and working out together before classes began. Occasionally there’d be teasing and rib-poking between them and a rare tickling match or two. But he’d been up-front with her about his situation.

  “I don’t believe in affairs, Charlene.”

  Once when he said that, she came up behind him and started rubbing both sides of the base of his neck, seemingly concerned only about the tension in his back. “Who’s having an affair?”

  She was so innocent, so sweet and fun to be with. He’d convinced himself she was harmless, and there was nothing wrong with a back-rub now and then after working out. He remembered laughing lightly and lowering his head, enjoying the way her fingers worked themselves into his muscles. “Okay, so it’s not an affair. I just want you to know where I stand.”

  She ran her fingers lightly down the sides of his arms and whispered. “Don’t worry, Coach. I’m not trying to seduce you.”

  John had done a quick check of his emotions and realized she didn’t have to try. Just being near her . . . He’d reached up and caught her hands, firmly taking them from his arms as he turned around. “Look, Charlene. I care a lot about you, but I could never do anything to jeopardize my marriage. I mean it.”

  Charlene grinned at him then and shoved him roughly on the shoulder. “Yes sir, Coach. I’ll just be your buddy, then. That’s all I want from you, anyway.”

  John had risen to his feet and noticed that he towered almost a foot above her. “Let’s keep it that way then, okay?” But even as he said the right thing, an intense desire began to take hold of him. He wanted to kiss her, could feel himself drawn to do so. It wasn’t yet seven in the morning, after all, and the kids wouldn’t come around for another half-hour.

  Hypocrite! The accusation rang in his mind, as though his desire were mocking him. Hypocrite!

  He’d nearly given in, but finally he’d stepped back and released a breath, striving to alleviate the sinful feelings assaulting him.

  Before he could leave that morning, Charlene gently took hold of his arm, her green eyes piercing his, begging him to understand. “Things are so bad at home, John. Just understand one thing. You’re the best friend I have. I won’t do anything to lose that.”

  That year and the next they kept their obvious attraction for each other at bay. Sometimes, when it seemed their feelings were getting too tense, he’d take a few days off and avoid her. But they always found each other again, whether in the weightroom or at lunch or after school out on the football field. She was, in many ways, his constant companion. And though he still felt deeply committed to Abby, Charlene was quickly replacing his wife as his best friend.

  It wasn’t until the fall of 1999 that Charlene and Rod’s divorce became final. After that, things heated up considerably. The early morning times John spent in the weightro
om with Charlene were charged with sexual tension. If she was within ten feet of him, John found himself almost unable to work out. The times their bare, sweaty arms brushed against each other in passing or their fingers met in the exchange of a dumbbell, John fought against scintillating feelings he was sure would anger a righteous God.

  God.

  The thought snapped John back to the present. Where did God fit into the mess that his life had become?

  He pushed the papers around on his desk until they formed a neat stack. He still loved God, still believed the Scriptures and God’s promises. It was just that sometime back in the early 1990s, when life got more hectic and Abby was busy with the kids and her father, it seemed easier to skip Sunday service and Wednesday men’s meetings. The coaches who ran the kids’ football and soccer games were not respecters of the Sabbath. Why should he be?

  No offense to the Lord or anything. After all, by that time John had been a believer for so long it seemed he’d heard every sermon imaginable. He knew thousands of stories and analogies and illustrations, all designed to keep him on the straight and narrow. In fact, when John turned 35 in the fall of 1991, he calculated the Sundays and Wednesdays he’d spent in church and figured them to be 3,640 days total and counting. 3,640 days! He considered his schedule and decided he needed less time at church with a bunch of people he barely knew and more with his family or alone getting renewed for another busy week. After all, there was no law saying he had to go to church. Not when he could read his Bible each day and carry on a perfectly devout relationship with the Father from the comfort of his Sunday morning easy chair. That afternoon, in the hours before his birthday dinner, he made God a promise, something he remembered to this day.

  Okay, God, this is it. I’ve got Your message memorized; You know my attendance record better than I do. Give me my Sundays and Wednesdays back, and I promise I’ll be a godly man all the days of my life.