The Forgiving Hour

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  “So what now?” he asked.

  “Do you love her?”

  He frowned, shrugged, and then shook his head. “No, I don’t guess I do.”

  “Then why? Why?”

  “I don’t know. She’s young and pretty. She makes me feel good.”

  She made him feel good? What sort of answer was that? What sort of reason for adultery?

  “It just happened, Claire. I wasn’t planning it.”

  She’d loved him from the time she was fifteen. She’d been his wife for nearly thirteen years. She’d tended him when he was sick. She’d borne his son. She’d cooked his meals and cleaned his house and shared his bed. She’d rejoiced with him when things went right and shouldered his burdens when things went wrong.

  And she was forgotten because that pretty young thing made him feel good.

  She wanted to hit him. She wanted to pound him with her fists the same way that he’d struck the wall. She wanted to hurt him. Hurt him like he was hurting her.

  “I guess it’s too bad you wanted pizza.” One corner of his mouth turned upward, that teasing, you-never-could-hold-anything-against-me-for-long grin of his.

  There was a cold, hard lump in the pit of her stomach. “This isn’t anything to joke about.”

  “Look, it happened. I’m sorry.” His scowl returned. “Now let’s forget it and go to bed.”

  “Not till we get this settled between us.” Her voice rose to match his. She’d forgotten Mike and the need for quiet. Just forget it? The desire to shriek at the top of her lungs was almost overwhelming.

  “And how do we settle it?” he asked.

  “I want us to see a marriage counselor.”

  He laughed, a sound devoid of humor. “Not a chance. I’m not getting all touchy-feely with some crackpot shrink. You can go talk to whoever you want, but leave me out of it.” He stood and strode down the hall.

  She quickly followed him into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. “We’re not finished talking.”

  “Yeah, we are.” He started to undress.

  She wondered how often he’d disrobed in front of that girl. How often had the two of them shared a bed? The thought was sickening; it drained the strength right out of her. She leaned back against the door.

  “I love you, Dave. Doesn’t that matter? Isn’t our marriage worth saving?”

  His silence was worse than a shout … and more eloquent too.

  “Dave?”

  “Aw, Claire, you’re making too big a deal out of this. Sometimes men stray. It happens all the time.” He yanked back the covers and got into bed. “Now let it go.” He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

  “Are you going to see her again?”

  “Good night.”

  “Are you, Dave?”

  He sighed. “I’ll tell her it’s over. Okay? Now turn out the light and let me get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a workday, and I’m beat.”

  She flipped the switch, plunging the bedroom into darkness, but she didn’t move away from the door, didn’t attempt to undress and go to bed. She couldn’t. Her body was as paralyzed as her mind and heart.

  Oblivion, she discovered, was better than pain, better than the heartache she knew she would feel tomorrow. So she allowed the lethargic cocoon of numbness to embrace her.

  TEN

  When Sara hadn’t seen or heard from Dave for a week, panic set in. Had she said something when they were last together that had upset him? Had he been in some sort of accident on the job or in his truck? No one would know to notify her. She’d never met any of his friends. What if he was hurt, maybe dying?

  But that didn’t bear thinking about.

  Another week passed, and the day she and Dave were scheduled to leave for Portland was approaching. Still she hadn’t heard from him. She was beside herself with worry. She tried to weasel his unlisted phone number out of the operator, telling her it was a family emergency, but it didn’t work. She tried the same story at the post office with the same result.

  Then it occurred to her to check the city directories at the public library. Success at last. She found listings for two David Porters in the current year’s directory, one who lived on Five Mile Road, the other on Garden Street.

  Garden was closer; she drove there first.

  Sara was still a block away when she saw Dave. He was headed toward his truck, parked on the side of the road. She didn’t have to get closer to recognize him. Her heart knew him immediately.

  He’s all right.

  Her hand flew to the horn. Then he turned back toward the house, and something caused her to hesitate before honking. Her gaze followed his … to a woman standing just inside the doorway of the tree-shaded house.

  Sara didn’t remember pulling over to the curb, didn’t remember cutting the engine, but there she was, the car parked and silent. She leaned forward, gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

  Dave returned to the front door. He gestured emphatically as he spoke to the woman on the other side of the storm door. Sara wished she could see her clearly, then was glad she couldn’t. Although she tried to tell herself there were a dozen—no, a hundred! — different reasons for what she saw, in her heart, she knew there was only one reason for that woman to be standing inside the doorway of Dave’s house. She was his wife.

  Dave Porter wasn’t divorced, as he’d told her. He was a married man.

  But maybe they were separated. Maybe they were getting a divorce. They were arguing. Maybe …

  No, if that were true, he would have told her. He wouldn’t have lied about it. And it was a lie. Whether by omission or commission, it was still a lie.

  But maybe …

  Dave opened the storm door, leaned through the doorway, took the woman by the shoulders, and kissed her on the mouth, dashing the last glimmer of Sara’s hope.

  Claire knew Dave believed his kisses could make her forget what he’d done, but it wasn’t going to work this time. She’d begun to realize how often he used his body in the place of meaningful communication. Her husband thought sex could solve anything, but it wasn’t going to solve this.

  “Think about it,” he said as he stepped back from her. “It would do us good to get away. It’s only for two or three nights. The Kreizenbecks could keep Mikey while we’re gone. He practically lives over there anyway.”

  How would you know? You’re almost never at home.

  “I’ll think about it,” she answered without enthusiasm. A month ago she would have jumped at the chance to go to Portland with her husband. Why not now?

  “How long are you going to punish me?” A frown darkened his face. “So I made a mistake. It isn’t that big a deal. What do you want from me? Blood?”

  Yes! The force of her anger shocked her. I want blood. I want you to suffer as much as I’m suffering. I want vengeance.

  He must have read the answer in her eyes. With an angry curse falling from his lips, he spun on his heel and strode toward his truck for the second time.

  She stood there, rooted to the spot, until he drove away. Then she closed the door, surprised to find she wasn’t crying. She didn’t know quite what to think about that. Was it a good thing or a bad thing to run out of tears?

  She walked to the kitchen and began to clean up. For the past two weeks, Dave had come home for lunch every workday. He’d also pulled into the driveway no later than five-thirty every evening. She might have seen it as his renewed commitment to her. She might have — if it weren’t for the martyred expression he frequently wore and his continued refusal for them to seek professional help for their marriage.

  “This wasn’t the first time it’s happened,” she’d said to him last night. “Is it, Dave?”

  His stubborn silence had been answer enough.

  A wave of nausea rushed through her as she recalled the conversation. Bracing the heels of her hands against the counter, she leaned over the kitchen sink, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat.

  “Mom?”

  She g
lanced toward the back door.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “You don’t look so good.” Mike hurried across the kitchen. “Need me to call the doctor?”

  “No.” The reply was more groan than word. She shook her head, then repeated, “No.”

  “Is it Dad? What’d he do to you this time? What’d he say to you?”

  Pain sliced into the deepest part of her soul. She closed her eyes. How much did he know? What had he overheard and how much had he guessed? She’d tried hard to shield him; she hadn’t wanted him to know what was happening between his parents.

  But she’d failed. The same way she’d failed at so many things.

  Sara’s eyes were swollen and red from crying when she answered the knock at the door that afternoon. The last person she’d expected to find standing there was Dave.

  “Hi.” He smiled, looking sexy and confident.

  Fury erupted in her chest. “What are you doing here?”

  His smile faded. His eyebrows rose in question.

  “I don’t ever want to see you again.” She swung the door toward him.

  He stopped it with the toe of his boot. “Whoa!” He pushed it open. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s over.” She clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides.

  “Over?” He tried another smile, this one pleading and boyish. “And to think I came over just to see if you’re ready for our trip to Portland. Are you mad ‘cause I haven’t called or been by? I’ve been real busy with work or I would have. I thought you understood about that.” His voice was husky, masculine, and suggestive. “I wanted to clear everything off the calendar so I can give all my attention to you.”

  “Can it, Dave. I saw you with your wife. I went by your house and I saw you with her.”

  A part of her longed for him to deny it; a part of her ached to hear him ask what on earth she was talking about. She hoped to see confusion flash in his beautiful blue eyes and honest puzzlement color his handsome face.

  It didn’t happen. Instead, he muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

  She tried to close the door again, but he pushed his way inside. She probably should have been alarmed, but she was too furious to consider that she might be in danger from this man who had lied to her, used her. “Get out!”

  “Sara …” He reached for her shoulders.

  She knocked his hands away.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you about Claire. But it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

  “Nothing to do with us!” She stared at him in amazement. “Do you think I’m that naive or just plain stupid?”

  “My marriage is on the rocks. I’ve only stayed because of my boy, But what you and I have —”

  “You and I have nothing. Nothing except a pack of lies. We’ve got lots of those, don’t we?”

  “You love me, babe.” He grinned. “You know you do.”

  She slapped his cheek. Hard.

  He cursed then. Cursed her and his wife and all women.

  “Get out.” Her anger was gone, icy resolve in its place. “Go away and never come back.”

  “What were you doing sneaking around my place anyway? How’d you find out where I lived?”

  It was such an inane thing for him to say that she almost laughed aloud. He was implying this was her fault?

  “If you send me out that door”—he pointed toward it—“don’t expect me to ever come back again.”

  “I don’t want you to come back. I thought I loved you, but I was just in love with falling in love. I’ll get over it.” She took a step backward. “And I’ll get over you too. I suppose I should even be thankful for the lesson you’ve taught me. I was naive. But I won’t ever be that gullible again. I’m just glad I never introduced you to my parents.”

  His expression darkened as he leaned toward her. “You’re gonna miss me, Sara Jennings.”

  She remained mute, hoping he couldn’t read the truth in her eyes. She would miss him. She had loved him, however misguided it had been. His lies and betrayal hurt more than anything had ever hurt before.

  She was ashamed too. Ashamed because she was forced to admit her part in this affair. She’d behaved recklessly. She’d intentionally ignored all the values her parents had taught her, telling herself they didn’t apply in today’s world. Now she was paying for it with her heart.

  Dave turned away, strode to the door, then looked over his shoulder. In a low, dismissing tone, he said, “If you find yourself in trouble, don’t come looking to me to bail you out. You’re on your own. Get my meaning?”

  Before she could think of a reply, he slammed the door closed.

  And just like that, Dave Porter was gone from her life.

  The disintegration of a marriage, Claire discovered, was something that happened in tiny increments. A word here. A gesture there. It happened over months, even years, with the parties involved often unaware it was happening.

  Then one day, a person woke up and discovered it was too late to salvage what had once seemed indestructible.

  Those were Claire’s thoughts as she watched Dave loading the back of his gray pickup on a Saturday in June. He was going to Portland, but he no longer wanted her to go with him. He was taking Jazz, his black lab, and the speedboat he’d bought a couple of years before. But he wasn’t taking his family; he didn’t want them along, wife or son. He’d made it clear he had no intention of coming back. He was leaving them for good.

  She should have been afraid. She should have been terrified of being on her own. She knew almost nothing about their financial condition. She had only a part-time job and no education beyond high school. How were she and Mike going to get along?

  At one point she’d wondered if he was taking that girl with him. That girl. His mistress. Claire didn’t even know her name.

  She should have felt something. If not fear, then rage or sorrow or self-pity. Something. Anything!

  Dave jerked a tarp over his belongings in the truck bed and tied it down with bungee cords. When he was satisfied that all was secure, he strode up the walk toward Claire. “Where’s Mikey?”

  “He went over to John’s.”

  “If he thinks I’m chasing after him to tell him good-bye, he’s mistaken.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think he wanted to say good-bye.”

  “He’s probably run off to cry on his friend’s shoulder. The boy’s weak, Claire. You’ve got him tied to your apron strings.” He pointed at her. “It’s a good thing we didn’t have any more kids for you to ruin.”

  She couldn’t feel anger or hurt over that comment. She’d stopped feeling anything in recent weeks. Intuition told her that pain would return, along with a host of other unwelcome emotions, but for now she felt nothing.

  She watched Dave leave as if this were happening to someone else.

  And perhaps that was true.

  For Claire Porter would never be the same again.

  PART 2

  Bitterness

  For I see that you are full of bitterness and captive to sin.

  Acts 8:23, NIV

  ELEVEN

  OCTOBER — THREE YEARS LATER

  Claire parked her car in a visitor’s space in front of the school. She made no move to get out of the car, needing a moment of stillness first.

  Dakota was in trouble again. It was only October, and this was the third time some sort of infraction had caused the school’s secretary to call her. This time the principal, Martin Hathaway, had asked to see her in person.

  Following a resigned sigh, she opened the door of the faded blue Mazda and got out, then stood staring at the main entrance of the high school. It hadn’t changed much since she had been a student. Temporary classrooms dotted the lawn behind the science and math building, and a new roof had been added to the gymnasium. But overall, it looked the same as it had in the seventies.

  It seemed only yesterday that
she’d walked those hallways, clutching textbooks to her chest, giggling with her girlfriends, waiting for another breathless moment alone with Dave, feeling all the anxiety of a fifteen-year-old girl in love.

  A familiar spark of anger ignited at the memory. This was her ex-husband’s fault. Silently cursing his name, she slammed the car door closed and headed for the school’s administrative offices.

  A few minutes later, when she entered the reception area off the main lobby, she saw her son sitting on a corner chair. His head was tipped toward his chest, his eyes downcast, staring at some spot on the floor. His long legs, holes in the knees of his Levi’s, were stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. Studied nonchalance. Practiced indifference. That was the impression he was trying to give, and Claire knew it. She also knew he didn’t feel as blasé as he looked.

  “May I help you?” the woman on the opposite side of a long counter asked.

  “I’m Claire Conway. I’m here to see Mr. Hathaway.”

  Dakota straightened, his gaze meeting hers. Regret flashed across his face, replaced quickly by a look of defiance. He got up but didn’t say anything.

  Her only child was six feet tall and still growing. His eyes were a piercing shade of light blue, his blond hair the pale white-yellow color of straw. Claire was glad he didn’t physically resemble his father — she didn’t need a constant reminder of the man who’d broken her heart — but Dakota did have the same sort of magnetism for members of the opposite sex. Too handsome for his own good, Claire often thought, judging by the number of girls who called him in the evenings and on weekends.

  The secretary buzzed the principal. “Mr. Hathaway? Ms. Conway is here to see you.”

  A few moments later, the nearby door opened, and a smallish, middle-aged man appeared. His salt-and-pepper hair was thinning on top, and his scalp glowed in the sunlight that streamed through a window to his left.

  “I’m Mr. Hathaway.” He motioned toward his office. “Won’t you come in?”

  She glanced at Dakota. Her son’s expression remained wary and unrepentant.