A House Divided

by Robert Whitlow

  ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT WHITLOW

  “Christy Award winner Whitlow’s (The Trial) experience in the law is apparent in this well-crafted legal thriller. Holt’s spiritual growth as he discovers his faith and questions his motives for hiding his secret is inspiring. Fans of John Grisham will find much to like here.”

  —Library Journal on The Confession

  “Whitlow writes with the credence of a legal background and quite adeptly incorporates intrigue, romance, and redemption in its many forms into his book. Recommend to young adults and older readers with a penchant for unexpected twists and unanticipated outcomes.”

  —CBA Retailers + Resources on The Confession

  “Whitlow has weaved a well-constructed and engaging mystery with a crisp, concise style of storytelling, authentic, gritty characters and a well-defined plot. Strong tension and steady pacing add to this stellar read.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4-1/2 stars, on The Confession

  “Whitlow intertwines legal drama with spiritual highs and lows in an intensely exceptional read.”

  —Dale Lewis, Novel Crossing, on The Confession

  “Readers will find plenty to love about this suspenseful novel as they watch its appealing main character juggle personal, professional, and spiritual crisis with a combination of vulnerability and strength.”

  —CBA Retailers + Resources on The Living Room

  “. . . an intensely good read.”

  —Booklist on The Living Room

  “In The Choice, Robert Whitlow crafts a moving tale of a mother’s love for her unborn children cast against the specter of the culture wars. Fans of Whitlow’s courtroom drama will not be disappointed, but here too the human drama of which we all become a part takes center stage. Every page entertains and inspires. I dare you to put this book down. Heartrending and triumphant, Whitlow at his best.”

  —Billy Coffey, author of Snow Days and Paper Angels

  “Whitlow captures the struggle of many women trapped in the battle over abortion in a truly sympathetic and affecting way.”

  —Booklist on The Choice

  “Author Robert Whitlow combines Grisham’s suspenseful legal-thriller style with the emotional connection of a Hallmark made-for-TV movie.”

  —CBA Retailers + Resources on Water’s Edge

  “. . . a solid, suspenseful thriller.”

  —Booklist on Water’s Edge

  ALSO BY ROBERT WHITLOW

  The Confession

  The Living Room

  The Choice

  Water’s Edge

  THE TIDES OF TRUTH SERIES

  Deeper Water

  Higher Hope

  Greater Love

  Mountain Top

  Jimmy

  THE ALEXIA LINDALE SERIES

  Life Everlasting

  Life Support

  The Sacrifice

  The Trial

  The List

  Copyright © 2015 by Robert Whitlow

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™ The New American Standard Bible®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. www.Lockman.org.

  The Twelve Steps and brief excerpts from Alcoholics Anonymous are reprinted with permission of Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc. (“AAWS”). Permission to reprint this material does not mean that AAWS has reviewed or approved the contents of this publication or that AAWS necessarily agrees with the views expressed herein. A.A. is a program of recovery from alcoholism only. Additionally, while A.A. is a spiritual program, A.A. is not a religious program. Thus, A.A. is not affiliated or allied with any sect, denomination, or specific religious belief.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8889-9 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Whitlow, Robert, 1954-

  A house divided / Robert Whitlow.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8888-2 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PS3573.H49837H68 2015

  813'.54--dc23

  2015006803

  15 16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To those who never stop believing, who never quit praying, and who faithfully offer practical help to those who have lost their way.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up.

  ECCLESIASTES 4:9–10 NASB

  ONE

  Corbin Gage shifted in the front pew and rubbed the large spot on his neck that his razor had missed. The stubbly gray hairs rose up against his fingers in sharp protest. He furtively cast his eyes toward his daughter, who sat to his right. There was no hiding his external or internal flaws from Roxy. Clutching a wad of tissues, she stared straight ahead as the minister finished his eulogy.

  Everyone stood as the pallbearers picked up the casket and carried it slowly down the aisle. Corbin pressed his lips tightly together. His son, Ray, did the same. After the casket passed, Corbin felt a tug on his sleeve and glanced down into the face of his eight-year-old gra
ndson, Billy.

  “Pops,” Billy said.

  “Not now,” Ray said to his son, raising his finger to his lips.

  “Gran isn’t really in there, is she?” Billy persisted, his eyes looking up at Corbin.

  If under oath on the witness stand, Corbin would have pleaded the fifth. Instead he simply shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so,” the little boy said.

  Corbin patted Billy on the shoulder as the family followed the casket down the aisle. Sometimes innocent ignorance was better than dogged doubt.

  The church cemetery was across the street. Two sheriff’s deputies wearing white gloves halted traffic in both directions as the mourners crossed. It was a bright fall afternoon, and after the retreat of summer’s muggy humidity, the air smelled fresh and clean. The flower beds in front of the cemetery were an explosion of late season color. Corbin saw the flowers, and his mind went back twenty-five years to Kitty and a group of women pulling weeds from the beds. One of the first groups Kitty joined when she returned to church with Ray and Roxy in tow was the garden committee. Bringing beauty to her surroundings was at the core of her being. Yet despite her patient efforts and best intentions, the weeds of Corbin’s life had proven infinitely more stubborn than crabgrass or dandelions.

  A mound of freshly dug red clay marked their destination. Corbin stood a few feet behind his children. The ten years since his divorce from Kitty disqualified him from closer proximity.

  While the minister offered a few final words, Corbin stared at the ground and moved a red clod of dirt from side to side with his foot. Glancing up he saw Ray’s wife, Cindy, put her hands around Billy’s shoulders to steady him as the boy leaned forward to peer into the hole where the casket would soon be lowered into a steel vault.

  The minister finished and people began to slowly move away. Several spoke to Corbin as they passed. Whatever their secret thoughts, today they showed him kindness. He nodded and mumbled a brief response. Once the crowd cleared, the workers released the straps holding the casket and lowered it into the ground. Ray and Roxy turned around. Their eyes were red. Billy was holding Cindy’s hand.

  “Mama, can I ride over to Gran’s house with Pops in his truck?” Billy asked his mother.

  “Honey, we’re not sure he’s—”

  “I’m coming,” Corbin interrupted. “But I won’t stay long.”

  “Okay,” Cindy said slowly. “Don’t stop anywhere in between.”

  Corbin gave his daughter-in-law an icy stare and put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. The little boy was thick and muscular, and people who saw pictures of Corbin at the same age as Billy swore grandfather and grandson looked like twins.

  “We’ll be there before you and Ray,” Corbin said.

  Ray, Cindy, and Roxy recrossed the street to the large parking lot beside the church.

  “I parked behind the cemetery,” Corbin said to Billy.

  “Are you sad about Gran dying?” Billy asked.

  “Of course I am.”

  They walked toward the back edge of the cemetery. Dead leaves crunched beneath their feet.

  “Everybody was crying but you and me,” the boy said. “Why is that?”

  “People are different that way. We’re all going to miss your gran. If you feel sad later, it’s okay to cry.”

  “Is that what you’ll do?”

  “Maybe.”

  They reached Corbin’s truck. He’d grown up in rural Georgia, where every male worth his jeans and boots drove a pickup. Thirty-seven years as a lawyer in the northeastern part of the state hadn’t changed his opinion about the only true masculine mode of transportation.

  A large man with big, powerful hands, Corbin had a full head of gray hair, thick eyebrows, and dark brown eyes. Within seconds of combing his hair, a large shock usually drifted down over his forehead.

  “Buckle your seat belt,” he said to Billy when they got into the white truck.

  “I always buckle my seat belt. I don’t want you to go to jail.”

  “Who told you they’d put me in jail if you didn’t fasten your seat belt?”

  “Daddy said he persecuted a man who didn’t buckle in his son.”

  “Prosecuted. And the man probably did something else wrong, too, like not being a safe driver and causing a wreck.”

  “Have you had any wrecks?”

  “A few minor things we call fender benders. Nothing serious. Nobody ever got hurt.”

  The most embarrassing accident happened two years before. Late one Friday afternoon Corbin backed into a light pole outside The Office, a local tavern. Startled by the sudden impact, he put the shifter in drive, stepped on the gas, and sideswiped a parked car. Fortunately the deputy called to the scene didn’t administer a Breathalyzer test.

  “Good thing you didn’t pull into the street, Mr. Gage,” the deputy said.

  Corbin had represented the man’s mother years before when she was wrongfully terminated from a job.

  “Yeah, I’ll get the truck towed to Garrison’s,” Corbin said as he sucked on a peppermint. “The wrecker driver can take me home.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s a good idea.”

  As soon as the truck was repaired, Corbin had sold it and bought a new one. Colonel Parker, Corbin’s former mentor and law partner, claimed it was bad luck to drive a vehicle that had been wrecked.

  It wasn’t far to the house where the family would gather. Corbin stopped at one of Alto’s twelve traffic lights. He waited almost a minute for the light to turn green. In the meantime two cars passed through the intersection.

  Willow Oak Lane was a short street that ended in a cul-de-sac. Corbin and Kitty bought the rambling white house three years into their marriage and nine months after Corbin obtained the largest jury verdict in a personal injury case in the history of Rusk County—1.2 million dollars for the estate of a young wife and mother killed when her car was struck from behind by a logging truck. The insurance company’s lawyer argued that the woman didn’t turn on her blinker and slowed down too quickly before turning off the highway, thus making it impossible for the driver of the truck to avoid hitting her. He also threw in a few barbs about the diminished economic value of the woman’s life because she didn’t work outside the home. Corbin had called a mechanic for the trucking company as a witness. He testified that the brakes on the truck weren’t properly fixed because the owner of the company had more business than his limited fleet could handle. A grim-faced jury shocked the courtroom when they announced the verdict. Corbin collected an attorney fee of $400,000 and used most of his after-tax income as a down payment on the house. He promised Kitty an even fancier house for a future that never came.

  There were several cars parked in the driveway. Women were carrying dishes of food across the yard. Corbin pulled alongside the curb and stopped in front of a For Sale sign placed by the real estate company that was selling the house to pay Kitty’s massive medical bills.

  “There will be a lot to eat inside,” he said to Billy. “That’s what people do when someone dies. They bring food so the family won’t have to cook.”

  “Will I have to try stuff I don’t like?”

  “Nobody except your mama will be paying attention to what you eat. If you want to try something new and don’t like it, just find me and put it on my plate.”

  The broad flower beds across the front of the house were weedy, which made Corbin sad. Congestive heart failure had taken Kitty’s life and, before it killed her, sapped her strength like a constant drain on an already weak battery.

  “Your gran loved flowers,” he said as much to himself as Billy.

  “And tomatoes.”

  Corbin smiled. Billy was right. Before she got sick Kitty had become interested in heirloom tomatoes and cultivated multiple varieties in a fertile spot behind the house. The high acidic content in the local soil grew great tomatoes, and when a vine started producing fruit, she’d leave a message for Corbin at his office. He’d stop by after work and, without disturbing her,
go around back and pick a few for a simple supper.

  The cordiality toward Corbin that had marked the funeral continued inside the house. He received greetings and condolences as he moved from room to room. Women from the church and neighborhood were arranging food in the kitchen. Someone had brought in a long plastic table for desserts. Corbin didn’t like sweets, but he saw Billy making a beeline toward a massive, multilayer chocolate cake.

  “Not yet,” Corbin said, grabbing the boy by the shoulder. “You know better than that. Get a plate of regular food and show it to your mama when she gets here. She’ll let you know when you can get dessert. I’ll be in the green bedroom.”

  Corbin piled a plate high with more than he wanted and walked down an unused hallway that had a slightly musty smell. He pushed open the door to the master bedroom with his foot and went inside.

  Instantly he knew he’d made a mistake.

  TWO

  After the crowd at the grave site cleared, Ray and Cindy left the cemetery and got into their six-year-old Honda. They’d bought it shortly after Ray passed the bar exam on his second try and landed a job at the district attorney’s office.

  Cindy flipped down the visor and fluffed her short blond hair.

  “Is Dad going to drop Billy at the house and leave?” Ray asked.

  “He said he would stay awhile, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he cuts out immediately.” She returned the visor to its place. “Do you think he listened to anything the minister said?”

  “He heard it, but who knows if it got beneath the surface. He had to know the part where Reverend Adams talked about Mom praying daily for those she loved had Dad’s name written across it in billboard-size letters.”

  “And our names.”

  “And Roxy.”

  “And Billy.”

  “Yeah.” Ray nodded. “She’s left a huge hole.”

  Cindy reached over and patted Ray’s arm. “You’re her son. Everyone knows your father isn’t going to lead this family. It’s up to you now.”

  Ray glanced in the rearview mirror and saw his sister’s new BMW behind them. “Roxy’s following us at the moment, but I don’t see that continuing.”