She didn’t press him to admit who was getting the wrong story, though. Instead, she took his keys from the corner of the desk. “I’m leaving. Call when you want a ride home.” With a brief wave to Brenda she left the building, then started for home, seething.
Her thoughts were racing. What was Shaun hiding? And how could he do it in such a small organization, when everyone was so close? Certainly he hadn’t expected to never be found out. She didn’t buy his excuse, regardless of what opinion of God’s he was trying to invoke. Honestly, it was the comment about God telling him to fire Nick that made her even more doubtful.
But she wasn’t far from A&A’s campus when she realized that she was as guilty as he. She was harboring her own secrets. And it was the fact that she had her own secrets now—the doubts and anger involving God that got stronger every day — that made her even more worried. She knew just how bad things might get if she admitted how she truly felt.
She was afraid to even imagine what Shaun’s secrets might lead to.
CHAPTER 7
IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT, AND A&A WAS CLOSED FOR THE WEEKend. Despite this, Shaun was in his office, the budget printed out and its pages strewn across his desk. He clutched a highlighter as he poured over every line item, considering each carefully before moving to the next. When he found something he could eliminate, he dragged the squeaky marker over it, relishing the sound. He hadn’t heard it much since starting the exercise.
When he finished going through the budget, he pulled out a list of the positions held in the ministry. Each description outlined the responsibilities of that job, and he began to scrutinize each one, looking for ways to consolidate them. Having Nick gone helped, but if he could cut at least one more position, he’d easily be able to move them to a smaller office space.
It was almost eight by the time he locked A&A’s doors behind him. He felt bad for staying late, but it was easier than trying to mull these issues over at home where Savannah might get nosy about why he couldn’t keep focused on anything. His mind wandered to the issue of money at the slightest provocation these days. It didn’t help that getting the mail every day almost always meant receiving another bill—mortgage, insurance, utilities, hospital bills, hospital bills, and more hospital bills. And now on top of that were Savannah’s medications, of which she had a small pharmacy’s worth. Not exactly the kinds of things he could scale back on. He was doing as much at home as he could to cut costs, but without Savannah being on board his skimping didn’t amount to much. And he wasn’t about to break it to her that they were broke.
The one thing they had going for them was an excellent credit rating, which meant high spending limits on their credit cards. He hadn’t been much of a charger before, but he was lately out of sheer necessity. Of course, those bills came calling, too. He knew he could use them only so much before he dug himself into a far deeper hole.
He took the long way home, wanting just a few more minutes alone to think. He really wanted to downsize their home. They didn’t need a house this size, especially now that Jessie was essentially gone. But Savannah loved it, loved the neighborhood, the proximity to good shopping. The only cheaper housing options in that area were condos and apartments, neither of which would fly with Savannah. And a move would be out of the question without opening up about just how badly they were in debt, and he just couldn’t do it, not yet.
But when?
And on top of the stress was the guilt that squeezed his soul night and day. What kind of man had he become, who did the kinds of things he was doing? A desperate one, certainly. And a weak one. He hated himself a little more every time he fixed the books or messed with receipts.
Shaun felt more and more trapped with every day that passed. But what really scared him were the thoughts of escape that would form out of nowhere. A longing to just be … gone. It didn’t help that his marriage was not what it once was — nor was his wife. He’d thought crises were supposed to bring couples closer together, but this one seemed to be pushing them apart, even though it had a happy ending with Savannah’s transplant. But it was the transplant that seemed to be causing all the problems. Ever since, she’d been … harder. Like some of her Southern upbringing had been removed along with her damaged heart. She was constantly irritable, less gracious, not as warm. He kept hoping it was just part of the emotional flux they were told to expect, or maybe the medication. But what if it wasn’t? What if this was who she was now, for good?
It was making working with her — and living with her — a lot more difficult.
SAVANNAH’S DEADLINE WAS TWENTY-FOUR HOURS away. Not that she technically had one, but the subtle pressure to get the book done quickly made it clear her publisher — and Shaun — wanted the book done now. For the last three days she had literally locked herself into her office to pound out the project she’d been pushing off and avoiding for the last month. She’d never written her books at home before — usually she took her laptop out somewhere so she was surrounded by people, even if she couldn’t afford to stop working to interact with them. But this time she couldn’t bear the thought of being recognized. Not just because she didn’t have the time to chat, but because she felt like such a fraud, and she was afraid it would be obvious somehow.
When she’d read through the outline she’d been overwhelmed at the topics she’d been trying to address. God’s goodness amidst suffering? Taking a “heaven’s eye view” of pain? What had she been thinking? Had she really thought she’d be able to speak with authority on topics that scholars still wrestled with? What had made her think she could be at all convincing?
It had been a brutal seventy-two hours as she’d hammered out the text. Trying not to think too much about how thin her arguments appeared to her, she laced the manuscript with platitudes and sayings tweaked just enough to sound original, and leaned heavily on the narrative of her own experience to carry the book. But even the retelling of her revelation before the surgery—which was only slightly drawn-out and embellished — read as trite and unbelievable. And if it sounded that way to the person to whom it had happened, how would it sound to those in the midst of their own struggles?
The end was in sight when Shaun called to tell her he wouldn’t be home for supper. She was relieved. She was so close to being done, she hadn’t wanted to stop working to try to figure out a meal. She skipped dinner and pushed through, not allowing herself to question the marginally coherent metaphors and shoddy writing that her flying fingers produced. She just wanted the book done.
When she finished the last sentence she almost cried. She didn’t care that the book was a fraction of the length of her others and hoped no one else would either. She emailed it to her editor with embarrassment, knowing the quality was nothing compared to her previous books, but the thrill of being done overpowered her regret over the poor quality. When the email was sent, she shoved her chair back from her desk and breathed in deep. She was done. Done and feeling almost happy. The chronic edginess abated somewhat with the weight of the book finally off her shoulders. She hadn’t felt happy since before her surgery. She needed to do something to celebrate.
She considered the contents of her pantry and fridge. With so much time on her hands these days, she’d begun cooking again, reviving an old hobby that had been forgotten when the demands of A&A grew to a full-time position. She’d pulled out old family recipes a couple weeks ago and started working her way through them. They all needed to be scaled down so she wasn’t swimming in leftovers, but even with that challenge she had been enjoying herself in the kitchen. It wasn’t just the fun of rediscovering a buried skill that Savannah appreciated as she sautéed and measured. It was the comfort of a decidedly Old Savannah characteristic, of finding a piece of her previous self she could point to and say, “See? I’m still me.”
But tonight the thought of recalculating a recipe to serve one instead of eight seemed too laborious. She wanted to be catered to, to sit back and let someone else prep and serve. She also wanted a drink. She hadn�
��t had one in a long time—decades, even. Technically she wasn’t supposed to drink alcohol now because of her medication, but one drink wouldn’t be the end of the world. The only problem was that getting one would mean going out.
But who knew when Shaun would finally get home? He stayed at A&A so late sometimes that she was on her way to bed by the time he finally got in. She couldn’t imagine what was keeping him so long, though honestly she wasn’t sure she’d want to go celebrate with him, anyway. Things with Shaun were … not great. It was mostly her own fault, she knew; keeping secrets always resulted in relationships falling apart in one way or another. But she wasn’t ready to spill this one, especially not with this book on its way to publication. She had to keep the image up at least until after the book’s initial release and publicity push. Maybe after that she’d be able to let Shaun in on the truth. Though the fact that he was keeping his own secrets and that he’d fired Nick behind her back still burned her, too. And yes, she recognized the hypocrisy in being angry at him for keeping secrets, but hypocrisy was low on her list of concerns right now.
She went to Jessie’s room to raid her closet again. She wasn’t sure where she was going to go, or with whom; she just knew she wanted to get out. She sorted through Jessie’s clothes, looking for something that didn’t appear too young. She finally paired a blouse with black slacks and topped it off with one of her own vests that didn’t have to be fastened closed to still look nice. As she did her makeup she tried to think of someone to call, but she couldn’t handle any God talk tonight, and she was bound to get that with all of her friends, the lot of whom she’d dodged as much as possible lately—even to the point of all-out lying just to avoid getting together. By the time she was done with her hair, she had given up on finding a companion and decided instead to just go out alone.
She drove for ten minutes before deciding on the steakhouse she and Shaun had often gone to on date nights. She took a seat at the bar, the first time she’d ever done something like that in her life, and ordered a martini. She kept one eye on the door in case a familiar face walked in as she sipped the drink and willed the knots of tension to undo themselves in her shoulders.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone and enjoyed herself. She’d spent plenty of time alone at home while she’d been sick, but it had been far from pleasant. Since her surgery she’d been alone quite a bit as well, but her thoughts were so tormented by anger and doubt that she’d been miserable pretty much the whole time. Before getting sick, being alone had been torture — she’d always wanted to be in a conversation, relating to someone, engaging with people. Alone had equaled boring. But she found herself relaxing and reveling in the experience now.
A gentleman in a suit and loosened tie sat down two seats from her. They exchanged polite smiles, but after he got his drink he leaned over and said, “I’ve never been here before—would you recommend any of their appetizers?”
“Oh … well, the shrimp cocktail is good. I’ve had that a few times.”
He nodded. “That does sound good. I’ll try that; thanks.”
She gave an approving nod, then went back to people watching as the stranger ordered from a roving waitress. When she returned with the appetizer a few minutes later, the man slid the plate down the bar so it sat between them. “Care to share?”
It took a second for it to sink in that he was flirting with her. She was about to get indignant when she realized she didn’t have her rings on. Well, guess I can’t blame him, then. “That’s sweet — thank you. But I really shouldn’t.”
He tipped his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Are you sure? I hear they’re very good.”
She laughed, enjoying the interplay. When had someone last flirted with her? Decades ago, certainly. Wedding rings had a way of deterring men — and well they should. But it was nice to know she could still attract attention, especially given the way the medication had affected her once-trim figure.
“Well … maybe just one.” She reached over and plucked a shrimp from the rim of the glass.
“I’m David.”
“I’m, um, Roberta.” It was almost true—her middle name was Robertson, her mother’s maiden name. She wasn’t about to give this stranger her real name.
“Are you waiting for someone to join you, Roberta?” His eyes were very green. She liked them.
“No, actually. Are you?”
“Savannah?”
The familiar voice sent an arrow of adrenaline through her. She straightened up, having been unaware just how close to David she’d been leaning, and saw Colleen and her husband at the front of the bar.
“Colleen, hi.” She grabbed her purse and slid from her seat, avoiding eye contact with David. She was shaky with fear. How much had they seen?
“Long time no see, huh?” Colleen asked when Savannah reached them. “Where’s Shaun?”
“Oh, he was working late — I finished my book and wanted to celebrate, so I just thought I’d go out for a drink.”
“The book is done? That’s great, congratulations.” She smiled, but Savannah would have sworn she saw a glint in Colleen’s eye that hinted at reproach. “Would you like to join us? We just came for some dessert.”
“No, but thanks. I should be going anyway — Shaun will probably be home soon.” She gave them each a brief hug, then made a beeline for the car, burning with embarrassment.
What had she been thinking? Shame burned in her chest as she drove home. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
SAVANNAH LET HERSELF IN TO an empty house when she got back. She had hoped Shaun would be home so she could make herself feel better by doting on him a bit. But no, he was still at work, presumably, and that just made her mad. Well, even more mad than she already was.
This new person she was becoming was really making a mess of things. How could she have let herself be so careless—had she forgotten people recognized her in Colorado Springs? How often did she ever go out without getting stopped by someone, either a friend, or someone from church, or someone who had read her books or seen her at a conference? The Old Savannah never would have made such a rookie mistake, and now one of her closest friends — at least, she used to be—had a good reason to come track her down and start insisting on answers.
And when she did, flanked by the other women and refusing to take the hint that Savannah didn’t want to talk, what was she going to tell them? The Old Savannah had been characterized by her faith in God, her passion for ministering to women, and her energetic extroverted personality. They’d never believe her if she admitted she couldn’t bear the thought of crowds, couldn’t care less about how other women handled their lives, and didn’t believe in God.
I don’t believe in God …
She froze before the mirror where she was washing the makeup from her face. It was true. The concept of God meant nothing to her now. She’d been telling herself it was just the depression, the baseless anger, that was clouding her love for God. But if she was brutally honest, her faith was gone.
She scrubbed her face clean and went to her laptop to log into the transplant forum. She started searching for posts about when people started feeling more like themselves. She scanned entry after entry, her heart sinking with each one that touched on the waning of the emotional rollercoaster. This was when most people started to improve, to emerge from the fog of depression or at least notice the depression coming in shorter, less intense spurts. The same seemed to be true for the anger some felt—and their anger was often easily traced to something.
Unlike hers. And hers was not only growing, it was ruling her life.
Savannah shut the laptop and pulled a notebook from her desk drawer. It was the journal where she’d recorded her prayers during the tour. Lists always brought order to her internal chaos — maybe a little self-examination would give her some insights. She flipped a few pages past the last entry and titled the page Personal Inventory. It was time to figure herself out.
Anger — why???
G
od— who is that? I don’t even care.
She looked at what she had just written, eyes wide. She never thought she’d think such a thing. And it wasn’t just an isolated thought. She hadn’t been to church since coming home from the transplant, hadn’t cracked open her Bible, hadn’t prayed — well, except for that one afternoon with Marisa, but that had been coerced and not at all heartfelt. Frankly, she’d felt ridiculous doing it, as though Marisa had asked her to pray to a stuffed animal.
She took a deep breath, not quite ready to address the implications of revelation, and continued.
Introvert— and it’s not that I just don’t want to be with lots of people.
She tapped the pen to her chin. She wasn’t sure how to end this sentence. It wasn’t just classic introversion, feeling drained by groups but energized with people one-on-one. It was different somehow. She doodled on the page, letting her mind wander, then had a thought and wrote it down to see if it resonated with her or not.
… it’s that I just don’t feel like I can trust anyone.
This not only struck a chord, it was the one thing that made sense. Her husband’s double-speak to the staff and the way he fired Nick really hurt and worried her. Plus she knew he was hiding something. And who else on this earth was she supposed to be able to trust the most besides her husband?
She stared at the list. It was short, but its effect on her life was both profound and terrifying. What was her life without A&A? Without writing books and doing speaking tours and creating women’s ministry curriculum? Without A&A, her life collapsed like a house of cards, and so did Shaun’s, and so did the lives of the staff that worked for her. Her faith was the linchpin in a lot of people’s plans. And sometime in the last month, it had been pulled.
Panic began to bubble in her gut. She couldn’t possibly admit this to anyone. She couldn’t let herself be found out, or everything would fall apart. How would they pay their mortgage, Jessie’s tuition — heck, how would they put food on the table? Their paychecks were dependent on her now-missing passion for God.
The Heart of Memory Page 13
