The Perfect Life (23 page)

“What a surprise to find you here,” Fran said as she walked toward me.

I stood. “It's been a while since we've seen each other. How are you? How's Curt?”

“We're fine.” Her brows drew together in what I assumed was supposed to be a concerned frown. “The question is how are you? I feel so awful about your current troubles.”

Fran and I hadn't been close friends. We'd been neighborhood acquaintances. Nothing more. Women who exchanged a few words when we met at the mailbox or the grocery store.

“We always thought you and Brad were such nice neighbors. Never would we have guessed you'd have to go through something . . . well . . . you know. Like this. I was telling my mother when she called the other day how the things they've said in the newspaper about your husband took me so by surprise. He didn't seem the type.”

The blood cooled in my veins at the same time my cheeks grew warm. There was a humming in my ears. Sounds were distorted, as if the piped-in music from the overhead speakers was half a turn off the right channel. I looked toward the front of the store, wishing for a straight path of escape.

“Are you moving, Katherine?”

“Moving?”My gaze returned to her. “No. Why?”

“Oh, I thought, here you are in a furniture store . . .” Translation:
I thought you must be leaving Brad, divorcing him,
moving on.

I tried to smile, tried not to show that her words had upset me. “I'm not shopping for myself. I'm getting some interior design ideas in mind to show my client.”My client. That was rich.

“Really?” She lifted her perfectly waxed eyebrows. “I didn't know you were a designer.”

Did my nod constitute a lie? I mean, if I did this for Susan, that made her my client and me a designer. Right? With any luck, Fran wouldn't ask for my business card.

I looked at my watch. “Oh, dear. I didn't realize the time. I'm going to be late if I don't hurry.” Another forced smile. “It was good to see you, Fran. Say hello to Curt for me. I hope you're both enjoying your new home.”

I didn't wait for her to respond before I made my way through the dense furniture groupings toward the front of the store. The instant I stepped through the doorway, I gulped in air, like a drowning woman breaking the surface of the ocean. I hurried toward my car, unlocking the door with the remote well before I reached it. The surge of adrenaline had my head pounding by the time I slipped behind the steering wheel, eyes closed, head bowed.

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

I drew in a breath and released it through my mouth. Once, then again. My pulse began to slow. After another breath, I straightened and looked about. Traffic flowed on the street beyond the parking lot, green lights turning amber, amber lights turning red, red lights turning green in timed succession. As if everything were normal and right in the world when I knew good and well it wasn't.

Seated in his wheelchair in the family room, the telephone pressed to his ear, Brad waved at me when I entered through the back door later that afternoon. I returned the wave, then looked to see what was cooking in the kitchen. I'd been so upset after my run-in with Fran that I forgot to eat lunch. Now I was ravenous. I lifted the lid on the Crock-Pot. Some sort of stew made with tomato sauce, onions, potatoes, and hamburger. Nothing fancy but it smelled delicious.

“Hi,Mom.”

I turned toward Emma.

“How'd it go today?”

I shrugged. “Not great. I only filled out one application. I either lack the skills or the educational requirements for most things I'm interested in.” I set my purse on the counter and slipped out of my shoes, scooting them into a corner with my big toe.“But I'm going to enjoy doing the makeover on Susan's house. I spent a couple of hours at her place this afternoon, and I've got a number of good ideas.”

“That's good.” Emma tipped her head toward the family room. “Dad's had a pretty good day. His ribs hurt, and his leg's starting to itch. He's talking to Pastor Mike right now.”

“I won't disturb him then.”

“You didn't let Pastor Mike know that Dad was hurt, did you?” Censure was back in her tone.

I opened the refrigerator and removed the pitcher of iced tea.

“You should have called him,Mom.”

“I know. I . . . forgot.”

Emma came to stand beside me, placing her hand lightly on my upper arm. “It isn't like you to forget stuff like that.”

No, she was right about that. It wasn't like me not to do the right thing in the right way at the right time. But nothing in my life was as it was supposed to be. I wished she understood that.

I wished everyone understood it.

Emma released a soft sigh. “I'd better go home. I've got to get dinner ready for Jason. I'll be back in the morning. Is nine o'clock still okay?”

“Yes, I think that's plenty early.” I took a sip of tea. “I'll go fill out any applications for job possibilities, then I'll go back to Susan's. She's taking tomorrow afternoon off so we can make decisions about new carpet and what colors to paint the walls.”

“Do you plan to be out all day? I thought you might want to be back earlier tomorrow.”

I rubbed my forehead with the fingertips of my left hand. “I really don't know how long it will take, Emma. Is it important for me to tell you now?”

The silence in the room grew thick. I looked toward my daughter and found myself condemned in her eyes. Why, I couldn't say. For no good reason I could think of. After all, she'd volunteered to stay with her dad while I was working, and working was what I would be doing with Susan tomorrow.

“No,” she answered. “I guess it isn't important. Not to you, anyway.” She turned on her heel and strode into the family room.

“Hold on a second,Mike,” I heard Brad say. Then he accepted our daughter's kiss on his cheek, thanked her for all she'd done, and told her he would see her in the morning.

Emma didn't look my way a second time as she headed for the front door. A second or two later, it closed behind her.

I didn't know what I'd done to earn another round of Emma's anger, but I was tired of it. I was tired of being judged by someone who hadn't a clue what it was like to walk in my shoes.

I went upstairs to change out of my businesswoman's job-hunting attire, replacing it with jeans and a loose-fitting top. Then with a practiced hand, I swept my hair off the back of my neck and caught it with a clip.

Would I be happier if I left him?

My heart stuttered, then began to race. I turned my gaze toward the mirror above the dresser.

Even the Bible gives me a pass if he was unfaithful.

“Do you want a pass?” I whispered.

My reflection didn't answer.

Sleepless, heartsick, I left Emma's old bedroom some time after two in the morning and walked down the hall to the master bedroom. There, I stood in the darkness, staring toward the empty bed. The bed I had long shared with my husband. Tears slipped from my eyes and made slow paths down my cheeks.

I missed Brad more than I could say. I missed the easy camaraderie we'd shared. I missed his teasing, and I missed teasing him. I missed the times I would lie in his arms, just before sleep overtook us, feeling secure and loved. I missed his warm breath on my skin as he whispered those proverbial sweet nothings in my ear. I missed the way he used to read something in the Bible and then share with me what the Lord had shown him about applying it to his own life. I missed watching old movies together, a bowl of popcorn on the sofa between us.

Sniffing, I moved toward my side of the bed. The side that had been mine throughout our marriage. I pulled a tissue from the box on the nightstand and dried my eyes. Then I lifted the top sheet and comforter and slid into the cool softness that awaited me.

Lying on my side, I reached across to Brad's side of the bed, touching where his pillow should have been, where he should have been. When I pressed my face against the sheet and breathed in, I caught the scent of him, a whisper of his favorite cologne.

A tiny sob escaped my throat.

I didn't want to be alone.Not in this bed. Not in my life. But how could we mend all that was now broken between us? It seemed so impossible.

Thirty

I MET SUSAN FOR LUNCH AT A RESTAURANT NOT FAR FROM
Lowe's, our first shopping destination.

As soon as the waitress took our orders, Susan leaned forward, arms on the table. “You don't look as excited about redecorating my place as you were yesterday. What's bothering you, girlfriend? Spill.”

“Nothing new. Just the same things.” I looked toward the ceiling in the far corner of the restaurant. “I can't find a job. Hayley won't take her dad's calls. Emma is angry at me for not behaving differently. Whenever we're together, Brad watches me with wounded eyes. And I don't know which way is up anymore.”

Susan nodded but said nothing.

I drew in a ragged breath. “Do you think it's possible for a marriage to be repaired once trust is lost?”

“Anything's possible, Kat. But making a marriage work isn't easy in the best of circumstances. When they're not the best . . .” She shrugged.

Tears threatened, and I concentrated on forcing them back into hiding.

Susan wasn't fooled. “Listen. You want some advice?”

I nodded, but I wasn't sure it was true. Not if she said something I didn't want to hear.

“Kat, women stay with men for all kinds of reasons. Some good. Some not so good. You? I think you've stayed with Brad because of what the Bible says. Without your faith, I think you'd've hightailed it out of there long before now.” She paused as the waitress delivered our drink orders, then played with the paper on her straw for a few moments before continuing. “You know what? I envy you. Maybe if I had half your faith, I'd've stayed married to Ogden and we could have made it over those bumps we had in the road of life. He wasn't a bad man, you know, or a bad husband. He was a pretty decent guy, all things considered. He loved me when I let him.”

My surprise must have shown. I'd never heard Susan express regret over her divorce. Either one of them.

She waved her hand, as if trying to erase what she'd said. “Here's what I meant to say: get over yourself. Fish or cut bait.”

I leaned back against the cushion of the booth.

“Be married or don't be married. Just quit being . . . uncommitted to either one. That's not fair to anybody. Not to your girls or to Brad or to yourself. Shoot, it's not even fair to your best friend.” She touched her collarbone with the fingertips of one hand, as if I needed her to remind me who my best friend was.“I'll root for you and Brad to make it, or I'll root for you to make it on your own. But what you're doing now? Waffling back and forth, feeling sorry for yourself without doing what you need to change things? It's hard to root for that.”