The Perfect Life (7 page)
HE
COULDN'T
SLEEP, NOT WITH HIS THOUGHTS CHURNING,
not with Katherine lying with her back to him, pretending to sleep. As he pretended.
Eventually, when her breathing slowed, exhaustion having overtaken her, he got out of bed and went downstairs. He turned on the television in the family room, the audio low, selected the recorded program on the DVR menu, and fast-forwarded to the last segment of the half-hour show.
There she satâNicole Schubert. To the casual observer, she must look cool and poised. But Brad wasn't a casual observer. He recognized the anger that simmered right below the surface. He noticed the slight tremor in her voice and the set of her jaw.
He'd known she hated him. She'd told him so that last day in his office, the day she resigned. But he hadn't known how much she hated him until now. How could he have guessed she would do something like this? Maybe if he'd expected it . . .
No, it wouldn't have made a difference. He couldn't have prevented it. He couldn't have averted the damage she'd do. Knowing wouldn't have stopped the doubts from forming in Katherine's mind when she heard Nicole's accusations.
All of those months he'd worked with Nicole. All of those meetings in his office. All of those evenings at the theater, laughing over the comedies, applauding the performances. All of those Wednesday evenings when she came to Katherine's study. He'd prayed for her eyes to be opened. Why hadn't he prayed for himself? Why hadn't he foreseen it would come to this? A wiser man might have seen it coming.
Father, I've made my share of mistakes, and I'm sorry for them.
I should have been wiser. You know the truth, and You know what I
should do about it. Show me the way.
He rewound the recording and hit Play again.
WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN, SUSAN AND I USED TO VISIT
her grandparents on their farm near Kuna. We both loved it there. In the summer, we rode her grandpa's old saddle horse and went wading in the creek. In the fall, we loved to play safari in the drying cornstalks. One of us pretended to be a tiger, the other a hunter. The tiger would lie in wait, and when the hunter passed by, the tiger would spring from hiding with a roar.
How I longed to return to the innocence, the safety, of those childhood games. The fearful anticipation. The startled screams. The laughter.
The tiger lay in wait for me now, but it wasn't imaginary. I could feel its breath on the back of my neck. This tiger was real and so were my fears.
I was in bed alone when Emma arrived the next morning. Tenderly, she drew me from beneath the covers, helped me into my robe, and led me downstairs to the kitchen where, with a gentle pressure on my shoulder, she urged me to sit on one of the chairs at the table.
“Dad made coffee before he went to work. Want some?”
I shrugged, shook my head, nodded. I didn't know what I wanted. It was too much to try to decide.
A minute or two later, my daughter set a mug on the table and slid it toward me. “Here you go.”
I looked at it, watching the steam rise in a swirl above the dark brew.
“This will all get straightened out,Mom.”
“Will it?” I met her gaze. “How?”
She sat on the chair to my right. “You can't think the stuff she said is true. Dad isn't capable of cheating on you. Not with her or any other woman.”
I saw them in my mindâthe receptionists, the secretaries, the administrative assistants, the bookkeepers. All the women who had worked at In Step in the years since the foundation moved from our home and into the office building. So many women, most of them young and pretty, most of them idealists who hoped to change the world.
Most of them filled with admiration for Brad.
I remembered the easy camaraderie my husband enjoyed with everyone he knew. He made friends wherever he went. People loved Brad.
Women love Brad.
Emma grabbed hold of my hand. “Listen to me. Nicole is lying. Anyone who knows Dad the way we do won't give credence to what she says.”
Ah, my dear daughter. Headstrong and opinionated, sometimes a rebel, but also an optimist who looked for the silver lining in every situation. Was she really so naive? Didn't she know that people would believe the worst, not the best? Even some people who knew Brad would believe the worst.
Do I believe it?
My chest hurt.
No. Maybe. I don't know. I'm
afraid. What if it's true? Why would she lie?
Through the years, I'd sat with brokenhearted wives, holding them while they wept bitter tears. What had I said to them? What words of wisdom? Had I spewed platitudes or offered real comfort?
Platitudes.
I hugged myself.
That's all I had to offer them. I
didn't know any better.
“Mom, I think you should get showered and dressed and come home with me.”
I shook my head. “I have things to do.” I always had things to do, although right then I couldn't think what they were.
“Nothing that can't wait. Come on. It'll take your mind off things. I've got some homemade soup and fresh-baked bread to warm up for lunch.”
Run away and hide. That's what I wanted to do. I supposed Emma's home was as good a hiding place as any.
Emma and Jason's two-bedroom north-end bungalow was about seventy years old. It hadn't been in the best of shape when they bought it a year ago. But they'd worked wonders with a little money, lots of ingenuity, and plenty of elbow grease.
“How about helping me put together the baby's crib?”Emma asked as she opened the front door.
I shrugged in response.
“I'm worried, Mom. I've never seen you like this before.”
Perhaps that was because her dad had never been accused of adultery before.
“You ought to
do
something. It'll keep you from going over the same stuff in your head again and again. Come on. Help me with the crib.”
That was another platitude I'd uttered to friends in the midst of their suffering: keep busy and you won't think about whatever awful thing is happening to you. I no longer believed that. Nothing could stop the questions and worries and fears from circling in my mind, like vultures over a decaying carcass.
“Let's go to the nursery.” My daughter's arm went around my shoulders. “I need your help.”
I looked at her. “I've never been good with screwdrivers and hammers.”
“Fine. You can read the instructions. I know you're good at that.”
Anal-retentive was what she meant. That was what she sometimes called me. The dictionary defined the trait as “excessively orderly and fussy.” I knew because I'd looked it up. But I was neither of those things. Yes, I liked to keep up appearances. I wanted my home to be neat, everything in its proper place, and I did my best to keep myself in shape too. But I wasn't excessive about it. Besides, was there anything wrong with wanting to do and be one's best for God? I preferred to think of myself as a woman striving to follow the example of Proverbs 31.
Who can find a virtuous and capable wife? She is worth more
than precious rubies. Her husband can trust her, and she will
greatly enrich his life.
Hot tears stung my eyes. My husband could trust me. But could I trust him? Could anyone trust him?
“Come on, Mom. I need you.”
Emma drew me away from the window and into the nursery, where she commanded me to sit in the rocking chair. I obeyed without argument. What was the point? She wouldn't listen. She was determined to make me do this. She was determined to make me feel better.
“Here are the instructions. You read them aloud, and I'll put it together.”
A large, now-empty box leaned against the closet doors. A crib-sized mattress leaned against the box. Other pieces of the bed were scattered around the hardwood floor. Emma knelt in the midst of it.
“Where do I start?” she asked.
Before Nicole's appearance on
Our View
, I would have loved nothing more than to help Emma with this. Before this nightmare began, I would have admired the stencils on the wall and commented on the color scheme of the room and
oohed
and
aahed
over the baby clothes in the dresser drawers. But now . . .
I lowered my gaze to the printed instructions in my hand. The letters swam on the page. I blinked, bringing the words into focus, and began to read.
By the time the crib was assembled and stood against the wall, a pretty yellow blanket draped over its lowered side, I did feel somewhat better. Emma had talked nonstop, covering a vast array of subjects, pausing only when she needed me to read the next item in the instructions. Her monologue worked, much to my surprise. I hadn't thought about Nicole Schubert or her claims about Brad for at least an hour. Maybe more.
“It's lovely,” I said as Emma put the finishing touchesâa teddy bear and a yellow pillowâinto the crib. “You've done wonders with this room. With the whole house.”
