Desert Gift (7 page)

Chapter 7

Los Angeles

Given the speed of the treadmill and the time spent on it, Jill figured she had jogged to Omaha. She should reach Chicago by midnight. Who needed a plane?

The hotel fitness center was empty. No surprise. It was small, smelly, and state-of-the-art 1982. She wouldn’t be there if her choices had been anything but lose her mind or get on a treadmill.

She wiped her brow with a damp towel and kept going, elbows pumping. The room blurred from view, replaced by her reflection in the large dark windows. Correction. The reflection of herself as an overweight twelve-year-old.

Techno blasted through her earbuds, the wild music compliments of Connor, who liked to leave surprises for her on her iPod.

Connor.

What was this going to do to him? Oh, it was too awful to think about. Did he even have to know? It wasn’t like she and Jack were sitting down with a counselor yet. Things had not progressed beyond Jack’s
“I want a divorce”
statement. Which could be construed simply as an opening to a new dialogue. Why bring Connor into an unfinished conversation? It did not concern him, unless . . . unless . . .

Well, she was not going to imagine
that
outcome.

Still, Jack’s voice mail suggestion to avoid Connor over the next week was outrageous. She wasn’t about to ignore her son. And if they talked, he would learn of Jack’s absence. There was no getting around that. One thing would lead to another and then—

“Mrs. Galloway!”

At the shout and sudden appearance of a woman, Jill jerked and nearly lost her balance. “Oh!” She grabbed one handle and reached for the power button with the other hand. Her hand and legs bounced like an out-of-control marionette’s. “Oh!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Oh?” Jill finally connected with the controls and clung tightly as her legs steadied and the belt slowed to a halt.

“Are you all right?”

She wiped her face again and pulled out the earbuds, gasping for breath. The woman came into focus. “Danielle?”

The teacher from Hope on the Coast stood before her, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her toothy smile hesitant. “I’m sorry I startled you.”

Jill nodded, still catching her breath. Her mind raced faster than her heart. All the shame and distress of the morning hit her like a freight train.

Danielle said, “I called Gretchen. She said I could come to the hotel. Do you want some water?”

Still mute, Jill nodded again and stumbled to the bench where she’d laid her things. She sat heavily and opened her water bottle.

“Mrs. Gal—”

“Jill.”

“Jill.” The woman sat beside her.

Up close to the teacher, without a hundred pairs of audience eyes watching her, Jill studied the athletic, healthy face. There were more crow’s-feet than she remembered. The woman was nearer forty than twenty-five.

“Jill, I want to apologize. I—”

“I’m the one who needs to apologize.”

“You already did. This morning.”

“I did?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t Gretchen?”

“She did, but so did you.”

“I can’t remember much except that I came unglued and said some horrid things.”

“I goaded you.”

“Trust me. I was on the verge of jumping off the cliff when I walked into your church. The earth was already giving way before we met. Goading didn’t push me—”

Danielle grasped her wrist. “I goaded you and I am so very, very sorry.”

Jill met the intense gaze of emerald green and realized the woman felt almost as bad as she did. “You were doing what you thought best for your audience. I do it all the time on the radio. Except I prefer to call it
prompting
, not
goading
. I
prompt
people to dig deep.”

“I had an agenda.”

“Same thing.”

Danielle shook her head. “I told Gretchen and now I’m telling you. My ladies promised not to talk about your meltdown.”

Jill’s laugh came out a strangled noise. “But it’s so juicy! I mean, granted, I’m not known like half the people in your congregation are. Still, though, it seems worthy dirt to dish out. ‘Marriage expert’s marriage falls apart.’ That’s way too rich to pass up.”

“All right.” Danielle squeezed Jill’s wrist and let go. “Some of them will elaborate to outsiders, but most of them won’t. After you left, we talked about what our respectful response should be. Someone even suggested that we call our class hotline if we feel an irresistible urge to gossip. At least that would keep it in-house.”

“I appreciate that. I don’t know that it matters. I can’t continue with other engagements, pretending that I have a healthy marriage.”

“You don’t have to. Talk about what you know, like about your recipes that give insight. Just leave out the guarantee.”

Ashamed all over again, Jill pressed the towel to her face. It wasn’t that she’d brutally shared her pain with a hundred strangers. It was the ridiculous guarantee she had offered up for years and years as if God Himself were speaking.
“Do it this way, and that will happen.”
How could she have been so amazingly presumptive as to put God in a box like that?

“Jill, I believe in you, in what you’re doing. Please don’t give up.”

Jill lowered the towel, looked at her, and shrugged. A thank-you stayed stuck in her throat.

Danielle said, “About that agenda I mentioned.”

“Prompting.”

“Not exactly.” Her eyes filled. “You know the last index card I read, the one that put you over?”

Yes, she knew it literally. The words had branded themselves into her memory.
“On your radio program an expert said that sometimes we get blindsided in a relationship. You said that was impossible if we stay open. My husband and I stayed open for sixteen years, through thick and thin. Last week he moved out. No warning. No explanation.”

“What about it?”

“I wrote it.” Tears spilled over and down Danielle’s face.

“You . . . you made it up? To prompt me?”

She shook her head and the ponytail swung about.

“Oh. Oh, my.” The truth dawned. Danielle had not made it up. She was traveling the same nightmarish road.

“Jill, please keep going. Remind women that the only guarantee we have is that God will never leave us. That He will never, ever give up on us.”

Jill could only wrap her in a tight hug. Danielle didn’t seem to mind the sweat.

* * *

Jill peeked at her wristwatch. Monday, 7 p.m. Pacific Standard Time. Her day of public breath holding neared its final hour and she was still standing. Hallelujah.

Danielle’s admonishment the previous night had convinced her to follow the schedule as planned. Gretchen danced a jig but kept her promise and called key people, all of whom were not at work or answering cell phones. “Cupid must have sent out a memo,” Gretchen reported. “Evidently Valentine’s Day is a three-day weekend this year.”

Jill felt the proverbial crush of being between a rock and a hard place. She was booked through next Tuesday. The day after would begin a week off. It was to have been her and Jack’s vacation at the beach and the anniversary of the first day they met, twenty-five years ago when their paths crossed in Hollywood. She had hotel and restaurant reservations.

Now what? Should she try to get a ticket for home tomorrow and not bother telling her publisher and all those other people who were expecting her? Or should she leave Jack alone for a week to wallow in the throes of midlife crisis?

“Hey.” Gretchen nudged a chair against the back of her knees. “Sit before you keel over.”

“I’m fine.” She sank onto the padded seat, put her forearms on the table, and ducked behind two stacks of
She Said, He Heard
. By closing one eye, she blocked the huge bookstore from view.

It was a crowded place, people in every aisle and at the coffee shop, but the steady stream toward her had finally ceased. The whole scene felt unreal.

Gretchen sat next to her. “You’re doing great, Jillie, just great.”

“Can we leave?”

“The manager asked us to stay a little longer. He’s ecstatic. Do you have any idea how many books have sold tonight?”

“No.”

“I don’t either.” She chuckled. “But the manager is ready to throw his arms around you. He said he’s never seen such a turnout for a first-time author.”

“That’s all your doing, Ms. PR.”

“Well, yeah, I am pretty good with advance work.” She grinned. “But that was a cakewalk. You’re the one who blazed the trail. Eight years on the radio, syndicated out here for three, interviewing well-known personalities. People know you. Of course they want to meet you in person. Of course they want you to sign their books.”

“I’m just a curious, high-strung loudmouth who wanted to put some new handles on some tired old principles and then tell everybody.”

“And surprise! You struck a chord with a lot of us. We needed new handles.”

“I made up guarantees. I messed with God’s teaching.”

“You stayed true to it, Jill. You did! Our Sunday school class has prayed forever that you not stray from God’s message of love and healing in marriage. We’ve had you covered through your entire career, sweetums, and God is faithful.”

Jill leaned toward her friend and lowered her voice to a hiss. “Then why does my husband want a divorce?”

“Oh, Jillie.”

“We need a new subtitle.
Want to chase hubby out the door? Try this version of discourse.
”

At the sound of a discreet cough, they both turned. Across the table stood a middle-aged woman. Thankfully she was not close enough to have overheard Jill’s anxious whispers in Gretchen’s ear.

She smiled at Jill. “Excuse me, are you Mrs. Galloway?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Are you still signing books?”

Jill nodded.

Gretchen said, “Yes. Yes, she is.”

“That’s wonderful! I have a few friends with me.” She moved aside. About six women stood in line behind her. They smiled and waved. “We’re members of a book club, and since we all listen to you on the radio, we planned to read your book next. Then when we heard you were going to be just an hour from us, we were thrilled. We thought, why not treat ourselves to our own signed copies? So here we are!”

Jill said, “You drove an hour to see me?”

“More like two. Freeway traffic.” Her eyes glistened.

Jill knew what was coming. How many women had she seen that day whose eyes glistened with unshed tears? There had been countless at the luncheon where she spoke earlier and several more at this table since five o’clock. Next came the gratitude.

“Thank you, Mrs. Galloway.”

“Jill.”

“Jill.” The stranger smiled. “Thank you for changing my life and my husband’s. We’d been married thirty years when I first heard your teaching. Honestly, until then we were not on the same page at all.”

Jill stood. Despite her tiredness she had to stand and she would remain standing. Otherwise she would not be able to reach across the table to hug these women who heaped on the affirmation that for the moment was the glue that held her together.

She only hoped that when they heard about her own failed marriage, they would not feel hoodwinked. Maybe, just maybe, they would be as gracious as Danielle and the women in her class.

Maybe, just maybe, Jill was not responsible for infecting marriages with foolishness.

Chapter 8

Chicago

Jack eyed Baxter over a forkful of porterhouse steak. The toothy smile creasing his friend’s boyishly round face signaled something. “What?”

“Apparently your appetite has not been affected by the situation.”

“No, it hasn’t.” Jack ate the bite of meat, grilled to red perfection. Chewing slowly, he evaded the topic they had not yet broached.

The day had been a long one. Flu was making its rounds, leaving the office understaffed. Technically still on vacation, Jack was called in anyway by Baxter. Sophie protested, but Jack figured staying occupied was a good thing at this point. He had missed Valentine’s Day, the first time in his married life, and Jill had flaked out on her most important speech, no doubt due to him. He didn’t quite know what to do with those facts yet.

Baxter cut into his own steak. “You’re feeling all right then? eating and sleeping?”

“Better than I have for some time.”

“That’s telling.”

“I thought so.”

“It’s only been, what? Five days? The euphoria will fade.”

“I’m not euphoric. There’s plenty of guilt and shame inside, but I am oddly . . . I don’t know. At peace. Relieved, I guess, is the word.”

“Relieved because she’s away? Maybe you only needed a break from her?”

Jack shrugged. “I haven’t gone to deciphering it all out yet.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

Baxter said, “So where have you gone?”

He rubbed his head.

“Besides to reopening that gash? Leave it alone, bud.”

Jack lowered his hand and gripped the knife. “Anger. I’ve gone to anger. I shampooed in anger. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Not even close. What took you there?”

Jack felt hot inside. Avoidance was no longer a choice. “Chapter 7 took me there—Sizzlin’ Spinach. I was thinking about last week. There I was, standing in the big bookstore at the mall, reading a description of flickering candles in my bedroom.” He shook his head. “It could’ve been worse. In this day and age she could’ve gotten away with a whole lot more. Call me a namby-pamby fuddy-duddy, but she didn’t have to go that far. This was enough to violate something sacred between us.”

“That was quite a speech.” Baxter slid his fork into his mouth.

“Yeah. You don’t seem surprised.”

He shrugged a shoulder and chewed.

“You read the book then?” Jack had given him a copy some weeks ago.

Baxter nodded.

“You didn’t say anything.”

He swallowed, set down his fork, and took a deep breath. “You and I don’t meddle when it comes to the wives. When Stacey and I were in counseling, you listened to me. You pointed out when I was being a jerk, but you never bad-mouthed her. This book business is between you and Jill.”