The Perfect Life (10 page)

I went upstairs and entered the bathroom, pausing in front of the vanity to stare at my reflection in the mirror. I looked even worse than I'd imagined. My hair was disheveled, my eyes red and puffy.

How did I get like this?

Nicole. Nicole had done this to me.

I saw my mouth harden, my eyes narrow, as anger overwhelmed me. Anger and hate. I hated Nicole Schubert. I hated her, and I hated Greta St. James. I hated Channel 5 News, the
Idaho Statesman
, and the attorney general. I hated what had happened to my well-ordered life, and I hated the fear and the tears and the uncertainty.

Before my eyes, I seemed to age, transformed by the malice in my heart. I touched the mirror with my fingertips. “What's happened to your life?” I whispered. My reflection didn't reply.

What man wouldn't choose Nicole over me?

That sick feeling in the pit of my stomach returned. Knees weak, I got into the shower, hoping the hot spray would wash away all thoughts of my nemesis. I wanted to be washed clean of her, once and for all.

In my heart, I knew I shouldn't give any validity to Nicole's claims of an affair, no matter whom she said it to. Brad's words should carry more weight with me. Twenty-five years of living with a man and serving with a man—twenty-five years of loving him and mothering his children—should count for more than accusations and innuendos.

Shouldn't they?

Yes, those things should count more. They
did
count more. And yet, doubt remained. It was like a small sliver under the skin, something I couldn't see but neither could I ignore, no matter how hard I tried.

“Mom,” Hayley called through the closed bathroom door, “your eggs are ready.”

“Coming.” I wasn't hungry, but I would eat. Compliance was easier than arguing.

When I arrived in the kitchen a short while later, my hair still damp from the shower, I found the table set with my good dishes and place mats, cloth napkins in clear plastic rings centered just so on the plates. Scrambled eggs with diced peppers filled one platter. Another held crisp bacon and wheat toast. A pitcher of orange juice sat between the two platters. Soft music played on the stereo in the family room.

“You didn't need to go to all this trouble.” I took my place at the table.

“I know, but I wanted to.”

I would have done the same if the situation was reversed. My eldest daughter and I liked things to look nice. We found satisfaction in a well-set table, in the right mood and pleasant ambience. We enjoyed hosting parties, preparing food that was appealing to both sight and taste buds.

Hayley sat in the chair to my left. “Do you want to bless the food?”

“You do it. Please.”

She obliged, taking my hand and saying a quick prayer of thanks.

I didn't feel thankful. I felt defeated, beaten, lost, confused.

As if helping a child, Hayley filled my plate with food and poured orange juice into my glass. I picked up my fork and moved chunks of scrambled egg around in a circle. My daughter let me sit in miserable silence while she spooned the remaining eggs onto her plate and spread raspberry jam on a slice of toast. I felt her annoyance. Hayley wasn't long on patience.

When her plate was empty, she patted her mouth with the napkin, laid it on the table, and slid her chair back from the table. As she stood, she said, “If you believe Dad was unfaithful, you don't have to stay with him. You can come stay with me and Steve until you get things sorted out.”

Stay with her. Sort things out. Did she mean divorce?

“You can't sit around the house and mope forever.”

“I'm not moping.”

Hayley took her plate and glass from the table and put them in the dishwasher. Then she turned to look at me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, what are you going to do then? This stuff about Dad isn't going away any time soon. Those reporters will keep sniffing around.”

“There wasn't more in the paper today, was there?”

“No, but there will be. You can count on it.”

I put down my fork. I couldn't even pretend to eat now.“How can you be sure?”

“Because Dad's been in the news a lot over the last few years as In Step has become better known. They made a saint out of him for what he was doing in Boise and other places in Idaho. That's one reason he was named Humanitarian of the Year. Saint Brad. Do you think they don't love discovering he's a saint with feet of clay?”

“Do you believe it's true, what they're saying?”

She shrugged. “I don't know, Mom. His own dad didn't set him the best example in the fidelity department.”

“Your grandfather wasn't a believer.”

“True, but no man is as flawless as you've made Dad out to be, either. I love him. Don't get me wrong. I just don't think he's perfect.”

“I've never said he was—”

“Don't bother to deny it. It's true. You're like a poster child for unrealistic marital bliss or something. You need to get your head out of the clouds. Dad's a man. He's human. And humans make mistakes. Even Dad. If he didn't make some sort of mistake, why is he in this mess now?”

Her words caught me like a hard right jab to the solar plexus. I'd taken secret comfort in Emma's unfaltering belief in her dad's innocence. To know Hayley had lower expectations made my own doubts worsen.

“I guess you're not going to eat that.” She pointed at my plate.

“No. I don't have much of an appetite.”

She looked at her wristwatch. “It's too early to go to the mall. Stores don't open until ten.”

“I'd rather stay home anyway.”

Hayley frowned, and her mouth pursed.

“I'm sorry, honey. I appreciate all you've tried to do”—only a slight exaggeration of the truth—“but I'm not in the mood for shopping.”

“I guess I can't force you to go with me.”

I shook my head.

“Then I'd better be off. I've got grocery shopping to do. We're having friends over for dinner tomorrow night, and I'm nowhere near ready. Why is it remodeling always takes longer than we think it will?” She moved to where I sat and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Call me.”

“Okay.”

I waited until I heard the front door open and close. Then I turned to stare out the window at the backyard.

“If you think Dad was unfaithful, you don't have to stay
with him.”

Brad was right. I couldn't continue to ignore him or the situation. The silent treatment would get us nowhere. Only I was terrified where talking might take us.

Thirteen

SECONDS PASSED LIKE MINUTES, MINUTES LIKE HOURS, AS
I waited for Brad to come home. Numerous times during the day, I picked up the phone to call him. Every time, I set it back in its cradle without dialing. I wasn't sure what to say to him. I only knew he was right, that we had to talk. Talk until we were sick of talking, if that's what it took to resolve things between us.

But what if talking resolved nothing? Or worse, what if talking told me more than I wanted to know?

It was nearing four thirty when the doorbell rang. I don't know why I didn't check to see who was on the other side of the door. I usually did.

“Mrs. Clarkson.” Greta St. James smiled at me as she placed her hand flat against the center of the door.“May I have a moment of your time?”

I fell back from the doorway.

She moved forward. “We'd like your comments regarding the interview I did with Nicole Schubert. I trust you saw it Wednesday night.”

My brain went blank. I wanted to turn and flee.

“Your husband has refused to talk with us, but we hoped that you—”

A camera pointed in my direction. I saw the little red light glowing and knew my reaction was being recorded.

“No comment,” I whispered.

“Please, Mrs. Clarkson. The community wants some answers.”

From somewhere within came the strength to move forward, forcing her to back up.

“Mrs. Clarkson—”

“No comment.” I closed the door, twisting the dead bolt into place. Then I leaned against the wall and listened to the hammering of my heart.

Nicole must have been filled with hate to talk to Greta St. James. She'd tried to steal another woman's husband.
My
husband. Didn't she care how that made her look?

No. Of course she didn't care. Few enough did in this day and age. Actors routinely had affairs with their costars, and the next thing you knew, their relationship was being romanticized in
People
or some other weekly magazine. Token pity was sometimes shown toward the betrayed spouse, but never for long.

I felt the soft rumble of the garage door opening. Almost simultaneously I heard Ms. St. James shouting a question. Through the living room window, I saw Brad drive past the reporter and her cameraman. The garage door closed again, and silence gripped the house.

I waited for Brad to enter the kitchen through the connecting doorway. One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Finally, I couldn't stand the tension building inside of me. I walked into the kitchen and opened the door, peering into the dim light of the garage.

“Brad?”

The door to his car opened. “I'm here.” He got out. “How long have they been here?”

“Not long.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. But I opened the door before I knew who it was.”

He walked toward me, his footsteps slow, his shoulders slumped. As he drew near, light from the kitchen revealed the weariness written on his face. I stepped back to let him pass.

Where were you last night?

He stopped in front of me, as if he'd heard my silent question. His gaze met mine.

Many years ago, when I was still in high school, I heard someone say that God fashioned Eve from Adam's rib because He wanted her to be strong enough to protect her husband's heart. Looking into Brad's eyes, I knew I'd done nothing to protect him since this awful mess began. Maybe I never had.

“So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself,
and the wife must respect her husband.”

How often had I quoted those words to other wives? More times than I cared to admit. I used to think I'd followed that Bible verse, that I'd shown Brad the respect he deserved and needed. But now, in this crisis . . .

I lowered my gaze. After a moment, he released a whisper-soft sigh. A hot lump formed in my throat as I closed the door.

He walked across the kitchen to stand at the window overlooking the backyard. “Three corporate sponsors canceled their pledges to the foundation today. Individual pledges have dropped off too. Only a few days, and it's noticeable.”

My heart hurt.

“I've been asked to remove myself from my position with In Step.”

“Remove yourself?”

He turned to face me. “If I don't quit or at the very least take an unpaid leave, In Step might not recover from the bad press it's getting. There's already plenty of doubt in the public's mind. Especially in the Christian community. It's better for me to step down than force the board to remove me. It'll look better . . . later.”

Another layer of fear swept over me. “Why an unpaid leave? You're the founder. You deserve better treatment. It's like you're guilty until proven innocent.”

“How could I, in good conscience, draw a salary while employees face layoffs?”

“Layoffs? Is it as bad as that?”

He nodded. “It'll happen soon. I don't see how it can be avoided. Those corporate sponsorships were a big chunk of our annual income.”

Perhaps I was selfish, but I couldn't help wondering how we would pay our bills if we lost his income. The mortgage, the car payment, the lights and heat, groceries. We weren't rich by any means. We didn't have unlimited resources—we'd put too much into building In Step through the years. We would be okay for two or three months. Would that be long enough?

Brad raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I'm the accused, Kat, not the foundation. If I'm out of the picture, giving might pick up again. Maybe some of those sponsors can be wooed back.”His voice lowered.“The employees and the people In Step helps shouldn't have to pay for whatever I did or didn't do.”

“But it's
your
ministry. You built it from scratch. No one knows it the way you do.No one cares about the people you help the way you do.”

His smile was sad, his tone of voice poignant. “It's God's ministry, Kat, not mine. I've had the privilege of serving in it, and I hope I'll serve there again. But that's up to the Lord. We'll have to trust Him.”

His humility and trust shamed me. Could such a man cheat on his wife and lie to those who loved him?

I drew a shallow breath. “What will you do if . . . if you don't work at In Step?”

“I'm still good with a hammer.”He held up his hands, palms toward me. “I imagine I can get a job in construction. Spring's here. New building has kicked into gear.”