The Perfect Life (12 page)

Brad nodded, but his expression didn't change. He didn't look encouraged.“How long will the AG's review take?”

“I expect them to render a decision in a couple of weeks. Maybe three. If they decide a full investigation is needed”—he shrugged—“there's no telling how long it will drag out.”

Brad glanced at me a second time, then back to Stan. “Will Nicole's assertions have any impact on whether or not they do an investigation?”

“Although it shouldn't matter, I can't say it won't, human nature being what it is.”

Brad rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, his head bowed forward. Was he praying or simply weary of it all?

When he straightened, he met Stan's gaze. “This wouldn't be so hard to bear if it was just about me. But innocent people will be harmed. The recipient families. The employees. The contractors and subcontractors. The volunteers. If giving doesn't return to normal levels, staff will have to be let go. We won't be able to follow through with some of the home purchases. People who might have been homeowners by fall—”His voice broke, and he made no attempt to continue.

I hurt for him. I hurt for me.

“We'll do our best to minimize any negative effects for all parties.” Stan opened his briefcase and placed a file folder on the desk, sliding it toward Brad. “I went over In Step's Articles of Incorporation and the foundation's bylaws, as well as your contract. As you expected, this meeting should be brief and to the point. And I believe we can assure your reinstatement once concerns are addressed.”

It would be simple enough to address the public's and the board's concerns about misappropriation of foundation funds. Not so simple to address the matter of Nicole. Not if Brad was right, that it was his word against hers. As long as suspicion remained—

Brad checked his watch, then stood. “The board should be here by now. We'd better go in.”He shook Stan's hand. “Thanks for standing by me.”

“Glad to, my friend.”

Brad moved toward me, and I stood too. He grasped my arms and stared into my eyes. Behind the strength, behind the courage, I saw the depth of his sorrow.

“This shouldn't take too long.”

I nodded, wanting to say something to comfort him but at a loss for words.

He leaned in and kissed me. A fleeting brush of his lips upon mine. And then he left the room, followed by his attorney.

Tears welled in my eyes as I sank to the sofa a second time and reached into my purse for a tissue, determined not to give in to a fit of tears. I dried my eyes, sniffing all the while, then grabbed a second tissue and blew my nose. Finally, I sucked in a deep breath and released it.

Breathe in through the nose. Let it out through the mouth.

Breathe in. Let it out.

Breathe in. Let it out.

More in control of my emotions, I rose from the sofa and walked to the credenza to look at the many framed photographs that covered the surface. There was one of me and Brad on our last vacation to the Oregon coast. There were wedding photos of each of the girls and their husbands. There was one of Brad, holding a shovel, at In Step's very first home remodel project. Sixteen years ago. No gray in his hair back then. A few pounds lighter. Otherwise, he looked much the same.

Then there was a photograph of the entire staff taken at the annual summer picnic. They'd used it for the foundation's Christmas card last winter.

I picked up the photograph, my eyes focusing on Nicole. She stood behind Brad and to his right. I was beside him on the left. All of us were smiling. I set the photograph facedown on the credenza.

The sound of a man's raised voice caused me to turn. The office door stood ajar. I moved to stand in the doorway. Throughout the large open space that held the desks of many of the employees, people had stopped working and were looking in the direction of the boardroom. I followed suit.

Sheer curtains covered the glass wall of the meeting room. Through the light fabric I saw Brad standing at one end of the long table. Four men sat with their backs toward me. Three sat opposite them. Which one was speaking? I couldn't tell. His words were muffled, but not so much I couldn't detect his anger.

Judged guilty. By one man or by seven, my husband had been judged guilty.

And by me?

I hadn't yelled at him in public, but neither had I shown him unfailing support. Doubt and suspicion lurked in my mind day and night. He had felt it as surely as he heard his accuser now.

The boardroom fell silent. Perhaps one of the other men had intervened.

I looked away, letting my gaze travel around the central office. Many of the employees were young, in their twenties or early thirties. Most of them were women. A few talked softly to one another. Others appeared to be engrossed in their work, although I wondered if they were pretending. No one looked at me.

Did any of them believe Nicole told the truth? Or worse, did anyone in this place
know
that she told the truth?

I took a step backward, retreating into Brad's office, and closed the door.

Hayley

MAYBE
HAYLEY
WOULDN'T
HAVE BEEN SO UPSET BY THE
reporters if she'd expected them to besiege her in the same way they had her parents. As it was, she was taken by surprise by their presence inside the parking garage when she left work that Monday, one week after her father's resignation from In Step.

“What have you got to say about Nicole Schubert's allegations?” the reporter asked, his microphone at the ready. He didn't look much older than twenty-five or twenty-six. His cameraman was about the same.

She kept walking toward her car. “I have nothing to say.”

“Is your parents' marriage a happy one?”

She studiously ignored the camera, her eyes fixed on the ground as she quickened her pace. Her headache worsened. She'd felt lousy all day—achy, a bit nauseated, out of sorts—and she hadn't the energy to deal with this.

“Ms. Andrews, has your father had previous affairs with any of his coworkers?”

She wanted to ask how she was supposed to answer such a question. She wanted to call him an idiot and a few other choice words besides. For an instant, she wished she was more like her sister and could threaten to do him and his cameraman bodily harm if they didn't go away and leave her alone.

Nearing her car, she grabbed the keys from her purse. But when she reached for the car door, her hands shaking, the keys slipped from her grasp.

“Let me,” the reporter said, bending down just as she did the same.

Their heads met in a teeth-jarring collision. Knocked backward, Hayley sat down with a grunt on the concrete floor of the garage. Stars flashed momentarily before her eyes.

“I'm sorry.” The reporter, now wearing a remorseful expression, knelt beside her. “I didn't mean to do that, Ms. Andrews. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Her vision cleared even as her headache worsened.

“Here. Let me help you up.”He took hold of her arm at the elbow.

She wanted to refuse but feared she couldn't stand without his help.

As the reporter pulled her to her feet, Hayley glanced toward his cameraman. No red light glowed on the camera. He'd stopped recording. Thank goodness for small favors. At least she wouldn't have to look for herself sprawled on the concrete on the evening news. Maybe the fellow with the camera didn't want the incident on tape for fear she would sue. And maybe she would, come to think of it. After all, she was married to a lawyer.

“Please. I am sorry.” The reporter opened the car door for her.

She looked him straight in the eyes. “If you're really sorry, you'll leave me alone. You'll leave my family alone. We don't have anything to say to you.” She got into the car and yanked the door closed.

This is your fault, Dad. Even Grandpa Roger never let his
affairs get this out of hand.

Sixteen

SOME PEOPLE ARE LIKE THE PIRANHA, FIERCE PREDATORS
with sharp teeth that tear the flesh from their prey. And many of those piranha-people spend hour upon hour online—on bulletin boards, on blogs, on social networking sites—dishing gossip, ripping strangers to shreds, feeding upon the wounded and dying.

Strange, how unaware I was of this before tragedy struck my family.

My introduction to the ugly underbelly of the Internet came through an acquaintance who, along with her e-mailed condolences, sent me a link to an online article that claimed to shine a light on the dangers and hypocrisies of religious charities. I recognized the bias against Christianity from the first paragraph.

The author of the piece brought up numerous scandals, some decades old, some more current. He used a lot of space covering financial misconduct, both proven and suspected, but I thought there was a particular note of glee when he discussed the sexual indiscretions of various ministers, evangelists, and church leaders—my husband included.

That now-familiar churning flared in my stomach. I should have stopped reading right then. I should have turned off the computer and walked away. But I didn't. I stayed, like an observer at an accident, craning my neck in order not to miss any gory details. Then, finishing the article, a bad taste in my mouth, I began reading the dozens upon dozens of comments that followed. There were a few calm and reasonable observations made. The vast majority of comments, however, were venomous, the writers desiring to get in a few of their own kicks.

The worst part was I recognized their anger as similar to my own. I'd entertained hate in my heart more than once in the past two weeks.

The sound of the back door closing caused me to start. I shut down the browser and left the den, not wanting Brad to find me in front of the computer. I didn't want him to know what awful things were being said about him by complete strangers.

Odd, wasn't it, that I doubted him one moment and wanted to protect him the next?

When I entered the kitchen, he was washing his hands in the sink. He wore a pair of Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt, the back and underarms damp with sweat. His feet were bare, his grass-stained athletic shoes left on the patio.

Even after a week, I wasn't used to having him home in the middle of a workday. But it wasn't the day of the week that made his presence feel odd. It was the way we behaved around each other, the careful dance we performed whenever we were in the same room. A constant reaching out and turning away.

Brad shut off the water and dried his hands on a kitchen towel. As he turned from the sink, he noticed me in the doorway. Something flickered in his eyes. Uncertainty, I thought, although I couldn't be sure.

“I finished mowing the lawn.”

“It needed it.”

“I'm going to prune the shrubs now. Unless there's something else you need me to do.”

“No. There's nothing.” I glanced toward the refrigerator. “I thought I'd get a head start on dinner.”

We'd been like this since the day of the board meeting. Stiff, formal, superficial. Talking to each other like a couple of strangers. For one night, ten days before, we'd found comfort in each other's arms. For a moment or so, I'd felt safe once again.

The moment hadn't lasted.

“Kat, is something bothering you?”

What a question! Everything was bothering me.“No. Why?”

“I'm not sure. You just look . . . different.”

“Different from what?” I tried not to sound defensive. I didn't succeed.

“From when I went out to mow the lawn.”

I shook my head. “Nothing's different.” That was as close to telling the truth as I could come.

He observed me in silence, weighing my response. But finally he gave his head a nod, turned, and walked toward the garage. As soon as the door closed behind him, I went into the family room and sank onto the chair, clutched my hands over my knees, and leaned forward until my forehead rested on my hands.