A Time to Dance/A Time to Embrace (19 page)

John cleared his throat. Charlene knew him well—knew that his favorite team was the Rams and that no matter who was in the room, the words he was about to say would not sound unusual. Especially as well as St. Louis had done in the play-offs. “I don’t feel this way all the time, but right now I’d have to say the Rams had the best season all year.”

There, he’d said it. It was true. If he and Charlene could make it through the next six months without spending time together, John had every reason to think he’d have his second chance at life with Charlene Denton.

“What do you mean you don’t feel that way all the time?”

John clenched his teeth. Why was she pushing him? He exhaled deliberately and forced a laugh. “You know me; I’ve liked the Rams for a long time.”

Charlene hesitated for a moment and then released a childlike shout for joy. “John Reynolds, you’ve made me the happiest girl in all of Illinois. I’d wait a lifetime for you now that I know how you feel.”

“Okay, well I better go. The game’s just heating up.”

“All right, I’m sorry.” Charlene was contrite, but her happiness still spilled over into her voice. “And what I said about being discreet, I still mean it . . . I’m here for you whenever you want me.”

Her last words hit their mark, and John could feel his cheeks getting hot. “Right, well, I’ll call you later.”

He hung up and immediately Kade caught his gaze. “Who was that?”

Even though he’d expected the questions, John wasn’t prepared. “A teacher.”

One of the coaches turned to him. “Who?”

Way to go, Reynolds.
Lie about a teacher in front of a room full of school employees. “Uh . . . Joe Jackson, track coach. Just wanted to see what I thought of the game.”

Another coach joined the conversation. “Jackson called you? I thought he was in Palm Springs with his wife?”

Cold fear ran through John’s veins, and he suddenly felt like everyone in the room knew he was lying. “Come to think of it, maybe he was in Palm Springs. He didn’t say.”

The questions stopped as the room gradually turned back to the game. Only then did John realize how desperate he’d become. He had just promised forever to a woman who was not his wife in front of a dozen family and friends, and now his heart was beating almost out of his chest as payment for his choices.
I’m a rotten excuse for a man
.

It was halftime already, and while John made small talk with his friends about the game statistics, Kade began rattling off facts about the eagle.

“Okay, listen to this.” The men gave him their attention and Kade cleared his throat, glancing at the rough draft of his senior paper. “An eagle almost never eats anything dead.” He raised a single finger. “But if it does, if something happens to make him sick, he flies to the highest rock he can find, spreads himself across it, and lets the sun soak out all the poison.”

The analogy was so strong John wondered if Kade suspected his father of deceit.
Or is this just Your timing, Lord?

I’m here for you, son. Remember the height from which you have
fallen . . .

John banished the thought and focused on Kade, who was standing now, enjoying the attention as he carried on with more eagle information. John was still thinking about the poisoned eagle, who after getting in trouble at least had the sense to take his pain to the rock and let the sun make him strong again. He had a Rock he could go to, a Son that would certainly make him strong like before.

Repent! Remember the height from which you have—

John blinked away the warning. The trouble was, he didn’t want that kind of help. Not now. Not when his wife had turned into a shrew and his closest friend, a beautiful young woman thought the sun rose and set on him alone. What would God know of trouble like that?

A pain worked its way through his chest, and he became completely unaware of the others, their conversations about eagles and whether they were or weren’t involving him.
I’ll probably have a heart attack and
go straight to hell.
John wiped a thin layer of sweat from his forehead and tried to understand how his life had gotten so completely out of hand. And how come the love of his life, the woman he had longed for since his childhood days, not only didn’t love him . . .

She hated him.

Abby had heard the phone ring and figured it was for one of the kids. Either way she wasn’t coming out of the office, not today. Her job as snackmaker was over, and now she needed to send in a piece for
Woman’s Day
. Her Internet connection was good on the first attempt, and the opening screen showed her she had mail. Two clicks later she was into a lengthy letter from Stan.

Everything about her editor was as surreal as the cyberworld itself. Stan was the divorced father of two and the senior editor at one of the largest magazines in the country, one she wrote for at least every other month. Though she had started her freelance career with bit pieces for small Christian publications, in time she’d worked her way up so that now the articles she wrote were read by more than a million readers and brought her thousands of dollars each.

Now and then she missed the chance to share her faith in print the way she had when she’d written for the Christian magazines, but then these days there wasn’t much to share anyway. Besides, she would need the extra income once she and John were living apart.

Her eyes found the beginning of Stan’s note.

Hey, Abby . . . maybe it’s my imagination but something told me this
weekend’s been a little rough on you. John and the other woman, maybe?
Just a guess. Anyway, I hope not. In fact, even though it sounds crazy, I
really hope things still work out for you two. And if they don’t . . . well,
I can think of at least one man who will celebrate the day you’re finally
free.

She read his note again. Was there any doubt that this man was interested in her? At first his letters had been purely professional, but two years ago he asked about her marriage in a note that was clearly more personal than the others.

Abby had written back, “Let’s just say I’m not ready to give you an article on marital bliss.”

The next week Stan surprised her with a bouquet of flowers. The card inside read, “To the prettiest woman in Illinois . . . John doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

It had been easy to write even that off as professional flirtation, the kind of transaction that happened in the business world, a way to convince Abby to write primarily for their magazine and not another. Then his e-mails changed. There would be the usual discussion of her articles and developing ideas, but then he’d add a line or two that went far deeper, into territories of her heart that had been unexplored for years.

People who feel the most and deepest become writers . . . and
inevitably they marry those who can’t feel at all.

Or another time:
In the depths of my soul is a place unlocked only
by the prose of a wordsmith. And you, my dear Abby, are the most accomplished
wordsmith I know.

It wasn’t long before Abby began looking forward to his mail, signing on to the Internet twice a day in hopes that maybe there’d be a letter from him. Of course the timing couldn’t have been more perfect because that same season Abby began getting weekly reports from her friends.

“What’s up with John and Charlene Denton?” Rosemary from the booster club wanted to know. Rosemary was a blonde busybody whose very life centered around the happenings at Marion High. Her report was the first in a long line.

Next it was Betty from the school office, calling to say, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but rumor is that Charlene Denton has the hots for your husband. You know that, right, Abby?”

And in the football stands, Jill, one of the coaches’ wives, asked her, “Doesn’t it bug you that Charlene hangs out at practice each day? If she was after my husband the way she’s after yours, I’d get down there and tell her off myself.”

One parent to another in the school office: “Is Mr. Reynolds still married? I always see him with Ms. Denton. They sure make a cute couple.”

“They’re together every afternoon from what I hear . . .”

The comments continued like so many painful, pelting balls of hail until Abby would have had to be blind to miss the storm gathering in the not-so-far distance. Whenever she would bring it up, John would get frustrated and deny any wrongdoing.

“People want to see us fail, Abby,” he’d say. “Let’s not give ’em a reason, okay?”

After a month of knowing about Charlene and receiving more e-mails from Stan, Abby broke down and bared her heart to the man. She could still remember the letter she wrote the first time she let him see inside her soul.
It feels like all our lives John and I have
been creating this intricate quilt, stitched together with a hundred colors
and patterns from stormy grays to brilliant yellows. And now, when
it should finally be taking shape, we’re both standing by and watching
it unravel.

Suddenly life is all about him, his work, his career. He’s too caught up
in himself to notice that I’m balancing the house and the kids and my
writing, all while picking up after everyone else. I feel like we’re becoming
strangers . . .

She had seen Stan’s picture by then and knew him to be at least five years older than she with a full head of white hair and the average build of a professional. Certainly not the physical specimen John had always been, but then maybe that was better. Maybe beauty lasted longer when it came from inside a person.

Abby scanned the rest of Stan’s note and allowed her eyes to linger on the last few lines:
I’ve been through it before, Ab . . . if things get
really bad, don’t hesitate to call. I’m here for you always.

Here for you always . . . here for you always . . .

Where had she heard those words before? Maybe a million years ago from John, but weren’t they somewhere in the Bible, too? Wasn’t that one of God’s promises, that He’d never leave His people, never forsake them?

“Ah, but those words are for faithful hearts,” she whispered into the stillness of her office, barely aware of the enthusiastic cheers going up at the other end of the house where the game was probably heading into the fourth quarter. She closed her eyes and thought about the Lord, how sweet it had once been to meet with Him in private each morning and seek His plan, His way for her life.

She stared again at the note from Stan and her fingers began typing out a response.
It was good to hear from you, good to know that
someone, somewhere, cared enough to ask how I was . . .

Her fingers continued to dance across the keyboard, baring her heart, her soul, the deep-seated feelings she could no longer share with John. Other than their children, she shared nothing at all with the man she had once loved, the man she married. Because no matter what lies John told her there was no denying the truth—he was having an affair.

Yes, things were different now. John had made a choice to love someone else; he’d chosen on purpose to be unfaithful. She stared at the note she’d written to Stan and hit the send button.

The moment the mail was gone, she was hit square in the gut with the reality of their situation. No matter what lies she told herself, no matter how badly she wanted to blame John, the truth was suddenly clearer than water: John wasn’t the only one being unfaithful.

Thirteen

T
HE LAST THING
A
BBY WANTED TO DO THAT
Thursday night was sit across the table from Jo Harter and listen to another monologue about Denny. But the idea of getting out of the house and finally finishing Nicole’s scrapbook was too appealing to turn down.

“This is my first time scrappin’, Abby. I’ve cut out pictures and done some thinkin’ on it, but I haven’t actually started Matt’s scrapbook, so this is all brand new to me. In other words, I’m as wide open for suggestions as a great white at breakfast time. Just fire away any old time you have an idea, Abby . . .”

Not more fish stories, please.

Jo caught a quick breath and kept talking. It had been an hour of monologue while Abby painstakingly laid out the photos and news clippings and dance programs that made up Nicole’s eighth-grade year. Despite the constant rush of wind coming from Jo’s direction, Abby was grateful for a night away from John. Being near him left her torn between detesting him and longing for some far-off yesterday when they still loved each other.

Abby had just applied the glue to the final photo in a layout when Jo asked the question. It was the one everyone knew was taboo, the one friends and family alike had avoided for nearly two decades.

“Matt tells me you lost a little girl; is that right?”

As soon as the words were spoken, Abby’s hands felt leaden, unable to move, and her heart took an eternity to decide whether it might actually continue to beat.
Matt tells me you lost a little girl . . . lost a
little girl . . . lost a little girl . . .
The words ricocheted in her heart, poking holes into a wound that had never quite healed.

Haley Ann
.

Her face filled Abby’s memory until all she could see was their precious second daughter. Even with all the pain their separation was causing, those were easily the darkest days of her life with John.

Haley Ann. Sweet little Haley Ann.

Abby didn’t have to think about how old the child would be today if she’d lived. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name or the way home after a long vacation: Haley Ann would have been nineteen, as lovely as Nicole and more excited than any of them about her sister’s wedding. She’d have been maid of honor, no doubt. Nicole’s best friend.

Haley Ann.

The silence was deafening, and Abby realized Jo was waiting for an answer. She blinked back the tears that burned in her eyes and without looking up tried to think of the right words. “Yes. We did. She was . . . she was very young.”

Even Jo had the sense not to rush into a monologue on the topic of young, dead children. Instead she waited nearly a minute, and when she continued, her voice was softer than before. “I’m sorry, Abby. It must be harder than the steel trap over a sewer drain.”