The Perfect Life (17 page)

I stood in the middle of the master bedroom, staring at the queen-sized four-poster bed with its gold-colored duvet and assortment of pillows in various shades of brown.

When we moved into this house, we'd purchased a king-sized mattress and bed frame. After all, with a bedroom as spacious as this one, we could have a large bed without it seeming crowded or cramped. But it wasn't long—at most six or eight months—before Brad declared he didn't like it. The bed was too big, not conducive to snuggling, and he loved to snuggle before we drifted off to sleep each night.

We hadn't done any snuggling recently. Not since the night when my defenses were down and I allowed myself to take comfort in his arms, to believe in his love. A part of me ached to be held by him still. A part of me longed for his sweet kisses, for his tender caresses.

But I wanted nothing to do with that part of me. Not when I imagined him holding Nicole, caressing Nicole, kissing Nicole . . . perhaps even loving Nicole.

I moved to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and began pulling out clothes and piling them on the bed. The top drawer, the next, and the next, until all were empty. Then I gathered as much as I could into my arms and carried it down the hall to Emma's old bedroom. By the time Brad came home from his first day at his new job, there wasn't a trace of me left in the master bedroom or the master bath. It took him a while to find me in the smaller bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Kat? What are you doing in here?”

I rose from the edge of the bed. “I . . . I thought it would be better if I stayed in a separate room.”

His gaze flickered to the twin bed, then back to me. “Why would it be better?”

“Because I . . . I'm not sleeping very well at night. I thought I might . . . sleep better alone.”

“I see.”

I wanted to feel victorious in some small way. I wanted to be glad that I had the upper hand, that I'd taken control of the situation and made decisions for myself.

But there was no victory, no gladness.

“For how long?” he asked.

I ignored the question, saying instead, “I saw Nicole at the grocery store today.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“She called me a fool.”

“Kat—”

“Maybe she's right. Maybe I am a fool.” I clenched my hands at my sides. “I feel like one.”

He stared at me a long while in silence. Then,without another word, he walked away.

I crossed to the door and closed it, turned around and leaned my back against it.

This room had changed little since Emma left home two years before. The tassel from her high school academic cap hung over the mirror of the dressing table that had belonged to my grandmother. Framed photographs that Emma had taken as part of a photography class in her junior year covered a good section of one wall. The quilted spread on the twin bed was made from a hideous tie-dyed fabric she had found in a secondhand store.

I wasn't going to like staying in here. The air felt too still, the walls too close.

I should have moved
his
things out of our room.
He
should be the one who had to move, not me. It shouldn't have to be me.

Twenty-two

I AWAKENED MY FIRST MORNING IN MY NEW ROOM TO THE
scent of bacon frying. Saturday. Brad was cooking breakfast. Perhaps one of his omelets. The table would be set, the newspaper waiting for us to read to one another.

I pulled the pillow over my face, telling myself I wasn't hungry. I didn't want to go downstairs. I didn't want to sit across the table from Brad. I didn't. I really didn't.

Only I did.

How does a person fall out of love? It would make things so much easier if I didn't care about Brad. Hate would be even better. I wanted to hate him. If I hated him, I could . . .

Leave?

I drew the pillow down from my face, hugging it to my chest while I stared at the ceiling.

Did I want to leave? I'd never lived alone. Not ever. I'd gone from my mother's home to a year or so of sharing an apartment with a roommate to marriage. Would I be able to manage on my own or would I fall flat on my face? Hayley had said I could stay with her and Steve. I wouldn't have to be alone. Not right away. Not until I found work. Not until I was financially able.

But do I want to go?

If Brad was innocent, as he claimed to be—

A knock on the door. “Kat, breakfast is ready.”

I could say I wasn't hungry. I could tell him to eat without me. I said, “I'll be down in a minute.” I sat up on the edge of the bed, brushing my hair back from my face and hooking it behind my ears.

Lord, are You there? I'm lost and confused. I don't know how to
pray. I don't hear Your voice and can't seem to find Your answers.

I stepped toward the dressing table, staring at my reflection in the mirror as I drew close. My complexion seemed sallow. My hair was stringy and lifeless, my eyes ringed in shadows that bespoke my sleepless nights. I took my hairbrush from the top of the vanity and ran its bristles down the length of my hair.

What should I do?

I used to tell the women in my Bible study that God caused or allowed people and circumstances to enter their lives out of love in order to refine them, to make them more like Jesus. Did I still believe it? I didn't feel more refined or Christlike. Anything but. And bringing Nicole into our lives did not seem a loving thing to do.

“Katherine, you're a bigger fool than I thought.”

“Shut up,” I whispered. “Leave me alone.”

This must be how madness began. With telling the voices in one's head to shut up.

I put the brush on the vanity, turned, and left the bedroom.

Brad had set the table with our everyday dishes and silverware. Flowers, cut from our garden, were arranged in a vase in the center of the table. A tall pitcher of orange juice waited near my place setting, along with a mug of steaming coffee.

I looked toward Brad as I entered the kitchen but lowered my gaze when I found him watching me.

Distant strangers. That's what we'd become. We shared a home but all intimacy between us was gone.

Without a word, I took my seat and Brad served me. He'd made my favorite omelet—crumbled bacon, shredded hash browns, chopped onions and green peppers, and plenty of cheddar cheese.

Was he trying to curry favor?

Despite thinking I wasn't hungry, I ate. First one small bite, and then another and another until my plate was clean.

If Brad dared say anything about my healthy appetite, so help me, I'd smack him.

But he didn't even notice. His attention was on the newspaper, his expression grave.

“There's more about us in the paper today,” he said.

My stomach plummeted. “More?”

“Do you want to read it?”

“No.” I shook my head. “You tell me what it says. And . . . make it brief.”

Brad glanced down at the folded newspaper in his right hand. “It begins with a quote from Stan saying the AG review is still in progress and that they are not expecting to do a more extensive investigation.”He glanced at me, then back at the paper. “Stan says that I'm pursuing all avenues in order to clear my name of the false accusations made against me.”

I moved crumbs around my plate with a fork. “Why don't they let the matter drop? We're not really news anymore.”

“Sure we are. Or at least I am. I will be as long as there's a chance I'll be proven guilty. I will be as long as there's a hope a Christian could take a hard fall.”

He was right, and I knew it.

He continued with his summation of the article: “It goes on to say that we've been married close to twenty-five years and quotes one of our unnamed neighbors as saying that from all appearances, it seemed to be a good marriage.”

Which neighbor,
I wondered, picturing them in my head.

“There's a little about my parents and your mom,”Brad continued, “and it mentions we have two married daughters. There's some about our involvement with our church and the community, too.”

None of that seemed very interesting. Nothing scandalous. In fact, just the opposite. Hardly worth mentioning.

“The rest is about Nicole.”

Oh, how I'd come to hate that name.

“What does it say?” I asked in a whisper.

“It appears she's had affairs with two married men in the past. Both of them were her employers.”He looked up again. “I believe that's meant to make me look all the more guilty.”

“It does.” I didn't realize I'd said the words aloud until I saw him flinch.

He set the newspaper on the table and rose from his chair. After a moment's hesitation while he looked at me—I suppose waiting for me to say something more—he went to the sink and began rinsing dishes and cookware. But then he stopped. The skillet clattered into the sink. The noise caused me to twist on my chair to look behind me.

“What are we going to do, Kat?”

“I don't know what you mean.” But I did.

“I can proclaim my innocence from now to eternity, and it still isn't going to make a difference. It's much easier to prove that something happened than it is to prove something
didn't
happen. Did you know that? I've talked to Stan about suing Nicole for slander, but I don't have peace about going that route. It could make things worse.”

How?

“Kat, I don't have proof to give you or anyone else. I only have my word. When Nicole worked for In Step, I had private business meetings with her regarding the financial aspects of the foundation. I had lunch with her, the two of us, in public restaurants. I even drove her home a couple of different times when she had car trouble. But I was never inside her house except when you were with me. I never took her to a motel. I never touched her inappropriately.” He drew a breath. “But like I said, those are just my words. They aren't proof of what didn't happen.”

I shook my head.

“If you want me to say I'm sorry, I'll say it. I'm sorry for anything I ever did that caused you to doubt me. I'm sorry for any time you felt neglected or abandoned, any time I've hurt you because I was thoughtless or clueless.”

“Brad—”

He swore as he wadded the dishcloth into a ball and tossed it into the sink. “You know what Nicole wants out of all this?”

A chill shivered up my spine. “No.”

“She doesn't want me. She wants to ruin us. I didn't underrob stand that at first, but I do now. She wants to ruin you and me. And she may accomplish it. Is that what you want, too?”

No.

Brad circumvented the table and went to stand at the kitchen window. His voice was softer when he spoke again. “I can only do so much. I love you. I've never cheated on you. I want us to make it. But if you want out . . .”

The unspoken hung in the air between us. I couldn't breathe.

If you want out . . .

If I wanted a divorce. That's what he meant. If I wanted a divorce.

But divorce wasn't supposed to happen to women like me. I'd made a good home for my husband, wasn't a nag, never berated him. I'd tried to be his helpmeet, his biggest cheerleader, a constant source of support, willing to listen when he needed a sounding board, offering advice when he asked for it. I'd read books found in the Christian Living section of the bookstore—ones that encouraged me to pray for my husband, books that helped me understand the different ways men and women communicate, the different ways we think, even the different ways we express love. I'd been a good steward of my household. I'd taken care of my body,working out at the gym several days a week, eating the right foods, taking my vitamins. I'd been a good mother to our daughters and brought them up to love the Lord and honor their parents.

I wasn't supposed to find my life ripped to shreds in an instant. I wasn't supposed to face the specter of divorce.

Brad faced me again, the light from the window casting a yellow silhouette around him. “What is it you want, Kat?”

“I want it all to go away. I want it not to be happening.”

“You won't get that wish.”

I didn't reply.

“Shall I leave? Do you want me to move out?”

My stomach hurt. Not just a sick feeling. A sharp pain. “I don't know.” I bent forward, pressing crossed arms against my stomach. “I . . . I'm confused. I'm hurt. I don't know what to think or feel. I don't know what I want.”

He gave me no quarter. “You need to decide.”He ran his fingers through his hair. “We can't go on like this much longer. Neither one of us.”

I know. I know.

He drew in a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort. “I'm going to get dressed and go out for a while, before I say something I'll regret.”

I didn't try to stop him. I couldn't. I had nothing to say.