The Perfect Life (27 page)

NICOLE WAS PUTTING THE FINISHING TOUCHES ON HER
sister's birthday cake when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. That couldn't be Claire this soon. She wasn't due for another hour.

She wiped her hands on the dishcloth before heading for the front door. When she opened it, her heart seemed to stop beating.

There was Brad, in a wheelchair with a cast on his leg. Behind him was one of his daughters. The younger one, she thought. Brad was here, at her home. He'd come to see her. She'd succeeded at last.

Nicole had played this scene in her mind a thousand times. She'd imagined him, defeated and destroyed. She'd pictured herself, exultant in victory, glad that she'd had her revenge. She'd envisioned many things about the moment she would see him again, but never that he would be in a wheelchair when it happened.

“Brad.”

“Hello, Nicole.”

She cleared her throat. “What happened to you?”

“I was in an accident.”

“I guessed that much.” She opened the door a little wider. “Do you want to come in?”

“No. I think it's better that I stay out here. In plain view.”

She didn't care for the way his words made her feel. But if he thought she would issue any sort of retraction, he was mistaken. It wasn't in her to back down. Not ever.

Brad glanced over his shoulder. His daughter looked at him for a few moments, then nodded, turned, and walked back to his car that waited at the curb.

“What is it you want, Brad?”

He looked at her, and her heart quickened. That's the reaction she'd had around him from their first meeting. There was something about him that made him seem unlike any other man she'd known. There was something about him—in his eyes, in his smile, in the tone of his voice—that drew her to him. It always had. If only . . .

“I came to ask your forgiveness,” he said.

He'd surprised her again. “
My
forgiveness?”

“Yes.”

Crossing her arms, she leaned a hip against the doorjamb and tossed him a saucy grin. “And here I thought you'd be telling me
I
needed forgiveness from you or Katherine or God.”

There was something in the look he gave her—patience, peace, understanding, something—that made her grin fade.

“Nicole, I've had plenty of time to think things over and pray about everything that's happened, and I realized that I was unfair to you. I thought of us as good friends and dedicated coworkers, but I see now that I crossed a line somewhere along the way. I never meant to, but I did. I'm sorry because my actions gave you the wrong impression. And that must have hurt you.”

She'd expected him to bring up what she'd told the media—an affair, promises made and broken, mismanagement of charitable funds. She'd expected him to threaten her with legal actions of some sort. But he didn't.Not a word of accusation from him. What was wrong with him? He should be hurting or furious or both. Instead he watched her with . . .What? Compassion? Pity?

So help her, if he felt sorry for her, she'd slap him from here into next week.

“I apologize for anything I did or said that made you think I felt anything beyond friendship. In the future, I will be more guarded, but that doesn't undo the past. Will you forgive me?”

She'd called Katherine a fool for staying with Brad. Maybe she was wrong about that. Maybe Katherine was smarter than Nicole had believed.

Apparently accepting her silence as an answer, Brad nodded. “Thanks for at least listening.”

Still without a word of accusation or condemnation, he turned the wheelchair around and rolled it down the walk. His daughter came toward him and pushed the chair the remaining distance to the car.

Nicole remained in the doorway until passenger, his wheelchair, and the driver were in the automobile. Only then did she take a step backward and close the door.

Thirty-five

I SPENT ANOTHER EVENING AT THE CABIN, STARING
into the fire in the woodstove, another evening with my thoughts sifting through memories. I felt like there was so much more I needed to understand about myself, so much more God needed to reveal to me, before I could begin building a new life. A new life with God. A new life with Brad.

The apostle Paul wrote that he'd learned to be content in whatever circumstances he was in. I used to think I was content, but now I could see that my contentment was based upon how well I controlled the circumstances of my life, not upon my trust in a loving God.

How many times had I sung those words in church—God is in control—without them becoming a reality in my heart? Susan had challenged me on that very thing. She'd told me I was fooling myself if I thought I was in control, and still I hadn't seen the truth, not even as I professed that it was God who ruled. Head knowledge but not heart knowledge. That's what my dad had called it.

The memory of my father brought a sad smile to my lips. He'd been gone almost thirty years, and I missed him still. When I was a kid, it had seemed to me there wasn't anything my dad couldn't fix. If he'd lived longer, could he have fixed me?

I lay down on the sofa, pulling the blanket over me. Shadows and firelight danced across the rafters of the vaulted ceiling.

Maybe my need to control things had begun with the death of my father. That first year after we lost him had been difficult. My world had seemed so insecure and frightening. Was that when I stopped trusting God to look out for me?

I closed my eyes, remembering how Brad had been there for me as I mourned my loss. A freshman in college with a part-time job, he'd come over as often as he could to be with me, to hold me, to let me cry on his shoulder.

Even then he was someone I could count on.

And yet I hadn't trusted him completely. I'd been afraid I would lose him too. Maybe I'd never gotten over that fear. Maybe that's why I'd worked so hard to make everything perfect, to make myself perfect so that I could control the outcome.

Only I wasn't perfect. I didn't have it all together. I'd never had control.

One more time I pictured myself, arms outstretched, falling backward, trusting that I would be captured in arms of love. And with that image in mind, I drifted into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Thirty-six

I CAME DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN ON SUNDAY AFTER
noon. It wasn't easy to leave the Sorenson cabin or the peacefulness of the forest. I felt as if I had just begun to learn the things God wanted me to understand. What if I couldn't hear Him anymore once I reached the valley?

But that, too, was an issue of trust. I had to trust God to speak to me, to teach me to listen, to guide me in every way.

When I entered the house two hours later, I heard the television playing in the family room. It sounded like a sports program of some kind. Apparently neither Emma nor Brad had heard the garage door open, for no one called out a greeting.

Nerves fluttered in my stomach as I moved toward the family room entrance. In some ways, it felt as if I'd been gone for months instead of days.

The sofa bed came into view. Brad was lying on top of the sheets and blanket, his back and leg propped with pillows. His eyes were closed, and when he breathed out, his lips pursed in a soundless snore.

Love welled in my heart.

Another step forward brought Emma into view. She sat in the easy chair, one arm cradling her belly, her head tipped to one side. She, too, slept.

I swallowed the lump that rose in my throat as I walked across the room to the sofa bed, leaned down, and pressed my lips to Brad's cheek. His eyes opened.

“You're home,” he said.

“I'm home.”

“To stay?”

I smiled. “To stay.”

I heard a soft moan behind me and turned in time to see Emma finishing a stretch, arms above her head.

“Mom,” she said when she opened her eyes, surprise in her voice. “When did you get here?”

“Just now. I haven't even taken my suitcase upstairs.”

She stood. “How are you?” There was a host of questions packed into those three little words.

“I'm better.” I nodded. “I'm good.”

Whatever else Emma wanted to know, she didn't press for answers. She had wisdom beyond her years, this youngest daughter of mine. “I'll get my things and go home. Jason will be glad to have me back. He's been babysitting the puppy he gave me for Mother's Day.” She winked at her father. “I definitely had it easier here.”

I'd made many mistakes, I was sure, but I must have done a few things right to have raised this child to be the woman she was.

“Thank you, Emma,” I said, lightly touching her shoulder.

She studied me with her eyes, looking for something, though I knew not what. But whatever it was, she must have found it, for she smiled. “I'm glad you're back.” She gave me a quick hug.

“Me too.”

“Call me if you need me.”

I nodded. “I will.”

“Bye, Dad.” She leaned over to kiss him, then left the room. A short while later, the front door closed behind her.

We were alone.

I sat on the side of the sofa bed, wondering what I should say. How could I begin to tell Brad what I had learned, what I was still learning, about myself?

As if reading my mind, he asked, “Do you feel like talking?”

I twisted to look at him. “I'm not sure what to say.” I touched my fingertips to my forehead. “It's still kind of confused in here.”

He nodded in response, then maneuvered himself—accompanied by groans and grimaces—to the edge of the bed. Once he was seated upright beside me, he reached over and took hold of my hand. “We'll get through this.”

I believed him. For the first time in weeks, I believed we would make it through. Not simply staying together for the sake of appearances, not simply enduring a marriage that was broken, but knowing we would get better, grow closer, come out stronger on the other side.

Because we trusted in a God who first loved us.

Part Three

NEW LIFE

Thirty-seven

SEVERAL MILLENNIA AGO, THE PSALMIST WROTE: I WILL
lie down in peace and sleep, for you alone, O L
ORD
, will keep me
safe.
In the weeks following my return from McCall, that's how I slept. In peace. With trust. How much better than the many restless nights when fear troubled my thoughts.

But perhaps those nights had also been of God, for the psalmist once wrote: “You don't let me sleep. I am too distressed even to pray!”

I awakened slowly on the morning of the fourth of July. The sun was up, the room brightened by light coming through the blinds. A look at the clock told me it was almost eight o'clock.

“About time you woke up.” Brad stood in the bedroom doorway, dressed in an Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts. The skin on his right leg was pale compared to the tanned left leg, evidence of the cast he'd worn until two days ago.