26

“IT’S SO GOOD TO HEAR YOUR VOICE, Paige, and I appreciate your letting me vent.” I tried to say it without my own voice wavering, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t slept well again last night and definitely felt the effects. Thunder roiled as I peered through the windshield, scarcely able to see through the deluge of rain. Morning rush hour traffic wasn’t helping. But I was determined to learn more about the Thursmanns, so when Nanci had recommended the Atlanta History Center yesterday, I made an appointment.

“Vent to me anytime, my friend. But do get some rest. That’s important.”

“I will. It’s just going to take some time to find my new normal.”

Paige, true friend that she was, had listened patiently as I’d unloaded about Stephen. Not once did she judge me or express disappointment. Not that I was surprised.

“Seriously, though,” she continued. “I’m sorry I wasn’t available when you first called. Although, it sounds like that ‘sledgehammer therapy’ kept you occupied. I still can’t believe you found such a bizarre room! And after so many years. When you’re ready for a visit, say the word.”

“You’re welcome anytime, you know that. But I’d prefer the renovation be finished when you come. Having workmen around is not conducive to meaningful girl time.”

“That’s the truth!”

I turned into the parking lot of the Atlanta History Center and strained to read the signage through the rain. I parked by McElreath Hall as the receptionist recommended.

“Thanks again, Paige, for everything. Especially for letting me go on and on like this. Let’s talk again soon.”

“You bet. But . . . one more question before you go?”

“Of course.”

“And please, hear no judgment in this, because there’s none intended. You know that, right?”

“Okay, now you’re scaring me.” Her soft chuckle told me she’d taken the comment as intended. Even though she could be achingly honest—a trait I treasured—Paige’s candidness was always wrapped in love.

“You’re certain, Claire, that there’s no chance for reconciliation?”

I sighed and closed my eyes, that very question having played over and over in my mind since Stephen’s surprise visit. Things had felt so different between us. He’d seemed like a stranger—a stranger who had once shared my hopes and dreams, my life, my bed . . . my heart. Where Stephen was concerned, something had broken inside me. And there was no fixing it.

“I simply don’t see how I can ever trust him again, Paige. And it’s hard to have a marriage without trust. I can’t tell you how many times he assured me it was over between him and Susan. And yet he was still corresponding with her because he felt guilty over how he’d led her on. Never mind that in doing so he was still leading her on. Where was the guilt about what he was doing to me?”

“All of this just makes me sick to my stomach, Claire. Sick to my soul. I’m hesitant to say more for fear of overstepping and—”

“Overstepping? If you can’t overstep, Paige, who can? If you can help me make sense of all this, please do.”

“No way am I able to do that, but . . . Just take or toss this according to how God is leading you, okay?” She hesitated. “Twenty-two years is a long time to invest in a relationship, Claire. So it shouldn’t be put aside lightly. And you know I’m not saying you’re doing that. Frankly, I’d like to throttle Stephen myself. Because he broke a covenant you both made in the sight of God, in a relationship that originated with him.”

How well I knew.

“Remember back when Tom was struggling with drinking?” she continued.

I frowned. “Please don’t tell me he’s started again.”

“No, no, he’s fine. Still on the wagon, thank God. And I mean that. But you’ll remember that really rough patch when I finally told him that if he didn’t stop drinking, I would take the kids and leave.”

“How could I forget? Pretty gutsy of you to move in with his parents.”

“Tom’s mother was a saint if ever there was one. She’s the one who gave me the courage to challenge him to begin with. But my finally leaving showed Tom I meant business. To this day, he credits that for finally shaking him to his senses.”

I sensed where she was going. “No offense, but drinking isn’t the same as an affair.”

“I agree. And yet, as a woman in one of my counseling groups once said, either choice is a mistress. Because our husbands are choosing to find pleasure and fulfillment in something other than us.”

A throb started in my temples that matched the drum of the rain, and I squeezed my eyes tight. “I hear what you’re saying; I do. But how do I trust someone who’s proved time and again that he’s not trustworthy?”

Her soft breath filtered over the miles. “That, dear friend, is a question only God can answer. But I will say this: Please don’t discount God’s ability to redeem this whole mess in ways you might not think possible. Like he did with Tom and me.”

“I know he did that for you guys,” I whispered. “But I think Stephen and I are way beyond that.”

Seconds passed. I heard a soft sniffle.

“I’ll walk this road with you, Claire, wherever it goes. And I’ll pray for you, Stephen, and Maggie every step of the way. But I won’t give up hope. I just won’t.”

After we hung up, despite Paige’s best efforts, I kept coming back to the fact that my marriage was over. Feeling as if I had a big F for failure tattooed on my forehead, I walked inside the history center, umbrella dripping. I propped it in a corner.

The lobby was furnished in a classic motif of teals and browns, and the faint scent of old books and time’s passing hung in the air. I approached a young woman behind the desk. After checking my ID, she directed me to the Kenan Research Center. I followed the signs around a corner, pushed through a set of double doors, and paused, in awe.

Endless shelves of cataloged artifacts ranging from books to dishes to pottery to boxes to busts and more extended for what seemed like miles. Nanci had certainly directed me to the right place for local history. After I told her about the hidden room on the phone yesterday, she’d driven straight to the house and spent the entire afternoon “sorting through time,” as she called it. She was as excited as I was and insisted on celebrating by ordering Sassy Southern Cobb salads from a favorite local restaurant. Alex joined us later, and we’d sat on the front porch until after seven o’clock, eating and talking about how the board at the National Register of Historic Places might respond to the news of the room. While I’d been grateful for their company, I regretted not being able to read more of Charlotte Thursmann’s journal. I’d been too exhausted. But tonight would be different.

“Can you move any faster?” Across the room, a young woman at the reference counter—tall, wearing form-fitting jeans, silk top, and three-inch pumps—gave a sharp exhale. “I’m in a huge hurry!”

The only employee I could see was a striking older woman—in her sixties, I guessed—who reminded me a little of Sandra Schaffer . . . in twenty years. The confident way she carried herself, perhaps. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m the only one here right now, and some days the chemotherapy just knocks my socks right off. I’ll be back shortly.”

The younger woman had the decency to dip her head and mumble what sounded like a halfhearted apology. But my blood boiled as I approached the counter.

The employee returned with a folder and a smile. Her badge read BERNICE, and her eyes, a deep hazel-brown, appeared intelligent and discerning. Her short silver afro—still thick and beautiful despite the chemo—matched her large silver hoop earrings. “Here you go, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

The young woman muttered a hasty thank-you and left without a backward glance.

Those discerning eyes turned my way. “And how may I help you?”

“I’m here for a nine thirty appointment with the director of historical archives and collections.”

“Well, you’re in the right place. Especially if you’re Claire Powell.”

I smiled. “I am.”

“Your appointment is with me, Mrs. Powell. I’m Bernice Tollwood.”

“Please, call me Claire.”

“Will do. As long as you stick to Bernice.” She consulted her computer screen. “I understand you’re from Colorado. You’ve come a long way.”

“We recently moved from Denver. I haven’t renewed my license yet.” I wondered what kind of cancer she had and what stage she was in. Must be quite early yet if she still had her hair.

“Moving is the worst, isn’t it?” She frowned. “Your life all crammed into boxes shoved into the back of a truck, and then driven off by strangers. It takes time to get settled into a new life. Just be patient with yourself. It’ll come.”

Emotion clenched my chest at her nailing my feelings so well. But eager to remove the focus from me, I gestured toward the door. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation a few minutes ago. With the young woman.”

Her brows lifted.

“I’m sorry about her rudeness,” I continued. “And about . . . the chemotherapy.”

Her laughter was rich and full. “Oh, gracious, you heard that?” She gave me a sheepish wink. “I haven’t had chemo in eighteen years. But the experience sure comes in handy when a little snip of a girl needs to be reminded she’s not the one holding the world together.”

At first I was too surprised to react, then laughter bubbled up from inside me. “Oh, I love that! It’s one of the funniest things I’ve heard in forever.”

“Well, then, that says just as much about your tacky streak as it does mine!” She laughed along with me. “But truly, I’m sorry for any minute of sympathy you wasted on me.”

“No worries. It was worth it!”

She typed something on the laptop. “So tell me, what is it you’re looking for today?”

“It’s about the house my husband and I—” It struck me I wouldn’t be able to say that much longer, but I hurried on. “That we bought recently. In Buckhead, near Tuxedo Park.”

“Nice area. And what’s the street address?”

“42 Gardenia Blossom Trace.”

She looked up from the keyboard. “The Thursmann Mansion.”

It wasn’t a question. “That’s right. Are you familiar with it?”

“Everyone around here is familiar with the Thursmann Mansion. You and your husband just bought it, you say?”

I nodded.

“And just what is it you’d like to know about this home?”

“Everything you can tell me.”