7

LUNCH AT THE BLUE RIDGE GRILL was everything Hannah Morgan had promised. I’d managed to eat despite my mounting dread. But with bumper-to-bumper traffic to Tuxedo Park, the broiled scallops and bread pudding were not sitting well.

Hannah Morgan, ever the consummate tour guide, continued to spout statistics about Atlanta. I feigned interest, grateful to Stephen for responding.

He and I hadn’t had any clashes of wills thus far, so our loving couple image remained intact. No doubt Miss Morgan picked up on the fact that Stephen was more excited about this move than I was, but that had to be a common occurrence. How many times had I watched a husband grit his teeth while his wife wrote a hefty check to Schaffer & Associates Design?

I winced. Schaffer & Associates Design. No Powell. It still brought a gut punch to think of all I was leaving behind.

The sun shone through the heavily tinted window, and I closed my eyes, the red-eye catching up with me. For the thousandth time in the past few days, I begged God to help me navigate this minefield of a move, and our marriage. My options were clear. Either move to Atlanta together or stay in Colorado by myself, and I feared where the latter would eventually lead. That wasn’t an option.

So here we were, looking at houses I didn’t want in a city I didn’t like with a husband I still loved, but didn’t fully trust.

“Mrs. Powell, your husband raves about your design and decorating skills.”

I opened my eyes. “Does he? Perhaps he’s hoping you have an in with a firm here.”

“In fact, we do. It’s one of the top firms in town, too. Are you thinking you might return to work after your hiatus?”

I frowned. “My hiatus?”

“I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Powell, I was under the impression from my boss that you weren’t going to seek employment here. At least not for a while.”

“That’s my fault,” Stephen jumped in, voice tight. “When Ashley Peterson and I spoke, I may have indicated that Claire would take some time off to get settled and decorate our new home.” He looked at me. “But that decision hasn’t been made yet.”

I held his stare. “No. It has not.”

“Whatever you decide, honey, is fine by me.” His smile looked as tight as my own felt.

“Good to know.”

Miss Morgan gave a breathy laugh. “With your expertise and accomplishments, you’ll have plenty of opportunities. Now, we’re almost to our first house,” she continued hurriedly. “Built four years ago, it’s a beautiful Tudor style that has everything anyone could . . .”

Her voice faded as I turned back to the window, hating she’d seen through the facade. The driver, too, for that matter. It was one thing to know your marriage wasn’t what you wanted it to be. It was another for others to see it.

We turned onto a street lined with towering pines and stately oaks, then wove our way through enormous bowers of oak and poplar where dogwoods, azaleas, ivy, and junipers crowded the ground.

I had to admit, this area might be considered beautiful if you enjoyed heavily wooded and landscaped terrain—which I did not. The dense foliage made me claustrophobic. Give me the gently rising plains of Colorado, the massive swath of azure skies, and the majestic snow-capped Rockies. Give me home.

Numerous tree-lined, gated driveways disappeared into shadows, their destinations hidden. I’d never cared for individually gated homes. Yet considering the news I’d heard at the airport, I might change my mind.

Miss Morgan gestured toward an open gate and read from her phone: “This stunning Tudor estate is nestled on 1.2 private wooded acres. The interior is transitional, warm, and inviting. The estate features an infinity pool and spa, cascading waterfall, a water garden—home to colorful koi—and an outdoor kitchen.”

Tudor had never been among my favorite styles, all those turrets and steeply pitched roofs, but the exterior was stunning. The house was far too enormous for Stephen and me. What was he thinking?

We toured the six-thousand-square-foot residence in record time and with minimal conversation, which any realty agent knew was the kiss of death. The next house on the list, a McMansion three streets over, earned even fewer comments.

As we got back into the car, Miss Morgan shot me a thousand-watt smile. “Not to worry, Mrs. Powell. We have two more on our list.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.” Her optimism was beginning to annoy me.

Last evening, in a fleeting moment of acceptance of circumstances, I’d searched the Atlanta housing market while Stephen was at the gym. I’d been floored at the limited number of homes available and how quickly they sold. At full price or higher, too. Apparently some people did want to live here. I’d seen a condo in a high-rise building for sale, and the idea had begun to take root. Minimal maintenance, lots of amenities, easy to leave behind for the weekend.

I started to broach the subject with Stephen, then saw his vise-like grip on his cell phone and decided later might be best.

The third house, slightly smaller with a decidedly modern feel, had more shiplap than the Niña, Pinta, and Santa Maria. Even Joanna Gaines would have run screaming. The simplistic, monochromatic decor was not my taste, so I was grateful when Stephen cut the tour short.

He and I returned to the car as Miss Morgan hung back to answer her cell. Perspiring, I fanned my face with the brochure from the house, beads of sweat trailing down beneath my top. I’d shed my sweater long ago, but it was like walking in an oven. Stephen was sweating too, his tension nearly palpable.

Knowing one of us needed to break the silence, I also knew it would have to be me. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Stephen, really. But—”

“You’re not going to like any of them, are you? You’ve already decided not to.”

“That’s not fair, and it’s not true either. I am trying. But it would have helped if I’d been involved in the discussion about our requirements and our budget.”

“And there it is. That wouldn’t have made one bit of difference this time, Claire, and you know it.”

I bristled, but his statement was close to the truth. “You could have at least discussed it with me.”

“Are you kidding me? You barely said a word all week, and now you say you wish I’d talked with you about it? I tried, Claire, several times—”

“Keep your voice down!” I whispered. “I’m the one who tried talking to you about it. All I got was sullenness and ‘I’m going to the gym.’”

He sighed. “You gave me your word you’d do your best to be objective this weekend. Is this you honestly trying to do that? Because if it is . . .”

Stuck on “You gave me your word,” I was tempted to say the same back to him. Only not about houses.

“One more to see today,” Miss Morgan said more loudly than needed as she rejoined us. “You might say we’ve saved the best for last!”

I got back in the car, careful to avoid Stephen’s gaze. A familiar ache started in my chest, and I swallowed hard. What I wouldn’t give to still have Mom and Dad here. They’d been gone more than ten years, but this week I missed them more than ever. They’d lived long enough to see Stephen and me commit our lives to Christ, and they had loved him like the son they’d never had.

I bit my lower lip to keep from crying, grateful they were missing this particular chapter in our marriage.

The limousine slowed in front of yet another gated drive, and I could scarcely believe my eyes.

Miss Morgan read, “This mid-nineteenth-century Victorian gem in the classic Greek Revival style is the heartbeat of Southern style and grace. An Atlanta treasure on a country estate over one hundred and sixty years old, it’s listed in the prestigious National Register of Historic Places. The estate includes twenty-seven acres of wooded . . .”

The monumental two-story, white-brick mansion, with its soaring Corinthian columns, black shutters, and expansive wraparound front porch, made me wish Sandra Schaffer were here to see it. She adored irony.

Usually, I did too.