“They were getting married today anyway.” Melinda Hathaway dabbed the corners of her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.
Susan reached over and squeezed her hand. They sat on a loveseat in a corner of a large comfortable room used by brides and their attendants as a dressing room. It was Saturday, the wedding day. Bree and her party of seven bridesmaids giggled and talked nonstop, too occupied to notice the teary-eyed, whispering women in the corner.
Melinda said, “She knows it was wrong.”
“Jesus forgives.”
Melinda nodded. “She knows that too.”
Susan smiled.
“Thank you for not telling Drake.”
Her smile wobbled. If he ever found out, would he forgive her?
Jesus forgives.
She probably should have told him. As pastor he had a right to know. A truly submissive wife would have told him.
Or would she?
There were so many things to tell him. Bree Hathaway’s pregnancy ranked last in priority, way below other things. Things like the meeting with Pepper Carlucci and Susan’s unremitting heartache over separation from Kenzie.
After the rehearsal dinner the previous night, she and Drake arrived home exhausted. Still, she wanted to talk, to begin to describe her days away, but he had dozed off before she brushed her teeth. He mumbled goodnight and turned to hug the opposite edge of the king-size bed. She followed suit.
After a long time, Susan fell asleep basking in the memory of a warm fire on her face, Pugsy snoring in her lap, rain pattering against the window, and a worn book in her hand.
Drake left early that morning for a breakfast meeting, to be followed by other pastoral duties. They would meet up that afternoon for the wedding. Susan had spent her hours alone in a chair in the living room with a cup of tea and wondered yet again if she was losing her mind.
Listen to your heart, Suze. Her sister-in-law’s advice struck again. Evidently the more Drake moved from her consciousness, the more the gospel according to Natalie moved in.
The morning passed before Susan budged from that chair. She had listened to her heart and made a very short list of desires. She desired not to lose her mind. She desired not to hover anywhere near nervous breakdown territory. What she did desire, truly and beyond a shadow of a doubt desired, was to reconcile with her daughter.
“What I don’t understand is,” Melinda whispered, “what did I do wrong?”
Susan squeezed her hand again. Though she had pondered that exact question for three months, she could not allow true empathy to show. She couldn’t invite Melinda onto the Grandmas out of Wedlock Boat. No. This was Drake’s congregation. The right to inform or not inform them was his.
But she did have an opinion, some of it gleaned from—of all people—Pepper Carlucci. The woman’s thoughts had clicked with Susan’s heart. Perhaps Melinda could benefit as well.
“Melinda, we all fall short of mothering perfectly. And none of us have been mothered perfectly, either. We’re human. Who hasn’t suffered from a parent’s behavior, whether unintentional, subtle, or direct? In the end, though, when all is said and done, each of us is responsible for our own choices.”
“I drilled into her head not to get intimate before marriage.”
Me too. “I remember giving Kenzie medicine when she was little. The pink liquid stuff. She’d take it from a spoon and hold it in her mouth for the longest time. When she didn’t think I was looking, she’d spit it out into the sink or a cup. I’d put vitamins into her hand and find them later stuffed behind the sofa cushions.”
“Bree did that with carrots.”
She smiled. “They decide whether or not they’re going to swallow what we give them.”
Melinda sighed. “I even put sugar on the carrots. And I sweetened the warnings by telling her how extra special wonderful it would be if she waited for marriage.”
“Well, none of us can mother without stumbling,” Susan reiterated. “I’ve let Kenzie down in ways too numerous to count and beyond my understanding. But Jesus forgives.”
“Right. I just hope my daughter does someday too.”
Me too.