SECONDS PASSED LIKE MINUTES, MINUTES LIKE HOURS, AS I waited for Brad to come home. Numerous times during the day, I picked up the phone to call him. Every time, I set it back in its cradle without dialing. I wasn’t sure what to say to him. I only knew he was right, that we had to talk. Talk until we were sick of talking, if that’s what it took to resolve things between us.
But what if talking resolved nothing? Or worse, what if talking told me more than I wanted to know?
It was nearing four thirty when the doorbell rang. I don’t know why I didn’t check to see who was on the other side of the door. I usually did.
“Mrs. Clarkson.” Greta St. James smiled at me as she placed her hand flat against the center of the door.“May I have a moment of your time?”
I fell back from the doorway.
She moved forward. “We’d like your comments regarding the interview I did with Nicole Schubert. I trust you saw it Wednesday night.”
My brain went blank. I wanted to turn and flee.
“Your husband has refused to talk with us, but we hoped that you—”
A camera pointed in my direction. I saw the little red light glowing and knew my reaction was being recorded.
“No comment,” I whispered.
“Please, Mrs. Clarkson. The community wants some answers.”
From somewhere within came the strength to move forward, forcing her to back up.
“Mrs. Clarkson—”
“No comment.” I closed the door, twisting the dead bolt into place. Then I leaned against the wall and listened to the hammering of my heart.
Nicole must have been filled with hate to talk to Greta St. James. She’d tried to steal another woman’s husband. My husband. Didn’t she care how that made her look?
No. Of course she didn’t care. Few enough did in this day and age. Actors routinely had affairs with their costars, and the next thing you knew, their relationship was being romanticized in People or some other weekly magazine. Token pity was sometimes shown toward the betrayed spouse, but never for long.
I felt the soft rumble of the garage door opening. Almost simultaneously I heard Ms. St. James shouting a question. Through the living room window, I saw Brad drive past the reporter and her cameraman. The garage door closed again, and silence gripped the house.
I waited for Brad to enter the kitchen through the connecting doorway. One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Finally, I couldn’t stand the tension building inside of me. I walked into the kitchen and opened the door, peering into the dim light of the garage.
“Brad?”
The door to his car opened. “I’m here.” He got out. “How long have they been here?”
“Not long.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No. But I opened the door before I knew who it was.”
He walked toward me, his footsteps slow, his shoulders slumped. As he drew near, light from the kitchen revealed the weariness written on his face. I stepped back to let him pass.
Where were you last night?
He stopped in front of me, as if he’d heard my silent question. His gaze met mine.
Many years ago, when I was still in high school, I heard someone say that God fashioned Eve from Adam’s rib because He wanted her to be strong enough to protect her husband’s heart. Looking into Brad’s eyes, I knew I’d done nothing to protect him since this awful mess began. Maybe I never had.
“So again I say, each man must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.”
How often had I quoted those words to other wives? More times than I cared to admit. I used to think I’d followed that Bible verse, that I’d shown Brad the respect he deserved and needed. But now, in this crisis . . .
I lowered my gaze. After a moment, he released a whisper-soft sigh. A hot lump formed in my throat as I closed the door.
He walked across the kitchen to stand at the window overlooking the backyard. “Three corporate sponsors canceled their pledges to the foundation today. Individual pledges have dropped off too. Only a few days, and it’s noticeable.”
My heart hurt.
“I’ve been asked to remove myself from my position with In Step.”
“Remove yourself?”
He turned to face me. “If I don’t quit or at the very least take an unpaid leave, In Step might not recover from the bad press it’s getting. There’s already plenty of doubt in the public’s mind. Especially in the Christian community. It’s better for me to step down than force the board to remove me. It’ll look better . . . later.”
Another layer of fear swept over me. “Why an unpaid leave? You’re the founder. You deserve better treatment. It’s like you’re guilty until proven innocent.”
“How could I, in good conscience, draw a salary while employees face layoffs?”
“Layoffs? Is it as bad as that?”
He nodded. “It’ll happen soon. I don’t see how it can be avoided. Those corporate sponsorships were a big chunk of our annual income.”
Perhaps I was selfish, but I couldn’t help wondering how we would pay our bills if we lost his income. The mortgage, the car payment, the lights and heat, groceries. We weren’t rich by any means. We didn’t have unlimited resources—we’d put too much into building In Step through the years. We would be okay for two or three months. Would that be long enough?
Brad raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. “I’m the accused, Kat, not the foundation. If I’m out of the picture, giving might pick up again. Maybe some of those sponsors can be wooed back.”His voice lowered.“The employees and the people In Step helps shouldn’t have to pay for whatever I did or didn’t do.”
“But it’s your ministry. You built it from scratch. No one knows it the way you do.No one cares about the people you help the way you do.”
His smile was sad, his tone of voice poignant. “It’s God’s ministry, Kat, not mine. I’ve had the privilege of serving in it, and I hope I’ll serve there again. But that’s up to the Lord. We’ll have to trust Him.”
His humility and trust shamed me. Could such a man cheat on his wife and lie to those who loved him?
I drew a shallow breath. “What will you do if . . . if you don’t work at In Step?”
“I’m still good with a hammer.”He held up his hands, palms toward me. “I imagine I can get a job in construction. Spring’s here. New building has kicked into gear.”
In Step had been birthed in Brad’s heart. He’d never been happier than he’d been since selling his business and devoting himself full time to the foundation. Letting it go would be harder for him than he let on.
“I love you, Katherine.”
Tears filled my eyes. His image blurred before me. I love you too. I wanted to say it aloud, but the words were strangled by the doubts I harbored.
He strode across the kitchen and took me into his arms, pressing my cheek against his chest, hiding his face in my hair. It was the first time he’d touched me in several days. The first time I’d let him get close enough to try. This time I didn’t pull away. I wanted to be there, to wrap my arms around him and find security in his embrace. I hoped he wouldn’t let go for a long, long while. Once we were apart, the thinking would begin again. The thinking and wondering, the dread and the doubts. Here, in the circle of his embrace, I didn’t have to think.
Tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, I would be forced to face reality. Tomorrow I would hurt because of the suspicions of betrayal. I would feel crushed by the words in the newspaper or on TV.
Tomorrow I might loathe Brad’s very nearness, but for now, I took shelter in it.