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KATRINA SAT ON THE side of her bed, thankful the service was over. She didn’t have time for cramps. Not this close to Christmas. Not with a pageant to plan, a pageant she hadn’t even known about until Mrs. Porter marched in and put her in charge. What was Greg thinking? She was a second violinist, not a director. Not a leader. Who with half a brain would pick a girl who’s too afraid to speak in public and can’t even sing to direct a musical? Besides, she didn’t know anything about kids. She had grown up an only child and had spent more time with her violin teachers than with children her own age. Every minute of her childhood that wasn’t tied up with homework was spent practicing. Rehearsing. Performing. It was the only life she had known.
Until Greg.
She had always assumed she’d fall in love with someone in the orchestra. She adored the sound of the French horn and used to picture arriving to practice together with her husband. Spending their evenings together at rehearsals. Sharing a music studio, with her teaching her violin and him teaching horn the next room over. Meeting a guitar-strumming youth pastor had never been part of the plan.
That was at least one thing she and her mother agreed on.
A pageant. Great. Just one more obligation. She still hadn’t started any of her Christmas shopping. The budget was tighter than normal after so many unexpected medical bills. The church elders spoke vaguely of a Christmas bonus, but whether or not that would materialize in time to be of any use for the holidays was still a mystery. Katrina asked Greg to guess how much they’d have to work with, but he couldn’t tell her. For all she knew, their bonus would be a McDonald’s gift card and a copy of the utility bill with a handwritten note asking them to conserve more energy. So here they were, just a few weeks before Christmas, with enough outstanding medical bills to last them two more tax returns and no realistic way to buy each other presents.
Meanwhile, her mom was expecting the same kind of fancy gifts Katrina had purchased for her year after year, ever since she took her first violin teaching job in high school. Greg had mentioned Black Friday shopping in one of his most recent sermons, talking about how pointless it was to spend money you didn’t have in order to buy things for people you didn’t like. Well, it was all fine and good to look at it that way. Unless it was your own mother you were talking about. Then things got a little more complicated. Greg wanted to send Katrina’s mom a gift card and forget about it, but it’s hard to buy a gift card when every extra penny is paying off emergency room fees. Besides, something like that would only solidify her mom’s conviction that Katrina had doomed herself to a life of poverty and squalor when she married Greg.
She changed out of her black dress and put on some loose-fitting sweat pants. At least Greg hadn’t invited anyone over for lunch after church.
Had he?
She wracked her brain, trying to remember him saying anything about guests. If someone was coming over, he would have reminded her, right? He had seen how messy the house was when they left. He would have mentioned something, wouldn’t he?
There was no real way to know for sure, not until he showed up with congregants in tow or not. She should probably tidy things up just to be safe, but she was exhausted. After Mrs. Porter left the nursery, Brielle had cried for half an hour until she finally fell asleep, drooling against Katrina’s shoulder. It was a good thing Greg hadn’t preached late or Katrina might have dozed on the job as well.
Stupid nursery. Why had she volunteered to work today anyway? Why had Greg let her? Didn’t he know how hard it was for her after everything they had gone through? She thought about Joy Holmes, raising a hyperactive boy, two tiny girls, and now burdened with yet another pregnancy. Did she know how lucky she was? Did she know how some people would die to trade places with her, nauseated and fatigued as she might be?
Katrina sank her head on her pillow. Greg wouldn’t come home until everybody else left the church. It could take half an hour from the time the sermon ended. Sometimes longer, especially if any of the elders had constructive feedback to impart. She really should get up and clean.
There was always too much to do. Katrina couldn’t figure out how wives who worked full-time jobs of their own managed to get anything done around the house. Six months into marriage and she still couldn’t keep up with the most basic of tasks. She had been managing all right until the fall ...
Why did everything have to come back to that? When would the memories stop haunting her? It would be one thing if Greg understood, but even though he had held her hand and taken care of her those first few days, as soon as he returned to work everything went back to normal. Could he really forget so quickly? Could he really bounce back to work as if nothing had happened? Greg didn’t talk about it anymore. The sad thing was if Katrina were back in Long Beach, she’d find more sympathy from her orchestra friends than she did from her own husband.
All she really wanted was to plug in the heating pad and take a long nap. She had been so naïve last summer. She waltzed into marriage assuming Sunday afternoons would be the most relaxing part of the week, the Friday-night equivalent for a pastor’s family. She envisioned lunches out at different restaurants. An afternoon enjoying a movie together or cuddling in bed. Even if Greg had work to do, she had pictured the two of them sitting on the couch, him with his studies, her with her journal. If it wouldn’t distract him too much, she could practice her violin while he planned out his sermons.
God, what happened?
She sighed and thought about her violin. Dmitry Leonardo Cantarella, Dmitry after Shostakovich, her favorite composer and Leonardo Cantarella after the violin maker. Greg couldn’t understand why she would name her violin or refer to him as a he. Until he teased her about it, she hadn’t even stopped to wonder if that kind of behavior was normal. Didn’t the other violinists in the orchestra name their instruments as well? She had never thought to ask.
She glanced at her zipped-up case. Maybe she should take him out. She’d never neglected him for so long before. She still wet the humidifier each day so the wood wouldn’t crack, especially in this deplorably dry and chilly winter weather. Greg laughed whenever he saw her water her violin. But even though she kept that routine up religiously, she hadn’t played him in almost two months. She missed the feel of her jaw against his chin rest, the weight of the bow perfectly balanced in her hand. Her ears longed for his sweet, lyrical tone. Maybe she’d take him out this afternoon. Maybe today was the day she’d find the courage ...
The front door opened. Good. Greg was home. They could have a quick lunch, and then she might practice some. Get her mind off church politics and utility bills and Christmas pageants and hospital fees.
“Hi, babe,” Greg called out. His voice was cheerful. That must mean he went a full Sunday with no rude comments from disgruntled parishioners. No awkward meetings with elders who took it upon themselves to point out how everything her husband was doing at Orchard Grove Bible Church was wrong.
She swept her hair out of her eyes and smiled. She needed more Tylenol, but at least her cramps weren’t as bad as they’d been this morning. She headed down the hall.
Greg stood in the entryway with Nancy Higgins, the church treasurer, and her husband. At first, Katrina was so appalled at the piles of unfolded laundry on the couch and the two full trash bags by the front door that she forgot about her own appearance.
“So you changed into something comfortable,” Nancy exclaimed, eyeing the faded sweat pants. “Good for you.”
Katrina searched Nancy’s tone for a hint of sarcasm and flushed. “I’m sorry. I just ...” She picked up the trash bags and tossed them into the laundry room along with her bathrobe. She grabbed a basket to hold the extra clothes.
“Don’t worry about tidying up on our account,” Nancy called after her. “We’re just here for the food, not the view.”
Katrina froze, trying to decide if she should be mad at herself for forgetting or at Greg for not telling her to expect company. There were too many other things to do to worry about it for long. She dumped the laundry basket aside and hurried to the kitchen, wincing through the pain. She opened the fridge, praying to find something easy she could throw together for lunch.
God, what’s happening?