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Decidedly Married
Carole Gift Page


BLESSINGS IN DISGUISE?Her life looked perfect, but Julie Ryan wondered why she felt so empty inside. Why did her charming husband and teenage daughter seem so distant? Julie whispered a simple prayer, asking that her family grow closer.Suddenly her world went into a tailspin. First, a shocking suspicion about her husband, Michael. Then, just as the couple were weathering stormy emotions, their daughter made a startling confession. As Julie fought to save her family, she looked to the Lord for a helping hand…and prayed for the wisdom to understand His answers….Welcome to Love Inspired™–stories that will lift your spirits and gladden your heart. Meet men and women facing the challenges of today's world and learning important lessons about life, faith and love.









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u68d507d9-eb30-5667-a06e-296d5e382f04)

Excerpt (#u2be401f8-ec86-5ecd-99e2-7222f93cf0f2)

About the Author (#ubad337bc-259b-5edd-95d3-5cd8d9403354)

Title Page (#uadff87fa-c153-559e-bb03-67af80c887be)

Epigraph (#uc58e98be-c68f-5c85-9fa9-7b1634832ebc)

Dedication (#u5754c02a-7b49-5bcc-b656-18fbb100e5c6)

Prologue (#uf4c992f8-0f8c-5973-9ce4-fbbb59492654)

Chapter One (#u8b26852a-acac-500d-a6d1-350f4bd7401f)

Chapter Two (#u9717c083-8553-557e-9df8-e118fd5d37c7)

Chapter Three (#uced7fb58-f869-505d-b681-70b647c5b4e0)

Chapter Four (#u445efb7c-380d-5efe-b202-5dcc3c1482b6)

Chapter Five (#u4525f885-de88-5ac5-9b9c-72e80dde111f)

Chapter Six (#u1e6800ff-f265-5998-ba86-6b845ff7bb50)

Chapter Seven (#u196dd323-571c-591b-81c4-4e17e94e12b6)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Immediately Julie reached for a pen, settled into her favorite rocker by the bedroom window and began to write…


Saturday 23 June

Heavenly Father, I don’t even know what to write in these pages, except that I feel so far removed from being the kind of loving person You want me to be. Just when I thought I could reach out to Michael, Beth intruded on our lives. How can I compete for his love when I feel such distance between us?

And Lord, help me to know how to handle Katie. Lately she’s more remote than ever. I feel as if I don’t know her, or what she really needs in her secret heart.

And Father, I ask for the miracle of discovery, of knowing myself and those I love beyond the window dressing and shiny veneer. Give our family—each one of us—the miracle of Your love!




CAROLE GIFT PAGE


writes from the heart about contemporary issues facing adults. Considered one of America’s best-loved Christian fiction writers, Carole was born and raised in Jackson, Michigan. She is the recipient of two Pacesetter awards and the C. S. Lewis Honor Book Award. Over 800 of Carole’s stories, articles and poems have been published in more than 100 Christian periodicals. She is presently under contract for her fortieth book.



A frequent speaker at conferences, schools, churches and women’s ministries around the country, Carole finds fulfillment in being able to share her testimony about the faithfulness of God in her life and the abundance He offers those who come to Him. Carole and her husband, Bill, have three children and live in Moreno Valley, California.




Decidedly Married

Carole Gift Page







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. This is the first commandment. And the second, like it, is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.

—Matthew 22:37-40


To my husband, Bill, who has always been there for me and made more things possible than I had ever dreamed. I love you, darling—decidedly!




Prologue (#ulink_987be04f-dff4-56b9-ab26-6af90d696c12)


Memories.

Neil Diamond is singing something croony and sensuous, the melody getting under my skin, doing a job on me, turning this moment electric, unforgettable.

Memories. Dusky and fleeting as a sunset sky. But I remember that warm spring night seventeen years ago as if it were yesterday…

…The muggy, hypnotic warmth of Harry’s Steakhouse. The booth cozy and dark, a familiar cave. The air sweet with perfume, tangy with garlic and charcoal, and tinged at its edge with cigarette smoke, faint and hazy and distant as the voices around us I sit tapping my neatly clipped, pale pink fingernails on the linen tablecloth, a nervous gesture. I’m wound too tight, walking the edge, wanting to please him.

Michael.

Michael Ryan.

He raises his glass. “How about a toast?”

I touch the stem of my goblet, lift it high and hear the ring of fine crystal.

“To us.” Michael speaking.

“To us.” I raise the drink to my lips and sip the chill, bubbling effervescence.

But my gaze is fixed on Michael.

He sits across from me in sport shirt and slacks, bronzed and strapping, elbows on the table, hands folded, his thumb nudging his sturdy chin. He is smiling, not quite smiling, just the slightest curve in his lips. He is smiling more with his eyes—lazy, half-closed eyes, warm with amusement Hazy blue, inviting, bedroom eyes.

I am swimming in those eyes.

Drowning in those eyes.

“I feel as if I’ve known you forever.” He says it without moving. Without disturbing that smile.

“Three weeks,” I say breathlessly.

“Three?”

“We’ve known each other three weeks. Don’t you remember? Three weeks ago tonight Mr. Plotnik’s drawing class began.”

“Ah, yes Dear Mr. Plotnik. He was in rare form tonight, wasn’t he? The Southland’s answer to Salvador Dali—those piercing eyes, that rare mustache, the look of genius—or insanity.”

I stifle a laugh. “Don’t be unkind, Michael. He’s actually quite good. I’ve learned a lot in three weeks. Haven’t you?”

“I suppose so.” Michael winks and says invitingly, “But there’s so much more I want to know.”

He reaches across the table for my hand. His touch is warm. I feel it like an electric charge shooting up my arm, like a tickle, a tremor, the thrill of a sudden dip in the road, the tummy-turning sensation of a roller coaster ride. My heart is turning somersaults, my skin turns to goose flesh. Holding hands never felt so good.

“You’re the best in the class, Julie,” he says. “In every way.”

My face flushes with warmth. “I am not. I’m not nearly as good as that one girl—”

“Who? Myra? Myra Mayonnaise?”

“No, silly. It’s Myra Mason.”

“The girl who looks like Wolf Man’s sister?”

“Yes. No! Come on, she’s not that bad. In fact, she’s good. Talented. Her technique is flawless.”

“You’re prettier, with those big, mahogany brown eyes and your golden hair tousled around your face.”

“What do my looks have to do with being an artist?”

“Easy. Watching you made it tolerable for me when it was my turn to pose tonight.”

“Really? And here I thought you hated posing. You balked enough, until Mr. Plotnik reminded you every student has to take his turn modeling for the class or—”

“Or risk lowering his grade. I know. Why do you think I gave in?”

“So you didn’t mind posing after all?”

“I said it was tolerable. That’s a far cry from acceptable.”

“I have to admit, you looked a bit uncomfortable sitting there in your swim trunks.”

“Wouldn’t you be? Sitting like a statue for an hour with everyone’s eyes boring into you? I tell you, Julie, if I hadn’t had you to watch, I’d have—”

“You really watched me? I thought you were joking.”

Michael’s voice is low, caressing, hypnotic in its intensity. “You really didn’t notice? I watched your eyes moving over me, and I imagined it was your lips. I imagined—”

“Michael—really, I—”

“You’re blushing Am I embarrassing you?”

“No, Michael. It’s just that you’ve got the wrong idea. I was looking at you as—as an artist, not—not as a woman.”

He presses my hand against his lips. “The way you’re looking at me now?”

“Yes—no—I mean—”

“Tell me, Julie. Do you believe in love at third sight?”

“Third?”

“Our third anniversary. You said so yourself. We met three weeks ago tonight. And we’ve gone out maybe half a dozen times. And yet, would you believe—?”

“Believe what, Michael?”

“Already I’m falling in love with you.”

My voice is hushed, full of wonder. “How do you know it’s love?”

That smile again, warmly seductive, intoxicating, breaking through my defenses. “It doesn’t get any better than this, Julie—my jewel. You feel it, too. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. It’s like everything in our lives has led up to this moment.”

Yes, Michael. You were right.

And everything since has led away from that moment.

From that night, seventeen years ago.

The night Katie Lynn was conceived.

Remember, Michael?




Chapter One (#ulink_8f8a49cb-abb7-5b55-82ac-30c934d64153)


Today: the reality.

I’m sitting here.

Sitting here watching Oprah Winfrey on TV.

Thinking how great she looks since she lost all that weight

Watching Oprah interview an elderly couple who were high school sweethearts and are getting married fifty years later after outliving a wife and two husbands. They’re holding hands and looking at each other like there’s nobody else in the world.

I’m sitting here eating the expensive candy Michael got me for my birthday—my thirty-fifth, heaven help me!—and I’m squeezing the round ones to find the chocolate cremes. Feeling guilty that I’m sitting here stuffing myself when I should be at work doing something productive. I would have been at work, if it weren’t for this head cold—persistent little bugaboo.

Julie had taken all the decongestants and antihistamines she dared. And she still felt lousy.

Wish I’d gone to work, she thought. Wish I’d never found that note. Dying inside over that note.

The words of the note reeled through her mind like one of her mother’s old-fashioned vinyl records with the needle stuck in a groove, playing the same refrain over and over:

“Michael,

Sorry about last night.

How about tonight?

My place.

Love, Beth.”

Julie couldn’t get the words out of her mind. Nor the questions. What does a woman do when she finds that kind of note in her husband’s shirt pocket? Written in a feminine hand on faded blue paper. Smelling faintly of perfume. With a phone number at the bottom in her husband’s scrawled hand.

What am I supposed to think?

Julie tried hard not to think about the implications of that note. The idea that Michael was meeting a woman named Beth. Tonight At her place. That he had planned to see her last night, but…something happened. What happened? He was home last night, irritable, distracted. But home.

Julie wrapped her robe around her as if it would ward off the chill numbing her senses. I feel like one of those children who has slipped through the ice and is hanging suspended in frozen waters waiting for someone to fetch him out and thaw him back to life. I am frozen with disbelief. I am too stunned to feel pain. But even through the numbness I already know I am dying inside.

Michael, how could you do this to me? To us?

Oprah was signing off now, smiling that wonderful smile of hers. Julie mused, No matter what issues or ordeals she offers us, the world always rights itself again in her smile.

Julie could imagine Michael on Oprah’s show—a poised, successful real-estate executive with his own office—sitting there on stage in his smooth, professional way, his sturdy hands gesturing expansively as he tells Oprah, “I can explain everything. Julie and I were only kids when we got married, nineteen and twenty. She was pregnant, so what can I say? I did the right thing by her.”

“And how has the marriage turned out?” Oprah might ask.

“It’s been an okay marriage,” Michael would reply. “We’ve got a beautiful daughter named Katie, sweet sixteen and already strong-willed like her mother. I’ve got to admit, when it comes to wedded bliss, the romance department’s nothing to write home about. The fireworks stopped years ago, but Julie and I are comfortable together. What more can you ask for these days?”

“But what about Beth?” Oprah’s asking.

What about Beth?

I’m waiting, too, Michael. How do you explain Beth?

Michael, who in blazes is Beth!

Julie flicked off the TV and headed for the kitchen where she quickly put on the kettle. A cup of hot tea was what she needed now. It would calm her nerves and melt the cold dread gripping her heart.

When she was a child, her mother always gave her hot tea when she was sick. With a dash of cream and a spoonful of sugar. Then her mother would sit beside her and talk about her childhood, about the days when she ate vegetables from her own garden and picked apples from the tree next door, and milk still came in glass bottles with cream at the top. Sometimes in the winter the milk on the porch froze, popping the solid cream right through the cardboard cap. And sometimes her mother would suck on that icy mound of cream until her lips grew numb.

Even now, remembering the tale, Julie could almost feel her own lips turn cold. How she had loved hearing her mother’s wonderful stories!

But now those days were gone.

“They don’t make milk that way anymore, Mama, with cream so rich it’s a delicacy,” Julie said aloud. She found herself talking to her mother more and more these days, as if she were still alive and sitting across from her, carrying on an ordinary conversation. Julie couldn’t seem to break the habit of pretending her mother was there, but what was the harm, if it made her feel better?

“Now everything I buy is low fat or nonfat,” she went on, speaking with the casual, intimate tone she always reserved for her mother. “The stuff today tastes like the watered-down milk you poured on my cereal back when Daddy was out of work, Mama. Such long ago days. Strange. I remember nothing of those days except that watery milk. Now I pay a mint for milk like that, Mama.”

Julie poured her tea, wishing her mother was still around to share it with her. But they had buried her mother—the lovely, charming, devoted Ruth Currey—nearly a year ago. That was another truth still frozen inside Julie waiting to thaw.

I say the words in my head every day, but they never take root. They never seem real. I expect to drive through the canyon and past the lake and around the bend to the house in Crescent City where I grew up, the house just two hours away where my father lives in solitary silence, never opening his door or his heart to the likes of his only child, his wayward daughter, Julie Ryan.

Maybe he never forgave me for getting pregnant at eighteen, marrying a man he didn’t know, giving up my chance for a career to put my young husband through school. Maybe he never forgave me for not dying instead of Mama Or maybe he never forgave me for being born.

Julie took her steaming teacup upstairs to her bedroom and settled back on the sofa in her cozy retreat. As she set her tea beside her on a TV tray, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the TV screen.

I’m wearing an old nightgown and my scuzzy robe that’s soft as fleece but clouds out, adding twenty pounds to my girth. I haven’t dressed all day. I tell myself it’s because I’m sick. I have a cold. I have a right to lounge around and be sloppy and comfortable. Every other day I have to shimmy and wiggle into garments that make me look attractive, that befit my position as administrative assistant to the vice president of Leland-Myer Tool Company. But it’s a glorified title with a beggar’s pay.

I’m a glorified secretary, nothing more. But it’s a life. Not like painting, of course. Nothing matches that. But it’s something. At least my job gives me a satisfaction Michael doesn’t offer these days.

Michael.

Oh, yes. Michael.

Julie had found the note in his shirt pocket this afternoon—she wasn’t snooping, she was sorting the laundry. She sat on the sofa now and stared at it, studied it as if by memorizing every word she could somehow decipher its meaning.

Suddenly she knew what she had to do. Call that number. Like the TV commercial says, “Reach out and touch someone.” She had to reach out and touch this Beth. Make sense of her words. Perhaps it was all a silly, horrible mistake. Maybe Beth was a colleague of Michael’s. Maybe she was sixty and wore geriatric shoes. Maybe Beth was a man’s last name. George Beth. John Beth. Andrew Beth.

No. The note said, “Love, Beth.”

She wasn’t a colleague or an old woman or a man She was someone beautiful and desirable, someone Michael wanted to be with, would have been with, if…

“Sorry about last night. How about tonight?”

That was it. She knew she had to do it Had to know.

She set down her teacup, got up and went over to the kingsize bed she and Michael shared. She sat down on the fluffy comforter, reached for the cordless phone on the nightstand and dialed the number. Fingers trembling. Mouth like cotton. Heart pounding like congo drums. Two rings, then the answering machine came on. A soft female voice crooned, “Hello, this is Beth. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Julie racked her brain for an appropriate response: Hello, Beth, this is your lover’s wife. Sorry, he won’t be there tonight. He already has plans.

Without uttering a sound, Julie slammed the receiver down and covered her mouth with her hands. She was afraid she would vomit.

She returned to the sofa, sat down and sipped her tea, thinking, All I can do is wait. What time will Michael be home tonight? Will he come home at all? Is it already too late?

Julie looked over at the clock on the nightstand. Nearly three. Katie would be home soon, running up the stairs to her bedroom. Her child, her fanciful daughter, her dreamer of impossible dreams. She carries the image of my youth, Julie mused, the likeness of my mother, the steely aloofness of my father. And Michael’s charm. And yet she is so totally her own person I do not know her. Behind the familiar face hides a stranger, a person of such complexity and surprise, I marvel that she came from my body, that she could possibly have been any part of me.

She denies me at every turn, Julie acknowledged darkly, her tea tepid now, tasting bitter on her tongue. In fact, if Katie could manage it she would print a disclaimer for all the world to see: “Any resemblance between my mother and myself is purely coincidental!”

Julie stirred, pushed her teacup away, ran her fingers through her uncombed hair. When Katie walks in the door and sees me still in my robe, she will accuse me of watching soaps and eating bonbons all day She will give me her petulant, condescending look, and she will look exactly like my father. And I will hate her for that. We will argue and exchange heated words. Sling verbal arrows back and forth, aiming for the heart.

And I will lose.

Because I am already frozen inside. I am hanging in dark waters with ice in my veins waiting to be rescued.

Will anyone come in time?

Will anyone come at all?




Chapter Two (#ulink_4531ad44-4ea8-57fb-9b1c-acaaacc1e30a)


Julie was heading for the kitchen for more tea when she heard voices outside the carved oak front door. Not loud voices: one-lilting, almost singsong, punctuated by that familiar squeal of laughter that wasn’t quite spontaneous Surely it was her daughter’s deliberate, girlish laugh. But the other voice was deeper, a stranger’s, with a teasingly combative, seductive edge Julie couldn’t distinguish their words, only the muffled rhythm of the sounds, a light, playful cat-and-mouse quality that reminded her of the flirtatious banter of her own youth.

It must be a boy Katie likes, Julie mused, for her to be lingering on the porch with him for so long. But then she has so many friends, boys and girls, always changing, faceless, interchangeable, like strangers coming and going through a revolving door. Which one is it this time?

There was a sudden click of the doorknob. The door opened before Julie could register the fact that she was standing in the white marble foyer in her bathrobe with her honey blond hair a tangled mess, her face devoid of makeup, and her nose puffy and red from sneezing.

Still laughing, Katie sauntered in the door with a tall, strapping young man in T-shirt and jeans, his russet hair hanging down to his shoulders, a gold ring in one ear, and his bronzed arm draped over Katie’s shoulder. He was laughing, too, casually, with a pleased, satisfied smirk, as if they had shared a private, even intimate, joke. When they saw Julie standing in the hallway, they stopped in their tracks, frozen momentarily. The boy dropped his arm from Katie’s shoulder and flashed an apologetic half smile. Katie’s eyes widened with surprise. “Mom, what are you doing home?” she asked, her tone startled, accusing.

“I live here,” Julie flung back, realizing it was a dumb thing to say, the sort of answer Katie would have given her.

“But why aren’t you at work?” Katie persisted, arching one feathery, finely plucked brow. Her pale pink complexion had reddened, giving her high cheekbones a rosy, self-conscious glow.

“I took the day off, Katie. I’m sick. Can’t you tell?”

Katie nodded, her pouty, cranberry red lips drooping slightly. “Yeah, you look totally awful, Mom!”

“Thanks,” said Julie. She could have turned the remark back on her daughter. You look totally awful, too! Katie stood there in a skimpy tank top and baggy jeans with gaping holes in the knees, one of her typical “ugly” outfits Julie complained about constantly, to no avail. Her long, auburn brown hair was clipped back artlessly and free-falling around her shoulders. Katie’s icy blue eyes cut into Julie’s soul with a single glance. She had her father’s eyes—shrewd, cunning at times, unreadable, defensive; eyes containing such pure, luminous color they could steal one’s breath.

“You look like you don’t feel good, Mom,” Katie was saying. “Did you call the doctor?”

“No. It’s just a cold. Nothing to worry about.” Julie could have added, I have worse things to fret over, Katie, like your father’s mysterious note from some hussy named Beth and this strange boy walking into my house with his hormones raging and his octopus arms hanging all over you!

Julie fixed her gaze expectantly on the young man until his face reddened and Katie said hastily, “Oh, I forgot. Mom, this is Jesse.”

“Jesse Dawson,” said the tall, broad-shouldered youth. He tentatively offered Julie his hand, then quickly withdrew it when she made no move to acknowledge the gesture. His tanned, chiseled features could have been carved from granite. His jaw was set like flint, as if daring anyone to mess with him. Dark brows crouched over his smoky gray eyes. Julie had sudden visions of smoldering anger and raw passion in his gaze, but whatever secrets lurked behind his eyes, Julie already knew she wanted Katie to have nothing to do with him

She turned to Katie and said, “Young lady, you know the rule. No boys in the house unless I’m here—or your dad.”

“You are here, Mom. Besides, it’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it? But you brought Jesse here thinking I was still at work.”

Katie’s tone turned as icy as her eyes. “I swear it’s not like that, Mom. Jes just dropped me off so I could change. He’s taking me to youth group tonight, and I knew you wouldn’t want me wearing these torn jeans to church.”

“I wish you wouldn’t wear those raggedy jeans anywhere! They belong in the rag bag.”

“Everybody wears jeans like these,” Katie protested.

Julie folded her arms and rocked back slightly on her heels. “What are you two planning to do for the next few hours until youth group starts?”

Katie shrugged. “I don’t know. Just hang out. Grab a burger Why the third degree, Mom?”

Julie might have said, Because I’m already upset. I’m afraid your father has betrayed me, and I won’t risk losing you, too! Instead she ignored Katie’s question and addressed Jesse. “I don’t recall seeing you around church, Jesse. Are your parents members?”

“No, ma’am. My parents don’t go to church,” he drawled matter-of-factly. “They’re dead,”

Julie uncrossed her arms, feeling suddenly unnerved. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It happened a long time ago.”

Julie groped for words. “Then where do you—I mean, who do you—?”

“I live with my grandma and little brother. Right here in Long Beach. Just off Pine.”

Julie nodded stiffly. She knew the area. It was an old, deteriorating, gang-infested neighborhood of tiny rundown houses on postage-stamp-size lots—an area Michael warned her never to drive through alone, especially at night. God forbid that Katie would ever venture into such a neighborhood.

Katie pulled Jesse toward the door, as if to deliver him from Julie’s obvious interrogation. “Jes, I’m going to run to my room and change. You can wait out in the car if you want.”

He shrugged. “No, that’s okay. Go on. I’ll wait here.”

“Would you like a soft drink or something?” Julie asked offhandedly. She had to admit to a certain grudging admiration of the boy; he hadn’t turned tail and run.

Jesse shook his head. “No thanks. I’m not thirsty.” He rubbed his palms over the thighs of his jeans. Then, hooking his thumbs on his pockets, he looked around the house with a solemn curiosity. “Nice place,” he mumbled.

Following his gaze, Julie saw her home through his eyes—a bright, spacious two-story with expansive windows, thick carpets, an Italian marble fireplace and classic country French decor accented by lush, live plants and her own original oil paintings. Julie felt a rush of pride, recalling how hard she and Michael had worked to afford such an impressive home for themselves and Katie. But the feeling was followed by a prick of guilt. Jesse Dawson had never been able to live in such a house.

“Thank you.” Julie tightened the sash on her robe, sighed audibly and wondered what she and the boy could find to talk about now. “Are you still in school?” she inquired.

He lowered his gaze, jutting out his lower lip. “No, I quit last year.”

“You didn’t graduate?”

“Naw. I was a junior.”

“Really? But you had only one more year.” She knew she was prying, but it was for Katie’s sake. “Why didn’t you stay in school?”

Jesse shrugged “I had to work, bring in some dough.”

“You couldn’t wait until you finished your senior year?”

“Nope. We needed the money. Grams is too old to work. My brother, Scout, is too young”

“What do you do?” Julie asked, “I mean, where do you work?” What she really meant was, Who in their right mind would hire a high school dropout?

Jesse flashed a crooked grin. “I fix cars. I work at a little repair shop a couple of blocks from here. That’s where I met Katie. She brought her car in for a tune-up.”

Oh, no, a grease monkey! Julie murmured a vague reply but silently chalked up one more reason she wished Michael hadn’t given Katie a car on her sixteenth birthday. He was always spoiling her, showering her with everything her heart desired. She was his beautiful little princess who could do no wrong Why couldn’t he see that he was spoiling her, giving her too much too soon? Why did Julie always have to be the “bad guy,” pulling back the reins on Katie’s freedom?

“I’m ready!” It was Katie’s voice. She came striding down the stairs toward the foyer in a sleeveless denim top with a short plaid skirt. “Is this better, Mom?” she asked, twirling in a breezy pirouette that showed off her willowy body and long, shapely legs.

“The outfit is fine,” said Julie begrudgingly, “but I didn’t give you permission to spend the entire evening out with—with Jesse. We’ll have dinner first—”

“But it’s church, Mom. Pastor Russell is always telling us to invite people to church.”

“I don’t think he had dating in mind, Katie.”

“Please, Mom! We’ll get something to eat at a fast-food place and then go directly to church.”

Julie wanted to say no, but then she would have to contend with an angry, insufferable daughter all evening. And besides, Katie and the boy wouldn’t be alone; they’d be spending the evening with the youth group.

But another realization cast the deciding vote in Katie’s favor. Julie would need her privacy tonight, of all nights! Somehow she had to find the courage to face Michael and confront him about this mystery woman who wrote him on blue, perfumed stationery about a secret tryst, and signed it, “Love, Beth.”

Seeing the pout forming again on Katie’s lips, Julie said at last, “Go on, Katie. You and Jesse go get something to eat and go to church. But I want you home right after the meeting, you hear?”

“Thanks, Mom! You’re the greatest!”

But as the door slammed shut, Julie wondered if the few hours Katie was gone would give her enough time with Michael. What dark, ugly truths might she unearth with her probing? Had she already lost her happy home and just hadn’t realized it? Equally disturbing, what would her daughter find when she returned home tonight? Would Katie find her parents at war with each other, their marriage in shambles?




Chapter Three (#ulink_e5f8b68b-e327-5995-b8f5-24bb8303d93d)


Michael phoned shortly after Katie left the house with Jesse. Julie was in the kitchen warming up a can of chicken noodle soup. She hated the stuff, except when she was sick. Grabbing the wall phone before its second ring, she spattered hot broth on her hand and uttered an exclamation of pain and frustration. But into the mouthpiece she delivered a surprisingly controlled and pleasant “Hello.”

When she realized it was Michael, her heart started pounding in a way it hadn’t since they were dating. Her reaction startled her. It was as if their relationship had already undergone a profound change since their parting this morning, all because of a note she had found from someone named Beth.

“Listen, Jewel, I’m glad you’re home already. I’m going to be tied up tonight, so don’t hold dinner, okay?”

Michael sounded distracted, harried, almost the detached, self-conscious tone people reserved for answering machines. “I’ll get home as soon as I can.”

“What is it?” she asked thickly. “A client?”

“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat. “We’re closing a deal and you know the mountains of paperwork involved. It’s a headache, but what can I say?”

“’We’?” Julie repeated. “You said ‘we’re closing a deal’?” Usually Michael would just say, I’m closing a deal.

“You know how it goes, Julie,” Michael replied. “Another Realtor brought in a client for a house our office listed. We do this all the time and share the commission, you know that”

“Yes, of course,” Julie conceded, feeling a trifle foolish. “Do you want me to keep something warm on the stove for you?” The rest of a can of soup? she thought bitterly.

“No, that’s not necessary, hon. I’ll grab a bite somewhere.” His tone softened into the gentle, tender baritone that had made her heart do flipflops all those years ago. “How’s Katie?”

“She went with a friend to youth group.” No sense in telling him yet about the long-haired boy with the ring in his ear.

“By the way, sweetheart, you sound awful. Looks like that cold you were fighting got a real foothold.”

“Yeah, it did. I stayed home from work today and played couch potato.”

“Good You can’t be too careful with all the weird viruses going around these days. Better doctor yourself with that smelly stuff and get to bed early. Don’t wait up for me, okay? Just take care of yourself, and I promise I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.”

“You think you’ll be that late?” Julie asked, feeling suddenly close to tears. She was always a sucker for Michael’s sweet talk. He could charm fuzz off a fly. Why did he have to use those concerned, heart-melting tones when she was all set to be infuriated with him?

“Are you okay, Jewel?” he asked. “You sound…funny—and I’m not talking about the cold now. Is something wrong?”

“What could be wrong?” she murmured without conviction. “I guess it’s just—misery loves company, you know?”

“Look, I’ll try to make a short evening of it, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Michael?” she ventured. “I was just wondering—who’s the other Realtor you’re working with?—on this deal, I mean.”

“Nobody you’d know, sweetheart.”

“Humor me, Michael. I’m curious. Which office is he from?”

“She’s with Consolidated Realtors in Huntington Beach. They’re in the book. Now I’ve really got to go, hon.”

“What’s her name, Michael?”

“Who?”

“The Realtor. In case I need to reach you.”

“Are you feeling that bad, Jewel?”

“No, it’s just—I assume you’re meeting at her office, so I’d like to know who she is.”

“Yeah, sure. Fine.” Michael sounded annoyed. “Her name is Beth. Beth Chamberlin.”

Julie felt as if someone had walloped her in the pit of her stomach. For an instant she couldn’t catch her breath. She held the receiver away from her ear, but she could still hear Michael saying, “Did you hear me, Jewel? Julie, are you there?”

“Yes, Michael,” she murmured, her voice catching. “I’m sorry. I’m feeling worse. I’ve got to go.”

“Listen, take care of yourself, sweetheart,” he said again, as if she were the only woman on his mind or in his heart. “I’ll see you soon. Sleep tight.”

Without another word she dropped the receiver back into its cradle, stumbled into the living room and curled up on the sofa. She felt stunned, baffled, wounded, betrayed. Beth was more than a name in a note. She was real, a real person, someone who was meeting with Michael this very evening. “Michael, sorry about last night. How about tonight? My place. Love, Beth.” That wasn’t the note of a colleague planning the closure of a deal; it was a woman planning an intimate tryst with a man she loved.

“What kind of a fool do you think I am, Michael?” Julie rubbed her temples. Her dull headache was quickly turning into throbbing, viselike pain. No matter how she played it, the two scenarios didn’t jibe—Michael’s business deal, Beth’s intimate note. “Am I reading too much into this?” she asked aloud. “Or, God forbid, is Michael having an affair with some bimbo named Beth?”

The thought of Michael cheating on her left her feeling incredibly helpless and vulnerable, like someone sitting in the path of an oncoming truck. She wanted desperately to get out of the way before the careering vehicle struck, but she was powerless; her life was about to be shattered, and she couldn’t fathom a way to avoid the impact.

Julie stood and paced the floor for several minutes, her mind replaying Michael’s words over and over. Was there a clue she’d missed? No, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing she could get a grip on. Except Beth’s note. But try as she might, she was only going in circles, retracing the same confusing details until nothing made sense.

She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. She considered going straight up to bed, as Michael had suggested. It was tempting to let slumber obliterate her pain, her questions, her confusion. Why not? She would go upstairs, swathe her throat with that greasy, pungent stuff Michael hated and tie one of his large handkerchiefs around her neck, the way her mother had always done with her father’s handkerchiefs when she was a child.

Michael always teased her about her mother’s homemade remedies, but he wasn’t above trying them himself when he felt bad enough. And right now, more than anything in the world, Julie needed a touch of her mother’s tender, loving care, even if it was only in the form of an old handkerchief smelling of camphor and menthol.

But hold on; wait a minute! What was she thinking? She didn’t want Michael coming home from a date with some gorgeous blonde—for surely she would be gorgeous and surely she would be blonde—and finding his wife sleeping in her scuzzy flannels with a smelly hanky tied around her neck. No matter how lousy she felt, she would go upstairs, take a bubble bath, wash her hair, douse herself with Michael’s favorite perfume and maybe even put on a touch of makeup. She would slip into her most provocative negligee, and, by George, she would be awake when Michael arrived home, no matter how late it was’

Minutes later, as she lay in her oval tub up to her neck in warm water brimming with sweet-smelling, opalescent bubbles, she allowed her body to unwind while her mind traced the rocky, bittersweet history of her marriage.

She had lived for seventeen years with the knowledge that Michael had married her because she was pregnant with his child. Some women chose to abort their unwanted babies, but not Julie. She’d never considered it for a minute; all right, maybe half a minute. But she knew instinctively that this baby—Michael’s baby—was a treasure God had given her, and she would do whatever it took to nurture and protect it.

“I always wanted kids someday,” Michael conceded when she told him about the baby. “Maybe not this way and not this soon, but, hey, we’ll make the best of it. If it’s my kid, I want to give him a good home—with two parents who love him.” He managed a resigned smile. “So what do you say, Julie? We could drive to Las Vegas this weekend, tie the knot and be back in time for classes on Monday morning.”

Julie agreed, relieved that the revelation of her pregnancy had gone so smoothly and that Michael had taken it so well. They would be married and their child would have a normal home. Wasn’t that what she wanted?

And yet somewhere deep inside she felt a keen sense of disappointment—it was irrational, she knew—but it was there just the same. She and Michael had lost something precious, something they were just on the verge of finding. They had skipped some vital, foundational step in the larger scheme of things. Their relationship was no longer about the two of them and how they felt about each other; it was about what kind of parents they would be to their unborn child.

Julie hadn’t realized until years later, perhaps not even fully until now, how much she had missed the romance and thrill of a traditional courtship. Instead of bringing her roses and whispering words of adoration in her ear, Michael had brought her ads for cribs and layettes and talked about the house they would buy and the nursery they would decorate. She had never been quite sure whether Michael was more in love with her or with the baby she was carrying. And the question that plagued her most of all: would he have loved her enough to marry her if there hadn’t been a baby?

That question had haunted her all the years of her marriage, and, God help her, it still haunted her. Every time she watched Michael and Katie playing Rook or Monopoly or tennis together or laughing and joking in the easy, comfortable way they had with each other, she couldn’t help thinking, He loves her more than me. He married me so that he could have her in his life.

And now those old, nagging suspicions seemed to be confirmed. Michael had found another woman—Beth, whoever she was; some conniving witch named Beth. Maybe she would become the love of his life that Julie had never quite managed to be, for she had always felt a certain reticence with Michael, a reservation about giving herself too wholeheartedly to a man who didn’t love her enough.

It was a fear—primal, unarticulated—submerged somewhere at the deepest level of her subconscious: this fear of giving herself unreservedly to a man who didn’t want her. She had learned the lesson early, at her father’s knee. The childhood memories had dimmed in her mind to hazy, shadowed images, like fine stationery that has yellowed with time, flimsy as butterfly wings, the ink faded to pale, indecipherable scrolls.

But, for Julie, the memories still stung. Somewhere inside, at a core that could no longer be touched, she still recognized herself—a boisterous, exuberant youngster running with girlish glee to her daddy, expecting him to swing her up in his arms and tell her he loved her. But her father had been too busy to give her a hug, too preoccupied with his own problems to play with her or read her a story, too closemouthed to tell her he loved her. Throughout her childhood, his stock-in-trade answer was, “Can’t you see I’m busy, Julie? Go see your mother.”

“He loves you, baby,” her mother always assured her. “He just has a hard time showing it.” Her mother always had an excuse for her father’s lack of affection and attention. “You know how he’s been since he lost his job…you know how hard he has to work to put food on the table…you know he doesn’t say much, Julie—that’s just his nature…you can’t change him, Julie. He’s not a demonstrative man, but that doesn’t mean the feelings aren’t there.”

“Who were you kidding, Mama—you or me?” said Julie as she pulled the plug on her bath water. The bubbles were gone now, the water tepid, and she was still sneezing. “You were always making excuses for Daddy, but I stopped believing them a long time ago.”

She felt the bitter irony as she wrapped herself in a thick, velvety towel. Growing up, she had dreamed of marrying a man who would give her the kind of boundless, unconditional love she had never received from her father. But the inauspicious circumstances of her relationship with Michael had ruined that possibility. She would always feel that he had married her out of a sense of duty—not because she was the one great love of his life.

And now there was this new complication: Beth.

Julie dusted herself with her most expensive body powder and slipped into a soft, clingy negligee. She took another decongestant and put on enough makeup to brighten her brown eyes and bring out the roses in her cheeks. She was running a brush through her saffron curls when she heard the door open downstairs. Her heart quickened. Michael—he’s home already!

Then she heard Katie’s voice calling up the stairs, “Mom, I’m home’ Where are you?”

“Up here,” Julie called back, pulling on her long, silk robe, stifling her disappointment.

Katie took the stairs two at a time and came sashaying into the bedroom looking disquietingly blissful. Her hair was mussed, her face glowed, and her glossy, cranberry red lipstick was gone—telltale signs that she and her new boyfriend of the moment had been necking. Or what did they call it these days? Making out? Macking? Playing tonsil hockey?

“Did Jesse enjoy the youth group?” Julie inquired.

“Yeah, he thought they were cool.”

“Sounds like you think Jesse is pretty cool,” noted Julie.

“He is He’s totally hot, Mom.”

Julie shivered, but it wasn’t a chill from her bath; it was prompted by the expression of rapture on her daughter’s face. I know that look, Julie thought. She’s in too deep. She’s heading for trouble and doesn’t even know it “I hope you’re not getting serious about this boy,” she said, weighing her words. “You’ve just met him.”

“What if I am?”

“You hardly even know him.”

“That’s not true, Mom.” Katie twisted a strand of her long, burnished hair. “I’ve known Jesse since eighth grade. And we’ve been hanging out together for weeks now. He’s so rad.”

“Then how come you never brought him home to meet your dad and me?”

Katie shrugged. “I figured you wouldn’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

“He’s not exactly the college preppie-type of guy you want me to date.”

Julie inhaled deeply. If she wasn’t careful, this discussion would deteriorate into a bitter clash of wills. “Katie, college isn’t the issue here. Your friend Jesse told me he’s not even planning to graduate from high school. What kind of future—?”

“Mom, why can’t I just have fun today and let the future take care of itself?”

These were Julie’s own words from so many years ago, smacking her in the face. “Because life doesn’t work that way.”

Katie folded her slender arms defensively. “I’m a teenager, Mom. I’m not ready to get all serious and gloomy about life like you and Dad.”

“Is that how you see us?”

“Isn’t it? You’re always working. You never have any fun. I don’t even think you guys like each other anymore.”

Julie winced, she felt a sudden impulse to strike back. “That’s enough, young lady. I won’t have you bad-mouthing your dad and me.”

“I’m not,” protested Katie. “Just let me live my own life, Mom. Don’t be such a control freak, okay?”

“Sure, I can let you do whatever you please, but when you get into trouble, who are you going to come running to to bail you out?”

“Please, Mom, not another one of your lectures on sex. I’m not going to get into trouble What do you think I’m going to do—get pregnant like you did and make some guy marry me? No way, Mom!”

Julie felt the blood drain from her face She reached out and pressed her palm against the wall to steady herself.

Katie looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Mom. You must know I’ve known for ages you and Dad had to get married. I’m not stupid. All I had to do was the math. You were married five months before I was born. Come on, it’s no big deal.”

“Go to bed, Katie. Please, it’s late.” Try as she might, Julie couldn’t keep the hysteria out of her voice. The last thing in the world she wanted was for Katie to see how shaken she was by her thoughtless, throwaway remarks. Leave it to the young to dismiss in a few brutally candid words the deeply buried truth that had undermined Julie’s marriage from the start Julie had learned to live with her secret doubts and misgivings about Michael and their marriage. But she wasn’t prepared to cope with a headstrong daughter brashly pointing out her shame in a casual conversation.

Katie reached out and touched her mother’s arm—an awkward, tentative gesture. “Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that about you and Dad. I didn’t know it would freak you out like this. I just—I don’t want you being paranoid about me just because it happened to you.”

“What you mean is, what right do I have to tell you to stay out of trouble when I got into trouble myself. Isn’t that it?”

“No, Mom. That’s not it. It’s just—I know what I’m doing. I won’t get hurt. I promise.”

Julie stepped back and tightened the sash of her robe. The pressure in her head was ballooning, giving her a monumental headache. “I can’t deal with this tonight, Katie, but we’re not through talking. Do you hear me? You think you have all the answers, but you don’t even know all the questions yet.”

“I know more than you think, Mom. Stop worrying about me and worry about Dad for a change.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just—you treat him like you’re mad at him all the time, like he can’t do anything right”

The rawness in Julie’s throat took on a new burning sensation. “If I do it’s—it’s because he never has time for us anymore He’s so busy with everything else under the sun.”

Katie’s intractable expression softened and for a moment Julie saw a glimpse of the vulnerable child behind the eyes “He has time for me,” she said, her angular features settling into a truculent pout. With her blue eyes flashing and her chin jutting out stubbornly, she was the picture of Michael.

Julie had lost another round and felt too miserable and exhausted to protest. One thing about Katie—she would defend her dad to the death; Michael was always Mr. Wonderful in her eyes.

“I’m going to bed,” Julie said in a low, grudging monotone. “I suggest you do the same, Katie”

Julie wanted to say something more, yearned to mend this unintended breach between them. But already Katie had averted her gaze, swiveled jauntily and was sashaying off to her room.

I didn’t handle things right with Katie, Julie acknowledged with a heavy, sinking sensation as she slipped into bed and fluffed her pillow under her head. What’s wrong with me that I always blunder in and say the wrong things? I’ll do the same thing when Michael comes home, I know I will. I want to make things right between us, but I can’t help it. I’ll only make matters worse. What’s wrong with me that I can’t communicate with the people I love most?

Julie was drifting off to sleep when she heard the front door open and shut downstairs. The familiar sound brought her back to full, heart-pounding wakefulness. This time there was no question; it was Michael, home at last. After a long day of painful questions and doubts, Julie would face her husband and know the truth about this woman named Beth and she would know whether she still had a marriage worth saving.




Chapter Four (#ulink_6969a334-0b86-5f74-b8a0-fa531d275bef)


Julie slipped out of bed, put on a soft-sounding jazz CD and lit several fragrant candles on the bureau In the muted, flickering light, the room looked romantic, inviting, as she hoped she, too, looked in her silk negligee She knew it would be a minute or two before Michael came upstairs. He would walk around the house and check the stove and the windows and doors; he might pour himself a glass of juice and glance at the mail or scan the newspaper headlines if he hadn’t already read the paper at work.

But soon—any minute now—she would hear his familiar footsteps on the stairs, and she would be here waiting. Sitting on the side of the bed looking the way he remembered her from their youth. He would come over and kiss her, and their closeness would spark old yearnings and desires. She would search his eyes and read the unspoken truths. In his arms she would feel reassured of his love for her, and they would be together again in a way they seldom were these days.

She soon heard his footfall on the stairs, and moments later he entered the room, his tall, rugged frame filling the doorway. Already he was loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped a few feet from the bed and gazed quizzically at Julie. “What’s going on, hon?”

She forced her voice to sound casual. “What do you mean?”

He gestured toward the candles. “The moonlight and roses bit. What gives?”

“Nothing…everything. I felt lousy all day, so I’m pampering myself tonight.”

“Oh.” Michael pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the sofa across from the entertainment unit, then unbuckled his belt. He had a solid chest and abdomen, and yet he possessed a graceful leanness through his waist and hips, an athlete’s agility as he strode across the room to the dressing area. She heard Michael brushing his teeth at one of the twin oval sinks in the powder room, then he returned moments later in silk, maroon pajama bottoms.

He leaned over and brushed a kiss on the top of her head, then reached for the alarm clock on the bedside table. “You don’t look sick, Jewel,” he noted as he set the timer. “You look like you’re ready to party.”

“I didn’t want you seeing me with my red nose and my ugly menthol hanky around my throat,” she admitted.

He sat down beside her on the bed and looked directly into her eyes. She could smell the lemon scent of his aftershave, or did she detect the hint of another fragrance—another woman’s perfume perhaps? “Really?” he said with a baffled chuckle. “You got fixed up like this for me?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I—I guess I am. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion. It’s just—well, it’s been a while since we’ve spent some time together.”

He nodded. “That it has.” He studied her, as if to say, I know there’s more to it than that. What aren’t you telling me?

She waited, maintaining a small, cryptic smile, tracing his features as she often did unconsciously—the long, distinctive nose, the high forehead rising to a brush cut of thick, coal-black hair, the generous, sculpted chin that showed a five-o’clock shadow even when he had just shaved, and the thick brows arching dramatically over those insightful blue eyes.

Everything his face says comes out in his eyes, she realized. The rest of his face is understated, the expression subtle, stony, inscrutable, as immovable as a mountain, but his eyes say it all with a deep, direct, unflinching, disarming power.

“So what’s this all about, Julie?” he asked seriously.

She felt her mouth go dry. She couldn’t escape those probing eyes. What was she supposed to say? I’m competing with some mystery woman named Beth in hopes that I still have a marriage to salvage? She groped for words. “It’s no big deal, Michael. I knew you were closing an important deal tonight, and I just wanted to—I don’t know—share the moment with you. If that sounds lame, I guess I—”

He ruffled her hair playfully. “No, it sounds very thoughtful. Thanks, Jewel.”

“So tell me about it,” she prompted. “How did it go?”

“Fine.”

“That’s it? Just fine?”

“You’re surely not interested in the mundane details.”

“Maybe I am. You said you were working with another Realtor.”

“Yeah. It went like clockwork. The client’s happy. We got the price we wanted, and you know how amazing that is these days.”

“Then you two worked well together—you and this—Beth?” She struggled to say the word without an undercurrent of hostility. But the way Michael looked at her she feared she had allowed more meaning to creep into her question than she had intended.

His icy blue eyes drilled hers. “It’s late. Why all the questions, Julie?”

“No reason.” She looked away. Somewhere at the core of her spine she was trembling. She knew she couldn’t let this moment pass without answers. If necessary, she would force the issue and make Michael tell her the truth. “It’s just—I had a strange feeling about this deal tonight, this other Realtor—Beth, whoever she is—like maybe there’s something more important here than you’ve told me.” She looked at him, afraid to read the truth in his eyes. “Is there something more, Michael?”

His gaze remained steady, clear. His lips curved in a provocative half smile. “Looks like you’ve found me out, Jewel. You always did have good instincts about these things. How’d you know?”

“About Beth?” she asked in a small, pained voice. Was he going to force her to say the awful words aloud?

“You must have talked to someone at the office today, right? They told you?”

“No, nobody told me a thing.”

“Then how did you know about us bringing Beth aboard?”

She stared at him, perplexed. If he was confessing to an affair, he had a strange way of phrasing it. “What are you talking about, Michael?”

Now he looked as baffled as she felt. “I thought you just said you knew about Beth.”

She forced her voice to remain steady, controlled. “Maybe you’d better tell me yourself, Michael.”

“She’s leaving Consolidated. She’s accepted a position with Ryan and Associates.”

Julie waited, unmoving, her breath caught in her chest. Had she heard right? “What are you saying, Michael?”

“Good grief, Julie, is this a riddle or what? You sounded like you already knew. I’m telling you I’ve brought Beth Chamberlin into our camp. She’s working with me now. She may be young, but she’s a crackerjack agent. A real go-getter. If she’s as successful with us as she was with Consolidated, we’ll triple our sales in six months.”

Julie crawled under the covers and slipped over to her side of the bed. She felt dazed; her head spun. Had she been enormously mistaken about this woman named Beth and her fragrant, little blue note signed with love? Was she truly just a new colleague of Michael’s? Was their interest in each other purely professional? Or was Michael a better liar than she had ever given him credit for?

“What’s wrong, Julie? Hey, sweetheart, what just happened here?” Michael climbed into bed beside her and pulled her close. His fingers moved over her face and neck to her shoulder and slipped under the spaghetti strap of her gown “Come on, Jewel. Aren’t we going to celebrate? I know the perfect way to wrap up this evening. How about it, sweetheart?”

She pulled away and turned over, her back to him. She felt herself freezing up, her mind and body turning numb and cold and impenetrable as a glacier. I’m sorry, Michael, I can’t. I can’t!

“I thought you were ready to celebrate. What is it this time?” he demanded. “You’re not in the mood anymore? What is it? Talk to me, Julie. What’d I do wrong? In the name of heaven, Julie, say something!”



At breakfast the next morning Julie sensed that Michael was still irritated with her, but he had the good grace to act as if nothing was wrong around their daughter. Katie, oblivious of any undercurrent, monopolized the conversation, raving to her dad about her new boyfriend, Jesse. “He’s so cool, Daddy. He can do impressions. You should hear him do Jay Leno and Tom Hanks. And the president. He sounds just like him. You’ll totally like Jesse, Daddy.”

Julie looked up from her yogurt and granola and said quietly, “He has hair past his shoulders and wears an earring in his ear, Michael.”

“Half the guys I know have long hair and wear earrings, Daddy,” protested Katie. “That doesn’t make him bad. You just don’t like him, Mom, because he dropped out of school.”

“I never said I didn’t like him,” said Julie, knowing she had already lost this round.

“I’d like to meet him,” said Michael. “Invite him over, Katie. How about Sunday? We’ll throw some steaks on the grill and swap some impressions. I do a pretty convincing Robin Williams, if I do say so myself. Isn’t that right, Julie?”

Ignoring the question, she stood up abruptly and started clearing the table. She had no desire to involve herself in such foolishness. Why do you always do this to me, Michael? she wondered with a stab of resentment. Instead of supporting me and urging Katie to date decent, college-bound boys, you encourage her by inviting this young hooligan over to the house. You always rubber-stamp her choices, no matter how foolish they are, and leave me looking like the bad guy!

“Where are you going, Mom?” asked Katie as Julie reached for her purse.

“Where do you think?” Julie shot back with a hint of acid in her tone. “Your dad and boyfriend do impressions. Well, I do a great disappearing act. I’m going to work.” She gave them each a perfunctory kiss and was out the door before either could protest.

They have more fun anyway when it’s just the two of them, she told herself as she headed for the freeway onramp. They always laugh more together than when it’s the three of us. I cramp their style. Spoil their fun.

Before she settled into a pity party of one, Julie reminded herself that her husband and daughter needed her to keep some balance in their lives. I keep them on track. I bring them back down to earth so they don’t soar away forever like helium-filled balloons. I give their lives stability and direction.

But somehow that knowledge didn’t comfort her. She knew her husband and daughter shared a special bond she could never break through. She would always be the outsider looking in; that seemed to be the quintessence of her life.

And now she had a feeling her relationship with Michael was growing even more strained and distant. Why couldn’t she respond to him the way he wanted her to last night? She had set him up. Why had she turned away, freezing him out? What was wrong with her that she couldn’t surrender to the sweet abandonment of loving her husband?

She wanted to blame her problems on a stranger named Beth, but maybe the real problem was Julie’s own irrational fears and feelings of inadequacy. I’ve got to meet this Beth, she decided. That’s the only way I’ll know if she’s a real threat to my marriage.

After work Julie stopped by Michael’s office with the pretense of suggesting a dinner date to make up for last night’s fiasco. His real-estate office, Ryan and Associates, occupied a quarter of the ground floor in a modern, three-story office building in a thriving, commercial section of Long Beach. The large suite of rooms was tastefully decorated in classic white antique furniture and upholstered armchairs, accented by ornate gold-leaf mirrors, bold, bright Cezanne prints and plush ivory carpets. It was an office that looked and smelled of success. Michael had a knack for making everything he touched seem wonderfully luxurious and appealing; no wonder he was a natural at selling houses.

Julie walked straight back to Michael’s private office with the deliberate, self-assured stride of a woman who knew she had every right to be here. After all, her husband owned the place. This was in a sense her company, too. She had a stake in it, a right to be here. That’s what she told herself every time she came in, every time she found herself feeling ill at ease in the midst of Michael’s perfectly ordered world.

Rose Gibbons, Michael’s secretary and girl Friday, stopped Julie just short of his door. “Hello, Mrs. Ryan. How nice to see you!” Rose was at least fifty, but she dressed stylishly and carried herself like a much younger woman. She had a wonderful smile and a way of making people feel she was genuinely interested in them. “Your husband’s out with a client, Mrs. Ryan, but he should be back anytime. Do you want to wait in his office?”

Julie looked around, hoping to spot the new girl in Michael’s office—and maybe in his life. “Michael told me he hired a new agent. I thought I might just say hello, welcome her to the firm, you know?” Did her words sound as lame to Rose as they sounded to Julie herself?

“Oh, sure, Mrs. Ryan. Miss Chamberlin has the office right next to your husband’s. Go right on in. I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

Julie nodded and started across the wide expanse of carpet toward the cubicle next to Michael’s. Sure enough, Beth Chamberlin’s name was already on the carved oak door. Julie felt her ankles weaken, and her heart skipped a beat. What was she doing here? Spying on her husband? Trying to make something of nothing? Would this woman see through her and guess her real motive for wanting to meet her?

Julie was about to turn, walk away, and forget the whole thing, when Miss Chamberlin’s door opened and a tall, willowy brunette emerged carrying a stack of file folders. She met Julie’s gaze and flashed a radiant smile, showing perfect white teeth.

“Miss Chamberlin?” Julie inquired.

The young woman’s amber brown eyes glinted with recognition. “Yes, and you must be Michael’s wife. I’ve seen your picture on his desk. You’re Julie, right?”

“Yes, and you must be—Beth.” Outwardly, Julie was smiling, but inwardly she groaned over Beth Chamberlin’s classic good looks: a glowing, porcelain complexion, high cheekbones, a healthy mane of raven black hair and a perfect figure for her formflattenng silk blouse and short skirt.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Mrs. Ryan. You have a great husband. He’s really taken me under his wing.”

“Has he?” Julie’s tone was chilly.

Beth seemed not to notice; she was still beaming. “Oh, yes, he has. I’ve learned so much from Michael in the short time we’ve been working together.”

Julie winced at the cozy way Beth said Michael. It was the very tone she had used in her perfumed note. “But I thought you just joined the company, Miss Chamberlin.”

“Yes, officially.” Beth’s tone was buoyant. “You see, Michael and I worked on several deals together while I was still with Consolidated. When we discovered how well we worked together, he asked me to come over here to Ryan and Associates, and of course, I couldn’t say no. It’s such a wonderful opportunity. Michael runs a marvelous operation. There’s so much room for growth and advancement”

“And with all your energy and enthusiasm, I’m sure you’ll go far,” said Julie, trying not to sound snide.

Beth shifted the folders in her arms. “I hope so. I just don’t want to disappoint Michael—and, of course, everyone else here.”

“I’m sure you won’t be a disappointment.” Julie felt a churning sensation in the pit of her stomach. If she stood here another moment talking to Miss Sugar and Spice, she’d have a diabetic reaction. “I’d really better go. Please tell Michael I stopped by. I’ll see him at home.”

Beth’s bright eyes took on a sudden, keen shrewdness. “Mrs. Ryan, I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted in the days ahead. We have so much in common!”

Julie blinked with bewilderment. “We do?”

Beth broke into light, lyrical laughter. “Yes. We have Michael! Your husband and my colleague and mentor. He’s very important to both of us.”

Julie’s throat constricted, leaving her with nothing more to offer than a polite nod. She took an awkward step backward, then swiveled around and strode wordlessly out of the office, her breathing ragged, her mind reeling

As she climbed into her automobile and shakily turned the key in the ignition, she had the sensation she had just been attacked. But by what? An assault of sweetness? Youthful exuberance with a Doris Day smile? It was an irrational feeling, but she sensed the battle lines had been drawn. She was in for the fight of her life with an angel-faced beauty with the cunning of a snake.




Chapter Five (#ulink_39850ac7-c9e4-53d2-b4d5-83b9b965e3df)


On Saturday Julie telephoned her father, Alex Currey, in Crescent City, two hours’ drive from Long Beach. Since her mother’s death last year Julie had telephoned her father once a week to check on him and make sure he was okay. In some ways it was an empty ritual, for Julie always had the feeling her father wished she hadn’t bothered to call It was as if he were saying, We never talked when your mother was alive…what do we have to talk about now?

Still, she phoned him every Saturday at noon, as regular as clockwork. Her questions were always the same: Are you feeling okay? Are you eating right? Have you gone anywhere? Have you seen anybody? Do you need anything?

Her father always answered with one-word, often one-syllable replies: Yes…no…sure…nope…can’t…dunno…why?… nothing…nobody…nowhere. All dead-end answers, conversation stoppers, as if he deliberately wanted to keep communication with his only daughter nonexistent.

Julie always felt dry-mouthed and tongue-tied when she called her father. No matter what she said to him, he had a way of making her feel stupid for having said it. It often took her days to recover her self-esteem after one of their conversations. That’s why she limited the calls to once a week; that was all she could handle.

Not that her father was an ogre or even mean-spirited; it was just that they had always been on different wavelengths, coming at each other from separate planets, aliens of the heart forced to live together all those years under one cramped roof. She had never understood him; he had never understood her.

Alex Currey was a solemn, private man, a former aerospace engineer who had been forced to retire during the massive layoffs prompted by the recession several years ago. He still lived in the same small, stucco, frame house where Julie had been born and raised. He seemed to her as changeless, invariable and eternal as the house itself.

The only time her father’s low, melancholy voice took on a lilting note was when Julie mentioned Katie. Then her father would suddenly come alive and declare in a startlingly cheery tone, “Let me talk to my girl, Katie! Tell me, what’s that granddaughter of mine up to these days, anyway?”

This time, Julie had the irresistible urge to reply, “Your darling granddaughter is dating a high school dropout with long hair and a ring in his ear. He’s a grease monkey in a garage and lives on the wrong side of the tracks. That’s the good news; the bad news is that he could be a gangmember or on drugs or having sex with Katie or who knows what all? And dear Michael has invited him to a family barbecue tomorrow!”

But Julie quickly edited her comments, telling her father only that Katie had a new boyfriend who was coming over for a Sunday barbecue. Why worry him? Let him think life in the Ryan household is idyllic and problem free.

And, as always, after a few minutes of abbreviated conversation, her father droned, “Well, this call is costing you money—you’d better go.” Knowing this was his way of saying he had talked long enough and wanted to hang up, she always promptly ended the call without argument, but she was often tempted to say, So what? It’s my money and I’ll spend it the way I please. I’ll talk all day if I want to!

But, of course, she never said such a thing; it was painful enough to know her father apparently found not the slightest pleasure in talking with her. After hanging up, she was often left with an odd melancholy feeling, as if something had been stirred up again for the umpteenth time and not resolved; never resolved. And what this thing was she had no idea, except that it was like the flaring up of an old toothache; she had probed the sensitive core of some deep-set need just enough to remind herself the pain was still there, buried somewhere beyond reach.

Julie spent the rest of her Saturday painting watercolors—two bright, churning seascapes taken from her own photographs of the Pacific Ocean off Laguna Beach at sunset, and a rather prosaic still life of garden flowers in an antique ceramic vase.

Painting was another of Julie’s weekend rituals, like the phone calls to her father. The calls were made out of a long-standing sense of obligation, but painting sprang from Julie’s deepest yearnings to express creatively all the multilayered feelings in her heart for which she had no words. Painting was tied to Julie’s innermost nature; it was as much a part of her as breathing, and just as necessary.

In college she had dreamed of receiving her degree in fine art and then studying painting in Europe for a year or two before launching her professional career in New York, perhaps even in New York City’s Greenwich Village. She had hoped to work possibly as an illustrator for a national magazine, or more likely to freelance, conducting workshops and exhibiting her own one-woman shows until she found a prestigious gallery to represent her. She had known it would take years of dedicated hard work to build her name and reputation as an artist, but she’d been willing to endure whatever it took.

But that was all before Michael and Katie. Seventeen long years ago. After learning she was pregnant and agreeing to marry Michael, she knew his education would need to take top priority. So she quit college and got a nine-to-five, bread-and-butter job to pay the bills, and her art career became “the road not taken.” She had accepted her fate and taken solace in being a weekend painter, but always at the back of her mind was the nagging question, What would I have accomplished as an artist if Michael and I had never—She never finished the question—at least not in so many words, for it seemed somehow a betrayal of both Michael and Katie.

And if there was one thing Julie was, it was loyal. She loved her husband and daughter and couldn’t imagine life without them. Surely they were more precious than any imagined career success. Seventeen years ago she had chosen the two of them, and she would make the same choice all over again, without hesitation. And yet, in spite of her commitment and loyalty to her husband and daughter, in spite of what she had given up for them, lately they both seemed to be slipping away from her…irretrievably away.



As usual on Sunday morning Julie and Michael attended services at Bethany Chapel, where they had been members for more years than Julie could recall. Katie was there in the congregation, too, sitting a few aisles away with Jesse. It was the first time she had brought him to a morning service. She was obviously ready to let the world know she had a new boyfriend.

From the corner of her eye Julie could see the two of them whispering together, Katie touching his shoulder and his hair in the intimate, possessive way women let others know they’ve found their man. Be careful, Katie, Julie wanted to shout. Don’t throw away your future on this boy. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life!

But there’s nothing I can say, Julie realized. The distance between us is too great, in every way.

“She never sits with us anymore,” Julie whispered to Michael, as if she expected him to offer a consoling word.

He merely gave her that look that said, What do you expect? She’s a teenager!

Julie knew, of course, with or without Jesse, Katie would be sitting elsewhere with her friends; it had been years since she had sat in church with her parents. She was too old now, she would insist, practically an adult. Julie never argued with her about it. And as Michael was quick to remind her now in a confidential whisper, “You know how it is, Jewel. Teenagers don’t like to be seen in public with their parents unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.”

But Julie missed having her daughter beside her, their arms touching lightly as they shared a Bible during the Scripture reading; she missed hearing Katie’s light, clear soprano when the congregation sang hymns and praise choruses.

But it wasn’t just Katie she missed. Something else was lacking, too. Julie couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Often when she left church she felt the same inexplicable sadness she felt after hanging up the phone with her father, as if she had gone through the motions but hadn’t quite connected.

Where was God during church? Why did she always feel as if she were worshiping Him from afar? Surely if she were going to feel close to Him, it should be here.

Perhaps if I were worshiping God in some glorious, centuries-old cathedral in Europe, something wonderfully Gothic or Byzantine, like I studied in art history, I would feel God’s presence. How different that would be from these modern, sterile, utilitarian church buildings.

Bethany Chapel was typical of so many in Southern California these days. The structure was fairly new, still smelled new, in fact—a sprawling stucco building, attractive in a spare, serviceable sort of way, but nothing like those exquisite European cathedrals, nor even like the little country church Julie had gone to growing up.

Her childhood church had possessed lovely stained-glass windows showing Jesus the Good Shepherd and Jesus with His disciples at the Last Supper. It was a quaint, picture-postcard church complete with a steeple and belfry. In sharp contrast, Bethany Chapel’s huge all-purpose auditorium served as both sanctuary and gymnasium, and from the outside it could be mistaken for a school or even an office building Still, it was better than the public school gymnasium they had met in for years until the money was raised to build their own facility.

Julie felt a stab of guilt as Pastor Brady fleetingly met her gaze from the pulpit. He was a genteel, middle-aged man with a witty, urbane manner, impeccable taste and flawlessly styled graying hair. He had a way of looking right through you so you were convinced he had crafted his sermon just for you. He was looking at Julie that way now. Did he realize her mind was wandering? She relaxed a little as he cleared his throat and moved his discerning eyes over the rest of the congregation. What had he said? Was he waiting for some response? Shamefacedly she realized he was halfway through his sermon and she hadn’t heard a word.

In his sonorous tone he was saying, “We are going to look today at God’s most significant commands to His children. These verses are found several times in both the Old and New Testaments. That shows us how vitally important God considers these instructions…”

But even as her fingers moved automatically through the rustling, tissue-thin pages to the Gospel of Mark, Julie’s thoughts turned inward again, meandering, traveling to a far corner of her consciousness. She was facing an inner crisis, something she couldn’t even articulate, but it had been building for days. A dark, ominous cloud had settled over her soul; the darkness encompassed Michael and Katie, her father, and even a woman named Beth and a boy named Jesse. With her mind whirling in such a maelstrom, how could Julie sit quietly and listen to mere words, even from a man of God?

And there was more.

After all these years I still sit here feeling anonymous, wearing a mask, pretending. I’ve seen these same people for years and yet never gotten to know them well. We go through the same routine every Sunday—entering the vestibule, smiling and saying hello, exchanging brief pleasantries, then sitting down, singing, praying, listening, getting up, going out and wishing one another a nice day or a good week. But we never go beyond the surface of one another’s lives.

With a start, Julie realized something else. God forgive me, I maintain the same facade with You, Heavenly Father—dutifully praying or reading a few verses, my time with You sandwiched among myriad other demanding activities. What does it mean? Who do I think I’m fooling?

From a distance she heard Pastor Brady raise his voice and declare with a solemn authority, “‘And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind and with all your strength. This is the first commandment.’”

I love you, Lord—surely I do, Julie reflected with a twinge of conscience. Isn’t that one of the givens of life, one of the things we just assume? But I admit I don’t know You very well. Dear God, sometimes I wonder if I know You at all, or do I only think I know You?

Pastor Brady was still reading. “’And the second, like it, is this: you shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.’”

Pastor Brady paused for a long moment, allowing his words to take root. Then he went on in his smooth baritone, “Dear friends, how well do we even know God and one another? Have we cut God down to our size to fit conveniently into our priorities, our time restraints, our selfish desires? Sadly, many of us have hardly scratched the surface of knowing and loving God and one another. Because of our own blindness and indifference, we are destined to remain strangers all of our lives—strangers with God, strangers with one another.”

He’s talking about me! Julie realized. She felt as if someone had gripped her shoulders and shaken her like a child. He’s describing me. That’s exactly how I am. That’s my life!

Every relationship I have is superficial, transitory, with little meaning. I have no connections with anyone, nothing that allows me to vent the raw, unedited emotions I feel. I have no one with whom I can be totally myself. Was I ever truly myself with Michael? Or have we always worn the masks we thought the other wanted to see? Do I know Michael at all? Do I know Katie?

Startling her out of her reverie, Michael leaned over and whispered, “Are you okay, Julie? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine!” she told him, but she said it with such force that several people in the pew ahead glanced around curiously.

“I’m fine,” she said again, licking her dry lips.

But she wasn’t fine. Her mind was going a mile a minute, dredging up alarming thoughts and painful insights in a random, pell-mell rush.

After all these years, how can we be such strangers to one another? How can you live in the same house with someone, the same little collection of rooms, the same walls and windows and furnishings and pictures—and not know someone? How can you live together in the routine of daily life and remain strangers? How can you live together for years and hardly scratch the surface of who they are, and have no idea what they think or how they feel?

Another thought was just as dismaying.

If Pastor Brady is right, I’ve spent my whole life living among strangers. I knew my mother—thought I knew her, but did I really? How well have I known anyone in my life—my father, my husband, my daughter, and yes, even God? Have I even bothered to try?

Or have I accepted superficial relationships because they’re easier, because they demand nothing of me? I’ve struggled to understand myself and I’m still light-years away from knowing who I am, what I feel and what I want. How can I know others if I’m not even sure about myself? What can I do to reach across the barriers and feel the texture and grain of another living soul?

And what if no one wants to let me in? she wondered darkly. What if remaining pleasant strangers is all anyone really wants of another person? What if everyone else is as protective of their private world as I am of mine? How do I start breaking down barriers and getting inside where someone else lives?

Is it possible others have been trying to break down my barriers, and I’ve never noticed? Michael? Even Katie? Have I been as impervious to the invasions of others into my life as my father has been? In the name of heaven, am I just like him?

The questions were overwhelming, terrifying, shattering. But before Julie could even begin to explore the answers, her attention was drawn back suddenly to Pastor Brady. He was saying, “Are you listening to me, my friends? This is important. This hits at the crux of all our lives.”

Julie gave the sagacious man in the pulpit her full attention. He had touched a raw nerve and she needed to know what healing balm he was going to offer.

“My friends,” he said, his deep, resonant voice growing buoyant with hope, “I challenge each of you to let yourself fall in love with Jesus…get to know Him as you would your most intimate friend. Make Him a vital part of your daily life. Don’t leave Him in the pages of your Bible or in the walls of your church. Let Him come alive in your heart. Let His Spirit breathe and speak in the hidden rooms of your mind. Let Him move in you and change the very landscape of your soul.”




Chapter Six (#ulink_ebc70765-7038-5ab2-9e8d-39e35e6b70f1)


At the barbecue that afternoon Julie couldn’t get Pastor Brady’s words out of her mind She thought about them as she marinated the steaks for the grill, as she boiled potatoes and eggs for the potato salad…and as she stirred catsup into the baked beans and made frosty pitchers of pink lemonade. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength…” But how did one love God that way? It was a mystery. Beyond Julie’s comprehension. “Fall in love with Jesus…let Him change the very landscape of your soul…”

But how? It sounded so perfect, but so unattainable. Could such love really change her? Change the very landscape of her soul? Would she be different if she let God into the hidden rooms of her heart? She already believed in Him. Wasn’t that enough?

And just as puzzling and paradoxical was God’s command to love your neighbor as yourself. It was a cliché, a vague and irrational idea. Did it mean the intimate circle of one’s life—one’s family and friends—or everyone she came in contact with? The admonition seemed overwhelming, paralyzing. How did one love like that?

Certainly Julie had no energy or motivation to think about loving people beyond her own family. She wasn’t even sure she loved her husband and daughter the way God intended. Her emotions changed so often and were colored by disappointment, exhaustion and irritability. Love was mingled with so many other feelings.

Julie had supposed she would feel more loving and hopeful after the pastor’s message this morning, but instead, she felt fretful, peevish, overwrought. In fact, at the moment she was having a hard time being civil to Katie’s boyfriend as he draped his arm over Katie’s shoulders at the family barbecue.

“Katie, I could use your help in the kitchen,” Julie snapped, her eyes narrowing on Jesse.

He must have got the message, because he released Katie and stepped back, looking sheepish. His long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail and the afternoon sun glinted off his gold earring. He was wearing his usual T-shirt and baggy trousers and those ugly steel-toed army boots. How can girls these days find such sloppy attire attractive? Julie wondered, as she strode into the house, her pulse racing.

Katie followed several steps behind, moping, dragging her feet. In the kitchen she leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, her eyes reproachful, her glossy red lips pursed petulantly. She was wearing shorts and a tank top that revealed too much of her budding figure. “Okay, Mom, what do you want me to do?” she asked, more a challenge than a question.

“To start with,” said Julie, “you can tell Jesse to stop pawing you like some lovesick Romeo.”

Katie straightened her slender frame and jutted out her chin. “He wasn’t pawing me, Mom. He’s just affectionate. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“If he’s like this in public, what do you two do in private?”

Katie’s mouth curled mockingly. “Nothing you wouldn’t do, Mom.”

Julie raised her hand reflexively, but stopped herself just short of slapping Katie’s cheek. “That’s enough, young lady. If you want to entertain your boyfriend in this house, you’d better show some respect”

“You didn’t invite Jesse over. Dad did!”

“That doesn’t matter. He’s here, and I’m trying to make the best of it. I could use a little help from you.”

“I know you don’t like him,” said Katie. “He knows it, too.”

Julie sighed. This wasn’t going the way she had intended. “I just don’t think he’s right for you, Katie. Don’t you understand? I’m concerned because I care about you.”

“If you care about me so much, be nice to my friends. Treat Jesse like a person, not like some mongrel dog you can’t wait to shoo out of the yard.”

“Believe me, I’m trying to be nice to Jesse, but you two don’t make it easy.” Julie handed Katie the platter of marinated steaks. “Take these out to your dad, will you? Then come back and help me carry the rest of the food out to the picnic table.”

Balancing the tray, Katie pushed open the screen door with her shoulder and edged out onto the porch. “Jesse and I will both come back and carry out the food.”

Julie closed her eyes for a long minute and whispered, “Help me, God. You tell me to love others, but sometimes I have a hard time even liking them!”

Considering Julie’s jarring confrontation with Katie in the kitchen, the meal itself went surprisingly well. Michael was in wonderful spirits as he barbecued the steaks. He told one joke after another and even persuaded a reticent Jesse to do several of his impressions of popular comedians and public figures. He was actually quite good, and Katie was obviously enraptured by both men.

Julie had to admit she was feeling better, too, less stressed out, more optimistic Maybe she had been unfair to Jesse, judging him too quickly, condemning his relationship with Katie. Maybe there was nothing to it. Maybe it was a passing fling, one of those teenage romances that were here today, gone tomorrow. Perhaps if she bided her time and kept her doubts to herself, Katie would tire of this ragamuffin, streetwise kid and find some college-bound young man of her caliber.

Julie watched Jesse as he consumed his third helping of steak and potato salad. His manners were adequate, but he ate like there was no tomorrow. Didn’t his family feed him at home? But who were his family? That’s right, Julie remembered. He had told her his parents were dead; he lived with his grandmother.

When Julie brought out a huge strawberry shortcake brimming with whipped cream, Jesse’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. She gave him an especially large helping and felt a ripple of gratification when he thanked her profusely. Even Katie looked pleased by Julie’s spontaneous generosity. “It’s great, Mom,” she said. “Totally great”

“You can have all you want,” said Julie, “as long as you promise to help with the dishes.”

“We’ll both help,” offered Jesse.

“It’ll be a cinch,” Katie told him. “We just rinse them off and load them in the dishwasher.”

Jesse grinned. “At my house, I’m the dishwasher.”

“You must be quite a help to your grandmother,” said Julie.

Jesse nodded. “I’m all she’s got, except for my little brother, Scout, but he’s just a kid, you know?”

“I’m sure you must try to be a good example to him and keep him out of trouble.” Julie really meant, Please reassure me you stay out of trouble, for Katie’s sake!

“I try to keep Scout on the right track,” said Jesse, “but sometimes trouble has a way of finding him.”

Katie hugged Jesse’s arm possessively. “Come on, Jes. Let’s go do those dishes. Then maybe we can take a swim.”

Jesse’s eyes moved to the oval swimming pool several yards beyond the picnic table. “That’s cool, babe. That’s one radical pool!”

“If you forgot your trunks, you can borrow a pair of mine,” said Michael as he scraped the grill. The pungent, charcoal smell filled the air.

“Thanks,” said Jesse. “I don’t swim much. Too busy working.”

Michael set his blackened barbecue utensils on the cedar picnic table, grabbed a terry cloth towel and wiped the charcoal smudges from his hands. “Well, Jesse, if you ever want to earn some extra money, I could use some help.”

“Working on your car?”

“No, on a house I’m renovating. It’s my hobby. I buy old fixer-uppers and fix them up.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” said Jesse.

Michael tossed the towel on the table and sat down on a corner of the narrow cedar bench beside Julie. “It is a lot of work, but I like it. I’ve turned some real losers into beauties, haven’t I, Julie?”

She waved a fly away from the half-eaten potato salad. “Yes, Michael, you’ve worked miracles,” she said wearily. “Some of those places I wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole.”

“And I sold them for good money, didn’t I, Jewel? I even surprised you, didn’t I?”

She nodded reluctantly. She hated in any way encouraging or validating Michael’s obsession with old houses. Over the years he had spent countless hours tearing out old drywall, shoring up broken beams, painting, plastering and fixing leaky plumbing in dilapidated ruins a more timid soul would have bulldozed on the spot.

“Sure, I’d be glad to help you sometime,” said Jesse, “but I don’t know much about construction.”

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you what you need to know. I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.”

Katie tugged on Jesse’s arm. “If we’re going swimming after a while, we’d better hit the dishes now.”

As Katie and Jesse carried dirty dishes into the house, Michael moved over closer to Julie and pulled her against him. His tanned face and arms glistened with a sheen of perspiration; she could smell a mixture of charbroiled tenderloin and spicy aftershave on his skin. She felt a ripple of pleasure at his closeness, even here with the two of them squeezed together at this rough-hewn picnic table. He murmured against her ear, “It’s been a nice barbecue, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

“Very nice,” she agreed. No sense telling him about the earlier clash with Katie in the kitchen. After all, she and Katie had apparently worked out an unspoken truce and all seemed forgiven. As long as I’m nice to Jesse, we’ll all get along.

“You don’t sound very convincing,” said Michael. “Are you still worried about Katie getting too involved with this boy?”

“Aren’t you, Michael?”

“He seems nice enough.”

“We don’t know anything about him.”

“He seems crazy about Katie.”

“That’s what worries me. Where are they headed? She has a wonderful future. I just hope he doesn’t mess it up for her.”

Michael’s blue eyes darkened. “Like I did with you?”

She pulled away and stared at him. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

“It’s what I heard,” he replied, releasing her. He moved off the bench and began gathering the last of the dishes and utensils. She stood and helped him, but they both worked in an uncomfortable silence, until she heard the shrill ring of a phone nearby.

Michael reached into the pocket of his sport shirt and pulled out his cellular phone; he carried it with him everywhere. Julie was surprised he didn’t take it with him to bed. She hated that phone; it was like an umbilical cord connecting him forever to his work. It meant interrupted plans, broken dates, shortchanged family times.

Julie heard Michael say, “Oh, really? They’re in town just for today? Right, the Emerson place would suit them very well. Yes, I have all the stats. It’s a custom home with a spacious floor plan on over an acre of land. Vaulted ceilings, skylights, French doors, a bonus room, island kitchen, fireplace in the master suite, huge balcony…Right. A swimming pool, spa, gazebo, circular drive, the works.”

Excitement glinted in Michael’s eyes as he rushed on. “It’s an amazing property with the perfect price for just the right buyer—someone with loads of money to spend. So you think these people fill the bill? That eager, huh? Sure, I could meet you there. Give me a half hour.”

Michael pressed the Call button and slipped the slim phone back into his pocket, then gave Julie an apologetic smile. “Business,” he said. “I’m sorry, hon. I’ve got to go.”

“A big deal to close?” she inquired coldly.

“It could be.”

“And this person on the phone couldn’t handle it without you?”

“You said it, Jewel. It’s a big deal, lots of money involved. I own Ryan and Associates. The client wants the benefit of my experience and expertise in the negotiations.”

“Who was on the phone?” asked Julie, her tone vitriolic.

Michael was already striding toward the house. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“It was just one of our agents.”

“Who?”

“The new one, for crying out loud!”

“That woman you just brought in? Beth somebody? Is that who you’re meeting?”

Michael looked back at her, his eyes flashing exasperation. “Yes, I’m meeting Beth Chamberlin. So what? Give me a break, Jewel. You know I need to work on Sundays sometimes. Stop acting like it’s the end of the world!”




Chapter Seven (#ulink_3589a349-3b3b-5c5c-9c15-896d7a9605e0)


Julie was living on a high-tension wire, or at least that’s how she felt in the days that followed the Sunday barbecue. She was walking a tightrope between desiring to demonstrate godly, unconditional love to her family and at the same time wanting to strike out at them in anger for falling so far short of her expectations.

Perhaps she was most disappointed with herself, for she knew there was nothing within her that resembled the sort of love her pastor had described. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t summon that kind of love for the people she was most closely connected to—her husband, her daughter, her father? They were all linked by marriage or by blood, and yet sometimes she didn’t feel connected, not emotionally, not the way she should feel. She felt bound, tied, trapped at times, as if the yoke were too great, the responsibilities too heavy.

At times Julie wondered why God would even bother to tell His children to love Him and others so profoundly, in the gritty real world of flawed human hearts? Even the thought of trying to measure up to God’s standards left Julie feeling more discouraged than before. Perhaps that was why she so seldom scratched the surface of her faith; she knew she would be depressed by what she found.

And surely God understood that her life was too busy, too demanding, too overwhelming to worry about issues that apparently had no answers. After all, her daily routine was exhausting. Long hours at the office were consumed with idle, tedious, mindnumbing work; evenings at home were filled with cooking, cleaning, laundry, paying bills and collapsing before the television set for an hour of video pablum before bed.

Katie was rarely home these days, choosing to spend her evenings at the library—pray to God that’s where she was!—or out somewhere with Jesse. Many evenings she came home late, too late, leaving Julie dreading an accident as she anxiously watched the clock and listened for the sound of a car or the ringing of the phone.

Michael, too, was seldom home, his evenings filled with appointments to show houses when he wasn’t off renovating one of his own squalid fixer-uppers.

Julie had a feeling many of Michael’s so-called appointments involved Beth; whether professionally or personally, she couldn’t be sure. But several times when Julie played her answering machine she heard messages from Beth telling Michael she would meet him at this or that property at such and such a time. It all sounded so innocent Was it? Or were the two of them playing the scam of the century on Julie?

Why don’t you just come right out and ask him about Beth? she asked herself over and over. She knew she should; surely she couldn’t continue on like this, living with these terrible suspicions, not knowing whether she still had a marriage. But as difficult as it was living with the uncertainties, the truth might be even more painful. If Michael admitted he was having an affair, what then? A whole new series of choices would confront Julie. Should she forgive him? Would he want to be forgiven? Or would he want a divorce? And would she give him one?

On and on the questions might go, leaving her life shattered, ruined. No, she couldn’t cope with such issues yet. She wasn’t strong enough. It was all she could do to deal with the simple, surface issues of life, like what to fix for dinner or how much to pay on her credit card balance this month.

The nights were the most painful, for just when Julie wanted desperately to turn to Michael for confirmation of his love, when she yearned for the warmth and comfort of his arms and his kisses, she found herself pulling away, closing him out, turning a cold shoulder. How could she make love to a man—how could she give herself to a man—who could be betraying her in the cruelest of ways?

Worst of all, she couldn’t bring herself to answer him when he demanded, “What’s wrong, Julie? What gives? You act like I’m untouchable. What have I done to make you treat me this way?”

And when she made no reply, his anger would flare and he would punch his pillow or throw his covers aside and swing his legs out of bed and stomp out of the room. She would hear him slamming doors in other parts of the house or banging utensils in the kitchen. Often she would be asleep before he would steal back into bed an hour or half hour later, and sometimes she merely pretended to be asleep so that she wouldn’t have to deal with his anger and her own heartache.

Several weeks passed this way. Dreary, monotonous days merged together, indistinguishable, and fell away, shifting, desolate, and elusive as beach sand. One afternoon, as Julie drove home from work, she looked around, startled by how quickly spring’s warm, sunny days had turned into the hot, glaring, sunbaked days of summer. California’s climate changed only by degrees—warm, dry winters became hot, airless summers, but most of the time the weather was fairly pleasant, unremarkable, interchangeably overcast or sunny.

Much like Julie’s life. Except that these days were much more overcast than sunny. As usual, Michael was remote, Julie distant, Katie rarely home.

“Some family we’ve got,” Julie said aloud as she pulled into the driveway of their sprawling, custom-built two-story. “We live in the same house, under the same roof, and yet we all go our separate ways Our lives never touch anymore. Dear God, what’s wrong with us? Or is everybody like us?”

What did the poem say? “No man is an island…” But these days everyone was an island—distant, solitary, unreachable.

Julie parked her car and crossed her arms on the steering wheel. She was feeling stressed out as usual, her emotions blunted, her spirits deadened. Life wasn’t supposed to be this way. She knew it, but she had no idea how to change it—or herself.

“Lord, we need a miracle around here,” she whispered, “a touch of Your love, something from You to draw us together and help us love one another the way You want us to love.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “And, dear God, please help me to love You more, too. I know I don’t give You much of my time these days. I’m sorry. Help me to do better.”

That evening, while Michael showed a client a house and Katie was out with Jesse, Julie sat curled on the sofa in the cozy retreat just off their bedroom and read her Bible for the first time in days, the verses in Psalm 36 speaking poignantly to her heart.

How precious is Your loving kindness, O God!

Therefore the children of men put their trust

Under the shadow of Your wings…

For with You is the fountain of life;

In Your light we see light.

Julie read the words over and over. They described the way she yearned to feel about God and her own home and family. But were such lofty emotions possible only in Scripture? Or could she experience such satisfaction and pleasure in her everyday life with her family?

“Lord, is this the miracle I asked for this afternoon? Will You break through the hardness of my heart and help me love Katie and Michael the way You want me to?”

Even as she prayed, she felt a pervasive warmth rippling over her, a growing sense of well-being. Yes, life was going to get better in the Ryan household, she was sure of it! She and Michael and Katie would grow closer than they had ever been. Somehow, God would give her His miracle!

When Michael arrived home later that evening, Julie was waiting for him, dressed in her most alluring peignoir. She went eagerly into his arms and turned her face up to his with a welcoming smile. He stared at her for a long moment in baffled surprise, then kissed her soundly.

“What’s going on, Jewel?” he asked as she pressed her cheek against his solid chest.

She looked up and gave him a slight pout. “What do you mean? Can’t a wife give her husband a little kiss?”

He chuckled. “Doll baby, there was nothing little about that kiss. You haven’t greeted me like that since—to tell you the truth, I can’t remember when.”

She slowly loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “I know, darling, and I’m sorry. It’s been way too long.” She felt suddenly as if she were acting out a scene in some tawdry movie—the glamorous seductress tempting the unsuspecting boy next door, or some other sleazy, half-baked plot “Michael, I’d like to make it up to you,” she said softly. “Do you remember how it used to be, when we were first married?” This was crazy. She even sounded like an actor reciting lines from a play. But if this was what it took to win Michael back, to convince him she loved him…

He pulled his tie off from around his neck and tossed it on the bed with an exasperated sigh. “There’s nothing I’d like better, Julie, than a little romantic romp with my wife, but this just isn’t you. Come on. What gives?”

She sat down on the bed and ran her palm over the silkysmooth sheet. “Don’t analyze everything, Michael. You’re spoiling the mood.”

He removed his cuff links and pulled off his shirt. The furrow of doubt in his brow was already giving way to a crinkly smile. “You win, Jewel. Heaven forbid that I’d spoil such a rare, wonderful mood.” He sat down beside her and drew her against him, kissing her hair, her earlobe, her neck. “But I’d still like to know what inspired it I’d like to bottle it and save it for a rainy day.”

“Why a rainy day?”

“Rainy, sunny, twice on Sunday, I don’t care. I just don’t want to let magic like this get away.”

She closed her eyes dreamily. “It’s been here all along, Michael. Maybe you just haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I would have noticed. Where has this spicy little coquette been hiding?”

“Really, Michael!” she chided. It didn’t seem appropriate now to quote from Pastor Brady’s sermon on love, so she said simply, “I’m not some steamy vamp. You’re my husband! I want us to be closer.”

“So do I, Jewel.” He kissed her tenderly—a slow, warm, inviting kiss—then glanced toward the door. “Where’s Katie?”

“Out with Jesse. Where else?”

“Then it’s just the two of us?”

“For at least another hour.”

“Perfect,” he said, guiding her head down on the pillow, his face above hers. “Now where were we?”

The telephone jangled on the bedside table, shattering what would have been a very delectable kiss. “Don’t answer it,” said Michael.

“We’ve got to,” she replied. “It could be Katie.”

He sat back. “If it’s not an emergency, hang up.”

“I promise.” She rolled over, grabbed the receiver and said a clipped hello.

There was a long moment of silence, then a woman’s voice broke from the other end, sounding muffled, distraught and vaguely familiar. “Is Michael there?”

“Yes, who’s calling please?”

The woman spoke over a choking sob. “It’s Beth. Beth Chamberlin.”

The roof of Julie’s mouth went dry. Without a word she handed the receiver to Michael.

“Yes, Beth? What’s wrong?” He stood up and turned his back to Julie. “For crying out loud, how did he know where to find you? Did you call the police? All right, I understand. Listen, make sure the doors are locked. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He slammed the receiver into its cradle and flung on his shirt, hurriedly buttoning it as he strode toward the door.

“Where are you going?” demanded Julie

Michael stopped and stared at her, as if suddenly realizing how suspicious his rapid departure looked. “I—Beth needs my help.”




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