Illusions

by Jennifer Sienes

  “Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you. Jonas is bringing someone.” Before she can respond, I slip into the Italian spice-scented kitchen. The garlic bread is cut, covered, and ready to pop into the oven. Now for the salad.

  “Who’s he bringing?” Trish stands in the entrance, suspicion lurking in her eyes.

  “I told you about his wife, right?”

  “Oh, he’s bringing her?”

  “Well, no.” I stick my head in the fridge and root through it for the salad makings. “But Jonas is stepping down from the church to spend more time with her. He’s bringing his replacement.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Appeased, she leaves.

  Ten minutes later, the suspicion is back in Tricia’s eyes as I introduce Dylan to her. “This is Jonas’s replacement.”

  “Oh, well.” Is Tricia flustered? That’s a first. “Nice to meet you, Dylan. Corey told me…well, I just assumed—” She looks at Jonas, her face reddening.

  Jonas chuckles. “You thought he’d be some old geezer like me, did you?”

  “Of course not. I mean, I wouldn’t have used those words to describe you, Jonas. Won’t you both come in?” She steps aside.

  I take Jonas’s arm and escort him into the living room and leave Tricia to figure out what to do with Dylan. Early evening light pours through the windows, framing the antipasti I set out.

  Jonas glances around the room. “You have a beautiful home, Tricia.”

  “Thank you.” She fusses with an earring and looks around, as if she’s lost something. “Taylor’s out back. I’ll get her.”

  Dylan sits on one end of the cream-colored love seat, waggling a finger between Jonas and me. “What’re you two up to?”

  “I don’t have any idea what you mean, son.” He eases onto the couch, a devious smirk on his face. “Corey invited me over as a thank you. No one forced you to come along.”

  I snag a plate of antipasti and offer it to Dylan. “Pepper?”

  He quirks an eyebrow at me, as if to say he isn’t buying it. “Tell me about your husband’s church.”

  Tricia returns with Taylor, who greets Jonas, then eyes Dylan with suspicion. She and Tricia are a matched pair.

  “Dylan is Jonas’s son,” I say, and send up a quick prayer that her filtration system kicks in. No telling what’ll come out of her mouth.

  “Why—” My cell trills from the breakfast bar, and Taylor snatches it up. For once, her focus issue works in my favor. “It’s Dad.”

  “So.” Tricia addresses Jonas and sits on the arm of my chair, ignoring a perfectly good seat next to Dylan. “How is your wife doing?”

  I’m distracted by the murmur of Taylor conversing with Paul. Unlike when she talks to me, there is no sarcasm or disdain dripping from her tone.

  “How long are you staying in Carmel?” Dylan’s question pulls me from my thoughts.

  “It depends. Taylor’s doing well in rehab here, so,” I shrug, “we’ll see.” I look at Jonas. “Would you mind helping me get dinner on the table?”

  Tricia jumps up. “I’ll do that.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I snag her arm and force her into my chair. “You entertain Dylan. I have a few questions for Jonas.”

  We pass Taylor, who’s saying, “—a pastor from the church we went to on Sunday, and I think the other guy is his son. When can I come home?”

  Jonas follows me into the kitchen. “Have you and Taylor been able to work through her anger?”

  “She’s not as hateful as she was.” I collect the salad from the fridge, along with a pint jar of dressing I made earlier. “That’s progress, right?”

  He takes the salad from me. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “Ask you?” I turn the oven off and look at him.

  “You told Tricia you had a few questions for me.”

  “It was a lie, I’m afraid. I was hoping if she was alone with Dylan—”

  Taylor leans into the kitchen. “Michael’s coming up next Friday. On the Greyhound.”

  “What time?”

  She shrugs. “I forget.” She slips out.

  “Your son?”

  “Yes. It’ll be so good to see him.”

  “Then why don’t you look too happy about it?”

  Gathering up the hot mitts, I open the oven door. “He’s a smart kid. He’ll figure out the truth, then I’ll have two angry kids on my hands.”

  Chapter 37

  Paul

  Male voices wake me in the middle of the night. I lie in the dark, listening to the silence. I don’t have to be a psychologist to know the voices were all in my head. Talking to Taylor last weekend, those same male voices came through the line.

  A pastor and his son.

  Yeah, right.

  I clear my schedule for the day. No sense paying for a bus ticket when I’m capable of driving Michael down to Carmel myself. Forget that VBS starts next week and I had to bail on a meeting. Forget that Michael would rather ride the bus.

  Forget that I don’t have the nerve to tell Corey.

  We turn off Highway 1, windows rolled down. Cool ocean air beats air-conditioning. “Almost there.” I’m talking to a rock. Michael’s half asleep, earbuds drowning out anything I say.

  I’ve only been to Tricia’s a couple times, but that’s what a map app is for. I park at the curb, my heart pounding in my ears. “We’re here.” I nudge Michael awake before climbing out, checking the house for activity.

  What if they aren’t here? Maybe the surprise approach isn’t the right tack.

  “Dad?” Taylor’s voice calls out from the shadow of the porch before she emerges. Huge smile, arms open, she runs down the brick pathway. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  I get to the sidewalk before she about knocks me down with a hug. “Look at you.” Her hair is different and…are those purple streaks?

  She’s on Michael’s door before he can get it open. “Hey, butt head. It’s great to see you.”

  Bleary-eyed, Michael climbs out and lets her hug him. “You too.”

  “Is your mom—” Rambo tears out of the house, Corey following, arms folded across her chest. Or at least I think it’s Corey. She’s thin. Her hair’s shorter and—did she color it? What motivated this?

  “Hi, Paul. I was just getting ready to head over to the bus station. You should have let me know you were coming.”

  “Did I interrupt your plans?”

  As she passes me to greet Michael, confusion crosses her features at my abrupt tone. Not that I can blame her. I sound like a jealous husband. I am a jealous husband.

  “Sweetheart.” She pulls Michael in for a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

  When did Michael get taller than Corey?

  “Yeah?” Michael steps back and looks her up and down. “Wow, Mom. You’re, like, a different person.”

  Before I can agree with him, Taylor hugs my arm. “Can we get lunch and take it to the beach?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Tay.” I glance at Corey hugging herself. Snug tee-shirt and jeans, bare feet. I can’t get over how different she looks. “Your mom might have other plans.”

  “No,” Corey says. “That’s fine. Unless you’re in a hurry to get back.”

  “No hurry.”

  “I’ll get a blanket and Rambo,” Taylor says.

  Corey looks down at her feet. “Shoes might be good, too.”

  We pile into the car, Rambo taking his place between Taylor and Michael in the back seat. The kids’ conversation covers our awkwardness as we drive to a deli, order sandwiches, and head for the beach. We climb from the car and the sun breaks through a high fog, the moist breeze carrying the briny tang of the ocean. Corey’s always loved the ocean. How often have I made a point of taking her? Three, four times in our marriage?

  Was Corey right to be hesitant to marry me? I’ve never put her first. It wasn’t intentional, but still…

  We settle on the sand with our sacks of food. I can’t help but look at Corey. The changes—what precipitated them?
r />   “Lexie.” Taylor stands, hands bracketing her mouth. “Here, Lexie.”

  A golden retriever, tail wagging, tongue hanging, skids into our picnic. It’s obvious she and Rambo are fast friends.

  “Jonas must be here,” Corey says. She stands beside Taylor, but they don’t touch. “Do you see him?”

  Taylor points. “There he is. Hey, Jonas. Up here.”

  My gut churns. Jonas. The guy at Tricia’s house last weekend. My competition? The man draws closer. He’s wearing a ball cap, but the shock of white hair is still visible. He’s got to be close to seventy. So, not my competition. But didn’t Taylor say something about a son?

  Corey takes his arm and turns to introduce him. “Jonas, this is my son, Michael, and my husband, Paul.”

  Jonas smiles, hand extended. “Michael, Paul. Nice to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you both.”

  “Pleased to meet you too,” I say. His handshake is firm for a guy his age.

  “So, Michael. You’ll be staying for a few days?”

  “Yeah. ’Til Tuesday.” A hank of hair blows across his eyes, and he swipes it aside. Must be time for another haircut.

  “Well, I hope to see you in church on Sunday.”

  “Jonas is the pastor of Oceanside Presbyterian,” Corey says. The smile she gives him is the first natural one I’ve seen since we landed in her camp.

  “Ah. Not anymore. Former pastor,” he says. “My son, Dylan, is now official. But I’ll be there to support him.”

  “Join us for lunch,” Corey says.

  “Oh, no. I don’t want to interrupt a family reunion.” He grasps the dog’s collar and backs away.

  This might be my only chance. “You mind if I walk with you for a few minutes?”

  Corey’s suspicious. I can see it in her eyes.

  “Not at all. Appreciate the chance to get to know you.”

  “I’ll be back,” I tell the family. They all look at me like I’ve lost it.

  We slump across the shifting sand for about a hundred yards until we hit damp, firm sand, then head north. People are everywhere. Some set up with beach chairs, others walking. Almost as many dogs as people. “I want to thank you for helping Corey with Taylor. I understand you ended up with her when she ran off.”

  “God brought her to me. She didn’t know where she was going.” He’s got an air of calm certainty.

  “Have you been a pastor a long time?”

  He glances at me, blue eyes bright in the sun. “Over forty years. Although I’ve only been here about half that time.”

  “Then I guess you’ve seen it all.”

  “Just about.” He steps around a piece of driftwood. “You have a beautiful family.”

  More than I realized. “Thank you. It’s been rough the last few months.”

  “Corey told me some of what’s going on.”

  I stiffen.

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not.” Which is a lie. Wish she’d confided in me.

  “Being a pastor’s hard work.”

  “You can say that again.” My tone sounds almost petulant, and heat steals up my neck at the realization.

  “It’s not for wimps.”

  I give him a stiff smile. “No.”

  “Sometimes it’s easy to forget what’s important. People are good at sucking the energy from you. And don’t even get me started on Satan.”

  “I hear you.”

  “I’ve dealt with some loss in my life, like anyone.” He shakes his head and sighs. “Life’s too short. Makes you learn real quick what’s important.”

  “And what’ve you discovered?” The question sounds casual, but how I long for words of wisdom. Something about his air of calm and peacefulness tells me he’s got it going on.

  He focuses on the rolling waves heading toward the beach. “God’s most important work isn’t happening within the four walls of a church. Anything that draws you away from God, well, that’s just Satan doing his thing.”

  What’s Corey told him? “Kind of hard to be a pastor and not get dragged into petty details.”

  “True. But we don’t have to let it control us. You lose sight of God, what’s the point? Who’re we doing it for?”

  Well, I got what I wanted—wise words. Now what do I do with them? “Is that why you’re retiring? Tired of the petty details?”

  “I should’ve retired long before now. My wife’s got Alzheimer’s. Don’t know how much more time I have with her. You, better than most, know how fast life can change.”

  True. But I fear that lesson’s come too late.

  * * *

  Corey

  Emotional exhaustion weighs on me. Hours spent with Paul, gauging, waiting, wondering. The look on his face when he saw me—what was that? Shock? Disappointment? He didn’t say anything about the weight loss, haircut, clothes. Just stared as if he didn’t know who I was.

  Taylor went to bed early. If I feel overstimulated, I can only imagine how she’s dealing. Tricia went out. She wouldn’t say where. That’s not at all like her. Maybe she and Dylan have a date. But then, why wouldn’t she tell me?

  I unroll Michael’s sleeping bag on the couch. “Are you sure you don’t mind camping out here?”

  “No problem.”

  “Because I can always share Taylor’s bed, and you can have my room.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t think she’d let you anywhere near her bed. Why’s she so ticked at you?”

  I whip open a flowered pillowcase, tuck the pillow between my chin and chest and maneuver it inside. “She’s a teenage girl. Isn’t that enough?”

  He gives me the look—the one he’s had down since the age of five. So like his father.

  “It doesn’t matter. She’ll get over it.”

  “Will you and Dad get over it too?” He sits on the sleeping bag and pats the couch as an invitation to Rambo to jump up with him.

  “Look, Michael—”

  “Are you guys getting divorced?”

  I gauge the worry in his eyes. There comes a time you can’t protect your kids anymore. “I don’t know.”

  He scratches Rambo’s belly. “What if he says he’s sorry? I mean, he told me he didn’t even do it, so—”

  “Do what?” Sitting on the other side of Rambo, I duck my head to catch Michael’s eye.

  His eyes flicker to mine before they drop again. “If you don’t know, then why’d you leave?”

  Secrets. More secrets. I’m sick to death of all of it. “Spit it out, son. What do you think you know?”

  “I saw them. Dad and Josh’s mom.”

  Alexis Andrews. I play it in my head again—maybe for the hundredth time—but it still doesn’t work. “You must be mistaken.”

  He looks at me, eyes narrowed. Wondering if I’m gullible? “That’s what Dad said. But I thought—I don’t know. If he did something wrong, is he going to admit it?”

  There may be something going on between Alexis and Paul, but it isn’t an affair. “I’d bet my last meal that nothing happened between your dad and Ms. Andrews. Or your dad and any woman, for that matter.”

  “Why? Guys cheat all the time. Dan’s dad? He cheated.”

  “Not your dad.”

  “Because he’s a pastor?”

  “No, of course not. Your dad has faults. I’m not blind. But that’s not one of them.”

  “Then why?”

  “Oh, Michael.” I drop my head into my hands and rub my eyes. Mascara. That’ll leave raccoon eyes. “Do we have to do this tonight? I’m so tired.”

  “No. No problem.” His tone is hard. “No one wants to tell me what’s going on around here. Not Dad, not you. Taylor’s ticked at you. I’ve been ticked at Dad, and you guys are separated. But, hey, no problem. We’ll talk about it later.” He jumps up and fiddles with the sleeping bag.

  “You want to tell me why you’ve been so upset with your Dad?”
<
br />   “Why should I when you won’t tell me anything?” He turns to me and crosses his arms—erecting walls.

  “Okay, let’s get this out in the open. You first.”

  Rambo hops off the couch and settles on the floor with a groan.

  Michael relaxes his arms and plops back onto the couch. After days of Taylor’s immovable anger, his ability to shift gears with such speed is a blessing. “Last year, I went to see Dad after school one day. No one was in the outer office, but Dad’s door was open. I saw Ms. Andrews and Dad and they were kissing.” His eyes drop like he doesn’t want to see my reaction.

  Okay, maybe I have been naive. “And then what?”

  “I don’t know. I got outta there.”

  “And your dad said what about it?”

  “That I misread it. That if I stayed a second longer, I would have seen him kick her out.”

  Relief washes over me. Not so naive after all. “This is why you’ve been so angry? Why didn’t you just ask him?”

  He shrugs. “I was mad and cut through the elementary school on my way home.”

  The vandalism. Everything becomes clear. “Oh, Michael. What did you think you’d accomplish by trashing the school?”

  “I wasn’t thinking. I guess I wanted to get back at him.”

  I’ve had that feeling myself at times.

  “Your turn. Why’d you leave if it wasn’t because of Ms. Andrews?”

  I check my watch—ten o’clock—and catch Michael’s arched brows. He’s not letting this go, and a promise is a promise. Once it’s out, there will be no more secrets. The relief of it is almost enough to make me giddy.

  “The week before your dad and I got married, I kind of freaked out.”

  “Why?”

  “Your grandfather—”

  “Grouchy Grandpa?”

  “Yeah. Grouchy Grandpa. You think your dad’s tough, he’s nothing compared to mine. But as the wedding date drew closer, I started seeing things about your dad that reminded me of my dad. It scared me. I thought I should call off the wedding.”

  “But you didn’t. Obviously.”

  “No. Instead, I went to a party with Tricia and drank way too much. Of course, I’d never had much alcohol before, so it didn’t take a lot.” I draw in a deep breath and focus on my hands. How do I tell him something so shameful?