The Perfect Life

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Brad turned from the window. With his eyes, he begged me to believe him. I did. Mostly. No, completely. Of course, completely. He’d said Nicole was lying, and I trusted him.

  I stood. “I’d better go home. I . . . I need to call Annabeth and cancel the Bible study for tonight.”

  “Do you think you should? You almost never cancel.”

  “I have to watch that news program. I need to know what she says, and I can’t do that with the ladies there.”

  “Whatever she says, it’ll be a lie. She was angry when she quit. She’s trying to cause trouble.”

  Why would anyone do this, no matter how angry she is? It makes no sense. None of it.

  “Kat.” He walked toward me. “Are we okay?”

  I don’t know. Are we? Tell me, Brad. Tell me we’re okay.

  He drew me into his embrace, holding my head against his chest with one hand, his other hand rubbing my back. I could hear his heartbeat. Bah-bum . . . bah-bum . . . bah-bum . . .

  “Stan told us not to worry,” he said softly.

  “I know.”

  “So let’s not worry.”

  “I’m trying.”

  He kissed the crown of my head. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

  We’d come through other storms of life together. Like the time we broke up about a month after Brad proposed. Like the several health scares we’d had when Hayley was little or those terrible times with Emma when she was in her teens. But we’d made it through, all of us. God had been faithful. I had to believe we would come through this too.

  I did try not to worry after I returned home, but I failed. Abysmally. I felt brittle, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. I sat in the family room, television on, ignoring the phone when it rang, dreading the approach of seven o’clock.Time seemed both to crawl and to rush by at the same time.

  It was midafternoon when Susan arrived on my doorstep. “Why aren’t you at work?” I asked—not the most gracious of greetings.

  “I came to see a friend in need. I’ll bet you’re sitting around waiting for that show to start. Girlfriend, you need to get out of the house. Grab your purse.We’re going out.”

  “Oh, Susan. I don’t want—”

  “I don’t care what you want. You’re doing what I say.” She stepped inside, her eyes staring past me. “Is Brad here?”

  “No. He’s at the office.”

  “What about your Bible study? Is it still on for the night?”

  I shook my head. “I cancelled it.”

  “Just as well.” She flicked her fingertips in my direction. “Get a move on.”

  With a sigh, I went upstairs, where I brushed my hair, added a golden-hued eye shadow to my lids, freshened my mascara and lipstick, and finished with a spritz of cologne.

  “Where are we going?” I asked when I returned to the entry.

  “I feel like something to eat. Do you want to choose?”

  “No. I don’t care where we go. I’m not hungry.”

  I led the way outside, handing Susan the keys so she could lock the door behind us. Soon enough, we were in the car and on our way.

  “How about the Cheesecake Factory?” Susan asked as we neared the mall. “We can have some sinfully wonderful dessert to spoil our dinners. I recommend lots of chocolate.”

  “Chocolate isn’t the answer for every problem.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s a good place to start.”

  I released another deep sigh.

  “Maybe you should skip watching that news report tonight. It’ll only upset you more.”

  “I can’t skip it. I need to know what she has to say about Brad.”

  Susan pulled into the mall parking lot. She didn’t say another word until she parked the car not far from the main mall entrance. “Listen. I’m probably not the best person to give advice on this particular topic. I haven’t had much success when it comes to marriage. And besides, I’m never surprised when a man strays. I guess I’m more surprised when they don’t. But if any man is capable of walking the straight and narrow, it’s gotta be Brad Clarkson. Don’t believe the worst until you know it’s true—even if that’s what you’ve seen me do.”

  My chest lightened. “You think he’s innocent?”

  “Look, I can’t say anything for sure. I don’t know Nicole. I only met her at that party you gave last fall. But some women don’t care if a man’s married, and she strikes me as that type. If she came on to Brad . . .” She shrugged. “Well, who knows? But I wouldn’t jump to believe her first thing. She’s obviously no paragon of virtue, and that’s by her own admission.”

  Susan and I were different in many ways. I’d been married to the same man for nearly twenty-five years; she was twice divorced. I had two daughters with a couple of grandchildren on the way; she’d never conceived. I was a Christian; Susan trusted only in herself, with a dash of positive thinking and universal good thrown in. I liked to keep things serene; she enjoyed a good argument every now and again. I was a conservative, and she was a liberal. Most of the time, I was right and she was wrong. At least, that’s what I liked to tell her.

  More than anything, I wanted her to be right this time.

  Eight

  DON’T WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING; INSTEAD, PRAY ABOUT everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done . . . Fix your thoughts on what is true and honorable and right. Think about things that are pure and lovely and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise . . .

  That evening, I repeated those Bible verses to myself as I sat in the family room, waiting for Our View to air. The Scriptures should have made me feel better. They should have brought a measure of comfort. They didn’t. Probably because I couldn’t find anything pure or lovely or admirable upon which to fix my thoughts. Instead, I thought about Nicole.

  Not long after she was hired at In Step, I’d learned Nicole loved live theater as much as I did. So I invited her to join Brad and me when we attended a production at the Knock ’Em Dead Theater. We enjoyed her company, and thereafter she joined us whenever we took in a show. Nicole was bright and witty. Her keen sense of humor never failed to make me laugh. And she was pretty too. I couldn’t believe she was unattached at the age of thirty-five. There had to be something seriously wrong with the men who met her.

  To tell the truth, I would have loved to fix her up with one of several bachelors I knew. But those young men were believers, and church was the logical and most natural place for me to introduce her to them. Since Nicole declined my invitations to join us on Sundays at Harvest Christian Fellowship and seemed to have no interest in Christianity, my desire to play matchmaker seemed doomed.

  Then one day when I was at In Step, I invited Nicole to the women’s Bible study I led. Much to my surprise, she accepted. I had renewed hope. She attended for four months. Then, right before Christmas, without any warning, she bowed out, saying she didn’t have time to continue. A couple of months later—in February of this year—she quit her job with In Step. I’d tried to call her a few times after that but hadn’t reached her. Nor had she responded to the messages I’d left on her voice mail.

  Now I knew why.

  Uneasiness churned in my belly.

  Brad stepped into the room, drawing my attention. His face looked haggard. He seemed to have aged several years since the weekend.

  Without looking at me, he asked, “Did you set the DVR to record the program?”

  “No.”

  “I might need to refer to it later.” His gaze met mine. “For legal reasons.”

  I picked up the remote and held it toward him.

  Brad settled onto the opposite end of the sofa. “Is your women’s group meeting at someone else’s home tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I left it up to them.”Wherever they were, they were probably watching Channel 5.

  “Kat, we’ll have to talk about . . . whatever we see tonight.”

  Looking at the muted television, I nodded. He was r
ight, but I wished he weren’t. I didn’t want to talk about any of this. I wanted it to go away. I wanted to wake up from this nightmare and find things as they’d been, as they were supposed to be.

  An image flashed in my mind. The annual In Step Foundation Christmas party, two Decembers ago. Brad standing near the Christmas tree, Nicole handing him wrapped packages to give to the employees. Her smile, a certain look in her eyes as she spoke to him. The way he smiled in return.

  It’s not true. I won’t believe it’s true.

  On the television screen, the host of Our View appeared. A second later, the sound came on, and I heard him announcing the program’s agenda for the night. The segment with Nicole Schubert would be last.

  This promised to be the longest thirty minutes of my life.

  Brad and I didn’t move or speak throughout the program. With each tick of the clock, I grew more tense. The waiting might be the death of me.

  And then it was on. There was Greta St. James, speaking to the camera, reviewing the history of In Step, talking about the humanitarian award, talking about Brad, talking about us.

  “Respected members of the community . . . very public figure . . . the growth of In Step in recent years . . .” There was an odd droning in my ears. I tried to concentrate on what the reporter said, but the words seemed disjointed and difficult to understand.

  Images on the screen continued to change. A shot of our house. A shot of our church. A shot of the Henderson Building. One of Brad with the mayor. Another of him with his construction crew outside one of the remodels. And finally, there was Nicole, looking composed as she sat on her living room sofa.

  “. . . Our affair lasted more than a year . . .”

  I wasn’t sure how long she’d been talking before those words reached through the haze in my head. A minute. Five minutes.

  “. . . I loved Brad, but I could no longer be a party to his hypocrisy . . .”

  Like pages in a photograph album, more images flipped through my mind. Nicole, leaning close to Brad at the table when she’d been our guest for dinner. Nicole, always the last to leave after Bible study, waiting until Brad emerged from his den so she could say good night to us both. Nicole, looking flushed, sitting in Brad’s office when I stopped by one afternoon.

  The television fell silent. The screen went dark. The program was over. What had I missed?

  Slowly, I turned to look at Brad.“She was in love with you. All that time I was trying to be her friend, she was in love with you.”

  “She thought she was in love with me.”

  Was that a confession of guilt? The words I never thought I’d ask were ripped from me: “Did you have an affair with her? Did you sleep with her?”

  “No. Never. Nothing inappropriate happened between us. When I realized what Nicole . . . wanted, I suggested she find another place of employment. She left a few weeks later.”

  I hugged myself.

  “You know me better than this, Kat. You know I’d never be unfaithful.”

  In my lifetime, I’d seen ministers and televangelists experience spectacular falls from grace after giving in to sexual temptation. Who could forget the scandals that wracked the evangelical community in recent decades? Some of those men cheated with women who worked for them. Some with prostitutes. Some—

  I shuddered.

  I remembered the wives. Women who expressed surprise when allegations were leveled against their husbands. Women who, at least for a time, stood by their men, exuding confidence in their vindication.

  Wives who’d been wrong all along.

  I’d thought them foolish or deluded. How could a wife not know that her husband was having an affair? How could a wife not know if his behavior was less than godly?

  Was I foolish as well? Had I been deluded all this time?

  No.

  The phone rang, and I cringed. Whoever it was, I didn’t want to talk to them. I didn’t want to hear anyone ask, “Did you see the show?” Because behind that question would be another one: “Is it true?”

  I fled the family room, hurrying up the stairs, through our bedroom, and into the master bathroom, locking the door behind me. My back to the wall, I slid to the floor and drew my knees to my chest.

  God, why are You letting this happen?

  The church would have to conduct an investigation into Brad’s actions. He was in leadership at Harvest, and now there was a question of moral failure. What about the women who came to our home on Wednesday evenings? Would they think me unfit to lead them in Bible study? Would they be able to trust me?

  Can I trust Brad?

  I pressed the heels of my hands against my ears, wanting to silence the questions. I had no answers, wasn’t sure I wanted answers, wasn’t sure I wanted the truth. All I wanted was my old life back.

  “Katherine.” A soft rap followed. “Open the door.”

  “No.”

  Brad jiggled the knob. “Come on, honey. We need to talk about this.”

  “Not right now.”

  “Please.”

  “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Kat—”

  “Go away, Brad. I need to be alone.” I drew in a breath. “I’ll be all right. I just need some time.”

  He was silent a long while, so silent I wondered if he’d walked away without my knowing it. But then he said, “I’ll be in the den when you’re ready.”Another moment of silence. “That was Emma on the phone. She wanted to know if we need anything, if she should come over. I told her to wait until morning.”

  Okay, I mouthed. My throat was too tight for sound to push through.

  I stayed there a long, long while. Hours, maybe. And the devil had a heyday, taking my imagination places I didn’t want it to go. I pictured things I didn’t want to see. I heard sounds and words I didn’t want to hear. But neither could I take every thought captive, no matter how hard I tried. And I did try. Only I didn’t know how to shut it off.

  Finally, I went numb. My head. My heart. It was a relief to stop feeling, to stop thinking, to simply withdraw into a quiet corner deep in my soul and hide. I never wanted to come out. Not ever again.

  Of course, eventually I had to rise. Eventually I had to force myself to my feet, my legs shaky beneath me. By rote, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, shed my clothes, put on my nightgown, and opened the bathroom door. The soft glow of a nightlight led my way toward the bed.

  Brad was there, lying on his side, either asleep or pretending to be. I slipped between the sheets.

  “Kat.”

  “Not tonight, Brad.”

  “We need to talk about this. You need to hear what I have to say.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. A lump welled in my throat. “All I want to do right now is sleep. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

  He rolled toward me, rising on his elbow. “Can you sleep with all those questions bouncing around in your head?”

  “I mean to try.” I turned my back to him. “Just let me have this one night. Please.”

  Brad

  HE COULDN’T SLEEP, NOT WITH HIS THOUGHTS CHURNING, not with Katherine lying with her back to him, pretending to sleep. As he pretended.

  Eventually, when her breathing slowed, exhaustion having overtaken her, he got out of bed and went downstairs. He turned on the television in the family room, the audio low, selected the recorded program on the DVR menu, and fast-forwarded to the last segment of the half-hour show.

  There she sat—Nicole Schubert. To the casual observer, she must look cool and poised. But Brad wasn’t a casual observer. He recognized the anger that simmered right below the surface. He noticed the slight tremor in her voice and the set of her jaw.

  He’d known she hated him. She’d told him so that last day in his office, the day she resigned. But he hadn’t known how much she hated him until now. How could he have guessed she would do something like this? Maybe if he’d expected it . . .

  No, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He couldn’t have prevented it. He couldn’t have ave
rted the damage she’d do. Knowing wouldn’t have stopped the doubts from forming in Katherine’s mind when she heard Nicole’s accusations.

  All of those months he’d worked with Nicole. All of those meetings in his office. All of those evenings at the theater, laughing over the comedies, applauding the performances. All of those Wednesday evenings when she came to Katherine’s study. He’d prayed for her eyes to be opened. Why hadn’t he prayed for himself? Why hadn’t he foreseen it would come to this? A wiser man might have seen it coming.

  Father, I’ve made my share of mistakes, and I’m sorry for them. I should have been wiser. You know the truth, and You know what I should do about it. Show me the way.

  He rewound the recording and hit Play again.

  Nine

  WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN, SUSAN AND I USED TO VISIT her grandparents on their farm near Kuna. We both loved it there. In the summer, we rode her grandpa’s old saddle horse and went wading in the creek. In the fall, we loved to play safari in the drying cornstalks. One of us pretended to be a tiger, the other a hunter. The tiger would lie in wait, and when the hunter passed by, the tiger would spring from hiding with a roar.

  How I longed to return to the innocence, the safety, of those childhood games. The fearful anticipation. The startled screams. The laughter.

  The tiger lay in wait for me now, but it wasn’t imaginary. I could feel its breath on the back of my neck. This tiger was real and so were my fears.

  I was in bed alone when Emma arrived the next morning. Tenderly, she drew me from beneath the covers, helped me into my robe, and led me downstairs to the kitchen where, with a gentle pressure on my shoulder, she urged me to sit on one of the chairs at the table.

  “Dad made coffee before he went to work. Want some?”

  I shrugged, shook my head, nodded. I didn’t know what I wanted. It was too much to try to decide.

  A minute or two later, my daughter set a mug on the table and slid it toward me. “Here you go.”

  I looked at it, watching the steam rise in a swirl above the dark brew.