Abide With Me

by Shellie Arnold

She couldn’t police that. No amount of communication, connection, anger, or hurt from her would keep her in the forefront of his mind.

  “You’re not speaking to me now?” he asked.

  “I can’t figure out what to say to you.”

  “If you weren’t going to stay at the hotel, why didn’t you come home?”

  “Unlike Kristen, I didn’t want to stay there without my husband. I go alone to church most of the time. I’m not going alone to a marriage retreat.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “To another hotel.”

  She stepped to the door, brushed past him. She walked to the room she used as a studio and loaded her backpack for the next day.

  A storm grew inside her. The wind of blame. The thunder of harsh words. The lightning of fury. She had to get them out.

  Angelina lifted a fresh canvas onto the easel. Selected a brush and loaded paint onto a palette. She swirled blacks and grays across the white, added an angry red under a hazy moon.

  “Angelina.” Nick entered the room.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Angie.”

  “I can’t talk to you right now.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “What does it matter?”

  He moved to stand beside her easel. “Then will you please put down your brush and listen? I can explain.”

  She continued painting, swirling blues into the blacks as her vision blurred with tears.

  “I can’t believe you’re shutting me out because I bought some property with Ryan. Did you stop loving me?”

  A tear escaped and slid down her cheek. She stood her brush in an open jar of solvent.

  “You couldn’t hurt me if I’d stopped loving you! This has nothing to do with Ryan, and you know it. Once again, you promised me one thing, then did another.”

  “This last year that has not been the case.”

  “Did you consult our new lawyer before you bought the property?”

  “I … No.”

  She turned away. “That’s what I thought. Do you truly have that little control over your impulses? What am I saying? Of course you don’t. You quit Denny’s for both of us, bought the real estate course without telling me. Talked me into leaving Florida—”

  “You can’t hold stuff from years ago against me. Wait a second. You did the workbook, didn’t you? All these memories were already stirred up, waiting to come at me.”

  “I don’t have to be reminded of what the early days of our marriage were like.”

  If she were honest, yes, the workbook had agitated painful memories.

  It had also encouraged her to forgive non-abusive offenses. To consider her own struggles and try to find common ground with her mate. A perspective they could share as each related to God.

  Regarding what area do you frequently have to ask God’s forgiveness? How has this weakness affected your marriage?

  But I haven’t hurt Nicholas near as much as he’s hurt me, she thought.

  She wasn’t the one always needing forgiveness.

  “We would have had to quit Denny’s anyway,” he said. “Because I did get a new job, right here in Birmingham. It all worked out, see? Like this property will. Just listen for a minute. Buying this property doesn’t mean I can’t quit Jenkinsons. It better not—I already emailed my resignation. Don’t you trust me?”

  Angelina took a deep breath. No, she didn’t.

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t depend on anything he said today being true tomorrow.

  “Angie. I wouldn’t have done it if doing so would significantly change our plan. Having property here gives me even more incentive to stay close.”

  “You’re going to stay home more because of a piece of land? Wow. That says a lot about how much you value me.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re twisting my words.”

  “I don’t have to twist your words. I don’t want any more excuses.”

  This time, she wasn’t going to forgive so easily.

  “I’m not the one who’s wrong here,” she said. “You ditched me at a marriage retreat. There’s no excuse for that.”

  He left. Obviously, hurt.

  An hour later, he came in quietly, placed a single sheet of paper on the table beside her, and walked away. She continued painting, then finally read the note.

  Dear Angelina, I’m sorry I hurt you. I do value spending time with you, and I want to spend more. I told you a long time ago, when we had the money and schedules allowed, I’d take you to Paris. Hoping we can do that this summer on your break from school. Love, Nick.

  P.S. Trying to keep another promise.

  Part of her wanted to believe him. Part of her thought he’d only written it because he knew seeing Paris was one of her heart’s deepest desires. Still, she dare not dream, because the right distraction would supersede his word.

  Go talk to him. Reach for him and let Me help you find a new understanding. For where two or three have gathered together in My name, I am there in their midst.

  She gritted her teeth.

  Give first. Give everything. Give all. Like Me.

  No. This time, she would not give in. She was tired of being the only one to fight for their marriage.

  She chose a clean, dry brush, and returned to painting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Seventh anniversary week, Birmingham, Alabama

  Angelina crumpled her to do list and tossed it back into her purse on the front seat. Not quite 10 A.M. and she’d already planned for lunch, boiling eggs for egg salad before she left the apartment. Then she’d gone to the dry cleaners, turned in a project at school, and visited her favorite art supply store. The back of her SUV now contained paints, brushes, and three new large canvases for her final assignments.

  Twelve weeks of school remained. In less than three months, she’d complete Mitchell Art Institute’s master’s program. She couldn’t wait to create whatever she pleased. Who knew? Maybe one day she’d have a solo exhibition at a prestigious gallery.

  The crisp winter air had chilled the car while she shopped. She zipped her hoodie, pulled onto the busy street for the stop-start drive home through town. She turned on the heat and the radio.

  “This is QFUN, Birmingham’s best station for all the songs you love. We’ve got folks on the line to enter our Valentine’s Day contest. Don’t forget, the prize is an all expense paid weekend for two in sunny Florida. You’re caller nine, what’s your name and best Valentine’s Day story?”

  “I’m Delia. Last year I took my husband on a safari in Kenya.”

  “Thanks, Delia. We’ll post your story on our Facebook page where our listeners can vote. Bye.”

  A safari in Kenya. Nick could afford that or any other trip, yet despite her summer breaks and his promises, he’d taken her nowhere.

  “This is QFUN, you’re caller ten.”

  “Hey. My name’s Glenn. We don’t have a lot of money to spend big for Valentine’s Day, and going out to eat is kind of tough because my wife has food allergies, you know? So last year I called a bakery and had a vegan, allergen-free cake made just for her.”

  “That’s sweet, Glenn.” The DJ laughed at his own joke. “We’ll post your story.”

  “You’ve got it all backward,” Angelina said.

  The couple with the best Valentine’s Day story shouldn’t win a trip away for Valentine’s Day. They’d had their moment and probably were continuing to have great moments together year after year.

  The contest should be for the worst Valentine’s Day story. A couple for whom the holiday represented hurt feelings and fights. A couple whose special times were historically disastrous. That’s who needed help with Valentine’s Day.

  Don’t think about it, she thought. He hasn’t even called this week, so don’t get your hopes up.

  She stopped at a light where her favorite boutique sat on the corner. A banner with the words BIGGEST SHOE SALE EVER! was draped across the glass windows, blocking view of the merchandise wit
hin.

  She didn’t need more shoes, but …

  I’m right here with you. Talk to Me. Let Me help you. You don’t have to be alone.

  But she was alone.

  An hour later, she was shoving bags onto the front seat. Ten pairs. She’d bought ten pairs. And she felt better. She felt relaxed yet happy at the idea of going home and arranging all her new shoes in her closet.

  Angelina scanned the street. A specialty gift shop sat directly opposite the shoe boutique. They always had new things, beautiful things, unique collections of pottery, glassware, and elegant statues. She looked both ways again and scooted across.

  The bell on the door jingled as she entered. And she saw them— new copper napkin rings and chargers, a matching ice bucket and tongs. Mugs, challises, a colander, even cookie cutters. All of that same shiny material, all in the same lovely shade.

  You don’t need them. You’ll probably never use them. Find comfort in Me, instead.

  But these were things she could see, touch, feel, and enjoy. Wouldn’t they look stunning some day on a long, mahogany table set for twelve, no, fourteen, for a New Year’s Day celebration?

  Whipping out her credit card, she strode to the cashier. She signed the receipt without looking at the total. What good was her personal account if she didn’t enjoy spending it?

  Aren’t you sabotaging your goals by spending money on unnecessary things, knowing Nick will have to work harder to pay for them?

  “Can someone help me load everything into my car?”

  “Absolutely,” replied the clerk. “If you can pull around back, we’ll load it for you.”

  “All right.”

  She hummed all the way home. She might have to move a few things, but she believed there was a clear spot in the china cabinet that would accommodate the copper.

  She turned into the parking garage, pulled into her designated space.

  They’d lived in the penthouse for four years now, having moved up shortly before Nicholas left Jenkinsons. And she could count on one hand the number of special days he had actually spent with her. There was always an emergency with a client or property that took precedence over their plans, over her wants and needs.

  She’d told herself to be grateful Nick was a conscientious, hard-working businessman. His being in demand meant job security for him, in a time when nationwide unemployment ratings continued to climb. She’d told herself if he didn’t work the way he did, she would have had to work part-time upon entering the master’s program at the institute. She couldn’t spend money on things she loved.

  Don’t think about being alone. Don’t think about it, she told herself as she exited her car.

  But you don’t have to be alone. You’re choosing to be alone.

  She pulled the blank canvases from the back of her SUV and carried them to their private elevator. She wanted to move them first, so they’d remained undamaged. But she almost couldn’t wait to again try on every pair of her new shoes.

  The elevator arrived. She hit the STOP button and carefully propped the canvases against one wall, then input the code for the penthouse. The car rose, then gave an uncharacteristic groan and jerk. An alarm sounded.

  Angelina’s stomach fell. She did not like this feeling.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Rousseau?”

  Thank God. The male voice over the intercom came from someone obviously watching on the video camera.

  “I’m fine, thank you. What’s going on?”

  “The power company is switching grids today. I’m sure that’s what caused the backup generator to try to kick in. The elevator will restart momentarily, ma’am. You’re safe.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at the camera and hoped whoever watched knew what they were talking about.

  She knew what to tell herself. If something were wrong with the elevator, they wouldn’t restart it, they’d come get her.

  She hit the emergency call button. “Excuse me. Will the elevator kick back on soon?”

  The car rose. She held her breath, paying careful attention to any unusual shift in its movement. Finally, the doors opened on their private floor. Angelina lifted the first canvas and walked into the apartment.

  A wall of smell hit her—burnt eggs.

  “No, no, no!”

  She knew what had happened even before she set down the canvases. She’d forgotten to turn off the boiling eggs … three hours ago?

  The stench was amazing in the worst possible way and almost made her gag.

  She didn’t want to look but knew she had to. Although at this point, one more minute wouldn’t make that much difference in the mess, would it?

  Angelina scurried through the apartment, opening windows. She sprayed air freshener. She lit candles in the living room.

  Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she walked into the kitchen.

  The six-burner, double-oven stove was covered with chunks of egg. The pot, charred beyond salvaging, smoked. She turned off the burner.

  Baked on, caked on yellow crust dotted the underside of the range hood, the nearby cabinets, and the tile floors. A white powder, probably disintegrated egg whites, lay thick on the nearby countertop, along with pieces of egg shell.

  This kitchen disaster being one of her worst, she considered taking a picture, then decided against it. Some catastrophes shouldn’t be remembered.

  To clean up, where should she begin?

  She picked up the in-building extension and dialed for maintenance.

  “Hi. This is Angelina Rousseau. In the penthouse suite? I kind of burnt something again, and I’m not sure what to do about the smell.”

  “I’ll send someone up.”

  “And maybe have them bring those cleaning supplies? I have a couple, but I’m afraid this is going to take something with a little more power.”

  “Sure thing, ma’am.”

  “Angie, what is going on?”

  She hung up as Nicholas joined her in the kitchen.

  “You left your car open. You left the front door open. And this place smells like someone tried to have an indoor bonfire.”

  “I forgot to close the hatch. I was going to go right back down and unload my car.”

  “You can’t leave it open like that.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I got distracted trying to get my new canvases up here without damaging them. Then the elevator got stuck. I got flustered.”

  “What about the front door? Yes, this place is secure, but you can’t take that for granted. Close and lock the door when you come home.”

  “I opened the door”—she waved her arms—“smelled this, and forgot about the door.”

  Then she really looked at him. “Why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Texas? Or Nevada? I can’t keep it all straight.”

  He laid his briefcase on the dining table and rolled up his sleeves. “Thanks for the welcome home.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  The door buzzed.

  She walked around him to answer. “I am handling this. I called someone. He’s here now. And I will handle it. I handle everything around here by myself ninety-nine percent of the time. You just happened to walk in on one of those times.”

  She opened the door. “Hey, Ralph. Oh, you brought fans and cleaning solution. Perfect. Just set the fans in the door. I’ll take the cleaning caddy. Thanks. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  “I can stay and help like last time.”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “You remember how to use the steam cleaner?”

  “Yes, I do. Thanks.”

  She practically shut the door in the uniformed man’s face, but she didn’t care.

  “Angie, how often do you do this?” Nick asked.

  Often enough, she thought but didn’t want to share that particular fact.

  She carried the caddy and the steam cleaner into the kitchen, sat them on the clean end of the counter.

  “Do you want to help me? Unload the car
. If the private elevator isn’t working, you can take the main elevator up to the twentieth floor, then use the stairs for the last three, like I have to sometimes. It’s great exercise. By the time you’re done, I’ll be half-done. We can order takeout, or you can go pick up something for lunch. Egg salad isn’t on today’s menu.”

  He turned to go. “All right. I’ll unload.”

  “Wait. Did you close the car?”

  “Of course. And I locked it, too.”

  She thought of the shoes. The bags from the art supply store and the specialty boutique.

  “Maybe I could use help cleaning up here. Or better yet, maybe call for some Chinese takeout?”

  ***

  “I still smell something,” Nicholas said.

  Angelina didn’t throw her last wonton at him, but she thought about it. “I’ll light another candle in a minute.”

  They continued eating.

  She didn’t want to feel irritated with him. Didn’t want to be irritated that he had caught her in one of her standard kitchen disasters. She knew her embarrassment was overriding any joy she might have at his unexpected return home. But she couldn’t seem to set aside the event. If he would just stop talking about it.

  “You know, you can call one of the doormen to meet you in the parking garage and help you. You don’t have to do that all by yourself when I’m not here.”

  You’re never here. By a millisecond, she stopped the words from jumping out of her mouth.

  “I don’t like doing that,” she said. “They’re busy, and it seems a bit ridiculous.”

  “As opposed to leaving your vehicle open for an extended period of time? That’s not only inefficient, it’s dangerous.”

  “Don’t you inefficient me. I’m not one of your clients.”

  “Forget I said anything.” He tossed his napkin onto the table, then carried it and his containers to the garbage can. “I’m telling you I still smell something over here. Maybe we need to pull out the stove and clean under and around it?”

  “I cleaned up every speck.” She threw away her garbage and joined him near the stove.

  But a funky smell lingered in the air.

  She looked up to check the ceiling. All clear.

  She peered under the range hood, just to be sure. Again, all clear.