by Gayle Roper
“Um. I suppose it’s as good a marker as any.”
She watched his reflection in the window as he studied her, unaware she could see him too. He looked sad, thoughtful. Yearning?
It’s just your imagination, the distortion of the reflection.
She pulled her eyes from him back to the night beyond the window, but her thoughts stayed on him, his prayer, his comment. She slid a finger through a line of condensate along the bottom edge of the window sash.
“It’s hard to get used to you praying.” She turned to him. “All I remember is you teasing me about my naiveté when I trusted Christ back in high school. And now here you are, a seminary grad and all.” She gave a wan smile. “Wonders never cease.”
“You can thank yourself for my believing. When you left, I was so devastated that I turned to God.” On those words he grabbed his duffel and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She stared openmouthed after him.
Devastated? Trev? Sure Phil had said his brother had come close to failing out, and maybe she almost believed him. But for Trev himself to say he was devastated? That couldn’t be. She was the one who had been devastated.
Again the thought flashed that the pain that had driven Trev to God had driven her from Him. What that said about each of them she didn’t want to contemplate.
She grabbed her cell phone. She had to talk to Meg. Meg would sympathize. Meg would understand how trapped she felt. Meg would tell her to come home.
She did not find the sympathy she expected.
“But six months, Meg! And he tricked us.”
“Good for him.”
“What?” Dori felt betrayed. She had been so sure Meg would understand.
“Listen, my girl, and listen closely to Mama Meg. For six years you’ve held resentment and hurt in your arms like they were precious friends.”
Dori made a protesting sound, but Meg continued as if she hadn’t heard. “It’s well worth six months to rid yourself of these pernicious cancers. They are robbing you of life. You’ve got to let go and forgive.”
“But, Meg—”
“No buts, Dori Trevelyan. Stay. Please, stay.”
When Trev came out of the bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a T-shirt and jeans, she was still sitting on the bed, staring into space, trying to come to terms with Meg’s perfidy.
Without a word, she collected her things and went into the warm, steamy room fragrant from his shower. She looked at herself in the mirror over the sink and saw blue-black smudges under her eyes, a pallor that equaled Pop’s, and a pinched, angry look around her mouth. She sighed. She’d be lucky if Trev wanted to keep her, looking the way she did. She turned away and rummaged for her toiletry items.
Though they’d brought all her luggage to the room, she’d only needed to open her small carry-on. Because she’d been afraid of losing the bigger case, it landing in Timbuktu while she landed in Philly she’d packed enough for a couple of days in the smaller bag. The only thing she would normally have needed out of the large bag was her pajamas, but there was no way on earth she was wearing them tonight. Those little shorts and that skimpy top would send entirely the wrong message, even if they were just a washed out, tired pink cotton knit, not a slinky silk.
Tonight she was sleeping in her jeans. Maybe tomorrow night too, and every night into the foreseeable future.
When she came back into the bedroom, Trev was leaning against the headboard, pillows stuffed behind him, reading a Bible, its navy leather binding creased and worn. He looked up and smiled at her. “I was just getting ready to pray for Pop. Want to pray with me?”
No! I don’t pray anymore, not even for Pop. “Sure,” she forced out. “That’s a good idea.”
He shifted over a bit and patted the bed beside him. She glanced at him, then down at the bed, then back at him.
He held up a hand, palm out. “I’m only asking you to pray with me, nothing more. I won’t ask anything more. I promise.”
Her face burning because he had read her so easily, she sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. She folded her hands primly in her lap and bowed her head.
Nothing happened. She opened her eyes and looked cautiously over her shoulder at him.
Trev was studying her with an inscrutable look on his face. “I won’t hurt you, Dori. I would never do anything to hurt you.”
The sincerity with which he spoke was a knife in her heart. She turned her back to him again and bowed her head.
“We’re going to have to talk about it sometime, you know.” His voice was gentle, meant to be soothing. “Otherwise, it’ll be a big pink elephant in the room with us, stepping on our toes, knocking into us, getting in our way, obvious but ignored.”
The thought of talking about her pain made her breath hitch. “Just pray, will you?” And let me alone!
When morning finally came, Dori had a horrendous headache and felt as grouchy as she ever had in her entire life. She’d tossed all night, falling into periods of fitful sleep as she hung on the edge of her side of the huge bed. Dreams of Trev, of the joy of the last night they’d spent together in bed, swirled with the heat of summer only to be interrupted by visions of another glimpse of Trev in bed, this time with a blonde head beside him. Then she’d start awake, only to hear Trev’s deep, easy breathing and his occasional woofle snore. She couldn’t decide which was worse: Her too-vivid dreams or the thought that he was blasé enough about their situation to actually get a restful night’s sleep.
She lurched out of bed, a gorgon in a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans. Trev took one look at her as she snarled her way to the bathroom and swallowed whatever jolly greeting had been on his tongue. When she saw herself in the mirror over the sink, she wondered why he hadn’t just bolted from the room before she turned him to stone. Her hair rivaled Don King’s with its finger-in-the-electric-socket look, and her left cheek was a mass of sleep lines, interesting since she’d not slept much. If she pursed her mouth any more tightly, by tomorrow she’d have those lovely little radiating lines into which lipstick bled so becomingly.
If she remained this ugly, he’d be happy to send her back to California and soon.
She climbed into the shower and let it beat her into at least a semblance of a decent person. She spent a lot of time on her hair and makeup, not because she wanted to impress Trev, oh no, never that. She needed to look good as part of her armor, as a means of giving herself strength. She had to remember that she could manage without him. She would manage without him.
By the time she was ready to leave the safety of the bathroom, she had come to a decision. So what that she’d promised Pop? She’d already disappointed him big-time. What was one more hurt? She was good at giving pain and receiving it in return. And Pop, well, he was good at being magnanimous. So was Honey. They’d both forgive her in time, and she’d avoid the humiliation she was certain awaited down the road.
She threw all her notions and cosmetics into her small bag and walked into the bedroom with her shoulders straight and her chin high.
Trev turned from stuffing things in his duffel. When he saw her, he smiled, a full, appreciative male smile. “You look lovely this morning.”
She allowed herself only a small, tight smile though his words felt like a gentle rain on a parched soul, far too soothing, too necessary.
“Thank you,” she said with as little emotion as she could manage and watched his smile turn wry as he answered his chiming cell phone.
She listened as she again stared out the window at the Dumpster. It was obvious that the call was from someone in his church about someone else in his church.
He punched off with a sigh. “We’re going to have to leave immediately, I’m afraid.”
“Trouble in River City?”
“Barry Sanders, our church flasher, went at it last night and is in jail. And Mary Jensen is in the hospital with kidney stones. I’ve got to go see both of them, especially Barry.”
Dori barely heard the second emergency. “You have a f
lasher in your church?”
Trev nodded and gave a soft snort. “And he loves my preaching. He tells me so all the time.”
“I can see that it must be doing him a lot of good,” Dori said solemnly.
Trev grinned, then sighed again. “It’s sad really. He’s been in jail several times for the problem, been to all kinds of court-ordered counseling and therapy, both Christian and secular. He meets with me once a week for accountability.”
“And while you were away, the mouse played.”
“Apparently so. I’m worried that one of these times they’re going to throw the book at him, and he won’t get out for years, if ever. Of course, the upside of that scenario is that he does best spiritually in the regimented circumstances of jail. No chance to give in to these strange urges of his, so he stays clean and really grows as a Christian.”
Dori was fascinated by the fact that Trev, popular, one-of-the-good-old-boys Trev, spent time with a flasher. Willingly, no less. “Does he have a family?”
“A mother who has washed her hands of him and a wife who left long ago.”
“Can’t say I blame her.” Dori thought about what it must have been like married to someone who ran around town without his clothes. She shuddered. “Just how old is this guy?”
“Old enough to know better.” Trev’s tone was acerbic. “I’d say he’s forty-five, forty-eight.”
“Old enough to know better is right. And it was cold out there last night! The guy’s nuts. He’s got to be.”
“Definitely different, but in most other ways a very nice guy.”
Dori’s stomach growled. “Do we have time to eat before we go?”
Trev grinned. “Never could stand to miss a meal, could you?” He zipped his duffel shut, then turned to grab his coat.
His red Lands’ End Squall.
She’d been so absorbed in her misery yesterday that she hadn’t even noticed the coat. Now it hit her hard. He still had his Squall, though it couldn’t still be the same one that Pop had given him that long-ago Christmas, could it? He must have bought another of exactly the same model. She blinked. Trev was a sentimentalist.
Well, she wasn’t. She was a realist. As she slipped on her parka, she said, “Trev, I’ve been thinking.”
He opened the room door and said, “Hmm?” He reached to take the handle of her larger suitcase from her.
“This isn’t going to work.” She picked up her laptop and the handle on her small carry-on bag and started out the door after him. She was so intent on what she was saying that she was only vaguely aware of others passing their door and the sudden, surprised, “Pastor Paul! What are you doing here?”
She pulled the door shut behind her, rattling it to make certain it had caught. “We can’t do this again. At least I can’t.”
She felt rather than heard a sudden thick silence. She looked up and saw three people staring at her: a man and a woman she supposed were husband and wife, and a buxom Betty Boop blonde who was a younger, souped-up model of the mother and who looked like she’d just been shot.
The vaguely heard words came back to her. Pastor Paul! These people were from Trev’s church. Dori’s face flamed as she thought about what she’d said and its possible and highly inaccurate reading. She looked at Trev in consternation. Talk about an imbroglio.
Trev was once again wearing his wry look. “Dori, I’d like you to meet Jonathan and Judy Warrington and their daughter, Angie. They’re members of Seaside Chapel. In fact, Jonathan is an elder.”
Trev slid an arm around Dori’s shaking shoulders. “Folks, I’d like you to meet my wife, Dori.”
Eleven
ALL TREV COULD THINK as he watched the incredulous faces of the Warringtons and the beached-whale expression on Dori’s face was that he was extremely glad Phil wasn’t standing in the corridor with them. Of course Phil’s hysterical laughter would have gone a long way in relieving all the awkwardness, disbelief, and uncertainty that was swirling about their little gathering with more chilling vigor than the winter winds howling outside.
“We were just going to get some breakfast before we started home.” Trev was pleased that his voice sounded ordinary in spite of the weight pressing his chest. Of all the people from church to run into, the Warringtons were by far the worst.
Jonathan Warrington thought Seaside Chapel belonged to him. Of course he’d never say such a blasphemous thing—“This is the Lord’s church!”—but he acted it. All decisions had to be his or at least have his agreement. Every time he talked about the past three pastors and how he had purified the church by scripting their leaving, Trev flinched. Of course Jonathan didn’t phrase his machinations so baldly He said things like, “It became obvious that he was no longer spiritually qualified to lead us” or “The Lord just showed us that he had to go.” For us, read Jonathan Warrington.
Trev had managed to avoid any heavy disagreements with Jonathan, though it had taken some fancy footwork a few times. Trev understood that Jonathan hadn’t bothered or attacked him because he was only the interim. As Jonathan saw it, he still had more power than Trev, so he was happy. Goodness only knew what he’d think of Dori’s sudden appearance, and when he learned of the six years—Trev paled at the possibilities.
Then there was Angie, smiling bravely at Trev in spite of her tear-sheened eyes. For two and a half years she’d been after him and not very subtly. In fact, her hand had been resting on his arm when Dori stated her decision to never do “this” again. He didn’t even want to think about how those words sounded to suspicious ears. Angle’s fingers had tightened, her nails becoming talons digging through his jacket and sweater to make what he feared were little red marks all over his arm. Just how much of her father’s vindictiveness was in her Trev wasn’t certain, but he was afraid they would soon find out.
He put his hand in the small of Dori’s back and began pushing her toward the exit. “See you tomorrow.” He smiled broadly.
Dori let him push her, but at the last minute she looked back over her shoulder and called gamely, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, Laurie,” said Judy Warrington stiffly. Significantly missing were polite nothings from Jonathan and Angie.
As Trev sat in the motel restaurant and ate the breakfast that tasted like sand, he tried to keep up pleasant, meaningless conversation with the woman seated across from him. His wife. His unhappy, unwilling, twice-trapped wife, ensnared once by Pop, now ambushed by the Warringtons. She didn’t need to be a genius to know that if she left now, his ministry was finished. He would be assumed to be having an affair, and no amount of talking would convince people otherwise. Only her presence would defuse the situation, though undoubtedly causing other difficulties.
Like how was he ever to explain her sudden appearance to the congregation?
The very best scenario was one in which no one asked any questions and happily accepted the marriage as a fait accompli. Then they could smoothly meld Dori into church life. However, he’d been a pastor long enough to know wishful thinking when he thought it. There would be questions, rumors, and gossip. He shuddered to think what was ahead for both of them, and not just from the Warringtons.
In his mind’s eye he saw the three Graces, little old ladies he called his grace builders because they considered it their Christian duty to speak to him about every perceived fault, failure, or poor sermon. Without venom and with sweet smiles they corrected him and cosseted him. Without doubt they would ask endless questions about Dori, questions that could cause great harm, given the information they were bound to uncover.
“How long have you known each other?” they’d ask, eyes bright and sparkling with the romance of it all.
Well, he could deal with that. So could Dori. Answer: always.
“When did you decide to get married?”
How would the old ladies take six years ago as the answer? Of course he could dodge the question and say he’d fallen in love with her when he was fifteen and she thirteen, but that led to another logic
al question.
“Well, what took you so long? And why did you keep her existence secret? No one even knew you had girlfriend, let alone that you were engaged.” They’d look at him with hurt in their eyes because he had not shared his great good news with them. “When did you get engaged?”
He could tell them that they decided to marry without going through the usual engagement thing. After all, it was the truth.
“Where did you get married?”
“In Las Vegas in one of the tacky Elvis chapels,” he’d say.
They’d stare, stunned. It seemed so out of character—or what they thought should be the character—of their pastor. Of course it hadn’t been out of character for the kids he and Dori had been six years ago. It had been a great lark, a wonderful laugh, a story to tell to their children and grandchildren.
Not that it presently looked as if they’d ever have any progeny to tell.
“But what about Angie?” one of the old ladies was bound to ask. “I thought you and she had something going.” Wink, wink.
He had been absolutely faithful to Dori, but the fact that he had never, ever given Angie any encouragement whatsoever wouldn’t mean anything if she chose to wear a broken heart on her sleeve. The damning truth was that he’d never told Angie he was married either, just like he’d never told any of his people including the church’s elected elders. Some things were best kept private.
Like a pastor has the luxury of privacy.
He sighed. If anyone did any checking, it wouldn’t take long to find out the whole sorry truth. Then would come the big questions.
“Why did your wife leave you?”
“How could you take our pulpit without telling us?”
“Why has she come back now?”
He set his coffee cup down and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes against the headache he’d had since he’d first felt Dori’s reluctance yesterday.
Ah, Pop, I know you meant to help, but what a mess!