Truly Yours Contemporary Collection December 2014

by Joyce Livingston, Gail Sattler, Joyce Livingston

  She phoned Randy’s office again on Monday, this time punching in the numbers to his direct line. It rang four times before Carol picked up in the outer office.

  “I’m sorry, Sylvia. He is in a staff meeting. I am afraid it is going to be a lengthy one. He has already asked me to call the deli and have box lunches delivered. But I’ll tell him you called.”

  Sylvia let her head drop to her chest with an, “Oh. Of course. I forgot. He always has staff meetings on Monday.”

  Seeming to sense a problem, Carol offered, “If it’s important, maybe I can interrupt.”

  “No! Don’t do that. Just ask him to call, please.”

  She stayed by the phone the rest of the day, watching the hours tick by, waiting for his call.

  But it never came.

  When the phone rang Tuesday morning, she grabbed it up on the first ring.

  “Mrs. Benson. This is Hank from Hawkins Flowers. Could you please tell Mr. Benson we were able to get the apricot roses after all? He seemed so disappointed when he ordered and had to settle for pink roses. I knew he’d want to know.”

  “Apricot roses?”

  “Yes, and tell him we delivered them with his note attached, just as he’d asked. My driver said the lady was thrilled with them. Whoops, the other line is ringing. Thank you for conveying my message. Mr. Benson is a good customer, and we appreciate his business.”

  Sylvia stood with her mouth hanging open as the broken connection clicked in her ear. When the man had called, she had hoped the flowers were for her, and her heart had soared. Then he had said they had already been delivered. To whom had he sent flowers? Certainly not her! There seemed to be only one answer.

  Chatalaine.

  Why else would he go to all the trouble to make sure he was able to get roses of a certain color?

  She staggered her way across the family room and plunked herself into Randy’s recliner. When was the last time he had sent flowers to her? Her birthday? No, he had taken the whole family out to celebrate, but there had been no flowers for her. Usually, he sent her a gigantic poinsettia for Christmas, but this past year, he did not even do that. Mother’s Day last year? No, Buck and his wife had given her a beautiful white orchid corsage, but Randy had barely told her, “Happy Mother’s Day.” She cupped her head in her hands, her fingers rubbing at her eyes wearily as the song “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” resonated through her head. No, her beloved husband did not bring her flowers anymore. Apparently, his flowers were going to someone else now. Someone who paid more attention to him and met his needs more adequately than she did.

  As Sylvia lay in bed that night, she came to a decision. If Randy would not return her calls, she would go see him at his office. Yes, that is exactly what she would do.

  By nine the next morning, her hair swept up in a twist, her makeup meticulously applied, and decked out in the dress she’d bought on impulse several weeks earlier, Sylvia was in the elevator on her way up to Randy’s fourth-floor office. She had decided it was a bit too tight for her and a bit too short and had almost returned it to the store. Now she was glad she hadn’t. She had purposely worn the necklace and matching earrings he had given her several Christmases ago, although she doubted he would remember. Normally, she wore shoes with less than two-inch heels, but this morning she was wearing the pair of strappy, spike-heeled sandals she’d purchased to wear to one of Randy’s award banquets. She had ended up not going and staying home because DeeDee complained of a sore throat. She had never worn the shoes long enough to break them in, and her feet were killing her. However, if it meant catching her husband’s attention, the pain would be worth it.

  “My, you look nice,” Carol said as Sylvia exited the elevator, “but I’m sorry. You just missed him. He hasn’t been gone five minutes.”

  Sylvia wanted to cry. And nearly did. But knowing her tears would only upset Carol, she reined them in and forced a casual smile. “He didn’t know I was coming. I thought I’d surprise him.” Her heart broken and tears threatening to erupt despite her tight hold on them, she said a quick good-bye to Carol and stepped back into the waiting elevator. She had so hoped to see Randy and talk to him. Maybe then she could convince him to swallow his pride and admit he wanted to come home.

  She exited the elevator and hurried out the front door toward the Dallas Times’s public parking garage to the left of the big building. But as she approached the entrance, a white minivan exited through the gate not thirty feet in front of her, her husband at the wheel and a gorgeous blond in the passenger seat.

  Devastated by the sight, Sylvia leaned against the building for support, both hurt and angry. He doesn’t have time to return my calls, but he sure has time for his little cutie! Lifting first one foot, then the other, she snatched off the offensive sandals from her aching feet and ran the rest of the way to her car in her stockings, not caring if anyone saw her or if she got runs in her new pantyhose. All she wanted to do was get home where she could hide out and unleash her overwhelming rage. How dare he?

  Finally, she reached the house, not even sure which route she had taken. She flung herself across the bed and screamed out to God, asking what she had done in her life that was so bad she would deserve this kind of treatment.

  When the doorbell sounded at four, she couldn’t decide if she should answer it or not. It might be Randy, and at this point, she was not sure she even wanted to talk to him. If she told him she had seen him with Chatalaine, he would probably make up some ridiculous excuse. Or maybe he would just admit it, and she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear those words from his lips.

  The doorbell rang a second time. She stood pressed against the wall, weighing her options.

  Whoever was there began pounding on the door. Since she had not changed the locks, she knew if it were Randy, he would just use his key. So rather than explain to whomever might be there, she opened the door.

  “I knew you were here. Your car is in the driveway, and your keys are hanging in the front door. You’d better be more careful.”

  Five

  “Jen!” Sylvia quickly wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “I—I didn’t know it was you!”

  Jen moved inside and stood glaring at her, her face filled with concern. “Aw, sweetie, what’s wrong? You look awful!”

  Sylvia turned and led the way into the living room. “I–I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Jen took her hand and tugged her toward the flowery chintz sofa. “Look, Sylvia, you’re my best friend. If you think I’m going to walk out that door before I find out what’s bothering you, you’re crazy. Now, sit down here beside me and tell me about it, or I’m going to call Randy’s office and ask him.” Giving her a quick once-over, she continued. “You’re all dressed up. Were you on your way out?” Spotting her stocking’d feet, she raised her brows and gave her a smile. “You forgot your shoes.”

  Sylvia leaned back against the sofa’s soft cushions and closed her eyes. She needed to talk to someone. She hated to confide in Buck. After all, Randy was his dad, but she had to open up her injured heart to someone. The silence was driving her wild.

  “Okay, out with it. What’s wrong? You know you can trust me, don’t you?” Jen placed her hand softly on Sylvia’s arm. “You’re doubly safe talking to me. As your best friend, I’d never betray your confidence, and as the wife of your pastor, I’m bound by God to keep my mouth shut.”

  Sylvia opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know who I can trust, Jen.”

  “Out with it, Sylvia. It’ll make you feel better to talk about it. Are you sick? Has one of the kids gotten into trouble?”

  “Worse than that.”

  Jen paused. “How much worse?”

  Sylvia turned to her friend. She could be trusted, and she would never do or say anything that would harm either her or Randy. “Randy—he—”

  Jen let out a gasp. “Oh, no! Is there something wrong with Randy? Harrison and I were just saying the other day, that man is the picture of
health.”

  “No, he’s fine. Healthwise.”

  Jen looked at her impatiently. “Then what about Randy?”

  “He wants a di–divorce.”

  Her friend just stared at her in disbelief, as if words failed her. Finally, she slipped her arm about Sylvia and pulled her close. “I’m so sorry, Sylvia.”

  Sylvia gulped hard, then for the next half hour, she related the entire story about Randy’s leaving and her suspicion he’d left her for another woman, even though he’d denied it. She was careful not to mention Chatalaine’s name. “I’m at my wit’s end. I’ve about decided to give up and let him have the divorce without contesting it.”

  When she finished, Jen asked, “You, Sylvia Benson, are going to give up? Without a fight? That is not like you. If you still love this man and want him back, you are going to have to slug it out for him. This pity party you’re having isn’t going to cut it. It only makes you look weak, and from my vantage point as a pastor’s wife with experience in dealing with broken marriages, weak is never appealing or convincing to the spouse who walked out on the marriage. Especially if there is another woman involved. She’s usually pulling out all the stops to get the man to leave his wife and marry her. It’s her mission in life, her goal, and she won’t quit until she gets him.”

  Sylvia looked at her with wide eyes, surprised by Jen’s direct words. “If that’s true, how do you expect me to compete?”

  “That, friend of mine, is for you to figure out! But if it were me, and I loved my husband as much as I thought you loved Randy, I’d fight for him with every ounce of my being.”

  Sylvia pulled away from her and lowered herself into Randy’s recliner. “I wouldn’t begin to know how to fight. She–she’s—” She selected her words carefully, even though she knew, as a pastor’s wife, her friend would never go about telling tales and break a confidence. “She’s beautiful, Jen.”

  Jen did a double take. “You’ve seen her?”

  Sylvia nodded. “It’s that society columnist from Randy’s paper.”

  “Chatalaine Vicker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. You are right. She is beautiful!”

  “Now you see why I said I couldn’t compete with her.”

  Jen shook her head sadly. “I always thought, as happily married as the two of you seemed, Randy would be the last man to succumb to infidelity, but no man is safe. Or woman, for that matter. Many women leave their husbands and kids for so-called greener pastures, only to find they weren’t as green as they’d expected.” Jen seated herself on the sofa and leaned back into the cushions. “He sure wouldn’t be the first Christian man his age to let his head be turned by a pretty woman. Is he wearing gold chains, leaving his top three buttons unbuttoned on his shirt so his chest hair will show, and talking about buying a motorcycle?”

  Sylvia smiled through her tears. “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “Then there may be hope for him.”

  “You think he may be going through a midlife crisis?”

  Jen shrugged. “Who knows? We women have menopause—men have a midlife crisis. We get grouchy. They get childish. All of a sudden, they need their space. We’ve seen it over and over again during our years in the ministry. I can’t begin to tell you how many times my husband has had to counsel couples in this very situation. Usually, if both partners love the Lord, the husband comes to his senses before anything stupid happens, and if each person wants to revive the marriage and is willing to compromise and do their part, their relationship can be salvaged.”

  Sylvia sniffled as she reached for a tissue. “Salvaged? You make it sound like a battleship that went down at sea, was found, and pulled up later—battered and covered with barnacles.”

  “In some ways, that’s what a broken marriage is like. But unlike the battleship, it sinks slowly—with the husband and wife barely noticing the leak that will eventually destroy it. Funny, you mentioned barnacles. I’ve heard my husband use those very words when he’s been counseling a couple. He often likens them to wounds that married folks inflict on each other over time—like hastily said words, forgetting birthdays and anniversaries, neglecting to say I love you, taking each other for granted, not spending time together, and on and on and on.”

  Jen reached across and squeezed her hand. “The wounds are tiny at first, barely noticeable, but then infection sets in, and the wounds fester and grow until they actually threaten life if left unattended. Placing a Band-Aid over them merely covers them, but underneath the wounds remain infected, spreading wider and wider until they demand attention. At that point, drastic measures have to be taken. Though the wounds can probably be treated successfully with time and attention, many folks prefer immediate surgery. Cut it off and get rid of it.”

  “Divorce.”

  Jen nodded. “Yes, divorce. Sometimes those hurts go way deeper than we can possibly imagine.”

  The two women sat silently staring at one another. Finally, Sylvia spoke. “I–I’ve neglected Randy, Jen. I’ve put everything ahead of him and his needs. I realize that now.”

  “I’m afraid, as women and mothers, we all have a tendency to do that very thing. And for worthwhile causes. But that doesn’t make it right.” Jen confessed. “I have to admit, sometimes I feel neglected. Being married to a pastor doesn’t mean everything is hunky-dory at all times. We get calls all hours of the day and night from people who need him. I’ve cooked many a supper only to have him call and say he won’t make it home because someone is having trouble and needs him. As the pastor’s family, the children and I always take the backseat in any situation. Harrison and I have our moments of conflict, too. We have the same pressures and problems our church members have; only we’re expected to be perfect. The power of darkness would like nothing more than to see trouble in the pastor’s home, and the enemy works twenty-four/seven to make it happen.”

  Sylvia stared at her friend. “You and Harrison? But—you two are perfect. I’ve never once heard you say a cross word to each other!”

  “That’s because we keep our best face forward and do our arguing within the four walls of our home.” Jen leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees, her face serious. “Look, Sylvia, no one is perfect. Not you. Not Randy. Not Harrison and certainly not me. Marriages are fragile things. We can’t let them go unattended or take them for granted. I know Harrison and I have to work at it constantly. Several years ago, we realized, due to the demands of life, we were drifting apart and decided to do something about it. That’s why Friday night is our night. Unless an emergency happens, which it does quite often, from five o’clock until midnight every Friday night, the two of us are together. Alone. No kids. No in-laws. No parishioners. Just my husband and me. One week I plan the evening. The next week, Harrison plans it. It’s always a surprise. It may be as simple as hamburgers at McDonald’s and a movie or a picnic in the park. Other times it’s as complex as a dinner theater. But it’s our time together. We’ve even sneaked out of town a few times and spent the night at a motel.” Jen’s eyes sparkled as she talked.

  “I wish Randy and I had done something like that.” Sylvia leaned back in Randy’s recliner and stared at the ceiling, trying to remember the last time she and her husband had spent the entire evening together, just the two of them. “Maybe if we had, he’d still be here.”

  “Men try to act real tough, put on a façade. Rarely do they admit they’re hurting. They pretend they have tough skin, but they’re as vulnerable as we are, honey. If someone had asked me which man in our church would be least likely to do something like this, I would have said Harrison first, with Randy running a very close second.”

  Sylvia blinked back tears. “Me, too. I never dreamed—”

  “That’s the problem, Sylvia. Most of us don’t even suspect a problem until it rears its ugly head. We’re too caught up with life to see what’s right under our nose.”

  “Do—do you think it’s too late to fix it?”

  “Let me ask you a question.
Do you think God wants the two of you together?”

  Without hesitation, Sylvia answered, “Yes! Of course, He does.”

  “Then fight, Sylvia! Fight with all you’re worth. If you must go down, go down swinging.”

  “Fight?”

  Jen doubled up her fist and punched at the air. “Yes, fight. Fight for your marriage.”

  Sylvia let out a sigh. “But I’m not a fighter. I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

  “You? Not a fighter? I’ve always thought of you as a fighter. Aren’t you the woman who went to bat with the city council over the zoning for the church’s youth building annex and won? I was amazed the day you spoke at that council meeting. I never knew you had it in you. You were so passionate and articulate, they had no choice but to grant the zoning to you. I can’t think of anyone who could have done a better job.”

  Sylvia smiled a small victorious smile. “I really wanted the youth of our church to have that annex.”

  “And you did all you could to make it happen, didn’t you? You moved way out of your comfort zone. You have to do the same thing now if you want to win.” Jen scooted to the edge of the sofa. “If you want to revive this marriage, you’re going to have to face up to your part in its failure and do something about it.”

  “Like what? What can I do?”

  “That question, my friend, is one you’ll have to answer.” Jen pulled her car keys from her pocket and rose to her feet. “I hate to leave you like this, but I have to pick up one of the children, and I’m already late. I will give you this bit of advice, though. Like you, I’m sure God wants the two of you together, so why don’t you let Him help you with the answer? Pray about it, Sylvia. Listen to God. Read His Word. If your heart is open and you’re willing to do whatever He asks, He’ll tell you how.”

  Sylvia pushed herself out of the recliner and stood, her heart overflowing with love and appreciation for this godly woman. “I’m glad you came, Jen.”

  “Me, too, even though I had to pound on the door to get you to let me in.” Jen gave her arm an affectionate pinch. “I’ll be praying for you, you know that.”