Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

  I look down and strangely enough find myself relating to a guitar string—this must be how it feels when one of those little knobs is turned too far …

  “Kate?”

  And further yet …

  “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  Taut. Straining.

  “Even though I’ve told you things I’ve told no one else.”

  Near snapping.

  “You won’t even look at me.”

  If it breaks, it can’t be fixed, can it? Too short … too frayed …

  He retreats a step. “I should be going.”

  Tell him, Kate! You’ve blown every other opportunity. This is the last one.

  I toss my chin up. “Christopher wanted children, and I …”

  Say it!

  “I—”

  “Didn’t,” Clive says with finality.

  “No!” I catch his sleeve. “I did want children. He just … wouldn’t consider adoption.”

  Clive’s lids narrow. “Then you were afraid of ruining your body.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he suspected as much the first time I felt him out with regard to adoption.

  “No.” I release his arm, grope for the bracelet, and rub the Believe medallion. “After Christopher and I were engaged, I started having problems—female problems.” I open my mouth to go into detail, but the realization growing in his eyes makes it moot. “The short of it is that, over the next year, I went through menopause—Premature Ovarian Failure. I can’t have children. Unfortunately, you, like Christopher, believe that only biological children will complete you.”

  He stares, while across his face pass emotions too raw to name. “No, the problem is that Christopher knew adoption was the only option. I didn’t.”

  Believe.

  “I know I should have told you.” I moisten my lips. “And I wanted to, but …”

  “What?”

  Believe. Believe.

  “I like you too much.”

  Love you.

  “I kept thinking that once you got to know me—”

  “I wouldn’t care. That my feelings for you would be strong enough for me to abandon the desire for a biological child. That I’d be hooked.”

  He makes it sound so manipulative. And I long to deny it, but he’s right.

  Believe.

  He glances at my hand on my bracelet, and when he looks back, there’s an emptiness in his eyes. “I suppose it could be worse. I could be dangling from your hook.”

  Ow.

  Not until the silver and glass beads hit the wood floor do I realize what I’ve done. I stare in disbelief at the scattered pieces of the bracelet Belle gave me. Will I ever be able to pick them all up and put them back in order? I catch the sound of something small and metal hit the floor. And realize that Believe has also slipped through my fingers.

  “Apparently,” Clive says, “it’s not enough to wear your belief around your wrist, Kate. You have to wear it here.” He taps his chest. “Guess I’m not the only one who needs to get back to God.”

  I catch sight of the picture that led to my downfall—

  No, that’s not right. I’m to blame. My disbelief.

  “Wait!” I snatch the picture from the drafting table, tread beads underfoot, and halt before Clive as he turns at the door.

  “I’m sorry.” And that’s all I can say.

  He glances over my face, as if for the last time. Then, without so much as a brush of fingers, he takes the picture and leaves me to cry myself silly. Which I do for hours, in between sobs crying out to God, who is suddenly more important than my work, weight, makeup, clothes, thighs, and Clive.

  After midnight, I hear Maia and Michael return. As their voices reach to me from the entryway, I squeeze my inflamed eyes closed. Which reminds me of the pepper spray incident. Which starts the tears flowing again. Which leads to the systematic destruction of my Bible.

  Plop! goes another tear. Which sinks into the fibers of the thin page. Which I anxiously wipe at. Which causes the page to ripple. Which makes me wipe harder. Which tears the paper.

  I whimper, sink back against the headboard and, through tears, stare at my poor Bible—rippled and warped pages from Psalm to Proverbs all the way to Galatians. Every one of them evidencing my pitiful attempt to get back to Operation: Perfect Faith. Too little, too late.

  With a lumbering heart, I flip to highlighted, tear-stained Proverbs 30:15–16: “There are three things that are never satisfied, four that never say, ‘Enough!’: the grave, the barren womb—”

  I draw a bumpy breath, then turn back to Galatians 4:27, which has sustained the most damage: “Be glad, O barren woman, who bears no children; break forth and cry aloud, you who have no labor pains; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband.”

  Oh, Lord, I’m desolate.

  I close my Bible and wince at the bent gilt-edged pages. Unfortunately, the damage will never pass as simply thumb-worn.

  In addition to a new heart, I’m going to need a new Bible.

  Sunday, July 8

  Dear Lord,

  The Holy Spirit sends its regards from the pitiful person of Katherine Mae Meadows. I miss you. It’s been a while since my last entry. Forgive me. Though I know you’ve been chasing me, I didn’t want to be caught. I was too afraid of listening and losing, and now look what I’ve done. Who I’ve hurt. What I’ve lost. It’s beyond me how you continue to love such a sinner.

  Lord, I’ve put my insecurities and appearance and heart and desire for success above you and your word. And if I were you, I’d have a hard time forgiving me, so if you need to think about it a while, I’ll understand. But I’m grateful I’m not you, because I know your forgiveness blankets me. Even though I don’t deserve it.

  I need you. Please pull me through. Help me fight this urge to pull a no-show at the grand opening benefit. I have to be there, especially as Clive will be present. Even if I’ve broken something beyond repair, I owe him more than that sorry apology. As you know, I’ve been less than a model Christian despite my attempts (yes, feeble) to convince Clive of your love for him. Please don’t let me have set him further back than he already was. Which may not be as far back as I am …

  Thank you for forgiving me and allowing me back in what must seem a revolving door. And thank You, thank You, for the blessing of John Mark. All things are possible.

  Badly in need of a spiritual makeover,

  Your Kate

  PS: With the exception of breast reduction, cosmetic surgery is out—I’ve purged my purse. Please help me remember that it’s more important how I’m seen through your eyes than the eyes of those who focus on the external and pick at my imperfections. Help me to embrace 1 Peter 3:3–4: “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” Tall order.

  inderella is going to the ball. And she’s wearing—“Red is definitely your color.” Maia shakes her head. “I can’t believe it fits. Amazing.”

  No, what’s amazing is, outside of a curling of toes and tightening of mouth, I don’t react. She doesn’t mean to offend, and besides, I can’t believe it fits either. But then, the dress isn’t—

  “Of course it isn’t fitted.”

  Picked up on that, too, did she?

  I stare into the mirror that occupies a corner of Maia’s bedroom and eye the scooped neckline that required me to move the patch—couldn’t take the migraine threat any longer—from my chest to my thigh. My gaze skims the folds of the elegant, something-of-a-baby-doll dress that flatters my overly endowed figure. Now that’s amazing. And suddenly I’m grateful that Maia let out a shriek at the sight of my evening attire—the black, fuchsia-edged outfit.

  Reminding myself that inward appearance is what matters, I’d protested. But Maia pulled me after her and, follo
wing a frantic search through a family-sized closet, produced this. The color nearly made me recoil, but then a booming voice told me to unclench my fingers and let the past go. Told me that though God is more concerned with my inner self, that doesn’t mean I should sink back into post-Christopher. Told me God made beauty, and provided I don’t allow it to replace Him, He wants me to shine.

  “Better, hmm?” Maia prods.

  I turn sideways, thrill as the soft material whispers against the backs of my knees, and smile at the realization that I won’t have to suck in my abs. Not a soul will know if I “let it all hang out.”

  “I like it, Maia. Of course, it was probably designed to be worn above-knee.”

  She glances down her long body. “Make that midthigh.”

  I roll my eyes. “Well, rub it in, why don’t you?”

  Her smile falters. Why? Did my quip prick her conscience? Or was she merely surprised by my response to her gibe?

  She reanimates and pulls me toward a dressing table. “Let’s do something about that hair.”

  “But I’m already late.”

  “Good.” She presses me down onto a stool. “The better to make an entrance. Now let’s get your hair up.”

  I sigh and give myself into her hands.

  “How are you and Michael doing?” I ask as she sweeps up curls and wields bobby pins.

  She smiles softly. “He’s wonderful—cares about me in spite of everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “My past. Who I am. What I’ve done. He’s … well … a friend first.”

  Just like Belle was to Beau.…

  Another curl joins the others atop my head. “I’ve always had the ‘boy,’ but never the ‘friend.’ ” She laughs. “He hasn’t even tried to get me into bed.” Then she frowns. “Not you either, hmm?”

  That I wasn’t expecting, and though I’d rather change the subject, I know she’s looking for confirmation. “Me neither.”

  Her shoulders ease.

  “Michael respected my convictions. I’m pleased he respects yours as well.” Was that pushing it too far?

  She meets my gaze in the mirror. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  I shrug.

  Smiling broadly, she tugs tendrils down around my neck, then my brow, all of which lend an ethereal look to Katherine Mae Meadows.

  “I like him, Kate.” She picks up a bottle of hair spray. “I really like him.”

  I sense a “but” in there. “So?”

  “I can see myself married to him, but this religion kick he’s on …” She sighs. “He wants me to go back to your church with him. And kids. If he decides he wants them after all, well, I just don’t see myself all round and roly-poly and bursting at the seams.” She huffs. “And you should have seen him with Belle and Beau’s baby! For a man who told me he could take ’em or leave ’em, he was way too interested.”

  “Obviously, that’s something the two of you have to discuss before you get much more involved.” Such easy advice to give, so much harder to take.

  Maia spritzes my hair. “I know. And we’re going to. Not that kids are completely out of the question, but he needs to know my feelings and I need to know exactly what his are.”

  My throat tightens. “I admire you for that.”

  “After all the mistakes I’ve made, I guess I’m finally learning from them.”

  She has had more relationships than I.

  She tugs a tendril near my ear. “So what do you think?”

  I stare at the woman in the mirror. “I think you really know your stuff.”

  “Thanks. Now one more thing.” She pops into her bathroom and comes back with a familiar little bottle. “Visine!”

  I know the stuff, went through a bottle just this week. Though it’s true I’m crawling my way back to God, I still hurt, and that hurt most often finds its release in tears.

  “I’ve heard you, you know.” Maia hands me the bottle. “Crying at night.”

  So much for stuffing my face in a pillow. “I hope I didn’t keep you awake.”

  “Not much. When I’m worn out, I can sleep through even the most obnoxious heavy metal music.”

  How sad to be equated with that. I drop my head back and, with a well-practiced hand, squeeze a drop in each eye.

  “It’s that doctor, isn’t it?”

  I startle and meet Maia’s gaze through the excess moisture.

  She nods. “I thought so.” Then, to my surprise, she gives me a hug. “You look beautiful, Kate. Make the most of it.”

  Why does that sound easier said than done?

  When I walk into the crowded room forty-five minutes late, I don’t exactly stop the show, but I do turn some heads. Unfortunately, one of those heads belongs to Christopher Stapleton. Though I suppose I should have guessed he’d be here, I never considered it.

  I grip my little purse tighter and look around the room that’s festooned in blue and silver and hung with little white lights. Servers balance platters brimming with drinks and appetizers, and everyone who presses around me is dressed for the occasion—evening dresses that would have made my black outfit seem terribly plain, and tuxes, white shirts, and bow ties that turn every man into a gentleman. Deserved or not.

  “Kate, dear!” Gloria Murphy appears before me wearing a sparkling green jacket and black slacks. “The artist herself.” She kisses my cheek, then pulls back and sweeps her gaze around the room. “I’m amazed at what you’ve done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you …” She looks me over. “You’re so pretty.” She grips my arm and tugs me back the way she came. “Join us.”

  Us? I know the answer before we break through the circle of a gathering of guests, but I don’t resist. I have to face him eventually.

  “Don’t worry about Clive, dear,” Gloria whispers. “He’s not happy with me either, but he’ll get over it.”

  I survey the group. There’s Jack, his older daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter. Past them are a man and woman I don’t recognize, the stout, bushy-browed Dr. Adam MacPhail, Adelphia, and Clive, wearing a tuxedo. Clive, who looks too good to be true, as does the bit of smile he gives me—not much, but it’s something.

  Over the next half hour, conversation shifts between the process of transforming the domed room to the subtle symbols of Christianity that have generated a buzz, then talk of how the new burn unit will serve the community. Throughout, I contribute when called upon, even though it’s a struggle when what I really want is to slip away from the sight of Clive with Adelphia and the looks that pass between Gloria and Jack.

  After a while, Adelphia asks Clive to dance. Strange, but only then do I become aware of the music pumping through the room and the beat of my heart, which doubles its efforts at the thought of Adelphia in Clive’s arms. But maybe he won’t—

  He inclines his head and leads Adelphia away.

  Beside me, Gloria frowns over her son-in-law’s exit, then bends near her husband.

  Taking the opportunity to slip away, I back out of the circle and weave among the other guests. Along the way, I acquire a long-stemmed glass of sparkling water but wave away the platter of art the server assures me is all edible. Not where I come from …

  As I head for the restroom, I pass the dance floor, where couples are moving in each other’s arms. Lest I see Clive and Adelphia, I avert my gaze and glimpse something familiar on the wall to the right. I falter and peer closer at a picture partially obscured by guests who stand four or more deep.

  He hung it.

  Altering my course, I halt before the framed portrait and stare at it as I’m flooded with memories of when I presented it to Clive six nights ago. Six long nights.

  Emotions trembling, I slide a finger across the brass plaque engraved with the names of Jillian and Sam Alexander.

  “You were right,” a voice says over my shoulder. “It was needed.”

  I turn. Though I fight the attraction roused not only by Clive’s proximity, but by his tux
edo-clad figure that makes me long to savor him sip by sip, I’m dangerously close to abandoning my conviction to give us both time and space to get right with God. And when Clive shifts his gaze from the picture to me, I know my eyes reveal my struggle.

  I moisten my lips. “The picture … I didn’t think you would—”

  “Neither did I, but it seemed the right thing to do. It belongs here.”

  I don’t know what to say, or if there is anything to say. But surely there must be or he wouldn’t have left Adelphia to—

  I frown. “I thought you and Adelphia were dancing.”

  “Dr. MacPhail cut in.” He sweeps his eyes over me. “You look nice tonight.”

  Warmth melts into my cheeks. “Thank you.”

  “Of course, I am surprised by your choice of color. Did you wear it for Stapleton?”

  Foreboding creeps in. “What?”

  “He’s here, you know. Or perhaps you don’t know.”

  “I know—I mean, I saw him when I came in.”

  “Ah. Well, he’s asked after you twice.” His brow furrows. “Odd, especially as his wife accompanied him tonight.”

  Inappropriate is what he means, and the implication stings. Still, I feel compelled to explain. “Maia loaned me the dress. As for the red, I wore it for me, not Christopher.”

  “You might want to tell him that.”

  “I have no intention of speaking with him.”

  His eyes move to my mouth, as if to measure the truth of my words. And the silence stretches so taut that I long to take scissors to it.

  Clive sighs. “We need to talk.”

  That’s a positive sign, I think.

  “There you are!” Adelphia’s voice jostles our shoulders. “Thank goodness Ms. Meadows’s dress makes her easy to spot.”

  Then she guessed Clive was with me? I look to where she and Dr. MacPhail appear alongside Clive, then the arm that Adelphia threads through Clive’s to stake her territory. Territory that was mine not so long ago.

  “Would you care to dance, Ms. Meadows?” Dr. MacPhail asks.

  Not really, but better than watching another woman put her paws all over the man who still has his paws all over my heart. “I’d like that.”