Perfecting Kate

by Tamara Leigh

“I knew you would be.” He starts to smile, and his body tenses as if to take another step toward me, but he doesn’t. “Now the question is: What do we do about us?”

  Us. And all this space between us.

  I press my shoulders back, thrill at doing so without the ache that once accompanied the shift in weight, and cross to where he stands. “What do you want to do?”

  He stares into my upturned face. “First, I want to apologize.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Yes. I do. I’m sorry for requiring you to be a perfect fit. Sorry for marking you off. Sorry for using your distrust of me to justify walking away.”

  “But I should have told you—”

  “I wish you’d felt you could, but I understand why you didn’t, why you were afraid to trust me. Had I known earlier, I probably would have walked away that much sooner. And we might not be here now.”

  But we are. Thank You, God.

  “What else do you want, Clive?”

  He steps nearer. “I want what I never should have pushed away—to be with the woman who can give me far more than she can’t.”

  Please, Lord, let this be Your will. I want it so bad. But Your will be done, not mine.

  How I hope I truly mean that!

  “Provided it really isn’t too late.”

  “Oh, no! It’s not!” I shake my head. “You didn’t marry Adelphia.”

  “How could I when I don’t love her?”

  Please, God. But Your will … Your will …

  “Your turn, Kate. What do you want to do about us?”

  As much as I long to grab hold of the love he dangles in front of me, Belle and Beau come to mind. Belle and Beau who are so happy. “I want to be your friend, Clive.”

  His brow furrows. “More than that, I hope.”

  “Yes, but first your friend.”

  He considers me, then steps nearer and cups my face between his hands. “All right. Friends. Kissing friends.”

  I grin. “Nice compromise.”

  He lowers his head, and I feel his breath against my lips. “Do you remember when I told you it was a waste of time to expect God to act on prayer?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was wrong, Kate. You’re here, and it isn’t too late.”

  I draw a trembling breath. “No, it isn’t.” I start to lean in to claim his kiss, but there’s still something that needs to be addressed. “I know we’re not discussing marriage at this point, but we still need to talk about children.”

  He brushes his mouth across mine. “There’s only one non-negotiable.”

  I hold my breath.

  “You.”

  Never did I expect a man to say that to me. “You’re certain? I couldn’t stand it if—”

  “I love you.”

  He loves me. Clive Alexander loves me.

  He draws his thumbs across my cheeks. “You were right about there being plenty of children who need a home. All we have to do is believe that God will provide.”

  I am going to cry. “I believe.” I nod. “I really do.” And I don’t need a medallion to convince me of it. “I love you, Clive.”

  His eyes close momentarily. Then he kisses me again.

  Yes, I’m content. Thus, I shall embrace datingdom and be unbelievably, inconceivably happy! And why wouldn’t I be, considering He loves me JUST THE WAY I AM—God, that is.

  And Clive Alexander, too.

  Thursday, July 12 (Five years later)

  Dear Lord,

  And baby makes three. Thank you for our recent addition, eight-month-old Teresa, who arrived back in the states with us two nights ago, following a looong flight from the Ukraine. Thank you for Joshua and Mariah, who welcomed their new baby sister with oohs and aahs and way too much argument over whose turn it was to hold her. Help!

  Lord, you are amazing! Each time you add to our family, I turn to my warped and tear-stained Galatians 4:27. And I quote: “Be glad (am I ever!), O barren woman, who bears no children (but is now the mother of three!); break forth and cry aloud (late-night feedings, here we go again!), you who have no labor pains (surely loads of laundry, piles of dishes, and chauffeuring qualify!); because more are the children (three and counting!) of the desolate woman (not anymore!) than of her who has a husband (I certainly do!).” Thank you, Lord.

  And thank you for the latest blessing you’re sending Belle and Beau’s way in January. You are so faithful. As for Maia and Michael, thank you for an amicable end to their relationship. I pray that whatever wounds they have will heal and that Maia will remain open to attending church services—this time for herself.

  Forever yours,

  Kate

  PS: Thank you for my incredible wife and three—

  THREE!—children. This is Clive, BTW, and yes, Kate fell asleep over her journal again. Think she’d scalp me if I suggested we hire a housekeeper to help out a few times a week?

  PPS: I love you, Kate.

  Clive

  Discussion Questions

  1. Kate’s story begins with “I never asked to be made over,” and yet her desire to please her makeup artist boyfriend causes her to become caught up in the pursuit of physical perfection. When have you allowed others to prioritize your life? What were the results?

  2. In Kate’s words, “there’s something somewhere on every someone’s body that could benefit from some type of beauty enhancement.” What about your physical appearance bothers you? If you could have one procedure—surgical or nonsurgical—what would it be? Why?

  3. Kate’s growing concern with her looks interferes with her pursuit of God. What have you allowed to come between you and God?

  4. Kate is uncomfortable with sharing her faith. How do you feel about sharing yours? How do you react when your efforts are met with resistance?

  5. What is the importance of dating others with similar beliefs? What can happen when your beliefs are incompatible with those of the person you’re dating? Marrying?

  6. Have you personally experienced or know someone who has experienced infertility? How did it impact your/her faith?

  7. Clive’s relationship with God is shaken when he loses his wife and son in a tragic accident. Has your faith ever been so shaken that you turned your back on God? If so, how?

  8. Have you experienced deep grief? Did your faith help?

  9. Throughout the story, Kate keeps a prayer journal. How does this means of conversing with God differ from prayer? What are the benefits of journaling with God?

  10. Though Clive was set on repeating the experience of a biological child, in the end he and Kate opt for adoption. How might this experience differ from having a biological child? What added blessings do you think Clive and Kate received?

  Here’s a sneak peek of Jamara Leigh’s next novel

  Coming November 2007!

  “You’re fired.”

  With those two words, my favorite TV program ends its season, and I’m left hanging as usual.

  Wishing summer were already past so I could get back to The Coroner, the one program I follow, I push the remote’s Off button, then close my eyes to savor the night breeze sifted by the screen door.

  But it’s no use. My middle and index fingers start to twitch, my lips purse, and a vague memory of nicotine wafts across my senses.

  Jelly Belly time.

  I reach into the container, scoop up a dozen pebbly beans, and pop them in my mouth. I’m usually more discerning about how I combine the flavors (there’s an art to it, you know), but tonight I don’t care. Tonight they’re comfort food as opposed to pleasure food. Something to take my mind off the silence of the phone, which has yet to ring its death knell.

  I look at where it perches on the side table. Though I know it will eventually ring, and I’m not going to like what the person on the other end has to say—as in “Good-bye, Harri,” or “So long,” or in the style of The Coroner, “You’re fired”—I want to get it over with.

  No, my mistake wasn’t as serious as the one comm
itted by my show’s female lead, but there will be consequences. Have to be.

  Once I returned home to First Grace Church’s Senior Mobile Home Park—yeah, Senior—and prayed through the encounter with Pastor Paul (not to mention that man who, according to the pastor, I now answer to), I accepted I was wrong. Not that that makes Pastor Paul right, but legitimate though my complaints are, I shouldn’t have confronted him as I did.

  I heave a sigh. Though I believe a leopard can change its spots (or in my case, tattoos), it takes a miracle. Or expensive laser surgery. Unfortunately, God’s making me take the long way around. No blinding light on the road to Damascus for Harriet Bisset, just a battered conscience and an impending sense of doom.

  Stuffing my mouth full of another helping of Jelly Bellys, my anxiety eases as I taste sizzling cinnamon … green apple … cotton candy … margarita (virgin, of course) … coconut … strawberry cheesecake … buttered popcorn and …? Is that tutti-frutti? Too late, as they’re all jelling into one sweet-sour-spicy mouthful. Regretting that I wasn’t more discerning about how I combined the flavors, I swallow and chew some more.

  Then comes the death knell.

  I look to the phone as it takes a breath between the first and second rings. Though I refuse to waste money on caller ID, I know it’s him. And that I’m about to be fired.

  Get it over with.

  Now the second death knell.

  Pick it up!

  I reach and, only when I attempt to bolster myself with a deep breath, remember my mouthful. I chew faster.

  The third death knell.

  I desperately look around, but the only thing at hand is … my hand. Spitting the remains of my Jelly Bellys into my palm—gross!—I grab the receiver.

  “Hello!”

  “Harri, it’s Harriet.”

  Harri/Harriet always glitches me, and tonight is no exception. Actually, it’s worse, as I was expecting him, not my namesake. The remains of Jelly Belly juice trickle down my throat, and I turn my head aside to cough.

  “Are you all right, Harri?”

  “Uh-huh. Just a tickle in my throat.” Swallow, swallow. “What’s up?”

  “Brother Paul.”

  Then he asked Harriet to—?

  No. As disillusioned as I am with the man, canning me is not something he’d send the church secretary to do. And certainly not over the phone. “What is it, Harriet?”

  “He’s been visiting some of us fogies this evening—”

  He’s here? In the park? Now?

  “—and asked me to let you know he’ll stop by to chat with you on his way out.”

  Foul words slip to the edge of my tongue. Just the edge.

  Sorry about that, Lord. And that one. Oh, that was a really bad one. Sorry. Sorry.

  “Harri?”

  I startle, gape at the gooey mess in my hand, and finally shrill, “It’s nine o’clock at night!”

  “Is it?” A pause. “You’re right. Well, just a quick chat, and I’ll be a couple minutes behind. Thought I’d bring you a batch of my famous biscuits.”

  I jump out of my recliner. “But I’m wearing house slippers and lounge pants and a T-shirt.” New, out-of-the-box house slippers with big pink roses (last year’s birthday present from Mom). Pilled flannel lounge pants with a motorcycle insignia (a relic from my rebel days that I keep meaning to toss out). A “Got Jesus?” T-shirt that hasn’t been white in ages (the short sleeves of which barely conceal my armband tattoo).

  “Well,” Harriet says, “throw a robe over it.”

  “I can’t! I have to change!”

  “But, Harri, he and—”

  “Stall him. Gotta go!” I drop the handset in its receiver and, closing my fingers over the mess in my hand that’s starting to ooze, with the other grab the Jelly Belly container. Four strides carry me past the screen door to the kitchen, and two more to the sink where I slam the container on the counter and turn on the taps. One good shake and the sticky mass slops to the drain.

  Ew! Can’t believe I did that to Jelly Belly, which is as close to a friend as something edible can come considering the beans and lots of prayer helped me kick the nicotine habit. Were there a Jelly Belly fan club, I’d ban me for life.

  The stainless steel soup pot in the drain rack catching my eye, I grab it and peer at my distorted reflection. Not only is my “somewhere between red and blond” hair wisping all over the place, but beneath my blue eyes are dark shadows beget by mascara that should have been removed hours ago.

  Hoping Harriet can stall Pastor Paul at least ten minutes, as the mobile home where she lives on the opposite side of the park is a mere two-minute walk, I quickly soap and rinse.

  Jeans and a light sweater, I determine as I reach to the taps. But no sooner do I tighten the knobs than a tinny knock sounds behind me.

  I swing around and, as I light on Pastor Paul’s mesh-shadowed face on the other side of the screen door, feel my arm connect with something.

  Oh, no. NO!

  All the colors of the rainbow—and then some—sail past me. Little bean-shaped colors. Melt-in-your-mouth colors. Very expensive colors. With a sound akin to spring hail, they hit the linoleum floor.

  Reflexively, I step forward. And glimpse surprise on Pastor Paul’s face as the beans beneath my slippers sweep me off my feet.

  With a screech, I go down. My rump hits first, followed by my shoulders, then the back of my head.

  “Harri!” Pastor Paul shouts, and I hear the squeak of the screen door, followed by its slam.

  As I lay on the kitchen floor, I can’t say what hurts more: the places where my body hit, the embarrassment, or that I’m spread-eagled among fourteen—fourteen!—dollars worth of Jelly Bellys that were supposed to last me all month.

  “Harri?” Pastor Paul gives my shoulder a shake. “Are you all right?”

  “No.” I squeeze my closed eyes tighter. “Not all right.”

  “Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

  I shake my head. “No, I—”

  Hold up! That wasn’t Pastor Paul. That voice came from somewhere to my right and, instead of concern, reflected amusement.

  Oh, no. Not that man! Not here. In my kitchen. With me flat on my back amid colorful little beans that surely confirm I’m the silliest woman he’s ever seen.

  As the heat in my face deepens, I decide embarrassment does hurt more than the loss of Jelly Bellys. Definitely embarrassment.

  As much as I long to stay behind my closed lids and wave my uninvited guests away, that would make me appear sillier yet. Thus, with burning cheeks, I lift my lids to look into the familiar face above mine.

  Pastor Paul smiles uncertainly. “All right, Harri?”

  Avoiding looking to my right where, peripherally, I see khaki pants alongside the kitchen cabinets, I return a twisted smile. “Tell me, are there any Jelly Bellys left in the container?”

  He frowns and looks around. “Maybe a handful.”

  Might get me through the night. Of course, that depends on whether or not he’s about to string me up and kick out from under me the horse I’ve been riding.

  I shrug. “Then I should be all right.”

  With a sigh, he straightens and reaches a hand to me.

  Refusing to look toward the lurker from Pastor Paul’s office, I ignore the juvenile temptation to reject the offer of a hand up and allow the hangman to pull me to sitting.

  It’s then I’m socked with a visual reminder of my state of dress—house slippers, lounge pants, and T-shirt. Lovely.

  “You okay, Harri?”

  Telling myself it can’t get any worse, I mutter, “Yeah,” pull my hand free, and look to the destruction around me: dirt, dust, Jelly Bellys. I wish I hadn’t neglected to mop the floor. Of course, it’s not easy holding down two jobs, even though both are “officially” part-time—mornings waitressing the breakfast crowd at Gloria’s Morning Café and afternoons fulfilling the duties of the Women’s Ministry at First Grace.

  Still, it is a
very small kitchen made even smaller with the addition of two men, one of whom I’m going to pretend doesn’t exist. At least until my embarrassment-induced first degree burn fades.

  Sweeping beans aside, I place my palms to the floor and lever up.

  Oh, my rear! And lower back!

  As I unfold to standing, I turn to Pastor Paul to keep the lurker behind me. Then to the tune of “snap, crackle, pop!” I press my shoulders back.

  “You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?” says the one who doesn’t exist.

  Can’t take a hint, hmm? With a glance at Pastor Paul, I give the hem of my T-shirt a tug and turn. “I’m a lot tougher than I look.” It’s then that I get my first real faceful of the man where he leans back against the counter.

  Not bad looking, but not great, and all because of a nose that’s a little too narrow, a little off center, and a little too long. Speaking of long, that curly hair of his could use a haircut. Not that it’s long long, but in my humble opinion, the cleaner cut, the better. I do not like men with long hair. At least, not anymore …

  As for the eyes that engage mine before traveling down my T-shirt/lounge pant/house-slipper-clad body, they’re unremarkable. But, oh, those lashes! Why would God waste them on a man?

  “Actually—” he sweeps those lashes up—“you look pretty tough to me.”

  That was not a compliment, and I can’t help but be miffed, especially considering all I’ve given up to project my feminine side. I am the director of Women’s Ministry, and though I hardly reflect that position at the moment, he did see me in my “getup” at church.

  Pastor Paul steps alongside. “Harri, this is Maddox McCray. Maddox, Harriet Bisset.”

  Maddox McCray pushes off the counter, and all slender six feet of him steps forward. “A pleasure to meet you, Harriet—or do you prefer ‘Harri’?” He extends a hand.

  Must I?

  “Harri’s best, as it avoids confusion with our church secretary, Harriet.” I slide my hand into his and am relieved when no current of electricity passes from him to me. Good. Though his ringless left hand attests to him being single, I do not want to be attracted to this man whose eyes are laughing at me. Again.