“Of course.” She set her coffee on the end table, hoping that meant Donna had the answer.
“You’re holding on to something. I’m not sure what it is, but until you let go of it, you’re stuck right here.”
“But I’ve done all the right things. I told Chuck I loved him. I encouraged Brad and Joel to forgive their dad. I’ve even defended him to Rita . . .” Emotion choked off her words.
Donna slid down the couch and took her hand.
“I want to forgive him. I told Chuck I forgave him, but I can’t go back to how things were.” Bobbi wiped her eyes.
“You’re still angry, but not just at Chuck. Who else has betrayed you?”
“No one.”
“What about God? You’re angry with Him for pulling the props out from under you, for not protecting you from this.”
How could Donna know? Yes, God had betrayed her, but she never dared to form that thought, much less voice it. That was heresy, to accuse God that way, wasn’t it? Bobbi clenched her jaw, as if to physically prevent the words from escaping her lips.
Donna dropped her head, almost apologizing. “Honey, you can’t heal your marriage until you deal with this.”
“Deal with this?” Bobbi stood, paced away from the sofa, and spoke to the living room ceiling. “I’m supposed to go to God and say, ‘You know, I expected a little more out of You. Chuck’s just a man, after all. I expected him to let me down.’”
“Yes, just like that,” Donna said with a smile.
“I can’t talk to God like that.”
“But He already knows your thoughts. It’s freeing to be that honest and real with God.”
“So you want me to yell at God?”
“No, I want you to bring all that stuffed emotion into the light. Own it, so He can heal it. He won’t heal what you try to hide from Him.”
Bobbi shuffled back and dropped on the sofa. He’s not going to heal anything, period. She snatched her coffee cup off the end table and gulped half the contents.
“You haven’t told Chuck any of this, have you?” Donna asked. “That’s not fair to him.”
“I don’t have a choice.” Bobbi took the last drink from her coffee, giving her the chance to push things down deep inside once again.
“You absolutely do have a choice. What are you afraid of?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not being honest with Chuck or anyone else because you’re afraid of something.”
Afraid to trust Chuck . . . Afraid things will never get any better . . . Afraid my boys are scarred . . .
“You don’t have to tell me. That’s not the point, but you can’t go on like this. I’ve struggled all my adult life with depression and the things you’ve said, or left unsaid, are as familiar to me as my own thoughts.”
“Depression?” That was for neurotics. She might be irritated, frustrated, or angry even, but she was not depressed.
“It started when I was twenty-four years old. Phil was in graduate school, nearly finished, trying to discern if he was being called into the ministry or not. His dad had just died unexpectedly. David was a baby. I had a complete emotional collapse.”
Donna stared off across the living room. “Phil was a psychology major, and he saw it all coming, bless his heart. I think he understood more about what went on inside my head than I did. He ended up dropping out of school just short of his master’s degree, and by the time I was straightened out, he’d decided on seminary.”
“Phil was a psychology major?” Bobbi asked, trying to divert the conversation.
“He surely was,” Donna said with a smile. “He wanted to go into marriage and family therapy of all things.”
“And here he gets all that, plus pastoring a church.”
“Now I know where you’re going with this.” Donna chided, pointing a finger in a teasing reproof. “There is nothing that Phil would rather be doing than working with you and Chuck.”
“Well, we’re putting him through his paces.”
“He can handle it.” Donna finished off her coffee and set the cup on the floor beside the sofa. “Now, despite your attempts to change the subject,” Donna teased, then her smile faded, “you’re in a spiritual and emotional crisis. Please, get some help before things get worse.”
“How could they possibly get worse?”
“Depression won’t let go of you.” Donna’s sincere intensity unnerved Bobbi. “It will take you from wishing this would all go away, to thinking things would be so much easier if you weren’t around, maybe to the point of making plans.”
“Plans? You mean suicide?”
Donna nodded. “You won’t shock me if you’ve thought about it.”
Bobbi had wished this would all go away, more than once. How many times had she been out driving, and just for a fleeting instant, hoped a big truck would cross the centerline in front of her? A tear made its way down Bobbi’s cheek. Donna pegged her.
“Honey, listen to me. You need to take care of yourself first and foremost. There’s no sense trying to go through marriage counseling right now. You need to see a doctor, and you need to tell Chuck . . . everything.”
“Chuck doesn’t deserve—”
“Bobbi, don’t you wish your daddy would’ve shared his heart with you and Rita?”
“Of course,” Bobbi whispered.
“Because you love him.”
Bobbi nodded, tears flowing now.
“Honey, Chuck loves you, and I believe you love him. Let him walk through this with you.”
Before Bobbi could protest or offer excuses, the front door opened. “Hey, Mom!” Brad called.
Bobbi wiped her eyes and swallowed all traces of emotion. “In here. How was the movie?”
“Better than homework,” Brad said, then he waved at Donna. “Oh, hi!”
“Hi boys,” Donna said, standing. “I’ll get going, Bobbi. Do you guys have school tomorrow?”
“Just a half day,” Joel said.
“Well, enjoy your break.” Donna took her jacket from Bobbi.
“Thank you for coming over,” she said. “I mean that.”
Donna gave Bobbi a gentle hug. “Think about what I said. I speak from experience. I know it’s hard and it seems like it’s never going to change, but it can, and it will. Phil says ‘even the longest day has its end.’”
Tuesday, November 22
Bobbi surprised Chuck when she suggested eating out so close to Thanksgiving. He’d carried retirement fund paperwork around with him for weeks, watching for the right opportunity, but the longer he waited, the more he wavered. He had to get Bobbi’s signature tonight.
The restaurant’s big screen televisions playing basketball and hockey ruled out any substantive conversation. Before Bobbi could escape to her car, Chuck caught up with her in the parking lot. “Can I take you for a cup of coffee?” he asked.
Bobbi looked at him and checked her watch, then glanced over toward the car and her sons. There wasn’t a believable excuse on earth she could give him.
Chuck followed her back to the house and waited while she got Brad and Joel safely inside. As she locked the front door, he got out and opened the passenger door for her. She slipped around him without a word, got in the car, and pulled her door closed.
Three blocks from the house, Chuck broke the silence. “You haven’t said anything bad about my car yet.” He smiled, trying to see her face and still watch the road.
“Those days are gone, Chuck, when your car was the biggest dispute between us.”
At Dear Joe, Chuck held the door for his wife, then every muscle tensed when the guy behind the counter looked up and smiled at Bobbi.
“Don’t tell me—” the guy said.
Bobbi nodded. “It was his idea, even.”
“Bobbi?” Chuck’s jaw tightened.
“Chuck, this is Clay Bartel. He owns Dear Joe.”
Chuck reached to shake hands, but Clay continued wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “You seem to be good friends with my wife.”
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“She’s my best customer. I try to take care of her.” He set a cup on the counter in front of Bobbi. “That’s the Moroccan you liked so well. My treat. Now, what can I get you?” He waited for Chuck to answer his challenge.
The menu board made less sense to Chuck than the Spanish owner’s manual for his cell phone, but he couldn’t let Coffee Boy know that. “Turkish,” he said, and enjoyed the hint of surprise on the guy’s face. Turkish was the only kind of coffee he could remember Bobbi drinking.
“That’s a pretty strong blend. Not for wimps. Sure you don’t want to try it first?”
“It’s Bobbi’s favorite. That’s good enough for me.”
“What size?” Another challenge.
He scanned the menu board. Minnie . . . Molly . . . What? Sizes, gotcha.
There was no way Chuck was ordering a girl size. “Uh, Bill.”
The corners of the coffee guy’s mouth turned up as he poured the cup then snapped the lid on. “That’ll be three-twenty-five.”
Chuck laid a ten dollar bill on the counter. “I’ll buy my wife’s coffee, thank you.” He gulped from his cup without taking his eyes off Clay Bartel. The coffee, thick and bitter, caught in his throat, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from coughing and spitting. “You . . . you keep the change.”
They had Dear Joe to themselves, so Chuck led Bobbi to a booth in the corner and took the seat facing the counter. “Is that guy always like that?”
“Clay? Like what?” She glanced back toward the counter and Chuck bristled.
“All hitting on you,” he said.
“Hitting? Please. That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.” She nodded her head toward Chuck’s cup. “And I can finish that if you need me to.”
“I don’t need you to finish my coffee,” he huffed, choking down another gulp. “So, what’s the plan for Thursday?”
“Dinner’s at four.” She never looked up.
“What? What’s the matter?”
“I don’t think you should go.”
“Did Rita put you up to this?” The back of his neck warmed.
“Don’t start on Rita.” Bobbi rubbed her temple as she sipped her coffee.
“No, she’s doing everything she can to force you to choose—either her or me. Can’t you see how she’s manipulating you?”
“And you’re not?”
“I’ve given you the time and space to sort all this out. Rita needs to back off and give you that same space.” He took a long slow breath. “When we got married, nobody could make that decision for you. It was yours and yours alone. This has to be the same way.”
“So, I can’t talk to anybody else?”
“I didn’t say that. I want you to make your own decision, from your own heart, and not base it on what you think someone else wants you to do.”
She sipped her coffee in silence. “What if that decision isn’t what you want to hear?”
“If it’s what you want, I can live with it.” She frowned, and rolled her eyes at him.
“Okay, I’ll prove it to you,” he said. “You tell me what you want me to do for Thanksgiving. Go or not. Your decision.”
She looked him in the eye and her voice never wavered. “I don’t want you to go.”
“All right then. That’s settled. I’m not going.” Bobbi chose Rita. How much longer before she took her sister’s advice and divorced him? Then Coffee Boy could swoop in . . .
He drove Bobbi home, knowing if he said anything right now, it would be the wrong thing, and would only make matters worse.
When they got back to the house, Bobbi didn’t even give him a chance to turn off the car. “I can let myself in,” she said, without looking at him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. You’re okay with Thanksgiving?”
Would she change her mind if I said ‘no’? “I’ll be fine.”
Bobbi nodded and got out of the car. He watched her walk in the house and close the front door, then he slammed his hands against on the steering wheel. “This is two against one, God.” Tears of frustration left dark dots on his slacks. “I can’t win this.”
Wednesday, November 23
Chuck answered his mother’s call before the first ring faded. “I got your message,” she said. “What’s wrong? You sounded agitated.”
“It’s just . . . We . . . It’s Rita. She’s poisoning Bobbi’s mind. I don’t stand a chance. From a woman’s perspective, okay? Not my mother’s perspective, but from a woman’s perspective, what can I do? What does Bobbi need to see from me to get rid of whatever picture Rita’s painted for her?”
“What happened? I thought you were making progress.”
“Were. Until Bobbi started being manipulated.”
“Manipulated? Or manipulated by someone other than you?”
“Mom! I need help, not more accusations!” Silence. “I’m sorry. I haven’t slept. She . . . she doesn’t want me there for Thanksgiving.”
“Son, I know you’re devastated, but this solution has to be yours, not mine.”
“But I don’t have any answers.”
“Maybe you’re trying to solve the wrong problem. This is between you and God, not you and Bobbi, or even you and Rita.”
“Why can’t you be like other mothers and just interfere, and tell me what to do?” He was only halfway kidding.
“Because then you’d be like other sons and completely ignore my advice, and blame me when everything went wrong.”
“That’s all I’m going to get out of you, isn’t it?”
“Today, yes. I’ll talk to you soon, and I’ll be praying hard.”
“Thanks.” Chuck slouched onto the sofa with his Bible, and found Psalm 37 again, but different verses caught his eye this time.
“Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him;
Do not fret because of him who prospers in his way, Because of the man who brings wicked schemes to pass. Cease from anger, and forsake wrath;
Do not fret—it only causes harm . . .
The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord, And He delights in his way.
Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down; For the Lord upholds him with His hand.”
Chuck exited the interstate and twisted in his seat so he could pull his phone from his pants pocket. He needed to let Tracy know he’d be at her place right on time, but before he could dial, his phone rang. It was Bobbi. “Hey, almost home?”
“I wish,” she said. “It looks more like eleven or eleven-thirty. How about you?”
“About the same, maybe a little later. I’m not quite to Columbia yet.”
“How’d things go?”
“Good. I think we’ll wrap this up ahead of schedule.” His call waiting beeped. “Hang on. I’ve got another call.”
“Go ahead and take it. I didn’t have anything else. I’ll see you at home.”
“Tell Gavin to drive carefully.” Chuck picked up the other call. “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Tracy asked.
“About fifteen minutes from your place.”
“I was getting anxious.”
Me too. For two days now, scenes from Tuesday evening replayed in his head, slipping into his memory in the most unexpected moments, like in the middle of the meeting with Tom Conrad.
And she was anxious. It had nothing to do with making sure he got his toolbox. No, she was anxious to be alone with him again. Incredible. He wasn’t going to her place with the intention of having sex again. He just . . . he wanted to see her, talk to her, that’s all. Enjoy some intelligent conversation.
He pulled into Tracy’s driveway and untied his tie. He got out of the car and tossed his suit jacket on the passenger seat with the necktie. Casual. Lowkey.
He rang Tracy’s doorbell and worked to roll up his sleeves while he waited, but he only got the left one before she opened the door. When he saw her, he forgot the toolbox, forgot he had sleeves, forgot he had a wife, forgot everything. She wa
s dressed like a Victoria’s Secret model, in sheer black lace lingerie, with a short, silk robe. Her hair fell down to her shoulders, and his jaw dropped.
She smiled and opened the storm door for him. He stepped inside, never taking his eyes off her cleavage. She pushed the door closed, then pinned him against the wall, pressing her hips against his. She kissed him hard, sending a shiver down his spine.
He thought he heard the deadbolt, as he slid his hand around to her back. He felt her breath on his ear, caught her scent. “Make love to me, Chuck.” Then she pulled back, twisted away from him. He forced an eye open. He was alone in the foyer of Tracy’s house.
‘Make love to me,’ she said. Tough to do when he couldn’t find her. He rubbed his eyes, then looked in the living room, the dining room, and the kitchen. She was upstairs. He stood with a hand on the post, looking up the long flight of stairs. If he followed her upstairs, he couldn’t explain that one away. He was consciously choosing to be unfaithful to his wife. He glanced at his watch. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet. Plenty of time. He grasped the banister and took the steps two at a time.
At a quarter past midnight, Chuck pulled into his own driveway. He had showered before he left Tracy’s so her scent didn’t linger on him. Strange soap he could explain. Strange woman . . . not so much. One thing was absolutely certain. He could not be with Tracy Ravenna again. He couldn’t. He was a married man. A father . . . He went to church . . . Just this past Sunday. He sat there in church beside his wife. That had to count for something.
Granted, he crossed a line tonight. He chose. He chose Tracy, but if he stopped now, there was no real harm done. He could choose to end it, and it would end now. He’d go in there and be Bobbi’s husband from now on. He draped his suit jacket and tie across his arm, and grabbed his briefcase. He’d get the garment bag from the trunk in the morning. And the toolbox.
Bobbi left the front door unlocked for him. That meant she hadn’t been home long. What if she was still awake? His pulse quickened and he ducked in the downstairs bathroom. He carefully inspected his face. He didn’t think Tracy was wearing any lipstick, but he couldn’t risk it. He washed his hands, so his sweaty palms didn’t give him away, then he stole upstairs.
Thank God, she was asleep. The bathroom light was on, so he could see to change clothes. He hung his suit on its hanger, and grabbed a pair of pajama pants from the dresser.