If We Make It Home Read online

  My calendar is a mess of disorganization, and that problem falls cleanly on the lap of my assistant. I think I’m going to have to let Cori go. She’s late, she doesn’t listen, and I have to watch her all the time. There’s just something not right about the girl.

  I mentioned my issues with her to Daniel a couple days ago, and he nearly came unbuckled, accusing me of paranoia, selfishness, and jealousy. Who does he think he is? He’s my husband, and he should be on my side.

  Interlacing my fingers, I gaze at the formal wedding portrait on the wall across from me. I have the figure of a young woman and hair that glows with the naturalness of the blond. Now it’s the shade my hairdresser concocts with her expertise in dye alchemy. A chemical illusion for the people who watch my show each week.

  Daniel really hasn’t changed much. At least not in appearance. His jaw is still square and strong. Gray hair now adds salt to his dark, but it only serves to make him more handsome and distinguished.

  He’s changed though. I married Daniel because we were a good match. My mother pushed us together soon after college. She was in a hurry for me to marry well, seeing her chance once my college boyfriend was out of the picture. And I understood. Marriage is a kind of business, in a way. Both partners bring something to the table. It was up to me to make a proper selection, and I thought I had.

  Daniel came from a good family and was well-educated. His future in law and politics looked like mile after mile of unlimited potential. And that’s what happened until our kids were born. Daniel kept taking more time away from the office, until one day he announced he was becoming a carpenter. It’s been fifteen years since his proclamation, but I can still see the determined glare in his eyes. Though I didn’t agree with him, there was something about his drive I admired. My heartrate speeds up at the memory. There’s something about a man who knows what he wants …

  Shaking off the past, I push back my chair and march into Cori’s office. She’s supposed to be at the photographer’s in thirty minutes, setting up the final plan for our family holiday photo shoot. Moving a bag off her chair, I sit down and run my finger over her touchpad. The screen comes to life. She doesn’t even have it set to need a password. She should. I send information to her that’s not for public consumption.

  There’s an email account open. It’s not the one I use to communicate with her, but I recognize the top address as Daniel’s. Probably something to do with my birthday next month. No wonder he doesn’t want me to fire her. He’s using her to help him set up a surprise.

  As much as I’d like to avoid growing a year older, making that public, and having to deal with the temptation of birthday cake, I’m touched that he cares. Lately, I’ve wondered. Before I can stop myself, I click the email, eager to see what my dear husband has planned.

  I can’t wait to see you again. That seems a bit personal for a greeting to my assistant. You understand me in a way she hasn’t for so long. I’m lonely. My mouth hangs open as the blood retreats from my extremities, leaving my arms cold and weak. I select “mark as unread” and stumble back toward my office, my stomach pitching, my eyes blurred.

  No.

  This can’t be happening. I’ve built my ministry on a happy marriage. The room swirls and twists with the agony in my chest. Fire lights across my skin. There is no way this can be happening. I won’t let it. I won’t.

  “Mrs. Cambridge.” Jennifer is at the door. She doesn’t enter the room, but it’s like she can read the email across my forehead. “Are you okay?”

  I blow out a shaky breath. “Just a little headache.” The lie burns behind my eyes, but it’s necessary. “I need to leave town. It’s sort of important. Cori will have to go to Idaho for me and make the arrangements for my video conference. Please get her a plane ticket to leave tonight, and get me on the next flight to Portland, Oregon.” The only place I can think to go is back to Emery House. This will be my last chance to see my college home before it’s destroyed.

  “When do you want the return flights?” She sets the iced tea on my drink coaster.

  “Let’s leave Cori’s open for now.” Or maybe she can just stay there. “Actually, leave mine open too.”

  My stomach clenches as Cori, all smiles and secrets, comes up behind Jennifer. “I’ll take care of the arrangements.”

  I want to scream. No, what I really want to do is far more violent.

  I stand, stuffing my laptop into my bag, the spike heels of my shoes shaking in the plush carpet. “Let me know when it’s done. I will be at my house with my family.”

  “Why would he do this to me?” I ask the question to no one in particular as I pull my Lexus up to the gate that protects my home and family from unexpected or unwanted visitors.

  I tap the security code into the pad and the ornate iron barricade slides open, and then I remember I’ve given Cori the access numbers. She has free rein in the one place that should be a sanctuary.

  Has she been here when I’ve been out of town? Have they spent time together—with my children?

  My mouth turns dry and my stomach wavers.

  In the last ten years, I’ve taught thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of women the art of keeping a beautiful home, successful children, and a happy husband.

  I’m a disappointing punchline to a very long joke.

  I can’t guess how much time has passed, but the gate is closing, its automatic response to being left open. I punch in the number again and drive through as soon as the opening is wide enough to accommodate my car.

  Winding my way up the drive, I take in the sprawling house with its perfectly manicured lawn, gurgling fountain, and myriad of blooming end-of-summer flowers—none of which gives me the usual puff of satisfaction. Today, the picture looks cold, and I can no longer enjoy it now that I’ve discovered it’s an illusion.

  As the garage door drops into place, I consider letting the engine run. Just going to sleep and leaving my failure behind. Wouldn’t that be a treat for my critics?

  That last thought is just enough incentive to kill the engine.

  My heels echo along the polished cement floor to the mud room. The walls are covered in a grid of bright white cubbies with sunshine yellow baskets slid into each opening. Along the counter are two fresh bouquets of wildflowers with wide green and purple ribbons tied in neat bows at the top of crystal vases. Between them, Georgia, our white fluff-ball of a cat, stretches in the line of sun shining in from the window.

  I run my fingers through the cat’s long hair. The sweetness of her brings tears close to the surface again.

  She pushes into me, eager for more of my attention. When was the last time I just sat and held her? When was the last time Daniel and I were together without the distraction of my endless to-do list? We used to picnic by the pond at the end of our property, laughing and dreaming. That was before we built this house, when we still lived in the falling-down three-bedroom that originally claimed this land.

  When was the last time we laughed?

  The back of my nose tingles with the tears I will not shed. There’s nothing productive about wallowing in emotion. No one is served, no forward motion, only puffy eyes and a runny nose result from such indulgences.

  I pull the cat to my neck and nuzzle into her soft fur, blaming the watering of my eyes on her feline dander. If it were possible, I’d sink into her and disappear.

  A claw closes through my thin blouse and into the flesh of my upper shoulder.

  With care, I disengage the cat from my body and lay her back onto her square of sunshine. What a life.

  The house is huge and empty. It didn’t feel this way when I walked out this morning. Suddenly, the fact that the kids are away busy with school and sports, and Daniel is gone in every way but physical, strikes me as a cruel slap across the face.

  I’ve created this home as a showpiece, an example of how to be the wife and mother God calls us women to be. I’ve done countless shows from my own kitchen, had promotional photographs done in the living r
oom and the garden, hosted fundraisers and even taught Bible study right here. It’s more than walls and plaster with fine décor. This place represents my ministry and my purpose.

  I climb the stairs with legs almost too heavy to make the trip. At the top, I stare out over the vaulted living room, where the stone fireplace climbs the opposite wall. Much of the furniture and woodwork were handmade by Daniel, the would-be-governor turned carpenter. From the wall of windows, I can see the edge of his workshop. The main door stands open and his rusty old pickup is backed up to the opening.

  We’ve had that truck since we were first married. It was newish then. I haven’t ridden in it for many years, probably over a decade. I bought him a sparkly new Ford for our anniversary last year. His disappointment was so real, it was like another person standing in the room. That vehicle sits in our four-car garage. Our son drives it on occasion.

  Turning away from my thoughts, I dive into the grand master bedroom I share with the man who’s supposed to be faithful to me for the entirety of our lives. I pull my oversize Coach suitcase from the walk-in closet and toss it across our antique wedding-ring quilt. Yanking five or six items at a time, I have myself packed within minutes.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Cori. She’s made the arrangements and will personally pick me up in twenty minutes.

  I’m dizzy with the horrifying thought that my assistant is coming to my home, where my husband works only fifty yards away. That I will witness them looking at each other. That though I’ve missed all the signs, suddenly the feelings between them will be blatant and if I see them, I will be ruined. The truth will become undeniable. My marriage will be over, and it will take my ministry and my career with it. I’m not ready.

  Not now, and definitely not here.

  I flip the lid over the suitcase and zip it tight, then grab my carryon bag, which I keep packed with all the necessities for quick travel.

  The suitcase clunks down the stairs behind me. In the kitchen, I carefully craft a note to my husband and slide it into the communication center on the refrigerator. I should take the time to go to his shop and properly say goodbye, at least tell him I’m leaving, but I can’t do it. I can’t look into his green eyes. I can’t see him now and remember him the way I want to.

  I give the cat a final pat on the head and walk out the front door, pulling my suitcase across the asphalt, along the lane, and out the gate. Before I continue on this path, there’s another task I must accomplish. Opening the casing for the gate control, I type in the master code, wait for the blinking light, then press the function I desire. In a moment, the code is changed. Cori will never enter my property again as long as I have a say about it. And Daniel will struggle if he doesn’t think to use our anniversary date.

  “Cori, did you get the itinerary worked out?” This commute will be business, and all business. But when I return …

  Well, by then I’ll have figured out how to get Daniel to fire her himself. “I can’t make the women’s breakfast on the eighteenth, but send my apologies. There’s a list on the drive for you. Make sure the publicity is handled for the video seminar next month. That was a disaster last year, and I don’t want a repeat.”

  This is just the tip of the tasks I’ve left for her. With the travel and the details, she’ll be slammed with work until I can find the best route to be done with her.

  She pulls the car up to the curb at the Dallas Fort Worth airport, but hasn’t answered any of my requests since we left the freeway.

  “Are you hearing me?” I’m all too eager to get out of this car and be done with this woman. I can’t help hoping that she’s delayed in the parking garage or security so I can get to my gate without seeing her smug expression again.

  “Yes. I know what I need to do.” Her mouth is shaped into a tight smile that makes me want to lunge across the gap and shake her.

  But I manage my own smile and pop my door open. “You have to work hard for the kingdom. This isn’t playtime.”

  I know she’s young, not even thirty, but we have a responsibility to those my ministry touches. It’s God’s work. There are so many women who don’t have a clue how to maintain a Christian marriage, family, or home. I’m not one of them. And Cori will soon see that.

  “I’ll pray for you.” I put one foot carefully on the curb to avoid any street gunk. “And please, let me know what you’ve finished so I can mark the tasks off my list.”

  I climb out, brush my skirt flat, and use both hands to check the shape of my hair. From the trunk, I pull my large rolling suitcase, my over-the-shoulder carryon, and my purse. The street noise silences as I leave the Texas heat behind and make my way into the building.

  Again I check my phone for important emails, then pull up my boarding pass before removing my driver’s license from the pocket on the side of my bag. Everything is in order for now.

  I’m pre-checked so I pass by the lines of people waiting for security to accost them and enter through the side with no delay. In a moment, I’m done and off to my gate.

  When I stop, the shaking starts.

  I’m fine.

  Get control.

  Pray.

  Lord, help me. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I have literature to finish, four major speaking engagements before Thanksgiving, and a home to decorate for the holidays. And Daniel’s indiscretion.

  But I can’t think about Daniel right now.

  Instead, I start forming the list for Christmas in my mind. I need to find the right gifts for my staff. They’ll all be in attendance when we have our annual Christmas party, plus the television cameras. I still haven’t written the dialogue for our family’s Christmas greeting.

  And we’ll need new clothes that don’t match but still complement each other. We’ll shoot in front of the fireplace this year. Daniel will stand behind me with his palm covering my shoulder, just like every other year. Won’t he?

  I need coffee. Glancing at my phone, I see there’s at least thirty minutes to spare before priority boarding. They’ll have refreshments on the plane, but they’re never able to make the needed adjustments, so I head toward the nearest barista.

  With an upside-down skinny caramel macchiato warming my hand, I return to the gate.

  A couple bump down the terminal, their fingers laced, her head on his shoulder. The need to hear Daniel’s voice claims me. I line my bags up on the seat and order my phone to call my husband.

  “Hello?” His voice is distant. I’ll have to work to keep his attention. “Daniel. It’s Victoria.”

  “I know. Your picture is on my screen. I got the memo. Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane?”

  “We’re close to boarding, but I wanted to check in with you.” A good wife is organized and always has a meal available for her husband, even when she’s out of town. “Did you see the list on the refrigerator? I emailed you a copy just in case.”

  “I got it.”

  “Your meals are stacked in order with the individual directions on the lids. Do you need anything else? I can have someone come by if you need.”

  “I’m sure you’ve handled everything. You know, I can think for myself.”

  “Of course you can. The housekeeper will be by Monday morning. Please stay out of her way. It just slows her down if you chat.” I tap my toe.

  “I’ll try to stay in my office, dear.” His tone is a touch higher than sarcastic. I do this all for him, to make his life as easy as possible. I have a flight, the reunion, and an appearance, then I can get back home and fix whatever is going on with Daniel.

  They announce first class boarding. “I have to go. That’s me.”

  He grunts something and the phone disconnects. What happened to our I love yous?

  As I make my way down the ramp, my stomach twists. The few sips of coffee I’ve taken do not agree with the pain I swallowed for lunch.

  I settle into the leather seat and lay my head back. I’d love to kick off these pinching heels, but this isn’t the place. It’s the
drawback of living a public life. One of them. There’s also the pressure, the fact that every other woman I speak to is judging me, and I haven’t indulged in a good hot fudge sundae in over fifteen years. Just once I’d like to wear sweat-pants all day, go out with a friend, and feel like I could really share my life, or just get fast food for dinner.

  I didn’t even realize I’d closed my eyes until a man taps my shoulder. He’s huge, at least six-three, and just as broad. He’s wearing the biggest cowboy boots I’ve ever seen and a hat to match. There may not be room for him, even in first class.

  “Ma’am, I think I’m in that seat there.” He nods toward the window beside me.

  “Of course.” I force a pleasant smile and stand out of his way. “Welcome.” That’s what I do. I make people feel welcome. My ministry is all about hospitality, serving our families, and our God. I want to scream at him to find another seat or take the train.

  Once we’re settled again, I start to run through next week’s to-do list on my phone with that manufactured smile cemented on my face while coach passengers hit me with elbows, bags, and even the feet of their small children. Why does first class board before everyone else?

  I send encouraging texts off to my children, Brooklyn and Cameron, just in time for the plane to move toward the runway and the announcement reminding passengers to turn off cell phones.

  This is the part I can do without. I fly at least twice a month, and I still have to beg God for mercy with each takeoff and landing. The plane lines up on the runway, and I anchor my fingernails into the armrests. Swirling whines from the engine grow until I can’t take anything but short puffs of air. Are we going faster than usual? What is that sound? There’s a banging outside.

  The plane lifts and the shaking settles. Another successful departure. I won’t think about landing until we start our descent, then I’ll let the internal panic run wild.

  “Excuse me.” The flight attendant leans down beside my seat, her silky blond hair tied back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She looks behind her as if checking to see if the coast is clear. “Aren’t you Victoria Cambridge?”