8 Sandpiper Way. Debbie Macomber
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to throw me the football, remember?” Matthew said. Never mind that it was late November and already dark outside, He, too, wanted time with Dave. The children weren’t the only ones; Emily needed all the reassurance he had to offer. Hard as she tried to cast aside these doubts, they refused to die. She didn’t want to lose her husband. She loved Dave no matter what and was determined to keep her marriage together—or at least make every possible effort.
“Hold on, hold on.” Dave laughingly raised both hands. “Give me a minute to catch my breath, would you?”
Both boys stared expectantly at their father. Emily couldn’t bear to look at their eager faces. Seeing the love for him in their eyes made her feel like weeping.
“Let your dad eat his dinner,” she said.
“After that, I’ll help you both, but I’d like a few minutes alone with your mother first,” Dave said, glancing at Emily.
A chill raced down her spine, and she was afraid to meet his eyes.
“Aw, Dad,” Mark whined.
“It won’t take long,” he promised. “Eat your green beans.”
“Okay.”
Emily handed Dave the bowl of buttered beans with sliced almonds. He took a small portion. Green beans weren’t his favorite vegetable, either, and this was her way of suggesting he set a good example.
Following dinner, the boys cleared the table, then went to their room for study hour. This had been Dave’s idea. Whether they had homework or not, Matthew and Mark were to spend one hour every night reading, writing or reviewing their schoolwork. The television wasn’t allowed to be on, nor were video games permitted.
As the boys trudged to their room, Emily made a pot of coffee, keeping her back to Dave as she worked. Asking to speak to her like that was unusual for him. If there was something on his mind, he generally discussed it with her after the boys had gone to bed.
Even before she could finish pouring their coffee, Dave asked her, “Are you happy?” His voice was urgent. Intense. The need to know seemed to burn inside him.
Dozens of possible questions had occurred to her, but this was one she hadn’t expected.
“Happy?” she repeated, facing him. Still not meeting his gaze, she carried two steaming mugs of coffee to the table and set them down. “Am I happy?” She shoved her hands in the back pockets of her faded jeans as she contemplated her response.
“I didn’t think it would take you this long to answer,” Dave said. His dark eyes studied her and he seemed disappointed in her hesitation.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be happy?” she asked, turning the question back on him. “I live in a beautiful house and I’m able to stay home with the boys the way we both wanted. My husband is madly in love with me, right?” she added, remembering his sermon from the Sunday before—and hoping she didn’t sound even slightly sarcastic. Without giving him the opportunity to answer, perhaps because she feared what he might say, she asked, “What about you, Dave? Are you happy?”
“Of course I am.” His reply was immediate and impassioned.
“Then I am, too.” Rather than join him at the table she started to load the dishwasher.
“Sit down,” he said. “Please.”
Reluctantly she did.
“You haven’t been sleeping well.”
So he’d noticed. She fell asleep easily enough, but an hour or two later she’d be wide awake. Then for the rest of the night she’d toss and turn, sleeping fitfully if at all. The scenarios that played out in her mind wouldn’t allow her to rest. Her husband might be in love with someone else. He might even be cheating on her.
Emily considered herself an emotionally strong woman, one who remained calm in a crisis. A woman others counted on for guidance and support. Yet when it came to confronting her husband with her suspicions, she was a coward.
“If there’s something bothering you, maybe I can help,” he said. She recognized his tone, that caring, concerned voice he so often used with others. Only she wasn’t just one of his parishioners, she was his wife!
“What could possibly be bothering me?” she asked airily. She didn’t expect him to answer.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. Are the ladies from the missionary society making too many demands?”
“No.” The cookbook committee had wanted her to organize the entire project and she’d told them she simply didn’t have the time, which was true. Apparently there’d been more than a few ruffled feathers. The church family seemed to think that because Emily didn’t work outside the home, she should be at their beck and call, just like Dave. Emily had no intention of becoming an unpaid employee of the church and had made that clear when they accepted the assignment in Cedar Cove. Her role was to support Dave and mother their young sons.
“You’d tell me if you were upset, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” she said, hoping the act of sipping coffee would hide her lie.
Mark stuck his head inside the kitchen. “Are you finished talking to Mom yet?” he asked his father. “I need help with my math.”
Dave looked at her.
“I’m fine,” she said emphatically.
He seemed to doubt her. She wasn’t expert at lying and hated the fact that she was afraid to voice her concerns. Dave took a sip of his coffee and stood. “All right, Mark, show me what’s giving you trouble.”
Emily watched her husband and son walk out of the kitchen and swallowed painfully. She’d been waiting for him to ask her a question like that. Are you happy? It was the perfect opportunity to address her suspicions—but she’d been too frightened to say anything.
The problem, she told herself, was that she wasn’t prepared. For her own protection, she needed facts and details before she confronted him. He needed to realize she wasn’t as naive as he obviously thought.
By nine that evening both boys were in bed and asleep. When Dave was home, getting her sons ready for the night was invariably a smooth, easy process. But anytime she was alone with them—which was most nights lately—they came up with a multitude of excuses to delay going to bed.
Half an hour later, she was in her sewing room, working on a quilt for Matthew. She ironed the fabric squares, pleased with her bargain. Always conscious of cost, she’d bought the material, a bright cotton print, on sale at The Quilted Giraffe. As she turned off the iron she heard Dave come in. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. “Alone at last,” he whispered, kissing the side of her neck, his lips lingering there.
Emily smiled; she couldn’t resist. This was how they used to be, spontaneously affectionate and teasing, until … She wasn’t sure when things had begun to change. Earlier this year? “Oh, Dave, honestly.” She gave a small laugh.
“I love my wife,” he murmured.
She placed her hands on his, her fingers squeezing hard. “Do you, Dave?” She winced at the pleading quality that crept into her voice.
“With all my heart.” He dropped one final kiss on her neck, then walked to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I thought I’d work on Sunday’s sermon.”
“Oh.” He used to write his sermons at the church office. Emily waited until he’d left the sewing room before she turned from the ironing board and stood in the doorway. She watched Dave go down the hallway to his small den; without looking in her direction, he closed the door.
Until recently his door had always remained open. To the best of her knowledge he’d never done this before. Slowly, she returned to her quilting, but she could