Troubled Waters Read online

  Troubled Waters (eBook edition)

  Hendrickson Publishers Marketing, LLC

  P. O. Box 3473

  Peabody, Massachusetts 01961-3473

  eBook ISBN 978-1-59856-636-9

  Troubled Waters © 2003 Rene Gutteridge.

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, Janet Kobobel Grant, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Due to technical issues, this eBook may not contain all of the images or diagrams in the original print edition of the work. In addition, adapting the print edition to the eBook format may require some other layout and feature changes to be made.

  Cover Photo Credit: ©ZenShui/Alix Minde, PhotoAlto Agency RF Collections, Getty Images

  First eBook edition — March 2012

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  For my sister, Wendy,

  and in special memory of my grandmothers,

  Flora and Jacquelyn.

  About the Author

  RENE GUTTERIDGE is a talented playwright and award-winning novelist with over twenty novels to her credit. She has served as the director of drama at an Oklahoma City church and has written over five hundred sketches for use in services.

  Rene and her husband make a home for their two children in Oklahoma.

  Visit www.renegutteridge.com.

  Prologue

  She debated with herself as to whether or not this was a sin.

  Writing the final thoughts down, she turned the paper in order to get a perfect slant to the handwriting. She paused before signing it. Her hand was trembling a little. She glanced at her daughter’s old school paper, eyeing the name at the top right. The M was bubbly. The Y had a little curl at its end. She copied it perfectly.

  A finger, swollen from the July humidity, tapped her thin lips and then rubbed the edge of her chin. She swallowed hard and continued.

  Pinching the corner of the paper, she crinkled it a bit. She bent it backward and forward and then backward again. Her coffee cup made a perfect half-circle stain when she placed it on the opposite corner and pressed down. She lifted the cup to her lips, hardly noticing the coffee was barely warm anymore. The cream had even risen to the top in a white circle.

  The old wood floors creaked beneath her as she stood with much effort and walked to the kitchen sink, where she turned on the water and stuck a finger in the stream. Back at the table, she sat down, dabbed her finger on the edge of the paper, smudging the ink ever so slightly. She did this precisely four times.

  If this wasn’t a sin, then she was attending to detail. If it was a sin, then she could chalk this up to being deceptively calculating.

  The ceiling above groaned, and her heart stopped with a breathtaking sting. She glanced to the stairs, pushing her glasses up her small nose, but there was no shadow to be seen. Another sound from above assured her no one would be coming down any time soon. Jess could hardly sit up enough to eat soup, though that didn’t keep her from thinking maybe, just maybe God had answered his prayers and healed him. The ceiling became silent again, and she had to assume that Jess was still in bed and Patricia, his nurse, was still upstairs caring for him.

  Carefully folding the paper three ways and sliding it into the envelope, she tried several times to moisten the envelope with her tongue, but her mouth was so void of any moisture that she ended up sticking a finger in her coffee and running it along the glue before sealing it as tightly as she could.

  Then she set it down on the table and stared at it.

  It stared back. Or maybe glared. Her guilt consumed her, but only for a moment. An unfamiliar peace ushered the guilt out, and she knew this was what she had to do. Had to do, or needed to do? The guilt returned seconds later.

  Grabbing her purse off the table, she stuck the envelope deep inside. With a different pen and a different pad of paper she wrote a note to Patricia, telling her she had to run into town and would be back soon. She left out details so she wouldn’t have to lie.

  Then she walked out the back door of her house, eased herself down the cement steps that had given her problems for fifteen years, and shuffled along the dirty sidewalk and scorched grass to their old Pontiac. Lowering herself into the seat just about took all her breath away, so she rested a bit before pulling the car door shut. Thankfully it started without trouble. She slowly backed the car down the driveway.

  The upstairs bedroom curtains moved, and she knew Patricia was looking out to see who was coming or going. But she pretended not to notice as she shifted the car into Drive.

  Fifteen or so minutes later, she was at the post office. She didn’t bother going inside, thankful there was a drop-off box. Yet her arthritis and back problem kept her from being able to reach far enough to drop it in without getting out of the car. She managed to rock her heavy frame back and forth until she was out of the car and on her feet. She looked down and smiled. She was still wearing her house slippers.

  In front of the mail drop, she prayed silently. This was wrong and right all at the same time. She’d never done anything like it in her life. When she was fifteen she’d secretly given Herbie Templeton a quart of milk from her daddy’s cow, because he said he couldn’t afford any. But that was it. Could this really be what God wanted her to do?

  A brief thought passed through her conscience, a thought that in doing this maybe she was speaking of things that weren’t, as though they were. But it was crowded out of her mind by the next thought, that she didn’t trust her God enough to allow Him to work things out in His way.

  A warm southerly wind picked up, flushing her cheeks and tearing her eyes. She wiped at them and turned to find something serene to look at. In the distance she could see acres of wheat fields waiting to be harvested. The wheat waved at her as the wind swept through. The combines would be here in a couple of weeks.

  Velma Peterson stepped out of the post office then and waved at her, too. Luckily the drop box was located on the other side of the street, and the wind was blowing hard. Velma always worried about her hair, so instead of walking toward the drop box to say hello, she hurried off to the shelter of her car.

  Fear gripped her at the thought of anyone approaching her or asking what she was doing. Simply mailing a letter was not what she was doing. Sweat trickled down the side of her face and colle
cted on the skin of her thick neck. She wished she’d brought her hanky. June had been comfortable, but now it looked like July was going to be oppressive.

  The wheat fields caught her attention again. It had been a long time since she’d noticed their golden beauty. The wheat moved back and forth, as if God Himself were walking along, His giant feet parting it effortlessly. Her life was about to change in a way she’d only imagined in her darkest dreams. She wondered if she would survive the pain.

  She also wondered if she would survive the guilt of what she was about to do. The drop box blurred from the heavy tears in her eyes.

  It was time to make a decision.

  One

  I don’t ask a lot. At least I don’t think so. I ask for loyalty. I ask for consistency. I ask for a little hard work for fifteen minutes every morning. I don’t think that’s asking too much. In fact, I think you have it rather easy, don’t you?”

  Macey Steigel gestured dramatically at her CoffeePro, willing it, wishing it, demanding it to make coffee. But on this steamy summer morning it stared lifelessly back at her, refusing her simple request. Macey stood up from her bent position and sighed heavily. She turned and wondered if she could actually make it out the front door without any java in her system. Doubtful. She turned back around and slapped the thing on its side. The hard plastic stung her hand, and she winced in pain.

  Bending back down to its level on the kitchen counter, she said, “I paid eighty bucks for you. For your reliability. For your satisfaction guaranteed. And you know what? Most people don’t pay eighty bucks for coffee makers. No. In fact, most people don’t pay for coffee makers at all. You know why? Because most people get them for wedding presents. I, however, as you know and witness every morning as I get up and roam this apartment by myself, am not married and cannot seem to carry a relationship for as long as it takes you to make me coffee. So I’m sure you can see how upsetting it is when you, of all things, refuse to stick by me and do the one thing that makes me happy in the morning. Make me coffee.” She glared at it furiously. “MAKE ME COFFEE!” But the fancy plastic box in front of her never made a sound. She flipped the switch on and off, unplugged and plugged it back in, shook it back and forth as hard as she could, only to watch it sit on the counter and do nothing. “I have no coffee and I’m talking to inanimate objects again. I probably shouldn’t leave the house today,” she mumbled as she scooted toward the shower.

  She waited ten minutes for the water to warm up, an inconvenience the apartment manager failed to mention when she signed the lease a year ago. The ten minutes gave her plenty of time to mull over the message she’d come home to on her answering machine last night.

  “Hi, Macey . . . it’s me, Rob . . . Yeah, listen, I think it’s better we don’t see each other for a while . . . okay? Who am I kidding . . . we shouldn’t see each other, period. You’re a nice person, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, I just don’t think I can do this anymore. You know what I mean? I hope you know what I mean. You’re probably thinking I’m a coward for doing this on the machine, but I didn’t want you making a scene, and I felt like I needed to get this off my chest. So, that’s it. I’m sorry to have to do this. It’s just . . . it’s just time to say good-bye. Good-bye.”

  I just can’t do this anymore, Macey recited inside her head. It was a line she was familiar with, as if all men were reading from the same script. Danny had said he couldn’t do this. James couldn’t do this. Lee couldn’t do this. Bobby Watson had said he couldn’t do that. She was pretty sure what this was. That wasn’t quite as well defined. In her own definition, this meant act like an adult. Make mature decisions. Be responsible, loyal, reliable, and consistent. She wasn’t asking too much, was she? WAS SHE? She must be. This was her third relationship in a year, not the kind of track record to go bragging about. At least he hadn’t cost her eighty bucks.

  The water finally hit a tolerable warmth, and she got in and steadied herself. Her head was already pounding without the coffee. If she wasn’t careful, she might fall back asleep. The showerhead poured water from its spout, and she adjusted its strength. “Now, you are reliable,” she said dully. “I need a guy like you. You’re a little slow to warm up, but maybe the best ones are. Not once have you failed to give me water. Not once have you failed to do your job. Not once—AAAAHHHHH!”

  The water went ice cold, though at first Macey thought someone had stabbed a hundred knives through her body. “What—?”

  She jumped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, slipping and falling onto the tile floor with a thud. She pulled herself to her feet and growled as she yanked her bathrobe off the back of the bathroom door. She slung her wet, matted hair away from her face and walked into the hallway and then into the kitchen just in time to see a heavyset man emerge from underneath the sink.

  “Who are you?” she shrieked, though it came out barely a whisper. The man hiked his jeans up to his waist and wiped some grease onto his shirt. He looked fairly harmless.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know no one was here.”

  “Anyone was here.” She likened bad grammar to fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “I can see that now.”

  Macey rubbed her eyes. Was this some kind of mirage, the ill effects of no coffee? No, this man was real. “What are you doing here?”

  “Fixin’ your plumbin’. But I have to say, I didn’t find nothin’ wrong.”

  “I didn’t report a plumbing problem.”

  “Ain’t you 754?”

  “Seven fifty-three!” Macey snapped.

  “Well, good grief, excuse the daylights out of me. I’m as sorry as can be, ma’am.”

  Macey smiled tolerantly as the man stooped to gather his tools, revealing the predictable plumber’s stigma. She covered her eyes until the man stood back up.

  “I’m sorry fer the mistake, ma’am.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Hey, aren’t you the lady on the TV?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’ll be outta your way now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Say, you don’t happen to have any coffee goin’, do ya? I’m dyin’ for a cup.”

  “You and me both, pal,” she said as she went to the door to open it for him. He shuffled along the floor, banging his toolbox into almost every piece of her fine furniture while creating black scuff marks on her recently waxed tile. “You wouldn’t happen to be able to fix a coffee machine, would you?”

  “Only if it’s a CoffeePro Deluxe.”

  “What?” Macey nearly stumbled standing still. “That’s what I have! A 432!”

  “Then I can fix it for ya.”­

  ­———

  “Yeah, these CoffeePros have a little quirk in ’em that my wife and I found out about in the Deluxe 132 that we got for our wedding. I figured it was somethin’ like a wire loose, and it was. This little wire here”—he held it up for her to look at—“just pops loose and disables the whole stinkin’ machine. I can’t believe they haven’t fixed this problem by now.” Donald put the bottom back on her coffee maker.

  It wasn’t long before Macey was enjoying a hot cup of coffee and talking to Donald as if they’d known each other for years. He had two kids, been married twelve years, and actually enjoyed being a plumber. He found it challenging.

  “Ya see, it’s like a jigsaw puzzle every time I go to a job. Something’s not workin’, and I gotta look at all the pieces and figure out what the problem is.”

  Macey couldn’t quite identify how that was like a jigsaw puzzle, but it didn’t matter because she was now drinking hot coffee, her mind in caffeinated bliss.

  Macey poured coffee into a large Styrofoam cup for Donald, then added cream and sugar at his request. The plumber glanced at his watch. “Good grief, I better get goin’. The lady who made this call is prob’ly waitin’ on
me.”

  “Are you sure you can’t stay a few more minutes?” Macey found it only mildly pathetic that she was so lonely the company of a plumber with bad grammar seemed reasonably delightful.

  “No, ma’am, but thanks for the coffee. Have a good day.” Donald shut the door behind him and Macey felt a twinge of sadness. But that soon left when she realized how late she was running. She slicked her hair back into a style somewhat professional looking and threw on her newly dry-cleaned suit. Finishing off her last drop of coffee, she thought to herself, There is a God.

  ———

  Her Lexus sped past domestic and foreign cars alike, and she hardly noticed her eyes were on the clock more than the road. She practiced her breathing like her shrink had taught her and was proud of the fact that she hadn’t yet cussed out a fellow driver. Cussing, her shrink had told her, only further exacerbated the anger. It was only two months ago that she’d done a special report on road rage, secretly humored by the irony of it all. Three tickets in the past four weeks kept her speed to ten miles above the limit.

  Breathe and release. Breathe and release. Breathe and release. Deep breath. Repeat.

  A red Ford Bronco cut in front of her. She slammed on her brakes and screamed he was a moron, all the while passing him on the right and covering her face with her hand so she wouldn’t be recognized.

  She was forty-five minutes late and quite sure she was experiencing at least five of the eight common signs of stroke. Mitchell was going to freak.

  ———

  “Do you know how late you are? Do you know how freaked out Mitchell is right now?”

  “Do you know that the CoffeePro Deluxe 432 model of coffee maker has an inherent glitch in it dating back to the first model ever made? It completely shuts off the whole machine.”

  Beth followed Macey around a corner, so close Macey could smell the mint in the gum she was smacking. Beth was mostly tolerable because she was an apple-polishing, fame-seeking intern who thought Macey hung the stars and the moon.