Dry as Rain (33 page)

If you have found yourself in a similar situation and were not willing or able to make your marriage work after such a betrayal, please know that this novel is not standing in judgment of that decision. I, as the author, certainly am not.

If you are struggling with the unfaithfulness of a spouse, know that God sees your struggle. He hears your cries.

While I haven't myself been in exactly this situation, I do know what it's like to feel abandoned and worthless in other ways. I've been in the dark tunnel where tears fall freely but hope does not, and where all I could do was cling to the promise that God would never leave me.

There is light at the end of that tunnel, and it is so worth the forgiveness and time that will get you there. Boy, is it.

Thanks for reading.

Gina Holmes

About the Author

Gina Holmes is the author of the bestselling and award-winning debut novel
Crossing Oceans
. In 1998, Gina began her career penning articles and short stories. In 2005 she founded the influential literary blog Novel Journey. She holds degrees in science and nursing and currently resides with her husband and children in southern Virginia. To learn more about her, visit www.ginaholmes.com or www.noveljourney.blogspot.com.

Discussion Questions

1. Just when Eric has taken what could have been the final step away from his marriage, he gets a phone call telling him that his wife has been in an accident. How does that help keep him from doing any further damage to his marriage?

2. Have you ever been in a situation where a seemingly random event made you stop and think twice about something you were doing or were about to do? How do you explain such happenings?

3. Eric decides to let Kyra remain in ignorance about the state of their marriage, and specifically about what he has done wrong. Do you think that was the right decision? Why or why not? What would you have done in his position?

4. Did you like Eric at the beginning of the book? Why or why not? In what ways could you relate to him? How did your opinion of him change as the story went on?

5. Eric and Kyra both try to boil down the problems in their marriage to one or two specific things the other spouse did—or failed to do. How have you been guilty of that same approach in some of your relationships? What are some practical ways we can try to step back and see the bigger picture when we are tempted to oversimplify things?

6. Eric is disdainful of his friend Larry's Christian faith. Did you feel Larry was obnoxious or off base in the things he said? Why or why not? In what ways was Larry a true friend to Eric?

7. Some of Eric's issues stem from the loss of his father at an early age. What losses have you experienced that have affected you in profound ways? What are some ways you can work on forgiving (if necessary) and otherwise letting go of these things?

8. In some ways, Eric has never felt worthy of Kyra's love. How does that feeling contribute to some of his poor choices? How can we avoid making the same mistakes?

9. Everyone close to Eric advises him to tell Kyra the truth. But he resists that advice for a long time. Why is it so hard for him to be honest with her? What is he afraid of?

10. Can you think of a time in your own life when you were afraid to be honest with someone? How did that situation eventually work out?

Nothing deepens a stream like a good rain . . . or makes it harder to cross.

Just a few hundred feet away from the home I'd sworn never to return to, I sat on the smooth surface of a boulder. With my jeans cuffed and toes wiggling in the cold water, I reflected on how recent rains had caused these banks to widen and swell.

Perhaps a decent relationship with my father might also rise as a result of the storm we'd endured. Much could happen in six years. Maybe my absence had, as the adage promised, made his heart grow fonder. Maybe my homecoming would be like that of the Prodigal and he'd greet me with eager arms. Together we'd cry for all that had passed between us—and all that should have but didn't.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

It's going to go just fine,
I told myself as I traced the slippery surface of a moss-covered branch with my foot.

“What's funny, Mommy?”

Isabella's voice startled me. I didn't dare admit that what my five-year-old interpreted as mirth was really a grimace, because then of course she'd want to know what was the matter. “Nothing, sweetness.”

She threw a pebble at the water, but it dropped inches from its goal, clinking against slate instead. “You were smiling like this—” She bared her teeth in a forced grin.

Gently, I pinched her cheek.

“You're beautiful, Mommy.”

“Thank you, baby. So are you.”

“Yes, I am.”

I smiled at that. I smiled at just about everything she said and did.

“Mommy, why'd we drive here 'stead of Cowpa's house?”

Cowpa
was her name for grandparents of either gender. I probably should have corrected her long ago, but I found the odd term endearing. Besides, I reasoned, she'd grow out of baby talk all too soon without any help from me. I found myself wondering what other lessons she would learn in my absence.

The thought overwhelmed me, but I refused to cry in front of my daughter. Unloading my heavy burden onto her delicate shoulders was not an option. I might not be able to control much in my life lately, but I could still protect her. Nothing mattered more.

“This was my thinking place when I was a little girl. I wanted to show it to you in case you wanted to think sometimes.” I breathed in the area's familiar fragrance—a combination of damp leaves, pine, and earth—and eyed my surroundings. Same trees. Same sounds. Nothing much ever changed in this spot. That, more than any other reason, was why I loved it so much. Especially now.

I'd spent half of my life here, sitting on this unyielding rock, trying to make sense of the world. The loss of my mother. My father's neglect. The sometimes-sweet, often-bitter, words of my ex-boyfriend, David. It was here I'd first gotten real with God, begging Him not to take my mother. Railing at Him when He did.

Isabella bounced on one foot. “What did you think about here?”

I poked my toes through water, watching droplets glide down my pink toenails. “Well, when I was little, I thought of catching frogs and grasshoppers and wondered whether I would ever have a best friend to share my secrets with.”

“Did you find your best friend?” A dangling pine needle twirled from one of her curls.

Love overwhelmed me. “Yes, sweetness. I got you.”

She gave me one of her endearing smiles, pulled the debris from her hair, examined it, then dropped it in the stream. I scooped a handful of the cool water and let it slip through my fingers like the life I'd just left behind—my studio apartment that never really felt like home, the corporate ladder I'd just begun to climb, my coworkers who never became the close friends I had longed for. All of it now gone, as though it had never existed at all.

My daughter looked at me askance. “I wanna go.”

The hum of nature faded. The only thing I heard now was the sharp tick of my wristwatch reminding me just how short time was. Standing, I assured myself that I could do what I had come to do. For Isabella, I could do it. I slipped my damp feet into my Birkenstocks and brushed off my rear before collecting my daughter's chubby hand in my fingers.

I forced one leg in front of the other and made my way past my car, along the winding dirt road.

A familiar picket fence dressed in tangled braids of morning glories came into view. I clutched my daughter's fingers tighter, feeling more like child than mother.

Placing a hand over my heart, I stopped and took it in. I'd forgotten how beautiful my childhood home was and how much I'd missed it. As I remembered running barefoot through this yard and cannonball jumping into the pond out back, joy pricked at me . . . until my gaze settled on the bare dirt beneath the stairs. How many times had I hidden under that porch, wounded by my father's words? Too many. My smile died.

Isabella looked up at me eagerly, giving the motivation, if not the courage, I needed to continue. Ghosts of summers past faded as the fragrant scent of roses washed over me, and with it another wave of doubt so tall and wide, I felt as though I might drown in it.

What if my father wouldn't receive me? Or worse, what if he didn't accept my daughter? I felt sure Mama Peg would embrace her, but could he? Accepting me had proven impossible for him, but perhaps a child as charming as Isabella could thaw his arctic heart.

Now on the second stair, I paused to look behind me at the road, feeling a sudden urge to retreat. Isabella bounced on the balls of her feet, anxious to continue.

When we reached the porch, I squatted to her level. “Are you ready to meet your grandpa and great-grandma?”

The longing in her maple syrup eyes needed no words, but she added them anyway. “Jane has a cowpa, Natalie has a cowpa, Carter has two cowpas, and . . .” She gave me a look that said,
Must I continue?

“Okay, I get it.” I stood and lifted a fist to the door. Before I could knock, Isabella lurched forward and did it for me. She tapped her sandaled foot twice, then reached to knock again.

I grabbed her hand. “Give them a chance.”

The oversize wildflower wreath swayed as the door creaked open. An elderly woman with thick gray hair fashioned into a bun stood before us, oxygen tubes protruding from her nostrils. Deep wrinkles fractured her leathery skin. Her eyebrows were bushes, her lips were shriveled like raisins, and a heavy, floral perfume emanated from her.

Isabella gasped, but I beamed. “Mama Peg.”

My grandmother winked at me before turning her milky gaze to her great-granddaughter. “You must be Bella.”

Isabella's mouth opened and a strange squeal escaped. I don't know who was more horrified at that moment—Isabella at the sight of Mama Peg, Mama Peg at Isabella's revulsion, or me at their initial reactions to each other.

Mama Peg broke out in a deep belly laugh, intermingled with emphysemic hacks. Isabella leaped back as though she expected my grandmother and her tank to explode.

I laughed so hard tears streamed down my cheeks. That seemed to calm Isabella, and soon she was grinning too.

“I'm a wretched sight now, little girl, but not so long ago, I used to be as pretty as you,” my grandmother managed through her own amusement.

Isabella looked at me to dispel this ridiculous claim. I could only nod. I should have prepared her for this.

Mama Peg raised an unruly eyebrow at me. “I don't think she believes me.”

Catching my breath, I wiped my eyes. “I'm not sure I do either.” I added a wink to soften the jab. I knew she had been lovely, of course. I'd seen the proof in photographs. She still was in my eyes—one of the most beautiful women I had ever known, despite the cruel effects of tobacco and time.

An exaggerated scowl deepened her wrinkles. “Genevieve Paige Lucas, you're still a brat.”

Leaning in, I hugged her with all I had. “I missed you, Grandma.”

“You too, Jenny. You stayed away far too long.”