Fireproof (15 page)

Wayne grinned. “Yeah, you wish.”

Caleb slipped up beside Wayne and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

The driver stopped. “What?”

“It was tomato juice,” Caleb stated, before leaving the room.

A befuddled look crossed Wayne's face. He shrugged, glanced toward Terrell, and shook his head as if to say:
What was that all
about?

FOUR HOURS LATER, with a calm, humid night settling over Albany, Terrell shifted in his bed on the station's upper sleeping level. Although sometimes they got awakened by the sound of the alarm, he hoped this evening would allow him a long rest. He needed it. On his days off, he'd found little peace sleeping alone in that king-size marriage bed.

Sudden movement cut through his drowsiness, followed by a yell.

“To
mato
juice? Man, that's wrong!”Wayne shot up from his bed, the one between Eric's and Terrell's, his face a mask of indignation. He punched at his covers. “That's
wrong
!”

“What's wrong?” Eric sounded groggy.

In shorts and a T-shirt,Wayne jumped up on his bare feet. He stabbed the air with his finger. “I drank the
real
stuff while
he
drank tomato juice.”

“You just got that?” Terrell asked.

“You know what that stuff
did
to me?”

“Go to bed,Wayne,” Simmons barked from around the corner.

“There were some
serious
repercussions.”

The crew chuckled in the darkness, while Eric begged for silence.

“It's on now! That's just
wrong
, man.”Wayne grumbled as he adjusted his blankets and flopped back on his mattress. “You done lit a fuse. Somebody's gonna get a karate-chop sandwich.”

CHAPTER 21

T
he tip of Caleb Holt's lighter touched the first tapered candle, then the second. Shadows edged the dining room, and the fire's golden glow danced on polished silverware.

Taking his lieutenant's advice, Caleb had pulled out all the stops. He'd ironed and spread out a white linen tablecloth, then set the table with the finest dishes and crystal stemware. After picking up a steak dinner for two from an upscale restaurant, he'd raced home so he could serve it hot the moment Catherine arrived.

She had no idea, of course. She'd always liked surprises, though, and he hoped his efforts would soften something in her.

The Camry's headlights cut across the lawn. She was here.

Caleb hit the stereo remote, starting the romantic music he'd selected. He placed the steaks on their individual plates, beside bowls of garden-fresh salad and Parmesan breadsticks.

In dress shirt and slacks, he waited.

The side door opened, ushering Catherine into the candlelit atmosphere. She had her purse over her arm, one hand on the strap as though protecting herself from getting robbed. She wore a fitted, striped shirt that was fashionable yet casual. The highlights in her hair caught the soft lighting, and her eyes . . .

Her eyes were deep and brooding—beautiful, yet distant.

Caleb's heart seemed to stop.

She was stunning.

Catherine stood in the dining room doorway, taking in all he had done. He lifted his chin in her direction and eased her chair from the table. All he wanted was one flicker, one blink. Anything to show a softening on her part.

Please, Catherine.

She said not one word. She strode off down the hall to the master bedroom. He watched her go, yet refused to give up hope. She'd be back. She was just needing to change her clothes after a long day at work. Or to collect herself emotionally.

No, she hadn't just rejected him. Had she?

CATHERINE TOSSED HER purse and keys onto the dresser and braced herself against the furniture, caught off guard by her husband's gesture. Soft music floated down the hall, a man's voice crooning something about being on top of the world.

What had gotten into Caleb?

Sure, Deidra had cautioned her about these sorts of male tactics, but it was hard not to believe those green eyes of his, sincere and unblinking. Those eyes that had peered into her soul, when she was not much more than a girl, and invited her into his life.

She knew those eyes, didn't she?

And just now, she'd seen no deceit.

Of course, that could be his intent—to put on a good act and appear as innocent as possible, before dropping the hammer.

She looked at herself in the dresser mirror and saw a woman who desired affection, security, and independence. She had given a good portion of her life to this relationship, and somewhere along the line, somewhere between her graduation from college and her promotion at the hospital, the bonds between Caleb and her had gone slack. They'd both been pulling, keeping that strand tight, but now it was loose and dangling—like a downed power line.

Useless. Nothing but arcing sparks.

Other women she knew had played the fool. Her own grandmother had let a husband squander his weekly earnings on a gambling addiction.

“
He's got a good heart
,” Grandma used to say.
“He'll change.”

Yeah, right. If Caleb wanted me, he wouldn't need those images
on the computer. He wouldn't treat me like a second-rate servant. He
wouldn't . . .

Catherine pivoted from the mirror and marched back to the dining room.

SHE WAS COMING back. Caleb wanted to believe that was a good thing, but the hurried steps implied something other than loving surrender.

“What're you doing?” Catherine demanded.

Caleb had both hands on the back of the chair.“Maybe I'd like to have dinner with my wife.”

She looked down, swung hair from her face, then met his gaze. “Let me be real clear with you about something . . .”

He waited.

She advanced two steps. “I do
not
love you.”

Caleb's chest felt like it had been crushed beneath a falling beam. He could barely breathe. He didn't trust himself to speak. He watched her turn, heard her clicking shoes carry her away, and then he blinked back tears that turned quickly from despair to rage.

The Love Dare?

What a joke.

He plunged his hand into his water glass, then used wet fingers to snuff out both candles—
hissss, hissss
.

With a coat snatched from the hall closet, he rushed outside and paced beneath the starry Georgia night. What he wouldn't give to have one of those stars fall right now, wiping out his existence in a fiery flash.

He dragged a patio chair across the concrete pad, dropped into it, and pulled out his phone, ready to give his father a piece of his mind.

JOHN HOLT WAS at his desk, going through bills by lamplight. The cordless phone rang beside him, and caller ID provided a clue as to the purpose of the call.

“Oh, son,” John mumbled. “This is when it gets hard.”

He answered the phone. “Hello, Caleb.”

“We're done, Dad! I am not gonna keep doing this. I have tried and there's nothing there. It's not
worth
it.”

The rush of words came as no surprise. John remembered—oh, how he remembered—the struggles he and Cheryl had gone through. “I understand, son, but you're halfway there. That was the most difficult for us, too.”

“But at least you had some hope. Catherine has given me nothing.”

“There was a point when we had no hope either. Our marriage should have ended, Caleb. You can't listen to the way you feel at the moment. There's no doubt that she's seen you trying, right?”

“No. She doesn't care. None of this means anything to her. Dad, I tried.”

John contemplated what to do. He thought of his own father, a craftsman with wood, a godly example, and one who had been there as a calming influence for John and Cheryl. “Caleb, are you off tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I'm coming to see you. We can talk then.”

“Dad, you don't have to do that.”

“I want to, son. I'd like to come.”

Caleb paused on the other end, then sighed. “All right.”

CATHERINE FELT SO weak. She wanted to be strong, to hold it all together and show her self-reliance. Here, though, in the face of her collapsing marriage, she could muster only the strength to curl beneath the covers, work clothes still on, and cry.

She held the pillow to her face and felt hot tears spread through the material. She tried to mute her own whimpers. Had she made a mistake? Were Caleb's efforts genuine?

No, he had slammed the back door on his way out to the patio. He was mad—and why? Because she'd called his bluff.

Why, then, did it feel like she was the one with the losing hand?

Catherine cried herself to sleep, feeling helpless, wishing she could go back and tell the truth to that dreamy-eyed girl she had once been: Lasting romance was for storybooks, and that was it. There was no
happily ever after
.

Or, in her three-year-old words,
happily after ever
.

CHAPTER 22

D
ad, I feel bad that you drove four hours just to come see me.”

“It was good,” John said. “Gave me time to think and pray. So, uh, what are you on? Day Twenty?”

“Yeah. Yeah, something like that.”

With his dad at his side, Caleb circled around a fallen log, past thick foliage that served as a carpet to towering pines, oaks, and pecans. Sunbeams spilled through the greenery, like glowing drops of water, and filtered through strands of moss. This trail behind Caleb and Catherine's house was guiding them back to the old camp spot with the wooden cross.

“Twenty,” John said. “Yeah, I'd say the halfway point was the hardest.”

Caleb hooked a thumb into his pocket. “Why?”

“Well, it's when you determine whether your heart's in it or not. It makes you check your real motives when things get difficult.”

“Did Mom give
you
a hard time?”

“Oh,” John chuckled. “I thought your mother had a pretty good attitude about it.”

“Well, Catherine's not buying any of it.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because she doesn't love me. She doesn't even like me. Dad, she's just about ignored everything I've done.”

“Are you reading everything on each page?”

“Of
The Love Dare
? What, you mean the Bible verses at the bottom?” Caleb groaned. “No, no, I'm not, Dad. I told you, that is not what I need.”

“And what do you need?”

“I need Catherine to wake up to the fact that we're about to get an ugly divorce. I'm trying to prevent that, but I cannot do it by myself.”

“That may be true, but I think you need more than that.”

“Dad, if you're gonna tell me I need Jesus—please don't. I don't need a crutch to get through life.” Caleb scraped his leather hiking boots over the ground, snapping twigs beneath his feet.

“Oh, son, Jesus is much more than a crutch. He's become the most significant part of our lives.”

“Why do you keep saying stuff like that? ‘He's the most significant part . . .' ? How is that?”

John lumbered along the trail, unhurried. “When I realized who
I
was and who
He
was, I realized my need for Him. I
needed
His forgiveness and salvation.”

“See, I don't understand that. Why do I need His salvation? What, am I gonna be thrown into hell? For what? Because I got divorced?”

They had reached the clearing,where scattered stumps still waited for campers who had been gone for years. There was something serene about this place, away from the rough-and-tumble of life.

“No,” John said, turning in his ribbed tan sweater and dark corduroys. “It's because you've violated His standards.”

“What? Thou shalt not kill? Dad, I help people. I am a good person.”

“According to you. But God doesn't judge by your standards. He uses His.”

Caleb's mind was racing. See, this was too much for anyone to live up to. This was why all that religious talk turned people away. No wonder fundamentalists of all sorts ranted at a world gone astray. That gave them all the justification they needed to point their fingers and rain down condemnation.

“Okay, Dad. And what're God's standards?”

“Well . . . truth.”

“Okay.”

“Love.”

“I'm honest.”

“Faithfulness.”

“I care about people. I am those things.”

“Sometimes. But have you loved God, the One who gave you life? His standards are so high,” John said, gesturing,“that He considers hatred to be murder. And lust to be adultery.”

The words pierced to Caleb's core. He thought of all the times he'd harbored hatred toward others—even toward his wife. And the hours he'd wasted in front of the computer, committing adultery in the hidden places of his mind.

“But, Dad, what about . . . what about all the good I've done?”

“Son, saving someone from a fire does not make you right with God. You've broken His commandments, and one day you'll answer to Him for that. Your only hope is God changing you, and your pride is keeping you from getting there.”

Caleb planted himself on one of the stumps, his back turned toward the sunrays that radiated around wooden crossbeams. In his father's voice, he detected no arrogance or scorn, only untamed truth and desperate love. Caleb leaned forward, knotting his hands over his head. The weight of the world was here on his back—his failure as a husband, the lack of respect from his wife.

And now he had to carry the burden of being some awful sinner?

It was too much.

It seemed easier to look away than face the truth.

“Caleb, if I were to ask you why you're so frustrated with Catherine, what would you say?”

That brought his head back up. Caleb could almost imagine the list scrolling from his mouth.“She's stubborn. She makes everything difficult for me. She's ungrateful. She's constantly griping about something.”