Faking Faith (12 page)

I grinned at him as I sat down again, and he smiled uncertainly back. I hoped he saw at least some of the absurdity of the situation, but I couldn’t count on it. He was still a total mystery.

Though one thing was for sure—Asher was obviously a guy who was comfortable with silence. He sat there, not looking at me, until I couldn’t resist breaking the calm.

“Abigail said you took some classes at a community college,” I said.

Asher nodded, still not looking at me.

“How was it? I’ve always wondered.”

He looked over at me and blinked. “About college?” he asked.

“Just curious. What sort of classes?”

Asher actually looked like he was on the verge of blushing, his tanned cheeks pink. “Various subjects,” he said. “But computers, mostly.”

“That’s cool,” I said.

He laughed morosely. “Well, it
was
cool. Past tense.”

“Why did you stop?” I asked. I was curious to see if he would openly admit the truth.

“Dad decided there wasn’t much point in it,” Asher said, staring off across the back field. “And he’s right. I’m just going into the building business with him, and there aren’t really any computers to program while you’re putting up a house.”

“I guess,” I said. It was the same sort of reasoning Abigail had used. If your path was fixed, why bother learning what else was out there? In a way, it was easier. You’d never know regret.

“It—it—it’s just, I’ve always been interested in computers, you know?” he said quickly, sounding a little ashamed. “Ever since we got one when I was a kid, I’ve been playing around with it, trying to figure out how it works, writing little programs and things. I built Abi’s site, and other people have tried to hire me to build websites. But Dad doesn’t think that’s important work, because it’s not actually building something physical, just messing around with 1’s and 0’s, as he says. And then with all the other stuff that happened … ” He stopped.

“What other stuff?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, nothing you need to know about,” he muttered.

“Try me,” I said.

He gave me a doubtful look, knitting together his eyebrows.

Then he opened his mouth, as if he were about to talk, and closed it again. His lips were a thin, determined line. “No, i-i-it’s shameful … nothing a nice girl like you needs to hear,” he finally said.

Ha, nice. As if.

“But—” I said.

“I’m sure Abigail has told you some of it,” he said, standing up. “She has trouble keeping quiet sometimes. But honestly, Faith, it’s really best if you stay away from me. I’m damaged goods, and I’m not going to drag anyone else down with me. I swore I wouldn’t.”

“Asher, you wouldn’t—”

He interrupted again, almost pleading with me. “Faith, p-please don’t.”

He shook his head and started to walk by me, on his way back toward the house. But he hesitated in front of me and looked down at my face. I looked up at him, at his sad and tormented eyes, and without thinking further I reached out and took ahold of his ankle, my hand clutching his dusty jeans.

I couldn’t stop myself. All I wanted to do was touch him, comfort him, and somehow assure him that he wasn’t an awful failure as a human. That just because he’d liked a girl who wasn’t parent-approved, it didn’t mean he was damaged.

And I wanted to tell him how I knew what he was going through—that I’d also made a mistake that had embarrassed my family and made me an outcast. And that I knew exactly what that sort of humiliated regret felt like.

But I couldn’t say anything. I could only hold his ankle. Which was kind of a weird thing, I know, but it was all I could think of to do. I didn’t even mean it in a seductive way, especially since the idea of that still freaked me out. I just wanted to connect with him somehow.

Asher’s eyes went wide at my grasp. I squeezed gently, looking him straight in the eye, trying to communicate through my fingers that it was okay. That I understood and accepted him.

“You … you … you really shouldn’t do that.” His voice was husky. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and landed in the dirt next to my shoe.

“I know,” I replied. “I’m sorry. I … can’t really help it.”

He made a strangled sort of sound and gently shook my hand off his leg.

“Please, Faith,” he said. “Don’t make my mistake. God is always watching.”

And with that, he walked quickly away.

I hugged my knees up to my chest and watched him go, more confused than ever.

FIFTEEN

I
was helping Abigail wash dishes after breakfast when her mom came up and put her arms around the two of us.

“Exciting news, girlie girls!” she whispered in a baby-talk voice. “Daddy just told me we’re expecting special company for dinner.”

I still wasn’t used to how she referred to her own husband as “Daddy.” Yuck.

But I smiled at her and carefully set the plate I was drying in the dish rack. “That’s great!” I said.

Abigail was looking down at the soapy water, her eyes wide.

“Who’s coming?” she asked.

“Well, Rachel and Elijah and the baby,” said Mrs. Dean. Abigail’s twenty-year-old sister had gotten married just over a year ago and had a two-month-old little boy. “Along with Elijah’s brother, Beau. You remember him, right, Abigail? Such a nice, godly young man.”

I glanced at Abigail again, and it looked like she wasn’t breathing.

“You’ll just love to meet Elijah and Rachel,” Mrs. Dean said to me, squeezing my shoulder. “Samuel is a darling baby, and Rachel is such a sweet little mama! Elijah just adores her. It’s been such a blessing to see young people living out the example of a good, Biblical marriage.”

As she chatted about the visitors, I kept shooting looks at Abigail. She’d started washing dishes again but was going much slower, her heart clearly not in it. Her face was tense and for once I could see the physical similarities between her and Asher.

“I’d just love it if they came over more often,” Mrs. Dean said, nudging Abigail with her hip. “Wouldn’t you like to see more of them, too? Especially when they bring a certain someone?”

Abigail dropped the glass she was holding and it shattered all over the sink.

“Goodness, Abigail!” snapped her mother, the coy-conspiratorial voice gone. “Don’t be so careless! Clean that up!”

“Sorry, Mama,” Abigail said, starting to pick up the pieces.

“Honestly,” Mrs. Dean said as she flounced away toward the living room. “Sometimes you wouldn’t know you’re almost eighteen. Try not to cut yourself, for Heaven’s sake.”

I watched Mrs. Dean go, shocked at her sudden turn, then started to help Abigail pick up the glass out of the sink.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

“Oh, except for my clumsiness, I’m fine!” she said, with a suspicious sort of brightness.

“Are you sure? Because—”

“Ouch!” Abigail gasped, interrupting. A piece of glass had nicked her thumb. “Goodness, could I be any more stupid?”

“Abi, it was an accident.” I noticed there were tears in her eyes, and I could tell they weren’t related to the cut on her finger. “Okay, what’s really going on?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, almost with a sob. “I shouldn’t say anything at all about it.”

“About what? Is it something about this brother who’s coming?”

She looked at me, thumb in her mouth and her blue eyes huge and wet, and I was reminded of a scared little kid. Reluctantly, she nodded.

“What about him?” An uncomfortable suspicion was beginning to form in my brain, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

Abigail turned to face the sink again, examining her thumb. “It’s silly.”

“Clearly you’re upset about something,” I pointed out. “So it must not be silly. Come on, spit it out.”

She turned and gave me a tremulous smile, putting her hand on my arm. “You’re such a good friend, Faith. What would I do without you here?”

I laughed. “You’d probably be just fine. I mean, you saw how my oatmeal just turned out this morning.”

She pulled away and wiped at her eyes, smiling. “Maybe that’s why I’m all emotional.”

“Will you tell me what’s really wrong?”

Abigail sighed and drummed her fingers on the sink.

“I like Elijah, I really do,” she said. “And his brother Beau seems like a … like a nice man. He’s been coming to our church for a bit and he owns his own business and everything. He works with Daddy sometimes, and Daddy thinks he’s wonderful and keeps saying that Beau just needs to find a good girl and settle down.”

“Oh, he’s … not married?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. Of course he wasn’t. His attendance at this dinner had a definite purpose.

Abigail shook her head, biting her lip.

“Um … how old is he?”

“Twenty-eight,” she whispered.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. The idea was just too ridiculous. “And your parents just want you to—”

Abigail held up her hands to quiet me. “Shhh, Mama could be listening!”

“They honestly think that you and this Beau would be a good … match?” I finished quietly, crossing my arms.

“He’s a fine man,” she said weakly. “Very Biblical. I could do much worse. Daddy and he have theological discussions all the time and they always agree on everything. You know how hard that is to find. Sometimes Daddy even has him speak on Sundays, which is a big deal because Daddy doesn’t give the podium to just anyone. And if Daddy likes him, then … ”

She trailed off, the implication clear. If her father ordered it, Abigail would have to obey. And be married to her brother-in-law’s brother, eleven years older than she was, whether she was excited about it or not.

I mean, I knew that some families still practiced this sort of half-arranged Biblical courtship—it was often proudly mentioned on the blogs I’d visited, especially when older siblings were married off. And in a way it made sense. If you barely let your daughters out of your sight, don’t let them speak to any boys or hang out in mixed groups on their own, how are they supposed to find anyone to marry, let alone a guy who fits the exact religious specifications? If parents didn’t go out looking for eligible bachelors for their daughters, their daughters would never be able to fulfill their appropriate roles as wives and helpmeets.

But the whole concept made me feel queasy.

I stared at Abigail, at a complete loss about what to say. “This is disgusting” or “they’re crazy” or “let’s haul ass out of here and run away to where people are living in the twenty-first century” were not things that would come out of Faith’s mouth.

The most appropriate reaction would be for me to be delighted for Abigail. She was closing in on her destiny.

But why was she crying? Why did she look so upset about it?

Any lingering feelings I’d had that visiting the Deans was a fun game had faded away. This was Abigail’s life, and she didn’t get to leave it at the end of two weeks. I reached over and squeezed her arm.

She set her shoulders, took a deep breath, and smiled at me. Wide and brilliant and fake. “Let’s figure out a menu. How fun!”

. . .

Beau was horrible.

He was good-looking enough, I guess, with military-short reddish hair and a fussily trimmed goatee. His brown polo shirt was carefully ironed and his khakis had a crisp crease. He cut his food neatly and complimented all the “ladies” on the cooking. He joked with the small kids, who stared at him with starry eyes.

But there was something … wrong. Some glossy sheen to him that made me feel like the whole package was a lie. Some leer to his eye as he looked at Abigail, even though he never talked directly to her. Some smarmy smugness around his mouth that turned my stomach.

It was obvious what his intentions were.

“With business going so well,” he said to Mr. Dean as he patted his mouth with a napkin, “I’m thinking of buying a nice piece of property and building myself a house up the road a tick.”

“Up the road from here?” asked Mrs. Dean. “Isn’t that wonderful! Abigail, don’t you think that’s wonderful? That’s so close!”

She beamed at Abigail, who smiled weakly and then looked down at her plate. “It sure is.”

“And building a whole new house. That’s just lovely!” said Rachel. She was sitting across from me, holding her baby boy who was, admittedly, adorable. Her face was glowing, and she and her husband had just announced that she was pregnant again.

Everyone had clapped and congratulated them, but when I’d glanced over at Abigail, I could tell that her joy was a little forced. She was concerned about her sister. When we’d been cooking earlier, Abigail had told me that Rachel’s first pregnancy was tough and her doctor had told her to wait awhile before having another baby. Obviously, Rachel and Elijah hadn’t taken his advice. Having more babies was more important.

“Well, it’s about time,” bellowed Mr. Dean at Beau, nodding. “You need to settle on down, young man, and have yourself some godly arrows. ‘Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their enemies in the gate.’ Psalm 127:3.”