Page 12 of A Whim and a Prayer

When Arthur retired last year at the age of eighty and turned The Herald over to his socialite niece, Mitch had assured Charity that Marjorie wouldn’t be a problem, but Charity had her doubts. Doubts that were immediately confirmed when Marjorie demanded that Mitch—and only Mitch—co-chair the annual fundraiser with her, just like they had fifteen years ago.

“For pity’s sake—can’t you refuse?” Charity had said, eyes wide with shock as familiar shards of jealousy prickled inside.

“Maybe,” Mitch had said with a gentle buff of her arms, ducking to calm her with a trace of a smile, “if I wasn’t a sixty-three-year-old editor-in-chief eligible to retire with a hefty pension in two years. But face it, Charity—it would be professional suicide to buck her at this stage of the game.” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Trust me, sweetheart—it’s not the same Marjorie, so you have nothing to worry about. She’s old now and looks like a hag next to you.”

“How old?” Charity had asked with a crimp in her brow.

“I don’t know—fifty or so, I guess.”

She shoved him hard. “Old? You think fifty is old? I’m forty-seven, Mitch—do I look old to you?”

His Adam’s apple ducked hard. “Uh … you’re forty-seven? That can’t be possible, Little Girl, because I swear you’re still one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.” He bundled her in his arms, attempting to soothe her with a kiss to her head. “I promise you have nothing to worry about, Charity—I’m yours heart and soul.”

He bent to slowly caress her mouth with his own, an action that quickly escalated from tender comfort to their usual intensity when his moan melded with hers.

Voice husky, he’d jerked her flush before nudging her backwards with a wayward grin that landed her flat on the living room couch. “Not to mention body,” he’d whispered, tossing her shoes aside before descending to join her on one of the rare nights Winnie and Julia weren’t home.

The very memory heated her cheeks as she looked up to see the love of her life reading the paper, as handsome at sixty-three as he’d been when she’d met him almost thirty years ago.

Even so, tonight she was unwilling to let their remarkable chemistry derail her from her primary goal: protecting Winnie from herself. Her lips gummed tight. Which meant that tonight would be one of the extremely rare times in her marriage when the love of her life would be getting a cold shoulder instead of a warm bed.

Charity glanced at the clock on the mantel, then at her precious twelve-year-old asleep on her nearly finished crossword puzzle, and her heart instantly warmed. Thank God Julia was a gem and Henry was married because Charity would need all her focus for Winnie—the daughter who was the most like her despite not being blood. Memories of all the trouble she’d given her own parents—not to mention her sister, Faith—churned in her stomach as she laid her knitting aside.

Lord, please, give me strength. She swallowed hard as she rose from her chair. And lots and lots of wisdom!

“Jewels, sweetheart,” she whispered as she bent to gently shake her daughter’s shoulder, “it’s late, so we need to get you to bed.”

Charity smiled when Julia never moved a muscle because she was so like her father—dead to the world whenever he slept. “Ju-Ju-Bug,” she tried again, jostling her a bit more, “wake up, sweetheart.”

“I’ll get her.” Mitch instantly set his paper and readers aside to rise and tenderly pick Julia up like she weighed nothing at all, pressing a kiss to her hair as she lay comatose over his shoulder.

No! Charity quickly stepped out of his way without a word, hoping the absence of her usual “thank you” wouldn’t go unnoticed. I will not soften my stance just because he is a wonderful father who has given me wonderful children.

Stoically—and silently—she followed him up the stairs and into her daughter’s room, quickly dispensing with Julia’s shoes and outer clothing while Mitch stood mutely behind her, hopefully aware of the chill in her manner. Chin stiff, she marched to Julia’s dresser for a fresh nightgown and turned, mouth plunking open when she saw that Mitch was gone.

The nerve!

“Well, if he hasn’t felt the cold shoulder by now,” Charity muttered as she quickly dressed her catatonic daughter in her nightclothes, “he will soon when I’m fast asleep on the far side of the bed.”

Gingerly sitting on the edge of Julia’s bed, she brushed her daughter’s blond curls aside before closing her eyes to say Julia’s usual goodnight prayer for her.

And a prayer for your husband?

Charity’s eyes popped open, the niggle from the Holy Spirit not particularly welcome right now. Jaw set, she peeked up at the ceiling. “You want me to pray for him? Okay, I will—please open his stubborn eyes to the problem we are having here.”

Silence.

Charity ground her jaw, not especially keen on praying the way her sister Faith had taught her either—asking God to bless those we have a grudge against. Lips in a mulish press, she shot a look at the ceiling. “Okay, okay, I’ll do it, but later, all right?”

Depositing a kiss to Jewel’s forehead, she rose to sneak out, silently closing the door behind her. Tiptoeing down the hall, she stopped at the staircase to listen, grateful for the sound of Mitch’s favorite radio show, The Voice of Firestone, blaring from the living room—a show he never missed.

She glanced at her watch, relieved that it had just started, so she had an hour to go. According to the label on the Amytal sleeping pills she’d asked her doctor to prescribe, they took effect within thirty minutes to an hour—just enough time to get ready for bed and fall dead asleep. Her mouth tightened into a grim smile. Bless you, Dr. Miller!

Charity hurried into the bathroom and quietly closed the door, determined that this time, she would be sound asleep when Mitch came to bed. Throughout her entire marriage, the man had a knack for knowing when she was asleep and when she was faking it, which unfortunately, was most of the time. But not tonight. No, if her silent treatment was going to work this time, she’d have to be long gone to dreamland to avoid any chat or lovemaking Mitch may have in mind.

She dug in her personal drawer where she’d hidden the sleeping pills and popped one in her mouth, washing it down with a glass of water. Donning her favorite ratty flannel nightgown—which Mitch hated—she quickly buttoned it to its high collar with a smug smile. Let’s see him fumble with that!

Going through her nighttime rituals of removing makeup, washing her face, and applying night cream, she hummed Frankie Carle’s “A Little on the Lonely Side,” suddenly giddy over her cold-shoulder plan. Because “lonely” was what her husband was going to be if he didn’t take her concern for Winnie more seriously. She’d been begging him for months to side with her on Winnie, but he had not. And now push had come to shove.