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Guinea for a while, and then Tanzania. Twice a year, a bus arrived full of American college students from Christian universities that helped sponsor his mission work. Two years ago, a beautiful young woman with honey-colored hair and sweet, wide eyes had stepped off the bus and stolen his heart. They’d married immediately and when her classmates returned home, she’d stayed with him.
    He’d been foolish. The girl was young and her passion for missions untested, so that after a year, when her passion died like a malnourished sprout, she began complaining. Pastor Allen loved his wife, though, and would therefore withhold nothing from her. As much as he wanted to spread the word of God to those who had little or no access to it on their own, the Bible had strong words about how a husband was to treat a wife.  
    Fortunately, the pastor at the community church in his wife’s hometown of Fair Grove was retiring, leaving an opening. Richard Allen had sent his audition video as well as a letter from his wife. He’d received an invitation to try out, two weeks later. Two weeks after that, he had a job.
    They’d been in Fair Grove for three months, now. At first, his beautiful young bride had barely seemed to improve. Nothing he did made her happy. But she’d taken a turn, recently, for the better. Now he sat in his study, listening to her bustle about the house, humming and singing to herself. He smiled and counted himself a lucky man.
    His wife popped her head in the door of his study and greeted him with a bright, dimply smile. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to spend the evening with Ivy, after dinner. She’s having a really hard time.”
    “Of course, Molly. You’re a good friend. Tell her if she needs anyone to talk to, I’ll be happy to listen and offer counsel.”
    She bobbed her head and went back to her housework.  

“Don’t do this,” Ivy implored. She sat on the edge of her four-poster bed that she’d meticulously made up that morning, same as every morning of her life, minus the few years she’d spent living in college dorms. Even then, she’d always been a tidy person.
    Molly was letting down her hair and fixing her makeup in front of the vanity mirror over Ivy’s cherrywood dresser. She’d come over a little before sundown. “It’s Boone Deathridge. For four, miserable high school years he didn’t even know I existed. I have to do this.”
    She’d already done it, was the thing. Molly had had her night with Boone, and Ivy, as much as she hated the whole situation, had been willing to cover for her friend that once. It hadn’t occurred to her that the affair would continue.  
    Ivy smoothed the soft, worn comforter beneath her hands, more to comfort herself than to straighten any wrinkles. The pink, floral pattern had faded long ago, now a shabby image of its former self, almost sepia. But Ivy wouldn’t replace it. She had fond memories of decorating this room with her mother. From the eyelet lace window dressings that were once pure white, to the floral wallpaper that they’d fought over—at the age of twelve, Ivy had thought it Victorian and classic while her mother found it stuffy and old-fashioned—her mother’s memory infused the room.  
    Molly’s thick, soft-brown hair fell into a natural wave. If Ivy were a vain woman, she’d have been jealous. Molly was tall with a figure that could only be described as dignified. She seriously looked like the cover model for a 1950’s copy of Good Housekeeping.  
    There had to be something she could say to convince Molly not to cheat on her husband again. She was Molly’s best friend by default, the other friends driven off by Molly’s selfish, narcissistic behaviors. And frankly, as secure as Ivy was as a daughter, a business manager, and a citizen, she did feel a little weak in the friendship department, and Molly’s attention made her feel good.  
    Truth be told, Ivy didn’t have any other girlfriends. Growing up, she’d