The Perfect Life by Robin Lee Hatcher

Roger never let his affairs get this out of hand.

Sixteen

    SOME PEOPLE ARE LIKE THE PIRANHA, FIERCE PREDATORS with sharp teeth that tear the flesh from their prey. And many of those piranha-people spend hour upon hour online—on bulletin boards, on blogs, on social networking sites—dishing gossip, ripping strangers to shreds, feeding upon the wounded and dying.
    Strange, how unaware I was of this before tragedy struck my family.
    My introduction to the ugly underbelly of the Internet came through an acquaintance who, along with her e-mailed condolences, sent me a link to an online article that claimed to shine a light on the dangers and hypocrisies of religious charities. I recognized the bias against Christianity from the first paragraph.
    The author of the piece brought up numerous scandals, some decades old, some more current. He used a lot of space covering financial misconduct, both proven and suspected, but I thought there was a particular note of glee when he discussed the sexual indiscretions of various ministers, evangelists, and church leaders—my husband included.
    That now-familiar churning flared in my stomach. I should have stopped reading right then. I should have turned off the computer and walked away. But I didn’t. I stayed, like an observer at an accident, craning my neck in order not to miss any gory details. Then, finishing the article, a bad taste in my mouth, I began reading the dozens upon dozens of comments that followed. There were a few calm and reasonable observations made. The vast majority of comments, however, were venomous, the writers desiring to get in a few of their own kicks.
    The worst part was I recognized their anger as similar to my own. I’d entertained hate in my heart more than once in the past two weeks.
    The sound of the back door closing caused me to start. I shut down the browser and left the den, not wanting Brad to find me in front of the computer. I didn’t want him to know what awful things were being said about him by complete strangers.
    Odd, wasn’t it, that I doubted him one moment and wanted to protect him the next?
    When I entered the kitchen, he was washing his hands in the sink. He wore a pair of Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt, the back and underarms damp with sweat. His feet were bare, his grass-stained athletic shoes left on the patio.
    Even after a week, I wasn’t used to having him home in the middle of a workday. But it wasn’t the day of the week that made his presence feel odd. It was the way we behaved around each other, the careful dance we performed whenever we were in the same room. A constant reaching out and turning away.
    Brad shut off the water and dried his hands on a kitchen towel. As he turned from the sink, he noticed me in the doorway. Something flickered in his eyes. Uncertainty, I thought, although I couldn’t be sure.
    â€œI finished mowing the lawn.”
    â€œIt needed it.”
    â€œI’m going to prune the shrubs now. Unless there’s something else you need me to do.”
    â€œNo. There’s nothing.” I glanced toward the refrigerator. “I thought I’d get a head start on dinner.”
    We’d been like this since the day of the board meeting. Stiff, formal, superficial. Talking to each other like a couple of strangers. For one night, ten days before, we’d found comfort in each other’s arms. For a moment or so, I’d felt safe once again.
    The moment hadn’t lasted.
    â€œKat, is something bothering you?”
    What a question! Everything was bothering me.“No. Why?”
    â€œI’m not sure. You just look . . . different.”
    â€œDifferent from what?” I tried not to sound defensive. I didn’t succeed.
    â€œFrom when I went out to mow the lawn.”
    I shook my head. “Nothing’s different.” That was as close to telling the truth as I could come.
    He observed me in silence, weighing my response. But