<< Go Back

For Such a Time

By Ellen Gillette

Order Now!

Chapter One
Barely Coping


When Veronica Miller was asked to take over the second grade class at St. Michael's School, the timing could not have been better. After her husband of five years, a Marine, had decided that his life motto was anything but Semper Fi, she had decided that hers was anything but Till Death Do Us Part. She had, however, briefly considered his demise a viable option. Minutes later, envisioning her place on the set of Snapped, she reconsidered.
As she got ready for work, Veronica let her thoughts wander. She'd moved back to her hometown, leaving Mark to sort things out with the divorce. Living off base in Miami, he had been enough of an absentee husband, whether deployed or at home, that she didn't really miss his company around the apartment. Things had gotten so tense; she actually preferred his absence. She did, however, miss his salary.
Mark hadn't allowed her to work when they got married. He was a handsome man in uniform who had charmed both Veronica and her family. Even her mother had encouraged her to marry quickly. “This one won't stay single for long,” she'd warned. Veronica's childhood dreams of a big wedding had evaporated. He was marrying a non-Catholic and there were hoops to jump through. Keeping things small, while expedited as quickly as possible, would make the jumping easier. It was the first of many accommodations on her part.
Maybe if they'd had children. That had been a sore subject from the start. Then later, a moot issue. Hard to get pregnant when you're not having sex. They should have gone to counseling. Lord knows she'd begged him to go. And, too, she had to admit, she had developed a nasty habit of snapping at him out of hurt, which hadn't helped matters. Neither had his stubborn refusal to give up porn. He didn't want to be with her, obviously, which hurt, so she'd pushed him even further away. It had been a destructive cycle, a kind of relief when it was finally over.
Since moving into an apartment complex here, Veronica had filled in a few times as a substitute teacher at St. Michael's, recommended by a friend from high school who now taught music there, but it had been inconsistent. Mark sent a portion of his last few paychecks, which helped. She had also gratefully accepted a generous gift from Mark's embarrassed and disappointed parents that had kept her afloat—no pun intended. Now, however, she would know every day where she was working. She had a regular paycheck, at least until they hired someone else. Maybe she could even finish up the school year there.
Brushing her shoulder-length light brown hair in front of the bathroom mirror, she made a face at her reflection. “I guess you're an old maid schoolmarm now,” she said with a sigh. She pulled her hair up into a neat ponytail, checked her teeth, and gave her image an air kiss. “Maybe not, though. You're still quite a catch!”
The divorce was Mark's idea, not that she would have let him stay after she realized how flagrantly he had treated his vows. He refused to give details, saying it had been a long time coming and for that, at least, he apologized. She supposed that he was doing the honorable thing by divorcing her so she didn't have to go to the trouble and expense herself, but it still stung. She couldn't slam the door and walk out on him, even if it was just to make the story more palatable.
Only during the divorce discussion, had he admitted to lying to the Church about her. He'd gotten special dispensation to quietly marry a non-Catholic, lying about her being pregnant. She was mortified when he told her. Had his family thought that as well? How dare he tarnish her reputation like that! She'd been furious. He'd gotten an annulment for the opposite reason: She couldn't get pregnant. A dud. Barren. How nice it must for him for them to think it's my fault.
Currently, Sgt. Mark Miller was on a vessel anchored in the Bay of Fundy, where she liked to think that an angry band of Canadian pirates would attack, take him hostage, and contact the dancer from the strip club with whom he was, she'd heard, currently involved, demanding a ransom that even she would have a difficult time raising—the fact that she was apparently good at raising other things notwithstanding. I tried, Lord. you know I tried. Hard to compete with airbrushed models in those horrible magazines or all the women he was seeing on the side. Or on the computer. Ugh.
Veronica grabbed her keys, purse and school bag and headed downstairs to her car. It was balmy for October, even in south Florida. What did Mary Margaret say the other day? Something about making a snowman at the beach with her uncle. She loved second graders. They were still young enough to want to please everyone, still young enough to respect their elders, still young enough to think their teacher was the best in the world.
Deep down, Veronica thought that this last might actually be true. Her class was navigating the educational waters at St. Michael's with excellence. Even the ones who had fallen behind with their previous teacher were now doing well. Maybe St. Michael's wouldn't even try to find anyone else. She didn't have a bachelor's degree but if she did the job well, why not keep her? Private schools had the freedom to hire whomever they wished.
Thoughts of Mark and school usually took her from her complex to school, but today she was distracted by the shapely posterior of a man jogging down the sidewalk in sweatpants and an athletic t-shirt. She slowed the car and swept her eyes up his body; the rest of him did not disappoint. A bit taller than average, lean and muscular, topped by thick black hair. Tan. No, foreign.
Red light ahead. If I turn around, I can check out his face. When the light turned green, however, she had no choice but to drive on. The view from the rear-view mirror was not helpful. Maybe he ran this route every morning, she thought. She had to admit that having that to look forward to Monday through Friday would definitely ease some of her pain. You are pathetic, she told herself.
This was Wednesday, which meant elementary mass; Veronica had chosen her clothing accordingly. St. Michael's Church was only a short walk from the school, but this was Florida. While still warm outside, it was usually cold inside the church. Plus, there was all that Catholic standing and kneeling to contend with.
Her usual Wednesday attire covered all the bases—slacks with a sleeveless top, over which she could throw a matching sweater when it got too cool inside. Keeping up with second graders and standing most of the day, comfortable shoes were also a must.
This morning there would almost certainly be a homily about All Hallows Eve and All Saints Day. Veronica was thankful that the first, AKA Halloween, fell on Saturday this year. Had it fallen during the week, well, second graders hopped up on Halloween candy might have changed her perspective on the little darlings.
Once again, she pondered the difference that having a family might have made. She and Mark, the youngest of six, had wanted children from the start. He had been gentle and patient with his virgin bride on their wedding night, but it hadn't lasted long. He could be rough. And fast. Foreplay? Forget it. She'd read that one of negative results of pornography was the illusion of instant passion, constant arousal. A woman needs time and tenderness, she'd tried to tell him. A slow cooker, not a microwave. She'd thought it would get better, easier. Their love life was never what she'd envisioned all those afternoons flipping through bridal magazines and taking Cosmo quizzes with her best friend, but she had comforted herself by the thought that most marriages were like hers. By the time she realized their problems were as deep as they were, it had been too late.
“Sometimes you change the light bulb,” she told her mother. “Sometimes you throw out the lamp.” I guess I was the lamp.
Looking back, Veronica was thankful that his sperm couldn't swim as well as he could. Children might have kept her in an unhappy marriage even longer, she told herself. And she had benefited so much as a child from going to church each Sunday and Wednesday, even though she had drifted away since marrying Mark. The Marine would have insisted on raising the kids the way he had been. Even though he had not been an exemplary example of a “good Catholic,” he would have expected her and the children to be. Another layer of control and hypocrisy.
Even though Mark had deceitfully finagled permission from the Church to marry her, the Millers had rarely attended mass unless it was a holiday or to appease his more devout parents. It made perfect sense now that he'd adamantly refused to go to confession. When his chronic infidelity surfaced, a whole lot of things started to make sense.
Then again, “surfaced” implied discovery, so not the best word, she decided in some kind of warped defense. I may never have known if he hadn't told me. I was so stupid! she thought for the umpteenth time, finally sitting at her desk, waiting for the doors to open and her babies to enter. She looked over the special mass day schedule one more time.
Having been raised in an exuberant, non-denominational church with tambourines and a fair amount of literally jumping for joy, at this point in her life and even at this point in her faith journey, Veronica was moved by the solemnity of the mass. It annoyed her that she wasn't permitted to take part in the Eucharist, or communion as she knew it, but she always went forward for a blessing, crossing her arms obediently over her chest as she approached, as if to warn Father Ben. Heretic alert! A lost lamb!
Her students came in now, a bit louder than usual. She loved the diversity. Paul's parents were Haitian and he had a lovely accent. Isabel was Mexican-born but already fluent in English. Others were mixed race. They really were a melting pot in miniature, primarily Catholic but not all. The uniforms prevented those from wealthy homes being obvious; she honestly didn't know who was on scholarship or whose parents could afford to pay the hefty tuition.
Being a hugger, Veronica had had to rein her natural tendencies in a bit. Not every child wanted to be touched, she had learned. Others seemed to soak up any attention like tiny sponges. Brandon was one of these, but today, when she reached out to pat his shoulder as he passed her, he frowned and winced.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, squatting down so that she could look up into his green eyes. Such a cutie with those freckles.
He nodded and smiled, but there was something bothering him; she was sure of it. Standing with a sigh, she surveyed her classroom. Each child had a story, different challenges and worries. She wished she could fix them all, soothe all the hurts. You can't even soothe your own.
Judging from the unusual noise level, the children were already excited about trick-or-treating that weekend. By her last count, there would be four angels, two witches, five superheroes, a Dorothy, assorted Disney princesses and a smattering of ninjas and skeletons. Paul Francois, God bless him, tended to be a bit different. When he announced that he was dressing up as Hannibal Lecter, Veronica anticipated a parent conference in her future. Cute kid, but even in her short time as his teacher, she'd decided something was “off.”
The class settled in to their routine easily—prayer and the pledge, morning announcements, a check that the dress code was in evidence, then lunch count and homework hand-in. “Be on your best behavior at mass,” she told the class. “I just received an email from the office. We'll be meeting a brand new priest today!”
Dr. Lecter raised his hand. “Is Father Ben dead?”
Odd question. The other children looked genuinely upset at the notion, but Paul was smiling. “Of course not!” Veronica said indignantly. “Father Ben is just fine. We all love Father Ben, don't we? But Father Ben has to have a knee replacement, remember? We prayed for him? And now Father Somebody-Else will help out until Father Ben is better.”
One of the sweetest girls raised her hand. Veronica frowned, but called on her. Mary Margaret came up with questions that usually didn't have easy answers.
“Ms. Miller, why didn't Jesus heal Father Ben's knee so he didn't have to have sur-gy? I thought Jesus took care of his 'ciples. Isn't Father Ben a 'ciple? And we prayed. Why didn't God answer our prayer?” She looked close to tears, which happened fairly often. “Doesn't God love us anymore?”
“DISciple, Mary Margaret. And yes, God still loves us. And he also loves Father Ben. We prayed for his doctors too, remember? That they would know exactly what to do, that he would recover quickly. Sometimes God heals one way, and sometimes he heals another. He might miraculously touch someone, or he might use medicine.”
“My mommy takes medicine every night,” Brandon Wilson blurted out, raising his hand as an afterthought. “It comes in a big bottle and I can spell the name. V.O.D.K.—”
Veronica interrupted by clapping her hands sharply. “Time to go! Line up in your mass order, boy-girl-boy-girl.” A glass of vodka sounds pretty good right now, she thought, reminding herself to have a chat with Brandon's mother at parent pick-up one of these days. She was still learning which parents belonged with whom.
The fact of the matter was that Veronica dreaded Halloween this year. It had never been a big deal as she was growing up, but the Millers celebrated to the hilt. She missed their parties, the fun of dressing up. The Millers had invited her to their party down in Boca, saints that they were, but when she declined, she thought she caught a sense of relief. Less for them to explain to the other guests, she was sure.
Mark's family had introduced her to adult beverages as well—her parents still didn't know—but she'd never liked the idea of a woman drinking alone. It had painted a sad picture for her, almost tragic. Now she did it fairly often. Never to excess, just to take the edge off. It helped relax her brain's tendency to overthink late into the evening. A glass of wine helped. Hadn't St. Paul told Timothy to settle his stomach with the same? Her parents would disapprove, no doubt, but she was getting used to that.
Veronica's thoughts were interrupted at the little gate separating the school campus with the church grounds. The school had put in a high-tech security system that required a staff member's fingerprint to open the gate. She pressed the pad and smiled at the children as they filed through.
Paul had a question. “If somebody cut your finger off, could they use it to get in?”
Strange kid.
The situation with her parents needed attention. Her parents had so fallen in love with Mark that they hadn't readily accepted the divorce, her mother in particular. While her father hadn't said much, “What did you do wrong?” was usually communicated in some way when she talked to her mother. The simplest solution was not, perhaps, the best. She rarely talked to them. And she missed them, missed their love and approval.
She did not miss Mark, but she felt a little guilty about how much she missed the touch of a man's strong hands on her body. She'd missed that for longer than she'd been divorced, too. She missed being kissed. She missed sex. With Mark completely out of the picture, with no hope of reconciliation, was all of that gone too? It didn't seem fair. He was the one who cheated on her, but it felt like she was still being cheated out of love. Briefly, the jogger crossed her mind. As if.
She didn't want to settle. Obviously, she wanted God to be involved, but it appeared that even the Creator of the universe currently had slim pickings from which to choose. Mr. Hobbs, the PE coach, was single. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was not the type of man she was attracted to. The other men at school were either married or too old for her. There must be some single dads in the mix, but… Veronica stopped herself. This was not the correct frame of mind for walking to mass with second graders.
Her thoughts torn between careful attention to her students and her own inner turmoil, Veronica stopped the class as they approached the tall, carved wood, double doors of the church. Some of the teachers made it a point to remind their charges of the correct procedures as they entered the church and the pew, but as a non-Catholic, she mostly just hoped they'd sit quietly. She kept waiting for someone at the school to pull her aside and instruct her on all the protocols, but so far, it appeared they were just glad she could step in on such short notice. When one's second grade teacher runs off with one's maintenance man, one makes allowances.
Veronica sat at one end of the long pew, where she could keep a mother duck's eye on her ducklings. A smattering of retired parishioners sat behind the staff and students. Organ music began as a handful of robed older students led the processional. She turned in the pew to catch an early glimpse of the interim priest and…
Veronica gasped so loudly that a few of her students twisted in the pew to stare in surprise. Smiling lamely to cover herself, she suddenly felt weak, like most of the blood in her body had just rushed to her face. She had not seen the jogger's face earlier, but she had gotten enough of a sense of his general build and appearance that she would bet money he had just entered the church.
Father Somebody-Else was as easy on the eyes in clerical robes as he had been in sweats. Tall and broad-shouldered, his thick hair was jet-black, as shiny as marble. And that face. Oh, my word. Is he Israeli? Hispanic? Veronica couldn't tell.
What she could tell, instantly, was that her loneliness for a man had refocused with a vengeance. And that her life, just as she was trying to get used to a simpler life alone, had suddenly become infinitely more complicated.

Order Now!

<< Go Back