and the rest of her family knew the reason behind the falter.
She knew that he knew. They all knew.
She also knew the next few minutes could bring her family crashing down around her. The china had served as a warning.
Her hands lay on the table in front of her. She clenched and unclenched them, twisted her fingers, then her rings. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the way for the words, knowing in her heart there were no “right” ones—none that could ever make this anything but what it was.
“His name was Jacques Martin,” she said at last, finding no preamble that could ease her into the subject. “He was from France. Paris.”
Tara’s eyes widened at the news. She sat up straighter in her chair and rubbed the side of her hand vigorously—a common gesture for her since the accident.
Faith shifted her eyes to her husband. “We spent one night together. Graduation. He left to go back to Paris the next day.”
Sawyer rubbed his temples as his eyes squeezed closed, and she felt the squeeze in her heart. Was he praying? No. More likely he was running through the timeline, letting all the pieces fall into place.
Their college graduations had been on the same day, hundreds of miles apart. He’d been in Texas while she’d remained in Kentucky. By the time he moved back home ten days later, the pregnancy test had already read positive. Another test ten days after that had been all it took to convince him they were going to have a baby—together. They’d eloped, to no one’s surprise after four long years apart.
Deception had been easy. But twenty-eight years had woven the lie tightly into the center of the fabric of their lives. Now, it was starting to unravel.
No one said anything. Everyone was avoiding eye contact with her except Tara, who sat staring with tear-filled eyes, pulling at her bottom lip. That gesture was unadulterated Sawyer, but Tara’s wide, curvy mouth was the spitting image of her biological father’s. Faith had always found it ironic that Tara’s mouth served as the constant reminder of the lie that remained a secret.
Until seven hours ago.
Trenton stood up quickly, the force sending his chair backward across the wood floor. “I don’t think I want to hear this,” he announced. “Whatever happened back then is between you two.” He folded both arms around Tara’s neck and rested his chin on her head. “Pinky’s my sister. Wholly and completely with none of that half stuff. Nothing’s ever going to change that.” He clapped his dad on the back and planted a quick kiss to the top of Faith’s head before strolling casually from the room.
Thea scooted over into the seat Trenton had vacated, weaving her hand under Tara’s thick mane of red hair until she located her sister’s shoulder. She pulled her close—cheeks touching, tears mingling—as she shot Faith a “how could you?” look. “I feel the same way,” she said. “We’ve never been just sisters. We’ve always been closer than that. There’s no way anything can make us any different than what we are.”
Tara’s chin quivered as she nodded.
Faith’s spirit lightened momentarily at the show of solidarity. Maybe things were going to be okay after all. But one glance at Sawyer told her that wasn’t so. Her husband was a preacher. A man who made his living talking. He’d counseled hundreds of couples with marital problems through the years, always knowing exactly what to say to clear the air of the fallout from unfaithfulness.
His silence grated her heart into tiny slivers like lemon zest.
“So whatever became of this...Jacques Martin?” Tara’s voice held the same strained edge it had when she realized her two fingers were gone.
“I never saw, never heard from him again,” Faith answered, then added, “I never wanted to. I had all I needed and wanted with you all.” Blood pounded in her temples. How could she make them understand? “Jacques was...” Someone she’d had too much alcohol with that night. Someone she’d gotten carried away celebrating with. Someone who’d helped her bear the loneliness of not being with the person she loved on one of the most important days of her life. “He was someone I barely knew.”
Sawyer swerved around to face Tara and gathered her partial hand into both of his. “You’re my daughter, lovebug. The daughter of my heart. Like Trenton said, nothing’s ever going to change that.” He pressed their knotted hands against his chest. “I hold you right here, and nothing will ever break that grip.”
Faith watched the tears overflow from her daughter’s eyes, unaware of her own until she felt a drop on her arm.
Tara nodded. “I love you, Dad.” She paused and Faith held her breath and prayed that those words would be repeated to her.
They weren’t. Instead, Tara stood, pulling her hand from Sawyer’s grip. “I really, really need to go home. I need time alone to process this.”
Thea followed her to her feet.
A different fear gripped Faith’s insides, a familiar one since Tara’s accident. It recurred every time one of her children left her house to drive back to their own homes. “Will you be okay making the drive back to Paducah? You want me to call Emma?”
“I’m leaving, too. I’ll take you home,” Thea offered.
Tara shook her head. “I don’t want to be with anyone. I’ll be okay.”
Faith stood and reached for her, and her daughter hugged her then, but her arms felt limp and lifeless with no emotion behind them. Her parting hug with her dad had a bit more vitality, but not much.
Faith’s breathing grew shallow when Thea didn’t hug her or Sawyer, but she did take Tara’s hand to lead the way out.
As Tara slid the patio door closed behind her, Faith turned her attention back to her husband. They stood beside the table where their family had shared thousands of happy mealtimes. Would those be enough to blot out the anguish of today?
She took Sawyer’s hand and tilted her head in silent question.
“It’s not the action, Faith. It’s the deception. The betrayal.”
He pulled his hand away and headed for his study, locking the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWO
“BUT HOW ARE YOU HANDLING it, really? And none of that ‘I’m okay’ stuff. I held your hair when you threw up your first beer, so I’ve seen you at your worst.” Emma blew on her spoonful of tomato soup, waiting for an answer.
Tara reached behind her chair to shut the door to Emma’s office, pondering how to put her feelings into words. “You remember that weird, uneasy feeling inside you the first Christmas you no longer believed in Santa Claus? It’s kind of like that. I remember knowing the presents were still downstairs, waiting to be opened. But the magical quality was gone forever. That’s the way I feel. Like some kind of wonderful something has slipped away, and I’ll never be able to get it back.”
Emma’s eyebrows knitted. “But you haven’t really lost anything. Your dad is still your dad....”
“But I’ve lost who I thought I was. Everything I accounted to my Irish heritage—my red hair, my fair complexion, my love of Guinness. I’ve only talked myself into believing they had significance.” Tara popped a grape into her mouth. “And that makes me wonder what other things I’ve believed in that were actually of no significance.”
“Well, maybe you need to talk to somebody.” Emma tore open a package of oyster crackers and sprinkled them over the top of her soup. “You know—” she shrugged as she stirred them in “—a professional.”
“You’re a professional guidance counselor with a master’s in counseling. I’m talking to you.”
Tara watched her friend’s eyebrows disappear beneath her wispy bangs. “Doctors don’t operate on family members, and counselors don’t