#InspirationalFriday can this family be saved?
Elle Butler has managed to hold on to her politically-driven
husband and her secrets until the unexpected happens. When
one phone call rips her world apart, Elle will have to
decide if the truth is worth the consequences. Especially
when it threatens to destroy the world she's so carefully
built around her life and her marriage.
Excerpt I wanted to kill my husband's mistress.
Of course, that was impossible. But Logan reassured me that
the insufferable, insensitive and insistent creature that
had consumed both him and our relationship would die a
natural death.
But, once again, she beckoned him away for the night to
another hand-shaking, wide-smiling, campaign-promoting event.
"It'll be over soon. I promise." Logan grabbed the back door
handle and tossed his farewell over his shoulder like an old
nubby sweater. The state of Louisiana was not to be denied.
Just me.
Well, at least I didn't suffer the agony of deceit. Election
day was six months away, and the all-consuming political
campaign that seduced my husband would end. I'll deal with
the "then what?" later. For now, I'll add it to the "then
what"' collection and wait for it to decay like the others.
For too long, our physical relationship languished on the
Logan Butler, Candidate for State Representative, "to do"
list. Matt Feldman, his Campaign Manager, probably slotted
it in on his calendar:
10:20 p.m. Make love to wife
10:25 p.m. Sleep
Sleeping was usually the only late night "To do" changed to
"done."
I told Logan weeks ago, after another night of my hand
returning with empty hope after reaching across the bed, I'd
never have to worry about another woman taking him away.
"And why is that?" he asked. The words bounced back to me
from the wall he spoke to. A wall that saw more action than
I did considering the number of times I'd painted it in the
last two years.
"Because the campaign's already your mistress. You don't
have time for anyone else," I said and crunched my pillow
under my head. My anger spilled itself out in quiet, hot tears.
But, by morning, I'd tugged on the good-wife costume again.
And, by lunchtime, I'd sat across from two silver-haired
gentlemen who double-teamed me at checkers at the East Haven
Home for the Elderly while Logan surprised the ladies' Zumba
Gold class as their bodies convulsed to the calypso beat of
Harry Belafonte's "Jump in the Line."
And that was my life as the wife of a politician running for
office. Smiling, playing checkers, smiling, and hoping to
have a reason to unwrap my ivory lace-appliquΓ©d satin slip.
A few nights Logan provided a reason, but the experience
left me feeling I was the last campaign stop for the day.
But since the meeting with his staff tonight didn't start
until seven o'clock, I knew not to expect any more than his
arriving home in one piece.
He paused, the door still open. "I love you. You know that
don't you?" he said, in a voice that seemed wrapped in silk.
I closed my Southern Living magazine and looked into
those eyes of his that caressed me and, even at the age of
thirty, could make my knees feel like melting wax. "It's
what saves you every time," I said.
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