Tender Grace by Jackina Stark Read Free Book Online Page A

into a relaxed sleep, we talked for at least a half hour about the kids, about what we wanted to do to the yard that spring, about the upcoming trip to Alaska. We talked until Tom began drifting off.
    I raised myself up on my elbow, leaned over, and kissed him lightly on his soft, warm lips.
    “I love you, Tom Eaton,” I said.
    He opened his eyes, smiled sleepily at me, and closed them again. Then as I rolled over and snuggled into my side of the bed, I heard him mumble, “I love you too, Audrey Eaton.”
    That was the last night I was ever to sleep with my husband.
    It seems impossible that until now I have not stopped to give thanks for this gift, this lifetime of solace.

seven
    August 20
    I left the hotel too late and then made the mother of wrong turns. I ended up driving in what seemed like circles and never managed to find the church. I was downright mad when I finally decided to give it up. I would have missed half the service anyway, not to mention the fact that my spirit was woefully unfit for worship. This is the first time I’ve loused up so badly. I drove back to the hotel after stopping for directions—at two convenience stores I might add—and put my car away. Walking seemed prudent today.
    After chilling awhile in front of the television, I took the riverboat tour, a San Antonio equivalent of my Dallas trolley ride, and that, plus the peacefulness of my room, helped restore me to my senses. I found a seat in the boat and told God, hoping he’d see the humor in it, that I would worship this Sunday in a boat like so many do. When the tour was completed and I arrived back where I started, I headed to the glass mall, imposingly huge as well as intriguing. I doubt I would have gone if I hadn’t been desperate for makeup. Because I’m getting so good at reading any sort of map, aside from today’s significant lapse, I found a department store and the counter I needed in a relatively short amount of time. It restored my confidence to a degree.
    The clerk, this one quite pleasant, rifled through the drawers and quickly handed me the liquid foundation and mascara I asked for, but because the powers that be keep retiring any shade of lipstick I prefer, we spent a lot of time together looking for something I could tolerate. I use a significant amount of makeup, but the effect is nothing if not subtle. I choose earth tones for my eyes, eschewing bright eye shadows; smoky is as adventurous as my eyes get. I wear color on my cheeks, enough to look healthy, but I have an unreasonable and unyielding aversion to lip color. This clerk seemed to understand that no amount of cajoling or flattery could convince me to wear anything on my lips in the red or brown family, or even pink and most peaches. The fact that Plush Nude was the name of my discontinued lipstick made an impression on her.
    “You don’t want a sticky gloss,” she said, putting the cylinder she had just shown me away. “What you’re looking for is a moist lipstick with a little shine but only the slightest touch of color.”
    “Exactly!” I said.
    I wanted to give her a gold star.
    Each of us leaned over our respective side of the counter, drawing lines of potential candidates across the back of my hand. A counter covered with no less than twenty different testers and a colorful wad of Kleenex testified to our tenacity. We were Audrey and Ginger long before I handed her my credit card.
    “You should have my name,” Ginger said, nodding at my hair. “Is that natural?”
    “So far,” I said.
    “I change my color at least once a month,” she said, “but if I had your auburn hair and those eyes not far from the same color, I’d never fool with it.”
    “Well, thanks,” I said.
    We turned our attention to yet another tester, and I felt like I had a friend by the time I found something I could live with. The lipstick I finally chose is called Shhh. That struck me as so appropriate for the life I’ve been leading that I bought three. Ginger