Test of Faith

Test of Faith

by Christa Allan


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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781426733260
Publisher: Abingdon Press
Publication date: 03/01/2014
Pages: 306
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

Christa Allan is a true Southern woman who knows any cook worth her gumbo always starts with a roux and that one never wears white after Labor Day. Christa weaves stories of unscripted grace with threads of hope, humor, and heart. The mother of five and grandmother of three, Christa just retired after more than twenty years as a high school English teacher. She and her husband, Ken, live in Abita Springs, Louisiana, where they play golf, dodge hurricanes, and enjoy retirement. Visit Christa online at ChristaAllan.com.

Read an Excerpt

Test of Faith

By Christa Allan

Abingdon Press

Copyright © 2014 Christa Allan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4267-8725-6


Since I couldn't kill my husband's mistress, I settled for toleration. As long as Logan agreed to reserve at least one night for me, I'd endure the other nights alone.

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.

Tonight, though, she beckoned him away to another hand-shaking, wide-smiling, campaign-promoting event.

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

I told Logan weeks ago, after another night of my hand returning with empty hope after reaching across the bed to him, 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.

He rolled over, scooped me into his arms, and in a voice as smooth and soft as the sheets, whispered, "You know I love you."

"More than ...?" When he didn't answer, I thought my pillow had suffocated my question. But his breathing was slow and measured. He had fallen asleep. My sadness spilled itself out in quiet, hot tears.

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-appliquéd satin slip.

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.

"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.

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 pulled me in as if he'd reached out his arms. The eyes that made me shiver with anticipation. "It's what saves you every time," I said.

Logan left, but captured in the residual flush of his "I love you" was the Logan of long ago. He didn't look much different now, maybe bulkier shoulders and more expensive clothes. The scruffy beard replaced in the name of politics by a clean-shaven, only slightly stubbled look. But the J. Crew jeans and T-shirt he wore tonight erased the years between then and now.

It was disconcerting to have a husband more handsome than I was pretty, which had made his marriage proposal all the more surprising. He knew even then the track his career would race on. Why not pick someone who would be a photogenic ornament on his arm? Logan joked that he didn't want an "eye candy" wife. "Once she's gobbled up, there's nothing left," he told me. I figured I'd have to be someone with substance, like gourmet granola. With panache. Someone to be reckoned with, not devoured.

Logan told me I had a "classic beauty." In my universe that translated to "You're a woman who can pull off wearing your mother's clothes." My parents' professional careers did nothing to improve my pedigree to win the Blue Blood Ribbon in Martha Butler's status contest. My mother, Nancy Claiborne, didn't claim membership in Daughters of the American Revolution, and neither she nor my father, John, could have been considered even remotely related to landed gentry.

But something about the first Mrs. Butler made me wish I'd been born with a rearview mirror attached to my shoulder. Her physical presence alone intimidated me. Any woman see-sawing between the ages of sixty and seventy who could have been mistaken as my husband's older sister made me want to avoid looking in a mirror. If her features had been cosmetically induced, I might have felt less insecure. And she and I stood eye-to-eye until someone brought up the topic of the homeless, taxes, or the New Orleans Saints. Then, as if the heat of her righteous indignation ignited some turbocharger under her feet, she seemed to hover three feet above everyone else during her rant.

It was that startling aspect of her personality that made me wonder why she didn't pursue politics after her husband's unexpected death. Logan and I were in college then and had just recently rediscovered one another. Daniel Butler, his father, had been a state representative in Louisiana for over two terms. Daniel's charisma and charm endeared him to his New Orleans constituents as evidenced by their outpouring at his funeral. Logan said his mother refused to finish out his term. The city adored the Butlers, so that would not have been improbable for her to accomplish.

"She doesn't have the heart for it, does she?" I asked him.

"No," he'd replied. "She said she didn't have the stomach for it."

We didn't speak much of Daniel. The mention of him twisted Martha's lips into a figure eight, and Logan had little to say that could be considered positive remembrances.

My mother-in-law waited over four years before nominating me for membership in Junior League. "I needed to be sure," she had told me the day we had lunch in the Tea Room. She sipped her coffee, but from under her sparkling plum-shaded lids, her eyes pinched my composure. Logan may have inherited his mother's soft sable eyes, but his weren't comfortable in the Arctic tundra.

"Certainly," I purred. "As did I." My voice surprised even me.

Her eyebrows rose and met one another like small peaks on her forehead. The retort from her daughter-in-law had thrown down the gauntlet.

After that, I became Martha's project. At first, I questioned her motives because for four years she played on the team of doubt and expected to be declared a winner while I sat on the bench and waited to play. When Logan decided to run for city councilman, she told me, "Let's start with the one goal we have in common, and that's Logan winning." We did, and he won, but she continued to chip away at my veneer of self- confidence. Suggestions meant to be followed were disguised in questions beginning with "don't you think it would be better if ...?" It didn't take too long for me to learn the basic lessons: hemlines down, necklines up, perfume probably not, smile probably always, and Logan first always.

Now Logan was campaigning for state representative, and Martha was still as snarly, still as overbearing, and still as persistent. I was still as compliant because if Logan lost, it wasn't going to be because I wore short skirts or a plunging neckline.

* * *

Tonight's reprieve due to Logan's meeting meant I could devote time to assessing the requirements I needed to fulfill for my provisional membership in the local Junior League, one of Martha's recent victories. I kicked off my flip-flops, rested my feet on the chair across from me, and when I leaned back, remembered why I regretted not buying upholstered chairs. Ladder-back chairs stained Tuscan Walnut appeared stylish in the furniture store. And they were. But, like most things I discovered in my journey up the social ladder, comfortable and fashionable were generally mutually exclusive.

I opened my laptop and found the folder I'd labeled JL Stuff. I scrolled through the list of requirements. Welcome reception? Check. Provisional education meetings? Check. Two community agency visits. Check one. Four general meetings? Check two. Service hours? Not even half of the almost ninety-two hours needed. Somewhere, I had to find almost thirty days to squeeze in two hours of volunteering a day. The Art in the Park Camp for special-needs kids and adults was the last week in June. If Logan didn't have me scheduled to kiss any babies or dance with grandfathers that week, that would work. In fact, I might even ask him to leave me off the calendar and consider inviting Martha to replace me. She'd pounce on a chance to be indispensable.

Ever since my last year of high school when I realized my friend Jenn's beloved sister lived in a group home for disabled adults, I'd looked for ways to be involved with special-label kids too. These kids taught me we're all retarded—it's just a matter of degrees. I thought the term was misunderstood because I was always the one who walked away feeling special for having been with them. I went into occupational therapy and focused on special-needs kids because I loved teaching them skills to help them achieve independence and enjoy their lives. Like Jenn's sister. I focused on children with the alphabet-soup of conditions. Autism, low birth weight, premature birth, fetal alcohol syndrome, congenital anomalies, neurological disorders. But building a politician took priority over building a practice, so I retired early. I knew, though, that the list of kids and conditions that qualified for services never shortened. It wasn't how I wanted to have job security, but I never doubted returning to the profession would be difficult.

I blocked off the week on my calendar and sent Logan an e-mail with the dates for an Art in the Park appearance and a suggestion to schlep Martha along if he wanted company.

* * *

After working through a schedule of sorts, I'd traded my laptop for laundry and was folding a hill of towels that covered the kitchen table when Logan plowed through the back door. His limbs flailed as if a mini-typhoon blew behind his back. He blinked as fast as a camera shutter, and I pictured what his eyes had captured. My hair swirled into a banana-sized clip, my freshly three-step cleansed, toned, and moisturized face, and my scrubs that sometimes doubled as my painting attire. I was Victoria with a megaphone, clearly not with a secret. He must have recovered in another blink because the excited glow on his face could not have emanated from the sight of me.

"He might be withdrawing from the race." Logan grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, then sat at the table across from me.

"Who 'he'?" I moved a folded stack to the side to be able to see him.

"Chad Wiggins." He pulled his cell phone out. "I'll tell you why. I'm calling my mother so you can both listen at the same time, and I won't have to repeat the story."

Chad was Logan's opponent in the primary. If he dropped, then Logan would automatically be the candidate for his party. And one less opponent to battle in the media would give our finances time to breathe before the big race. But "might" suggested he might not. Huge territory between "be" and "not."

I heard Logan say, "Walk over," and decided I needed to divert my attention to the conversation. A year ago, in what I'm still convinced was a strangely fortuitous happening, a house three doors down from ours went on the market. Martha bought it. Those two words together crashed into my brain as "brace yourself for the diatribe" or, when given more lead time, "feeling urpy. I need a nap."

My husband shook his head and mouthed, "Not coming."

I stopped holding my breath now that I'd been granted parole. But what he told us both was not anything to celebrate. He ended the call with his mother, and the enthusiasm that propelled him through the door had the decency to dissolve into seriousness.

Logan finished his water, then spoke to the table as if it, not I, waited. "Martha said the news about Chad was an answer to prayer," he said.

"Really?" Steam rising from the indignation boiling in my gut burned my face. "Did she pray that his wife would be diagnosed with cancer and he'd decide to withdraw?" I grabbed the laundry basket like it caused Martha's insensitivity. "Your mother needs to be careful what she prays for. She just might get it."

I learned that lesson what seemed like a lifetime ago. It taught me at least one thing. To stop praying.


I thought I'd outgrown naiveté in eighth grade. I discovered the startling truth of Ben Franklin's "three can keep a secret if two of them are dead" the day Jason Knight, the hottest kid in the school, sauntered past me in the cafeteria and said, "I hear you want me to invite you to the spring dance."

But I guess not, because the next night was supposed to be our politics-free time, and Logan informed me between my serving the salad and the lasagna that Matt, who managed the campaign, was coming over later to vet our personal histories. Again. Chad had dropped out officially this morning, and this politics thing had just leaped to the next level.

"Didn't we do this already? How many times do we have to submit ourselves to these interrogations?" I stabbed an olive in my salad that seemed to be eyeing me with suspicion.

"We did do this, but since Matt wasn't around then, he wanted to meet with us himself. Plus, he said he has some other papers for us," he said. "At least the inquisitor is a friend."

Matt and Logan met their freshman year of high school. Two awkward-limbed kids who made the junior varsity football team, then bulked their way onto varsity. Matt played offensive tackle, and Logan quarterbacked the team. Later, he served as Logan's best man in our wedding. And his job continued to be making sure Logan wasn't blindsided. When his wife gave birth to their twins two months ahead of schedule, he asked Logan for a campaign sabbatical so he could be around to help.

"You're right. It is good that he's a friend because he won't mind that the kitchen smells like garlic and that his shoes might stick to the floor." I wagged my fork in his direction. "You'd better hope that one of his questions isn't how much advance notice you give your wife about guests."

Logan held up his hands in surrender. "Guilty as charged. I promise no more surprise vettings."

"Holding you to that one," I said and started clearing the table. "Now I'm going to be vetted by our campaign manager who will use important vetting documents to vet me? It sounds ridiculous."

Logan handed me his empty dinner plate on my way to the dishwasher. "Well, yes, it does seem ridiculous when you say it that way."

But the process was as far from ridiculous as I was from transparent. Which explained why I scraped most of my dinner into the sink where the disposal could chew it up more than I did. I knew when Logan dipped his toe in the political pool he'd have to dive in sooner or later. I hoped for later. I wanted to ease into the water, not experience the breath-sucking shock of leaving what was comfortable.

I flipped the switch to send the uneaten lasagna and salad swirling into the garbage disposal. Bits of food shot out of its black rubber mouth accompanied by a grinding, clanging ruckus in its belly. It was a weirdly riveting performance of what I felt going on in my stomach.

Logan shut the disposal off, and when the noise wore itself out, reached in and pulled out a teaspoon gnawed by the metal teeth. "Are you okay? Why didn't you just turn it off?" He handed me the disfigured spoon and pulled the faucet toward him to wash his hands. "You need to relax about tonight. Matt's our friend, and it's going to be fine. Unless ..."

"What? Unless what?" The wood floor beneath me shuddered.

He leaned against the counter and smiled at me. "Unless you ever killed someone. You'd have told me that, right?"

The hands that had clenched my lungs let go. I returned the smile. "Right. Absolutely." Later I wondered if that might have been easier to share than my secret. At least dead is dead.

* * *

Matt sat across from the two of us, his hands palms down like paperweights on the two manila folders in front of him. "Here's how we're going to look at this. The two of you are in the confessional, and it all stops with me. We don't want to do damage control, especially now that we're getting ready to go head-to-head with the other party." He slid one folder to Logan and one to me. "The questions are the same for both of you. Some are just simple yes or no. Others may need more explanation."


Excerpted from Test of Faith by Christa Allan. Copyright © 2014 Christa Allan. Excerpted by permission of Abingdon Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Test of Faith 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
ForTheArtOfIt More than 1 year ago
I wouldn't say this story is light-hearted but it did explore a serious issue in a way that did not feel heavy. I really enjoyed it and it is one of the best I've read so far this year. It's not without flaws certainly, but I couldn't put it down.