Excerpt

By tradition, Saturday mornings were savored in the Clarkson household. My husband, Brad, usually prepared breakfast, and then the two of us—still clad in our pajamas—read snippets from the newspaper to each other while we dined on French toast or omelets or a hash-brown casserole.

On this particular Saturday morning in April, I’d just taken a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice when I picked up the local section of the paper. I opened the fold, saw the headline, and choked.

“Katherine?” Brad rose and came to my aid.

“I’m all right.” I waved at him to sit down again, then wiped tears from my eyes. “But look at this.”

I laid the paper on the table and turned it toward him, pointing at the headline on the front page.

Brad Clarkson: Humanitarian of the Year
In Step Foundation leader says it truly is more blessed to give

Brad groaned. “Well, if that doesn’t make me sound like a prig, I don’t know what would.”

“But you did say it.” I tried to hide my amusement. Not very hard, I admit, but I did try. “You told me so.”

“Some help you are.”

Smiling now, I stood and rounded the table to stand behind Brad so we could read the article together.

There were two photos accompanying the article. The first was of Brad and four of the administrative assistants who worked in the foundation’s downtown office. Brad was in the center, his arms around the shoulders of the women on either side of him. All of them were laughing at something. More than likely at something he’d said. The second photo was also of Brad, this time wearing a hardhat, smiling his irresistible smile, and standing in front of one of In Step’s finished remodels. Beside him was a petite woman who looked to be in her early thirties. She held a small child in her arms. I could tell there were tears in her eyes as Brad handed her the keys to her new home.

Brad had been in the spotlight often in recent years. He claimed it made him uncomfortable, that he wished articles and news reports would focus on what the Lord was doing with the ministry, but I wasn’t completely convinced. He was a natural with the media, and they loved him. He had an easy charm that drew people to him.

“I wish you’d been with me for that interview,” he said.

He often said things like that, but he’d given up asking me a long time ago. He knew it was useless. It had been ten years since I’d been involved with the day-to-day running of the foundation; I wouldn’t have anything of interest to say to a reporter. My main role for the last decade—by my own choice—had been as chauffeur for two active teenagers involved in an array of extracurricular activities, as chief cook and bottle washer for my hungry family and many of their friends, and later as mother of the bride at our daughters’ weddings.

“You’re so beautiful,” Brad continued. “If you were in that photo, no one would notice the stupid headline.”

Okay, that was one of the reasons I loved Brad so much. He was never short on compliments. He always knew the right words to make me feel good. I was a woman blessed with a wonderful life. We worked hard and tried to follow Christ as He would have us. And God had blessed us. I couldn’t want for anything more than what I had—a wonderful husband, two beautiful daughters, and a couple of grandbabies on the way.

Brad read aloud. “‘Clarkson says he never imagined In Step would be anything more than a small charity he and his wife ran out of their home. Seventeen years later, the foundation has provided remodeled, affordable homes for nearly a hundred “recipient families”—as their clients are called—and In Step now occupies an entire floor of the Henderson Building in downtown Boise, employing a staff of twenty-five.’”

“See.” I kissed the top of his head. “It’s a good article. It will bring much deserved attention to the foundation.”

Pride welled in my heart. Humanitarian of the Year. No one deserved the accolades more than Brad. In the seventeen years since he was first inspired to create In Step, he’d worked hard to bring his vision to fruition. And God had honored his desire to serve, blessing the foundation far beyond anything I’d ever dreamed possible.

I returned to my chair to finish the last of my breakfast. “What are your plans for the day?”

“I thought I might do some yard work.”

I remained on the kitchen stool, staring out the window at our backyard—brushed in shades of spring green and the first appearance of colorful flowers—and thought again how wonderful my life was.

Absolutely perfect.

* * *

Nicole Schubert stared at the article in the morning’s paper. The colored photographs were grainy, but that didn’t obscure Brad Clarkson’s rugged handsomeness. Or his smile. She remembered that smile. She’d seen it hundreds of times.

He wasn’t as happy as those photographs made him seem. He had troubles just like anybody else. Nicole had seen through the facade of contentment soon after she went to work for him. She’d seen through it and had tried to help.

And Katherine? She was a throwback to another era, no question about it. Miss Goody Two-Shoes sharing her favorite Bible verses and baking her fancy desserts.

Nicole drew in a deep breath through her nose, trying to quiet the anger curling in her belly. Humanitarian of the Year. She whispered a foul word. Oh, how she would like to see him brought down a few pegs. He had the whole city thinking he was a paragon of social justice or something.

She used to think so too. She used to think he could do no wrong.

She didn’t think so any longer.

“I’ll make you sorry. So help me, I will.”

She read the article a second time, her finger running down the lines, and as she neared the end, a slow smile curled the corners of her mouth.

Yes, he would be very sorry, indeed.

Adapted with permission from The Perfect Life by Robin Lee Hatcher. © 2008 Robin Lee Hatcher. Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson.