Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance)

by Beverly Taylor

  Maybe Natalie was right. Maybe he did go out to celebrate with his coworkers. Maybe one of them had had a little too much to drink, and Carson had been the designated driver and decided to check himself and his coworker into a motel. Yeah. A motel with what’s-her-name, perchance. Or maybe he’d been in a car accident. Could he be at a hospital or possibly the county morgue? The thought froze Katharine’s heart.

  As she gazed out the bedroom window at the rising sun, her stomach in knots, Katharine was startled by the shrill buzzing coming from the alarm clock. She hurried to turn it off. Ignoring the Bible on the nightstand, she didn’t make time this morning for her daily study. Instead she used the time with thinking about Carson.

  She washed her face and brushed her teeth before going upstairs to wake the children. The first stop was her daughter’s room. Bethany slept so soundly, it was nearly impossible to wake her. Every morning, Katharine resorted to squeezing a small amount of water on Bethany’s forehead to rouse her. “Time to get up.”

  Bethany sat straight up in bed and whined for a few seconds before wiping away the water that had seeped into her eyes.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” Katharine said, smiling at her now fully awakened daughter. “Go to your bathroom, brush your teeth, and wash yourself up.”

  Scooting to the edge of her bed, Bethany bounced to the floor and dragged herself to her private bath.

  Next, Katharine knocked on CJ’s door.

  “Yeah,” CJ responded agitatedly.

  Katharine invited herself inside. “Time to get up, CJ.” She pulled the covers away from him, and he yanked the pillow firmly over his head. “Just a few more minutes. Please, Mom,” CJ mumbled from under the pillow.

  “I don’t want you to miss your school bus, CJ. Time to get up now.”

  “Please, Mom,” he pleaded.

  Katharine felt a twinge of remorse for not yielding to him, but she knew CJ would try to turn any extra minutes that she gave him into another hour. “Up, up, and at ’em,” Katharine sang, lifting CJ by his arms and pulling him out of bed. He stood reluctantly, head bowed and shoulders slouched.

  Katharine nudged him in the direction of his private half bath.

  Noticing a wet spot on CJ’s sheets, Katharine pulled them off his bed, along with the pillowcases. She assumed he had used the bathroom before returning to bed. Apparently, she was wrong. “CJ,” she called, knocking on his bathroom door.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled over the hum of his electric toothbrush.

  “I want you to take a shower this morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Katharine was glad he didn’t bother to argue. She suspected he knew why he needed to take a shower. If the kids in school ever found out about his problem, it could mean big trouble for CJ.

  Katharine toddled to Bethany’s bedroom, gathering the sheets from her bed and adding them to the pile. After carrying the soiled linens downstairs to the oversized laundry room, stuffing them into the washer, and adding detergent and fabric softener, she returned to the kitchen and washed her hands.

  Toying with the idea of hiring a maid to help with the house and laundry, Katharine had finally decided against it. She didn’t like the fact of having a stranger knowing the details of her home, not to mention being nosey into her personal matters.

  While the children were getting dressed, Katharine prepared their morning meal: salmon patties, scrambled eggs, cheese grits, toast and cranberry apple juice.

  CJ sat down at the table, frowning at his plate. “I don’t like scrambled eggs.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Katharine snapped her fingers. She pulled a box of frozen hash browns from the freezer and placed it in the microwave.

  “Oooh, yeah. I love those,” CJ cheered.

  “I want some too,” Bethany said, pouting a little as she entered the kitchen.

  “All right, sweetheart,” Katharine soothed, kissing Bethany on top of her head. ”Just take your seat.”

  As she tried to kiss CJ, too, he grimaced and pulled his head away. “Boys don’t kiss their moms!”

  “You weren’t kissing me, I was kissing you.” It was evidenced through her sparkling eyes.

  “Still,” CJ said, grimacing.

  She was grateful that, after a miscarriage and a stillborn child, God had blessed her with two beautiful, healthy children. What a mighty God we serve. She smiled at the thought.

  Bethany glanced at Carson’s empty chair. “Is Daddy gone already?” she asked, stuffing a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth.

  “Yes, Daddy’s already left, but he’s sorry he missed breakfast with you two,” Katharine forced herself to say. “Eat up now so I can comb your hair, Bethany. And I want you to brush your hair thoroughly, CJ.” Even though CJ wore his hair cut close to his scalp, the tight, knotted curls he’d inherited from Carson were growing rapidly. Luckily, Bethany, who was sent to the beauty salon every other week to have her hair washed, blow-dried, and unruffled with an electric flat iron, had inherited her mother’s silky hair.

  After Katharine had divided Bethany’s hair into three long ponytails, the children gathered their backpacks and jackets and raced to the car to see who got to sit in the front seat.

  By the time Katharine had tossed on a sweat suit, CJ and Bethany were arguing beside the car.

  “Mommy, CJ pushed me. He won’t let me sit in the front.”

  “No I didn’t, Mom.” CJ retaliated. “She’s just mad ’cause I beat her to the car.”

  “Both of you get in the backseat,” Katharine ordered.

  “That’s not fair!” CJ shouted. “I was here first!”

  “Young man, you’re about to get your fresh little jaw slapped,” Katharine scolded, giving him a stern stare. “You both know the front seat is off limits without permission.” It was useless trying to reason with children of six and eight, who hadn’t yet developed any talent for reasoning. Firmness and a warning look usually did the trick.

  Seeing that look, which meant a harmless whack on the behind if they didn’t obey, CJ and Bethany followed their mother’s instructions.

  As she drove the few blocks to the school bus stop, Katharine looked in every direction hoping to see Carson’s car headed toward home, but she saw no sign of him.

  * * *

  As soon as Katharine entered the house, she tossed her car keys on the bed and rushed to check the answering machine. The light was solid red. No one had called or left a message. Pacing back and forth between the bed and the sitting room didn’t help, so she sat down on the couch and turned on the TV.

  Flipping through the channels, Katharine listened for news of Carson. She slipped out of her sweats and took the cordless phone into the bathroom while she ran her shower, leaving the shower door halfway open so she could hear the phone ringing.

  Instead of placing the hand-held blow dryer on high as she usually did, Katharine kept it on low taking an extra thirty minutes to dry her hair. Her eyes constantly shifted to the phone.

  She swept her hair into a tight bun then dabbed on a small amount of makeup in her usual fashion. Searching through her closet, she chose a high-collar white blouse with a pleated calf-length skirt and solid jacket. Instead of the three- and four-inch heels that she’d worn ten years earlier, she slipped on a pair of two-inch heeled pumps.

  Even though Katharine was behind in her usual time, she decided to phone Carson’s office at eight fifteen to see if he was there. She thanked God everyday that she was the boss at Berkley and had the privilege of creating her own schedule. She reported to a board of investors that met with her quarterly.

  “USA Weekly. How may I direct your call?” the receptionist offered. The switchboard operator picks up all direct calls prior to nine a.m. and after five p.m.

  “Carson O’Connor’s office,” Katharine responded.

  “Certainly, I’ll connect you. One moment, please.”

  The old buzzard is there! I’ll give him a piece of my mind! I’ll

&
nbsp; Katharine’s thoughts were interrupted by the same voice saying, “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s not in yet.”

  “Um, is Hank Polanski there?” Hank was senior associate sports writer and Carson’s colleague.

  “I’ll check for you. One moment, please.”

  After a third ring, she heard, “Hank Polanski.”

  “Hank, good morning. This is Katharine O’Connor.”

  “Kat!” His voice sounded much more friendly. “Good morning! How are you?”

  “I’m doing great, Hank. And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better, couldn’t be better,” he said. “How ’bout that husband of yours, huh?”

  “Yeah, what a wonderful recognition,” Katharine answered, trying to sound cheerful.

  “The best man won it this year. Maybe next year will be my turn. After being nominated three straight years and not winning, I’m starting to feel like Susan Lucci at the Emmy.”

  Katharine’s brows shot up. “You know Erica Kane of All My Children?”

  “My wife loves that soap. She’s always telling me about the bizarre happenings on the show.”

  “How is Allison, by the way?”

  “Doing great. She’s now serving on four committees, including her new appointment on the board of directors for MARTA.”

  “Good for her. How does she handle it with the triplets and all? How old are they now?”

  “Three going on thirty. They’re very bossy.”

  “How was your Christmas holiday?”

  “Great, and yours?”

  “Just wonderful.” And it was. The O’Connors spent their Christmas at home this time with family and friends, enjoying it all.

  Enough of the small talk. “So . . . did you join the rest of the office gang in the celebration festivities yesterday evening in Carson’s honor?”

  “Huh?” Hank sounded puzzled. “We haven’t had a celebration yet. We’re planning something for Friday—a little lunch-thing, but the actual black-tie affair will be in four months, in May.” He paused before adding, “Is something wrong, Kat?”

  “Oh, I just thought maybe you guys might’ve taken him out for a quick toast, that’s all. I was actually very tired yesterday and, uh, went to bed early.”

  Katharine heard Hank snap his fingers. “As a matter of fact, come to think of it, a few of the other guys might’ve, might’ve, uh, stopped off after, uh, work yesterday for a quick t-t-toast. I just c-couldn’t join them because I—I— had to, uh, pick up the kids from daycare.”

  Hank’s stuttering was a dead giveaway he was lying.

  “Oh, I see.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Well, it was nice talking with you, Hank. Give my love to your family.”

  “Same here, Kat. Bye.” He hung up quickly.

  Katharine held the phone earpiece to her cheek, staring into space as she imagined Carson and that Jezebel-woman spending the night together. The sound of a trash compactor outside snapped her out of a waking nightmare.

  She glanced at her wristwatch and felt a stab of panic. Ohmygosh! It’s almost nine o’clock. She dialed her assistant to say she wouldn’t be in that day and asked her to have the associate director check the calendar and address any urgent matters.

  She had to find her husband.

  Chapter 4

  Something terrible must have happened to Carson. No matter how stale their marriage had become, Carson loved CJ and Bethany too much to stay out an entire night.

  Before she moved another inch, she fell to her knees and spoke to God as though He was sitting right beside her.

  The scripture came to her thoughts, Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness. Isaiah 41:10 was yet another favorite passage of Katharine’s, but lately she’d failed to adhere to it.

  She was indeed dismayed and she needed to do something, anything, to find out why Carson hadn’t come home. After phoning all the major hospitals in metropolitan Atlanta and being told that no Carson O’Connor had been admitted, she called the local police.

  When the front doorbell rang twenty minutes later, Katharine’s nerves tightened and the butterflies inside her stomach fluttered madly.

  She peeked out the side window and saw a police car parked in front of the house. Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch waiting. Since most of the neighbors were at work or school, it didn’t matter that they’d parked in front of the house.

  She opened the decorative storm door and invited the policemen inside. They followed her into the formal grand room where the O’Connors often entertained guests.

  “Please, have a seat,” she offered. One sat on the loveseat and the other took one of three strategically arranged Queen Victoria chairs. Their eyes moved over the room, taking in the oversized, obsolete family portrait in its magnificent bronze frame above the fireplace and the original artwork on the walls. The watercolors were Katharine’s own. For years, Carson had tried to convince her to publicly display or sell her work. He’d even contacted a curator who agreed with Carson, but Katharine always declined his invitations for an art show.

  “My name is Officer Freeman,” said the man on the loveseat. He pointed his chin in his partner’s direction. “And that’s Officer Nascarelli.”

  Freeman’s handsome, chiseled features reminded Katharine of a young Harry Belafonte. Before he was seated, she’d noticed his bowed legs, which she’d always found appealing. Through a faint smile, she whispered, “Hi.”

  Officer Nascarelli raked his index finger along the back of his pink ear. He seemed nervous, as if it rather surprised him to see a black woman living so lavishly. Katharine guessed he’d no doubt expected the O’Connors to be an Irish-American family.

  “You say your husband didn’t come home last night?” Officer Freeman asked.

  “Yes.” Katharine’s eyes dropped to the lovely arrangement of silk flowers inside a hand-painted ceramic bowl on the coffee table.

  “Has your husband ever done this before, Mrs. O’Connor?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Where is he employed?”

  “USA Weekly.”

  “Does his job require travel or late hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often does he travel?”

  “Frequently. He’s a sports journalist and often attends national and international sporting events.”

  For a long while, Katharine thought Nascarelli wasn’t listening to her question/answer session with Officer Freeman. He seemed more interested in the curio cabinet with its fine china and the marble fireplace. He roamed around the room observing it as if he wanted to buy the house.

  “Sure! Of course!” Nascarelli smiled, inviting them into his thoughts. With his red nose and beer belly, he would’ve made a great impression as a young St. Nick. “Cars O’Connor!” his voice rose excitedly. “I read his column weekly. He’s a brilliant writer. The wife will be surprised. She says O’Connor’s partly to blame for the lack of communication in our marriage, seeing how my nose is always stuck inside the evening sports pages and his weekly column. His lips formed a crooked grin that indicated she’s right. “Well whaddaya know,” he held his grin. “Ol’ Cars O’Connor himself. The man that doesn’t hold back his tongue—or, should I say, his ink.”

  His strong Southern dialect was very familiar. Katharine was certain he’d grown up somewhere in the backwoods of Alabama. But with a name like Nascarelli, she figured him being from somewhere like the Bronx. Exasperated, she thought, Here he’s talking about his wife’s unhappiness over sports pages when my husband is missing!

  Officer Freeman smiled wryly at his partner’s newfound information.

  Nascarelli lifted a crimson-and-white letter A encased in a gold frame off the mantel. “Roll Tide!” he gleamed. “What sport did your husband letter in? I’m from Gadsden, Alabama, and a diehard Crimson Tide football fan.”

  Her suspicions were officially
confirmed. “I assumed as much,” was her single response.

  “Dad would take us little tikes to the games, ’bout an hour—hour-and-a-half drive to Tuscaloosa.” Nascarelli paused long enough to catch his breath. “Bear Bryant.” He gazed into the air, leaving the name to linger. “Even though he’s way before my time, I’ve been a fan of Coach Bryant for as long as I can remember.” He nodded his head emphatically, agreeing with his own words. “Coach’ll be proud to know how those boys acted out this season.”

  Katharine could tell by his goofy smile that Officer Freeman agreed with his sentiment.

  “And Joe Namath!” Nascarelli resumed. “Let’s not forget Smoking Joe! My ol’ man loved Namath. Says he was the best player Coach Bryant ever had.”

  “My husband and I are both Bama graduates,” Katharine said through clenched teeth. “That happens to be my letter in gymnastics.”

  Her words pulled Officer Nascarelli out of his musing and his face turned appropriately crimson.

  Officer Freeman looked at Katharine and quickly returned the conversation to Carson’s disappearance. “And you’re sure your husband’s not on a business trip?”

  “Yes. Quite sure.” She turned to meet his gaze, determined to be discreet in her words and behavior.

  “Exactly when was the last time you saw your husband?”

  Calmly and firmly, she responded, “Yesterday morning at breakfast.”

  “Did you and your husband have any kind of argument?” Officer Freeman licked his lips and cleared his throat several times, conveying the message he was thirsty.

  Katharine ignored his signal and answered the question. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We may have disagreed on a matter or two, but nothing that would call for drastic measures.”

  “Have you contacted the Weekly to see if his schedule may have changed or possibly”

  “Officer Freeman, or is it Friedman?” Katharine cut in.

  “You’re right . . . it’s Freeman as in free-man. His smile revealed deep dimples in his cheeks.

  The awareness that he was a good-looking man flashed across Katharine’s mind, but she pushed it away and said angrily, “Don’t you think I would have contacted his employer before telling the police that my husband didn’t come home yesterday?”