"You really want to know my secrets?"
"After meeting your, um"—he lifted his eyebrows—"friend this afternoon, I have to admit, I'm intrigued. I assume he's in the book?"
"Oh, yeah." Had a starring role, in fact. "I can send you a proposal and the first fifty pages, or the first three chapters or—"
"Amanda."
She stared at the pepper shaker. "Yes?"
He leaned forward and pulled her hand into his. "I want you to send me the whole manuscript. Yes, send your proposal, too, of course, and I'll consider it. But . . ." He grimaced and let his voice trail off.
"But what?"
He dropped her hand. "Never mind."
They finished their meal. The conversation slipped into a comfortable rhythm as they discussed their favorite authors. Alan insisted on paying the check, though he let Amanda pay for the sandwich she'd ordered to take back to her roommate. He carried the take-out sack and held the door open for her.
The rain had stopped, and they walked slowly to the hotel, skirting the foot traffic and puddles on the sidewalk. The Manhattan air, usually so full of exhaust, smelled fresh and clean. It was warmer than it had been earlier, so Amanda slid off her coat and draped it over her arm, letting the warmth of the evening seep through her clothes and into her skin. Cars splashed by on the road beside them, the sound mingling with snippets of conversations from other pedestrians and the occasional music she heard coming from the shops they passed. People filled the sidewalks, anxious to enjoy a few dry moments before the next round of showers.
They stopped at the corner and waited for the light to turn. Amanda peeked into the window of the nearest shop—a gourmet grocery store—and studied the labels.
When the light turned, Alan gently pressed his hand on the small of her back. "Shall we?"
She shivered with his touch and pushed down a fresh twinge of guilt. "Sure."
Back in the hotel, they stepped onto the elevator beside an older couple. Alan pressed the button for her floor. When the other couple exited the elevator, Alan turned to her. "So are you going to send me your proposal?"
"I guess so."
"And the manuscript?"
"I'll send the first three chapters, and if you like them, I'll send the rest."
"Okay." The elevator stopped at her floor, and he stepped out behind her.
"You don't have to walk me to my room."
"Your friend might be lurking around somewhere, so I think I'd better."
For a moment, she'd forgotten about Gabriel. Now, the memory of their reunion assaulted her. She squared her shoulders and led the way down the long hallway. When she reached her door, she stopped to face Alan. "Thanks for dinner. That was much more fun than room service."
"Anytime." He handed her the take-out sack and met her eyes. With his now-free hand, he brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear.
His touch tingled. Her heartbeat quickened.
Alan half-smiled. "I shouldn't say this. I know you're married, and I don't want you to think I'm being too forward. But honestly, I can't wait to read your memoir, and not because it's something I could acquire for Martindale. I want to read it because I'm curious." He shook his head. "No, that's not completely true. I'm interested . . . in you."
Heat hit her face like she'd just opened an oven door. She lowered her gaze.
"I shouldn't have said that," Alan said. "I'm sorry. Obviously, you're not ready."
Her head snapped back up. "No. You surprised me, that's all."
"So is this separation temporary, or . . . ?"
Amanda chewed the inside of her lip. Was her separation temporary? When she'd first asked Mark to move out, it wasn't supposed to be permanent. But now, she couldn't imagine asking him to move back in, living with the tension, the judgment. Mark's I-love-yous were too late. Where had those words been when she'd so craved his acceptance? Where had they been when she'd bared her soul to him, only to have him stomp out the door, slamming it behind him? No, nothing he could say now would convince her of his love.
She gripped the sack dangling from her wrist and met Alan's eyes. "I think it's permanent."
"Okay?" He drew out the word. "You're saying it's okay that I'm interested?"
"It hasn't been that long since he moved out, and—"
"And you're not divorced. I understand that. Maybe we can start as friends."
"Friends?" A friend who wouldn't push her to get back with her husband, as Jamie did. A man who didn't always judge, and always find her wanting, as Mark did. A friend who cared for her, just the way she was. A new friend was exactly what she needed. "I'd like that."
"So, can I call you? Would that be okay?"
"Sure." She tried to temper the smile she felt crawling across her face. It didn't work. "Friends talk."
"Perfect."
Five
Mark pushed himself off the sectional and stalked across the hardwood planks into the dining area. He looked through the bay window to the front yard. No sign of Amanda.
He'd been watching the clock since they'd returned home from church at noon. She was supposed to leave New York by eight, which should have easily had her home by one. It was now one-fifteen.
He'd itched to call her all day. But somehow she'd find a way to be offended. If he admitted he was worried, she'd take it as an insult, as if he didn't think she could take care of herself. But how could she defend herself if Sheppard decided to come after her? Of course, she refused to admit Sheppard was dangerous, so she'd assure him she didn't need his help. Apparently, Amanda didn't need anything from him.
He uttered one of a thousand prayers he'd said since her call on Friday and glanced at his phone again.
Bad idea. If he asked how much longer until she got home, she'd assume he was tired of the girls. If he tried to ask her about her weekend, she'd think he was checking up on her, as if she weren't trustworthy.
How had their marriage deteriorated to this?
Quiet footsteps pitter-pattered down the stairs. He turned to find his seven-year-old daughter Sophie walking up behind him wearing orange stretchy pants with white polka dots and a bright pink shirt. She'd picked out the outfit that morning before church, and Mark hadn't had the heart to tell her to change. Her brunette hair hung long and stringy down her back. He'd tried to brush it, but Sophie assured him she could do it herself. And he'd been so distracted with thoughts of Amanda, he hadn't argued with her.
"Hey, little lady, what's up?"
She shifted from foot to foot. "When's Mommy coming home?"
"She should be here any minute. Did you pick up your room?"
Sophie nodded. "Uh-huh. Madi's is messy, though."
Mark knelt to speak with her face-to-face. "Would you help her with it?"
"Why should I? I didn't make the mess."
He tapped her adorable button nose. "How about because I asked you to?"
She scrunched up her tiny face and studied him, probably weighing whether or not that was a good enough reason, when Madi padded down the stairs. Although he'd managed to finagle her into a dress for church, she'd ripped it off and pulled on her yellow, tattered, footed pajamas the moment they set foot in the house. Comfortable clothes, comfortable shoes. She was so much like her mother. Her pale skin looked paler against her bright red Kool-Aid tinted lips. At least her blond hair had made it into a pony tail. He might not know much about girls, but he'd learned how to fix that hairdo in his seven years as a daddy.
"My room's all done," she said with a big smile. "Mommy will be happy the house is so clean!"
He hoped his six-year old was right. With a burst of nervous energy, Mark had been scrubbing ever since Amanda called on Friday. If he hadn't had his girls, he would have built something, or, better yet, demolished something. But power tools and babysitting didn't mix.
"Why don't you two watch a movie upstairs until your mom gets here?"
They clamored up the steps and ran to the master bedroom, arguing abo
ut which movie to watch before they reached the landing. He probably shouldn't let them watch any more TV, but he had too much pent-up frustration to play with them. Sending them upstairs allowed him to focus his attention on worrying about Amanda.
Where was she?
He shook his head and scanned the room for something else to clean. The result of his weekend's work seemed pretty dramatic. The lightly stained pine floors, original to the old house, gleamed in the sunshine spilling in through the rear windows. The granite countertops in the kitchen shone, as did the cabinets. After wiping down each of the ten barstools around the long bar, he'd scrubbed her huge gas range until he could see his own worried reflection.
The brown microfiber sectional in the living room and both of the club chairs had been vacuumed and spot cleaned. At about two o'clock in the morning, after Amanda had told him about her run-in with Sheppard, he'd dusted the coffee table and entertainment center thoroughly, including the flat screen and the electronic stuff that went with it. Might as well take advantage of his insomnia. He'd used the feather-duster to clean the picture frames and doo-dads all over the room. When the sun came up on Saturday, he'd taken ammonia to the windows—inside and out—before he'd tackled Amanda's office, scrubbed the small guest bathroom, and worked his way upstairs. He'd even gotten out the long attachment for the vacuum to suck the cobwebs out of the corners.
Pretty dramatic. She'd probably be mad.
He opened the windows on the front of the house to let in the fresh air and blow away the scent of Pine Sol and the grilled cheese sandwiches he'd fixed for lunch. The rain had moved out the night before, leaving the air fresh and clean and turning the sky a clear blue. A stiff breeze tugged multi-colored leaves from the trees and littered the grass on their two-acre lot. Next weekend he'd tackle that project.
He turned back to the house. No dust, no dirt, no smudges—it hadn't been this clean in years. Not that Amanda had time to clean these days, between writing books, teaching classes, and taking care of the girls. It was nice to be able to do something for her again, though he suspected she'd see his help as an indictment on her housekeeping skills and hate him for it.
He shook his head. There was no winning with her.
He checked his watch. One-thirty. He glanced at his cell again where it sat on the end of the bar beside his small suitcase and jacket, forced himself to leave it there, and fell onto the sofa. He clicked on the TV to check the Patriots game, trying and failing not to look at the clock.
It was after two when he finally heard tires on the asphalt outside. He turned off the TV and walked to the window in time to see Amanda park her sedan in the drive.
Sophie barreled down the stairs. "Is that Mommy?"
"She's here!" Madi said, racing to keep up with her big sister.
They both skidded past him and outside into the chilly air. He leaned against the doorframe as Amanda climbed out of the car and embraced both of her daughters at the same time. She kissed their foreheads and listened to their simultaneous jibber-jabber, somehow taking it all in. How did she do that? Smiling and nodding at them, asking questions of the right girl at the right moment, Amanda managed to extricate herself from their grip and walk toward the back of the car.
Mark made it to her trunk as she was about to grab the suitcase. He touched her arm, felt her stiffen. "Let me," he said.
Wearing the mask he was trying not to get used to, she turned and faced him. "I can get it."
"I know you can," he said. "But will you please let me?"
She released her hold on the suitcase. "Thanks."
Mark grabbed the suitcase and slammed the trunk. Inside the house, he went up the stairs and down the long hallway to their bedroom. He refused to think of it as her bedroom. He had to believe he'd be back.
To the sound of Aladdin playing on the TV, he lifted the suitcase onto his side of the king-sized bed. If she wanted to, she could leave it there all night. Maybe having the extra weight on the other side of the bed would remind her of him. Maybe she'd miss him.
Or she'd kick it off the bed in a fit of anger.
He lifted the bag from the bed, set it on the floor, and headed for the door, only to stop at the threshold. He was being ridiculous. He put the suitcase back on the bed, guessing that's where she'd want it. Did it really matter? Their marriage was not dependent on his ability to know where she wanted her stupid suitcase.
From the top of the stairs he listened to his daughters tell their mom about their weekend. They didn't notice him as he crept down and leaned forward on the railing to watch. Seated on the long sectional, Amanda faced the windows toward the back yard. Sophie sat on her right. Madi sat on Amanda's left knee. Both the girls talked nonstop, finishing each other's sentences and one-upping each other with stories.
Nodding and smiling, Amanda pushed her straight shoulder-length blond hair behind her ear, her blue eyes sparkling as she listened to her daughters. Sophie was so like him, with her brown hair and eyes, her height—tall for her age—and her daredevil personality. Madi had Amanda's blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and slight frame. Every asthma attack reminded Mark just how fragile his youngest daughter was.
Amanda looked up and met his eyes. "Is that so?" she said.
He gave his head a little shake. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. Is what so?"
"You cleaned the house?"
"Oh, yeah. It gave me something to do."
Amanda's lips pursed and turned white as she studied him. Bracing himself, he waited for the accusation, or the defense, or whatever she was about to throw at him. She opened her mouth to say something, but she seemed to change her mind, and her lips slipped into a smile. "Thanks. That was thoughtful of you."
"You're welcome."
She looked around, then turned back to him. "It looks great."
They stared at each other until Sophie grabbed her mother's chin, turning her face to hers. "Can Daddy stay please, Mommy?"
Amanda's eyes flicked to his. "Oh, I'm sure your father has to go."
"Do you, Daddy? Can you please stay?" Madi asked.
He knew the answer he was supposed to give, though it killed him to do it. "I have to go, peanut, but I'll see you tomorrow."
"You have to leave now?" Sophie whined, her eyes pleading.
"Actually I'd like to talk to your mom for a few minutes. Can you two go up and finish Aladdin?"
Reminding them of the movie did the trick, and Sophie and Madi ran past him and up the stairs. He watched until they disappeared around the corner before turning to Amanda. She sat up straight, nervous.
He closed the distance between them, pulled her from the sofa, and hugged her tight. "Thank God you're home."
Amanda's arms dangled against her sides. Before he was ready, she angled away.
He let her go, holding onto her upper arms to keep her from sitting. He searched her eyes, her face, her slender frame for some sign of the trauma she'd faced in seeing Sheppard again. But the scars wouldn't be visible. "Are you okay?"
She squirmed out of his grip and resumed her seat on the sofa. "I'm fine."
He sat catty-corner to her on the sectional, turning to face her. "I was worried about you."
"I shouldn't have told you—"
"Of course you should've told me. Did you see him again?"
She shook her head. "Nope. No sign of him all weekend."
"Thank God."
She sat back and almost smiled.
He'd expected her to arrive home in one of her many sweat suits. She had one for every day of the week in every season, and what better outfit to wear on a long drive? But Amanda was dressed in a fitted pair of jeans with a pretty, yellow, button-down blouse, a halo of pink lipstick around her full lips. Lipstick she hadn't applied recently—hadn't applied for him.
He swallowed, tried to push down the monster growling in his chest. "So, did you sleep in this morning? I bet after running into Sheppard, you didn't sleep well."
"I woke up early, actually."
Her eyes scanned the room. "This place really looks great. Did you wash the windows?"
He followed her gaze. The windows were spotless. "Uh-huh. So . . . traffic?"
"Not much after I got out of the city. A little around Bridgeport."
He nodded slowly. He should let it go, knew this would only lead to trouble, but his curiosity was killing him. No, not curiosity. Jealousy. "You're later than I expected."
She turned away from the windows and studied him. "Did you have plans today? I didn't realize I had a time limit."
He tried to ignore her sarcasm with a smile. "No plans. I was just worried about you. You could've called."
The clock on the far wall ticked. Voices drifted down the stairs from the movie playing in the bedroom. She said nothing.
"Did you . . . do something this morning?"
She crossed her arms. "Um, I drove home."
"I just wondered why you're so dressed up for a five-hour drive."
"I'm not dressed up."
Mark pushed his luck to the edge of what he feared was a very high cliff. "You didn't see anyone this morning? I'm just curious. I mean, you said you'd be home at one, and it's after two, and you're dressed nice, and—"
"I had breakfast with Alan." She straightened her shirt, kept her eyes downcast. "He was worried about me going into the lobby by myself, so he came to my room to walk me to my car."
He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together and stared at them. "Your roommate couldn't do it?"
When she spoke, her tone was irritated bordering on defensive. "Susie's flight left early this morning."
He squeezed his hands tighter until his knuckles faded to white. "So you and Alan were . . . Were you alone with him in your hotel room?"
She dropped her head forward and massaged her temples with her fingertips. Bare fingers. No wedding ring. The monster roared.
She sighed. "I was in the hallway in front of my room with him. Do you have a problem with that?"
Yes, he had a big problem with her being alone with any other man, especially now that their marriage was . . . "I was just curious."
Finding Amanda Page 5