"We grabbed a coffee and a muffin from Starbucks and had a quick breakfast. And then I left. Not that it's any of your business."
"Is that so? It's not my business?" Fury forced its way into his voice. "We've been separated for a month, and you're already seeing other people?"
"Keep it down!" she half-yelled, half-whispered. "Do you want the girls to hear you?"
The vision of Amanda in the arms of some faceless man filled his mind. He stood and stomped to the windows. Staring at the swing set in the backyard, he said, "Are you seeing him?"
"We just met. We had a coffee. And I'm not discussing this with you."
He turned around and unclenched his fists. Amanda's eyes were hard, her arms crossed tightly across her torso. She had a lot of nerve being angry with him. But what could he do? Threaten to divorce her? She'd probably offer to file the papers. He blew out a breath and took his seat again. "Okay. Fine."
Amanda laid her head back against the sofa and pushed her hair away from her face with both hands, closing her eyes. "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Because I have stuff to do."
"We need to talk about Sheppard."
Her eyes snapped open. "Let's not."
"I've been thinking about it, and I don't believe it was a coincidence you were both there this weekend."
She narrowed her eyes. "What are you saying?"
"Somebody must've told him you'd be there."
"Who would do that?"
"Probably the same person who told him about the memoir. How long had you been planning on going to this thing?"
She sat up straighter on the sofa. "A few weeks. A friend suggested it, and Roxie talked me into it."
"Who asked you?"
"Susie, my roommate."
"How do you know her?"
"We met at that dinner my publisher had a few months ago. Remember?"
He thought back to the dinner. She hadn't wanted him to go. Their marriage was rocky at the time, and he hadn't pushed it. He should've insisted. "Besides Susie and Roxie, did anyone else know you were going?"
Amanda stood, took the long way around the couch, probably to avoid scooting by him, and made her way into the kitchen. "Whoever did registration for the conference, I guess. Tim knew."
"Your editor?"
"I don't think I told anyone else."
He heard the fridge open.
"Want a drink?"
"No, thanks," he said.
She returned with a bottle of water, which she handed to him. He palmed open the cap and handed it back to her.
"Thanks." She took a sip and set the water on the coffee table. "Let's see . . . It's not like it was a secret. And besides, to the writing community, I'm M.L. Johnson or Mandy Johnson, so even if people were talking about it . . . And why would they be, especially to . . . him?" She faltered on that last word, swallowed, and continued. "But even if they were, he wouldn't know I was M.L. Johnson. He figured that out on Friday when he saw my name tag." She shook her head. "No, it was a coincidence he was there." She blinked a couple of times. Her voice rose an octave. "Don't you think it was a coincidence?"
He tried to smile reassuringly, but he doubted it worked. "If he hadn't brought up the memoir, I might buy it. But the fact that he questioned you about it—"
"Maybe he was just fishing for information," she said. "He always could guess what I was thinking, anticipate . . . He was always good at reading me."
"Manipulating you, you mean."
Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back, looking toward the stairs and away from his gaze.
He reached across the space that separated them and took her hand. "Honey?"
She looked at her lap, tried to pull her hand away.
He held it. Her tear landed on the back of his hand, where it shimmered and dripped between his fingers. "I know you're scared. I'm scared, too." He swallowed and continued. "I think it would be wise to hold off on publishing the memoir until—"
She yanked her hand free and glared at him. "I knew you were going to say that. I knew it. You never wanted me to publish it."
He stood and paced across the room. "You're right. I don't. This guy, Sheppard—publishing this could destroy him. And I understand why you want to hurt him. I don't blame you."
He understood too well. He didn't want to just hurt the guy. He wanted to kill him. He returned to his seat, reined his temper in, and met her eyes. "But do you want to make yourself a target?"
"I told you, he won't hurt me."
"I don't believe that, and you don't either, not anymore. That's why you're so scared."
She crossed her arms. "I'm not scared!"
"I know you. I can tell—"
"Don't act like you know me so well. You don't know anything about me. You never have."
He spoke through clenched teeth. "I know as much as you're willing to share with me."
They stared at each other, the music from the movie upstairs hovering in the air.
Mark dropped his gaze to the floor. "I'm not saying don't ever publish it. Just wait a while, until we know what Sheppard's going to do."
"It's too late. I've already promised to send it to a couple of people."
"I asked you not to do that."
She shrugged.
"Well, then, tell them you're going to need a little time."
"I want to publish it," she said. "I need to publish it."
"Please don't."
Fire ignited behind her eyes. "You're embarrassed! You don't want people to know what kind of a . . . a person you married. You don't want your mother to know."
"This isn't about my mother. This is about your safety—"
"Right. Sure it is."
With a sigh, he stood and headed to the kitchen. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, do you think you could at least keep the doors locked when you're home, maybe keep the girls inside?"
"That's not fair to the girls," she said, though there was little protest behind her words.
"Humor me." He grabbed his phone off the kitchen counter and slid it in his jeans' pocket. "Meanwhile, I'm going to try to figure out how he found out you'd be there this weekend."
She turned to watch him. "How're you going to do that?"
He walked to the bottom of the stairs and called up, "Girls, I'm leaving."
A moment later, their stocking feet slid down the stairs. He grabbed them up, squeezing them until they squealed, and planted a kiss on their cheeks.
"Will we see you tomorrow, Daddy?"
"I hope so," he said. "Maybe I'll stop by on my way home from work."
Amanda stood. "The girls have dance tomorrow night, so we won't be here."
"Okay, I'll try to get to the studio to watch you dance."
Mark half-expected Amanda to ask him not to intrude on their dance lessons, but she held her tongue—probably because the girls were in the room.
With quick kisses on his cheek, the girls ran back upstairs, and Mark turned toward the door. He grabbed his suitcase and jacket. "See you tomorrow."
"You didn't answer my question," she said.
He threw the door open and stepped onto the porch before turning to her. "Somebody told Sheppard about the memoir. I'm going to find out who."
Six
"Daddy went crazy this weekend."
Amanda filled Sophie's glass with orange juice and slid it across the bar Monday morning. "What do you mean, he went crazy?"
"He was funny, like he couldn't sit down. Up and down, up and down. He cleaned everywhere. Me and Madi laughed at him."
"Madi and I," Amanda corrected automatically.
She could picture it. She'd seen Mark like that before. Right after they'd gotten married, he'd wake up in the middle of the night, his gasp startling her, sweat seeping through his T-shirt and onto her nightgown when she tried to comfort him. He'd never explained, but she knew memories of his tour in Afghanistan haunted him. Back in those days, he channeled his energy into the house—building, sanding, and finis
hing, scraping, painting, and polishing. In a year he'd transformed their broken-down farmhouse into a beautiful home.
He'd run from memories then. What ghosts had motivated her husband's work this weekend?
After Amanda dropped the girls off at school, she drove to a diner and snagged a booth by the window. Just as the waitress was filling her coffee cup, Jamie arrived, dumping her giant leather purse on the table and sliding into the booth. This morning, her red hair was drawn back into a loose, curly ponytail. She wore a black turtleneck, suede jacket, and perfectly tattered blue jeans. When Amanda had first met Chris's wife, she'd thought she could never be friends with anybody so perfectly coordinated. How wrong she was.
"Thanks for meeting me. I'm sure you have a lot of catching up to do after being gone all weekend."
"Not that much. I'm glad you came."
"How are you?" Jamie squinted her artistically lined eyes.
Amanda poured cream into her coffee. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Tell me what happened."
"Mark told you?"
"He told Chris," Jamie said. "Friday night. They were on the phone for a long time. He was really worried about you."
"What do you already know?"
"I guess I know what Mark knows. You ran into that guy you wrote about in your book?"
Amanda nodded slowly. "Dr. Gabriel Sheppard."
"Okay. So tell me everything." Jamie leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table.
Amanda's stomach rolled. Was it the coffee on an empty stomach? Or the memories? The white-haired waitress appeared, took their orders, and rushed away, leaving Amanda with no excuse. Yes, she wanted Jamie to know what happened in New York. She just didn't want to relive it.
With a sigh, she recounted her run-in with Gabriel, trying to keep her voice steady, her emotions at bay.
Jamie sipped her coffee and murmured an occasional, "Uh-huh," and, "No way," studying her with wise eyes over the rim of her cup.
"The weirdest part was when he asked me about the memoir."
"How did he know?"
"I'm not sure." Amanda set her coffee on the table. "Sometimes I think he was just fishing for information, but at the time . . ." Amanda shrugged. At the time she'd believed Gabriel knew everything. Was she trying to convince herself differently? "Anyway, Mark doesn't see it that way."
"What does that mean, though? If he knows, will you hold off, not publish it?"
"Why should I? I always knew there was a chance he'd find out about it. But it's not like I name him in the book."
"Right, but anybody who knows you from those days—"
"And knows who my psychiatrist was—believe me, the list isn't that long."
"Still, he has to feel threatened, knowing you're trying to publish a book that exposes his secrets."
"Even if he somehow heard I'd written a memoir, how would he know what was in it? And even then, that's not my problem. If Gabriel has a problem with it . . . Well, I guess he should have thought of that before."
A familiar voice broke into their conversation. "Mrs. Johnson?"
A beautiful young woman approached their table. She wore her dirty-blond hair in a messy bun. A once-white apron hung over her sweatshirt and blue jeans. Amanda blinked. "Brittany?"
A wide smile crossed the girl's face. "I thought that was you. It's so good to see you."
Amanda stood and hugged her. "What happened to you? They said you got a place of your own. I was hoping you'd come back to class."
"I couldn't." Brittany's smile widened further. "I got a job! I'm working here now, full-time, thanks to you."
"Me? No."
"Yes. I told them I'd taken lessons with you, even showed them the cookbook you signed for me, and they gave me a chance. I cooked them that yummy chicken and dumplings you taught me to make, and voila! They hired me."
Amanda hugged the girl again. "I'm so proud of you. And you have an apartment?"
"Yup. And a roommate, so I can save some money. And guess what? I'm starting college in January. Just part-time, but it's something. I took your advice and applied for financial aid, and they're giving it to me."
The white-haired waitress approached and stage-whispered into Brittany's ear, eyeing the kitchen door. "You'd better get back there. They're looking for you."
Brittany's glance darted to the kitchen. "I gotta go. It was so great to see you." Brittany squeezed Amanda's hand. "Thanks again."
Amanda slid back into the booth. "I should've introduced you. Sorry."
"Who was that?"
"You know how I teach the cooking classes at the shelter?" Jamie nodded. "Well, she was one of the residents."
"She's so young. She was homeless?"
"Yeah. Long story. She ended up at the shelter about a year ago and earned her GED. She was my most faithful student. Most of the women wanted to learn how to feed their families on the cheap, but she was really interested in learning to cook."
"Sounds like you made an impact. Your work at the shelter is awesome."
Amanda shrugged. She wished she'd had Brittany's courage. Brittany had been kicked out of her home when she stood up to the step-father who raped her. Amanda's parents would have embraced her if she'd told them about Gabriel, but she'd never had the courage. Her life, and her marriage, could have been so different if she had. The sparkle in Brittany's eyes magnified the regret in her own heart.
Amanda didn't know anything about counseling and didn't have much to offer girls like Brittany, but if teaching cooking classes at the homeless shelter helped, she was willing to do it.
Jamie tilted her head. "Tell me about this guy you met in New York. Alan, right?"
"Uh-huh."
"What's going on with him?"
The waitress delivered their meals. "Can I get you anything else?"
Amanda smiled at the woman and her perfect timing. "More coffee?" After the waitress topped off their cups, Amanda added more cream and a half packet of sugar and stirred. Then she methodically buttered her French toast and poured maple syrup over it. She cut off a small bite and popped it into her mouth. Sweet syrup, warm, salty butter. "Delicious. I'll have to send my compliments to the chef."
Jamie raised one eyebrow. "This is not good."
"Yours isn't good?" She eyed the eggs. "What's wrong with them?"
"Don't try to change the subject. What happened with Alan?"
She sighed. "It wasn't a big deal. We went out to dinner Friday night. I saw him a couple of times on Saturday. Then on Sunday, we had breakfast together. Both meals were just because he didn't want me to be alone in the hotel."
Jamie cocked her head to the side. "Is that so? What a hero."
"He was worried about me."
Jamie nodded slowly, staring at her. Not only was Jamie more put together on the outside, she was much more composed on the inside. She and Chris were a decade older than Mark, sixteen years older than she, but it was more than just age. She and Mark had talked about it once—how Chris and Jamie were so wise and insightful, always unruffled. Mark attributed it to their religion. He'd been impressed enough by them to try their church, and he'd been attending with them for over a year now. While Amanda loved Jamie and Chris, she had no desire to go to church, even if Mark seemed to find such peace there.
Good for him. She wasn't enough for him. She never would be.
"Did anything happen with him?" Jamie's eyes narrowed.
"We're just friends."
"Are you sure?"
She crossed her arms. "Yes, I'm sure. I'm not ready for anything serious with anyone. Mark and I just separated a month ago."
"But you thought about it," Jamie said, no question in her voice.
"Maybe. He's a nice guy. I think . . ." She swallowed, dropped her gaze.
"You think what?"
"I think he likes me. And I think he'll react better than Mark did when he reads the memoir."
Jamie's eyebrows disappeared beneath her red bangs. "When he reads it?"
Amanda shrugged. "I sent him a proposal and the first three chapters this morning. If he wants to read the rest—"
"What did Mark think about that?"
Amanda wiped her fingers on her napkin. "I didn't tell him."
"I see." Jamie cocked her head to the side. "How did Mark respond to the memoir?"
Amanda nodded toward her friend's untouched eggs. "Are you going to eat that or not?"
Jamie cut off a bite and gingerly placed it in her mouth. "Oh, that's good."
"Brittany was such a great student. She really had a knack—"
"Don't change the subject."
She leaned back and crossed her arms. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it."
"Mark misses you," Jamie said. "When you were threatened last weekend—"
"I wasn't threatened."
Jamie shrugged. "That's how Mark saw it, and he was scared to death. He loves you."
"He doesn't love me. He loves the girl he thought I was. That sweet, innocent girl he met in Providence."
"Why would you say that?"
Amanda leaned across the table toward her friend. "Look, I've never met anybody like Mark before. He's everything I ever wanted in a man. He's strong and protective and . . ."
Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. "When we first married, he never had to tell me he loved me. I could see it in the way he wanted to be with me, and I could feel it in his touch. If I was in the kitchen, cooking, he'd sit at the bar and talk to me. If I was in the office working, he'd bring his computer back and sit across from me, doing his own work. In the evenings, we'd sit together on the couch and watch TV or watch the girls play. He'd lay his hands in my lap, and I'd massage them."
She remembered the feel of his hands, how rough they were, how strong. Always scrubbed clean of the remnants of his job, sometimes raw from the scrubbing. Amanda had kept a tube of hand lotion in the living room, so she could work it into the dry, cracked skin. She could feel how Mark would relax then, putting the stress of the day behind him.
"Some evenings, he could hardly wait until we tucked the girls in before he lured me into the bedroom." Warmth rose to her cheeks as she remembered his touch, how his desire always fueled hers. She'd never felt more loved, nor loved him more, than when they made love.
Finding Amanda Page 6