Jamie smiled, encouraging her. Well, she asked for it. "And then I told him about my past."
She could still see the horror in his face. She would never forget it.
"And what happened?" Jamie asked.
Amanda shook off the haunted image of her husband. "Suddenly, ESPN was more interesting than watching me cook. He did his books at the dining room table instead of in the office with me." She felt the sadness welling up, pushed a sob down. "He sat on the far end of the sofa, arms crossed."
And he never enticed her into their bed. The first few times they'd been intimate—if you could call it that—after she'd told him about Gabriel, it had been awkward, like they hardly knew each other. After that, he rarely came to bed, preferring to fall asleep on the couch. And when he did reach out for her at night, she felt no love in his touch. No intimacy. Just physical need—like scratching an itch.
Since she'd left, he told her he loved her more often. He was trying to convince her, probably trying to convince himself. But she didn't feel it in his touch, hadn't for two years. She was done pretending.
"Your sex life suffered," Jamie said, guessing what she hadn't said.
Amanda pushed away her plate, rested her hands on the table in front of her, and studied them.
"Did you ever ask him about it?"
She nodded, still studying her fingers. No wedding ring. She couldn't bring herself to put it back on.
"What did he say?"
"He said he felt like Gabriel was in bed with us."
"What did he mean by that?"
Amanda looked at her friend. "Obviously he can't get past it. He can't forget what I did, and it's . . . it's repulsive to him. I'm repulsive. So don't tell me he loves me, okay? It's not true. I hoped when I told him the truth about my past, he'd eventually be able to see past it. I thought when he read the memoir . . ." She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "He's sorry he married me. His mother's always told him I wasn't good enough for him, and now he knows it's true. She thinks he deserves better. Now that he knows about my past, he . . ." She wiped a rogue tear from her cheek. "Heck, I think he deserves better."
"Amanda, that's not—"
"And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life with someone who doesn't want me."
Jamie reached across the table and took her hand. "If you'd seen him this weekend, you wouldn't doubt his love."
"He's just protective. He'd feel that way about you or Chris or anyone he thought was in danger."
"That's not true. If you two would just try counseling—"
She yanked her hand away. "You know how I feel about shrinks. And it's too late for that."
"So you're just going to give up?" Jamie pushed her plate away. "What about your children. If nothing else—"
"Mark's a great father. Now that he doesn't live with them, he makes more of an effort than he ever did. And I'm happier than I've been in a long time." Amanda's skin prickled. It was true, wasn't it? "I know divorce is against your religion, but I don't need your approval."
Jamie reached across the table and took her hand again. "Of course you don't. And I'll be with you, no matter what you do. But don't be so quick to throw away your husband. Marriage is hard, no doubt. But regardless of what you say, he loves you."
Amanda had been home just a few minutes when the doorbell rang. On the front porch, a gray-haired man held a bouquet of yellow roses.
"You Amanda Johnson?"
Her heart fluttered as she reached for the flowers. "Yes, I am. Thank you."
"Enjoy your day," the man said, already headed back to his truck.
Amanda carried the roses to the kitchen counter and read the card.
It was lovely to see you. Until next time . . .
Amanda read the note again, stifling a giggle. How sweet of Alan to send her flowers. Had she told him her favorite flowers were yellow roses, or had he guessed? Either way, she was really looking forward to next time.
Jamie's tender encouragement to fix her marriage only proved how little her best friend understood. There was nothing left to mend. Mark wanted her to forget her past, to wipe it away way like chalk on a blackboard. But it was a part of who she was, a part he was unable to love and unwilling to accept.
Amanda headed back to the kitchen, her decision made. No matter how much she cared for Mark, there was no way she was ever going to want him to move back in.
It was time to file for divorce.
Seven
Mark worked silently, ignoring the banter of his crew. The owners had hired him to gut the old place. Replace everything, they'd said. Leave no stone unturned. Oh, and we want to be in by Christmas.
He'd tried not to laugh. They'd be lucky to finish by Easter.
The house had been built in the late eighteen-hundreds in Hingham, an old, upscale town closer to the coast. It sat on three acres of pine forest and weed-infested lawn and was probably worth more than Mark would make in a decade.
Today, he and his youngest employee were measuring the edges of the ceilings for crown molding while the other guys tapped in tongue and groove hardwood in the living room.
When Mark wrote down the last measurement, the kid grabbed the notebook and headed for the garage.
"I'll make the cuts," Mark said.
"You sure? It's freezing out there."
Mark snatched the notebook from his hand. "I can manage. Why don't you double-check the cabinet order?"
The garage was filled with every tool—power and otherwise—you could think of. Thank God for the space, too. Between the temperature and the whipping wind, he'd freeze outside.
Mark opened the garage door halfway. Frigid air swirled around his feet as he found the miter saw against the wall and dragged it into the center of the garage, plugged it in, and grabbed the first length of crown molding. With his safety goggles firmly in place, he set to work. The small space filled with the buzzing of the electric saw. Clouds of sawdust swirled in the wind sneaking in beneath the garage door while he obsessed about Amanda.
He'd fallen in love with her over crab cakes in Narragansett, Rhode Island, more than a decade earlier. He carried her picture with him to Afghanistan, staring at it so often, the glossy finish had begun to flake off. When he'd returned stateside, he'd wasted no time in proposing to her. They'd been together ever since.
No, they'd been together until a month before, when she'd kicked him out.
What had gone wrong? They had two beautiful daughters, she had a great career, and he was happy for her. He grimaced and laid another length of molding on the pile. At least one of them should be happy. He was proud of her. To go from being a chef to starting a business to publishing a cookbook and writing a blog, all while caring for two small children—she was a walking success story. He bragged about her to everyone he knew.
And then, out of the blue, she'd kicked him out.
Except it hadn't been as much of a shock as he'd like to think. Things had been falling apart for two years, and though he didn't know exactly why, he knew when it started—when Amanda told him about her past.
Mark would never forget that night. After putting the kids to bed early, she'd turned off the TV set and sat beside him. "I have to tell you something."
And then she launched into the story that changed everything.
That monster of jealousy roared—the one he'd so skillfully kept hidden for years of marriage. It twisted in his gut, fed on his hatred, and fueled his anger. The face of his fragile, beautiful wife disappeared until he could see only the dark profile of a man in a high-priced suit and Italian loafers with a tongue as smooth as a knife's edge.
Even now his mouth filled with the bitter taste of vengeance. For two years he'd told himself he could not hunt down Dr. Gabriel Sheppard and kill him. But he had allowed himself the occasional fantasy about confronting him and making him pay. He refused to act on those fantasies. There was no room for the soldier inside him on this side of the Atlantic.
But if he had to, he could rip Shep
pard apart, piece by piece.
Mark pressed, white-knuckled, against a length of crown molding. The piece slipped beneath the saw blade, leaving a jagged, useless edge. Closing his mouth tight against the swear word dying to escape, he tossed the ruined end into a pile of scrap, thankful that at least part of the board was still usable. He stretched his arms and tried to relax.
It was no use.
Only after Amanda told him the truth about her past did he understand why she'd used initials—not even her real initials—instead of her full name on her cookbook and blog, why she hadn't allowed the publisher to add a photograph of her to the cover, and why she'd turned down every offer to appear on TV. Hiding from Sheppard. She swore the man would never hurt her, but Mark could see that, deep down, she didn't believe it.
Writing the memoir had been therapeutic, and he'd encouraged her to do it. He'd read it as she wrote, so touched that she trusted him with it, and tried to be enthusiastic about her writing. But it was hard to think past the fury swirling inside him, even harder to hide it. More details about what Sheppard had done to her led to more creative fantasies about how he would eventually kill him.
It never occurred to him she'd want to publish it.
Mark grabbed his cell from his jacket pocket and dialed his best friend.
"I just caught a case," Chris said after a curt hello. "I only have a minute."
"I need your help."
"Okay. What's up?"
"I need to figure out how Sheppard found my wife this weekend. I'm thinking maybe I should check the list of attendees from the conference against his name, see if I can find a connection."
There was a pause on the other end. "Could you give me a minute?" Chris said to somebody else. Into the phone he said, "And what do you need me to do?"
Mark ducked beneath the half-mast garage door and walked down the short driveway. "I was hoping you could use your charms to help me get my hands on the list."
"My charms or my credentials?"
Mark smiled. "Both?"
"And how exactly are you going to check their backgrounds?"
"You could help with that, too."
Chris blew out a breath. "I can't investigate innocent people on a whim, Mark. It's not legal. And I don't know how I can get that list. If I worked in New York maybe—"
"What if I get it?" Mark said. "Will you help me check it?"
"What are you looking for exactly?"
"A connection between Sheppard and somebody who knew my wife was going to be there. Somebody had to have told Sheppard. Her roommate for the weekend invited her. Maybe we should start there."
"What difference does it make how he found her?" Chris asked. "He found her—isn't that what you should be focusing on?"
Mark rubbed his temple. Was Chris right? Did it matter now how Sheppard found her? He turned at the street and walked back toward the house, shivering. The sun wasn't pumping much heat into Massachusetts today.
He stopped just short of the garage door. "I think we need to know. If somebody did tip him off, that means somebody close to her can't be trusted. We need to know who that person is."
"Meanwhile, what about Sheppard?"
"Well, that was my next favor," Mark said. "Have you found anything on him?"
"Not yet. You know, if you came to work here . . ."
"I'm trying to save my marriage, Chris, not add another nail to its coffin. Believe me, right now I'd much rather have a job where I could carry a gun legally."
A pause. "As opposed to carrying a gun . . . illegally?"
"Never mind, Agent Sapp," Mark said, picturing the handgun in his glove box. In this state, getting caught with it would mean at least eighteen months' jail time, but right now, it was worth the risk. "Listen, if you help me out on this, I'll owe you forever. I'll . . . I'll redo your bathroom or something."
"I don't want my bathroom redone. I want you and your gut feelings helping me solve crimes instead of hanging cabinets."
"You still trust my instincts?"
"Of course. You saved my butt in Afghanistan more than once."
"Then do this for Amanda, because right now, my gut is screaming at me that she's in danger."
Waiting through the long pause on the other end of the phone, Mark prayed he had his friend hooked.
"I'll have to work on it from home," Chris said. "I really can't use my FBI resources."
"I know, but you're better than anyone I know at ferreting out information. You'll work so much faster than I will."
"Fine. Call me when you have some names, and I'll see what I can find out."
"Thanks, man. I appreciate it."
Eight
After a yawn and a cat-like stretch, Amanda closed the lid of her laptop, thankful to put another day of writing behind her.
Her eyes drifted to the bouquet of yellow roses on the corner of her desk. She inhaled the sweet scent, imagining Alan scrunching up his eyes, thinking about what he wanted to say, and then leaning over the small notecard with his ballpoint pen. But of course Alan hadn't written the note himself. Probably the gray-haired man who'd delivered the flowers had done it, writing it word-for-word as Alan dictated it over the phone.
She tried to remember when she'd told him her favorite flowers were yellow roses. She didn't think she had. But however he'd figured it out, she was more impressed today than she had been over the weekend. And that was saying something.
Amanda grabbed the vase and headed toward the kitchen, remembering the note in her pocket. Until next time . . . Would Alan call today? She'd sent him the proposal and the first three chapters of her memoir this morning, so she expected him to call or email, if for no other reason than to say he'd received it. Her heart bubbled, and a tiny giggle escaped.
She set the flowers near the telephone where her notebook lay, on it the notes she'd taken when she'd spoken with her lawyer earlier. Her lawyer. Guilt niggled at her, darkening her bright mood. She'd consulted with an attorney a few weeks back, and that morning she'd made an appointment to see her the following day. She shouldn't feel guilty about it. It was unfair to string Mark along. He'd never get on with his life as long as he believed there was hope for their marriage. There wasn't. The kindest thing to do was get moving on the divorce.
Unexpected tears burned behind her eyes. Hadn't she already cried all the tears she had for Mark? A few years ago, if anyone had told her she'd be seeking a divorce today, she would never have believed it. But she'd seen the disgust in his eyes when she'd told him about Sheppard. She'd felt him pulling away almost from that first moment.
And wasn't that one of the reasons she'd written the memoir, to make him understand? She'd thought when he knew what she'd gone through, he wouldn't blame her for her affair with Gabriel. He'd be able to forgive her.
How wrong she'd been.
She swiped her sleeve across her eyes and tried to quell the tears. She could still remember clearly the look on his face the night he read a particularly graphic scene. The once crisp pages were gripped in his white-knuckled fists as he read about how Gabriel had used her and manipulated her. Amanda watched, horrified, longing for Mark's arms around her, his voice in her ear. It wasn't your fault.
Instead, he dumped the papers onto the coffee table, muttered a quick, "I'm taking a walk," and stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
When he'd returned almost an hour later, he'd told her how compelling the scene was and encouraged her to keep writing, acting like it was some sort of therapy for her. Great, he thought she was a good writer. Not so great, he couldn't meet her eyes.
That night, she'd cried herself to sleep, wishing she could take it back. Why had she ever trusted him with the truth?
Mark fell asleep on the couch, numbing his feelings with ESPN.
When she finally finished the memoir, Mark was happier than she was. They'd dropped the girls off at Chris and Jamie's that snowy night the previous winter and headed to her favorite restaurant. He'd ordered a bottle of wine
and toasted her accomplishment. "To putting it behind us and moving on."
"I'm going to publish it."
He gulped the sip, and his face turned bright red. She spent the rest of the evening enduring his lecture as he tried to talk her out of her decision. It was okay for him to know her dirty secrets, but to share them with the world?
Shame warmed her cheeks more than her glass of Merlot.
Weeks passed before they'd talked about it again. He'd acted like he was worried about Sheppard, but Amanda knew he wanted to keep the story secret to protect himself and his reputation. He didn't want their friends to know what kind of a woman he'd married. He couldn't bear to give his mother more reasons to hate her. The more he denied it, the more it hurt.
Why couldn't Mark understand? Her last two years in high school were dedicated to keeping secrets. She'd lied to her parents, the few friends she had left, and to everyone she knew. She lied so often, sometimes she forgot the truth.
She'd fallen in love, and she hadn't been able to tell a soul. She'd lost her virginity, and she wasn't free to share it with anyone. Sometimes she'd felt trapped with Sheppard, sometimes she'd thought if he left her, she might actually die. But Sheppard hadn't just been her lover, he'd been her psychiatrist, her only confidant. There'd been nobody else in the world she trusted.
She'd carried the shame for too many years, and she couldn't bear it any longer. After she'd told Mark, she'd told her parents and her older brothers. She'd been most afraid of her father's reaction, but he'd pulled her into his arms and held her for a long time. She could smell his musky cologne, feel his shirt buttons against her cheek. Her father apologized, blaming himself for her vulnerability, though she'd assured him it wasn't his fault. Her brothers directed their anger at the psychiatrist. The weight of the guilt lifted with her family's support.
Mark had watched the scene from the far corner of her parents' living room like a sentry on duty, his hands balled into fists. As comforting as her father's embrace was, it was her husband's arms she'd longed for.
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