Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  She couldn't worry about Mark's reaction anymore. She'd been hiding from Sheppard for twelve years, and she was sick of hiding. It was time to expose the truth, time to find freedom from her past, and time to move on.

  And if Mark couldn't handle it, well . . . If he really loved her, he'd understand.

  That was the crux of the matter. He didn't really love her. He never had. In a way it was her fault. His comment the previous day stuck with her—"I know as much as you're willing to share with me." It was true. She'd been hiding behind a mask for years. The problem was, every time she lifted the mask a little to let him in, all she got from him was anger and condemnation. No wonder she stayed hidden.

  Maybe if she'd removed the mask in the beginning of their relationship, things would be different.

  Yeah, they'd be different, all right. He never would have married her in the first place.

  Amanda grabbed her purse and keys and made her way to the garage. She wouldn't regret her marriage, but she wasn't going to stay with a man who could barely stand the sight of her. Not when she had other options.

  She drove to the school, picked up the girls, and took them to the library. Even for October, it was freezing. The sun had gone down and the wind had picked up by the time they walked out, stacks of books in their hands. Amanda and the girls dashed to the sedan and piled inside, slamming the doors against the bitter cold.

  "Is it going to snow, Mommy?" Madi asked.

  "Not tonight, sweetie."

  When Amanda pulled into the dance studio, Mark's truck was already parked in front of the small building. He climbed out of the driver's seat and made his way to the back door of her car as she shifted into park.

  "Hey, little lady," he said, giving Sophie a kiss. Madi scrambled out of Sophie's side of the car and fell into her father's arms before Amanda had even turned the car off. "Hey, peanut!" He scooped up their second daughter and propped her on his other hip like she weighed nothing. "Did you girls have a good day at school?"

  By the time Amanda stepped out of the car, Mark had both girls halfway to the door.

  Amanda watched as Mark sent them into the dance studio and then moved over to watch them through the glass. She stood beside him, closer than she otherwise would have liked, to make room for the other mothers. Mark was the only man in the building.

  "Quiet day?" she asked.

  "Not really."

  "It's freezing out there. I hope you were working inside."

  He shrugged. "It was fine. I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind."

  She stiffened. "About what?"

  "Can you write down those names for me, the people who knew you were going to be in New York this weekend?"

  "Why?"

  "So I can figure out who tipped Sheppard off."

  She turned to face him but kept her voice low. Too many bored ears in this place. "I don't think anybody tipped him off. It was just a coincidence."

  He nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off the girls. "You're probably right, but just in case, I'd like to check."

  "What're you going to do?"

  He turned now and met her eyes. "I talked to Chris today, and he agreed to help me check on their backgrounds to see if we can find a connection."

  She crossed her arms and lowered her voice. "You're joking, right?"

  They stared at each other until a tiny rapping sound interrupted them. Amanda turned to see Madi's button-nose pressed up against the glass, her little fist tapping on it. She mouthed through the thick glass, watch! Amanda nodded and pasted on a smile.

  Not looking at her, he answered her question. "I'm quite serious, Amanda."

  "You're crazy."

  "Humor me."

  They stared forward. She half-watched the dancing girls in front of her, but mostly her thoughts were distracted, wondering exactly what Mark would find. More importantly, what difference would it make? Even if someone had tipped Sheppard off . . .

  Her phone jingled from inside her purse. She dug through the contents and grabbed it. "Hello?"

  "It's Alan."

  Heat flooded her cheeks, and her lips turned up in an involuntary smile. "Hey." She slipped in front of the woman on her left and made her way to the far corner of the small waiting area. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine. I'm just surprised," he said.

  "Surprised at what?"

  "I've never had a new friend dominate my thoughts like you have today. I can't stop thinking about you."

  Amanda looked up to find Mark still staring through the glass, watching the girls. But the room wasn't so big that he might not be listening. She stepped outside. The wind whipped around her, and she pulled her wool coat tighter, sheltering the phone with her other hand. "I know what you mean," she said as the door slammed behind her. The moon was up, a crescent smile above her. A few stars glittered, but the air was too cold to keep her head tilted back to admire them. She hunched her shoulders and faced away from the wind.

  "I got your chapters this morning and so far, I'm impressed. Can you please send me the rest of it?"

  "Have you already finished what I sent?"

  "Just about, and I'm sure when I do, I'll want the rest. It's very . . ." There was a pause before Alan continued. "Intense. The writing is excellent."

  She flushed with the compliment, or was it shame? "Thank you."

  "I know it's really personal, probably hard to share. Guys like him . . . he deserves . . . I can't think of a bad enough punishment."

  His words reached inside her, soothed her most frightened places. She shook her head, cleared her throat of the emotion trying to bubble out. "I was there, too. I was to blame—"

  "No! You were a kid, a kid who needed counseling. It wasn't your fault."

  It wasn't your fault. "You really think so?" She choked on the words.

  "Of course I do, Amanda." His voice deepened, softened. "Anyone would."

  No, not anyone. Not Mark.

  She swallowed the emotions. "Listen, I wanted to—"

  "Any chance you—?"

  They spoke at the same time, stopped, and laughed. "You go first," she said.

  "Okay. I don't have much time, but I wanted to see if you might be free Friday night for dinner."

  "This Friday?"

  "Yes. I have a client I've needed to meet with face-to-face for a couple of weeks, and I've been kind of avoiding it. But now I have an excellent reason to visit Boston. I figured you can't get away after being gone all weekend, but I could drive down, see where you live, if that's okay."

  "That'd be great," she said, calculating fast. "I have to take my girls to a birthday party Friday night from five to seven. Maybe you could come while they're gone."

  "Not ready for me to meet them?"

  She looked through the glass door at her husband. "Not yet. I know we're just friends, but—"

  "Of course I understand. It's a sticky situation. So what time should I get there?"

  "I can be home by ten past five."

  "Okay, is there someplace nearby I can take you for dinner?"

  "I'll make something."

  "Are you sure? I don't want you to go to any trouble for me."

  "Don't be silly. I love to cook."

  He chuckled. "I'm honored to have the famous M.L. Johnson cooking me dinner."

  "Uh-oh, the pressure's on."

  "Not at all. Listen, I just arrived at my meeting. I'll call you Friday to confirm, okay?"

  "Sounds great." She started to say goodbye when she remembered what she'd wanted to say. "Wait! I forgot to tell you thank you."

  "For . . . ?"

  "For the beautiful flowers, of course. I love them."

  She heard him exhale. "Gee, Amanda, I'd like to take credit for them, but I didn't send you flowers."

  Mark watched Amanda in the reflection of the glass as she dug in her purse for the phone, answered the call, and moved away, keeping her eyes on him.

  He followed her with his eyes, watching her reflection in the glass. She
was smiling, blushing, and eying him nervously.

  He was going to have to find Alan Morris and kill him.

  One of the mothers inched closer. He could feel her looking up at him but pretended not to notice. The last thing he needed was to get sucked into some banal conversation with another woman while his wife was deeply involved in one with another man.

  Apparently Amanda wasn't far enough away. A whoosh of cold air filled the small room as she took her call outside. Tension gripped his neck and forced its way down his back. A twinge of pain stabbed his shoulder, reminding him of the minor injury he'd brought home from Afghanistan. Well, if a stab wound could be minor. The doctor told him he'd gotten lucky the knife hadn't hit any major arteries. Lucky, maybe, but it still hurt sometimes, especially when he tensed.

  He was definitely tense.

  The door opened again, and he turned her way. Stepping into the room, Amanda had lost her blush. In fact, she'd lost all the color in her face. She looked deathly pale.

  He slipped past the woman beside him and met her inside the door. "What's wrong?"

  She shook her head and took an unnaturally deep breath, then blew it out.

  "Are you okay?"

  "Blowing up balloons." She gasped for another breath.

  The chairs nearest the door were empty. He grabbed her elbow and urged her to sit. She blew out another breath before filling her lungs again.

  He knelt on the floor in front of her. "You're hyperventilating?"

  "No." She took a deep breath, in and out. "I'm blowing up balloons."

  "Okay. You're doing great. Look at me, okay?"

  She met his eyes and blew out another breath.

  "You're safe here. You're safe with me. You know that, right?"

  She nodded and blew out another breath. He found himself inhaling and exhaling with her. Seconds, minutes, hours it felt like passed before her breathing returned to normal and she could talk.

  "What happened?" He resisted the urge to yell. "Is he outside? Did you see Sheppard?"

  She shook her head, closed her eyes, and swallowed. "Someone sent me flowers today."

  Red hot fury poured over him. He sat beside her, gripped the arms of the chair, and let the words process. This was not a normal reaction for someone who'd been sent flowers. "Okay . . . ?"

  She reached her hand into the pocket of her jacket and removed a small white card. "Here."

  He read the note. It was lovely to see you. Until next time . . .

  Until next time . . .

  "So what are you saying? You think they were from Sheppard?"

  "I think so." She sucked in another deep breath.

  "Breathe out." He stared at the card in his hands. He could hear her exhale, but he couldn't take his eyes off the note. Until next time.

  With a whoosh of frigid air, the door opened, and a mother with two children entered, one girl dressed in a pink leotard, one rambunctious boy of about three who was already eying a pile of toys. Running past Mark and Amanda, he knelt in the corner and began pounding a plastic hammer against a giant plastic nail. Bam, bam, bam.

  The noise punctuated Mark's thumping heart.

  The boy's mother scooted past them. "Stop that pounding, Jeremy."

  Mark glanced up to see everyone else in the room watching the boy now. Mark turned back to stare at Amanda, who was studying her wringing hands.

  "It's going to be okay."

  White-knuckled, her hands clasped each other and held on tight.

  He laid one hand over hers, easily covering her small fist. With his other hand, he nudged her chin up until she met his eyes. "I promise that man will not hurt you."

  She took a deep breath, a normal breath, and blew it out. "Okay."

  "I'm coming over. We can talk—"

  She looked toward the studio door. "Tonight won't work. I have to fix dinner and give the girls baths. There won't be any time."

  "Amanda—"

  The door to the studio opened, and the girls filed out. Amanda jerked from his grasp, and his hand felt colder than it had all day.

  "Daddy, I thought you came to watch us." Sophie propped her hands against her hips, her bottom lip stuck out in a pout.

  He gently tugged his daughter's brown ponytail. "I watched you almost the whole time. I just sat down to talk to your mom."

  "But you didn't see me!"

  "Did I miss something important?"

  "It's okay. I'll do it again." Sophie stood on her tiptoes and spun in a circle.

  "Wow! That was so good."

  "Watch me, Daddy." Madi imitated her big sister, twirling in a circle. Meanwhile, the room filled with pink-clad girls and their harried moms.

  "That's enough, girls," Amanda said. "Daddy has to go."

  "How about I come over and tuck you girls in tonight?"

  "Mark—"

  "Yay!" Madi yelled. "Can you come over now?"

  A quick glance at Amanda's irritated expression, and Mark knew the answer to that. "I have some errands to run, but I promise I'll be over before bedtime. Be good for your mom, and I'll read you a story."

  Nine

  Amanda should have used the time wisely. It was nice having Mark there to help with the girls. Before he'd moved out, he'd tucked them in a few nights a week, giving Amanda time to tidy up the kitchen or check her emails or her calendar for the following day. That's probably what she should have done tonight.

  Instead, she stood in the kitchen and fed each of the roses into the garbage disposal, one by one.

  As soon as they'd gotten home that night, the girls had oohed and aahed over the flowers—her own stupid fault for moving them from her office to the kitchen. Having her daughters near anything that came from Sheppard made her sick.

  Their sweet scent mixed with the remnants of the day's garbage in the disposal and made her stomach roil. She swallowed rising bile and fed another flower to the monster. If she ruined the thing, she didn't care. Mark could install another one. It would be worth the cost.

  Twelve flowers, down the drain. She turned to grab the vase to find Mark standing behind the bar, watching her. His lips twitched at the corners. "Shall we take it outside and smash it?"

  She considered it then shook her head. "If I thought we could get rid of all the fragments. But with my luck, one of the girls would cut herself, and we'd end up in the E.R. because of him."

  Mark's smile faded. "That's what I'm worried about, Amanda—you ending up in the E.R., or worse."

  "Gabriel won't hurt me," she said, though the knot in her stomach tightened. She grabbed the vase off the counter and made her way toward the front door. "I'm going to throw this out."

  He reached for the vase. "Here, let me."

  "I've got it." She yanked open the door and slid into the cold night. The scent of a wood fire filled the air. The bins were on the far side of the house next to the garage. Just as Amanda reached them, she felt Mark's presence behind her. "I can do it myself." She hadn't meant to sound angry, but her frustration always managed to vent itself onto Mark.

  He lifted the heavy black top off the bin and said nothing as she dumped the vase inside.

  Silently they made their way back to the house. Once inside, he closed and locked the door behind them.

  "You don't believe that," he said.

  "What?"

  "That he won't hurt you. If you did, you wouldn't be so afraid."

  Amanda opened her mouth to speak, snapped it closed. How could she explain what she felt?

  "You want something to drink?" she asked.

  "Water?"

  With a glass of water in each hand, Amanda joined Mark in the living room. She pushed Madi's sketch pad and crayons to the far edge of the coffee table and set each glass on a coaster. After kicking off her shoes, she curled her feet beneath her at the far end of the long sectional.

  "I admit, I'm afraid, but not that he'll hurt me." It was true. She was pretty sure it was true, anyway.

  He nodded his head once.

 
"He had such a . . . a hold on me. I know it was a long time ago—"

  "Were you . . . ?" His Adam's apple bobbed above the neck of his Naval Academy sweatshirt. "Do you think you could be . . . sucked in again?"

  "No, no. Not at all. In fact, I was disgusted. To think that . . . well, you know. But he's so persistent, and I don't want him in my life. It's like . . . like the flowers. I thought . . ." She let her voice trail off. How could she tell her husband what she'd thought?

  "You thought they were from Alan," he said flatly.

  "We're just friends."

  "Right," Mark said. "I sent flowers to Chris last week, thanking him for the poker game."

  "Don't be sarcastic."

  "Yeah, my sarcasm. That's the problem."

  The wind whistled through the house's old windows. The heat kicked on. Amanda stared at her knees. "Nothing happened between us."

  From the corner of her vision, she gauged Mark's reaction. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. He fisted his right hand and covered it with his left, looking down at them in a familiar gesture he'd used as long as she could remember. His wedding band glinted in the pale light. He never took it off. She'd asked him about it years earlier when she'd stopped by a house he was renovating. He'd been using his band saw, and she'd asked if it was safe to wear his wedding ring while he used power tools.

  He'd swung her into his arms. "If I want you to wear yours all the time, I'd better do the same." He winked at her. "Otherwise we'd both be fending off advances all day long."

  Amanda glanced at her left hand. She hadn't put her ring back on since she'd removed it the day she left for the conference. Obviously he'd noticed—nothing got by Mark. But did he really care?

  He cleared his throat. "You need to be more careful."

  "What?"

  "What you just did, taking out the vase—you can't do that by yourself, not at night, not when nobody's around. That's why I followed you."

  "That's a little—"

  "Protective, I know."

  "I was going to say paranoid."

  "He knows where you live, Amanda. The flowers were delivered to your house—where you sleep. Where our children sleep. Do you understand that?"