"Nothing important. You don't look good, man."
"Gee, thanks."
"You look worse than you did Friday."
"Could you sleep if you thought someone was after Jamie?"
A pause. "No, I guess not."
"I can't be there to protect her. And I don't even know . . ." He let his voice trail off.
"How's your relationship with God?"
Mark massaged his temples. How was his relationship with God? He was angry with God. He had known following Christ would cost him, but he had no idea he'd lose his family. He swallowed a surge of emotion. "Shaky."
"Trust Him, Mark. He won't let you down."
Mark nodded but couldn't speak for the lump in his throat.
"I'm praying for you."
"Mm-hmm." He swallowed. "Appreciate that."
He hung up the phone and dropped his head into his hands. Prayer. He should try that. But hadn't his every thought been a plea for his marriage for the last month? Every breath a plea for Amanda's safety since she'd called Friday? He was beginning to wonder if God was listening.
Grabbing the papers, Mark climbed off the floor and made his way back to the kitchen table. He'd figure out the link and maybe, somehow, that information would get him one step closer to protecting Amanda.
Amanda ushered the ladies out the door, happy to be finished with the gourmet dessert class. One woman fancied herself a pastry chef and grilled Amanda with questions while the rest of the guests drank bottles of wine, their voices rising with each pop of the cork.
Amanda usually enjoyed the silence in the house when her girls weren't home. She knew she should miss them, but the rare times she was home alone in the evenings, she relished having the house to herself for a few hours. These days, though, the evenings spent alone were growing more frequent. She yearned for her children. Or maybe she was just scared to be alone.
She turned the deadbolt and set the alarm. There, that was better.
Her cell phone had vibrated in her pocket a couple of times during the evening. She pulled it out. Three missed calls, all Alan. Four text messages from him, too.
"Reading your memoir," the first one read. "Part shocked, part impressed. You're a great writer."
The next one said, "I can't believe this guy."
The third one said, "I've been trying to call. I'm worried. Please let me know you're okay."
The last one said, "If you don't call within an hour, I'm driving up there. Seriously."
Amanda half-smiled and dialed his number.
"Amanda?"
"It's me."
"Where've you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you for hours."
A half a bottle of wine had been left by one of her guests. Amanda poured herself a glass. "I'm fine. I had a class tonight."
"Oh. Of course. I think you even told me that. I forgot."
Ignoring the wreck in her kitchen, she curled up in the corner of her sectional. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, half-laughing.
"I finished your memoir tonight. The emotion in it is so strong, so . . . real. It must be hard to live with the turmoil. I was really worried about you."
"I'm fine. You don't have to worry."
He clicked his tongue. "Look, do friends have the right to offer advice?"
She set her glass on the coffee table and sat up straighter. "I guess."
"The manuscript is amazing. I couldn't put it down. It's . . . compelling. Gripping and emotional. And, really, you're a great writer. But I can't even consider publishing it."
She blinked, shocked first by the compliment, then by the rejection. "Why not?"
"This psychiatrist sounds like a psychopath. I'm sorry, but you'd be crazy to publish it. It's not worth the risk."
"It's my risk to take," she said, anger, fear, and disappointment vying for position.
"Publishing this is inviting him back into your life. And now that you've run into him, he knows your pen name—"
"You sound like my husband."
"If that's the case, then your husband's right."
Amanda took a sip of her wine, trying to relax her pounding pulse. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was crazy to publish the memoir.
But then she remembered those days, the way Sheppard took advantage of her, told her he loved her, and used her. She was publishing it. He'd asked for it.
Those words rose to the surface. Was she really doing this for revenge, like Mark said? She pushed the thought away. She needed to expose him. And after the book was published, she'd go public with his name, and then he'd be stopped.
"Were the flowers from him?"
She blinked. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"The flowers. Did your husband send them?"
Her stomach tightened like it did whenever she thought of the yellow roses. "No. We think they were from Sheppard."
"He knows where you live?"
She shrugged as fear bubbled up in her stomach, making it impossible to speak.
"Please tell me you won't publish it."
"I don't know." She hadn't meant to snap at him.
Alan softened his voice. "You're angry with me."
"I'm . . . surprised, that's all."
Amanda changed the subject then, telling him about her night and the high-spirited ladies who'd filled her kitchen. They talked for an hour, during which time Amanda dragged herself off the couch and cleaned the kitchen. Alan, fortunately, didn't bring up the memoir again until they were saying goodbye.
"I'm looking forward to Friday," she said, climbing the stairs to her bedroom.
"Amanda, I'm serious about what I said. Please don't publish it."
She stopped halfway up. He sounded as serious as Mark. Maybe they were both right.
"It was a lot of dang work to just shove in a drawer," she said.
"I'm sure it was. But . . . is it really worth risking your life over?"
She frowned in the darkness. Mark had asked the same thing. "I don't know. I'll think about it. Maybe I should hold off for a while, see if he tries to contact me again."
He blew out a breath. "Yes. Good idea. Just . . . hold off on it for now."
When she climbed into bed that night, Amanda thought about everything Alan had said. For some reason, though he used the same arguments as Mark, she was more willing to back down when Alan asked her.
The fact was, they were both right. It was stupid to risk her life to publish a memoir. She just wasn't convinced she was in danger, though the men in her life were working very hard to convince her she was.
She turned off the light, silently thanked Mark for the security system, and fell asleep.
Gabriel filled the doorway that separated his office from the waiting room just as he filled Amanda's heart. This was the first time she'd been back since they'd made love, and she repeated her mantra silently in her head.
She mustn't let on to her mother that anything had changed.
With a quick glance at her mom, who'd taken a seat on the sofa and opened a magazine, she walked toward him, feeling a bubble of nervousness in her chest. What would it be like, this counseling session, now that she was sleeping with the counselor?
Inside his familiar office, she sat in the leather chair and waited. He smiled, kissed her, and began to unbutton her shirt. She hadn't expected that. She didn't want it.
"It's okay," he said. "We're just going to talk." He slipped her shirt off her shoulders.
She knew it was wrong, but he convinced her it would be good for them, and she trusted him. He pulled her to her feet, completed the process of removing her clothes, and a moment later she sat, fully exposed, in the chair. He took the chair across from her, comfortable in his suit and tie, and began to question her. They were the same questions he always asked in this room. Was there anything she'd like to talk about? How were her nightmares? How was she doing in school? She had no choice but to answer honestly. It was impossible to lie while sitting naked. She felt as though he could see through her skin, into
her heart.
He didn't counsel her today as much as listen to her rambling.
Then his mouth lifted at the corners, his eyes crinkled, and he gave her that special smile she only saw when they were alone together, when he was telling her how much he cared for her. "Do you want to talk about your relationship with your new boyfriend?"
She told him her new boyfriend was wonderful.
The phone rang.
He stood, unzipped his pants, and drew her to her feet. She thought it was wrong, but she allowed it because she loved him and he loved her. If he said it was okay, then it must have been. And it didn't last very long—their time was almost up.
The phone rang again, and she looked at it. A black phone with multiple buttons, all of which were lit up, demanding his attention. It had never rung during their sessions before. In fact, she couldn't remember ever noticing it.
She dressed quickly, kissed him goodbye, and exited his counseling room. Her mom was writing a check, paying for her time with him, and the sight of it started a flow of anxiety and nausea. She looked down, certain she was going to find herself naked, but she was wearing clothes, though not the clothes she came in with earlier. She was wearing the sexy black silk nightie he bought her, staring at the tear down its front.
The phone rang again.
Her mother smiled. "You ready, honey?"
How did her mother not notice the nightie? Why didn't she know what had just happened? Couldn't she smell him on her? Amanda had to get away before her mother realized what she'd done. Her mother thanked Dr. Sheppard. He curled his lips in that detached sort of it-was-lovely-to-see-you-again way. But his eyes were hungry and satisfied, and Amanda knew what he meant. It was lovely to have you again.
The phone rang. She dove out the window, falling from his building, watching the floors pass beside her.
Amanda gasped, fully awake, and sat up in her bed. The phone rang again. She flipped on the light, and reached for it with trembling fingers.
"Hello?" she said.
"Madi's having an asthma attack," Mark said. "We're on our way to the E.R."
Twelve
Amanda ran into the emergency room and rushed to the counter, leaning over it as if that would move her closer to Madi. The white-haired lady on the other side leaned back.
"My daughter was just brought in. Madison Johnson."
The woman reached beneath her desk, and Amanda heard a muffled buzz. "Go ahead," she said. The lock released on the door leading deeper into the hospital. Amanda pulled it open and entered to find Sophie sitting on a chair outside of a gray door.
"Mommy!" Her daughter ran into her arms. "Mommy, I was so scared. Madi's lips were all blue, and she was all white, and she looked so bad."
Amanda lifted her daughter. "I'm sure she's going to be fine," she said, though the fear she'd been trying to keep at bay now shivered through her. She held Sophie closer. "Where is she?"
The little girl pointed to the door. "They made me wait out here."
Amanda shifted Sophie to her hip to free her hand and swung the heavy door open.
A nurse inside the door stepped back, startled. Then she smiled and brushed past Amanda and out the door. "You must be Mommy. Glad you're here."
Inside the room, Mark stood at the head of Madi's bed, brushing hair out of her face. He turned to Amanda, relaxed his shoulders, and turned back to Madi. "Here she is."
Madi slid a mask off her face and smiled. "Hi, Mommy."
"Hi, baby." Amanda set Sophie on the floor and approached the bed. She ran her fingers along Madi's hairline, felt her warm cheeks. "How you feeling?"
Madi scrunched up her tiny face and pursed her beautiful, red lips. "They gave me a shot!"
"Oh, I'm sorry." Relief coursed through her as she studied the color in her daughter's face. "Did it hurt?"
"A little, but it's okay," she said. "I couldn't breathe."
Her daughter said the words so off-handedly, it took Amanda's own breath away. She leaned against the bed and squeezed the mattress while the wave of fear dissipated.
"She's okay." Mark was standing on the opposite side of the bed, Madi's hand in his. "She was struggling, but they got her back here really fast." He cocked his head to the side and studied her. "Are you all right?"
She shook her head, then nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay." Amanda forced a smile. "Put the mask back on, honey."
Madi obeyed, leaning back on the raised bed and breathing deeply.
"Hey, little lady." Mark ruffled their older daughter's hair. "Sorry I made you sit out there. It was sort of crowded in here."
Sophie leaned against his leg, and he placed his huge hand on her shoulder.
"Is she going to be okay?" Sophie asked.
He met Amanda's eyes and nodded. "Of course. She's going to be fine."
She could see the terror in her husband's eyes. Did he see hers? Ever since Madi's first asthma attack when she was a baby, they'd both lived with the fear that one day, they wouldn't get to her in time.
The nurse breezed in, checked on their daughter, and breezed back out. They stood and watched Madi breathe, letting the silence relax the girls. The steady hum of the nebulizer filled the room, eventually lulling Madi to sleep. Mark indicated a chair against the wall. "Let's sit down." She did, resting her purse on the linoleum floor. Mark rolled the doctor's chair beside her and sat, pulling Sophie onto his lap. Eventually, she drifted off.
They sat in silence. A half hour had passed when the nurse returned, unplugged the breathing machine, and carefully pulled the mask off Madi's sleeping head. She patted her forehead and turned for the door.
"How much longer until we can go home?" Mark asked in a hushed voice.
"I'll check with the doctor." The nurse closed the heavy door with a soft click.
Mark leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. Could he be sleeping at a time like this? Amanda studied him, saw his lips moving.
Her stomach squeezed into a ball. Why did the thought of her husband praying cause her such anxiety? Was it because she knew her own shameful past had been the catalyst that took him to church? Or was it because those same terrible things in her past would keep her away from God forever? If there even was a God which, after everything she'd been through, she highly doubted.
He opened his eyes, caught her staring, and gave her a half-smile. "You okay?"
She shrugged. Whatever. If he wanted to believe in some higher power, who was she to argue?
She looked at her frail daughter on the bed. "Any idea what triggered it?" she whispered.
"Nope. She coughed a couple of times at dinner."
Amanda shifted to face him. "She was coughing? That's a clue. You should've—"
"Two little coughs. Nothing serious. Just like she always does."
A wave of irritation. "Something had to cause it. Did you dust before she came over? You know she's allergic to dust."
His dark eyes turned cold. "Of course I dusted. I know her triggers."
"Obviously you missed one tonight."
Sophie stirred in her father's arms, shifting her head on his shoulder.
"Please keep your voice down," he said.
Amanda glared at him.
"So you think this is my fault?" he asked.
"I'm just saying something caused this. That crappy apartment you rented is probably filled with mold or something. You should've gotten something nicer."
"I have something nicer, Amanda. But you kicked me out."
"You'll have to move," she said, shoving away the guilt his remark stirred up. "One of the ladies at my class tonight lives right off Route 3 in those new condos. Why don't you look into those?"
"I'm not moving again."
"So you're willing to risk your daughter's life—"
"My apartment didn't cause this."
Amanda pushed her hair behind her ear to better glare at him. "You sound pretty sure of that. So what caused it, oh wise one?"
"Stress."
She smirked. "She's six. What does she have to be stressed about?"
His jaw dropped. "You can't be serious."
"What are you talking about?"
"Amanda, you yanked the rug out from under them when you kicked me out. You don't understand what that's like."
"Neither do you. You were almost thirty when your parents divorced."
"Yeah, and I felt like my world crumbled." He glanced at Sophie's closed eyes and swallowed. His words were calm, but the vein on his temple throbbed. "I'm sure this is much, much worse for them."
Amanda's constant niggling guilt bubbled up like sauce around the edges of lasagna. "They don't understand what's going on."
His free hand covered his face. "You're the one who doesn't understand. We talked about it tonight, talked about why I don't live with them anymore."
"Why would you bring it up?"
He lowered his hand and rubbed Sophie's back. "I didn't. They asked me why I moved out. Sophie said her friend's father moved out because he found, in her words, 'a younger, prettier wife.' She wanted to know if that's why I moved out."
Turning away from him, Amanda slumped against the chair. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her that her mother was the most beautiful girl in the whole world. Why would I want anyone else?"
Amanda's heart fluttered at his words as if he were uttering them on their honeymoon, not after almost a decade of marriage. She stole a peek at his face to find him staring at Madi. Avoiding her eyes. She didn't know what to say.
He continued, voice matter-of-fact. "I think stress triggered tonight's attack."
"So this is my fault?"
He shook his head. "It's our fault. Together we made a mess of our marriage. I don't blame you."
She sat back and folded her arms. "Yes, you do."
"If I was such a bad husband that you'd rather . . ." His voice caught. He cleared his throat. "If you'd rather put our family through this than try to work it out, well, I have to own that."
A few minutes of silence passed. A door slammed far away, a phone rang outside the door. Finally, in a whisper, Amanda said, "I don't think there's anything left to work on."
Finding Amanda Page 11