"So you do want to publish it?" Roxie clarified.
Amanda sighed. "I don't know what to do. Just . . . have you sent it to anyone?"
Roxie sat back and crossed her arms, all business now. "Just Timmy." Amanda's editor at Mercury. "He already rejected it."
"What about the editors who requested it last weekend?"
Roxie shook her head. "Not yet. I wanted to tweak the proposal."
"Good. Hold off until we can figure out what's going on. Mark thinks somebody is feeding Gabriel information. We need to know who knew about it. So if you just told Tim, then that narrows the list."
"Are you saying you think I had contact with this guy?"
"Not on purpose. I trust you. Mark's making me paranoid, I guess." And yet, Mark's instincts were usually spot-on. Who might have contact with Gabriel? Were they passing on information unknowingly, or did Amanda have another enemy?
Roxie pushed her plate away. "I think you ought to expose this pervert as soon as possible. Seems to me he deserves everything he gets."
Amanda scrubbed her face. "You don't know the half of it."
"What do you mean by—?"
Baxter stepped into the kitchen. "Sorry to interrupt, ladies. Roxie, I'll just wait in the car."
Only when Baxter reappeared did Amanda remember he was there. He'd been in the bathroom a long time. What had he been doing? She shook her head of the dark thoughts. Mark really was making her paranoid.
Roxie slipped back into her friendly, flirty mode. "Oh, Bax, you just have to try this cake!"
"I'd love to, really." He gave Amanda an apologetic look. "But my stomach's a little upset, and I'd like to make it all the way to the Cape without having to stop again."
"Poor Baxter," Roxie cooed. "I think you stayed out too late last night partying."
He shook his head but said nothing.
"Where are you two headed?" Amanda asked.
"Writer's conference in Falmouth." Roxie hopped off her chair and checked her watch. "We'd better go. I'll hold off on sending those proposals. Let me know what you decide."
Amanda checked the clock as she rushed into the kitchen. Alan was due to arrive at ten past five, and she wanted to have dinner ready when he got there. She'd arranged to drop the girls off at the birthday party early, shooing them into their friend's house, trying not to be rude. She'd make amends when she picked the girls up at seven.
Amanda placed the prepared chicken breasts—she's already pounded them flat and dredged them in flour—in a hot pan on the stove. Instantly they began to sizzle in the oil, filling the room with their aroma. Then she measured the wine for the sauce.
Her thoughts drifted to the conversation she'd had with Mark on Wednesday. He'd acted like she was crazy to believe he blamed her for what happened with Sheppard. But the images of him as he'd read her memoir were carved into her memory. She'd yearned for compassion, for understanding, for some acknowledgment that the affair wasn't her fault. All he'd given her was anger. Rage seethed from his pores in those days like sweat on a humid summer day. He'd tried to hide it, but she knew. He'd been ashamed of her, and when they were in bed together, repulsed by her. He might be putting on a good show now, but it was too late. Maybe . . . maybe he did care for her again. Maybe he did still love her in his own way. It didn't matter. Nothing he could say would ever undo the wounds he'd inflicted back then.
She pulled a handful of dried fettuccini out of the tall, slender box and dropped it in the already boiling water, stirring to keep it from sticking and automatically checking the time. Fifteen more minutes and Alan would be there.
She glanced at the front door, which stood open with just the storm door between her and the outside. She should close it—it wasn't safe like that—but Alan would be here any minute. And she was trying to enjoy the evening.
The week had turned unseasonably warm, and Mark had put off picking up his winter clothes until next week. He was trying to catch up on work after missing Tuesday. This weekend he planned to rake the leaves, though she assured him she could do it. Actually, she'd planned to hire some neighborhood boys for the task, but if Mark was willing, why not let him?
Because it was another way of stringing him along. She was stringing herself along in a weird way, too, allowing herself to think about Mark, to wonder about his feelings for her. It was over. They both had to let it go.
She'd met with her lawyer that morning. Things couldn't continue this way. It wasn't fair to Mark to keep dragging this out, and if he was right about stress being the cause of Madi's asthma attack, then that was more reason to get things settled. The lawyer, a heavyset woman in her late fifties, explained the process of filing for divorce. After half an hour of details and questions, the woman encouraged Amanda to take the weekend to think about it. She agreed, but she knew that on Monday, she'd be ready to file.
She shook off the sad thought. Alan would be here soon, and though she'd only known the man a week, she couldn't wait to see him again. They'd spoken twice since their conversation Tuesday—nothing too serious. But tonight . . . With a little ripple of excitement, maybe a twinge of apprehension, she looked at the clock again. She hadn't anticipated anything this much in a long time.
Amanda layered the prosciutto and mozzarella on the chicken, then covered the pan. She gave the pasta a quick stir before moving on to the salad. Fortunately, she'd prepared it earlier, so now she simply pulled it from the refrigerator, dressed it, and dropped a pile onto each of the two salad plates. She took the salads to the table, hoping they wouldn't wilt before Alan arrived. She'd written a cookbook and was nationally known as some sort of entertaining expert, but she was nervous about a single dinner guest.
When the cheese had melted, she transferred the chicken to the plates, added the wine to the pan, and cooked it until it thickened. She finished preparing the meals, then checked the clock for the millionth time.
Finally, the doorbell rang. She swallowed a bubble of excitement and headed for the front door.
Alan stood on the porch wearing a button down shirt open at the collar and a dark sports coat. His jeans made the outfit casual, and she was glad she'd chosen jeans and a dressy sweater for the occasion. Alan held a slim, brown box in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.
"Hello! Come in." Her voice sounded too high, nervous.
He stepped in the door and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Thanks." He handed her the box. "Chocolates. One thing all writers seem to have in common is their love of chocolate."
She giggled and accepted the gift. "Thank you! My entire career has been fueled by chocolate and coffee."
With a slight chuckle, his eyes turned serious. "I didn't think flowers would be appropriate after . . . you know."
She swallowed. "Right. I appreciate that." He offered the wine as well, and she thanked him. "I know it's early, but I didn't want to be cooking while you were here, so dinner's almost ready."
"Excellent. I'm starving."
"Good. I made chicken saltimbocca."
He chuckled. "I have no idea what that is, but it smells delicious."
From the top drawer, Amanda removed the corkscrew and handed it to Alan. "Would you do the honors?"
He took the small tool from her, their hands touching for a brief moment in the exchange. Their eyes met. "My pleasure."
Amanda smiled to herself as she assembled their dinners. Chicken saltimbocca, a side of fettuccini Alfredo, and salad. Something was missing. Bread! Right. She pulled the foil-covered loaf from the lower oven, placed it in her favorite basket, and headed to the table. "Ready?"
Alan had been watching her prepare their meal, an amused look on his face. "It looks delicious."
As they ate, they kept the conversation light. Alan told her about the meeting he'd had that afternoon with his client, a writer of non-fiction motivational books aimed at sales and business people. "Nice guy," he said at one point. "But hanging out with him is like trying to look directly into the sun. All that optimism frayed my
nerves."
Alan helped her clear the dishes. "Wow," he said, checking his watch. "Has an hour gone by already?"
She followed his gaze. Quarter past six. "Time flies and all that."
"Indeed."
Once the table was cleared, Amanda insisted they leave the dishes. She didn't have much time to spend with him, and she didn't want to waste another minute of it in the kitchen. "Let's sit in the living room."
"Would you give me a tour first? I'd love to see where you work."
"Sure." Amanda led the way down the hall to her office, flipped on the light, and stepped inside.
Alan whistled when he entered the room. "Nice place."
"Thanks."
"You know, whenever I visit an author's home, I always ask to see where they work. You've got it good here. I can't tell you how many people are writing at their kitchen tables. I have one client who sits on her bed with her laptop, hunched over, because she has a houseful of kids, and it's the only place she can get any peace and quiet."
"Yeah, I'm lucky." Mark had been very generous with her, building her the room and allowing her the time she needed to write. He'd always been supportive—until she wrote the memoir.
Alan surveyed the bookshelves, ran his hand along the spines of a few of her favorites, pulling out a couple that had been pushed back a bit, so they were flush. His fingers trembled like they had at dinner the week before. Was he nervous around her?
Her desk was tidy, her laptop closed and sitting in the center. "You ever write by hand?"
She chuckled. "Not if I can help it."
"Nobody does anymore. I can't blame you, though. Handwritten pages are too easy to lose." He scanned the space. "Do you have a good backup system?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, the number of manuscripts that have been lost to power failures and flash drive glitches. How do you back up your work?"
Amanda walked around the front of her desk, shaking her head. "I guess you can take an editor out of an office—"
"OCD," he said. "Just one of my many quirks."
Amanda found her external hard drive in the desk drawer and lifted it. "I backup everything onto this. And when I travel, I always take a thumb drive, just in case something happens to the computer."
Alan smiled. "Very good system. Do you keep hardcopies of your work?"
"Nope."
"I'm amazed at how many writers don't these days," he said. "That's definitely something that's changed since I started my career."
"I'm sure," she said. "Are you satisfied, Mr. Editor?"
He chuckled. "Sorry. Old habits."
She slipped the hard drive in the drawer and led the way back to the family room. She poured them each a fresh glass of wine, and they reclined on the sectional. Amanda took her usual seat in the corner. Alan settled against the arm facing the fireplace and flat screen. Mark's seat.
"Have you given any more thought to what I said the other night?"
She cocked her head to the side. "What do you—?"
"You shouldn't publish that manuscript, Amanda."
Her heart sank. Did they really have to talk about this now? She took a sip of her wine. "I'm considering what you said."
"Good." He settled back into the seat and nodded toward the fireplace. "That's your family?"
She followed his gaze to the mantle and the photographs there. Mark in his uniform. Mark and Amanda on their wedding day. Mark posing with the girls. The third picture had been her birthday present a few years earlier. Mark was sitting in a chair, Madi on his knee. Sophie was standing beside him, and his arm encircled her tiny back. They wore jeans, white shirts, and big, happy smiles.
"That's them."
"The older one is Sophie, right? And the blonde—that's Madi. She looks like you."
She studied the pictures of her daughters. "So I've been told."
"Your husband's sort of huge, isn't he?"
"I guess."
Alan rested his arm against the back of the sofa. "He stays fit. What does he do?"
"He's a general contractor."
"He looks slightly dangerous. I'm glad he's not here."
Was he kidding? She smiled and said nothing.
Alan reached for his glass and took a sip of the white wine. "I am glad I'm here," he said finally. He turned in his seat to face her. "I hate to be so blunt, but I'm not sure how else to handle this. I'm very attracted to you, Amanda. I guess I'm trying to get a feel for what's going on."
She looked again at the pictures on the mantle. "Mark's a good man, a good father." Her heart thumped hard. "But we don't work very well, not anymore. I don't think we'll get back together."
"But you're not sure."
She swallowed and looked down. "I'm sure."
"Oh." He was quiet for a moment, and she looked up to see him staring up at the mantle again. "I'm sorry." He met her eyes. "I've been through it. It's really hard. And, you know, regardless of how I feel about you, now isn't the time for you to start something serious with anybody. But . . . well, when the time comes . . ." He let the unspoken offer trail off.
Warmth filled her cheeks. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Can I ask you a question? You don't have to answer it if you don't want to."
"What is it?"
"It's really none of my business. But, when you were a kid, why did you go to see that psychiatrist in the first place? You talk about everything else in your memoir, but . . ."
His voice trailed off. Amanda met his eyes, tried to smile, and ignored the twisting in her stomach.
"I'm sorry—"
"No, it's okay," she said. "I was with my best friend and her family, and we were on our way to the beach. Her parents were in the front seat, my friend was on one side of me, and her brother was on the other, the three of us were shoved in the back of a tiny Celica."
Alan tilted his head to the side. "Okay . . . ?"
"A truck lost control. Hit the car. We were pinned between the truck and a guardrail. The car sort of folded up."
"How awful," he said.
"My friend . . . all of them died. I guess because I was in the middle . . ."
His hand enveloped hers. "Amanda, I'm so sorry. I can't imagine."
The nightmarish scene filled her mind. She pushed away the memories. "My mom took me to see Gabriel. He was a psychiatrist in Boston."
Alan's lips were pursed, the hand not holding hers fisted.
"I saw him once a week, and he helped me so much." She squeezed his hand. "Look, this is in the memoir. You don't want to hear it again."
He squeezed her hand. "I do. I want to hear everything, but if it's too hard for you, I understand."
Amanda stifled a humorless chuckle. Mark never wanted to talk about it. Whenever the subject came up, he'd shut down as if he had a power switch. And here was this man who, even after reading her story, still wanted to talk about it.
"Gabriel was so considerate and kind. I began to develop feelings for him, and I thought he felt the same way." At fifteen, she hadn't understood anything. They were in love, and how could love be so wrong? The world needs more love, Gabriel always said. Now, whenever she saw a teenaged girl, she realized how vulnerable she'd been, how sick Gabriel had been to take advantage of her.
When she was writing the memoir, so many stories, so many details surfaced about those first few months she and Gabriel had spent together. She'd put them in the book as a warning to other girls, so they could recognize the signs. But she didn't want to go into that with Alan.
"Anyway," she continued, "you know what happened."
"I just can't believe a psychiatrist would do what he did." His anger seemed to simmer just below the carefully-controlled words.
"Yeah. I guess—"
"You were fifteen? How old was he?"
"Mid-thirties. And he was married with children. But I was sixteen when the affair began."
"Oh, that makes it okay, then." Sarcasm laced his voice.
"We were together my l
ast two years of high school. He wanted me to go to college in Boston, so we could be together. But I didn't want to. Even though I thought I loved him, I knew I needed a break from him. I went to Plymouth State in New Hampshire, hours away. Before I left that summer, he proposed."
"Even though he was already married?"
"He said he'd be divorced by the time I graduated, and then we could get married. I agreed, thinking I'd have a few years of fun before I settled down with him. It took less than a month away from him to realize what a hold he'd had on me."
"What do you mean?"
"It was like . . . He'd become my whole world. I'd lost my best friend in the accident. My father traveled a lot for work. My brothers had both moved out. Gabriel became everything to me. Up at Plymouth, I made new friends and got involved in my studies, and I realized he'd become almost like . . ." Amanda looked down, stared at their clasped hands.
"It was like he was the leader of a cult, and I was his only follower. Like he was a . . . a god to me or something. I knew I had to get away from him. But I didn't have the courage to try to break it off. He was so good at manipulating me. He would have talked me out of it. So at the end of the semester, I transferred to Johnson & Wales in Providence to study culinary arts, and I didn't tell him. I changed my cell phone number. My parents moved that year to Florida, not that Sheppard would've contacted them. I just kind of . . . disappeared."
"Hmm," he said. "So you're saying . . . ?" He closed his eyes and scrunched them together. "In the hotel, when you said he found you. That was the first time you'd seen him since . . . when, exactly?"
"That was the first time I'd seen him since I was eighteen. Since the day he proposed."
"Oh. Wow."
He slid closer to her on the couch and wrapped his arm around her. "I've spent some time in counseling myself over the years. I know how hard it is, how vulnerable it makes you."
"Yeah. It does." Interesting. Should she ask why?
"So I understand a little of what you went through."
She rested her head on his shoulder. It was okay that he hadn't told her why he'd seen a counselor. There was plenty of time for that later. Right now, she was content that they'd talked about her past, and Alan hadn't stormed out of the room or flipped on the TV to hide his rage. Instead, he'd shared a snippet of his own issues. She glanced at the picture of Mark on the mantle. If only . . .
Finding Amanda Page 14