Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  No. It was Alan who'd found a way to soothe her fear and loneliness, not Mark. She snuggled closer until, too soon, it was time for him to leave.

  She walked him to the front door. "I hope it was worth your drive down from Boston."

  He cocked his head to the side and ran his hand down the length of her blond hair. "You could've served McDonald's, and it would have been worth it. I got to see you."

  A tingle ran down her spine.

  He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, friend."

  "My pleasure," she said, still tingling.

  "See you soon."

  Fifteen

  Two crystal wine glasses sat beside Amanda's sink the next morning. Mark stared at them, one fact overtaking all others: Two.

  Amanda had entertained someone the night before.

  Mark's fists clenched, itched to punch something. Who was Amanda entertaining on Friday night? And where had the girls been? A birthday party, he remembered. Was it a sleepover?

  When Amanda had opened the door for him a few minutes earlier, she'd greeted him brusquely and rushed back upstairs. At his feet on the front porch lay a small brown box, which he'd picked up and carried inside. Apparently, whatever it was, Amanda wasn't interested. No return address—no address at all. He shook it. Lightweight, perhaps empty. Maybe it belonged to one of the girls. He'd tossed it on the dining room table, planning to ask her about it when she came back downstairs.

  And then he entered the kitchen and saw those wine glasses.

  He pulled open the dishwasher and peeked inside. Pots, pans, plates . . . she'd made dinner, served dinner, served wine in his house to . . . someone.

  This jealousy was becoming too familiar. He tried to ignore it as he stomped into the garage. He bypassed the leaf blower and grabbed a rake. Maybe the manual labor would help him shake off some of his fury. He opened the garage door and ducked beneath it as it rose, heading for the backyard.

  The grass was covered with a thick layer of leaves, enough to keep him busy for hours. Just what he needed. Beyond the back patio on the far side of the yard, beneath the maple trees, he began to rake.

  Alan Morris. It had to be him. As far as he knew, there weren't any other men in Amanda's life at the moment. There'd better not be.

  Maybe she'd had a girlfriend over. But Amanda didn't have a lot of girlfriends, and Mark knew Chris had taken Jamie to a movie.

  He pounded the rake into the ground and yanked. It held fast, the prongs embedded in the soft grass. He inched it out. He had to relax or he was going to break the stupid thing. Carefully, he lowered the tool into the leaves. See, he was under control. He wasn't about to kill anybody.

  But if Alan Morris showed up here . . . Tremors of fury began in his chest and radiated into his limbs. He swallowed and kept raking.

  He could track down the man and have a chat with him. Mark allowed himself to visualize the scene. He would convince Alan to stay away from his wife. Very few people had the nerve to fight him. But wouldn't it be nice if Alan tried? The slithering snake wouldn't know what hit him.

  Then Mark could track down Gabriel Sheppard. Would he have the self-control not to kill the man if he met him face-to-face? Definitely not. But if he took care of Sheppard and Morris, then what? Would Amanda want him back?

  Maybe not, but he'd feel better. How many times had he fantasized about killing Gabriel Sheppard? He'd always talked himself out of it. So far. He'd had enough killing in Afghanistan. It was hard enough to live with the things he'd done over there, he couldn't imagine adding more to his sins. He wasn't a murderer.

  But he could be. He knew well-enough the idea wasn't far-fetched. And imagining Amanda right now with some faceless snake in his house, on his couch, in his bed . . .

  More tremors of rage.

  Rake. Just rake.

  He heard the crunching of footsteps behind him. He wheeled around to find Amanda approaching, leaf blower in hand.

  "Hey, the girls are watching cartoons, so I thought I'd help."

  "Go back inside."

  She blinked. Wearing her rattiest jeans and an old sweatshirt, she was obviously sincere. She'd even pulled her hair into a ponytail on the top of her head. "What's wrong?"

  "Was it Morris?"

  Her eyes widened. "What?"

  "The man you were with last night—was it Alan Morris?"

  She shifted the leaf blower and squared her shoulders. "Yes."

  "The girls weren't here?"

  "They were at a birthday party."

  "How late did he stay?"

  "It's none of your—"

  He stepped toward her. "Did he spend the night?"

  She backed up. "No! You have a lot of nerve."

  "Did you sleep with him?"

  "Of course not! You know me better than that."

  "Did he kiss you?"

  "Um . . ."

  Red. Everything turned red. That snake had . . .

  "On the cheek," she said, words rushed. "Just . . . like a friend."

  "Yeah, like a friend." He pictured this friend, knew what the man was up to, winning her confidence, her loyalty. Stealing her. "You will not . . ." He took a deep breath. "As long as we're still married, this is still my house—"

  "It's our house."

  "And you will not entertain men in my house. Do you understand me?"

  She stomped her foot. "You have no right to tell me what to do."

  "Where does he live?"

  She blinked, stepped back. "What? Why?"

  "Tell me where he lives. Now."

  She swallowed.

  He was scaring her. He didn't care. "Tell me now!"

  Her voice shook when she answered. "New York."

  "What was he doing here?"

  "He had a client meeting in Boston."

  "I'll just bet he did."

  "He did! Listen to me, Mark!" She stepped forward, the leaf blower clutched in her hands. "You have no right to question me. I'm a grown woman, and I can do as I please. And you can mind your own business!"

  "You are my business. You're my wife."

  "Not for long."

  The words hit their target. He stepped back, fury catching fire and raging. "Go inside. Now."

  "You're crazy."

  He squeezed his eyes shut and saw in his memory another woman, another place.

  She was hidden beneath a burka that covered her from head to foot. Mark's outfit was driving slowly through the center of a small town, and locals were everywhere. The market was bustling, the scents of exposed meat and fresh bread and body odor filled his nostrils.

  Something was different about her. She moved quickly through the crowd and seemed to be headed straight for their convoy. As Mark watched, he felt a familiar prickling along the back of his neck. Something wasn't right.

  He jumped off the back of the truck and approached, stopping a few feet from her on the edge of the dirt road. She said something in her own tongue. It sounded pleading, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Instinctively he lunged forward and grabbed her arm, which was hidden beneath the black fabric. He lifted it and, in her hand, saw a small pipe, wires hanging out. Then the other hand. The left hand . . . a glint of metal. He ducked away as she jabbed the knife into his shoulder. He punched her in the face, but she fought, far stronger than any woman he'd ever met. She was no match for him. Reflexes and training took over, and when they'd finished, she lay on the ground. Dead.

  He'd killed her with his bare hands.

  He blinked and focused on his wife. He reached forward and grabbed the leaf blower. She stumbled backwards, righted herself before she fell.

  "Yes, I am crazy. Go in the house."

  "I—"

  "Now, Amanda."

  She turned and ran. After he heard the door slam, his shoulders slumped. Oh, God, what have I done?

  Amanda slammed the door behind her and made her way into the kitchen, spying the two wine glasses on the counter. Of course. He was so much more observant than she
. With shaking hands, she dried each glass and placed them in the cabinet.

  Mark wouldn't have hurt her. Still, she'd never seen him so angry.

  Amanda emptied the dishwasher, putting away the evidence from her date the night before. Then she filled it with breakfast dishes.

  By the time she'd finished, she'd almost stopped shaking.

  What had gotten into him? She'd only had dinner with a friend. It wasn't that big of a deal.

  She surveyed the kitchen. What to do? She yanked eight large cans of crushed tomatoes from the cupboard. She'd given up canning her own years ago, finding the canned variety tasted almost as good and took hours less time. Her cookbooks might have been about made-from-scratch, but everybody had to find some extra time somewhere.

  That's it. Think about cooking, not about Mark.

  She chopped four large onions and sautéed them on the stove top while she peeled a handful of garlic cloves.

  In almost ten years of marriage, she'd never seen Mark jealous, not until today. Had he hidden it that well, or was it new? Of course, she'd never given him any reason to be jealous before. It was almost enough to make her wonder how he felt about her. If he didn't love her, why would he care?

  She was glad about one thing. Mark called him Alan Morris, not Alan Morass. Small difference, but if Mark were planning to track Alan down, maybe that would throw him off. Whatever it took to keep the two men apart. Mark might never hurt her, but she wasn't so sure what he'd do to Alan.

  She minced the garlic and added it to the crackling oil, barely aware of her automatic motions as the room filled with a pungent scent.

  But jealousy didn't mean love. In this case, jealousy was more about possessiveness than love. And it was crazy. She would never get that jealous.

  The thought barely registered before a face edged it out. Annalise. Beautiful, perfect, supermodel, Annalise.

  She'd met her once. She and Mark had been visiting his parents when the doorbell rang. It was Annalise, and she wanted to talk to Mark. Alone.

  He disappeared onto the front porch. Ten minutes later, he returned, saying little about their conversation except that she was home for a short time before heading to Barcelona for a photo shoot.

  Amanda stirred the sautéing vegetables. How would she feel if she learned Mark had dined with Annalise? She could picture them sitting across from each other, clinking glasses, sharing secrets. Mark would reach out and brush Annalise's long blond hair out of her face, kiss her cheek.

  A warm flush enveloped her. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to rid herself of the image.

  "Mommy?"

  Her eyes popped open to see Sophie standing beside her. "Yes, honey?"

  "Beauty and the Beast is playing on Disney, but Madi won't give me the remote. She wants to watch Dora the Explorer, but I hate that show. Please can you change the channel for me?"

  Amanda looked at the clock. The girls had been watching TV for an hour. "Why don't you two go outside and help Daddy rake."

  After the requisite whining, both of the girls ran outside. Maybe they could improve his mood.

  Amanda finished making the spaghetti sauce, her mind focused on Mark, his jealousy, and the awful picture of him and Annalise together. Jealousy—yes, that's what she was feeling. Perhaps she was being too hard on Mark.

  Cook. Don't think, just cook.

  It was another hour before she heard the door to the garage open, and a moment later, Mark walked down the hallway. His T-shirt hung from his hand, his chest bare, muscled, and glistening with sweat.

  Her breath caught, and she looked away.

  "Can I have a glass of water?" His voice sounded spent, defeated.

  "Are you finished?"

  "Yes."

  She took a closer look, forcing herself not to focus on his chest, and saw he was covered in dust and dirt. "You want to take a quick shower?"

  "I'll just wash my hands." He slipped into the bathroom while she poured him a drink. A moment later, he emerged and grabbed the glass. He drank the contents, refilled it at the tap, and downed it.

  "You okay?" she asked.

  He nodded and set the glass on the counter.

  "Listen—"

  "Mark—"

  They'd both spoken at the same time. "Go ahead," she said.

  "I'm sorry about my temper. I didn't mean to frighten you."

  She nodded carefully. "Okay."

  He narrowed his eyes and studied her, and, like earlier in the yard, she felt the need to step back. This time it was scrutiny she feared.

  "I'm sorry I had Alan over for dinner. I didn't think about how you would feel. We're just friends, but I can see how you could misunderstand. Nothing happened."

  "Something happened," he said.

  "No, I swear—"

  "Maybe you didn't sleep with him. Maybe you didn't kiss him, but you shouldn't need to look to another man for anything."

  "We're just friends."

  "I get that. But I also know that if you share things with him . . ." His jaw set, and he breathed in deeply through his nose, then blew it out again. "If you become emotionally involved with him, that's an emotional affair."

  "That's ridiculous. Am I having an emotional affair with Jamie? Are you having one with Chris?"

  "That's different and you know it. If I had a woman in my life I was sharing things with, intimate things, how would you feel?"

  She opened her mouth, pictured Annalise, and snapped it closed.

  Mark offered a sad smile. "See what I mean?"

  "Nothing happened."

  He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.

  "But, knowing how you feel, I won't invite him back here until things are more settled between us."

  His Adam's apple bobbed. "More settled?"

  "Well, you know, we have to make some decisions."

  He slipped on his T-shirt, taking his time. He grabbed his glass, shook the ice cubes, and tipped it to his lips, looking for a last drop of cold water. He set the glass on the counter. "I don't have any decisions to make. I guess you do."

  Another long silence. She sighed. "I'm sorry, Mark."

  "Right." He turned and looked out the front windows. She followed his gaze and saw the girls throwing leaves at each other in the yard. "I left a couple of piles for them to play in. I'm leaving, so you have to go out there with them or bring them in. It's not safe for them to be outside alone. Maybe you could bag the leaves up later, or I'll come back sometime this week—"

  "I can do it. Thanks for your help."

  "Sure." He turned and headed for the front door, stopping at the head of the dining room table. A moment later, he turned around with a cardboard box gripped in his huge right hand.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "It was on the porch. I figured the girls were playing with it."

  "I don't think so. I've never seen it before."

  He studied the box, turned it over in his hands, then walked back to the counter. She leaned across the counter to examine it more closely.

  "Stay back, please."

  She stopped. "What's wrong?"

  "Probably nothing."

  From where she stood, it looked like an ordinary, cube-shaped cardboard box. There were no marks where packaging tape had been torn away, no scuffs, no printing.

  "Can you hand me a knife, please?"

  She grabbed an old steak knife from the drawer and handed it across the counter to him. He waited until she'd backed up, then began cutting through the clear tape. He set the knife on the counter and gently lifted one flap, then the other, and peered inside.

  "What is it?" Amanda asked.

  He withdrew a handful of what appeared to be black silk. With the other hand, he pulled out a piece of paper, flipped it open, and read it. He closed his mouth, his eyes, as if trying to keep something from getting into his mind. When he reopened his eyes, she saw in them anger and . . . fear.

  Her heart stuttered.

  He shift
ed the paper into the hand with the black silk and grabbed the box, peering into the bottom of it. Finding nothing else, he slipped both items back into the box and slid it across the counter.

  Tentatively, she lifted the black silk. It slithered through her hands and coiled on the kitchen counter. She forced herself to exhale as she lifted the garment and studied it. Yes, there were the skinny lace straps, the matching lace that lined the bottom hem. And there was the ragged edge. Suddenly she was sixteen again.

  "Don't get dressed yet," Gabriel had said.

  She'd dropped her sweater to the hotel room floor. Rarely did she defy him—he asked so little of her, but she was cold and tired and sore. Always sore. She'd thought that's how she was supposed to feel after. It wasn't until she married Mark that she realized sex wasn't supposed to be painful.

  "Hurts so good," Gabriel had told her once, quoting a stupid song from John Mellencamp or John Cougar or whatever his stupid name was.

  She didn't want to stay naked, because that meant they weren't leaving, which meant, in another hour, he'd want to do it again. She wanted to go home. She lacked the courage to say that, though. Instead, she pouted. "But I'm cold."

  Gabriel flipped back the blankets. "Come back to bed. It's warm in here."

  She looked at the scratchy sheets, then at his face. Expectant. Insistent. She sighed. Obviously a break wasn't in the cards, but at least she could cover herself—protect herself from his leering.

  Not leering. Admiring. That's what he always said.

  She remembered the gift he'd given her that night. Perfect. She slipped on the black nightie and approached the bed. He sat up and crossed his arms. "Take it off."

  "I'd rather . . ."

  But before she could finish the sentence, he was out of bed. "Take it off now. Please," he added, as if it were a request.

  "It's so silky and pretty and—"

  He grabbed the bodice in both hands and tore the fabric while she stood motionless, shocked. The silky material ripped easily, but the lace trim at the bottom wasn't so cooperative. With a solid yank, he managed to tear it.