Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  "Gorgeous," he said.

  She looked at him to see he was staring not at the view, but at her.

  Amanda fingered the sweatshirt. She remembered how Mark had looked at her that night, as if she were the most beautiful girl in the world. She'd given him the sweatshirt, since it was far too large for her, and though he'd never worn it, for some reason he'd tossed it into the pile of clothes he wanted to keep. The trouble he'd gone to that day, just so she could ride a Ferris wheel. He'd loved her once, loved her more than she ever deserved. A painful lump formed in her throat, tears stung her eyes. She shook her head. She couldn't do this, not now. She dropped the sweatshirt and looked up to find Mark watching her.

  She swiped her tears with the sweatshirt and began to fold it.

  "I love you as much today as I did then," he said.

  A sob escaped her clenched throat, and she hid behind the sweatshirt.

  She saw his feet, then his knees as he knelt in front of her. "More, in fact."

  She shook her head.

  He gently placed one of his hands over both of hers and pushed them, along with the sweatshirt, to her lap. He bent lower to meet her downcast eyes. She tried to move away, but he held her firmly. "Amanda, I still love you." He weaved his fingers in her hair at the base of her neck. "I will always love you."

  Forgetting everything that had driven them apart, she leaned forward and kissed him.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer. The piles of clothes was pushed aside and forgotten.

  Seventeen

  Mark inhaled the scent of the sheets. They weren't the cheap, scratchy sheets on his bed. These were worn smooth by age. The bed—he loved this bed, soft and inviting. The room smelled of vanilla from Amanda's favorite candle, reminding him of everything that mattered. He rolled over, wanting nothing more than to hold her and drift back to sleep. All he found on her side of the bed was the shock of cold sheets.

  He blinked his eyes open. The light on the ceiling of her closet spilled onto the bedroom floor in the otherwise dark room. He heard a sniff and sat up.

  Amanda was seated cross-legged on the floor near her closet in the middle of a pile of clothes. An almost-full garbage bag sat behind her, another to her left. She folded a pair of jeans and slipped them into the bag beside her. Then she grabbed a T-shirt and wiped the tears spilling onto her cheeks.

  "Hey, what's the matter?"

  She flinched, sniffed, and folded the shirt.

  Mark climbed out of bed and stepped toward her.

  She looked up. Her eyes widened.

  His clothes. Where were his clothes? He found his jeans draped over a pile of dress shirts and pulled them on. "Honey, what's wrong?"

  Amanda swiped the sleeve of her shirt across her eyes. "I'm fine. I just thought I'd work on this."

  Fine? Her voice was squeaky, her face streaked with tears. She was anything but fine. Mark sat on the floor across from her. "What's wrong?"

  "I don't understand why . . ." Her breath hitched. She sniffed again. "Why did it take two years for you to want me again? Why couldn't we have done that"—she waved toward the bed—"before now?"

  "I always wanted you."

  Anger flashed in her blue eyes. "No. You didn't. You could barely stand to touch me."

  She reached for another garment, but he grabbed her hands. "You're the one who changed, Amanda, not me."

  She tried to tug her hands away, but he wouldn't let go. She glared at him. "You admitted it. You said it felt like Gabriel was in bed with us."

  Mark dropped her hands. "Honey, I always wanted you. Always. But you were different. Even before you told me about him, I could feel it. When we were first married, you were nervous when we made love. I always wondered why, but I didn't want to press you. And then you were fine, it was good. Great. But suddenly, you were nervous again. You'd cringe when I touched you, like you were afraid of me. And then, when you told me about him, what he did to you, I understood. Those memories were creeping in, and you had to deal with them. Of course thinking about him would dredge up those emotions."

  Amanda crossed her arms and looked down. "You hated me."

  He lifted her chin with his finger, then dropped his hands to his lap. "No, sweetheart. Never. I hated him. I'd touch you, and you'd stiffen, and I'd think about how I was going to hunt him down and rip him apart." His hands fisted. He forced himself to stretch them out. "It's hard to make love to your wife and plot someone's murder at the same time."

  Her mouth twitched, fighting a smile. She had no idea how many times he'd typed that man's name in Google, how much will power it had taken him to walk away without hitting enter. Because if he discovered where Sheppard worked, then he'd be one step closer to killing him. The first step would inevitably lead to the second, then the third. Thank God Amanda didn't realize how serious he was about wanting Shepherd to die. Painfully.

  Amanda watched him now, curious.

  He smiled and took her hands again. "I was never angry with you. Never. And I always wanted you. But it was hard feeling your fear, knowing what caused it. I thought if I gave you some space, maybe you'd get over it."

  She yanked her hands away. "Get over it. That sounds about right." She squared her shoulders. "I have to tell you something."

  The back of his neck prickled. He had the irrational desire to cover his ears like Madi did whenever she and Sophie argued. He took a deep breath and met her eyes. "What?"

  "My lawyer—"

  "Your lawyer?" His stomach twisted, his heart began to pound. "Since when do you have a lawyer?"

  "Does it matter, Mark?" Amanda took a deep breath, looked into his eyes. "She's going to file the papers on Wednesday."

  "Oh, God." He dropped his head into his hands and gripped his hair.

  Amanda spoke again, her words jabbing him like a thousand nails. "I'm sorry. I was going to tell you, to warn you before you were served. I wouldn't just drop it on you like that. I mean, I know this is a shock, and I know it's not what you think you want. But you'll be better off without me. I wish I could've been what you thought I was. But I can't. I am . . . I've done what I've done, and I can't take it back."

  Father, help me. Tears filled his eyes. Father, I don't know what to do. I need you.

  Amanda continued, filling the thick silence with her babble. "I know this is hard for you, and I know it'll take some time to adjust. About tonight . . . I'm not sorry we did that. It was a good way to end things."

  His head snapped up. "You're not sorry?" His voice rose in anger. "You're not sorry? You figured you'd expose my heart even more before you smashed it to pieces?"

  Her jaw dropped. "No, no. I didn't mean . . . I wasn't trying to hurt you."

  He stood, walked around her, and kicked the trash bag filled with clothes. She was glad they'd slept together. He'd woken up after making love to his wife thinking he was finally going to come home. She'd woken up determined to divorce him.

  He paced around the opposite side of the bed near her bureau, her vanilla-scented candle assaulting him as he passed it. He grabbed it, squeezed it, and considered smashing it through the window. With an effort, he set the candle back on the bureau, turned, and paced in the other direction.

  "Mark?"

  "Quiet." He squeezed his hands into angry fists. Father, help. I don't know what to do.

  Conversations they had before she kicked him out, others they'd had in the last few weeks, filled his mind. The things she'd said, the accusations . . . Their talk from a week before filtered in. I think you don't want anyone to know what a tramp you married. If she really believed that, no wonder she wanted to divorce him. He blew out a breath and kneeled in front of her. "Amanda, I don't want a divorce."

  "I know, but I think eventually you'll realize it's the best thing for everyone."

  "No, it's not. It's not the best thing for me, or for Sophie, or for Madi. And it's not the best thing for you. Nobody will ever love you the way I do."

  Fresh tears filled her e
yes. "What? So you think I'm unlovable? You're the best I can do?"

  "That's not what I mean." Jesus, help! "I love you so much, nobody else will ever be able to top it."

  "Right."

  "It's true. What you said last week about me being ashamed of you, embarrassed by what you'd done? If you really believe that, it's no wonder you want a divorce. I'd want to divorce me, too."

  She wiped her tears on her shirt. "Good. We're on the same page."

  "Except it's not true, Amanda. I don't blame you for what happened with Sheppard. He manipulated you and used you and hurt you. When I read your memoir, all I could think was how much I wanted to kill him. It never occurred to me that you'd think I was angry with you. I wasn't. You were just a kid."

  "It's too late for this, Mark."

  He leaned forward and grabbed her hands, ignoring the surprise in her face. "No, it can't be, because I can't lose you. I love you. I love you more now than I ever did before you told me that stuff. I think you're amazing, the things you went through, and how you handled them. Look at the things you've done with your life. Look at how you've recovered from the car accident. From him. I never blamed you. Not for one minute."

  Amanda yanked her hands away, grabbed a T-shirt out of the pile beside her, and buried her face in it. Her shoulders shook with sobs.

  Her blond hair, tangled and disheveled, fell forward. He stroked it gently. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you that before. I should have. It never occurred to me you wouldn't already know how I felt."

  "Don't," she said, the single word muffled by the fabric of the T-shirt.

  "I'm an idiot. What do I know about this stuff? All I thought about was myself and my anger. It never occurred to me to think about what you needed me to say."

  "It's too late."

  "No, it's not. Look at me."

  She looked up, and he saw raw pain in her eyes. He'd put it there, and he hated himself for it. "Amanda, it's not too late. I didn't tell you then, but I'm telling you now. It wasn't your fault. You were taken advantage of, and that man is a pig. A pervert. What he did to you . . ."

  She lowered her head, so he crouched down and met her gaze. "What he did to you was unthinkable. He stole your innocence. Don't let him destroy our marriage, too."

  Tears dripped off her chin onto her pants. She swallowed, shook her head.

  He held her shoulders and tried to pull her close.

  She resisted.

  "Please, Mandy. I'm not asking you to make a decision right now. Just wait. A month. Give me one month to try to convince you."

  "I don't know."

  "Tomorrow's November first. Give it till December first. Please. Is that too much to ask? We can spend Thanksgiving together." Her eyes widened, almost fearful. "Not with my mother. Here, at our house. As a family." Another thought occurred to him. "I can go to New Hampshire with you this weekend."

  She sniffed. "What about the girls?"

  "I'll have Mom watch them."

  Amanda shook her head. "No. Now that your mother knows we're separated, she'll turn them against me."

  "I promise she won't, I won't let her. She loves them." With his knuckle, he wiped fresh tears from her cheek. "I'd like nothing more than to spend the weekend with you."

  Her voice was weak, tentative. "I'm not going to have any free time."

  "I'll bring a book. If nothing else, at least we'll have our nights together."

  She blushed and turned her head.

  Against his will, his heart throbbed with a fresh dose of hope. "Please? We can spend some time together without confusing the girls. And I want to be with you. There's no place I'd rather be than with you this weekend."

  She sniffed, wiped her eyes, and pushed her hair behind her ears. "I don't want you to get your hopes up. I mean, I don't think I'm going to change my mind. But, if you really want to come this weekend . . ."

  Mark could hardly sort through his emotions on the cold drive home. Thank God Amanda had agreed to put off filing for divorce. As she walked him to the door that night, she'd agreed to wait thirty days. What if they hadn't slept together? Would she have called him the next day? Hi! Thanks for taking the girls trick-or-treating last night. We need help getting the stupid ghost off the porch ceiling. And by the way, I'm filing for divorce . . .

  Thank God he'd talked her out of it. And thank God she was going to let him go with her to New Hampshire. Not only would he be able to spend the weekend with her, but he could protect her. He wanted Sheppard to show up. They could end this thing once and for all.

  But what made him think he could change Amanda's mind in a weekend or a month?

  Despair seeped into him like the cold night air.

  No, he wouldn't think that way. He'd been praying for a miracle, and tonight he'd gotten one. God was at work. Faith. He had to have faith. This weekend, nestled in the beautiful White Mountains, he would court her like he had when they'd first met back in Providence. He would win her back.

  Driving his truck around his apartment building with a renewed sense of purpose, Mark scanned the lot automatically. The cars all belonged here except one. A racing green Porsche was parked to the right of the front door. He looked toward the Dumpster and spied a pile of broken-down cardboard boxes. Seemed the new renter had moved in to the apartment across the hallway, just like his landlady had promised.

  Why would anyone who could afford a Porsche move into this building? Finding no plausible explanation, he parked his car and unlocked the exterior door of his building.

  At the top of the stairs, he stopped short.

  A tall, blond woman was knocking on his door. She turned toward him just as he reached the landing.

  "There you are!" she said, her perfect face breaking into a cover-girl smile.

  "Annalise?" Mark said. "What are you doing here?"

  Eighteen

  Amanda climbed into Mark's side of the bed. She burrowed into the warm sheets and allowed the faint scent of his aftershave to evoke its memories. Snapshots flitted across the screen of her closed eyelids as she snuggled into his pillow—the Ferris wheel, their first date, their wedding day, and the births of their daughters. She could picture Mark as he sanded the warm wood of the bookshelves in her office, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, his muscles bulging with each stroke against the rough wood until it was as soft as their babies' tender skin.

  For the first time in a long time, Amanda could picture a future with Mark. Not just as her girls' father, but as her husband. They could grow old together.

  Amanda had never wanted anything else. She'd been in love with Mark since their first date. If he still loved her, too . . . ?

  In a burst of emotion, she squeezed the blankets, longing for Mark's arms.

  He'd finally said the words she'd longed to hear. He didn't blame her for what happened to her. He admitted he'd been angry, but not at her. He wasn't horrified at what she'd done. She was only a kid, he'd said. She'd been taken advantage of by an older man.

  Had she really misread his feelings for two years?

  How his words had filled her tonight. He said he loved her more after she'd told him about Sheppard. He admired her for what she'd overcome.

  Would he have said that to get her to reconsider the divorce? No, Mark was sincere. The anger she'd seen in him after he read the pages of her manuscript—that was sincere. He didn't hide his emotions, and he didn't manipulate. How could she ever have thought of him as manipulative in the first place? If nothing else, she knew she could trust him. He would never lie to her.

  Alan's face tried to intrude on her memories, and her stomach constricted with guilt. Regardless of what she'd told Mark—she was much less trustworthy than her husband—she had become too close to Alan. His touch had affected her. She'd shared things with him—intimate things. Thank God she hadn't allowed anything physical between them. Alan's kind words, his dimples, even the silly reaction she'd had to his touch—Alan Morass had nothing on Mark Johnson.

  Mark would forgive
her for her emotional affair. She remembered what they'd shared tonight and blushed. Apparently, he already had forgiven her. Amanda sighed, inhaled the scent of Mark's aftershave, and drifted off to sleep to dream about her husband.

  Mark watched Annalise as her long legs carried her down the hallway in two long, bouncy steps. She threw her arms around his neck. "Finally, you're home! I've been waiting for hours!"

  She snuggled her head between his neck and his shoulder and weaved one of her hands in his hair.

  He stepped away. "What are you doing here?"

  She took a step back, too, put her hands on her hips, and arranged her mouth in a perfect pout. Annalise Klugmann. Back in high school, she was Annie, the shy lanky girl with the funny accent. Times had changed. Today the world knew her only by her first name, Klugmann proving far too ugly for such a beautiful girl.

  She carried herself like a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted. And in a world that equated beauty with character, Mark figured Annalise was rarely disappointed. Studying her now in the dim light of the narrow hallway, he couldn't help but be slightly shocked. Her natural blond hair, a little darker than it had been when he'd last seen her, fell in perfectly disheveled waves long past her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes flashed a strange mixture of irritation and invitation. You've offended me. Come, make me feel better . . . The slightest threat of a wrinkle appeared here and there on her thirty-six-year-old face, but none would dare to mar such perfection. And her lips. Not just red, cherry red. Bright strawberry Jujube red.

  His marriage clung to life and here came Annalise, a stunning, designer stiletto prepared to strike the final blow.

  "What a fine welcome that is." Her slight German accent was perceptible even after twenty years in America.

  "Sorry. I'm surprised to see you."

  She stepped forward, laid her hand on his chest and laughed. "Of course you're surprised. I wanted you to be surprised. But who knew you'd be out until all hours on a school night?" She tsk-tsked. "Naughty, naughty."