And if that was the case, she'd better learn to take care of herself.
"Excuse me," she said, nudging her legs against her friend's bottom. Jamie stood and stepped out of the way. Amanda pushed the blankets away, immediately missing their warmth, and stood on shaky legs. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and scrubbed it dry with the hand towel.
Jamie stood in the open doorway. "You want to tell me what happened?"
"Mark cheated on me." The words came out flat, matter of fact. I'd like a roast beef sandwich. Let's paint the walls yellow. Mark cheated on me.
Jamie gasped. "I don't believe it! When? He's been dying to win you back and now . . . How did you find out? What happened?"
Amanda shrugged and brushed her hair. Whatever. It was over. She was back to feeling numb. Thankful for numb.
She set her hairbrush on the counter. "I really don't want to talk about it."
Jamie crossed her arms, determined. "Who was it?"
"Annalise."
"The model?"
"She showed up at his apartment last night. Apparently she's been in love with him all along. His mother told her we were getting a divorce, so . . ." That was as much explanation as she could offer without crawling back into bed and hiding under the covers.
"Last night? You're saying he was with her last night."
She shrugged.
"Talk to me."
Amanda scooted past her, out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down the stairs. Jamie followed. If only she'd leave.
"Let's sit down and talk until the girls get home."
In the kitchen, the dishwasher door stood open from the fiasco earlier. Carefully she set about removing the rest of the dishes and setting them in their proper places. "I'm really not up for talking."
Jamie sat on a barstool. "Are you saying he slept with the model last night?"
She stacked the cups and set them in the cupboard carefully. "No."
"Okay then, when?"
"A long time ago. He just told me today because Annalise moved in."
"She moved in with him?" Her high-pitched voice caused shudders to slide down Amanda's spine. How could she pretend not to care with Jamie freaking out?
"No. She moved in across the hall."
"This is ridiculous. I don't want to play twenty questions. Sit down and tell me everything."
Amanda planted her fists on her hips, prepared to tell Jamie to go home. And then she met Jamie's eyes, brimming with tears. She dropped her hands and blew out her anger in a puff of air. "I'm sorry. He slept with her a long time ago, before we got married, and he told me today because, apparently, Annalise told his mother, and he was afraid his mother would tell me. Which she would, if I'd ever answer her calls, which I won't. So our whole marriage is built on a lie. It's over. It's just . . . over."
Jamie stood and started around the bar.
"Don't. I don't want to be comforted."
Jamie slid back into the seat. "Okay. What do you want?"
"Honestly? I want to be alone."
"Well, that's too bad, because I'm not leaving. You're telling me he cheated on you, what? Ten years ago?"
Amanda turned back to the dishwasher. She took out the plastic storage containers, dried the last few drops off of them, and slid them into the cabinet. "Almost."
"And for that you're going to divorce him?"
"I was already going to divorce him, so it doesn't matter." Tears burned as she remembered those few hours—had it been that very morning?—when she'd thought she would take him back.
"If it doesn't matter, then why are you crying?"
She brushed her tears away with her sweatshirt and stacked the girls' plastic cups. "He betrayed me, and it hurts, okay? That doesn't mean I want him back, but it still hurts. He's just . . . he's not the man I thought he was."
"Because he strayed nine years ago? That's silly—"
"Silly? How would you feel if Chris cheated on you? I bet you wouldn't think that was silly."
Amanda grabbed a handful of silverware out of the sink. She could probably rinse it off in hot water—it had only been on the floor for a second—but she didn't have the energy. She shoved the whole handful in the dishwasher basket.
"That's not what I mean. I mean he's still the man you thought he was. He's not perfect, Amanda. Everyone sins sometimes."
"Don't start with the Christian crap, okay?"
"Well, whether you're a Christian or not, you have to know that's true. We all do things we shouldn't. Mark's no exception."
Amanda brushed her tears away again. "Not the Mark I knew. Not this."
"Amanda, he's a sinner, just like me, just like you—"
"I would never do that to him!"
"I'm not saying you would. But you've done other stuff, right? You're not perfect. Mark's not perfect. You're both just doing your best. He loves you, Amanda."
She snorted.
"He wants you back. Can't you at least think about forgiving him?"
She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. "He doesn't deserve forgiveness."
Jamie nodded slowly. "That's true. I don't either. Nobody does, but God offers it anyway."
"I'm not God, and neither are you, so just . . ." Amanda threw up her arms. "I don't want to talk about it anymore."
Amanda stalked into the living room and turned on the TV. Jamie joined her on the sofa and found a rerun. Amanda pretended to watch, finding she could easily seethe in anger despite the humor in the sitcom.
Forgive him? Forget it. She would never forgive him.
Mark watched through the glass as Amanda climbed out of her sedan and made her way into the diner. When she pushed open the door, he stood and lifted two coffee cups for her to see, hoping he'd ordered correctly.
When she approached, he said, "Extra large Caramel Mocha with skim milk."
With an irritated smirk, she shook off her coat and placed it on the back of the chair across from him before sitting down. She didn't comment on the coffee, which meant he must've gotten it right. As well he should have—they'd been here together a million times.
"Thank you for meeting me."
She nodded and sipped, staring out the window at the busy parking lot where people were going about their business, huddled against the cold gray skies but otherwise seemingly content. He wondered, though—what pain were they carrying beneath their masks? Was everyone's life as much of a mess as his? When he'd surrendered his life to Christ, Mark had thought his life would get better, his marriage would improve. And why not, with God on his side? But since then, his world had crumbled, block by block, until he'd ended up . . . here.
Amanda tapped her foot beneath the table.
"We figured out the connection between you and Sheppard."
Her eyes widened and scanned the room as if Sheppard were there. She looked at him. "Who is it?"
"A man named Baxter McIlroy."
Her jaw dropped. "He was at my house last Friday—"
"I know. I talked to Roxie—"
"You did what? How dare you?"
He blew out a breath. "Give me a break, Amanda. I'm trying to keep you safe."
She slapped her hand on the table. "You had no right to call my agent."
"You weren't speaking to me, and I needed information. Is that really what you want to talk about?"
She opened her mouth, snapped it shut, and crossed her arms.
"McIlroy was one of Sheppard's TAs when he was working on his Master's. And there's evidence they were friends or, at least, more than mere acquaintances. I guess when you sent the manuscript to Roxie this summer, she had him read it."
"He read it? He probably sent Gabriel a copy of it. This is—"
"This is good news. Roxie said she wouldn't tell McIlroy that we know, and I've been thinking . . . I assume you don't want me to join you this weekend in New Hampshire."
"Pfft. You assume right."
He closed his eyes, absorbed the blow. This was his last chanc
e. He opened his eyes and leaned toward her. "I want to come, just to keep you safe. We could stay in separate rooms, I could go with you to the bookstore . . ." His voice trailed off as she shook her head. "I really want to come."
"I guess you should have thought about that before you slept with Annalise."
"You mean nine years ago? You understand the nickname prophet is a joke, right? I can't actually see into the future."
"Oh, I don't think it took any extraordinary skills to see this coming."
He raked his hands through his hair. "Fine. Then I thought we could . . . you could . . . call Roxie and ask her to mention to McIlroy that you've decided to skip the signing. If I'm right, he'll tell Sheppard, and then you'll be safe, at least this weekend. The guy could still call the bookstore and find out, unless you're really willing to cancel it."
"No."
"I figured. But at least it's a chance. And, really it's a long drive for him when he could get down here easier, but it makes me nervous to have you so far away like that."
She sipped her coffee and set it on the table. "Fine."
"But, even with that, I'd like you to ask someone in the store to meet you outside and walk you in. Tell them you have a stalker, so you're not alone. Will you do that for me?"
She nodded.
"And when you get to the inn? Can you have Frank walk you in and out?" The inn's owners Frank and Claire had become friends over the years. Frank was in his eighties, certainly too old to fend off an attacker, but Mark figured Gabriel wouldn't want witnesses.
"That's overkill. No one knows where I'm going to be."
"Then I'll just come up—"
"Fine. Whatever."
"You promise?"
She drummed her fingers against the side of the cup. "Yeah, okay. I'll ask him."
"Thank you. Can you call Roxie today?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
She pushed her chair back and stood.
"There's something else."
She pulled her coat off the back of her chair. "We have nothing else to talk about."
"Five more minutes."
After a heavy sigh, she sat, folded her coat across her lap, and crossed her arms.
"I need to say something to you." He waited while she looked out the window, down at her hands, at the other customers. At anything but at him. The silence between them was thicker than her mocha. Did she feel it, too? Finally she met his eyes, and he spoke. "I want you to know I love you. I know I've told you over and over these last few weeks, but I need to say it one more time. I love you, and I want you back." When Amanda said nothing, Mark continued. "Yesterday you said you'd never forgive me. Do you still feel that way?"
"Yes."
"I . . ." He swallowed a lump in his throat. "I believe you. If you don't want to forgive me, then I can imagine you holding on to your anger forever. I've watched it happen. I watched my father grovel and beg my mother to forgive him after he had his affair. For years he tried to make it up to her. She let him all but kill himself trying to fix it, to make it right, to . . . I don't know, somehow undo it. And when he was broken and tired and done, she divorced him. And now . . . well, you know what happened. Mother is still miserable. She was before he cheated on her, and she always will be. And Dad's happily married to someone else. He should've given up on Mom years ago."
"Are you comparing me to your mother again?"
"You're not a miserable, bitter person. But I think the ability to forgive, it's not natural. Forgiveness is a gift you've never been interested in. If you don't want to forgive me, then . . . well, I believe you won't."
"What are you saying?" Her voice was hard and demanding, but he thought he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. Good, because he was terrified.
"I'm saying that, if you really feel that way, then there's no need to wait a week. Just file the papers, and let's be done with it."
She blinked a few times and sniffed, but to her credit, she kept the tears hidden. He knew they were there. He was hiding his own as well.
"That's really what you want?"
"No. I told you, I want you back. But if you're determined . . ." He shrugged. "I'm not going to grovel like my father did."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
She stood and slipped on her wool coat. "Fine. Good-bye, Mark." Leaving her coffee on the table, she stalked out of the restaurant, shoulders back, head high. He watched through the window as she slid into her car and drove away, watched until her car disappeared in the morning traffic. Then he paid the check and left.
In the chill of his truck, he dropped his head into his hands, remembering the verse the Lord had brought to his mind that morning. He'd prayed for her all night, for her faith and for their marriage. He'd woken up with strange words on his heart. They couldn't be from Scripture. Yet, just to be sure, he grabbed his computer and typed the word unbeliever in the Bible website. The words niggling at his consciousness came from the first verse on the list. First Corinthians 7:14. But if the unbeliever depart, let him depart. He studied the chapter—it was definitely a reference to marriage.
He fought it, he argued, he searched the Scriptures for a different answer, but in the end, he knew what he had to do.
He'd let her go.
He slid his truck into gear and headed to work, allowing the peace of Christ to fill him where only despair should be.
Twenty-Two
Amanda glanced at the screen on her phone. Alan again. She set it down and went back to work.
She'd been in a daze all afternoon, unable to carry on any conversation beyond the basics. She did manage to call her lawyer and request she file the divorce papers immediately. Confused, her lawyer questioned her about her change of heart, worried Amanda would have another one. Amanda assured her she wouldn't but gave no other explanation. How could she explain that the man she'd been so bent on divorcing against his will had suddenly decided he wanted out? How could she possibly discuss that without the simmering emotions boiling over, spilling on the lawyer and everyone else around her? Mark, who was supposed to love her and want her and fight for her, had given up so easily.
I love you and I want you back . . . file the papers.
It was too much, and after the emotional ups and downs of the day before, Amanda couldn't process it, so she pushed the feelings away and set about editing her cookbook.
It was almost lunchtime when she remembered to call Roxie. She'd been so focused on not thinking about her conversation with Mark, she'd forgotten about the immediate problem—keeping Gabriel away from her while she traveled. It seemed silly to worry about it at this point, her fear of Gabriel was nothing compared with the loss of her marriage. But then she remembered the box with the torn lingerie, the roses. She remembered Gabriel in the hotel lobby, how he'd loomed over her. The fear she'd felt crept back the same way his hands had crept up her thighs that day. She made the call.
"Whatever I can do to help," Roxie said. "I can't believe this whole thing is my fault."
"It's not your fault. How could you have known Baxter was anything but what he said he was?"
Amanda hung up the phone, wondering if she'd put Roxie's mind at ease. She had no idea. She couldn't discern her friend's feelings while so intent on not experiencing her own.
Amanda gave up trying to ignore Jamie's calls after maybe the tenth and answered the phone. It was a short talk. Amanda told her about her conversation that morning with Mark and her subsequent call to the lawyer. Jamie's answer, so predictable, brought memories of one of Amanda's favorite movies.
"Don't do this, Amanda. Mark loves you so much."
Scarlet darling. Captain Butler . . . Be kind to him, he loves you so.
What would Miss Melanie have said if she'd witnessed the movie's final scene, as Rhett Butler walked out of Scarlet's life? Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
Oh, Miss Melanie would have been shocked. As was Jamie. As was Amanda, if she faced the truth. She'd expected Mark to grov
el, to beg her to change her mind.
"He told me to file the papers," Amanda said in a flat voice.
"No. He can't have. You must've misunderstood."
Apparently Jamie didn't understand Mark any better than Melanie Wilkes understood Rhett Butler.
Truth be told, Amanda was as shocked as Scarlet. But she'd think about that tomorrow.
Today . . . today she had to stay busy.
She edited until she couldn't see straight, then she cooked. She made and froze a pan of chicken parmesan. She whipped up a batch of potato soup to serve for dinner. She defrosted a couple of pounds of hamburger and squished the ingredients together for meatloaf before remembering that Sophie and Madi hated meatloaf. She wasn't that fond of it, either. Meatloaf was one of Mark's favorites, though.
She stared at the lump of beef, knowing she'd never make meatloaf again. The permanence of it jarred her, poked the cold numbness. Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them back.
Meatballs. Everyone liked meatballs. She lit the burner and set a skillet on top of it to heat while she reformed the lump into bite-sized spheres.
Finally it was time to pick up the girls. Homework, dinner, bath time, and bedtime filled the evening, keeping her thoughts away. When she finished kissing her daughters good night, she trudged to her bedroom.
As she was about to climb into bed, she heard her cell phone ringing downstairs. Mark? Maybe he'd changed his mind.
Not that she had changed hers, but it would make her feel better.
She ran down the stairs, looked at the phone, and saw Alan's number. Disappointed, and frustrated at her herself for feeling that way, she answered it.
"Hey," he said. "I've been trying to reach you."
How many times had Amanda ignored him since they'd last spoken? She'd lost count. When he'd called Tuesday morning, Amanda had thought she and Mark were getting back together. She wasn't ready to tell him that. And then, after Mark's shocking news, she couldn't bear to talk to anyone. Had that really just been the day before? She'd lived a lifetime of sorrows since then. "Sorry. It's been an interesting few days."
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