Love For Sale

by Linda Nightingale

  Paul Jr. shrugged, but anger sharpened his tone. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Paul Jr.” Michael gasped. “How can you talk to Mom like that? Say you’re sorry, or you’ll never ride in my car again.”

  “As soon as I got my license, Dad was going to buy me a car.” Paul Jr.’s voice hitched, his gaze locked on her face. “Guess that won’t happen now.”

  “I think this has gone way too far.” March was wounded but as angry as Paul Jr. “I’ll say goodnight.”

  Her chest cramped, the pain shooting down her left arm. And maybe goodbye.

  March stalked out of the room, her back rigid, and didn’t look back. Her entire life seemed to have been devoted to looking back.

  “Mom, wait.” Michael caught her arm. “Don’t listen to Paul Jr. I’ll make sure he apologizes.” He shifted his weight from his left to his right foot, staring at the carpet. “We both love you.”

  She hugged him close, the ever-present tears choking her. “I love you, too, son. Never forget that.”

  The forty-five minute drive home gave her far too much time to think. Tomorrow, she’d return to work, and the day after, on and on. A bleak landscape, her life stretched before her.

  Weary and dizzy, she trudged up the stairs and into her apartment. A soft glow from the nightlight in the bedroom welcomed her but reminded her of the ecstasy she’d known in that soft illumination. An army of memories tried to overwhelm her. In self-defense, she switched on the lights, reset her phone from vibrate to sound.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. She’d missed an after-hours call from Mayfair. Excitement zinged over her, hope rising from the ashes. Her fingers fumbled over the number for voicemail.

  In her crisp English voice, Melissa said, “Watch Channel 14 tonight at nine.”

  Leaving March yearning to snatch the android through the receiver and choke her, the call ended with that cryptic message.

  “Melodramatic bastards.” Pulse racing, she glanced at her watch. “Five after nine. Damn.” She kicked off her shoes and grabbed for the remote. “Now the stupid remote is missing?”

  Failing to find the remote, March switched on the TV manually and punched the miniscule button until she found the right channel. Overheated and frustrated, she perched on the edge of the sofa. A glint of orange caught her eye. The missing remote was wedged between the cushions.

  “Have a great day, March,” she mumbled irritably.

  Daniel, not Christian, stared from the tiny screen straight into March’s eyes. That she’d missed the first part of the commercial was obvious, but the way he seemed to be addressing her alone was unnerving. What was Mayfair advertising with their Special Edition droid?

  “At Mayfair Electronics, we believe that you can have tomorrow’s technology today,” he said in his black velvet voice.

  The picture blinked and scrambled the way HD sometimes did. She rose to adjust the settings.

  “I have a message for March Morgan.”

  Subliminal messaging? No, this was a conscious communication. How far did Mayfair’s tentacles reach? She was beginning to see an empire behind the small electronics company. Or maybe Daniel was breaking the rules to tell her what had happened to Christian. She held her breath. Her heart went into suspended animation.

  “Paul will be returning home soon. All is forgiven. You are free.” He didn’t smile as he delivered the communication from beyond the grave. “Only you will have seen this interruption. The commercial will now recommence, this message from Paul is set to delete.”

  “Dear God. Alive.” March’s head gave a drunken spin. She slid to the floor, covering her face with her hands. “All is not forgiven, Paul. You robbed me of Christian. My freedom is not yours to dispense. What did Mayfair pay to shut your filthy mouth?”

  What did Paul mean by all is forgiven? Did he believe that he’d forgiven March for the rather violent comeuppance Christian had given him and the world was now right? If so, the forgiveness was absolutely not mutual. In his own way, he was arrogant enough to think that. By free, did he mean he was finally letting go?

  “March,” Daniel said, and she opened her eyes. “Don’t worry.”

  Was she imagining the compassion in his tender expression? An earthquake-sized tremor shook her. Shocked and puzzled, she gaped at the android as he turned and walked from view. The advertisement resumed with something about technology for tomorrow today. The Mayfair logo flashed on the screen. The programming returned to a popular reality show.

  Daniel had dropped her in the middle of a drama racing to an end. She was an ignorant bystander, watching from the sidelines—and didn’t understand one damn thing about what was going on. None of the clues fit any pattern.

  “Who the hell is jerking my chain?” March climbed to her feet.

  She had to get herself together, call the boys and let them know their father was alive and coming home. Reluctance cramped her stomach. She lifted the phone to her ear but stood for a long moment staring into space, Daniel’s message echoing in her ears. Finally, she pressed Speed Dial. If she were the bearer of good news, maybe the boys would forgive her. What was she guilty of? Loving too much. What was Christian guilty of? Protecting his future wife.

  Paul’s mother answered the phone in a dull voice. “Hello.”

  “Joan, please sit down.” March stabbed a potato in the white plastic bin. “I have good news. Paul is alive and well. In fact, he’ll be home soon.”

  “Thank you, Lord.” Joan called on Jesus. “Oh, March, thank you. I can’t believe it’s true. How do you know?”

  “He…sent me a message. I mean he texted me. Yes, he texted me a few minutes ago.” She rushed on with her story. “You have that old phone, and the boys…well he lost their number with his phone or so I assume.”

  “The main thing is he’s safe.” Tears grated Joan’s voice deeper, softer. “Do you want to tell the boys or do you want me to?”

  March was tempted to shirk responsibility, hoping Paul’s mother didn’t hear the hesitation and the disappointment in her voice. “I’ll tell them. Michael first.”

  In the background she heard Joan call, and in minutes a sleepy sounding Michael answered with no greeting and a shock. “Is what’s his name—Christian—still in England? It’s too bad he turned out to be such a bastard. I really liked him.”

  Taken aback, March winced. Any mention of Christian pained her. “I don’t know, Michael.” She paused, trying to banish sweet memories. “That’s no way to begin this conversation. It was rude, in fact. I have good news for you. Your father…texted with a message that he is fine and will be home soon.”

  Everything seemed to revolve around Mayfair and their dark secrets. How did the company figure in this ghastly drama?

  At midnight, March clicked off the bedside lamp, wishing she could as easily switch off memories. She touched the bed beside her where Christian had lain. Loneliness echoed in the silence. A vision of them spooned together flashed before her eyes. Like a slideshow, other images spooled through her thoughts. If she didn’t stop thinking of him, tonight would be another night she fell asleep crying. She exhaled a long sigh and tugged the sheet to her chin. In the soft illumination of the nightlight, she struggled with a dark feeling that something was about to happen.

  Chapter 17

  Three leaden weeks crawled by.

  Head bowed, March trudged down the stone path to the parking lot, battling a stormy wind. The stack of reports on her desk dominated her thoughts. She was making a concerted effort not to live in the past. Tonight, she and a friend were meeting for dinner and a movie—the first time she’d been out since…her thoughts faltered. A fierce gust whipped her umbrella inside out. Rain pelted her, soaking her hair and clothes, running down her face and tickling the back of her neck.

  “Damn.” She’d have to return to her apartment and change. In half an hour, she was scheduled for chemo in the Medical Center.

  Struggling with the broken umbrella, she whirled to run and fro
ze. Beneath a golf umbrella she’d bought at the Houston Symphony, Paul strolled toward her. The dreaded moment had arrived. His return had been inevitable. The shocker was the redhead snuggled close to his side. The wind carried their laughter to taunt March with memories of her own. As if she were invisible, they hadn’t noticed her. They were too wrapped up in each other. He darted a kiss to her cheek. She turned her face, and their lips met. March squinted, but the umbrella shadowed the woman’s features.

  A few feet from where she stood, he dragged his girlfriend to a halt. “March? Why are you standing in the rain?”

  “The wind broke my umbrella,” she said as if that simple statement explained everything.

  Now that they were closer, she could see the redhead. Something familiar about her face prickled her memory, but the image escaped before March could grasp it. Tall and slender, Paul’s honey was a classic beauty. March coveted the woman’s white designer sundress and matching shrug, but the skirt would be a maxi on her.

  “You’re soaked to the skin.” Paul looked good, happy, better than he ever had. “Snuggle beneath the umbrella with Georgia, and I’ll make a dash to the apartment.”

  Georgia. Where had she heard that name before?

  “If I snuggle beneath the umbrella, I’ll soak her, too.” March gestured at the fork in the path leading to Paul’s apartment. “Hurry home. I can’t get any wetter.”

  “I’ve looked forward to meeting you.” Georgia flashed a stunning smile. “Standing in the rain is neither the time nor place.”

  She pronounced the word nither. Her accent was crisp, perfect British, and a pain lanced March’s heart. So, both she and her ex had gone to England to meet a soul mate. Paul still had his—while she wept alone. Was there sympathy in the other woman’s eyes? Georgia linked arms with Paul. As they darted through the curtain of rain, March couldn’t help noticing how graceful the other woman was. She stood watching them until they were out of sight. Anger and jealousy mingled. The bastard who’d stolen her dreams had found his.

  Still troubled by Georgia’s familiarity, March turned and fled home. There was something different about Paul, and she couldn’t put a finger on that either.

  When she rushed into her apartment, the phone was ringing. She grabbed the handset.

  “March, this is Daniel from Mayfair. I had to phone to tell you—” The line went dead.

  The sudden silence and dread grated along her nerves. Grief twisted her stomach. Someone must have caught him making the forbidden call. Numb with fear, March wandered to the kitchen, found the handset still in her hand, and discarded it on the counter. What was Daniel’s aborted message? That Christian was dead? Or he was alive? Her heart gave a silly leap then plummeted. If he hadn’t been destroyed, Christian would find a way to call.

  She grabbed the phone in a death grip, scrolling until she found the number and pressed redial. Each ring heated her anger.

  “Mayfair Electronics. This is Jane. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Daniel De Bella, please.” Please stuck in her throat.

  There was a very long hesitation. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “You may ask, but I’m not going to tell you.” She paced the confines of her prison.

  “Madam, I’m afraid I can’t connect the call until you identify yourself.”

  March had slammed into the barrier the electronics company built around its androids. Why had she ever imagined they’d allow her to speak with Daniel? Spontaneity wasn’t her strong suit. Her mind raced for a possible identity.

  “I’m with NBC.” Did I really just blurt out that I’m with a TV network? “I wish to speak with him regarding a guest spot on one of our shows.” That was stupid but the best she could do. She didn’t want to get Daniel in trouble by saying that he’d just called her.

  “Mr. De Bella doesn’t keep his own calendar. You must contact his agent.”

  The F-word sprang to mind. “He will want to take this call, I assure you.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to direct your call to him.”

  March banged the phone down in its cradle, angry tears streaming down her cheeks. When she regained control, she changed clothes, drove to the hospital, and, alone, lay down on the bed for her next to final infusion.

  During the treatment, her oncologist arrived. Very near seven feet tall with a long, horsy face, he looked out of place in the doctor’s traditional white coat. “Good morning, March.”

  She smiled, her reflection glittering in his thick glasses. “Morning. Surely, it’s rare for you to visit a patient in chemo.”

  “I was in this wing and wanted to talk with you.” He pulled the chair Christian once sat in close to the bed and opened a chart. “I’m concerned about your constant weight loss. You’ve dropped another few pounds since your last visit.”

  “I’ve been under a lot of stress.” She shifted on the bed, but nothing would make her comfortable with a needle in her arm.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Like death warmed up. “I’m a little fatigued, I guess, but I’m trying to work while I’m in treatment. My right shoulder hurts, probably from sitting at a computer eight to five.”

  Dr. Belzar nodded. “I’d like to run some tests. Call and make an appointment next week.”

  “Will do.”

  He turned to go, turned back. “Can I get you anything?”

  Since the little confrontation when Christian had reminded him of the core values of the hospital, he’d become a much nicer person.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  I was nuts to call Mayfair. What if they recognized my voice or the telephone number? I have to deal with the fact that Christian won’t be coming back.

  She closed her eyes, and surprisingly, instead of Christian, she saw Paul’s smiling face. He and his new girlfriend were a handsome couple. He’d looked at the redhead like she was the only woman in the world. Georgia had gazed at him with equal fascination. Paul had never looked at March that way. She felt a sinking in her chest. She wasn’t jealous of the man but envious of his happiness.

  “I know I’ve seen that woman somewhere,” she muttered.

  Maybe the something different about Paul was love.

  ****

  Saturday morning, eight o’clock, March glanced up from her book to find Georgia standing at the door, elegant hand raised to knock. The redhead smiled and waved instead. In the other hand was a cookie tin. Smiling a welcome, she set her bestseller aside and crossed the room.

  “Hi. Come in. Would you like coffee?” she asked her surprise guest. “I’m on my second cup. It’s a really nice Columbian.”

  “No, thank you. But I did bring you something to go with your coffee. I baked scones this morning.” She extended a Christmas cookie tin.

  “Real English scones. Thank you, this is a treat. I can offer orange juice, milk and one soft drink. The latter is something I never buy.” March waved a hand at the dining room table. “Sit down. I’ll get more coffee, and we’ll chat.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks.” She sank gracefully into a chair.

  From the kitchen, March called, “How did you meet Paul?”

  “Through a mutual friend.”

  “It’s obvious he’s crazy about you.” March returned to the dining table and sat opposite the redhead. In the morning light, she was even more ravishing.

  “The feeling is mutual.” Georgia spun the salt shaker, studying March. “I feel like I was made for him. Are you sure you want to talk about us? As his ex, I mean.”

  “We’ve been divorced for over a year. I’m happy for the two of you.” She buttered one of the still warm scones. “These smell delicious. Georgia, you look very familiar.”

  She gave March a smile that could only be called secretive. “I have one of those faces, I suppose.”

  A perfect face. Skin creamy ivory. Eyes a bright, merry green. Hair glossy and soft looking. Her figure reminded March of one of the lyrics in a
Dolly Parton song. You’d look good in a gunny sack. Paul had outdone himself.

  “I can’t shake the feeling we’ve met.” March sipped her coffee.

  Georgia smiled as she glided to her feet. “Perhaps, in another lifetime.” She gazed at March for a long moment. “I must dash. We’re taking the boys camping.”

  March walked with Georgia the few steps to the door. “Have fun.”

  “We’ll visit again soon.” Georgia stepped into the sun, the light firing her auburn hair.

  “Yes, let’s.” She closed and locked the door behind Paul’s new flame.

  Perfect face. Perfect everything. Perhaps in a former lifetime.

  Halfway to the table, a memory dragged her to a stunned halt. The day she adopted Christian, the first to enter the opulent room was an auburn-haired couple. The female lines are Monica, Dawn, Georgia, Marguerite and Samantha. Could it be possible? Did Paul know his beloved was an android? Of course, he did. How not? He’d scorned March for loving Christian, yet now he had fallen for a robot. Fate’s vengeance? He must have read the literature and hurried to Mayfair. What of Daniel’s claim that Paul was blackmailing the electronics company? Was Georgia part of the payoff? The irony would have been laughable if Christian weren’t a heap of spare parts.

  March flopped into a chair, staring at her reflection in the sliding glass door. “Paul, you son of a bitch, I’ll take great pleasure in telling you I know what your lady love is. My pitiful revenge will be to ridicule you the way you ridiculed me. If the boys weren’t looking forward to camping, I’d face you with the truth right now.”

  Feeling much older than her years, she labored to her feet and took the dishes into the kitchen.

  Chapter 18

  Monday afternoon, vengeance was hers.

  “Hi, March.” Paul waved to her from his parking space three cars down. His lips wore the ever-present smile. “Would you like to come to dinner one night? Georgia is an awesome cook.”