Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap

by Cynthia Hamilton

“Got any prospects?”

  “No, not really. I’m sure I’m good at something, I just can’t remember what it is.”

  “You’d make some lucky guy one hell of a wife,” Mike hinted.

  “Oh please! Don’t even pretend that’s an option. Just because I’m single again doesn’t mean we have to torture ourselves with another bad relationship.”

  “We didn’t have a bad relationship,” Mike protested.

  “No, you’re right—we had three or four,” Madeline reminded him.

  “They weren’t all bad,” Mike insisted meekly. Madeline had to laugh.

  “Right. And they say hindsight’s 20/20.”

  “Okay, now that I’ve gotten your car sold and let you trash my fond memories of our time together, I suppose you’re ready to move on. No, no—it’s alright. I’ll pull through somehow. But if you ever need me again, I’ll come running.”

  “I know. That goes for me, too. We’re better friends than lovers…”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that…”

  “Okay, crazy man, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a week to sort my life out, and so far it’s not looking very promising.”

  “If I may make an innocent suggestion…”

  “What is it?” Madeline asked guardedly.

  “I think you should stay over in L.A. at least a day. You really can’t do anything until you find a replacement car, and you might as well take advantage of the competition down here.”

  In the excitement of becoming $80,000 richer, Madeline had overlooked the fact that she was now car-less. She was no longer privileged to have a stable of high-end automobiles at her disposal. She saw her monetary triumph suddenly dwindle.

  “You’re right. What was I thinking? I don’t even know what kind of car I should be shopping for. I don’t even know what cars cost these days.”

  “You can always lease something.”

  “Yeah, but what?”

  “Guess that’s one more thing for your ‘to do’ list,” Mike said. Madeline sighed. She was even less equipped for the single life than she realized.

  From her cozy, spherical beach cabana on the hotel’s plot of white sand, Madeline took a hard look at her prospects. As she would be solely responsible for her success from this point forward, she started with an assessment of her physical attributes.

  At forty, she was still in good shape. Thanks to a rigorous workout regimen and a mostly stringent diet, her figure was basically the same as when she left the singles arena. Her body had not betrayed her with the inevitable sagging of skin and muscle yet. The amount of time, effort and money that had gone into skincare had paid off, so she counted that as a check in the plus column.

  Her wardrobe and jewelry would get her through many years—maybe not on the cutting edge of fashion, but she would still be considered well-dressed by most standards. So, on the exterior, she was on solid ground. On those two fronts, she gave herself a B+.

  Where she had allowed herself to fall behind was in the professional domain. She hadn’t held a real job for almost thirteen years. Fortunately, keeping up with technology was not only hip but essential for a woman of her means in this day and age. As far as skill sets went, she felt comfortable enough that she could learn to work any software program put in front of her.

  But what field would she best be suited for? That was the big question. From straight work experience, she was not qualified for much. With the fierce job market, this would make it especially hard. She tried to envision herself interviewing for job placement, imagining the kinds of questions she’d have to answer. It was not a comforting prospect. Nor was the thought of resorting to her last occupation, which was hotel concierge.

  Besides, where could she do that? She didn’t want to go back to Denver; she hadn’t kept pace with the changes there and would not find it easy to land a job. Santa Barbara was the place she knew best, but where would she feel comfortable sitting in full view of everyone, including her former friends. How humiliating would that be? Besides, the pay wasn’t great. No, another avenue had to be found. But what else was she qualified to do?

  In an attempt to pump up her attributes, she made a mental list of her talents. She had a gift for shopping, no one could deny that. But she had a hard time picturing herself rounding up outfits for the fashion-challenged in a department store.

  What else did she know how to do? She was stumped. She had considered herself a good wife, but applying for that position again was not an option, not after what she’d just been through, not for the foreseeable future, at any rate.

  Other than that, all she had done for the last twelve years was issue orders, plan events or serve on nonprofit boards.

  Of course! she thought, realizing belatedly that she had learned some marketable skills. She had become quite adept at organizing functions of all sizes and budgets. She could do what she’d been doing for years and get paid. And it would be an easy transition; instead of just shelling out the cash, she could be pocketing some of it too. What a perfect idea!

  With that end in mind, she began to examine the logistics of setting up her own company. She started making a list on her iPhone of what it would take to put her in business. All she really needed was a website, some business cards and some referrals. This last thought gave her pause; could she really switch from the front entrance to the back so seamlessly? Would her friends be so accepting and supportive now that she wasn’t married to Steven Ridley, man of many charms and accomplishments?

  If I approached it with the right attitude… she mused. Many women have reinvented themselves after divorce, she reasoned. Events by Madeline, she tried on for size. She frowned; not exciting enough. Life of the Party. That had potential.

  Yes, yes—she could see herself in the business of planning events for others. It would still be noble work, even if she wasn’t giving of her time and experience for free. She would do it. She would have a career.

  Feeling as though she had made sizable headway, she became restless. She needed movement. But frolicking in the water didn’t qualify. She needed a change of scenery. She needed to meander. She packed up her bag and headed for a neighboring hotel.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Madeline awoke with a start. Sleep had a disorienting effect on her these days. The room was bright with afternoon sun. A trail of dried saliva ran from the corner of her mouth to her chin. She wiped it away, wondering how long she’d been out.

  The impromptu nap left her feeling drugged; every movement required thought and effort. She sat up on the bed, right leg dangling off the side. Being several time zones ahead of normal was confusing enough without the loss of her customary existence. She consulted the time converter app on her iPhone.

  It was 4:10 Saturday afternoon, which made it 10:10 p.m. on Friday, PST. Her mental clock was so out of kilter, she felt as though it were only morning. She had to fall into some sort of groove, or she’d be doubly confused by the time she got home. Home. Where was home? She had to figure that out soon and get something lined up before Thursday, or she’d find herself living in a hotel room again.

  She grabbed Burt’s phone and rang his number as she went to the minibar for something to rehydrate her parched throat. She chugged down a bottle of water as she absently listened to Burt’s message. When she heard the tone, she belatedly hung up. She carried the phone out to the balcony and took a seat while she waited for a return call.

  She was so absorbed with myriad thoughts, twenty minutes passed before she realized Burt had not called back yet. 10:35 wasn’t too late she decided, redialing his number. She hung up this time when she heard the recorded message. She stared at the phone, willing it to ring. After another five minutes, she tried again. Still no answer.

  She didn’t like being out of touch with her P.I. Without his updates, it would be easy to languish in this idyllic setting.
She needed his reality checks to tether her to what was left of her life. She also needed his daily reports to fuel her hopes of getting concrete proof of Steven’s crimes. Or at least some of them.

  As she showered, she weighed the pros and cons of vacation rentals versus long-term leases. It seemed like all she thought of these days was finding a place to live. It made her feel so ungrounded, like she had slipped the ties that bound her to earth and was floating aimlessly. At this point, it was hard to imagine she’d ever have a normal life again.

  She wrapped herself in a towel and took a seat at the desk. Once again she trawled through the various sites. She sent off three emails for properties that would suit her well for the time being. She had her fingers crossed on one in particular, but she’d take anything that would get her out of limbo.

  Having done all she could on that front for the time being, her mind wandered back to Burt. She was anxious to know how the interviews went. She had this niggling fear in the back of her mind that Steven had been able to throw up a wall, getting to the borrowers before they could make their statements. If that was the case, they’d be out of luck again.

  Unless…unless Steven wasn’t able to pay his investors back on every loan yet. They needed one small fissure to turn into an irreparable chasm. They’d found it; all they had to do was hand it over to the authorities and stand back. When Steven went down, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  As the sky darkened, she gave up hope of hearing from Burt until morning. Once again, she found herself starving. She realized with alarm that she hadn’t eaten anything in almost fourteen hours. No wonder I feel so out of it, she thought as she stood in front of the closet eyeing the weird concoction of clothing.

  She checked her tunics for signs of wear and odor, bagged one for the laundry pick up and slipped the other one on. She discovered a pair of Manolo Blahnik slides she had purchased at Saks during her revenge shopping spree went rather nicely with the cotton batiste. And so did the beautiful tanzanite pendant.

  She laughed as she looked at herself in the mirror. Designer wear meets beachcomber, she decided, a look that gave her spirits a much needed boost. She made a clutch out of her jewelry bag; it was just big enough to hold her two phones, lipstick, debit card and room key. She piled her hair into a messy up-do and went in search of a proper meal.

  The Westin had several bars and restaurants, offering something for all tastes. She’d had a hankering for pasta at the Italian ristorante, but even with the A/C going it still seemed too muggy for heavy fare. The sushi and teppanyaki bars at the Japanese restaurant were cool and inviting, and on closer inspection, very crowded. There was one chair available at the sushi bar and she took it.

  After she got herself seated and had been greeted by the sushi chef, she casually scoped out her fellow diners. To her right was a young Asian couple, who smiled and nodded politely. Perfect, Madeline thought, taking a relaxing sip of her sake. There was a man to her left, but he seemed to be with another man and woman. She let out a happy sigh as she looked over the menu.

  As soon as she had placed her order, the man to her left turned his attention toward her. He smiled and nodded, lifting his beer glass to her as she raised the sake cup to her lips. She smiled tightly and busied herself with her iPhone. This bought her a little time, but the man had obviously seen something he couldn’t get his fill of.

  “Where you from?” he asked, a jovial, non-threatening smile on his face.

  “California,” Madeline replied, looking quickly back to her phone.

  “That’s what I would’ve guessed,” he said, unperturbed by her apparent disinterest. “What part?”

  “Excuse me?” Madeline said with a distracted air. Some people just can’t take a hint.

  “Where in California do you live?”

  “The Central Coast.” The man nodded appreciatively.

  “I live in La Jolla,” he offered.

  “Nice.”

  “Paul Jahnke,” he said, reaching out a hand to her. Madeline was seconds away from asking for her order to go. But the thought of sitting in that lonely room again made her shake his hand, grudgingly. “Nice to know you…?”

  “Madeline.”

  “Madeline,” Paul repeated. “Pretty name. You don’t hear it very often, do you?”

  “Actually…I do.” To Madeline’s amazement, Paul found her reply inordinately funny.

  “So, pretty Ms. Madeline,” Paul said, shifting his body to face her, “what do you do in ‘the Central Coast’?”

  “I’m a homemaker,” Madeline said with no trace of a smile.

  “Ah,” Paul said, his eye going directly to her left hand. “I didn’t see a ring,” he said, half apology, half accusation.

  “I left it in the safe.”

  “On purpose?” Paul asked after a couple of beats. Before Madeline could assess her next move, the sushi chef placed a tray of yellowtail sashimi in front of her. A waitress appeared on her right with a bowl of steaming edamame. This was all Madeline needed as an excuse to pretend that Paul Jahnke didn’t exist.

  “So, what brings you to Guam?” Paul asked, all smiles and good will. Madeline made a face as she chewed a piece of sashimi. Paul waited patiently.

  “It’s just a stopover,” she said, hoping that would satisfy his curiosity.

  “I see. From where? Madeline chased the raw fish with a large swallow of sake while fabricating an alter ego.

  “Singapore,” she said, popping three soy beans into her mouth with one squeeze of the pod. Paul murmured vaguely.

  “What took you to Singapore?” he asked nonchalantly, as if quizzing a perfect stranger was his birthright. Madeline barely restrained herself from telling him to get lost. She glanced around, hoping to find a vacant seat somewhere else. The place was packed and a long line had formed.

  “I’m a freelance travel writer,” she said, liking the sound of it. She nodded, happy with her choice of fictitious career. Paul was apparently convinced, for he was nodding along with her.

  The sushi chef came to her rescue again, trading her empty plate for an exotic-looking sushi roll. He also checked in with Paul, giving her a moment’s peace. This had not turned into the relaxing dining experience she’d been hoping for. She had been craving human contact as much as she’d been craving food, but she had bargained on the more anonymous, less interactive type. It was just her luck to have found Mr. SoCal in a restaurant otherwise packed with foreigners.

  “So…you’re a writer and a homemaker,” Paul surmised. Madeline couldn’t be sure if he was challenging her or not, nor did she care. She nodded almost imperceptibly and went about devouring the sushi roll. The waitress placed a plate of freshwater eel next to her. Madeline was getting full just smelling it.

  “You’ve got a pretty good appetite for such a slender girl,” Paul said, looking hopeful, condescending and skeptical all at once. Madeline swallowed the mouthful of food and turned to face Paul.

  “I’m sorry to be rude, but I’m not really in the mood for small talk right now,” she said, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “I came down to eat some dinner so I could get some rest before my flight out. I’d really like to be alone with my own thoughts, if you don’t mind.”

  She couldn’t have gotten a chillier response if she had thrown a glass of sake in his face. He wore the startled expression of someone who’d never had his feelings hurt before. Without a word, he knocked back the remainder of his beer and motioned for the check.

  “Nice talking to you,” he said coldly, as he squirmed out of the chair. Madeline swung her knees out of the way and gave him as much room to maneuver as she could. She engrossed herself in the business of grabbing the slivers of eel with her chopsticks. Thinking she was out of harm’s way once Paul shoved his chair against the counter, she relaxed and brought the eel to her lips.

  �
�FYI, don’t think you’re going to fool anyone with that bullshit story. You’re no more the homemaker type than the guy behind the counter,” Paul said in a voice just above a whisper. She looked up at him reflexively. Their eyes met for one long, unnerving second. It felt like all the blood in her body had turned to ice. She looked away, feigning obliviousness to this passing stranger’s departure.

  Although her appetite had been snuffed out, Madeline lingered for another fifteen minutes. She felt exposed and vulnerable and didn’t want to walk out into the lobby to find him waiting for her. But the longer she sat there, the more anxious she became. She paid her check and left the restaurant as fast as her Manolos would carry her.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Madeline’s eyes sprang open, triggering a wave of nausea. She got her physical and mental bearings and checked the time. 3:45. She had fallen into a regular schedule, but it was not compatible to either of the time zones that mattered.

  She got up and went to the bathroom. She was tired and strung-out, yet she knew that if she got back in bed she’d only toss and turn. She switched on a few lights, squinting at the glare. She ordered coffee and yogurt with fresh fruit and dry whole wheat toast and slipped into her tunic.

  By that time, it was almost 10 a.m. in Santa Barbara; a good time to reach Burt, but it was also a Saturday. She had to concede that the man needed to sleep sometime. He had been working on her case for nine days straight. She had to give the guy a break and trust he would contact her as soon as he was able. She knew this was the right thing to do, yet she was about ready to start crawling the walls.

  In the end, she laid Burt’s phone down. More than likely, his was turned off, so calling would be useless, anyway. She picked up her iPhone and dialed Mike. Maddeningly, her call went straight to voicemail. She took it personally, as if the two men she counted on the most had consciously decided to avoid her.

  She knew she was being oversensitive and irrational; being remanded to the island of Guam made her feel utterly isolated and forgotten. It made her seethe to think of how Steven had completely overturned her life, stripping her of any rights or choice. He framed her and disposed of her as easily as if she’d been an insubordinate employee. Maybe that’s all she’d ever been to him, a necessary associate, the essential “wife”—his assured entry into Montecito society.