The Best Next Thing

by Natasha Anders

  “Wait. Hold on,” he lifted his head to peer into her face. “What? You’re a chiropractor?”

  “Yes. But I’ve never practiced on anybody outside of the university clinic. I married straight out of university, and even though I went into marriage with Blaine thinking I’d set up shop after a year or so of wedded bliss, he needed to have control over every aspect of my life. And allowing me to have a career would have afforded me a measure of independence that he did not want me to have. I was young and stupid and, after a while, much too terrified of him to defy him.”

  “You’re a chiropractor? A fucking doctor? And you’re working as my housekeeper?”

  “I mean, some would argue chiropractors don’t hold medical degrees so they’re not technically doctors.”

  “You fix people’s bones,” he rejoined. “You’re a doctor.”

  “That’s oversimplifying it. Anyway, I think what I’m trying to say is that my resignation will probably be effective as of the day your stay here ends.”

  “Will you go back to it? Chiropracting, I mean? Can you? After what? Six years of not practicing? Is that allowed?”

  “Despite my fear of the repercussions, I did hang on to my practice number. It meant attending seminars and at least one conference while we were married. I lied to Blaine about where I was going on those days. And the conference I managed to attend was within driving distance, and happily fell on a weekend Blaine was away on a fishing trip with the church youth.

  “The prospect of being caught in that lie was terrifying, but absolutely worth the risk. I fought hard to hang on to that number and everything it represents. Blaine controlled so many aspects of my life…but that was the one part of me I wouldn’t let him have. I’ve remained up-to-date on techniques and the latest innovations. And I’ve also been studying for a clinical competency test. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll take it… but I’ve been studying for the last year. The exam will test my knowledge and suitability to practice after such a long absence from the field.”

  He didn’t say anything, and she propped her chin onto her hand to better see his face. His expression was inscrutable, and he remained mute for a moment while he stared fiercely into her eyes.

  “You’re so fucking brave. And so incredibly beautiful,” he murmured, his face softening as he tugged her up for a sweet kiss. Not saying anything further about what had basically amounted to a verbal resignation.

  They lay like that for a while, her head on his chest, his hands stroking her back.

  “Do you need to take a nap or grab something to drink?” The question came some minutes later. “Perhaps have a snack? Or are you ready for round two?”

  His accelerated breathing made a liar out of that insouciant drawl.

  She laughed and dragged a thigh over the erection that had not quite waned since “round one”. “I probably won’t fade away from hunger or thirst just yet. So why don’t we do something about this chronic swelling you have over here, sir?”

  He chuckled and covered her lips with his. And for the next forty-five minutes all talk of a serious nature was suspended.

  “Do you have to leave?”

  “You sound like a sulky little boy,” Charity teased, and then automatically tensed. Sometimes, it crept up on her, that instinct for self-preservation. The feeling of unease that never quite left her. The lizard brain that reminded her that teasing a man could result in swift and violent backlash.

  But this particular man laughed, his eyes wrinkling attractively at the corners. “I know. Sulky and selfish, yeah? I’ve had you to myself for the last two days. I’m sure you must be bored out of your mind by now. You definitely need to go out and have some gal pal fun.”

  Her instances of fear and hypervigilance were decreasing by the day. Because of Miles’s good-natured responses to statements from her that would have resulted in swift and violent reprisals from Blaine.

  “You know you don’t bore me, Miles.”

  No. He charmed, seduced, challenged, and interested her. But he definitely did not bore her. The last couple of days had been filled with fantastic sex, sure. But she had also laughed with him, played with him, walked, swam, and talked with him. She had fallen in like with him a while ago…but that like was deepening, becoming less tenuous and more substantial.

  And that scared her, because she didn’t want to want more from him. This was enough.

  But it was starting to feel like too little.

  She was relieved that she had committed to spending the afternoon with Lia McGregor today. It would afford her some much needed breathing room. Time to think, regroup, figure out what her next move should be. Being around Miles twenty-four seven was clouding her judgment. She needed to find some clarity, and she could only do that when he wasn’t around to distract her with his body, or his wicked sense of humor, his big sexy brain, and his kind, generous nature.

  It was ridiculous how much Miles missed Charity after she left for her lunch with Lia McGregor. He pottered around the house, took Stormy for a walk, and texted his mother and sister. He had also contacted both Hugh and Bryan and badgered them into giving him updates on a couple of contract negotiations he had been working on before getting ill.

  But that barely ate into his time without Charity. The house smelled like her. He loved that he could go into any room and find a lingering trace of her subtle perfume.

  These last two days had been amazing. And he was already dreading the day he would have to say goodbye to her permanently.

  He was sitting in the solarium, his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him and impulsively called up his rarely used Facebook account. He had four friends, his family and Bryan, and a few hundred friend requests. The only pictures of himself on the page were ones added by Hugh and Vicki. Photos he hadn’t even known existed. He glared at one taken of him at that very house, headphones over his ears, while he stood on the dock, hands in his trouser pockets, staring sullenly out at the lake.

  He looked like a miserable tosser.

  In fact, he looked like a moody bastard in most of their vacation photos. His expressions ranged from mildly exasperated, to bored, to fully pissed off.

  Jesus. He was amazed they continued trying to include him in anything. He would have written himself off as a lost cause years ago if the positions had been reversed.

  But he wasn’t on Facebook to contemplate his failings as an older brother. He typed the name Charity Cole into the search bar, but all it yielded was a handful of Charity Coles who were decidedly not his Charity.

  He tried Blane Cole next. No one who seemed to be the douchebag he was searching for. Then Blaine Cole…more smiling faces. But he didn’t think any of them were the bastard.

  He rubbed his chin, absently noting the need for a shave, before minimizing Facebook and opening a Google search page.

  He could call his attorney and ask who had recommended Charity for the job, but this search already felt like a major intrusion into her privacy.

  This time he went broader with his search parameters, typing in Pastor Blaine and Charity and Cole to see what would come up.

  Bingo!

  Several news articles, from just over three years ago.

  Miles clicked on the top article, Popular Minister Takes Own Life. Below the headline was a wedding picture of a beaming Charity and a good looking arsehole in a tux.

  Miles stared at the picture for a long while. She looked so young and happy. Her hair was much shorter. A sleek, chin length bob. Her smile was all sunshine and joy and rainbows. Miles had never seen that particular smile on her. And he wondered if it was gone forever.

  A tragic loss if it was. And yet another reason to hate the fucker in the picture next to her. He had violently stolen that joy from her.

  Miles scrubbed a hand over his face and took a bracing breath before reading.

  Blaine and Charity Davenport.

  She had changed her name. Likely reverted back to her maiden name. Who could blame her? She hadn�
��t wanted to keep anything of his. Not his ring and—apparently—not his name.

  The details of the story made him sick to his stomach. The bastard had shot himself. While Charity had been asleep in bed beside him. No reason for the suicide was given. A police statement that the circumstances of his death had been deemed “not suspicious” and “self-inflicted” had been swiftly issued. The article ended with glowing avowals from “parishioners” and “friends” about how wonderful and caring and kind he had been. So selfless. Always putting others first. People were described as being “heartbroken” at the loss.

  Too many not-so-subtle inferences that perhaps his marriage hadn’t been as happy as it had appeared on the surface. The wording implying that his wife hadn’t been as supportive of his work as perhaps she should have been.

  Fuckers! No wonder she had fled.

  The article ended with the family’s plea for privacy during “this difficult time”.

  He read a few more articles. They were all pretty similar. There was a glowing obituary. Funeral notice and then interest in the story had tapered off.

  Armed with a name, Miles headed back to Facebook. And this time immediately found the bastard’s page. It was open to the public and in memoriam. There were posts as recent as three days ago, stating how much his parishioners and family and community still loved and missed him.

  Miles wanted to puke, reading about this wonderful, amazing wife beating motherfucker. He had seen all the faded scars on Charity’s body. Some she had happily explained. Childhood accidents, a bad hang gliding landing, rollerblades, ice skating, cycling. Tales of an active, adventurous girl and young woman. Others—far too fucking many of them—she had clammed up about. And he knew that those had come from Blaine. Burns, cuts, the scar on her forehead, and a small, oddly shaped crater on her thigh.

  He didn’t want to hear about them, but at the same time he wanted to know. Needed her to share these war stories with him. Even though he didn’t want them in his mind or memories.

  He found himself occupying a conflicting emotional space, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

  He sighed deeply as he scrolled through Blaine Davenport’s pictures.

  He had been a tall, handsome, sandy haired man, with a blindingly perfect smile. Miles could see how this golden pretty boy could charm those around him. Beguile them. Deceive them into thinking he was an actual human being instead of a total fucking monster.

  Miles paid particular attention to Charity in the pictures and he couldn’t understand how no one had seen how unhappy she had been. She always had a smile pasted on her face. One that never reached her eyes. Nothing at all like the wedding picture. Her smiles after her wedding had been fake, forced…and so sad, it just about broke Miles’s heart to see them.

  How had her family, her friends…people who had known her for years, not seen this transformation? When it was as clear as day to him?

  The long sleeves, the high-necked blouses, the neckerchiefs. All perfectly respectable for a pastor’s wife, but Miles knew what they were hiding.

  He made a distressed sound, and Stormy’s head lifted from where it had been planted on his thigh. He stroked her ears, needing the contact and comfort.

  He went through Blaine’s “friend” list and found a name that rang a bell.

  Faith Culpepper. The accompanying picture of a smiling woman hugging a familiar looking little girl confirmed that it was Charity’s sister.

  Miles stared at the profile picture for a long time, telling himself it was none of his business. He should stay out of it. Just enjoy his time with Charity and eventually move on.

  He opened up a direct message and stared at the blank page for a while. They weren’t friends, odds were she probably wouldn’t even see the message. And if she didn’t reply then that was fine. He wouldn’t pursue this any further.

  Fuck.

  His fingers restlessly tapped the glass-topped coffee table as he continued to stare at the page. Charity could well hate him for this.

  Eventually, as if by their own volition his hands lifted and his fingertips splayed on the keyboard.

  Good morning. My name is Miles Hollingsworth…

  The house was quiet when Charity arrived back after five that evening. She was so late. It was just supposed to be lunch, and Miles would have expected her back hours ago.

  Her stomach was in knots as she cautiously made her way to the kitchen. She didn’t know why she was so nervous…so afraid.

  This was Miles.

  Miles wouldn’t hurt her. He didn’t want to control her. Or own her. And just because they were now lovers didn’t mean she owed him any explanations as to her whereabouts.

  She told herself all of that, and still her dread would not dissipate. And every hesitant step farther into the quiet house, deepened her anxiety.

  “Miles?” No response.

  Well, no human response…she heard the scrabble of claws on the wooden floors as Stormy dashed from the direction of the living room into the kitchen. The dog danced and twirled happily, huffing and whining in excitement as she greeted Charity.

  “Hey girl, did you miss me?” she asked, bending at the waist to pat the pup’s head.

  “She did.” Miles’s voice startled her, and she looked up to find him standing in the kitchen doorway. “We both did.”

  “Uh…I’m sorry I’m late.” Charity could have kicked herself. It hadn’t been her intention to apologize. It was an unfortunate instinctive response she had to work on getting rid of.

  His eyes reflected confusion.

  “I wasn’t aware that there was a time limit on your afternoon out,” he said, and then smiled. His eyes took on an appreciative glint as he assessed her appearance. “But it’s evident you’ve been quite busy.”

  One of her hands self-consciously went up to her newly shorn hair, and she straightened slowly. Lia had offered to accompany her to a salon after Charity had tentatively mentioned wanting a haircut. The drastic new style had been an impulse. She had stared blankly at herself in the mirror, while the stylist had enthused about the length and texture of her hair. Barely recognizing the woman hidden beneath all of that hair and the words had been out before she could stop them.

  Cut it all off.

  She had just about broken the stylist’s heart. But once she had spoken the words, Charity had been determined to follow through. She had happily donated her two-foot-long fall of hair to CANSA.

  Her hair hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in three years, and before that, it had been kept in a strictly jaw-length bob…as per Blaine’s preference. The change now was drastic. And defiant. Her nearly waist-length hair had been shorn into a soft, pixie cut. Charity had never had her hair this short before but she liked how light and airy it felt.

  But despite all that earlier certainty and determination, she now anxiously watched Miles for his reaction. Not because she needed his validation, but because of the other thing. The irrational fear that he would lash out because of a very personal decision she had made about her image. She knew that he loved her long hair, he had told her often enough. And her entire body was stiff with tension as she watched his every move, ready to bolt if he so much as…

  “God, you look gorgeous.” His words brought her panicked thoughts to a grinding halt. He didn’t seem to notice her tension, instead his gaze was still focused on her hair. “It’s a big change, but it does fantastic things for your bone structure and eyes. Then again, you could shave your head and still look lovely.”

  Charity swallowed thickly. Berating herself for being surprised by his words. He wasn’t anything like Blaine. She wasn’t making the same mistakes with the same awful kinds of men.

  “Shaving my head would be drastic,” she forced herself to say, struggling to insert some levity into her strained voice. “Although, going from nearly two feet of hair to barely two inches is pretty extreme in itself, I suppose.”

  He laughed and she relaxed even more.

  “What
did you two get up to while I was gone?” she asked. She bent at the waist to rub Stormy’s head again, grateful to have the dog there to offer some distraction.

  “We went for a short run on the shore—” He held up a palm when she opened her mouth to chastise him for that. “I paced myself and didn’t overdo it. But I’ve got to say…I’ve pretty much recovered most of my stamina…thanks to you.”

  He chuckled when she blushed and continued. “I also texted my sister and mother. I then called Bryan, as well as Hugh, and convinced them to give me a proper business update. Without tennis or golf anecdotes to bore me into hanging up. It seems that everything is going swimmingly without me. And, finally, I caught up on my audiobook.”

  “Oh? Did Willow and Delonix finish the second trials?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll expect an update later.”

  “Of course.”

  “Have you eaten? You must be starving.”

  “I ate. A cheese sandwich. I’m not completely helpless you know,” he said, with a grin, stepping toward her and winding an arm around her waist.

  Her weird earlier mood had dissipated beneath their banter, and she barely tensed at the gesture. She hoped the instinctive initial reaction was small enough for him not to notice.

  He gave her a quick kiss.

  “I missed you.”

  She twined her arms around his neck and reciprocated his next kiss with a lot more enthusiasm.

  “I barely thought of you,” she lied breathlessly after the kiss ended, and he laughed.

  “Good. That must mean you had fun.”

  “I did.”