Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

A manda straightened her tank top, tugging it to her waistline while she ran down the stairs. "Coming!" she yelled, her sweatshirt trailing behind her like Linus's blanket. She called over her shoulder, "Girls, you have five minutes until breakfast."

At the bottom of the stairs, she slipped, righted herself, and shuffled across the wood floor to the front door. She unlocked the deadbolt and yanked it open without looking through the peephole, but it wasn't Mark on the other side of the door, it was Chris. He wore a dark suit with a turquoise shirt and matching tie. His closely-cropped hair and clean-shaven face would still fit in the Marines, but the roll that hung over his pants was an accessory he'd added since retirement.

"Oh, hi." She smiled, crossing her arms over her tank top, protection against the blast of cold air.

He didn't return her smile. "Is Mark here yet?"

"Nope. He should be any minute, though. Come on in."

She stepped aside to let Chris through, then closed the door behind him. After three precise steps, he stopped, standing straight as if at attention. A manila envelope hung from his left hand.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I have some stuff for him. He told me to meet him here at seven."

Amanda glanced at the digital clock on her microwave. "He's a little late. Can I get you some coffee or something?"

"I have a cup in the car."

She nodded.

He lifted the envelope and tapped it against the palm of his right hand. Tap, tap, tap.

She realized two things quite suddenly. One, this was the first time she'd seen Chris since she and Mark separated, and two, Chris, usually very friendly, was glaring at her. Although she'd known Chris had been Mark's superior in the service, she'd always thought of him as a kind, gentle man, never seeing him in a tough Marine demeanor. She'd never been able to picture him carrying a gun, either, but the image wasn't so difficult to conjure now. He looked angry and, when she looked into his icy gray eyes, terrifying.

She forced another smile. "What's in the envelope?"

"He gave me some names to look up," he said, still tapping the envelope on his palm. "This is what I found."

"I can't believe you let him drag you into his paranoia." A nervous chuckle escaped. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about."

"Do you know his nickname?" he asked.

Amanda slipped on her sweatshirt, suddenly needing the protection, and not just from the cold. "Uh . . . you call him pro, right?"

Tap, tap, tap. "Do you know why?"

She shrugged. "I guess I assumed he behaved like a professional. Is that not it? "

"It's short for prophet."

She shifted onto the other foot. The girls were giggling upstairs. She didn't want them to come down yet. "Did he make a lot of money or something?"

"Not that kind of profit. The kind who sees into the future. The kind who knows things."

"Oh." She'd seen that skill at work. The nickname made sense.

He tossed the envelope onto the dining room table. "Can I tell you a story about something that happened over there?"

Over there. In Afghanistan. "I guess."

"We were on the road one miserably hot day. Some of the villagers were happy to see us. Every so often, we'd stop for a few minutes. In the back of one of the trucks, we had a bunch of soccer balls, and we'd been handing them out. I was with a buddy. We were taking a break, waiting for orders. Mark was standing next to the driver's window, and they were laughing about something."

Chris shuttered his face, something she'd often seen her husband do when memories overcame him. When the wave passed, he focused on her again. "This kid was walking toward us. Young, skinny kid, maybe eleven or twelve. He was smiling and waving and yelling, 'Ball! Ball!' I reached in the back of the truck to grab one of the soccer balls, figuring he'd seen another boy with one. I started to walk toward him. All of a sudden, Mark grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, yanked me backwards, and flipped me over the side of the truck into the bed. Climbing in beside me, he pounded on the side and yelled, 'Drive!'"

Chris scrubbed his face with his hands before dropping them to his sides. "I thought he was crazy. Why would he run from a skinny kid? We weren't fifty yards away when that kid . . . exploded. Suicide bomber."

She gasped. "How did Mark know?"

"I don't know. He doesn't know. He just . . . knew. It was only because he'd done that so many times—seen things nobody else saw—that we survived. If Mark said run, we ran. That's how he got the name prophet ."

"Wow, I didn't?—"

"If not for Mark, Jamie'd be a widow. So, if he says your psychiatrist friend is a threat, Amanda, then you're in danger. And, for the record, he didn't drag me into anything."

She blinked. "I didn't mean anything by it. I was just trying to make conversation."

Chris half-smiled. "You want to make conversation? Why don't you tell me why you kicked him out?"

She propped her hands on her hips. "That's none of your business."

The smile faded. "Then I guess we don't have anything to talk about."

Amanda's heart pounded. How dare he? She stared at him, and he stared back. The only sound in the room came from the girls giggling upstairs.

A car door slammed, and a moment later, Mark entered. "Sorry I'm late. I had to run some tools by the Carlisle house so the guys could get started." He stopped, looked back and forth between them. "Is everything okay?"

Chris nodded to Mark. "Of course." He reached for the envelope on the dining room table and handed it to him. "Here you go. Let me know what else I can do."

"Will do." Mark squinted at Amanda again, studied her face. He turned back to Chris. "What were you two talking about?"

"Just small talk. I gotta run. Call me before you get to work on that stuff."

Chris disappeared out the door.

Mark turned to her and frowned. "What did I miss?"

She shrugged. "He hates me."

Mark studied her. "He doesn't hate you. He just doesn't understand why you're doing this."

"You could explain it to him."

"I could, except I don't understand, either."

They stared at each other, the cold air swirling between them. There was nothing to say.

She walked to the bottom of the stairs and called, "Hey girls, come downstairs and get your shoes on. Your dad's here."

Clambering feet on the ceiling turned into pitter-patters on the stairs as each of the girls skidded down and hugged her daddy.

Silently, Amanda scrambled eggs, prepared toast, and poured juice while the girls chatted with Mark.

Chris's anger had surprised her. She knew he and Jamie didn't like divorce, but Jamie had been so understanding about it. Not supportive, but she understood how unhappy Amanda was. Chris . . . Chris seemed livid. What had Mark told him? She tried to picture the two men having a heart-to-heart about her marriage. The thought made her stomach ache as she scooped eggs onto two plates.

"You hungry, Mark?"

"You cooking?"

"Just eggs. Want me to make you some?"

Ten minutes later, the four of them sat down to breakfast. The girls each had a spoonful of scrambled eggs while Mark enjoyed a three-egg omelet with peppers, onions, ham, and cheddar—his favorite. Amanda nibbled on a slice of buttered whole wheat toast slathered with her homemade crabapple jelly.

"Where's your friend?" she asked .

He shrugged. "He'll be here."

"You're going to be late to work."

He swallowed a huge bite of eggs. "I'm taking the day off to do some research."

She thought of the manila envelope. A half hour ago, she would have told him he was paranoid, but after Chris's story . . . her mouth went dry, and she struggled to swallow a bite of toast. Maybe Mark was right. Maybe she was in danger.

While Mark and his friend installed the security system, Amanda ran the girls to school and then holed up in her office. She wrote the next day's blog post, responded to some comments on the blog, and was halfway through editing a chapter in her latest cookbook when Mark tapped on the door and popped his head in. "We're done. Can I show you how it works?"

It took him half an hour to explain. Apparently he'd installed the Mercedes-Benz of security systems. She was afraid she'd need a Master's degree to figure out how it worked.

She wasn't sorry to see Mark go. His detail-oriented mind drove her nuts, but she couldn't help being thankful for the alarm system. She had a hard time thinking Gabriel would hurt her.

But she thought about the note that had come with those yellow roses, not to mention her run-in with him in the hotel lobby.

She thought about his palms, hot on her thighs.

She sipped her coffee, but it wasn't warm enough to stave off the cold fear that dripped down her spine.

The alarm was set. She was safe and halfway down the hall when the house phone rang. Quickening her pace, she rushed into the office and grabbed it before the machine could pick it up. "Hello?"

"Hello, Amanda, dear."

It was the only monster more terrifying than Dr. Gabriel Sheppard. Her mother-in-law.

"Hello, Pat."

"Is my son home?"

"Home? What do you mean?"

The older woman cleared her throat. Her voice had that condescending tone Amanda despised. "Well, dear, I mean is he there, in the house?"

She'd hoped that once Mark moved out, she wouldn't have to talk to his mother again. "No. Why would he be?"

Her mother-in-law offered a cold, humorless, "Huh."

Amanda could picture her on the other end of the line, her dragon-face lined with scowl lines. Her eyelids, always swathed in dark brown eye shadow, hanging heavy over her gray, dead eyes. Amanda could see the tapered claw-like fingers tapping against the exquisite antique desk—imported from England, of course—and her long thin legs crossed perfectly at the ankles beneath it. If Amanda were there, the woman would be standing, lording her height over her in an effort to intimidate. But Amanda hadn't been intimidated by the woman in years. Dragons were mythical, and Pat's power proved to be the same.

Amanda waited for her to say something, but the woman remained silent. Surely if she waited long enough, Pat's fiery breath would eventually melt the phone, and Amanda would be off-the-hook. She stifled a giggle, and she could hardly keep the smile out of her voice when she asked, "Can I help you with something?"

"Aren't we curt this morning? I was wondering if you had plans for Thanksgiving. I would like to see my granddaughters, since you didn't bother to bring them around during the holidays last year. And I know you hate to be here for Christmas."

A familiar flush of shame washed over her. Pat wouldn't let her forget that terrible holiday. It was the Christmas after Mark proposed. The woman would never forgive her.

As if she'd had a choice. The head chef's sister had been in a terrible car accident. Somebody had to cover for him, and Amanda—she was ashamed to admit—was all too happy to volunteer. Any excuse to avoid spending a week in the dragon's lair. Besides that, filling in for the head chef was a great opportunity to show the owner what she could do. A few days of hard work and she hoped to earn the promotion she'd been dreaming of for months.

She and Mark had the biggest fight of their relationship when she told him she'd volunteered to work. He went to New Hampshire without her. She agreed to drive up as soon as she got off work Christmas Eve. The fact that she did, indeed, get promoted after that week was small consolation, knowing what the promotion had cost.

In her defense, who knew Mark's parents were going to announce their divorce the day before Christmas Eve?

When Mark called her and told her the news, she'd wanted to rush up to New Hampshire to be with him, but she was at work. She arranged to have someone work for her the following day and, after her shift ended, she went home to her small apartment in Providence, slept a couple of hours, and drove to Mark's childhood home in the pre-dawn hours on December twenty-fourth.

She arrived just after sunrise to find Pat sipping coffee at the kitchen table. Mark, Pat informed her, had not come home the night before.

Amanda called his cell, only to hear it ringing in the bedroom upstairs .

Pat spent the next hour theorizing about what might have happened to him. Maybe he was lying drunk in a ditch somewhere. Maybe he was in jail. Maybe they should check the hospitals. If only Amanda had been there for him, none of it would have happened.

She'd been too shocked to defend herself. She stared at the door, willing Mark to come back, praying Pat's theories were wrong, trying to come up with an explanation that didn't involve his death. Or arrest. The only one she came up with involved another woman, and the other woman in her imagination was Annalise, his high school sweetheart.

And then she hoped he'd been arrested. They could recover from that, but if he cheated on her . . .

Mark walked in the door around eight o'clock wearing rumpled clothes and a day-old beard. He greeted her with a kiss and a mask that tried to say he was happy to see her.

"Where've you been?" she asked with a shaky voice.

"Dad's. I stopped by to see his new apartment last night, and we had a couple of drinks. I didn't want to drive home."

Pat took over the conversation from there. "Oh, you were getting drunk with your father, and you couldn't be bothered to call? I've been worried sick. Figures it never occurred to either of you to call me . . ."

Mark dropped the mask, revealing pure guilt beneath it. He'd apologized to his mother, who offered a morsel of forgiveness along with a feast of bitterness. Typical fare cooked up by Patricia Truman Johnson.

They escaped to Mark's childhood bedroom, where Amanda apologized for not being there for him. He forgave her quickly, like always, but sometimes she wondered if he still held a grudge.

At least there was no question where Pat stood on the matter. The woman hated her, had long before that day. But Amanda didn't have to put up with her condemnation any longer.

"I guess you'll have to talk to Mark about the holidays," Amanda said, trying to sound polite. "We haven't worked out a schedule, but if he wants to make the trip?—"

"What do you mean, you haven't worked out a schedule?"

"For the holidays."

"Well, I wonder if perhaps you two could pencil me into your holiday schedule ." The final word dripped with sarcasm. "If it's not too much trouble."

"What do you mean us two ? If Mark wants to bring the kids to see you, that's his prerogative. I won't stop him."

The silence on the other end of the phone lasted so long, she wondered if they'd been disconnected. "Pat?"

"What's going on, Amanda? Is there something you need to tell me?"

"Something I need to . . . ?" With a jolt, Amanda understood the problem. Mark hadn't told his mother they were separated. Amanda didn't know why—the woman would be jubilant.

Well, now that she and Mark weren't together, Amanda didn't have to put up with the dragon lady's fiery remarks any longer.

"Mark didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"We're separated."

Another long silence. Amanda figured Pat was trying to stifle a triumphant shout. Finally she said coldly, "He finally wised up, did he? Realized he married the wrong girl?"

Jealousy seared her heart like a cold roast in a hot Dutch oven. Pat had always thought Mark should have married Annalise. High school sweetheart-turned-supermodel, the girl had been winking at Amanda from magazine covers for ten years. Beautiful face, perfect body, and, to hear Pat tell it, delightful disposition.

Amanda swallowed her bitterness. "Something like that."

"Well, I knew it wouldn't last."

"Was there anything else you needed, Pat?"

Click.

Good riddance.

Fifteen minutes later, her phone rang again. Checking the Caller I.D. this time, she saw it was Mark. "Hello?"

"You told my mother ?"

She sat up straighter. "You didn't tell your mother?"

"Why would I?"

"Why wouldn't you? I'd think you'd be thrilled to give her some happy news."

"What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking you'd already told her. How was I supposed to know? And why didn't you?"

"Because . . . you know why. I knew she'd be . . . I didn't want to hear it, okay? The last thing I ever want to do is prove my mother right."

"Fine, then you can burst her bubble, since she's quite sure you wised up and left me."

Silence ticked between them. She felt herself drawing further and further away from him and wondered illogically if he were driving out of town. The silence lengthened, the space between them filling with memories and disappointments.

When he finally spoke, his anger was gone, his voice low. "I told her, Amanda. I told her you kicked me out, and I told her I was going to do whatever I had to do to win you back. I told her I loved you and I always would. And when she told me I was a fool, I hung up on her."

Amanda’s heart stuttered.

"I didn't tell her we'd separated because, as far as I'm concerned, this is temporary. I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you."

Her throat ached with tears. "It's too late, Mark. I'm sorry." Another long silence. She couldn't stand it. "I'm sorry."

"I have to go."

This time when she heard the click, Amanda laid her head in her hands and wept.