Chapter 19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A manda dropped the girls off at school the next morning. They'd grumbled and complained all morning—the price of too much candy and too little sleep. But their crankiness didn't dampen her high spirits.

While she waited to exit the school parking lot, she dialed her lawyer, who answered on the second ring. "I want you to hold off filing the papers."

"You sure about this?"

"Absolutely." She'd decided to wait a month. Maybe she'd hold off forever. Forever sounded good.

"All right. I'll put the file away until I hear otherwise."

That chore done, Amanda slipped the phone into the pocket of her navy blue sweat suit and cranked up the oldies station. She sang out loud to the music, only stopping when she turned her car into her driveway and saw Mark's truck. Her heart skidded to a halt, then picked up speed. She smiled so wide, her cheeks hurt as she climbed from the car. What was he doing here? Maybe he couldn't wait to see her again. He loved her. Amanda thought she might float from the car.

Mark was sitting on her front step, his head propped on his hands. He looked up, and she froze in place. The soaring joy of a moment before collapsed like an undercooked soufflé. "What happened?"

His lips lifted at the corners just a touch—not a smile so much as a herculean effort not to frown. "Will you go for a ride with me?"

"Where?"

"Just for a ride."

She climbed into the passenger's seat of his pickup truck, inhaling the familiar scents of aftershave and sawdust. He closed the door behind her and slid into the driver's seat a moment later.

Without a word of explanation, Mark turned the car north.

How long had it had been since she'd been in his truck? A couple of months at least. Though it was a nice vehicle, Mark hated it. Or maybe it wasn't the truck so much as the work it represented. He hated construction. But the only other thing he felt qualified to do she'd begged him not to pursue. His dream job had been to work for the FBI or CIA, but he'd turned down both of their offers. She remembered too well her debilitating fear while Mark was fighting in Afghanistan, certain one day she would learn the love of her life had been killed on some dusty patch of earth in the middle of nowhere. She couldn't face that every day of her life. Reluctantly, he'd let his dream go and pursued her instead.

And so he worked construction and drove a truck. How selfish she'd always been. How generous he'd been in return.

How had she ever considered divorcing him?

He cleared his throat. He was obviously upset, but she wasn't worried. Whatever happened, they'd deal with it together.

Both of his hands squeezed the steering wheel. She reached across the front seat and touched his right wrist. He let go of the steering wheel and held her hand. He felt warm and safe, but his mouth was turned down at the corners, the tiny wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced.

"What's going on, Mark?"

He squeezed her hand. "Let's just ride for a few minutes. Do you have to be back at any particular time?"

She'd already called her lawyer. She'd posted her daily blog before she left the house. She'd planned to work on her edits, but somehow her latest book seemed unimportant as she considered the look on her husband's face. "I'm free till the girls get out of school."

"Good."

He wound his way toward the beach, though it wasn't a good day for a walk in the sand. Overcast skies and a cool breeze would keep her in the truck, but she knew how he loved the ocean.

The hope that had filled her since their conversation the night before staggered. "You're scaring me. Can you please tell me what's going on?"

His gaze flicked to hers. "Okay." He made a sharp left turn—they were definitely headed to Nantasket—straightened the car, and sighed. "I love you, Amanda. I fell in love with you the time I saw you. My feelings for you have grown stronger ever since."

She swallowed. "Okay."

"What I'm about to tell you . . . Please remember how much I love you. Last night, when I got home, Annalise was there."

"At your apartment? How . . . ?" Her voice rose. "You told her we were separated?"

"No, I didn't. I haven't spoken to her in years. But when you told my mother, she called Annalise."

"Oh. Of course. I should've seen that coming."

Mark glanced at her. She shrugged .

"There's more. See, the apartment across the hall from mine was empty, and Annalise rented it."

"She moved in?"

"Uh-huh. Yesterday. She has a job in Boston, and I guess she decided, if I was getting a divorce?—"

"Your mother told her we were getting a divorce?"

"Yeah. Did you . . . ? I mean, I wasn't sure exactly what you'd said to her."

"I told her we were separated. I didn't use the D-word."

Mark smirked. "Wishful thinking on Mom's part, I guess."

"Well, sure. And what a great way to try to get between us. You gotta hand it to Pat. She might breathe fire, but she's clever."

Mark almost smiled. "So, I'm going to move out as soon as I can find somewhere else to go."

Amanda studied his profile, his beautiful strong jaw, his troubled eyes. Was it too soon for him to move back in with her? She stifled a giggle. After last night, she knew she wanted him back.

"Why don't you?—?"

"There's more."

They both spoke at the same time. Amanda swallowed. "Okay."

"Thank you for being so rational about it. I really appreciate that. And you . . . you've always stood by me. If you knew . . . I mean, you don't know the things I did when I was deployed."

She blinked at the change in direction. "Mark, you were a soldier. Of course you?—"

"When I got home, all I wanted was you and my family and everything to be . . . right. It was so crazy over there, and I needed things to feel normal."

"That makes sense." He'd been different after he returned from the war. More serious. More intense. As time went on, the Mark she'd fallen in love with returned, and though he was different, she loved him just the same. Six months after he returned from Afghanistan, Mark was discharged from the Marines and moved to Providence to be near her. He proposed on Thanksgiving, and she'd accepted. And then there was that disastrous holiday.

"I'm sorry about that Christmas, if that's what you're thinking about," she said, though she'd apologized for it many times. "I didn't understand how important it was for me to be with you. I didn't really grasp what you'd been through in Afghanistan. Not that I do now, but . . ." She let her voice trail off. "And of course, I didn't know about your parents' divorce. Still, I should've been by your side. I was insensitive and selfish, and I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me, Amanda."

"But—"

"Don't." He turned to her, eyes burning in intensity.

Her words choked to a stop. There was something terribly wrong, something bigger than Annalise moving in across the hall.

He slowed into a parking space along the narrow stretch of beach and stared out at the waves. Tension filled the space between them, thick as peanut butter and just as clear. Minutes passed while she watched him. She couldn't stand the silence, but she didn't know what to say.

He turned to her and pulled her hand into his again. "I love you."

She smiled tentatively. "I love you, too."

It was the first time she'd said those words to him in months. Yet his countenance fell as though she'd hurt him.

"That Christmas . . ." He dropped her hand and looked past her.

She didn't want to know. Something terrible was coming, and she didn't want to know .

"I was really upset, and nothing was going the way I'd expected. When I was in Afghanistan, I'd think about the future. Sometimes, I think that's what kept me alive—thinking about you. I hoped by the holidays, we'd be engaged, and I'd imagine us together, you and me. And I'd fantasize about Christmas. My parents would be so happy about our engagement, and we would all hang around and play games and open presents. And then, you weren't there. And they were getting a divorce. And everything felt so wrong, and it was like, suddenly, I had no idea who I was. Like, if my parents didn't love each other, and you weren't there, maybe you didn't really love me. Maybe . . . I thought maybe it really was all just a fantasy. I felt so alone."

"I'm sorry, Mark. I'm so sorry. Will you ever forgive me?"

"I forgave you a long time ago, Mandy. This isn't about you. It's about what I did."

What I did? His words fell like a bomb. She remembered how he'd come home that morning, disheveled and guilty. She'd assumed he was sorry he'd made his mother worry. But maybe . . .

"I ran into Annalise that night."

Her hands flew up and hid her face. "No, no, no. Don't tell me. Please don't tell me."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was drunk, and she was?—"

"You slept with her?" Amanda's voice was raw, rough and frightened.

"It didn't mean anything. It was just that one time. I didn't see her again. I didn't call her. I never wanted anyone but you. Please?—"

Amanda pushed the door open, jumped out of the car, and ran.

Mark slipped out of the driver's side and followed, keeping pace about twenty yards behind. He'd expected her to run away from him when he told her Annalise had moved in across the hall, but she hadn't even been upset. In fact, there was a moment when he'd thought she might ask him to move back home. But he couldn't let her say the words, not until she heard the whole ugly truth.

And now she had, and she would never forgive him. At least he knew he'd have a few more minutes with her when he drove her home. It had probably been wrong to bring her here, knowing she'd want nothing to do with him after he told her. But Mark had more to say, and this was the only way he could guarantee she'd listen. Besides, for a few minutes on their ride out here, when she'd held his hand, told him she loved him, he could almost pretend they were happy. Those few precious moments were probably the last ones he'd have with his wife.

For the thousandth time since Annalise had left the night before, he tried to imagine how it would feel to know Amanda had been with another man. He remembered his own insane jealousy a few days earlier when he'd thought Alan had kissed her. And that was nothing compared to what he'd done. Yes, he'd spent the night trying to find justification for his choices. They weren't married yet—could he escape on that technicality? And he'd been suffering from PTSD. But he'd slept with Annalise because he was angry at everyone, and . . . well, she was so tempting.

Amanda tripped on the sidewalk, stumbled, and almost fell.

This because of one stupid, selfish night. He'd slept with his ex-girlfriend, a woman so beautiful, she made millions of dollars just to smile. He'd betrayed his one true love for an hour he barely remembered.

He hated himself for what he'd done to Amanda, to their marriage, and to his daughters. He didn't deserve them, he knew that. He intended to fight for them anyway. Amanda loved him, so they could get through this, if only she'd be willing to forgive him.

He watched as the strong, coastal wind blew Amanda's hair into her face. She grabbed a handful of it and held it at the back of her head. Her other hand continued to wipe her tears.

She slowed to a walk, slipped her hand into her sweat suit pocket, and pulled something out. When she raised it up, he saw it was her phone.

He caught up with her. "Who are you calling?"

She stopped and faced him. "None of your business."

"Look, walk all you want, okay? I'll wait for you and then?—"

"I'm calling Jamie for a ride home."

As gently as he could, he pried the phone out of her hand while she shouted a stream of obscenities he hadn't heard since he'd been discharged from the Marines. He let them pass without a raised eyebrow. He deserved worse.

"Give me that back!" She stomped her tiny foot on the sandy sidewalk. "Give it back now!"

"Walk as long as you want," he repeated, "and when you're through, I'll drive you home. We still need to talk."

"There's nothing else to talk about. Give me my phone."

He slipped her phone into his pocket. "Take your time."

From the warmth of his truck, he watched as she stood, huddled against the cold. He wondered if she would head for one of the many buildings lining the beach to borrow a phone. If she did, what would he do, kidnap her? Fortunately, after about ten minutes of the nasty wind chill, she slowly made her way back to him.

She climbed into the car. "Take me home."

"Put on your seat belt."

She yanked it on, and he turned the truck around and headed back toward her house .

"So, last night . . . two women in one night, huh? I guess nobody can question your virility."

He shook his head slowly. "I didn't sleep with her, Amanda."

"Why not? I mean, cheat once, cheat twice, cheat a thousand times. It adds up to the same thing. And how am I supposed to believe anything you tell me?"

"What happened with her, it was a long time ago, before we were married. And I wasn't myself. Between the recovery from Afghanistan, and you not being there, and my parents . . . None of that excuses what I did. I'm just telling you, it was a stupid mistake I've regretted every single day since."

"Not enough to come clean with me about it, though, huh?"

"I never wanted to hurt you. There was no reason to tell you."

"So why are you telling me now?"

"Because Annalise told my mother, and I didn't want you to hear it from her."

"Well, how thoughtful, though you probably robbed your mother of what might have been the greatest joy of her life."

"I don't care about my mother, Amanda. And I don't care about Annalise. I care about you. What happened with her, it didn't mean anything, and honestly, I thought you'd never forgive me, and?—"

"Well, you're right about that. I never will forgive you. Never."

He nodded slowly. "Hmm. Well, I guess you and my mother have more in common than we thought."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Unforgiveness. It's the number one prerequisite for becoming a bitter old shrew. Just ask Mom."

"Oh, I don't think so. I think the only thing your mother and I have in common is our poor choice in men." She stared out the window .

Mark begged God for wisdom, for words, for . . . something. But God was silent.

When he parked in front of her house, he turned to her. "Amanda, I love you. That hasn't changed. I love you, and I want you back."

"I'm filing the papers tomorrow."

"Please don't. Not while you're so angry. Please wait. You promised—a month."

"You slept with another woman. I think you win in the whole broken promises department."

"You're right. But please, just give it . . . if you can't wait a month, then a week."

"What do you think is going to happen in the next seven days that's going to make me change my mind?"

"I . . ." He faltered. He had no idea. "Seven days, Amanda. Please."

She stepped out of the car and slammed the door.