Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A manda glanced at the screen on her phone. Alan again. She set it down and went back to work.

She'd been in a daze all afternoon, unable to carry on any conversation beyond the basics. She did manage to call her lawyer and request she file the divorce papers immediately. Confused, her lawyer questioned her about her change of heart, worried Amanda would have another one. Amanda assured her she wouldn't but gave no other explanation. How could she explain that the man she'd been so bent on divorcing against his will had suddenly decided he wanted out? How could she possibly discuss that without the simmering emotions boiling over, spilling on the lawyer and everyone else around her? Mark, who was supposed to love her and want her and fight for her, had given up so easily.

I love you and I want you back . . . file the papers.

It was too much, and after the emotional ups and downs of the day before, Amanda couldn't process it, so she pushed the feelings away and set about editing her cookbook.

It was almost lunchtime when she remembered to call Roxie. She'd been so focused on not thinking about her conversation with Mark, she'd forgotten about the immediate problem—keeping Gabriel away from her while she traveled. It seemed silly to worry about it at this point, her fear of Gabriel was nothing compared with the loss of her marriage. But then she remembered the box with the torn lingerie, the roses. She remembered Gabriel in the hotel lobby, how he'd loomed over her. The fear she'd felt crept back the same way his hands had crept up her thighs that day. She made the call.

"Whatever I can do to help," Roxie said. "I can't believe this whole thing is my fault."

"It's not your fault. How could you have known Baxter was anything but what he said he was?"

After their short conversation, Amanda hung up the phone, wondering if she'd put Roxie's mind at ease. She had no idea. She couldn't discern her friend's feelings while so intent on not experiencing her own.

Amanda gave up trying to ignore Jamie's calls after maybe the tenth and answered the phone. It was a short talk. Amanda told her about her conversation that morning with Mark and her subsequent call to the lawyer. Jamie's answer, so predictable, brought memories of one of Amanda's favorite movies.

"Don't do this, Amanda. Mark loves you so much."

Scarlet darling. Captain Butler . . . Be kind to him, he loves you so.

What would Miss Melanie have said if she'd witnessed the movie's final scene, as Rhett Butler walked out of Scarlet's life? Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Oh, Miss Melanie would have been shocked. As was Jamie. As was Amanda, if she faced the truth. She'd expected Mark to grovel, to beg her to change her mind.

"He told me to file the papers," Amanda said in a flat voice.

"No. He can't have. You must've misunderstood."

Apparently Jamie didn't understand Mark any better than Melanie Wilkes understood Rhett Butler.

Truth be told, Amanda was as shocked as Scarlet. But she'd think about that tomorrow.

Today . . . today she had to stay busy.

She edited until she couldn't see straight, then she cooked. She made and froze a pan of chicken parmesan. She whipped up a batch of potato soup to serve for dinner. She defrosted a couple of pounds of hamburger and squished the ingredients together for meatloaf before remembering that Sophie and Madi hated meatloaf. She wasn't that fond of it, either. Meatloaf was one of Mark's favorites, though.

She stared at the lump of beef, knowing she'd never make meatloaf again. The permanence of it jarred her, poked the cold numbness. Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them back.

Meatballs. Everyone liked meatballs. She lit the burner and set a skillet on top of it to heat while she reformed the lump into bite-sized spheres.

Finally it was time to pick up the girls. Homework, dinner, bath time, and bedtime filled the evening, keeping her thoughts away. When she finished kissing her daughters good night, she trudged to her bedroom.

As she was about to climb into bed, she heard her cell phone ringing downstairs. Mark? Maybe he'd changed his mind.

Not that she had changed hers, but it would make her feel better.

She ran down the stairs, looked at the phone, and saw Alan's number. Disappointed, and frustrated at her herself for feeling that way, she answered it.

"Hey," he said. "I've been trying to reach you."

How many times had Amanda ignored him since they'd last spoken? She'd lost count. When he'd called Tuesday morning, Amanda had thought she and Mark were getting back together. She wasn't ready to tell him that. And then, after Mark's shocking news, she couldn't bear to talk to anyone. Had that really just been the day before? She'd lived a lifetime of sorrows since then. "Sorry. It's been an interesting few days."

"You don't have to be sorry. I was worried about you. Any news from your friend?"

In the kitchen, Amanda filled a glass with water and took a sip. "Nope. I think we've figured out who Gabriel's contact is, though."

He inhaled sharply. "Who?"

"An agent named Baxter McIlroy."

Alan blew out his breath. "Never heard of him."

"He's new." She made her way into the living room. "Works for Roxie. He was one of Sheppard's students a few years ago."

"Wow. What did he say when you confronted him?"

"We didn't confront him. We're feeding him false information to try to keep him away from me."

"That's a good idea. So things are looking up then?"

Amanda set her water on the coffee table and collapsed on the sofa. "Not really. I'm filing for divorce."

"Oh, Amanda, I'm sorry."

She swallowed. The words I'm fine almost escaped, but they would have sounded cavalier, and they would have been a lie. "Thank you."

"I know how hard it is. After my wife and I decided to call it quits, I felt like . . . like a leaf in a hurricane, you know what I mean? For weeks the slightest things would toss me here and there. I'd smell her perfume, or I'd walk by a place we'd been together, and the memories would come flooding back. It was . . . unbearable."

"Yeah. That describes it."

"But it gets better, I promise. "

"I hope so. I'm numb right now."

"I bet. Does that mean you don't want company this weekend? I figured Mark had the kids, and maybe you'd have some time for dinner or something. As friends, of course."

"I can't," she said, thankful for the excuse. "I'm headed to New Hampshire to teach some classes."

"Classes? Where?"

"A retreat for interior designers. I'm working Friday night, Saturday morning, and Saturday night. I'll be pretty busy."

"What about Saturday afternoon? Are you free?—?"

"I have a book signing."

"Oh. That's too bad. Where in New Hampshire are the classes?"

"Up near Waterville Valley."

"At a hotel, or . . . ?"

Amanda sighed. "Honestly, I really need to be alone. I'm sorry. You can understand that, can't you?"

He chuckled softly. "Of course I do. But alone isn't really safe. Maybe I could stop by the bookstore to check on you."

"You'd go all the way to New Hampshire, just to check on me?"

He was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, "Actually, I think I would. Especially with what's going on. I mean, if I can help, it would be worth it. And I'd get to spend a couple of hours with you."

Somehow Alan held no interest for her now—like Ashley Wilkes to Scarlet after Melanie passed away. Or maybe she was numb. On the other hand, she would feel safer, knowing Alan was going to be there. "If you're sure . . ."

"Absolutely. I'm looking forward to it."

Friday morning, Mark drove down the driveway to what used to be his home. He planned to pick the girls up from school that afternoon, but Amanda hadn't wanted to send suitcases with them to school, so he was here to get their things. Two weeks ago they'd solved this problem in a simpler way—he'd stayed at the house. But now . . . well, it wasn't going to be his house much longer, and Amanda deserved her privacy.

He parked and trudged to the door. She opened it before he rang.

"Hi." Her focus was somewhere around his chin. She wore slacks and a sweater that showed off her petite figure. On her face, he saw the grief they'd both suffered these last few days. He hated himself for it.

"You ready for your trip?"

"Yes. Here's their stuff." She grabbed two suitcases from the floor behind her and handed them to him.

He took them, shifting them into one hand. "Thanks."

"Sure."

"Did you call Roxie?"

"Uh-huh. She said she told Baxter I'm skipping the book signing. Said he barely reacted."

A familiar sensation crept up the back of his neck, like tiny fingers walking toward the top of his head. He set the suitcases on the small porch and turned around, peering into the woods, across the front yard, and toward the street. Nothing seemed out of place. He turned to the door again and looked over Amanda's head into the house.

"What?" she said.

"Are you alone?"

"Of course I'm alone."

He ignored her irritated tone of voice. "Something's . . ." Mark rubbed the back of his neck. Something didn't feel right. They'd been talking about Roxie and Baxter McIlroy, and . . . what?

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. I just . . ." There was nothing out of place. But the feeling of impending danger was real. It was probably his fear of sending her away alone after what happened in New York. Still . . .

"You just what?"

He faced her again, seeing fear as she scanned the property.

"Nothing. It's nothing. Just a feeling. Listen, remember what you promised. Frank will walk you in and out of the inn, okay?"

She turned her attention back to him. "Yeah, I know."

"And somebody will walk you in and out of the bookstore."

"I'll be careful."

The prickling on his neck hadn't stopped, and he looked around again. There was no danger, but . . .

Amanda hugged herself. "You're scaring me."

"Sorry. It's nothing. Take care of yourself and call me if you need me. And call me if anything weird happens, okay?"

She smirked. "What do you mean, weird?"

"Unexpected, unusual, anything that seems out of place. You know—weird."

"Whatever."

"Make sure you have your pepper spray with you."

"I do."

"Do you want to take the gun?"

She stepped back. “I’m scared of that thing."

"I'd feel better if?—"

"I don't really care how you feel."

Right. He nodded, grabbed the suitcases, and turned to the truck. He called over his shoulder, "Have a nice trip." He tossed the suitcases in the small back seat before climbing in, but he had to force himself to head back to the road. Had he left her defenseless or, worse yet, sent her into danger?

After turning out of the driveway, he grabbed his cell and dialed Chris.

"I don't have much time," Chris said.

"Something doesn't feel right."

"Okay. We're on our way to an interview. Can this wait?"

"Two minutes. Talk me through this. We know McIlroy knows Sheppard."

"Right."

"And Sheppard bailed him out of jail, so they were more than just teacher and student."

"Right."

"So he's the connection. And yet . . ." He tried to put his finger on what was bothering him. There was nothing solid to grab onto, more like a cold fog. "What if he isn't the connection?"

"What are you thinking?"

"It doesn't make sense. I mean, Amanda doesn't say Sheppard's name or even describe him in the memoir. How did McIlroy know the psychiatrist in the book was his professor from college?"

"I don't know. Maybe Sheppard told him?—"

"Told his student he'd had an affair with a patient? Why would he do that?"

Chris paused. Mark sat at a stop light, tapping on his steering wheel, and waited. Finally, Chris said, "Gosh, I don't know. It does sound far-fetched, but he's the only connection we've found."

"And you checked everybody you could think of?"

"Yeah. Everyone at the conference, the employees at her publishing house, and Roxie's employees. There was just one person I couldn't get any information on."

"Who? "

"You asked me to check out Alan Morris. His name wasn't on the list of conference attendees."

"It wasn't?" Mark thought back, tried to picture the printout he'd given to Chris. "That's weird."

"Yeah, I thought so, too, but then we found McIlroy?—"

"So if Morris wasn't on the list, maybe there're other names that were left off of it."

"Good point. But there's another thing. You said the guy's name is Alan Morris, right? But I haven't been able to turn up anybody with that name at any publishing company, anywhere."

"Really?" Mark thought back to the conversation he'd had with the man two weeks earlier. It felt like months had passed. He'd definitely said Alan Morris . "Hmm, I know that's what he said."

"Maybe he's not really an editor at all. Maybe he's an imposter or something."

"No. Amanda had heard of him before. He's legit."

"Okay. Why don't you call Amanda and ask her who the guy works for?"

"Ask my soon-to-be ex about her new boyfriend, so I can investigate him? That'll go over like a lead balloon."

"Good point."

The light turned green, and Mark followed the traffic through the intersection and turned onto the street that would lead him back to work. "You know what? I'll ask that lady in New York who sent me the list. I'm sure she'll know. And I'll see if I can find out why we don't have all the names. If I dig up a few more, will you have time to help me?"

"I'll do what I can, but . . ."

Mark squeezed the steering wheel tighter. "What?"

"Do you think maybe you're just confused? You know I trust your instincts, but Jamie told me what happened with that model. And she told me you decided you want the divorce. "

He closed his mouth in a tight line, willing his emotions in check. "She did, did she?"

"She said you told Amanda to file the papers."

"I did."

"So you're giving up?"

Giving up? Was that what he was doing?

That morning, he'd been caulking around the interior of a new window when a white sedan pulled up outside the Carlisle house. A young woman carrying a manila envelope headed for the front door. She rang the bell, filling the house with a scratchy, painful sound. As he opened the door, he thought I'll have to replace that doorbell.

The woman smiled. "Mark Johnson?"

"Yes."

She handed him a manila envelope. "You've been served."

Mark pushed the memory away. "It's in God's hands now. I don't know what else to do."

"So maybe you're mistaking your instincts for guilt or?—"

"This isn't about my marriage. It's about keeping her alive."

"If you say so. Let me know if you get more names."

Mark ended the call. Was Chris right? Maybe his instincts were off. He usually followed them, but pushing Amanda for divorce went against every instinct he had. Maybe he was making a big mistake—about everything.