Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

M ark pushed himself off the sectional and stalked across the hardwood planks into the dining area. He looked through the bay window to the front yard. No sign of Amanda.

He'd been watching the clock since they'd returned home from church at noon. She was supposed to leave New York by eight, which should have easily had her home by one. It was now one-fifteen.

He'd itched to call her all day. But somehow she'd find a way to be offended. If he admitted he was worried, she'd take it as an insult, as if he didn't think she could take care of herself. But how could she defend herself if Sheppard decided to come after her? Of course, she refused to admit Sheppard was dangerous, so she'd assure him she didn't need his help. Apparently, Amanda didn't need anything from him.

He uttered one of a thousand prayers he'd said since her call on Friday and glanced at his phone again.

Bad idea. If he asked how much longer until she got home, she'd assume he was tired of the girls. If he tried to ask her about her weekend, she'd think he was checking up on her, as if she weren't trustworthy.

How had their marriage deteriorated to this?

Quiet footsteps pitter-pattered down the stairs. He turned to find his seven-year-old daughter Sophie walking up behind him wearing orange stretchy pants with white polka dots and a bright pink shirt. She'd chosen the outfit that morning before church, and Mark hadn't had the heart to tell her to change. Her brunette hair hung long and stringy down her back. He'd tried to brush it, but Sophie assured him she could do it herself. And he'd been so distracted with thoughts of Amanda, he hadn't argued with her.

"Hey, little lady, what's up?"

She shifted from foot to foot. "When's Mommy coming home?"

"She should be here any minute. Did you pick up your room?"

Sophie nodded. "Uh-huh. Madi's is messy, though."

Mark knelt to speak with her face-to-face. "Would you help her with it?"

"Why should I? I didn't make the mess."

He tapped her adorable button nose. "How about because I asked you to?"

She scrunched up her tiny face and studied him, probably weighing whether or not that was a good enough reason, when Madi padded down the stairs. Although he'd managed to finagle her into a dress for church, she'd ripped it off and pulled on her yellow, tattered, footed pajamas the moment they set foot in the house. Comfortable clothes, comfortable shoes. She was so much like her mother. Her pale skin looked paler against her bright red Kool-Aid tinted lips. At least her blond hair had made it into a pony tail. He might not know much about girls, but he'd learned how to fix that hairdo in his seven years as a daddy.

"My room's all done," she said with a big smile. "Mommy will be happy the house is so clean!"

He hoped his six-year old was right. With a burst of nervous energy, Mark had been scrubbing ever since Amanda called on Friday. If he hadn't had his girls, he would have built something, or, better yet, demolished something. But power tools and babysitting didn't mix.

"Why don't you two watch a movie upstairs until your mom gets here?"

They clamored up the steps and ran to the master bedroom, arguing about which movie to watch before they reached the landing. He probably shouldn't let them watch any more TV, but he had too much pent-up frustration to play with them. Sending them upstairs allowed him to focus his attention on worrying about Amanda.

Where was she?

He scanned the room for something else to clean. The result of his weekend's work seemed pretty dramatic. The lightly stained pine floors, original to the old house, gleamed in the sunshine spilling in through the rear windows. The granite countertops in the kitchen shone, as did the cabinets. After wiping down each of the ten barstools around the long bar, he'd scrubbed her huge gas range until he could see his own worried reflection.

The brown microfiber sectional in the living room and both of the club chairs had been vacuumed and spot cleaned. At about two o'clock in the morning, after Amanda had told him about her run-in with Sheppard, he'd dusted the coffee table and entertainment center thoroughly, including the flat screen and the electronic stuff that went with it. Might as well take advantage of his insomnia. He'd used the feather-duster to clean the picture frames and doo-dads all over the room. When the sun came up on Saturday, he'd taken ammonia to the windows— inside and out—before he'd tackled Amanda's office, scrubbed the small guest bathroom, and worked his way upstairs. He'd even gotten out the long attachment for the vacuum to suck the cobwebs out of the corners.

Pretty dramatic. She'd probably be mad.

He opened the windows on the front of the house to let in the fresh air and blow away the scent of Pine Sol and the grilled cheese sandwiches he'd fixed for lunch. The rain had moved out the night before, leaving the air fresh and clean and turning the sky a clear blue. A stiff breeze tugged orange, yellow, and red leaves from the trees and littered the grass on their two-acre lot. Next weekend he'd tackle that project.

He turned back to the house. No dust, no dirt, no smudges—it hadn't been this clean in years. Not that Amanda had time to clean these days, between writing books, teaching classes, and taking care of the girls. It was nice to be able to do something for her again, though he suspected she'd see his help as an indictment on her housekeeping skills and hate him for it.

There was no winning with her.

He checked his watch. One-thirty. He glanced at his cell again where it sat on the end of the bar beside his small suitcase and jacket, forced himself to leave it there, and fell onto the sofa. He clicked on the TV to check the Patriots game, trying and failing not to look at the clock.

It was after two when he finally heard tires on the asphalt outside. He turned off the TV and walked to the window in time to see Amanda park her sedan in the drive.

Sophie barreled down the stairs. "Is that Mommy?"

"She's here!" Madi said, racing to keep up with her big sister.

They both skidded past him and outside into the chilly air. Waiting in the doorframe, he watched Amanda climb out of the car and embrace both of their daughters at the same time. She kissed their foreheads and listened to their simultaneous jibber- jabber, somehow taking it all in. How did she do that? Smiling and nodding at them, asking questions of the right girl at the right moment, Amanda managed to extricate herself from their grip and walk toward the back of the car.

Mark made it to her trunk as she was about to grab the suitcase. He touched her arm, felt her stiffen. "Let me," he said.

Wearing the mask he was trying not to get used to, she turned and faced him. "I can get it."

"I know you can," he said. "But will you please let me?"

She released her hold on the suitcase. "Thanks."

Mark grabbed it and slammed the trunk. Inside the house, he went up the stairs and down the long hallway to their bedroom. He refused to think of it as her bedroom. He had to believe he'd be back.

To the sound of Aladdin playing on the TV, he lifted the suitcase onto his side of the king-sized bed. If she wanted to, she could leave it there all night. Maybe having the extra weight on the other side of the bed would remind her of him. Maybe she'd miss him.

Or she'd kick it off the bed in a fit of anger.

He lifted the bag from the bed, set it on the floor, and headed for the door, only to stop at the threshold. He was being ridiculous. He put it back on the bed, guessing that was where she'd want it. Did it matter? Their marriage was not dependent on his ability to know where she wanted her stupid suitcase.

From the top of the stairs he listened to his daughters tell their mom about their weekend. They didn't notice him as he crept down and rested against the railing to watch.

Seated on the long sectional, Amanda faced the windows toward the back yard. Sophie sat on her right. Madi sat on Amanda's left knee. Both the girls talked nonstop, finishing each other's sentences and one-upping each other with stories.

Nodding and smiling, Amanda pushed her straight shoulder- length blond hair behind her ear, her blue eyes sparkling. Sophie was so like him, with her brown hair and eyes, her height—tall for her age—and her daredevil personality. Madi had Amanda's blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and slight frame. Every asthma attack reminded Mark just how fragile his younger daughter was.

Amanda looked up. "Is that so?"

He gave his head a little shake. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. Is what so?"

"You cleaned the house?"

"Oh, yeah. It gave me something to do."

Amanda's lips pursed and turned white as she studied him. Bracing himself, he waited for the accusation, or the defense, or whatever she was about to throw at him. She opened her mouth to say something, but she seemed to change her mind, and her lips slipped into a smile. "Thanks. That was thoughtful of you."

"You're welcome."

She looked around, then turned back to him. "It looks great."

They stared at each other until Sophie grabbed her mother's chin, turning her face to hers. "Can Daddy stay please, Mommy?"

"Oh, I'm sure your father has to go."

"Do you, Daddy? Can you please stay?" Madi asked.

He knew the answer he was supposed to give, though it killed him to do it. "I have to go, peanut, but I'll see you tomorrow."

"You have to leave now?" Sophie whined.

"Actually I'd like to talk to your mom for a few minutes. Can you two go up and finish Aladdin ?"

Reminding them of the movie did the trick, and Sophie and Madi ran past him and up the stairs. He watched until they disappeared around the corner before turning to his wife.

She sat up straight, nervous .

He closed the distance between them, pulled her from the sofa, and hugged her tight. "Thank God you're home."

Amanda's arms dangled against her sides. Before he was ready, she angled away.

He let her go, holding onto her upper arms to keep her from sitting. He searched her face, her slender frame for some sign of the trauma she'd faced in seeing Sheppard again. But the scars wouldn't be visible. "Are you okay?"

She squirmed out of his grip and resumed her seat on the sofa. "I'm fine."

He sat catty-corner to her on the sectional. "I was worried about you."

"I shouldn't have told you?—"

"Of course you should've told me. Did you see him again?"

”Nope. No sign of him all weekend."

"Thank God."

She sat back and almost smiled.

He'd expected her to arrive home in one of her many sweat suits. She had one for every day of the week in every season, and what better outfit to wear on a long drive? But Amanda was dressed in a fitted pair of jeans with a pretty, yellow, button-down blouse, a halo of pink lipstick around her full lips. Lipstick she hadn't applied recently—hadn't applied for him.

He swallowed, tried to push down the monster growling in his chest. "So, did you sleep in this morning? I bet after running into Sheppard, you didn't sleep well."

"I woke up early, actually."

"Oh. Was there a lot of traffic?"

She scanned the room. "This place really looks great. Did you wash the windows?"

He followed her gaze. The windows were spotless. "Uh-huh. So . . . traffic?"

"Not much after I got out of the city. A little around Bridgeport."

He nodded slowly. He should let it go, knew this would only lead to trouble, but his curiosity was killing him. No, not curiosity. Jealousy. "You're later than I expected."

She turned away from the windows and studied him. "Did you have plans today? I didn't realize I had a time limit."

He tried to ignore her sarcasm with a smile. "No plans. I was just worried about you. You could've called."

The clock on the far wall ticked. Voices drifted down the stairs from the movie playing in the bedroom. She said nothing.

"Did you . . . do something this morning?"

She crossed her arms. "Um, I drove home."

"I just wondered why you're so dressed up for a five-hour drive."

"I'm not dressed up."

Mark pushed his luck to the edge of what he feared was a very high cliff. "You didn't see anyone this morning? I'm just curious. I mean, you said you'd be home at one, and it's after two, and you're dressed nice, and?—"

"I had breakfast with Alan." She straightened her shirt. "He was worried about me going into the lobby by myself, so he came to my room to walk me to my car."

He rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together and stared at them. "Your roommate couldn't do it?"

When she spoke, her tone was irritated bordering on defensive. "Susie's flight left early this morning."

He squeezed his hands tighter until his knuckles faded to white. "So you and Alan were . . . Were you alone with him in your hotel room?"

She dropped her head forward and massaged her temples with her fingertips. Bare fingers. No wedding ring. The monster roared .

She sighed. "I was in the hallway in front of my room with him. Do you have a problem with that?"

Yes, he had a big problem with her being alone with any other man, especially now that their marriage was . . . "I was just curious."

"We grabbed a coffee and a muffin from Starbucks and had a quick breakfast. And then I left. Not that it's any of your business."

"Is that so? It's not my business?" Fury forced its way into his voice. "We've been separated for a month, and you're already seeing other people?"

"Keep it down!" she half-yelled, half-whispered. "Do you want the girls to hear you?"

The vision of Amanda in the arms of some faceless man filled his mind. He stood and stomped to the windows. Staring at the swing set in the backyard, he said, "Are you seeing him?"

"We just met. We had a coffee. And I'm not discussing this with you."

He turned around and unclenched his fists. Amanda's eyes were hard, her arms wrapped tightly across her torso. She had a lot of nerve being angry with him. But what could he do? Threaten to divorce her? She'd probably offer to file the papers. He took his seat again. "Okay. Fine."

Amanda laid her head back against the sofa and pushed her hair away from her face with both hands. "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Because I have stuff to do."

"We need to talk about Sheppard." "Let's not."

"I've been thinking about it, and I don't believe it was a coincidence you were both there this weekend."

She narrowed her eyes. "What are you saying?"

"Somebody must've told him you'd be there."

"Who would do that? "

"Probably the same person who told him about the memoir. How long had you been planning on going to this thing?"

She sat up straighter on the sofa. "A few weeks. A friend suggested it, and Roxie talked me into it."

"Who asked you?"

"Susie, my roommate."

"How do you know her?"

"We met at that dinner my publisher had a few months ago. Remember?"

He thought back to the dinner. She hadn't wanted him to go. Their marriage was rocky at the time, and he hadn't pushed it. He should've insisted. "Besides Susie and Roxie, did anyone else know you were going?"

Amanda stood, took the long way around the couch, probably to avoid scooting by him, and made her way into the kitchen. "Whoever did registration for the conference, I guess. Tim knew."

"Your editor?"

"I don't think I told anyone else."

He heard the fridge open.

"Want a drink?"

"No, thanks," he said.

She returned with a bottle of water, which she handed to him. He palmed open the cap and handed it back to her.

"Thanks." She took a sip and set the water on the coffee table. "Let's see . . . It's not like it was a secret. And besides, to the writing community, I'm M.L. Johnson or Mandy Johnson, so even if people were talking about it . . . And why would they be, especially to . . . him?" She faltered on that last word, swallowed, and continued. "But even if they were, he wouldn't know I was M.L. Johnson. He figured that out on Friday when he saw my name tag." She shook her head. "No, it was a coincidence he was there." She blinked a couple of times. Her voice rose an octave. "Don't you think it was a coincidence?"

He tried to smile reassuringly, but he doubted it worked. "If he hadn't brought up the memoir, I might buy it. But the fact that he questioned you about it?—"

"Maybe he was just fishing for information," she said. "He always could guess what I was thinking, anticipate . . . He was always good at reading me."

"Manipulating you, you mean."

She blinked back tears, looking away.

He reached across the space that separated them and took her hand. "Honey?"

She looked at her lap, tried to pull her hand away.

He held it. Her tear landed on the back of his hand, where it shimmered and dripped between his fingers. "I know you're scared. I'm scared, too." He swallowed and continued. "I think it would be wise to hold off on publishing the memoir until?—"

She yanked her hand free and glared at him. "I knew you were going to say that. I knew it. You never wanted me to publish it."

He stood and paced across the room. "You're right. I don't. This guy, Sheppard—publishing this could destroy him. And I understand why you want to hurt him. I don't blame you."

He understood too well. He didn't want to just hurt the guy. He wanted to kill him. He returned to his seat, reining in his temper. "But do you want to make yourself a target?"

"I told you, he won't hurt me."

"I don't believe that, and you don't either, not anymore. That's why you're so scared."

"I'm not scared!"

"I know you. I can tell?—"

"Don't act like you know me so well. You don't know anything about me. You never have. "

He spoke through clenched teeth. "I know as much as you're willing to share with me."

They stared at each other, the music from the movie upstairs hovering in the air.

Mark dropped his gaze to the floor. "I'm not saying don't ever publish it. Just wait a while, until we know what Sheppard's going to do."

"It's too late. I've already promised to send it to a couple of people."

"I asked you not to do that."

She shrugged.

"Well, then, tell them you're going to need a little time."

"I want to publish it," she said. "I need to publish it."

"Please don't."

Fire ignited behind her eyes. "You're embarrassed! You don't want people to know what kind of a . . . a person you married. You don't want your mother to know."

"This isn't about my mother. This is about your safety?—"

"Right. Sure it is."

With a sigh, he stood and headed to the kitchen. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble, do you think you could at least keep the doors locked when you're home, maybe keep the girls inside?"

"That's not fair to the girls," she said, though there was little protest behind her words.

"Humor me." He grabbed his phone off the kitchen counter and slid it in his jeans pocket. "Meanwhile, I'm going to try to figure out how he found out you'd be there this weekend."

She turned to watch him. "How're you going to do that?"

He walked to the bottom of the stairs and called up, "Girls, I'm leaving."

A moment later, their stocking feet slid down the stairs. He grabbed them up, squeezing them until they squealed, and planted a kiss on their cheeks.

"Will we see you tomorrow, Daddy?"

"I hope so," he said. "Maybe I'll stop by on my way home from work."

Amanda stood. "The girls have dance tomorrow night, so we won't be here."

"Okay, I'll try to get to the studio to watch you dance."

Mark half-expected Amanda to ask him not to intrude on their lessons, but she held her tongue—probably because the girls were in the room.

After quick kisses on his cheek, they ran back upstairs, and Mark turned toward the door. He grabbed his bag and jacket. "See you tomorrow."

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

He threw the door open and stepped onto the porch before turning to her. "Somebody told Sheppard about the memoir. I'm going to find out who."