Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

" D addy went crazy this weekend."

Amanda filled Sophie's glass with orange juice and slid it across the bar Monday morning. "What do you mean?"

"He was funny, like he couldn't sit down. Up and down, up and down. He cleaned everywhere. Me and Madi laughed at him."

"Madi and I," Amanda corrected automatically.

She could picture it. She'd seen Mark like that before. Right after they'd gotten married, he'd wake up in the middle of the night, his gasp startling her, sweat seeping through his T-shirt and onto her nightgown when she tried to comfort him. He'd never explained, but she knew memories of his tour in Afghanistan haunted him. Back in those days, he channeled his energy into the house—building, sanding, and finishing, scraping, painting, and polishing. In a year he'd transformed their broken-down farmhouse into a beautiful home.

He'd run from memories then. What ghosts had haunted her husband this weekend?

After Amanda dropped the girls off at school, she drove to a diner and snagged a booth by the window. Just as the waitress was filling her coffee cup, Jamie arrived, dumping her giant leather purse on the table and sliding into the booth. This morning, her red hair was drawn back into a loose, curly ponytail. She wore a black turtleneck, suede jacket, and perfectly tattered blue jeans. When Amanda had first met Chris's wife, she'd thought she could never be friends with anybody so perfectly coordinated. How wrong she was.

"Thanks for meeting me. I'm sure you have a lot of catching up to do after being gone all weekend."

"Not that much. I'm glad you came."

"How are you?" Jamie squinted.

Amanda poured cream into her coffee. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Tell me what happened."

"Mark told you?"

"He told Chris," Jamie said. "Friday night. They were on the phone for a long time. He was really worried about you."

"What do you already know?"

"I guess I know what Mark knows. You ran into that guy you wrote about in your book?"

Amanda nodded slowly. "Dr. Gabriel Sheppard."

"Okay. So tell me everything." Jamie propped her elbows on the table.

Amanda's stomach rolled. Was it the coffee on an empty stomach? Or the memories? The white-haired waitress appeared, took their orders, and rushed away, leaving Amanda with no excuse. Yes, she wanted Jamie to know what happened in New York. She just didn't want to relive it.

With a sigh, she recounted her run-in with Gabriel, trying to keep her voice steady and her emotions at bay.

Jamie sipped her coffee and murmured an occasional, "Uh-huh," and, "No way," studying her with wise eyes over the rim of her cup .

"The weirdest part was when he asked me about the memoir."

"How did he know?"

"I'm not sure." Amanda set her coffee on the table. "Sometimes I think he was just fishing for information, but at the time . . ." Amanda shrugged. At the time she'd believed Gabriel knew everything. Was she trying to convince herself differently? "Anyway, Mark doesn't see it that way."

"What does that mean, though? If he knows, will you hold off, not publish it?"

"Why should I? I always knew there was a chance he'd find out about it. But it's not like I name him in the book."

"Right, but anybody who knows you from those days?—"

"And knows who my psychiatrist was—believe me, the list isn't that long."

"Still, he has to feel threatened, knowing you're trying to publish a book that exposes his secrets."

"Even if he somehow heard I'd written a memoir, how would he know what was in it? And even then, that's not my problem. If Gabriel has a problem with it . . . Well, I guess he should have thought of that before."

A familiar voice broke into their conversation. "Mrs. Johnson?"

A beautiful young woman approached their table. She wore her dirty-blond hair in a messy bun. A once-white apron hung over her sweatshirt and blue jeans. Amanda blinked. "Brittany?"

A wide smile crossed the girl's face. "I thought that was you. It's so good to see you."

Amanda stood and hugged her. "What happened to you? They said you got a place of your own. I was hoping you'd come back to class."

"I couldn't." Brittany's smile widened further. "I got a job! I'm working here now, full-time, thanks to you. "

"Me? No."

"Yes. I told them I'd taken lessons with you, even showed them the cookbook you signed for me, and they gave me a chance. I cooked them that yummy chicken and dumplings you taught me to make, and voila! They hired me."

Amanda hugged the girl again. "I'm so proud of you. And you have an apartment?"

"Yup. And a roommate, so I can save some money. And guess what? I'm starting college in January. Just part-time, but it's something. I took your advice and applied for financial aid, and they're giving it to me."

The white-haired waitress approached and stage-whispered into Brittany's ear, eyeing the kitchen door. "You'd better get back there. They're looking for you."

Brittany's glance darted to the kitchen. "I gotta go. It was so great to see you." Brittany squeezed Amanda's hand. "Thanks again."

Amanda slid back into the booth. "I should've introduced you. Sorry."

"Who was that?"

"You know how I teach the cooking classes at the shelter?" Jamie nodded. "Well, she was one of the residents."

"She's so young. She was homeless?"

"Yeah. Long story. She ended up at the shelter about a year ago and earned her GED. She was my most faithful student. Most of the women wanted to learn how to feed their families on the cheap, but she was really interested in learning to cook."

"Sounds like you made an impact. Your work at the shelter is awesome."

Amanda shrugged. She wished she'd had Brittany's courage. Brittany had been kicked out of her home when she stood up to the step-father who raped her. Amanda's parents would have embraced her if she'd told them about Gabriel, but she'd never had the courage. Her life, and her marriage, could have been so different if she had.

Brittany's joy magnified the regret in her own heart.

Amanda didn't know anything about counseling and didn't have much to offer girls like Brittany, but if teaching cooking classes at the homeless shelter helped, she was willing to do it.

Jamie tilted her head. "Tell me about this guy you met in New York. Alan, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"What's going on with him?"

The waitress delivered their meals. "Can I get you anything else?"

Amanda smiled at the woman and her perfect timing. "More coffee?" After the waitress topped off their cups, Amanda added more cream and a half packet of sugar and stirred. Then she methodically buttered her French toast and poured maple syrup over it. She cut off a small bite and popped it into her mouth. Sweet syrup, warm, salty butter. "Delicious. I'll have to send my compliments to the chef."

Jamie raised one eyebrow. "This is not good."

"Yours isn't good?" She eyed the eggs. "What's wrong with them?"

"Don't try to change the subject. What happened with Alan?"

She sighed. "It wasn't a big deal. We went out to dinner Friday night. I saw him a couple of times on Saturday. Then on Sunday, we had breakfast together. Both meals were just because he didn't want me to be alone in the hotel."

Jamie cocked her head to the side. "Is that so? What a hero."

"He was worried about me."

Jamie nodded slowly, staring at her. Not only was Jamie more put together on the outside, she was much more composed on the inside. She and Chris were a decade older than Mark, sixteen years older than she, but it was more than just age. She and Mark had talked about it once—how Chris and Jamie were so wise and insightful, always unruffled.

Mark attributed it to their religion. He'd been impressed enough by them to try their church, and he'd been attending with them for over a year now. While Amanda loved Jamie and Chris, she had no desire to go to church, even if Mark seemed to find such peace there.

Good for him. She wasn't enough for him. She never would be.

"Did anything happen with him?"

"We're just friends."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not ready for anything serious with anyone. Mark and I just separated a month ago."

"But you thought about it," Jamie said, no question in her voice.

"Maybe. He's a nice guy. I think . . ." She swallowed.

"You think what?"

"I think he likes me. And I think he'll react better than Mark did when he reads the memoir."

Jamie's eyebrows disappeared beneath her red bangs. " When he reads it?"

Amanda shrugged. "I sent him a proposal and the first three chapters this morning. If he wants to read the rest?—"

"What did Mark think about that?"

Amanda wiped her fingers on her napkin. "I didn't tell him."

"I see." Jamie cocked her head to the side. "How did Mark respond to the memoir?"

Amanda nodded toward her friend's untouched eggs. "Are you going to eat that or not?"

Jamie cut off a bite and gingerly placed it in her mouth. "Oh, that's good."

"Brittany was such a great student. She really had a knack?—"

"Don't change the subject."

She pressed back against her chair. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it."

"Mark misses you," Jamie said. "When you were threatened last weekend?—"

"I wasn't threatened."

Jamie shrugged. "That's how Mark saw it, and he was scared to death. He loves you."

"He doesn't love me. He loves the girl he thought I was. That sweet, innocent girl he met in Providence."

"Why would you say that?"

"Look, I've never met anybody like Mark before. He's everything I ever wanted in a man. He's strong and protective and . . ."

Emotion threatened to bubble over. She was so tired of the tears. "When we first married, he never had to tell me he loved me. I could see it in the way he wanted to be with me, and I could feel it in his touch. If I was in the kitchen, cooking, he'd sit at the bar and talk to me. If I was in the office working, he'd bring his computer back and sit across from me, doing his own work. In the evenings, we'd sit together on the couch and watch TV or watch the girls play. He'd lay his hands in my lap, and I'd massage them."

She remembered the feel of his hands, how rough they were, how strong. Always scrubbed clean of the remnants of his job, sometimes raw from the scrubbing. Amanda had kept a tube of hand lotion in the living room, so she could work it into the dry, cracked skin. She could feel how Mark would relax then, putting the stress of the day behind him.

"Some evenings, he could hardly wait until we tucked the girls in before he lured me into the bedroom." Warmth rose to her cheeks as she remembered his touch, how his desire always fueled hers. She'd never felt more loved, nor loved him more, than when they were intimate.

Jamie smiled, encouraging her. Well, she asked for it. "And then I told him about my past."

She could still see the horror in his face. She would never forget it.

"And what happened?" Jamie asked.

Amanda shook off the haunted image of her husband. "Suddenly, ESPN was more interesting than watching me cook. He did his books at the dining room table instead of in the office with me." She felt the sadness welling up, pushed a sob down. “He sat on the far end of the sofa, arms crossed."

And he never enticed her into their bed. The first few times they'd made love—if you could call it that—after she'd told him about Gabriel, it had been awkward, like they hardly knew each other. After that, he rarely came to bed, preferring to fall asleep on the couch. And when he did reach out for her at night, she felt no love in his touch. No intimacy. Just physical need—like scratching an itch.

Since she'd left, he told her he loved her more often. He was trying to convince her, probably trying to convince himself. But she didn't feel it in his touch, hadn't for two years. She was done pretending.

"Your sex life suffered," Jamie said, guessing what she hadn't said.

Amanda pushed away her plate and rested her hands on the table.

"Did you ever ask him about it?"

She nodded, studying her fingers. No wedding ring. She couldn't bring herself to put it back on.

"What did he say?"

"He said he felt like Gabriel was in bed with us."

"What did he mean by that? "

Amanda looked at her friend. "Obviously he can't get past it. He can't forget what I did, and it's . . . it's repulsive to him. I'm repulsive. So don't tell me he loves me, okay? It's not true. I hoped when I told him the truth about my past, he'd eventually be able to see past it. I thought when he read the memoir . . ." She shrugged as if it didn't matter. "He's sorry he married me. His mother's always told him I wasn't good enough for him, and now he knows it's true. She thinks he deserves better. Now that he knows about my past, he . . ." She wiped a rogue tear from her cheek. "Heck, I think he deserves better."

"Amanda, that's not?—"

"And I'm not going to spend the rest of my life with someone who doesn't want me."

Jamie reached across the table and took her hand. "If you'd seen him this weekend, you wouldn't doubt his love."

"He's just protective. He'd feel that way about you or Chris or anyone he thought was in danger."

"That's not true. If you two would just try counseling?—"

She yanked her hand away. "You know how I feel about shrinks. And it's too late for that."

"So you're just going to give up?" Jamie pushed her plate away. "What about your children. If nothing else?—"

"Mark's a great father. Now that he doesn't live with them, he makes more of an effort than he ever did. And I'm happier than I've been in a long time." Amanda's skin prickled. It was true, wasn't it? "I know divorce is against your religion, but I don't need your approval."

Jamie reached across the table and took her hand again. "Of course you don't. And I'll be with you, no matter what you do. But don't be so quick to throw away your husband. Marriage is hard, no doubt. But regardless of what you say, he loves you."

Amanda had been home just a few minutes when the doorbell rang. On the front porch, a gray-haired man held a bouquet of yellow roses.

"You Amanda Johnson?"

Her heart fluttered as she reached for the flowers. "Yes, I am. Thank you."

"Enjoy your day," the man said, already headed back to his truck.

Amanda carried the roses to the kitchen counter and read the card.

It was lovely to see you. Until next time . . .

Amanda read the note again, stifling a giggle. How sweet of Alan to send her flowers. Had she told him her favorite flowers were yellow roses, or had he guessed? Either way, she was really looking forward to next time .

Jamie's tender encouragement to fix her marriage only proved how little her best friend understood. There was nothing left to mend. Mark wanted her to forget her past, to wipe it away way like chalk on a blackboard. But it was a part of who she was, a part he was unable to love and unwilling to accept.

Amanda headed back to the kitchen, her decision made. No matter how much she cared for Mark, there was no way she was ever going to want him to move back in.

It was time to file for divorce.