Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

A fter a yawn and a cat-like stretch, Amanda closed the lid of her laptop, thankful to put another day of writing behind her.

Her gaze drifted to the bouquet of yellow roses on the corner of her desk. She inhaled the sweet scent, imagining Alan scrunching up his eyes, thinking about what he wanted to say, and then bending over the small card with his ballpoint pen. But of course Alan hadn't written the note himself. Probably the gray-haired man who'd delivered the flowers had done it, writing it word-for-word as Alan dictated it over the phone.

She tried to remember when she'd told him her favorite flowers were yellow roses. She didn't think she had. But however he'd figured it out, she was more impressed today than she had been over the weekend. And that was saying something.

Amanda grabbed the vase and headed toward the kitchen, remembering the note in her pocket. Until next time . . . Would Alan call today? She'd sent him the proposal and the first three chapters of her memoir this morning, so she expected him to call or email, if for no other reason than to say he'd received it. Her heart bubbled, and a tiny giggle escaped .

She set the flowers near the telephone where her notebook lay, on it the notes she'd taken when she'd spoken with her lawyer earlier. Her lawyer . Guilt niggled at her, darkening her bright mood. She'd consulted with an attorney a few weeks back, and that morning she'd made an appointment to see her the following day.

She shouldn't feel guilty about it. It was unfair to string Mark along. He'd never get on with his life as long as he believed there was hope for their marriage. There wasn't. The kindest thing to do was get moving on the divorce.

Unexpected tears burned. Hadn't she already cried all the tears she had for Mark? A few years ago, if anyone had told her she'd be seeking a divorce today, she would never have believed it. But she'd seen the disgust on his face when she'd told him about Sheppard. She'd felt him pulling away almost from that first moment.

And wasn't that one of the reasons she'd written the memoir, to make him understand? She'd thought when he knew what she'd gone through, he wouldn't blame her for her affair with Gabriel. He'd be able to forgive her.

How wrong she'd been.

She swiped her sleeve across her cheeks and tried to quell the tears. She could still remember clearly his expression the night he read a particularly graphic scene. The once crisp pages were gripped in his white-knuckled fists as he read about how Gabriel had used her and manipulated her. Amanda watched, horrified, longing for Mark's arms around her, his voice in her ear. It wasn't your fault .

Instead, he dumped the papers onto the coffee table, muttered a quick, "I'm taking a walk," and stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

When he'd returned almost an hour later, he'd told her how compelling the scene was and encouraged her to keep writing, acting like it was some sort of therapy for her. Great, he thought she was a good writer. Not so great, he couldn't meet her eyes.

That night, she'd cried herself to sleep, wishing she could take it back. Why had she ever trusted him with the truth?

Mark fell asleep on the couch, numbing his feelings with ESPN.

When she finally finished the memoir, Mark was happier than she was. They'd dropped the girls off at Chris and Jamie's that snowy night the previous winter and headed to her favorite restaurant. He'd ordered a bottle of wine and toasted her accomplishment. "To putting it behind us and moving on."

"I'm going to publish it."

He gulped the sip, and his face turned bright red. She spent the rest of the evening enduring his lecture as he tried to talk her out of her decision. It was okay for him to know her dirty secrets, but to share them with the world?

Shame had warmed her cheeks more than her glass of Merlot.

Weeks passed before they'd talked about it again. He'd acted like he was worried about Sheppard, but Amanda knew he wanted to keep the story secret to protect himself and his reputation. He didn't want their friends to know what kind of a woman he'd married. He couldn't bear to give his mother more reasons to hate her. The more he denied it, the more it hurt.

Why couldn't Mark understand? Her last two years in high school were dedicated to keeping secrets. She'd lied to her parents, the few friends she had left, and to everyone she knew. She lied so often, sometimes she forgot the truth.

She'd fallen in love, and she hadn't been able to tell a soul. She'd lost her virginity, and she wasn't free to share it with anyone. Sometimes she'd felt trapped with Sheppard, sometimes she'd thought if he left her, she might actually die. But Sheppard hadn't just been her lover, he'd been her psychiatrist, her only confidant. There'd been nobody else in the world she trusted.

She'd carried the shame for too many years, and she couldn't bear it any longer. After she'd told Mark, she'd told her parents and her older brothers. She'd been most afraid of her father's reaction, but he'd pulled her into his arms and held her for a long time. She could smell his musky cologne, feel his shirt buttons against her cheek. Her father apologized, blaming himself for her vulnerability, though she'd assured him it wasn't his fault. Her brothers directed their anger at the psychiatrist. The weight of the guilt lifted with her family's support.

Mark had watched the scene from the far corner of her parents' living room like a sentry on duty, his hands balled into fists. As comforting as her father's embrace was, it was her husband's arms she'd longed for.

She couldn't worry about Mark's reaction anymore. She'd been hiding from Sheppard for twelve years, and she was sick of hiding. It was time to expose the truth, time to find freedom from her past, and time to move on.

And if Mark couldn't handle it, well . . . If he really loved her, he'd understand.

That was the crux of the matter. He didn't really love her. He never had. In a way it was her fault. His comment the previous day stuck with her—"I know as much as you're willing to share with me." It was true. She'd been hiding behind a mask for years. The problem was, every time she lifted the mask a little to let him in, all she got from him was anger and condemnation. No wonder she stayed hidden.

Maybe if she'd removed the mask in the beginning of their relationship, things would be different.

Yeah, they'd be different, all right. He never would have married her in the first place.

Amanda grabbed her purse and keys and made her way to the garage. She wouldn't regret her marriage, but she wasn't going to stay with a man who could barely stand the sight of her. Not when she had other options.

She drove to the school, picked up the girls, and took them to the library. Even for October, it was freezing. The sun had gone down and the wind had picked up by the time they walked out, stacks of books in their hands. Amanda and the girls dashed to the sedan and piled inside, slamming the doors against the bitter cold.

"Is it going to snow, Mommy?" Madi asked.

"Not tonight, sweetie."

When Amanda parked in front of the dance studio, Mark's truck was already there.

He climbed out of the driver's seat and made his way to the back door of her car as she shifted into park.

"Hey, little lady," he said, giving Sophie a kiss. Madi scrambled out of Sophie's side of the car and fell into her father's arms before Amanda had even turned the car off. "Hey, peanut!" He scooped up their second daughter and propped her on his other hip like she weighed nothing. "Did you girls have a good day at school?"

By the time Amanda stepped out of the car, Mark had both girls halfway to the door.

Amanda watched as Mark sent them into the dance studio and then moved over to watch them through the glass. She stood beside him, closer than she otherwise would have liked, to make room for the other mothers. Mark was the only man in the building.

"Quiet day?" she asked.

"Not really."

"It's freezing out there. I hope you were working inside."

He shrugged. "It was fine. I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind."

She stiffened. "About what?"

"Can you write down those names for me, the people who knew you were going to be in New York this weekend?"

"Why?"

"So I can figure out who tipped Sheppard off."

She turned to face him but kept her voice low. Too many bored ears in this place. "I don't think anybody tipped him off. It was just a coincidence."

He nodded slowly, never looking away from the girls. "You're probably right, but just in case, I'd like to check."

"What're you going to do?"

He faced her. "I talked to Chris today, and he agreed to look into their backgrounds to see if we can find a connection."

She lowered her voice. "You're joking, right?"

They stared at each other until a tiny rapping sound interrupted them. Amanda turned to see Madi's button-nose pressed up against the glass, her little fist tapping on it. She mouthed through the thick glass, watch! Amanda nodded and pasted on a smile.

Not looking at her, he answered her question. "I'm quite serious, Amanda."

"You're crazy."

"Humor me."

They stared forward. She half-watched the dancing girls in front of her, but mostly her thoughts were distracted, wondering exactly what Mark would find. More importantly, what difference would it make? Even if someone had tipped Sheppard off . . .

Her phone jingled from inside her purse. She dug through the contents and grabbed it. "Hello?"

"It's Alan."

Heat flooded her cheeks, and her lips turned up in an involuntary smile. "Hey." She slipped in front of the woman on her left and made her way to the far corner of the small waiting area. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm just surprised," he said.

"Surprised at what?"

"I've never had a new friend dominate my thoughts like you have today. I can't stop thinking about you."

Amanda looked up to find Mark still staring through the glass, watching the girls. But the room wasn't so big that he might not be listening. She stepped outside. The wind whipped around her, and she pulled her wool coat tighter, sheltering the phone with her other hand. "I know what you mean," she said as the door slammed behind her. The moon was up, a crescent smile above her. A few stars glittered, but the air was too cold to keep her head tilted back to admire them. She hunched her shoulders and faced away from the wind.

"I got your chapters this morning and so far, I'm impressed. Can you please send me the rest of it?"

"Have you already finished what I sent?"

"Just about, and I'm sure when I do, I'll want the rest. It's very . . ." There was a pause before Alan continued. "Intense. The writing is excellent."

She flushed with the compliment, or was it shame? "Thank you."

"I know it's really personal, probably hard to share. Guys like him . . . he deserves . . . I can't think of a bad enough punishment."

His words reached inside her, soothed her most frightened places. She cleared her throat of the emotion trying to bubble out. "I was there, too. I was to blame?—"

"No! You were a kid, a kid who needed counseling. It wasn't your fault."

It wasn't your fault. " You really think so?" She choked on the words .

"Of course I do, Amanda." His voice deepened, softened. "Anyone would."

No, not anyone. Not Mark.

She swallowed the emotions. "Listen, I wanted to?—"

"Any chance you?—?"

They spoke at the same time, stopped, and laughed. "You go first," she said.

"Okay. I don't have much time, but I wanted to see if you might be free Friday night for dinner."

"This Friday?"

"Yes. I have a client I've needed to meet with face-to-face for a couple of weeks, and I've been kind of avoiding it. But now I have an excellent reason to visit Boston. I figured you can't get away after being gone all weekend, but I could drive down, see where you live, if that's okay."

"That'd be great," she said, calculating fast. "I have to take my girls to a birthday party Friday night from five to seven. Maybe you could come while they're gone."

"Not ready for me to meet them?"

She looked through the glass door at her husband. "Not yet. I know we're just friends, but?—"

"Of course I understand. It's a sticky situation. So what time should I get there?"

"I can be home by ten past five."

"Okay, is there someplace nearby I can take you for dinner?"

"I'll make something."

"Are you sure? I don't want you to go to any trouble for me."

"Don't be silly. I love to cook."

He chuckled. "I'm honored to have the famous M.L. Johnson cooking me dinner."

"Uh-oh, the pressure's on."

"Not at all. Listen, I just arrived at my meeting. I'll call you Friday to confirm, okay?"

"Sounds great." She started to say goodbye when she remembered what she'd wanted to say. "Wait! I forgot to tell you thank you."

"For . . . ?"

"For the beautiful flowers, of course. I love them."

She heard him exhale. "Gee, Amanda, I'd like to take credit for them, but I didn't send you flowers."

Mark watched Amanda in the reflection of the glass as she dug in her purse for the phone, answered the call, and moved away.

She was smiling, blushing, and eyeing him nervously.

He was going to have to find Alan Morris and kill him.

One of the mothers inched closer. He could feel her looking up at him but pretended not to notice. The last thing he needed was to get sucked into some banal conversation with another woman while his wife was deeply involved in one with another man.

Apparently, Amanda wasn't far enough away. A whoosh of cold air filled the small room as she took her call outside. Tension gripped his neck and forced its way down his back. A twinge of pain stabbed his shoulder, reminding him of the injury he'd brought home from Afghanistan. The doctor had told him he'd gotten lucky the knife didn’t hit any major arteries. Lucky, maybe, but it still hurt sometimes, especially when he tensed.

He was definitely tense.

The door opened again, and he turned her way. Stepping into the room, Amanda had lost her blush. In fact, she'd lost all the color in her face. She looked deathly pale .

He slipped past the woman beside him and met her inside the door. "What's wrong?"

She took an unnaturally deep breath, then blew it out.

"Are you okay?"

"Blowing up balloons." She gasped.

The chairs nearest the door were empty. He grabbed her elbow and urged her to sit. Kneeling on the floor in front of her, he asked, "You're hyperventilating?"

"No." She took a deep breath, in and out. "I'm blowing up balloons."

"Okay. You're doing great. Look at me, okay?"

Still panicked, she did as he directed.

"You're safe here. You're safe with me. You know that, right?"

She nodded.

He found himself inhaling and exhaling with her. Seconds, minutes, hours it felt like passed before her breathing returned to normal and she could talk.

"What happened?" He resisted the urge to yell. "Is he outside? Did you see Sheppard?"

"Someone sent me flowers today."

Red hot fury poured over him. He sat beside her, gripped the arms of the chair, and let the words process. This was not a normal reaction for someone who'd been sent flowers. "Okay . . . ?"

She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a small white card. "Here."

He read the note. It was lovely to see you. Until next time . . .

Until next time . . .

"So what are you saying? You think they were from Sheppard?"

"I think so." She sucked in more air.

He stared at the card in his hands. He could hear her exhale, but he couldn't look away from the note. Until next time .

With a whoosh of frigid wind, the door opened, and a mother with two children entered, one girl dressed in a pink leotard, one rambunctious boy of about three who'd already spotted a pile of toys. He ran past Mark and Amanda and knelt in the corner, where he pounded a plastic hammer against a giant plastic nail. Bam, bam, bam.

The noise punctuated Mark's thumping heart.

The boy's mother scooted past them. "Stop that pounding, Jeremy."

Mark glanced up to see everyone else in the room watching the boy now. Mark turned back to stare at Amanda, who was studying her wringing hands.

"It's going to be okay."

White-knuckled, her hands clasped each other and held on tight.

He laid one hand over hers, easily covering her small fist. With his other hand, he nudged her chin up until she met his eyes. "I promise that man will not hurt you."

She took a deep breath, a normal breath, and blew it out. "Okay."

"I'm coming over. We can talk?—"

"Tonight won't work.” She looked toward the studio door. “I have to fix dinner and give the girls baths. There won't be any time."

"Amanda—"

The door to the studio opened, and the girls filed out. Amanda jerked from his grasp, and his hand felt colder than it had all day.

"Daddy, I thought you came to watch us." Sophie propped her hands against her hips, her bottom lip stuck out in a pout.

He gently tugged his daughter's brown ponytail. "I watched you almost the whole time. I just sat down to talk to your mom."

"But you didn't see me! "

"Did I miss something important?"

"It's okay. I'll do it again." Sophie stood on her tiptoes and spun in a circle.

"Wow! That was so good."

"Watch me, Daddy." Madi imitated her big sister, twirling in a circle. Meanwhile, the room filled with pink-clad girls and their harried moms.

"That's enough, girls," Amanda said. "Daddy has to go."

"How about I come over and tuck you girls in tonight?"

"Mark—"

"Yay!" Madi yelled. "Can you come over now?"

A quick glance at Amanda's irritated expression, and Mark knew the answer to that. "I have some errands to run, but I promise I'll be over before bedtime. Be good for your mom, and I'll read you a story."