6

AS WE EXITED THE PLANE IN ATLANTA, a rush of hot air in the jetway hit me in the face like a wet blanket and stole my breath. My skin went clammy. The silk top and light sweater perfect for the Colorado morning we’d left now stuck to me like glue. And technically, it wasn’t even summer here yet. Lovely.

I was already counting the days until the return flight on Sunday. Three long days away.

I tried to tell myself that this house-hunting trip was unnecessary, that Stephen would change his mind and reconsider this partnership. But I knew better, and what truly had me reeling was the quiet voice inside that told me this was not only going to happen, but that I also needed to get on board.

I’d never heard the inaudible voice of God as some people had claimed to, and I wasn’t certain I was hearing it now. Either way, it appeared the deck was stacked against me.

Feeling Stephen’s stare, I hurried toward the terminal, eager to avoid another “You promised to give this a chance” look. That was the counsel Paige had given me a couple of days ago in her loving but straightforward manner. Anyone else and I would have argued with them. But Paige knew me, knew us and our situation. So though I told her I didn’t like it, I agreed I would try my best to be open. But if I saw a roach wearing a saddle, all bets were off.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” I heard, and turned to see Stephen picking up a floppy sun hat and handing it to an elderly woman.

“My pleasure,” he said, seeming unusually upbeat. He couldn’t hide his excitement and optimism, but I’d chosen not to tug at that thread.

As we maneuvered our way through the terminal, I noted on one of the televisions a news banner scrolling across the bottom: ATLANTA CRIME RATE ESCALATES, and an anchorwoman commented, “The chance of becoming a victim of either violent or property crime in this city has risen to one in eighteen.”

Just the welcome I’d hoped for.

“Over there,” Stephen said, pointing.

I spotted a group of drivers, including one with a tastefully printed sign: WELCOME S. & C. POWELL. I had to admit it was a classy touch.

Stephen spoke briefly with our driver, a short, muscular fellow who led the way toward baggage claim. As we followed, Stephen took my hand. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Something in the gesture held promise.

“Thank you,” he whispered as we stepped onto the escalator. “I know what this is costing you.”

You have no idea was on the tip of my tongue, but I knew better than to give the words voice. He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it, his tenderness threatening to derail my frustration.

A young woman approached us in baggage claim, her fitted suit jacket, pencil skirt, and four-inch heels accentuating her curves. And if I noticed, every red-blooded male with half a pulse did too. I sneaked a glance at Stephen, whose eyes were locked on her face.

I’d never seen the object of his strayed affections, but still I wondered what she looked like. And how I might measure up. All I knew was that she was younger. Our counselor had strongly encouraged me to leave it at that. I’d reluctantly accepted his advice—except for late one night when I’d googled her name. I’d quickly learned how many Susan Johnsons there were in Denver, not to mention the world. After a few minutes, I’d closed my laptop, afraid that Stephen, asleep in bed beside me, might awaken. Still, my curiosity lingered.

“Welcome to Atlanta, Mr. and Mrs. Powell.” The young woman extended her hand first to me, then Stephen. “My name is Hannah Morgan. I’m with Porter and Chase Properties. A car is waiting. We’ll grab some lunch; then it will be my pleasure to show you some homes this afternoon.”

I gauged her to be in her late twenties, and her voice carried only the slightest Southern accent. Still my thoughts jumped to Annabelle, the sweetly drawling Whole Foods cashier back in Colorado. Hannah Morgan wasn’t a clone, but unarguably a distant cousin.

She signaled to the driver. “He’ll see to your bags.” Stephen handed him our claim checks.

She led us outside, where the air was even steamier. A Mercedes limousine sat purring at the curb, and an airport attendant opened the doors, then handed the key fob to the driver, who had promptly arrived with our luggage.

Stephen and I climbed into the back seat. The moneyed smell of leather permeated the interior as a flood of cool air pushed through the vents.

Seated in the front, Miss Morgan turned and pointed. “Cold waters are inside the console between you.”

Stephen handed me one of two ice-cold bottles of water. I drank until it bordered on rude, thirstier than I’d thought.

“I understand you’ve both been to Atlanta before,” Miss Morgan said. “Just how much do you know about our fair city?” Her gaze slid to me.

Wanting to say, “The heat is unbearable, the traffic horrendous, and the roaches legendary,” I opted for, “Capital city of Georgia, busiest airport in the world, and . . . Gone with the Wind.”

She laughed. “You just couldn’t not include that one, could you?”

“Sorry,” I said, smirking.

“But you left out heat, humidity, smog, and traffic,” she countered. “Not to mention high-end strip malls on every corner.”

My smugness properly countered, I had to give her extra points for candor.

She shrugged. “It’s all part of living in the South and in one of the fastest-growing cities in the world. But we also have enough lightning bugs to fill every mason jar this side of the Mississippi, more trees per square mile than any other metropolitan area, street names you can really sink your teeth into, and the best milk gravy that ever met a spoon. Hopefully those charms balance things. If not, I’ll have to bring out the big guns.”

“Which are?”

Her eyes narrowed. “The Varsity’s fresh, hot, fried apple pies.”

I smiled, beginning to like her, even if she was on the wrong side of this fight.

Miss Morgan scrolled on her phone. “Your husband said you both love seafood, so we’ll be dining at the Blue Ridge Grill in Buckhead, one of the top restaurants in Atlanta. Their crab cakes and scallops are beyond compare, and you simply have to try their chocolate banana bread pudding, although the peanut butter mousse is my favorite.”

I told her it sounded wonderful, but mentally I deducted a point for her being able to eat peanut butter anything and still look like that.

“All the houses we’ll be seeing today are in the same general vicinity, two of them located in a section of Buckhead known as Tuxedo Park.”

“Sounds exclusive,” Stephen said, winking at me. I smiled, doing my best to be positive. Such optimism from him would have usually roused my curiosity as to what fun thing he had planned. Now my first thought was to wonder what else he’d done that I wasn’t going to like.

Miss Morgan continued, “We’ve narrowed the list to four that most meet your criteria.”

Our criteria? Stephen hadn’t discussed that with me. Or our budget. In fact, we’d spoken little recently, though I had tried. I talked mostly to Maggie, who seemed over the moon about our moving to Atlanta. Which somehow made me feel even lonelier.

Miss Morgan’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, then cast a furtive look at Stephen before answering. Alarm bells went off inside me—not for the reason they usually did when beautiful women looked twice at my husband, but because I sensed he had something up his sleeve, which would explain his optimism. I missed what we used to have, our ease with one another, before he’d shown me I wasn’t enough.

I didn’t like who I was becoming. I’d gone from trusting without a thought to always being on guard and expecting the worst. I turned my attention out the window and to the blur of pine trees bordering the interstate, wishing again that Maggie had accepted our invitation to join us. I wanted her for many reasons, but mainly because she made a fabulous buffer these days.

Miss Morgan’s conversation, impossible not to overhear, confirmed a four o’clock appointment and an address I couldn’t decipher. But hearing it drove all of this home again. Why we were here and what had led us to this . . . brink. That’s what it felt like. And I was hanging on for dear life.