18
DOUG SHUT OFF THE ENGINE of his car but stayed behind the wheel as the garage door rumbled down behind him, snuffing out the Saturday afternoon sun.
The potent scent of the lilies in the extravagant bouquet on the passenger seat swirled around him, churning his stomach.
Maybe this was a mistake.
What if she thought the gesture was silly? Or worse, suspicious. That he was bringing her flowers because he owed her an apology.
Although in truth, he did. Wasn’t the romantic notion he’d dreamed up as he’d lain awake in bed last night prompted by guilt? Maybe the rift between them wasn’t entirely his fault, but a large portion of it was.
And he didn’t want to lose her.
Drawing in a deep breath, Doug picked up the bouquet, slid out from behind the wheel, and went in search of his wife.
He found her in the laundry room, makeup free, hair uncombed, dressed in her oldest sweats as she pulled a load of clothes from the dryer and turned to dump it on the folding table.
She jerked when she spotted him standing in the doorway, and a few of his T-shirts landed in a heap on the floor as one hand fluttered to her chest. “Doug! I thought you were going to be at the office most of the—” Her gaze flicked to the bouquet he was gripping . . . then moved back to his face, her expression morphing from startled to uncertain.
“That was the original plan . . . but I got to thinking about—” He swallowed. Cleared his throat. Shifted his weight. “About us, and how much fun we used to have—and how I miss those early days. They seem like . . . they feel like another life sometimes.”
She hugged the armful of laundry tighter to her chest, one of his handkerchiefs drifting to the floor to join the jumbled T-shirts. “To me too.”
“So I was thinking . . . why not try to build in more time for us? Leave our responsibilities behind for a few hours every week and focus on all the things that brought us together in the first place.” His heart was thumping as hard as it used to during his high school track meets, his respiration just as choppy.
Moisture filled her eyes, and she released an unsteady breath. “Why now?”
Because he’d come too close to throwing away all the years he’d invested in building a life with this woman he’d vowed to love and honor as long as he lived. And that had scared him.
But the impetus for his epiphany was irrelevant. What mattered was that it had happened. That he’d regained his senses before he made a mistake he’d have regretted until his dying day.
So he searched for other words.
“I don’t like how we’ve drifted apart—and I was afraid if that continued, we’d end up on opposite shores, with a huge gulf between us that couldn’t be bridged.” He exhaled. “I’d like to try and recapture a bit of our dating days, when we were young and carefree . . . and the center of each other’s world.”
“I’d like that too.” She sighed, and her shoulders slumped. “But we’re different people now. Life moves on. Circumstances change.”
“I know. And along the way, our love got buried under bills and aging parents and health issues and teenage angst and work pressures and deadlines and a thousand other distractions. I’d like to put it back on top of our priority list.”
She regarded him for a long moment, still clutching the pile of clothes. “Can I ask you a question?”
A nuance in her tone put him on alert, and he braced. “Yes.”
“Did you have an affair?”
His lungs locked. “What?”
“It’s a simple question.”
No, it wasn’t. There was nothing simple about it. But it did deserve a direct—and immediate—answer.
“No! Why would you . . . what have I done to make you think that?” Other than his lunches with Carolyn, he’d never spent one-on-one time with another woman since the day he’d met Alison.
She set the pile of clothes on the table, her throat working. “I don’t know. It’s just that you’ve grown . . . distant. When we are together, it’s so . . . mechanical. And all we ever talk about are schedules and chores and obligations. I thought you might have . . .” She tucked her hair behind her ear and picked a piece of lint off her shorts. “I mean, I know there are beautiful women out there, and I don’t have the figure I had twenty years ago . . .” Her voice caught.
“Alison.” He closed the distance between them, set the flowers on the folding table beside the clothes, and took her hands. “You were—and are—a beautiful woman. But I didn’t marry you for your physical beauty. I married you for the beauty inside—and despite the curves and challenges life has thrown us, I’ve never stopped loving you.”
She searched his face. “I love you too. I always have. But I didn’t know how to fix what was broken—or even how to bring it up.” She tucked the crown of her head into the curve of his neck and wrapped her arms around him, a familiar, tender posture he’d once savored but had too long taken for granted.
While adrenaline and testosterone provided fleeting moments of excitement, nothing beat the contentment of quiet affection in a relationship built on trust and history.
Thank God he’d realized that before he’d started down a path that would have destroyed what mattered most to him.
“Well, let’s work on it together, okay?” He brushed his lips over her forehead and handed her the flowers. “Beginning with this—and dinner tonight at Tony’s. I reserved a table for seven.”
Her eyebrows rose. “That could break the bank.”
“We can afford a splurge on occasion. One of the outcomes of having a fair number of working years under your belt—along with a few extra pounds.” He patted his midsection.
“You look perfect to me.” She smiled up at him, with all the sweetness he remembered from their long-ago dating days.
“Thank you for seeing me through rose-colored glasses.” He leaned down and kissed her. A real kiss, not his usual token lip-brush that was more perfunctory than passionate. “Now why don’t you go do whatever you have to do to get ready for tonight while I fold the laundry? What else is on your to-do list this afternoon?”
“Other than putting those flowers in water—nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.” Her gaze locked onto his. “You know, I haven’t used our Jacuzzi in ages. It seems like a waste of water for one person.”
His pulse picked up as he caught her drift. “I think you should indulge.”
“I could be a while. Is there anything else we should . . . discuss?”
“Let me consider that while I fold the laundry and take care of the flowers. I’ll come find you after I’m done.”
“I’ll leave the door open.” Smiling, she nudged him with her hip and padded barefoot down the hall, throwing him a wink over her shoulder.
A slow grin tugged up the corners of his mouth. Alison’s flirty behavior did far more to fuel his libido than Carolyn’s suggestive touches and innuendoes.
Yet he’d come dangerously close to falling under the newswoman’s spell. Of succumbing to temptation.
His lips flattened. If the situation with Eve hadn’t occurred, who knew how this would have ended?
At least that was one positive outcome from all the trauma.
Plus, he no longer had to worry about whether Carolyn was involved, as he’d feared. The detective had put that concern to rest yesterday with the news that a suspect was under investigation. She was aggressive and ambitious, but she wasn’t a criminal.
She was also on her own going forward if she wanted to pursue a career as a radio show host.
Doug dived into the laundry, folding at warp speed.
Come Monday, he’d send her one final text—for closure, so there was no misunderstanding about his position.
And now that he was confident she’d had nothing to do with Eve’s problems, he could end that chapter in his life with no lingering doubts or regrets.
“Come on, Meg . . . if you felt well enough to go to church, you ought to be able to handle a little cuddling.”
As Steve gave her an engaging grin, Meg dropped her purse on the kitchen table. She’d managed to keep him at arm’s length since Friday night, but she couldn’t feign sickness forever.
Yet reconciling the information Detective Lange had offered with everything she’d believed about Steve was proving difficult.
Who was she supposed to trust?
She bit her lip and studied the man across from her.
If the police had sufficient evidence to charge him, he wouldn’t be in their kitchen this morning. He’d be in jail. Or out on bail. And he had been sweet to her yesterday—in his own way. Yes, he’d kept his distance to avoid any stench of vomit, but he’d bought her a carryout dinner. High-carb, of course—but it was the thought that counted, right?
Still . . . she wasn’t ready to cuddle—or go where that would lead. If he’d targeted Eve or fooled around with Candy, that was a game changer. So until she knew for sure, she had to keep her distance, no matter how hard he pushed.
“I’m not up to it, Steve. Going to church wore me out.”
His good humor faded. “So you have time and energy for God, but not your husband.”
Guilt pressed in on her, but she pushed it aside. For once in her life, she had to stay strong. If she’d been wrong about Steve . . . if he’d used her . . . sticking her head in the sand was stupid. “Give me another day or two.”
His eye twitched, and a muscle clenched in his jaw. “Fine.” He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys.
“Where are you going?”
“What do you care?” He brushed past her none too gently as he stomped toward the door.
“I care.”
“Yeah.” He paused on the threshold. “How much?”
“What does that mean?”
His lip curled. “Do you care enough to cuddle for a while?”
She fought back a wave of nausea—this one for real. He was measuring her love by whether she’d bend to his will. Do something she was less in the mood than ever to do. Let him control her.
Was that all their relationship was to him? A power play?
“Well?” He glared at her.
She could feel the color draining from her face.
He frowned. “Are you going to puke again?”
“Maybe.” She groped for the back of a chair to steady herself.
Disgust contorted his features. “I’m out of here.”
With that, he swiveled away and pushed through the door, slamming it behind him. Less than thirty seconds later, the garage door rumbled up . . . then down.
He was gone.
Legs quivering, Meg sank into the chair and dropped her head in her hands.
Now what?
If she walked out on him and he was innocent, her marriage would be over—along with the life she’d dreamed of.
But it’s been more dream than reality anyway, Meg. You have to accept that. Admit you made a mistake.
A sob caught in her throat, and her vision misted. That was the harsh truth, and she couldn’t ignore it any longer. Even without the recent developments, Steve hadn’t been the Prince Charming she’d imagined him to be during their courtship.
Far from it.
Her husband was selfish and domineering and manipulative, with a mean streak a mile wide that he hid beneath a veneer of charm when it served his purposes.
No wonder his first wife had divorced him.
Yet how did you reconcile divorce with a till-death-do-us-part vow?
Meg lifted her head and pushed her hair back, staring at the dark clouds gathering outside the kitchen window.
If the detective was wrong about his allegations, might Steve be willing to work on their relationship? Get counseling, perhaps?
That’s a pipe dream, Meg. He’s not the type to admit he has issues.
The same persistent voice that had warned her eighteen months ago to proceed with caution in this marriage once again offered a prophet-of-doom pronouncement.
Yet this go-round, she wasn’t going to ignore it.
Yes, she’d mention her idea to Steve. Give him a chance to work through this with her—assuming he wasn’t behind the threats to Eve. That was only fair.
But if he said no? If he refused to change his behavior?
This marriage was over.
“Hey, Mom.”
Sara Allen double-checked the Tupperware inventory in her trunk as her son spoke. “What?”
“There’s the delivery guy I saw the day you picked me up from school and we went to drop off the stuff you sold at that party.”
“Uh-huh.” Sara did another count of the small containers that could keep two pounds of brown sugar fresh. Always an easy sell at parties, once she demonstrated her personal piece of Tupperware filled with still-soft two-year-old sugar. If she was one container short, she’d have to schedule another trip—and who had time for that?
“He’s not wearing a uniform today either.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How come he didn’t wear a uniform at that house? Or drive a truck with the company name on it? Our FedEx guy always does.”
“What?” Yes! There it was. The small piece of Tupperware was tucked behind the grocery bags she carried for her trips to Aldi.
“That guy over there. How come he didn’t have a truck with FedEx on it?”
She pulled her head out of the recesses of her trunk and turned her attention to Jeremy. At nine years old, her son was a constant font of questions. And he noticed everything, from the color on the outside of flower petals to the number of holes in a button.
Definitely not a skill he’d inherited from her.
“What guy are you talking about?”
“Over there.” He pointed to a tall man who was striding toward a vehicle in the fast-food parking lot, a bag with arches on the side in one hand and a large paper cup in the other.
“Why do you think he’s a delivery guy?”
“’Cause of that package he left at the house across the street.”
“What house? Which street? When?” She shut the trunk. This quick stop for a milkshake to reward Jeremy for sitting in the car half of Sunday afternoon while she delivered Tupperware was taking too long. They had to get rolling.
“You know. That day you picked me up from school at lunchtime and you stopped to deliver an order. ’Member?”
“Yes.” That had been two weeks ago Friday. The first week of school, when dismissal had been at noon. Hard to forget that day, since the neighborhood where she’d made the delivery had been on the news that evening, thanks to a fake bomb someone had planted on the doorstep of a radio celebrity.
A fake bomb that had been inside a FedEx package.
Sara froze.
Was it possible . . . could her son have seen the guy who’d left it? Last she’d heard, the police didn’t have any suspects.
She squinted after the man, who was approaching a Grand Cherokee. He appeared to be a normal guy. Nothing about him sent up any red flags.
“Mom.” Jeremy tugged on her arm. “Don’t all those guys drive a truck with FedEx on the side? And aren’t they ’sposed to wear a uniform?”
“Uh . . . yeah. I think so.” She peered at the license plate. Fumbled for a pen and scrap of paper in her purse. Jotted down the numbers and letters while the guy backed out.
As he drove past, he gave them a quick glance.
She bent her head and pretended to search her purse for her keys.
Jeremy slurped up his shake through the straw, gawking at the car.
“Why not?”
“Just don’t, okay? Get in the car.”
For once he complied without further questions or argument.
She slid behind the wheel, locked the doors, and slipped on her sunglasses, following the progress of the guy in the SUV as he swung onto the main drag with a screech of tires and a heavy foot on the gas.
Now what?
She stuck the key into the ignition, watching until the Cherokee disappeared into the traffic.
“How come we’re not moving?” Jeremy continued to suck on his drink.
“Honey . . .” She angled toward him and looked over her shoulder. “Are you sure that’s the same man you saw the day I was delivering Tupperware?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How do you know? Did you see his face?”
“Uh-huh. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, but I think a bee was buzzing around him, ’cause he took them off for a minute and swatted the cap through the air. I saw him when he turned toward me. What I noticed most though was how he walked.”
“What do you mean?”
“He kind of steps lighter on one foot. Like Dad did last year after he broke his toe. Didn’t you notice that?”
“No.” She’d hardly noticed her husband’s limp, let alone a stranger’s.
However . . . if the man’s off-kilter gait had been obvious, she’d have spotted it. Whatever abnormality Jeremy had picked up must be very subtle.
“So how come he wasn’t wearing a regular uniform that day? I mean, his clothes kind of looked like a uniform, but they weren’t. Like, there was no company name on his shirt. And why didn’t he have a truck?”
She could think of one answer—but if she shared her suspicions with the police, what were the chances they’d take the comments of a nine-year-old seriously, even if she vouched for his powers of observation and attention to detail?
And did she want to put him through what might be a traumatic experience?
Yet if his testimony could help the police find the lunatic who was planting fake bombs, wasn’t it worth the risk?
She rubbed her forehead and sighed.
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
At her son’s uncertain question, she smoothed out her brow and put the car in gear. “Nothing, honey. Let’s get these deliveries done so we can go to the park with Dad this afternoon after he gets home from his meeting at church.”
“Yes!”
She caught his exuberant fist pump in the rearview mirror, smiling as she pulled out of the parking spot.
But as soon she left the fast-food restaurant behind, the corners of her mouth leveled out. She had a serious decision to make—but she wasn’t making it alone. John needed to weigh in as soon as he got home from his meeting.
And if they both agreed their son’s story was credible, their Sunday could end up including a visit from the police.
Yawning, Eve pressed the automatic door opener on her garage and edged around her car toward the lawnmower.
After hours of physical labor on the living room floor, cutting the grass didn’t hold much appeal—especially with temperatures hovering around ninety. But thanks to all the rain they’d had last week, her lawn was past due for a haircut.
The job shouldn’t take long, though. An hour, tops. By five-thirty, she’d be done with the chore and have the rest of the evening free. She could kick back with a soda on the deck and relax.
And who knew? It was possible Brent would call. He ought to be back from his camping trip by then.
In fact . . . maybe he’d join her if she asked.
Now wouldn’t that be a great cap-off for the weekend?
Grinning, she wheeled the mower out onto the driveway and pulled the cord. Two tries later, it roared to life, and she aimed it toward the grass.
As she walked along behind the self-propelled machine, she scanned the neighborhood. Quiet, as usual. The older folks tended to hibernate if the temperature climbed above eighty-five, and kids today would rather play on their computers or smartphones than indulge their imaginations with outdoor games of make-believe.
Hmm.
Not a bad topic for one of her shows.
She circled the garage. Tired as she was, it would be wise to begin in the back. If she got the hardest part of the job done first, she ought to be able to muster up her flagging energy for the easier home stretch.
Tooling along the property line, she surveyed the adjacent yards. Just as quiet as the front. No neighbors visible . . . yet a faint whiff of barbecue suggested someone had fired up a grill.
That would be an appealing Sunday dinner—but barbecuing for one never seemed worth the trouble.
Those steaks in her freezer weren’t improving with age, though. And she’d wiped down the patio furniture an hour ago, deadheaded and watered the flowers in her container garden around the railing, cleaned up the stray kernels of popcorn that had spilled during the Scrabble game with her sisters. It would be a lovely spot for dinner.
Lovelier still, of course, if she was sharing the meal with—
Why was a piece of paper attached to the railing of the deck steps? It hadn’t been there an hour ago. She’d have noticed it while she was cleaning up.
Slowly she released the control bar on the mower—and silence descended, save for the chatter of a squirrel in the oak tree that shaded the deck.
Pulse accelerating, Eve circled around the mower and crossed to the railing.
A single, folded sheet was thumbtacked to the cedar upright supporting the handrail.
Could it be another message from her tormentor?
Her gut said yes.
But . . . how was that possible?
Unless . . . had Steve eluded whoever was assigned to watch him—or done this in between County surveillance gigs? After all, both Brent and Cate had admitted they couldn’t watch him 24/7.
On the other hand, her intuition could be wrong, given how she was jumping at shadows these days, looking for danger around every corner. It was possible the note had nothing to do with the threats. What if it was from a neighbor—Olivia, or Ernie’s owners? If that was the case, raising a false alarm would cause unnecessary angst.
Why not check it out herself first? In light of past experience, there wouldn’t be any fingerprints anyway. Steve had been careful all along—and he had more incentive now than ever to be extra diligent.
Eve scrubbed her palm on her shorts and worked out the thumbtack with a fingernail. Pulled it free and opened the note.
It was short and to the point.
It was also time to call Brent.