Page 21 of Finding Amanda

"I think it's permanent."

"Okay?" He drew out the word. "You're saying it's okay that I'm interested?"

"It hasn't been that long since he moved out, and?—"

"And you're not divorced. I understand that. Maybe we can start as friends."

"Friends?" A friend who wouldn't push her to get back with her husband, as Jamie did. A man who didn't always judge, and always find her wanting, as Mark did. A friend who cared for her, just the way she was. A new friend was exactly what she needed. "I'd like that."

"So, can I call you? Would that be okay?"

"Sure." She tried to temper the smile she felt crawling across her face. It didn't work. "Friends talk."

"Perfect."

CHAPTER FIVE

Mark 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 abouther 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 sevenyears 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.

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