Page 22 of Finding Amanda

The brown microfiber sectional in the living room and both of the club chairs had been vacuumed and spot cleaned. At about two o'clock in the morning, after Amanda had told him about her run-in with Sheppard, he'd dusted the coffee table and entertainment center thoroughly, including the flat screen and the electronic stuff that went with it. Might as well take advantage of his insomnia. He'd used the feather-duster to clean the picture frames and doo-dads all over the room. When the sun came up on Saturday, he'd taken ammonia to the windows—inside and out—before he'd tackled Amanda's office, scrubbed the small guest bathroom, and worked his way upstairs. He'd even gotten out the long attachment for the vacuum to suck the cobwebs out of the corners.

Pretty dramatic. She'd probably be mad.

He opened the windows on the front of the house to let in the fresh air and blow away the scent of Pine Sol and the grilled cheese sandwiches he'd fixed for lunch. The rain had moved out the night before, leaving the air fresh and clean and turning the sky a clear blue. A stiff breeze tugged orange, yellow, and red leaves from the trees and littered the grass on their two-acre lot. Next weekend he'd tackle that project.

He turned back to the house. No dust, no dirt, no smudges—it hadn't been this clean in years. Not that Amanda had time to clean these days, between writing books, teaching classes, and taking care of the girls. It was nice to be able to do something for her again, though he suspected she'd see his help as an indictment on her housekeeping skills and hate him for it.

There was no winning with her.

He checked his watch. One-thirty. He glanced at his cell again where it sat on the end of the bar beside his small suitcase and jacket, forced himself to leave it there, and fell onto the sofa. He clicked on the TV to check the Patriots game, trying and failing not to look at the clock.

It was after two when he finally heard tires on the asphalt outside. He turned off the TV and walked to the window in time to see Amanda park her sedan in the drive.

Sophie barreled down the stairs. "Is that Mommy?"

"She's here!" Madi said, racing to keep up with her big sister.

They both skidded past him and outside into the chilly air. Waiting in the doorframe, he watched Amanda climb out of the car and embrace both of their daughters at the same time. She kissed their foreheads and listened to their simultaneous jibber-jabber, somehow taking it all in. How did she do that? Smiling and nodding at them, asking questions of the right girl at the right moment, Amanda managed to extricate herself from their grip and walk toward the back of the car.

Mark made it to her trunk as she was about to grab the suitcase. He touched her arm, felt her stiffen. "Let me," he said.

Wearing the mask he was trying not to get used to, she turned and faced him. "I can get it."

"I know you can," he said. "But will you please let me?"

She released her hold on the suitcase. "Thanks."

Mark grabbed it and slammed the trunk. Inside the house, he went up the stairs and down the long hallway to their bedroom. He refused to think of it asherbedroom. He had to believe he'd be back.

To the sound ofAladdinplaying on the TV, he lifted the suitcase onto his side of the king-sized bed. If she wanted to, she could leave it there all night. Maybe having the extra weight on the other side of the bed would remind her of him. Maybe she'd miss him.

Or she'd kick it off the bed in a fit of anger.

He lifted the bag from the bed, set it on the floor, and headed for the door, only to stop at the threshold. He was being ridiculous. He put it back on the bed, guessing that was where she'd want it. Did it matter? Their marriage was not dependent on his ability to know where she wanted her stupid suitcase.

From the top of the stairs he listened to his daughters tell their mom about their weekend. They didn't notice him as he crept down and rested against the railing to watch.

Seated on the long sectional, Amanda faced the windows toward the back yard. Sophie sat on her right. Madi sat on Amanda's left knee. Both the girls talked nonstop, finishing each other's sentences and one-upping each other with stories.

Nodding and smiling, Amanda pushed her straight shoulder-length blond hair behind her ear, her blue eyes sparkling. Sophie was so like him, with her brown hair and eyes, her height—tall for her age—and her daredevil personality. Madi had Amanda's blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin, and slight frame. Every asthma attack reminded Mark just how fragile his younger daughter was.

Amanda looked up. "Is that so?"

He gave his head a little shake. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening. Is what so?"

"You cleaned the house?"

"Oh, yeah. It gave me something to do."

Amanda's lips pursed and turned white as she studied him. Bracing himself, he waited for the accusation, or the defense, or whatever she was about to throw at him. She opened her mouth to say something, but she seemed to change her mind, and her lips slipped into a smile. "Thanks. That was thoughtful of you."

"You're welcome."

She looked around, then turned back to him. "It looks great."

They stared at each other until Sophie grabbed her mother's chin, turning her face to hers. "Can Daddy stay please, Mommy?"

"Oh, I'm sure your father has to go."

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