Page 6 of Finding Amanda

“About us getting sued? That’s the least of my worries. From what she’s told me, the way Sheppard manipulated her, he sounds like a sociopath. I’m worried he’s going to hurt her, try to silence her.”

Mark stared at treetops on the far edge of the yard. The green had all but disappeared, and a thousand variations of gold and red and orange fluttered in the breeze. Would he be home by the time the last one fell to the ground, or trapped in his crappy apartment? Amanda had disregarded his fears about the psychiatrist, just like she’d disregarded his pleas to skip the writing conference this weekend. She didn’t trust his judgment anymore. She didn’t trust him.

He felt Chris’s stare and met it.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but have you thought about what you’re going to do if she files for divorce?”

“She’s not gonna . . . Why would you ask that?” Realization was a sucker punch to the gut. “Did she say something to Jamie? Is she planning?—?”

“No, no. Sorry. Jamie hasn’t said anything to me. We don’ttalk about you two—especially now that you’re separated. I’m just wondering if you’ve thought about it.”

“We’re going to get back together.” Mark tried to convince his pounding heart. “It’s just a matter of time. I have to . . . to figure out what’s going on. Why she kicked me out. And then . . .” And then what? He’d fix it? How could he fix it if he didn’t know what was broken? And how could he know if she refused to tell him?

Mark slid his gaze to the neighbor’s house, to the gutter that had dislodged from the roof. Rather than meet the corner seamlessly, it hung about a foot below the roof’s edge, dumping rainfall onto what had once been a flower garden but was now a tangle of weeds.

Mark had been irritated by that gutter since he’d started this job. Why didn’t they have someone repair it? A ladder and a few screws, and it would be good as new.

That . . . that was a mess he could fix.

“Remember,” Chris said, “Jamie and I are praying for both of you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“If Amanda completely loses her mind and files for divorce, it won’t be the end of the world. You’ve got the girls. You’ve got a successful business. And there are plenty of other women out there. It’s not like you don’t have options.”

Mark met his friend’s eyes. “I don’t want options. I want my life back. I want my wife.”

CHAPTER TWO

Amanda Johnson massaged her lower back and stared into the glass case, wondering if she should have ordered something to go along with her pumpkin-flavored latte. She was more tired than hungry, but the scones looked delicious. After spending two hours squirming in a chair more suited to a torture chamber than a Manhattan hotel, Amanda figured she deserved a treat. One look at the line forming in the coffee shop, however, and she changed her mind.

The barista yawned, propping an elbow on the counter as she dispensed caramel into a tall cup. At this rate, Amanda would be lucky to get her drink before dinnertime.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to a woman she'd met at the conference earlier in the day. The woman held up a copy of Amanda's cookbook and smiled. "Thanks again."

Amanda's heart fluttered as it did whenever she saw her book, the raised letters of her pen name leaping from the cover. When she'd signed the book earlier, she'd tried to quell the giggle and look professional and detached, as if people asked her for her autograph every day. "Anytime."

Amanda watched the woman walk away. At least shewasn't the only one skipping the keynote address. She'd seen a group of writers in the lobby bar when she'd come down the escalator, but she had no desire to join them. She'd already attended the seminar on social media and blogging, which made sense. Amanda had been blogging for years, and her following had grown faster than she'd ever dared hope. Whether the blog fueled her cooking classes or the classes fueled the blog, who knew? She just knew they were both doing very well. And now with a cookbook in print, Amanda had somehow become known as an expert. A reporter from theBostonHeraldhad described her blog as, "Entertainment tips for the rest of us. . . Martha Stewart meets the Pioneer Woman."

Accolades aside, being a blogger didn't make her a writer, and frankly, neither did writing a cookbook. How many ways were there to say, "Add a cup of sugar and stir"? Being at this conference, surrounded by real writers, made her feel like barbecue sauce at a French bistro.

The barista finally started on her latte. Amanda massaged her back again, cursing her afternoon in the stiff chair, and willed the woman to move faster.

She'd gotten some good ideas in the seminar, like better ways to connect with her audience. The rest of the seminars looked to be about the craft of writing, and Amanda wasn't interested. She'd bled over the pages of her memoir, and she never wanted to write something like that again. Not that it had been hard to get those words on the page, not really. Reliving the past, dredging up the memories—that had been the hard part.

That, and dealing with Mark. After all her hard work, what did he say? That she shouldn't publish. He was afraid the subject of her memoir—and her nightmares—would discover what she'd done. Or so he said. More likely, he was afraid hismother would find out. The woman already hated her, so what difference would that make?

And she hadn't seenhimin years. Dr. Gabriel Sheppard. She shuddered at the thought of him. Amanda would keep everything under wraps until the book was in print. And itwouldbe in print, too. If no publisher showed interest, she'd self-publish and sell it on her blog. Then she'd let the name of her seducer slip, and he'd be ruined.

Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

When the barista finished Amanda’s latte, she snatched the cup and stepped into the hotel's towering lobby. She couldn't go back to her room, not while her roommate nursed a migraine. The downpour drenched the idea of a stroll around Central Park. The lobby would have to do.

The scent of rain followed soggy guests through the sliding glass doors. The clink of dishes and occasional laughter filtered across the expanse from the bar. The ding of elevators and murmur of travelers almost drowned out the soft music playing in the background.

She headed for a seating area about thirty feet from the front desk. The chairs were white, contemporary and boxlike, with sides as tall as the backs. Three were pushed together, arm-to-arm, and faced a wide, lightly-stained coffee table. She set her latte on the table and tugged a novel out of her bag, leaving the bag propped against the edge of the chair. Slipping off her shoes, she lifted her stocking-clad feet onto a chair and opened the book, settling into her hiding place.

She'd finished three chapters when a shadow fell across her novel. Her gaze traveled from a pair of trouser-clad knees, to a leather belt, to a suit jacket and tie, and finally to the face of the man she'd been hiding from for twelve years.

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