Page 64 of Finding Amanda

"Not on purpose. I trust you. Mark's making me paranoid, I guess." And yet, Mark's instincts were usually spot-on. Who might have contact with Gabriel? Were they passing on information unknowingly, or did Amanda have another enemy?

Roxie pushed her plate away. "I think you ought to expose this pervert as soon as possible. Seems to me he deserves everything he gets."

Amanda scrubbed her face. "You don't know the half of it."

"What do you mean by?—?"

"Sorry to interrupt, ladies.” Baxter stepped into the kitchen. “Roxie, I'll just wait in the car."

Only when Baxter reappeared did Amanda remember he was there. He'd been in the bathroom a long time. What had he been doing?

She was being paranoid, all Mark’s warnings obviously getting to her.

Roxie slipped back into her friendly, flirty mode. "Oh, Bax, you just have to try this cake!"

"I'd love to, really." He gave Amanda an apologetic look. "But my stomach's a little upset, and I'd like to make it all the way to the Cape without having to stop again."

"Poor Baxter," Roxie cooed. "I think you stayed out too late last night partying."

He said nothing but gave his boss an indulgent smile.

"Where are you two headed?" Amanda asked.

"Writer's conference in Falmouth." Roxie hopped off her chair and checked her watch. "We'd better go. I'll hold off on sending those proposals. Let me know what you decide."

Amanda checkedthe clock as she rushed into the kitchen. Alan was due to arrive at ten past five, and she wanted to have dinner ready when he got there. She'd arranged to drop the girls off at the birthday party early, shooing them into their friend's house, trying not to be rude. She'd make amends when she picked the girls up at seven.

Amanda placed the prepared chicken breasts—she's already pounded them flat and dredged them in flour—in a hot pan on the stove. Instantly they began to sizzle in the oil, filling the room with their aroma. Then she measured the wine for the sauce.

Her thoughts drifted to the conversation she'd had with Mark on Wednesday. He'd acted like she was crazy to believe he blamed her for what happened with Sheppard. But the images of him as he'd read her memoir were carved into her memory. She'd yearned for compassion, for understanding, for some acknowledgment that the affair wasn't her fault. All he'd given her was anger. Rage seethed from his pores in those days like sweat on a humid summer day. He'd tried to hide it, but she knew. He'd been ashamed of her, and when they were in bed together, repulsed by her. He might be putting on a good show now, but it was too late. Maybe . . . maybe he did care for her again. Maybe he did still love her in his own way. It didn'tmatter. Nothing he could say would ever undo the wounds he'd inflicted back then.

She pulled a handful of dried fettuccini out of the tall, slender box and dropped it in the already boiling water, stirring to keep it from sticking and automatically checking the time. Fifteen more minutes and Alan would be there.

She glanced at the front door, which stood open with just the storm door between her and the outside. She should close it—it wasn't safe like that—but Alan would be here any minute. And she was trying to enjoy the evening.

The week had turned unseasonably warm, and Mark had put off picking up his winter clothes until next week. He was trying to catch up on work after missing Tuesday. This weekend he planned to rake the leaves, though she assured him she could do it. Actually, she'd planned to hire some neighborhood boys for the task, but if Mark was willing, why not let him?

Because it was another way of stringing him along. She was stringing herself along in a weird way, too, allowing herself to think about Mark, to wonder about his feelings for her. It was over. They both had to let it go.

She'd met with her lawyer that morning. Things couldn't continue this way. It wasn't fair to Mark to keep dragging this out, and if he was right about stress being the cause of Madi's asthma attack, then that was more reason to get things settled. The lawyer, a heavyset woman in her late fifties, explained the process of filing for divorce. After half an hour of details and questions, the woman encouraged Amanda to take the weekend to think about it. She agreed, but she knew that on Monday, she'd be ready to file.

It was too sad to think about.

Anyway, Alan would be here soon, and though she'd only known the man a week, she couldn't wait to see him again. They'd spoken twice since their conversation Tuesday—nothingtoo serious. But tonight . . . With a little ripple of excitement, maybe a twinge of apprehension, she looked at the clock again. She hadn't anticipated anything this much in a long time.

Amanda layered the prosciutto and mozzarella on the chicken, then covered the pan. She gave the pasta a quick stir before moving on to the salad. Fortunately, she'd prepared it earlier, so now she simply pulled it from the refrigerator, dressed it, and dropped a pile onto each of the two salad plates. She took the salads to the table, hoping they wouldn't wilt before Alan arrived. She'd written a cookbook and was nationally known as some sort of entertainingexpert, but she was nervous about a single dinner guest.

When the cheese had melted, she transferred the chicken to the plates, added the wine to the pan, and cooked it until it thickened. She finished preparing the meals, then checked the clock for the millionth time.

Finally, the doorbell rang. She swallowed a bubble of excitement and headed for the front door.

Alan stood on the porch wearing a button down shirt open at the collar and a dark sports coat. His jeans made the outfit casual, and she was glad she'd chosen jeans and a dressy sweater for the occasion. Alan held a slim, brown box in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

"Hello! Come in." Her voice sounded too high, nervous.

He stepped in the door and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Thanks." He handed her the box. "Chocolates. One thing all writers seem to have in common is their love of chocolate."

She accepted the gift. "Thank you! My entire career has been fueled by chocolate and coffee."

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