Not This Time (7 page)

“Where do you think he is, Beth?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s lost his wallet or his phone was stolen or something.”

He could call home from any phone. “He’ll get in touch when he can.”
If not before, certainly when his money runs out
.

“You’re right.” Sara took a bite of salad and slowly chewed. “It’s not just where he is, though. It’s what he might be doing.”

“What do you mean?” Beth frowned. “What do you think he’s doing?”

“If I could answer that, I wouldn’t be so worried.”

“Are you afraid he’s with another woman?”

Sara grunted. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were that simple?”

Odd response. Sara would be devastated. Puzzled, Beth pushed. “Would it?”

Before Sara could answer, someone rapped on the back door.

Eleven o’clock—who’d drop by? “I’ll get it.” Beth walked over and peeked out. Mark Taylor. What was he doing here? She opened the door. “Hi, Mark. Come on in.”

“Can’t. Lisa’s working the graveyard shift at Crossroads. I need to get some food over to her.” He passed a phone to Beth, and his sparkling eyes sobered. “Don’t let anyone else know you’ve got this. When it rings, answer it.”

“Okay.” Beth took the phone and put it in her pocket. “Can I ask why?”

“Sure,” he said, then turned and walked away.

You can ask. Just don’t expect any answers
. “Thanks,” she called after him, unsure if it was warranted.

He didn’t wave, slow down, or even look back.

A chill raced through Beth. She closed the door and, for some reason, locked it.

“Who was that?” Sara asked.

“Mark.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Just checking in. He does that for Joe now and then.” The phone had to be about Joe. Nothing else made sense. “I’m not sure why.” She wasn’t, though she’d wondered plenty.

“You know, I don’t think Joe is as out of your reach as you believe.” Sara left the sleek glass-top table and then paced between it and the long granite breakfast bar.

“I’m not reaching.”

Sara frowned. “He’s not Max, Beth.”

“No, but they share traits I’d have to be a fool to ignore.” Joe was totally out of her reach. Cool hooked up with glamorous, not with ordinary. One Max was plenty. Sara’s reflection shone in the countertop’s surface. Why was she tottering? “New shoes?”

“What?”

“You’re hobbling.” Why did she wear heels at home anyway? Beth shed her shoes the second she hit the entryway. Sara had never been the barefoot kind, but at home she used to wear flats or on rare occasions slippers. Now she probably wore heels to shower. Had to be to please Robert. “Take the things off.” Was her instep bruised? Hard to tell with her black hose, but her ankles were definitely swollen.

“They’re new. I need to break them in.” Sara looked down at the black pumps, then shut her eyes a brief second. “I’m going to call the hotel again.” She strode around the counter, listing heavily to the right, then snagged the wall phone near the gourmet center. “Surely he’s gotten there by now.”

On returning from the hairdresser, Sara had found a note. Robert had gone to New Orleans to meet an editor interested in publishing his novel. After he and Sara married, he had quit his job in the pharmaceutical industry to pursue his dream of being a novelist.

“The concierge said he would have Robert call the moment he arrived,” Beth reminded her, knowing it wouldn’t stop her from calling the poor man yet again.

“I know.” She rubbed at her throat. “But something could have happened to the rental. He could be broken down on the road in a dead zone. That’d explain his phone not working.”

Or he could be dead in a ditch somewhere
. That kind of thinking was reminiscent of Beth’s mother’s. Anything that frightened her she reduced to the morbid, and Sara was becoming more and more like her.
Programmed negative
. Beth held back another sigh, wishing someone—anyone—in her immediate circle besides Nora wasn’t dysfunctional.

“His e-mail said the Hummer had a ‘check engine light,’ but the dealer wouldn’t let him take a loaner out of state, so he—”

The cherry-red Hummer, a wedding gift from Sara. “Went to your regular shop where they could handle the repair and he could get a rental. He also promised he’d call as soon as he checked into the hotel.” Beth had no illusions Sara would listen.

“The trip should have taken him a little over four hours.” Sara checked her watch. “It’s eleven fifteen. He’s seriously late—and his phone is out of order.”

“I know.” Beth plucked a bite of ripe tomato from her plate. Robert knew Sara would be worried sick and having fits. He knew what this kind of worrying did to her, and he was putting her through it anyway. So much for being her devoted, besotted husband. He faked it with his high-society friends but didn’t bother with Beth.
Ordinary
.

Sara dialed the phone. A pause, then, “This is Sara Tayton again.” Her voice trembled. She smoothed her hand down her slim black skirt. “I’m sorry to keep bothering you, but—”

She’d called Beth to come over
and
dressed in black—Sara was already in mourning. Now she gripped a hank of long blond hair near her scalp and shook it. The gesture was too familiar to miss: a bad, bad sign. He wasn’t there.

“Thank you.” Blinking hard and fast, Sara braced her hand on the countertop for support. It was shaking. “Yes, I will. Sorry to trouble you again.” She hung up, took a deep breath, then again lifted the receiver and punched in a number.

His cell
. Beth rinsed their plates. Sara’s housekeeper, Maria, was devoted to Sara and locked in mutual disdain with Robert. She left early most days to give him a wide berth. Beth loaded the dishwasher, her concern escalating. When Sara hadn’t heard from Robert by lunch, she was a wreck—after the incident at the club, a walking catastrophe. Watching her slide down the slippery slope to one of her debilitating attacks knotted Beth’s insides. Hopefully the jerk would show up before Sara tumbled into a full-fledged breakdown.

Could either of them survive that again?

Unsure, Beth shuddered. “Still no answer?”

“No.” Sara cradled the phone and limped back to the table, twisting a rope of pearls hanging from her neck. “This isn’t like him.”

Beth hated pearls as much as Sara loved them. They suited her pale, delicate features and her quiet personality. Beth was not quiet or delicate. Her dark hair and eyes and olive skin required bolder accessories, ones that made a statement.

Sara was content to purr.

Beth naturally roared.

“No, it isn’t.” Robert typically stuck closer to Sara than glue on a stamp, terrified that something Beth said would sink in and Sara would ditch him. Oh, how Beth wished she had that kind of influence. But she didn’t. Resigned, she snagged a paper towel from the roll and then dabbed at a water spot on the front of her bright red blouse.

Anger simmered in Sara’s eyes. “Don’t pretend to be concerned. You hate him.”

“I don’t hate him.” Here it came. An anger dump. Scared women acted angry. It was one of the mysteries of life right up there with crying when happy. Beth shored up for it.

“You and Robert have been at war for six months. I know. I’ve been caught between the rock and the hard place, trying to keep you from killing each other.”

“It hasn’t been that bad.” It could have been, but Beth had bitten her tongue until it bled to keep Sara from having to choose between them. Not that Beth had a single doubt what Sara would do. The man was her husband.

“It has been that bad. Maybe worse.”

Okay, so Beth and Robert had been at war. Well, an undeclared war. When they couldn’t avoid each other, they were civil but clearly on hostile ground. Robert had brought that on, systematically undercutting Beth and Sara’s friendship and causing friction at SaBe. Sara couldn’t see it; she was in love with the jerk. But Beth’s vision was crystal-clear.

Treading on dangerous ground, she carefully framed her response. “I am concerned. Everything that matters to you concerns me.”

Sara’s anger drained. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.” Sara cupped her head with her hands, squeezed her eyes shut, and then slowly reopened them. “I know you’re concerned—at least, for me. But I know how you feel about Robert too. You say you don’t hate him, yet …”

“I don’t like him?” Beth suggested, keeping it real. Sara nodded and Beth stopped sponging the tabletop. “I don’t lie to you—never have and not starting now. I don’t like Robert, I never did and frankly I never will. But we’re family, Sara. I love you, and you love him. So there it is.”

“When I grow up, I want to be just like you.” Sara gave her a watery smile. “My marriage has been hard on us and SaBe, but …” Her voice faded. A strange sadness filled her face. “I wish this had never happened.” She lowered her gaze. “I wish everything had stayed the same. If I could go back …”

What was
that
about? Go back to before Robert? Or to before Sara and Beth had gotten off on the wrong foot about Robert? “Forget it, okay?” No good could come of going down that road. “Family is family. No man can change that.” On Robert, the lines in the sand had been drawn and neither of them would ever cross over to the other’s side. “We’re fine. No matter what, we’ll always be fine. That’s a promise, okay?”

“Okay.” Tears had Sara blinking hard. She wanted to say something, nearly did, but then fell back and regrouped. “I’m sorry. You aren’t to blame for any of this. I’m—I’m just …”

Terrified. Reliving the worst tragedy in your life, the death of your parents
. “You’re worried. First the club attack and now this—sure, you’re worried.”

Sara dropped her gaze. “Yes.”

Beth drank from her glass and then shrugged. She could afford to be gracious; the anger dump was behind them and Sara had been reassured. Considering everything, that was the best Beth could offer. “No problem. We help each other through hard times.”

“In ways you can’t imagine. God willing, you’ll never be able to imagine them.”

Beth stilled. “What does that mean?”

She waved a hand. “Nothing. Just … nothing.”

“You’ve been dropping cryptic bombs on me for a week. When are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not now. I … can’t. When I can, I will.” Sara slumped, spotted a card on the counter and snagged it. “Oh no. The fund-raiser’s tonight.”

“Tonight? It’s midnight.”

“No, tomorrow—Sunday night.” Sara wrung her hands. “I can’t do it, Beth. It’s Robert’s group.”

Beth supported the charities, but socials with Robert’s snooty friends left her cold. “One day you’re going to knock this off and stay away from them. You give in to panic and it just gets stronger. Pray on it instead. Have you prayed on it?”

“I can’t pray on this.”

“Of course you can. You can pray on anything.”

“Not on this,” she snapped. “You don’t understand.”

Sara rarely snapped. Beth studied her. “Then explain it to me.”

“It’s best that I don’t.” With a trembling hand, she shoved her hair back from her face. “Just go in my place.” She passed the card. “It’s for the moms.”

Something weird was going on that terrified Sara a lot more than the attack. NINA, and yet this was worse? Fear slithered down to Beth’s bones. “Is the reason you can’t pray connected to the warning you gave me—about protecting myself from you, and you from yourself?”

Sara didn’t answer.

It did connect. Whatever it was, it was worse than bad, and there was no way Sara was going to talk about it. Beth tugged at her sleeves. “Okay, I’ll go.”

In the past year, Sara had taken an intense interest in domestic violence and single moms. It started eight months ago with a case at the crisis center, which often took roll-over 911 calls when the department was short staffed. A four-year-old boy had phoned in and said, “My daddy killed my mommy.” Sara had taken the call, and on learning most stayed in violent situations because they lacked the means to get out of them, she began a fund-raising blitz that
she was still on. She wanted to adopt that little boy, but Robert wasn’t ready for kids. Sara had seen the child placed with a good family and kept tabs on him, and so far she had raised nearly a quarter million dollars for victims of domestic violence. “Where is the fund-raiser?”

“At the club.” Sara shot Beth an apology. “Sorry. I know it’s the last place you want to go, and I wouldn’t ask, but it’s important. We need rent-subsidy money and the kids need fun stuff—swing sets, bikes, and—”

“I’ll donate a million if I can skip it,” Beth seriously bargained.

“I’ll take your million, but the goal for tonight is to raise two million. I need you there to guilt them into it—and to work on Darla Green to donate that Airport Road property. It’s perfect for rent-subsidized apartments for women with kids, trying to get on their feet.”

“I thought that’s why we bought that land up north from Race Miller.”

“We did, but it’s so far out and there’s no public transportation.”

Both of which they knew before buying it. “So get them a bus or something.”

“No, it’s too remote.” Sara looked guilty. “Race’s wife, Aline, said the average response time on 911 calls is about twenty-five minutes. That’s just too long.”

“Mark Taylor could put in a great security system, Sara. Like he did at Ben’s house.”

“I know—and the one at Three Gables is great. But I—I just don’t want them there.”

Odd. She’d been wild about the idea. Settled on it before she’d even told Beth about it. Why the big change? Boy, a whole lot of things with her lately just weren’t making sense. “Okay, I’ll work on Darla. What are we gonna do with the land we got from Race?”

“I don’t know yet. But Airport Road would be perfect for the moms.”

“You are remembering airports have planes and they make noise, right?” Beth caught Sara’s glare. “I’m just saying.”

“It’s a grass strip and rarely used.” Sara stilled. “Please, Beth. It’s Robert’s friends and I don’t want to disappoint—”

Robert’s friends, Darla Green aside. “Is anyone normal going to be there?” Status. Money. Social standing. Robert’s group thrived on all that rot.