Secrets of a Shoe Addict (28 page)

She’d kill him, that’s what. She’d already fallen off the pious wagon. No matter how hard she tried, apparently it wasn’t good enough for God, so she wasn’t doing him any favors anymore.

Vengeance is the Lord’s
her ass.

She should have known this was going to happen. Damn it, damn it, damn it, it was all her fault. She knew how ruthless Damon could be. Had she imagined a decade in prison had
softened
him? Of course not. And now she’d dragged Brian into her own swirling black karma, and now he was the one paying the price. And Parker.

And yes, she was, too. But it wasn’t fair that there should be other casualties.

All because of some stupid stolen necklace some jerk had asked her to hold on to a thousand years ago.

A jerk she never thought she’d see again.

“Mrs. Walsh?”

Abbey only half heard her name, then realized Ida Duncan was talking to her. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Your husband is in surgery.”

Surgery. They wouldn’t operate on a dead man.

There was hope.

“How serious is it?”

Ida glanced at what appeared to be notes on Brian’s case, on her computer. “We won’t know anything until the doctors come out.”

Abbey slumped in her chair and raised a trembling hand to push her hair back out of her face. “Do you know what happened? I mean, I know there was an accident, but I don’t know where, I don’t know how, I don’t know anything.”

“Mr. Walsh was in a single-car accident on Glen Road. No one else was involved.”

Glen Road. Abbey hated that winding, hilly road with all its blind hairpin turns.

“The police are trying to piece together what happened, but it appears that he lost control of his car while rounding a curve.”

“But he’s a careful driver,” Abbey said, more to herself than to Ida Duncan.

Yet it was Ida Duncan who answered. “Accidents happen sometimes, even to the most careful driver.”

No they didn’t. Not to Brian.

He was just caught in the crossfire of her war with God.

“You can wait in the waiting room now,” Ida said, standing up.

Once again, Abbey followed the slight woman through the sterile halls of the hospital, until they got to a waiting room with
uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs and several TVs with a fuzzy picture of CNN playing with the volume down low.

A young couple sat, looking worried, on one side of the room, so Abbey took a seat on the other side so all of them could have privacy in their anguish.

“Can I get you anything?” Ida asked. “Coffee or tea maybe?” Abbey shook her head. “Thank you.”

Ida looked like she wanted to say something else, but she just smiled and gave a single nod. “The doctors should be out soon.”

It was 2
A.M.
when Abbey, after hours of waiting, half watching CNN, and drinking cup after cup of bad coffee, finally left the hospital, assured that Brian was in stable condition post-surgery.

He’d had a ruptured spleen and a punctured lung, in addition to several cracked ribs and broken teeth. The doctor had told her that, although Brian looked a mess, his chances for a full recovery were excellent.

She’d been allowed to see him, though only for a moment, because he was recovering in the intensive care unit.

At first, she hadn’t even recognized the swollen, purple-bruised face as her husband’s.

“Sorry . . . I’m. . . I’m late.” His voice was labored, and he gave a feeble smile.

That was when Abbey lost it. The waiting room experience had been very much like her ritual on an airplane, concentrating all her will to make everything come out okay. She hadn’t exactly felt
strong
, but she’d been stoic.

Now that was over.

She clasped his hands in hers and bowed her head. “Don’t try to talk.”

“ ’S okay.”

“No, it’s not. You have to save all your energy to get well.”

“Just wanted . . . some . . . time off.”

She gave a laugh through her tears. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Caribbean?”

“Too . . . obvious.”

“Oh, Brian.” She closed her eyes against a new onslaught of tears and felt them drip off her lashes.

“Go home,” he said, and raised a hand to try to stroke her hair. But the IV made it cumbersome and he was weak, so he dropped it back down. “Sleep.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” she said.

“I’m going . . . sleep.” He looked at her through lids at half-mast. “Go.”

“I don’t—”

“Go.” His voice was weak but commanding. “I . . . mean it. Go. Parker.”

She knew him well enough to know he meant it. And that she wouldn’t do him any good hovering over him all night.

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning,” she told him. “Before you even wake up.”

“Don’t . . . dare wake . . . me up.” His blinks were becoming longer and longer.

She knew he needed to sleep.

“Good night,” she whispered, and bent to kiss his swollen cheek as lightly as she could. “I love you.”

She meant it more than she could possibly express.

Chapter
      
18
  

T
iffany was wide awake.

Fortunately, Parker had knocked off hours ago. After staying up an hour and a half past Kate’s bedtime, running around like zoo animals—much to Charlie’s disapproval—Kate and Parker had finally conked out on the bunk beds in her room. For once, Tiffany didn’t care if Kate was up too late. Some things were more important than a regimented bedtime schedule.

“How long is that kid going to be here?” Charlie wanted to know. He’d just spent the evening in his “den,” a fairly soundproof room in the upstairs loft, complete with a fifty-inch high-definition TV, a stereo that cost more than some cars, and a couple of recliners. It wasn’t like it had been a hardship for him to go up there.

“He’ll be here until his mother comes back,” she said crisply. “Maybe longer than that. His father was in an accident.”

“Oh.” She hoped that would shut him up. But no. “Don’t they have family around somewhere?”

Ever since their conversation about finances, Tiffany had begun to see Charlie in a new light. Or maybe it was the same light, but it
felt
new. Something inside her had wilted, but with the newfound freedom she was discovering with her work, she realized that she didn’t
need
to stay in a marriage that made her feel so awful all the time. She was able to make it on her own, if she needed to.

And she was really beginning to think she needed to.

“They have
friends
, Charlie.
Me
. And I’m going to take care of that boy, and help his mother, until they don’t need me to anymore.”

“Okay, okay.” He raised his hands in surrender, but the gesture was far too little and way too late. “You don’t have to bite my head off. I was only asking.”

“No, you weren’t. You were
telling
. You were telling me that this emergency of someone else’s was interrupting life in your little world and you don’t like it. Not only do you not like it, but you blame
me
. And I think that really stinks, Charlie, I really do.”

He rolled his eyes and let out an impatient puff of air. “I only asked one little question. Give me a break, would you?”

She looked at the man she’d married more than a decade before and realized, with sickening clarity, that she didn’t really know him at all.

More important, she didn’t really
like
him.

“By the way,” she said, surprised at how detached she felt, “when I was doing laundry the other day I came across a bathing suit in your stuff. What was that all about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. It was right on top of the pile of laundry I took upstairs.”

He shrugged. “No clue.”

She hadn’t been prepared for complete denial. Lies, yes. Pretend befuddlement, sure. But pretending the suit didn’t even exist at all?

She didn’t know what to say to that.

“Stop trying to obscure the point,” Charlie said, clearly coming out on the offense now. “A man has a right to privacy in his own home.”

“Apparently he thinks he has a right to it in his marriage, too.”

“What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Separate bank accounts, separate credit cards, separate lives, Charlie.”

“I told you that was for business.”

She thought about answering, but why? There was no winning this argument. She didn’t even want the prize.

“Leave me alone,” she said.

“Gladly.” He walked off, the years and pounds weighing what was once a lanky gait into what was now an angry one.

She watched him go and it occurred to her that she wouldn’t mind one bit if he just kept right on walking.

Something inside her was changing, and it wasn’t just tonight, or the mysterious bathing suit, or the accident, or Charlie’s remarkable lack of hospitality.

It was everything.

A year ago, she wouldn’t have thought going broke and becoming a phone sex operator would be
good
for her, but to her surprise she found herself worrying less about every little thing. Just realizing how unpredictable life could be, and how things seemed to work out even in unexpected ways, was strangely reassuring.

And freeing.

So at this moment, when she’d normally be envisioning all kinds of terrible outcomes for Brian Walsh, she was actually pretty sure Abbey was going to come back and say he was going to be okay.

While she waited for that, Tiffany watched all the late-night interview shows, even the ones she normally couldn’t stand. Finally, at 1:45
A.M.
she decided to make a cosmopolitan. Actually, she decided to make a pitcher, just in case Abbey needed one when—and if—she returned tonight.

Fifteen minutes later, Abbey’s headlights illuminated the front window, and Tiffany went outside to meet her.

“Is Brian okay?”

Abbey sniffled. It sounded like maybe she’d been doing a lot of that. “It looks like it.”

Tiffany’s shoulders relaxed for the first time all night. “Oh, thank God. I was so worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Abbey said immediately. “I should have called and given you an update earlier.” She frowned as if that were an important detail. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

“Maybe because your husband was in the hospital.” Tiffany put her arm around Abbey. “Come on in. Would you like a drink?” She didn’t care that Abbey was the pastor’s wife; she was her friend, and she was going to offer her a drink without worrying about right or wrong.

“I would love a drink,” Abbey said, giving a weak smile. “Make it a double.”

“Cosmopolitan okay?”

“Moonshine would be okay at this point. Listerine. Anything.”

Tiffany slipped her arm through Abbey’s—a gesture she’d never done before—and said, “Come on, then. You’ve had a hell of a night. It’s time to relax a little, if you can.”

It took some time before Abbey’s cool façade broke. Tiffany had taken her to the back sunroom, where they could have complete privacy, and had poured out three cosmos before Abbey finally said something meaningful instead of just polite.

“It’s my fault.”