Our Husband
by
Stephanie Bond
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Please Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright 2000, 2011 by Stephanie Bond, Inc. All rights reserved.
Originally published 2000 in the U.S. by St. Martin's Press
Cover by Andy Brown at clicktwicedesign.com
eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com
Thank You.
Acknowledgments
I dedicate this book to the teachers who made a difference in my life, who filled my world with books and art and possibilities:
Ms. Alice Sue Dehart
Ms. June Ross
Ms. Stella Patton
Ms. Rosewood Napier
Ms. Janice Harris
Mr. Larry Carroll
Ms. Nancy McKenzie
Ms. Patty Carroll
Ms. Norma Cartee
Mr. Paul Webb
And to my greatest teachers of all:
Willis and Bonnie Bond
Chapter 1
"I'll bet that trinket cost Raymond an arm and a leg."
Dr. Natalie Carmichael tore her gaze from the diamond solitaire pendant she fingered and glanced up as her nurse, sagging from end-of-the-day fatigue, shuffled into her cramped office carrying a stack of yellow patient folders.
At the tired reference to her husband's prosthetic limb sales job, Natalie lifted one corner of her mouth. "Ha, ha. Wait, here's a spot." She moved the phone to make room for the files, her husband's voice still fresh in her mind. God, she missed him this week.
After lightening her load, Sara leaned forward and cooed at the large stone. "If you ever get tired of that generous man of yours, I'll take him off your hands."
Her friend's words fed the guilt gnawing at Natalie's stomach. Yes, the pendant was exquisite, but something about it... something about her husband over these last few months....
Oh, bother, she was just feeling hormonal and lonely. She swiveled forward in her soft leather chair and smirked. "Eat your heart out, Sara. Raymond's a one-woman man."
"Dirty shame, too. That man is like a pot of warm honey, just begging to be spread around. Anniversary?"
"Uh-hmm."
"Five years?"
"Six this weekend, but he always gives me gifts early."
"The man's a gem, I tell you." Then Sara's mouth drooped. "Unlike my Joey."
Glad for Sara's gabby distraction, Natalie dropped the long-chained pendant inside her thin sweater to keep it out of the way while she finished her paperwork. "I thought you were growing rather fond of Joey."
"I was. I am. But... he cleaned my gutters last night."
"Is that some kind of lurid small-town Missouri analogy?"
Sara laughed. "No. He really cleaned my gutters."
"And?"
"And he left his extension ladder in my garage."
Natalie blinked rapidly. "And?"
"And a guy like Joey doesn't leave his tools just anywhere. I think he's going to propose."
She bit back a smile at the woman's rationale, especially since her nurse had demonstrated an uncanny knack for sizing up people in their six-month liaison. Sara could practically diagnose a patient's problem—psychological and physiological—by looking at their teeth and fingernails. "Are you going to say yes?"
Sara perched a generous hip on the corner of the rosewood desk. "I haven't decided. But Joey's handy at fixing things, and my house sure could use a new roof."
Natalie lifted an eyebrow. "You can't marry him for a few shingles."
"Of course not. I'll hold out for a gazebo, too."
Natalie wagged a finger. "Admit it, you like the guy."
Sara wrinkled her petite nose. "He's kind of crummy in bed."
"I don't think I want to know this. Besides, sex does not a marriage make."
"Hmm. Easy for you to say—you and Raymond are still on your honeymoon."
Longing pooled in her stomach at the mere thought of her husband's grin... he still moved her. "Being away from each other so much keeps things new, I suppose." She dragged the folders toward her. "How many patients today? I lost count."
"Fifty-two. Did you get to eat lunch?"
"I found a bag of sunflower seeds in a drawer."
"No wonder you're so skinny. If you want a snack, Mrs. Raglan just dropped off a plate of oatmeal Scotties because her knee feels so much better."
Natalie smiled fondly. "That wasn't necessary."
"She swears you healed her."
"Me and a syringe of cortisone. I'm afraid her relief is temporary."
Sara shrugged. "You can do no wrong in the eyes of the folks around here." She pushed away from the desk and headed toward the door. "Joey and I are taking in both shows at the dollar theater tonight—want to tag along?"
Natalie shook her head. "I've put off unpacking Raymond's book collection far too long. The moving boxes are driving me nuts. Thanks anyway." She rolled her wrist to check the time. "Why don't you take off? I'll lock up."
"Thanks, I will. See you tomorrow." Sara turned at the door. "Oh... your brother called again." Her eyes glowed with curiosity, but Natalie simply forged a smile and thanked her for taking the message.
Alone, she massaged a sudden pain in her right temple. In the tidy room she wanted her life to be, her brother was an area rug with an upturned corner. Tony, the family thief, had been granted an early parole from the state penitentiary and needed a place to stay once he left the halfway house—just until he got back on his feet, he'd assured her. He'd thought of his beloved sister first, he'd declared in a charming voice when he called last weekend.
Natalie suspected his thoughts ran more toward her beloved bank account, but as his closest living relative, she felt morally obligated to help him. Still, unease needled her. She resented the threat of his appearance in her well-ordered life—a private, quiet existence she'd come to guard jealously. The worshipful respect the locals lavished upon her made her feel special. What would her patients think when they discovered that not only was her brother an ex-con, but that she'd brought him to live in their midst?
Torn, she'd stalled Tony until she could discuss his "visit" with Raymond, but she'd purposely neglected to mention Tony's name when her husband had called earlier to let her know what time he'd be home Friday. He barely tolerated her brother, leaving Natalie struggling between loyalties to the two men. She tossed two aspirin to the back of her throat and swallowed them dry.
The door opened again and Sara stuck her head in. "We have a straggler, fellow with indigestion."
Natalie sighed. She'd wanted the life of a small-town doctor, but by five-thirty on Wednesday of a spring stomach-virus outbreak week, the job's romantic appeal had dimmed. A split second later she chastised herself. "Sure, I'll see him."
"I thought you might," Sara said, pulling a new yellow folder from behind her back and walking it over. "Mr.
Butler is forty-three years old, no family history of heart disease, blood pressure is good. He's also deficient in vitamin A." She tapped her temple and mouthed "the eyes," in answer to Natalie's unasked question.
"Thanks, Sara. You can go on home."
Sara lowered her voice to a rolling whisper, as if the man were crouched outside the door. "He looks dangerous—maybe I'd better stick around."
Accustomed to her nurse's melodrama, Natalie simply smiled. "That's not necessary. Which exam room?"
"The Blue Room."
"Got it. Have a nice evening."
Natalie sat unmoving as the paneled door swung shut. In the distance, she heard the distinct clack of the heavy front door closing. Suddenly exhausted, she held the folder with both hands, and stared blindly at the man's name and address printed in caps.
Her brother was encroaching, and Raymond was withdrawing, or so it seemed. After six years of a part-time marriage due to his travel schedule, she yearned for more emotional intimacy. But she was beginning to think her happy-go-lucky husband was afraid, if not incapable, of true closeness. At least with her.
Why Raymond's indefinable retreat had converged in her mind today, she couldn't fathom. He'd sounded normal on the phone—even eager to arrive home. To her knowledge, their basically happy marriage was no less intact today than yesterday. So why did she have this, this... premonition that crisis lurked just around the corner?
After a few minutes of numbing muse, she pushed herself to her aching feet. The man with indigestion didn't care if she was facing personal dilemmas—he probably wanted to go home and eat pork barbecue.
In the hallway, she conjured up a smile, then opened the squeaky door to the Blue Room. Mr. Butler, a big man, sat near the door on a diminutive chair, surrounded by cloud-blue walls, his hands resting on wide knees. From his physique, one might think he was a professional athlete, but his clothing betrayed him. His tie hung loose at the collar, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. His jacket lay folded on the padded examination table. He was darkly handsome, decidedly unkempt, and she immediately understood why Sara had described him as dangerous. A white scar extended from his hairline, running to just above his left eyebrow, hinting of an old injury severe enough to have caused a concussion at the very least.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Butler. I'm Dr. Carmichael."
His gaze darted to her legs, then he gave her a friendly nod. "Pleasure's mine, Doc."
Ignoring his perusal, she retrieved a mechanical pencil from her pocket. Careful to keep her skirt from riding up, she lowered herself onto a stool with rollers and opened his file. A simple case, in and out. Her thoughts skipped ahead to dinner—a salad sounded good. A half-cake of goat cheese lay languishing in the fridge. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"The trouble," the man said, his voice polite but rueful, "is that your husband's luck ran out."
Natalie glanced up from the file and blinked. "Excuse me?"
He turned and with one long-armed reach, locked the door. Disbelief bolted through her, her mind reeling at the possible ramifications of her carelessness. Sara had been right. As usual. She propelled the stool and herself into the farthest corner, then scrambled to her feet. "Leave now, or I'll scream." As an afterthought, she held up her pencil like an ice pick.
Instead, the man calmly pushed himself to his feet and wagged a large finger, his demeanor almost weary. "Lead poisoning is a serious matter, Doc. Relax, I'm not going to hurt you. Your husband owes me money, and I'm here simply to collect a late payment."
Natalie found her voice cowering in the back of her throat. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."
He smiled sadly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your husband is a gambler, among other things. And worse, he's a bad gambler." He sighed. "I need your jewelry."
Natalie shook her head slowly, her hand involuntarily moving to cover her wedding ring. "You're not serious."
"I'm afraid so," he said, reaching into a bulging jacket pocket.
A gun. He had a gun. Or a blade. All thugs carried a blade. Natalie threw her head back and unleashed a shrill scream, knowing she was completely isolated in the top of the old building, but hoping he'd be spooked.
Instead, he winced, then poked a finger in his ear. "Please don't do that. God knows I hear enough screeching at home." Instead of a weapon, he withdrew a sheath of rolled-up papers, then spread them on the examination table.
Natalie stared at him, searching her mind for the location of the closest asylum. Perhaps he had wandered away during finger-painting class. "Who are you?"
He pointed to the patient folder lying on the floor. "It says right there—Brian Butler."
"But... why would my husband owe you money?"
"Because he borrowed it and didn't pay it back."
Natalie relaxed a fraction of an inch—the guy was dim. "You obviously have my husband confused with someone else."
"Raymond Carmichael, forty-two, drives a blue Explorer, and sells plastic legs for a living."
"Prostheses," she corrected, determined to retain some measure of control.
He shrugged. "Tomato, tomahto."
Natalie swallowed hard. Could Raymond possibly be mixed up with such a shady character? "Why should I believe that my husband owes you money?"
"Because I don't lie. And," he nodded toward the table, "I have his signature on the loan papers. If you don't believe me, check them out." He smiled wryly, then extended his hand, palm up. "But first, surrender your weapon."
When she didn't move, he wiggled his fingers. "Come on, lady. I have to pick up my kids from daycare in twenty minutes."
He didn't seem intent on harming her, so Natalie relinquished her pencil and warily approached the table. The forms were numerous, but simple: the amount of the loan, the astronomical interest rate, the collateral, the signature. The numbers swam before her eyes, as did Raymond's telltale signature. A signature that pledged her appraised jewelry and—she swallowed—their property against default. Raymond couldn't have signed over the title of their home without her permission, her mind screamed. But then she remembered that he could because she'd assigned him her power of attorney when they closed on the condo in St. Louis two years ago.
She looked back to the stranger, laughing with incredulity. "There must be over a hundred thousand dollars' worth of loans here."
He made a sympathetic sound with his cheek. "Sorry, Doc. The wife is always the last to know."
Natalie frowned. "What are you, some kind of a loan shark?"
His mouth twitched down at the corners. "I own a pawn business, and I make loans to my customers. Ray's a good customer." He pulled a calculator from his back pocket, then bent over the table to scrutinize the appraisal forms. "Okay, let's get this over with. I'm looking for an emerald cocktail ring."
Outraged, she jerked her hands behind her back. "I'm not giving you anything."
He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then said, "Work with me, here, Doc. This is so much better than me having to come to your house."
He was bluffing. "You don't know where we live."
"White brick, navy shutters, messy back yard."
She lifted her chin. "It's an English garden."
"Yeah, whatever. I'm doing you a favor here. If I get the sheriff involved, the whole damn town will know your business."
"Oh, well, as long as you're doing me a favor."
He shook his head, tsk-tsking. "You're wasting time."
The entire situation was starting to seem legitimate, frighteningly so. "I need to discuss this with Raymond."
"Later," he said. "When I'm eating Happy Meals with my kids."
"H-How about if I write you a check?" she offered, gathering courage. "How much do you need?"
"About five thousand, and I don't take checks."
Natalie swallowed. "Cash," she said, gesturing toward the door. "Follow me to an ATM and I'll give you cash."
"Have you che
cked your balances lately, Dr. Carmichael?"
She balked. "Two days ago."
He looked sympathetic. "I've seen Raymond lose ten gees on a single dog race. In two days, he could bankrupt the national treasury." He withdrew his wallet and extracted a business card, then handed it to her.
BUTLER FAMILY PAWN, BRIAN BUTLER, OWNER AND MANAGER. GOLD BOUGHT AND SOLD BY THE OUNCE. WE LOAN MONEY TO ANYONE, AND WE MEAN ANYONE.
He gave her a pointed look. "Now, for the last time, Dr. Carmichael—one emerald cocktail ring."
Feeling helpless, she removed the ring from her finger, then threw it at him, aiming for an eye.
He caught it neatly. "Thank you." Donning a jeweler's monocle, he held the ring up to the light for a few seconds, then punched in a number on the calculator, his fingers too big for the buttons. He dropped the ring onto a snowy handkerchief spread on the table. "Next, one pair of diamond stud earrings, total weight, two point five carats."
Her hands flew to her earlobes. "These were my aunt's—they're family heirlooms!"
"Lucky for Raymond, your aunt had good taste in jewelry."
Cut to the quick, Natalie bit deep into her lip to stem her tears, but failed miserably.
He winced and covered his face with his hand. "Oh, no, no, no. Stop with the tears, okay? I'm just trying to feed my family here. You married the bum, not me."
Furious, she sucked in her tears with a giant hiccup, then handed him the earrings with shaking hands. He inspected them and whistled. "Nice." Then he added them to the hanky. "And finally, one diamond solitaire pendant."
Remembering she'd dropped the piece inside her sweater, she said, "I don't have it with me."
His gaze fell to her chest, and the skin over her heart tingled. Slowly, very slowly, he moved to stand in front of her, zeroing in on the small lump of the pendant beneath her sweater—and not exactly ignoring the more sizable lumps on either side.
Her face burned as she clutched her hand to her chest.
Our Husband Page 1
