Our Husband

by Stephanie Bond

  "Come on, Doc, don't make me take it from you."

  "Raymond gave this pendant to me for our anniversary."

  "I know, I sold it to him. By the way, happy anniversary."

  Never before had she so thoroughly despised a person. "You... are... vile."

  A scowl darkened his face, illuminating the scar. "Tell you what, Doc, I'll give you a choice. The necklace—" He snatched up her left hand. She resisted, but his fingers were stronger than her entire arm. "Or your wedding ring." His voice was soft and teasing, offering a choice that was no choice at all.

  Quaking, she glanced down at the thick gold band, etched with gold leaves and studded with emeralds, designed by Raymond and custom-made for her. She would never part with it. "Let go of me," she hissed, "and I'll give you the necklace."

  He released her fingers so abruptly, her arm shot back. Trembling, she lifted the necklace over her head, then pitched it across the floor, sending it skidding to the door. Chest heaving, she met his gaze and injected as much bravado into her voice as she could muster. "Now get out."

  He stared at her for a few seconds, and when an emotion resembling pity shot through his eyes, she understood how one person could injure another in the red haze of rage. If she'd had a gun, she would've deposited a bullet in one of several areas that when compromised, according to Gray's Anatomy, posed a minimum threat to life while ensuring a maximum amount of pain.

  Emitting a soft laugh, the man turned and ripped off a pink carbon copy of the form he'd been filling out. "Your receipt," he said, then folded it neatly and pushed it to the edge of the table. He shoved the rest of the papers back into his jacket, which he draped over his corded arm.

  After gathering up the hanky, he crossed to scoop up the necklace and added it to the glittery pile. He shoved the small bundle into his pocket, then unlocked the door with a snap of his wrist. When a pained expression crossed his face, he touched a hand to his flat stomach. "Oh, by the way, Doc, I do have a touch of indigestion."

  Seething, Natalie glared. "Lay off the Happy Meals."

  Suddenly he smiled, revealing even, white teeth. Probably caps, considering his line of work. Then he gave her a mock salute, and walked out.

  Chapter 2

  A full minute passed before Natalie sank to the stool, her entire body shaking as a sense of violation and betrayal broke over her. Could it be true? Was Raymond in debt to some sleazebag loan shark? Was the change she'd sensed in him over the last several months related to this financial mess instead of another woman, as she'd suspected?

  Natalie yanked up the phone and dialed Raymond's cell number with trembling hands, but he didn't answer. She left him a message to call her, then jogged to the front door and locked herself in, in case the odious Mr. Butler decided to return. He'd had the gonads to snatch a handful of oatmeal Scotties on his way out, she noticed, frowning at the crumbs on the near-empty plate, the plastic wrap flapping. She itched to call the police on the thug, but she wanted to talk to Raymond first. Twenty, then thirty minutes passed with no return call, during which she paced and methodically rearranged the bric-a-brac on her desk.

  Her mind raced with scenes from their six-year relationship—meeting Raymond at a medical conference and being swept off her feet by his charm and good looks, dating around his hectic traveling schedule, then marrying soon after on a whim during a whirlwind trip to Jamaica. They had adopted a comfortable pattern of separating during the week and reuniting on most weekends to eat homemade pasta and to share great sex.

  Anger, slow and warm, swelled in her chest. Their marriage hadn't been perfect—he hadn't been too keen on leaving St. Louis for this smaller town, for instance—but she'd given Raymond no cause to withhold information so potentially devastating to their relationship. Fighting hurt and furious tears, she gave up on hearing from him and left for home.

  A storm had blown in, heaping salt onto her gaping wound of misery as she made a mad dash to her car. A howling wind flipped her umbrella inside out, and rain lashed at her lab coat as she fought her way into her Jeep Cherokee. Once inside, Natalie summoned the strength to curse, but none seemed forthcoming.

  "What a lousy bleeping day," she muttered.

  Spring had arrived in Smiley, Missouri, on a low pressure front intent on dumping a few inches of rain by morning, according to the nasal meteorologist on the radio. She glanced at the women slumped in the cars around her, and wondered which of them had been delivered a life-changing blow since embarking on their morning commute. Everyone had a cross to bear—job being phased out, in-laws moving in, teenagers having sex in the basement—but she'd wager none of them had been shaken down by a hoodlum for their husbands' gambling debts.

  Natalie picked up her cell phone and called Raymond's number again, to no avail. She crept toward home in the gray, slanting rain, alternately worried and angry, concerned and murderous. When she pulled into the driveway, she sat and stared at their home.

  Her home, actually. Her aunt had willed her the residence in Smiley, and Natalie, ready for a change from bustling St. Louis, had relocated her family practice south to the smallish town. Raymond had grudgingly agreed because the move placed him more centrally within his sales territory. She'd been looking forward to their spending more time together, but in the six months since she'd taken possession of the house, Raymond's traveling hadn't slowed.

  She loved the house—had loved it since childhood. Every summer she'd spent fourteen precious days with her father's sister, Rose Marie Blankenship. Rose Marie owned shelves of naughty novels, maintained a bowl of cookie dough in the refrigerator for emergencies, and grew the most beautiful tea roses in the region. She'd gently guided Natalie through childhood, puberty, and young adulthood, compensating for her parents' indifference with magical letters and unusual gifts.

  When Natalie graduated from medical school, Rose Marie had presented her with the diamond stud earrings that had belonged to Rose's own mother. "Don't save them for special occasions," she had pleaded. Right about now Rose Marie was probably twirling in her grave in the black wrinkle-free pantsuit she'd kept hanging in the closet under plastic with a sticky note on it that read, "Bury me in this."

  The sprawling white-brick colonial had been built before garages were in vogue, but Rose Marie had conceded and built a carport several years ago. Natalie pulled forward and edged the Cherokee beneath the ivy-covered, corrugated tin roof, loath to go in after the thug Butler's eerily accurate description of their home.

  But the need to speak to Raymond overrode her fear, so she hurried through the side door and into the kitchen. She kicked off her soaked Hush Puppies and traipsed through the downstairs rooms, turning on every light in her wake, half expecting to confront a smirking Brian Butler behind every lamp. She backtracked to the kitchen and plugged in the coffeemaker and the little black-and-white television on which Rose Marie had kept up with her favorite soap operas while she puttered around the gas stove. The noise of canned sitcom laughter comforted Natalie, as did the cheery yellow walls.

  Knowing she needed to eat, she withdrew enough vegetables from the side-by-side refrigerator to build a passable salad. She halfheartedly tore at the lettuce, then tired and sank onto a sunflower-upholstered stool in front of the bar between the kitchen and the eating area. Fighting a headache, she pulled the phone close, called Raymond's number again and decided the weather must be affecting his cell phone's reception. Next she called the after-hours banking line and listened as an electronic voice divulged the balance of their savings and checking accounts.

  "Your... balance... is... twenty... two... dollars... and... seventy... two... cents."

  "Your... balance... is... fifty... eight... dollars... and... ninety... nine... cents."

  "Your... balance... is... one... hundred... sixteen... dollars... and... zero... cents."

  "Impossible," she breathed. She didn't know how seriously Raymond might have compromised their finances, but if she lost Rose Marie's house... Natalie reached over and extra
cted a meat cleaver from the butcher block, then whacked a cucumber in half.

  With a burst of energy, she charged into the library, swept aside a stack of new country music CDs—another recent deviation for Raymond—and flipped on the computer. After a few key taps, she launched the personal finance program, only to be encountered by a flashing box requesting a password. She tried every magic word she could think of—his name, her name, their last name, their address, their anniversary, and even a few offensive words for Raymond that she typed in just for spite. She was holding the keyboard overhead, contemplating where to aim it, when the land line phone rang.

  She didn't recognize the number, but Raymond sometimes called from customers' offices. She yanked up the receiver, prepared to let him know he was not welcome to come home. "Hello!"

  "Natalie Carmichael?"

  Deflated, she slumped. "I don't accept calls from telemarketers—"

  "This is Kentucky State Trooper Nolen. Raymond Carmichael has been involved in an automobile accident."

  She inhaled sharply. "I-Is he...?"

  "He's fine ma'am, but his car was totaled and he has a broken arm, so he'll be needing a ride home. He's at Dade General in Paducah."

  Weak with relief, then bolstered by renewed anger, Natalie gritted her teeth. "Thank you for calling, officer, but you might want to swing by the hospital later, because I'm going to kill him when I get there!"

  * * *

  By the time Natalie reached Dade General, she'd had two hours to work herself into a lather. Two hours to remember all the wonderful little items Raymond had treated himself to lately—a gold watch, Italian shoes, expensive ties. He'd always been a bit materialistic, but conversely, he'd always worked hard. Now it seemed he was working hard to keep his gambling secret from her.

  She had trusted him. He knew how important financial stability was to her. Gripping the steering wheel until her fingers were numb, she blinked back a wall of angry tears, more overwhelmed by the words Butler had told her each time she replayed them in her mind. She almost hoped to find Raymond in a full-body cast—flat on his back he wouldn't be able to make wagers, and they'd have a few weeks to get back on their feet. And if somehow the bones in his fingers had survived the impact, she had a hammer in the glove compartment for his dialing hand.

  A stern-faced woman in emergency room admissions directed her down two dim hallways to the waiting room, which was jam-packed with distraught patients and relatives. A vacant surface wasn't available even if she'd wanted to sit. When several faces turned and looked as if they were about to pounce, she realized she still wore her lab coat, now wrinkled beyond credibility. Avoiding eye contact, she shrugged out of her jacket and folded it over her arm, then approached a nurse.

  "Excuse me, I'm Dr. Natalie Carmichael. My husband is Raymond Carmichael. He was brought here after an accident earlier this evening."

  The nurse squinted. "Mr. Carmichael is in room six ten."

  Her heart accelerated. "He's been admitted? I was told his injuries were minor."

  "Yes, but he complained of mild chest pains and since he was so far from home, he was admitted for observation."

  Natalie's anger toward Raymond diffused. "Did he sustain any injuries other than a broken arm?"

  The nurse gave her a shaky smile. "I don't know. I didn't treat Mr. Carmichael."

  "But you're familiar with his case?"

  Another gelatinous smile. "Um, yes, ma'am."

  "Can I see him?"

  "Um, sure. Down this hall—the elevators are on the left."

  Brushing off the odd behavior, Natalie thanked her. She passed a ladies' room, then backtracked to freshen up and give herself more time to mull over what she was going to say to Raymond. Should she ask him why he'd been acting so strange lately and see if he came clean, or simply confront him with the information that that hoodlum Butler had divulged?

  Her head began to throb as she pushed on the heavy door and walked into the dingy bathroom. Gray tile and yellowed grout surrounded her. Three stalls lined the back wall, one occupied. Natalie set her navy leather tote on the fake granite counter and rummaged for a bottle of aspirin, breaking an already short nail when she popped off the lid.

  She cupped her hand and filled it with warmish tap water to down the painkiller. The spotted mirror reflected the day's toll. Her blue eyes looked bloodshot and bruised underneath, her skin devoid of makeup and natural color. Her dark hair hung limp to her shoulders, flat and stick-straight. Splashing her face with cold water revived her somewhat. With hard, therapeutic strokes, she brushed her hair back from her face, reveling in the numbing rhythm. Everything will be fine, everything will be fine...

  The odor of an herbal cigarette tickled her nose and she glanced in the mirror to see a wisp of smoke rising above the closed stall door. Smoking in the hospital was completely illegal, of course, but if she had one, she'd join her unseen companion in the adjacent stall. The stimulus provoked a growl from her stomach and she realized she still hadn't eaten dinner.

  The toilet flushed and she heard two quick pumps of what sounded like breath spray. Natalie dropped her brush into her purse, intrigued by the identity of the girl or woman daring enough to break the rules, but apprehensive enough to cover up her little sin. The door opened and an attractive blond woman, fiftyish and wearing an expensive pantsuit, emerged. She engaged brief and wary eye contact before striding to the sink and washing her manicured hands. She appeared agitated, and her skin tone suggested an elevated blood pressure.

  Natalie wondered what brought the woman to the hospital. From the tremor of her hand and the need for a few bolstering drags on a cigarette, it was probably not the arrival of a long-awaited grandchild. Had she lost a loved one, or was she preparing to? No, she didn't appear to be devastated.

  She had married well, judging by the size of the diamond cluster on her left hand. Her chin looked suspiciously tight for her age, but Natalie herself had been reading cosmetic surgery articles with more interest of late. Her stomach chose that moment to bawl like a calf. The sound reverberated off the walls, eliciting a surprising smile from the woman.

  "Have a mint," she said, extending a roll. Her laugh lines looked unused, and her teeth were perfect.

  Embarrassed, Natalie accepted the offering and thanked her.

  The woman gestured to the lab coat draped over Natalie's arm. "Are you a doctor?"

  "Yes, but not at this hospital."

  Withdrawing a twenty-dollar lipstick from a green Coach purse, the woman gestured toward the stall. "Sorry about the smoke."

  "No problem." She smiled, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the stranger. "Actually, it smelled good. Cloves, right?"

  The woman nodded, drawing a wine color onto her lips. "I kicked the nicotine addiction, but I still need the stick fix."

  A nurse came in, silencing their talk about smoking, and washed her hands, asking Natalie for the time before leaving.

  Natalie realized with a start that she'd rather stay and chat with a stranger in the bathroom than face a showdown with Raymond. Swinging her tote to her shoulder, she forced herself to walk toward the door. "Thanks again for the mint," she called before exiting into the corridor.

  At least she felt a bit rejuvenated, she acknowledged as she stepped into the elevator. But as the floors dinged by, her pulse picked up and perspiration warmed the nape of her neck. Her skin tingled with anger, anxiety, and a fair amount of fear. She loved Raymond, but her love wasn't unconditional. From the onset of their marriage, they both agreed that trust was essential to their relationship. Natalie now had the burning feeling that Raymond was about to call her bluff. When the elevator doors opened to the sixth floor, she blinked back hot tears of apprehension.

  The reception area seemed crowded with visitors and personnel. Natalie moved down a hallway, realized the room numbers were going in the wrong direction, and retraced her steps to the opposite wing. The door to room six ten stood slightly ajar. Light spilled into the hall, and a low rumb
ling of voices floated out. Natalie inhaled deeply and pushed open the door, still unsure what lay ahead.

  But she hadn't quite prepared herself for the sight of Raymond in a hospital gown, propped with pillows, a cast on one arm... and sharing a deep kiss with a red-haired woman leaning over his bedrail.

  Disbelief shot through her, leadening her limbs. She gasped and sucked down the breath mint, then clung to the doorknob behind her for support while she coughed. The sound disengaged the couple, who turned questioning faces her way. Raymond's eyes bulged and his good arm flailed. The redhead, garbed in what resembled a long ruffled gunnysack, and who looked young enough to be his daughter, simply stared, a crinkle on her pretty brow.

  "Natalie!" Ray shouted, his Adam's apple bobbing, his face scarlet.

  "Natalie?" the woman asked, straightening. "What's she doing here, Ray?"

  Fury, hurt, and other less identifiable emotions flooded Natalie's chest. Her knees threatened to give way. "Raymond, what is going on?" The door bumped her from behind, propelling her into the room.

  "Excuse me," uttered a female voice. When Natalie jerked around, the woman she'd met in the bathroom stood holding open the door. "You," the older woman said, her voice a mixture of question and friendliness. "Did you come to check on my husband?"

  Natalie was speechless with confusion.

  The woman stepped into the room, her gaze resting on Raymond and the redhead who now draped her arm around his shoulder possessively. Surprise registered on the older woman's face, distorting her smooth features. "Raymond," she snapped, "what the devil is going on?"

  "Beatrix?" Raymond croaked out the name. Admittedly, even he appeared to be disoriented—not to mention a bit gray. He swallowed and swayed as if he were going to pass out, then clutched his chest, emitting mewling noises.

  Beatrix, Raymond's first wife? Natalie barely had time to process the thought before her medical training kicked in. Recalling that Raymond had been complaining of chest pains, she pressed the nurse call button. His head lolled to the side and his good arm fell limp. She shouted his name as she lowered the head of his bed, fearful he'd already lost consciousness.