What You Wish For

by Fern Michaels

  “Let me worry about what’s fair to me. We need to put our heads together and work out some kind of plan. We’re safe here since the house has an alarm system. The ADT sign out front should deter anyone from even thinking about breaking in when we’re home. From now on we set it when we leave for work.”

  “Daniel could dismantle it in a heartbeat. I don’t want you to underestimate him, Sam. I had a hangup at the store today, too. It’s possible it was a legitimate wrong number. Whoever it was on the other end didn’t hang up when they heard my voice; I was the one who hung up.”

  “Helen, I know all about wackos. I know how to deal with a lunatic. It’s you I’m worried about. You’re starting to unravel. If you fall apart, you’re lost before you start. You need your wits about you.”

  “I know that, Sam. You know how people always say when something goes wrong they wait for the other shoe to drop? Well, since I entered the program, I’ve been waiting for that shoe. My mind, my heart, my gut tells me the shoe has dropped. Lucie knows it, too.”

  “Do you want to talk about relocating to Vermont?”

  “No, Sam, I don’t. I’m not running anymore. I can’t do that to you. Your life is here. So is mine. When and if I move . . . we move, it will be for the right reasons.” Helen wondered if what she’d just said was the truth or just wishful thinking.

  “Do you have any idea how much I love you, Helen?”

  “Probably about as much as I love you. We can make this work, can’t we, Sam?”

  “Damn right we can.”

  Helen reached across the table for Sam’s hand. “You and Max are the best thing that ever happened to Lucie and me. Now, what else are we having besides Ann Landers meat loaf?”

  “Baby carrots, little green peas that look like emeralds, and mashed potatoes. Gravy of course. You have to make the salad.”

  “What about dessert?”

  “You, my dear, are the dessert.” Sam grinned.

  “The end to a perfect dinner.” Helen laughed.

  He absolutely glows, she thought. I will not allow you to spoil this, Daniel. I will not.

  16

  Helen gathered up the mail from the foyer floor beneath the mail slot and slapped it down on the kitchen table, not bothering to look at it. She let the dogs out and then put on a fresh pot of coffee before she changed into her sweats. Maybe she would surprise Sam and make a pot roast. He loved it when she cooked an apple with the roast, saying it gave the gravy a tangy taste. The meal would take care of itself once she added the carrots and potatoes. Since she wasn’t a red-meat eater, she would eat the vegetables and salad and Sam would have cold sandwiches the rest of the week. While the meal cooked, she could pack up the Internet orders in the garage so she could spend more time with Sam later on.

  Helen took a minute to look around the kitchen. Sam’s and her kitchen. They spent wonderful hours in here cooking or baking together, cleaning up or having a cup of coffee. Sam and Max were her whole world now. Her gaze swept to the colorful calendar hanging next to the refrigerator. The red X’s told her it had been almost a month since she first felt like someone was watching her. Maybe it had been her imagination after all. Lucie hadn’t acted weird in almost a week now. There had been no hangups at the store, none at all at the house. She was starting to relax again. She didn’t know if it was good or bad on her part. Sam was fond of saying, you snooze, you lose. That meant she had to stay alert.

  The coffee finished dripping. Helen poured and carried her cup to the table, where she shuffled the mail, arranging the catalogs, the flyers, and the junk mail on the bottom and the first-class mail on top. Sam would weed out what he wanted to keep and what he wanted to throw away. When she saw her name on a cream-colored envelope, she frowned. The letter was addressed to Nancy Baker, and the return address was that of a law firm in San Jose, California: Johnson, Carlisle & Stevens. Her heart took on an extra beat. It was a law firm she’d never heard of. The law firm the Tyger Foundation used was Spindler & Spindler.

  Helen stared at the letter, moving it away from Sam’s mail, which she’d piled on top of yesterday’s, which he hadn’t seemed to read yet, so it wouldn’t contaminate it. She used her napkin to edge it closer to her coffee cup. She wondered what would happen to it if she ripped it up and put it through the garbage disposal. It would probably clog it up. Maybe she should burn it. Flush it? She longed for a paper shredder. In the end she opened it and read the two short, curt sentences.

  Dear Ms. Baker,

  Please call this office as soon as possible to discuss a matter of the utmost importance.

  Please feel free to reverse the telephone charges.

  The letter was signed, Seymour Johnson.

  “In your dreams,” Helen muttered as she tore the letter to shreds and burned them in the oversize ashtray on the counter. She watched the crinkly paper curl into black, dead ash. She carried the mess to the sink and turned on the disposal. She added a lemon to take out the evil smell of burnt paper.

  Helen moved by rote then. She browned the pot roast, peeled vegetables, handed out chewies to the dogs, then made her way to the garage. Shift into neutral, don’t think about the letter. Do what you have to do. Don’t think about the letter. Don’t even think of mentioning it to Sam.

  She worked feverishly, unpacking boxes, sorting what had to go to the seamstresses, what had to be packaged for UPS, and what she had to take to the shop. She was on her third cup of coffee when Sam strode into the garage.

  “Whatever you’re cooking smells wonderful. I thought tonight was leftovers. I missed you today,” Sam said, holding out his arms.

  Helen melted into his embrace. How good he felt. How wonderful and right. “You deserve better than leftovers. Oh, do that again.” She sighed happily.

  “You feel tense. How about a nice shoulder rub?”

  “I’d love a nice shoulder rub. I’d love other things, too.”

  “You must think I’m easy.” Sam grinned as his fingers dug into her shoulders. “How was your day?” It was a casual question but one that demanded a response.

  “Fairly routine. Not much store traffic, but there are enough orders on the web page to keep me busy all evening. Each day I seem to pick up three or four new orders, and the repeat business is great. It’s above expectation.”

  “So why are you so tense?”

  Helen shrugged. “Lucie goes to the vet tomorrow. Does Max need anything?”

  “Nope. He’s up to snuff on everything. Did you burn something today?”

  “Yes, Sam, I did. A letter came addressed to Nancy Baker from some lawyers in San Jose. I burned it and rinsed it down the disposal.” So much for not telling Sam.

  “What did they want?”

  “They asked me to call their offices on a matter of the utmost importance. I don’t think so. That part of my life is over.”

  Sam turned around and dropped to his knees. He took Helen’s hands in his. “Is that wise, Helen? What if it doesn’t have anything to do with your husband? What if it was about your mother or Boots?”

  “I don’t want to know, Sam. My mother doesn’t know my alias, so it isn’t about her. The foundation uses a different law firm. My appointment is next Monday with a lawyer here in town to file for divorce. Why do you suppose it’s taking so long to get a duplicate of my driver’s license from California?”

  “The answer is on the kitchen table, Helen,” Sam said wearily.

  “You got a response? Good. Then I can go to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles on my lunch hour tomorrow. God, I am so relieved.”

  “You don’t understand, Helen. It was a letter saying you’re deceased. That has to mean the people at the foundation filed a death certificate somehow, some way. There’s a big rigamarole you have to go through. When you go to the lawyer, tell him everything. Let him do the paperwork. They’ll pay more attention to a letter from a lawyer than one from you or me. If we try to do it, we’ll just be spinning our wheels.”

  “Dead?”


  “Dead,” Sam said. “You’ll have to get a copy of your birth certificate, your social security card, and any church records that might be available. I don’t think the foundation would fool with the social security office or the department of records. A driver’s license is something different. You said they told you the credentials they gave you would never stand up in a court of law.”

  “Dead? That’s terrible, Sam.”

  “I guess on the surface it does sound terrible. I’m assuming your situation called for strong measures. It’s possible it’s the foundation policy.”

  Helen glared at him. “To declare someone dead!”

  “In a manner of speaking, Helen Ward is . . . was dead. They gave you a new identity. Your benefactors had every reason to believe that you would remain in the program and continue to use the new identity they provided you. You were never supposed to go back to being Helen Ward. It was safer to have her declared dead.”

  “They never told me that.”

  “Perhaps they thought you understood what a new identity meant. If you get another letter, Helen, respond.”

  “I don’t think so, Sam. Are we going to argue over this?”

  “No, we aren’t going to argue. However, I think I can be a little more objective than you.”

  “No, Sam, you can’t. You love me. Don’t tell me you can be objective.”

  “We could probably work this up to a real fight if we tried. I hate fighting. All fighting does is cause hard feelings. You know what they say, make love not war.”

  Helen giggled. “Who said that?”

  “Sam Tolliver, one of the smartest men in New Jersey, that’s who. What do you say, are you up for a little predinner hanky-panky?”

  “Best offer I’ve had all day. Should I turn the stove off or leave it on?”

  “Turn it off,” Sam said as he slung her over his shoulders. Helen giggled all the way to the bedroom.

  Dinner that night was served at ten-fifteen.

  The next day, Helen closed the store a half hour early to allow enough time to get Lucie to the vet. “It’s okay, Max. You have to stay in the van. We won’t be long. Lucie just needs her rabies shot and her heartworm pills. You watch the van.” Helen cranked the windows a half inch and locked the Lab in the van before she scooped up Lucie. “Shhh, it’s going to be okay. Nothing is going to happen.”

  Helen opened the door of the Shady Elm Animal Clinic and was relieved to see the empty waiting room. That meant they would be in and out in minutes if she didn’t chitchat.

  When the vet was finished with Lucie, Helen withdrew thirty-five dollars for the office visit and handed it to the receptionist.

  “You don’t owe us for the heartworm. Your husband paid for it when he was in here last week. He’s very protective of Lucie, isn’t he?”

  Helen wondered what color her face was. Was it as white as the knuckles on her hands? “Yes,” she managed to say. She turned and headed for the door. “Tell the doctor I’ll call for my next appointment.”

  The moment Lucie was safely in the van, Helen walked around to the side and dropped to her haunches to put her head between her knees to ward off the light-headed feeling that was threatening to overcome her. Daniel had found her. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Daniel in the office last week. Sam took Max to the vet on Park Avenue in South Plainfield. If Sam had stopped to pay for the heartworm medication, he would have told her.

  Helen had no idea how she drove home. The moment she was safely inside the house, she looked around, wondering how she’d gotten home in one piece. She blinked at the mail lying on the foyer floor. A small yellow notice for a certified-mail pickup appeared to be stuck to a flyer for Pizza Hut. There was also another cream-colored envelope from San Jose, California. This time she ripped the cream-colored letter and the certified notice into pieces and flushed them down the toilet without reading the letter. Thank God Sam had insisted on an unlisted telephone number. If he hadn’t, it would probably be ringing off the hook by now.

  The dogs watched her, backing out of the bathroom to give her space. She seemed unaware of their presence as she paced up and down the hall. From time to time, she lashed out at the wall with either her fist or her foot. She ignored the pain that ricocheted up her arm and her leg.

  Fear and anger raced through her veins. Damn, maybe Sam was right. Maybe she should have read the second letter from the lawyer. She snorted. What could they possibly tell her that she didn’t know? That Daniel Ward had found her? She already knew that. Should she tell Sam? Should she pack up and run? Should she call the shelter? More to the point, should she call the police? “No, no, no,” she muttered. Calm down, she chided herself. You aren’t that old Helen anymore. You’re strong now. You have guts and stamina. Don’t give in to your fear. That’s what Daniel wants. You don’t do what Daniel wants these days. You are your own person. You can outthink him.

  Helen raced to the bedroom and yanked open a dresser drawer. Inside the toe of one of her wool socks was a stash of money she’d been squirreling away for just such an emergency. She counted the money carefully—thirteen hundred dollars. It was enough to get her and Lucie back to California. Sam will never understand if I cut and run. She started to cry. Sam was too easygoing, too trusting. He had no idea what Daniel was capable of. If she left, would Sam be safe? If Daniel was watching her, Sam, and the house, he would know if she bolted. Would he follow her or stay behind and harm Sam?

  Red-hot anger, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before, rivered through her. She had to do the right thing. For everyone concerned. Before, it was just herself and Lucie. Now she had to worry about Sam and Max. How could she possibly keep this from Sam? He was so attuned to her. He would know something was wrong the minute he walked in the door.

  Dear God, what would life be like on the run without Sam? “I hate you, Daniel!” she screamed. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Frightened, Lucie leaped into her arms. Max pawed at her legs. Realizing she was scaring the dogs, Helen dropped to the floor and gathered them close. They cuddled, trying to comfort her.

  A headache started to hammer away at the base of her head. Before long she would have a full-blown migraine, the kind of headache she used to get back in. California. The kind she hadn’t had since moving to New Jersey. The only thing that helped was a dark room and sleep. Three days in a dark room and hopefully she wouldn’t throw up the way she had in the past. Three days to do nothing but think. Three days to plan. Maybe this headache was the reprieve she’d been looking for.

  On her way to the bedroom, Helen wondered what had happened to all her good intentions. “I can’t jeopardize Sam and Max. I just can’t. I love them too much,” Helen murmured as she crawled between the cool sheets, Max on one side of her, Lucie curled into the crook of her arm. “I just love them too much.”

  “What in the hell are we doing sitting here in a cemetery in the rain, Gerry?”

  “I don’t know what your excuse is, since you’re supposed to be on vacation, but mine is I’m sitting here reading Izzie’s will. I’m also getting drunk. Do you have a problem with that, Artie?”

  “Pass the bottle, Gerry.”

  “What about your ulcer?”

  “Screw my ulcer. We’re probably both going to get pneumonia and die, so my ulcer means diddly. I worry about you, Gerry. We can’t bring her back.”

  “I know that. I know every single thing you’re going to say so save your breath. Why didn’t you go on that vacation you planned?”

  “I didn’t feel like it. My arthritis is bothering me. My ulcer is bothering me. I’m grieving. What kind of vacation do you think I’d have? You think you know someone and then bam, you don’t know them at all. It’s still sticking in my craw that I was so wrong about Daniel Ward. I didn’t want to leave you to handle all of Izz’s affairs by yourself.”

  “I’m too drunk to understand something like that. You have to be more speee-cif-ic.”

  “In all the years we were married, my wife had
never once said a negative word about Isabel. Then one day, out of the blue, she finally let loose. I always knew she resented Isabel and our friendship. I never realized she hated her with such passion. She hated you, too. I never knew it, just like I didn’t know Daniel Ward was such a bad person. Marie’s been dead some time now. Why am I thinking like this? Am I finally losing it?”

  “No. Gimme that bottle.”

  “She said, and this is a direct quote, ‘I hate her guts.’ She never understood, Gerry. She never even pretended to understand. Does that make me dumb as shit or just plain stupid? Both, I guess. I went to six different shrinks, Gerry, over the years. None of them could figure me out. On top of all that, Marie used to volunteer at the shelter. Izz said she was a godsend.”

  Gerry nodded sagely. “I got your number. Here, drown your ulcer and maybe it will stop hurting.” He handed over the bottle with a flourish.

  “Liquor isn’t the answer,” Artie said, reaching for the bottle. “I hope you brought an extra one. This one is almost empty. Why are you reading the will?”

  “Because you and I are the executors. We have to do what Izzie wanted. It’s in the works. This is going to be a full-time job. I closed the clinic indefinitely. That twerp Sanders wants to buy me out. He wears penny loafers, Artie. Those damn yuppies think they know everything.”

  “I’m retiring. I’m not even waiting till January. Seventy is time to hang it up. Do you agree?”

  “Yep. So what are we going to do?”

  “See that Isabel’s instructions are carried out. Oversee everything. She’s going to want an accounting when we meet up next. You know how she is . . . was.”

  “He was going to drown her that day after he finished with the dogs. Right there in that water trough. He would have, too, if we hadn’t popped out of the bushes and attacked him. Why didn’t we ever talk about that? We should have talked about that, Artie. If we had talked about it, dealt with it, Izzie might have died a happier woman. Did you ever tell that to those six shrinks?”