Abide With Me

by Shellie Arnold

  Oh, yes. Please. Right here. Right now.

  “You are feeling better, yes?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Then I have done a good thing.” He released her chin. “You’re lovelier than the pictures Rita showed me.”

  “Pictures?” Angelina gulped. “Rita. She showed you pictures. Of me.”

  “Of course. She predicted your husband would not change his mind and come with you—she was right, yes? She is the bride so she cannot play hostess. She made me promise to watch for you, be your escort so you would not be alone here, and see to your needs. Even on her wedding day, Rita is very thoughtful, no?”

  Her phone rang again, an electronic laugh at a cosmic joke.

  “Yes. Rita’s always been thoughtful.”

  She’d been set up, so to speak. Rita knew Nicholas had refused the gift of the ticket to attend the wedding, and she didn’t want Angelina traveling all this way to attend alone, so she’d persuaded Lorenzo to watch for her, show her kindness. And he did, as a favor to his future sister-in-law.

  None of the imagined romance was real.

  She turned away, reached for her insistent phone. “Excuse me.”

  “Of course.”

  Her balcony doors opened. Lorenzo watched the sun shine down on Vegas.

  Angelina choked down her own mortification. “Hello. Um, hello?”

  “Angie,” Nicholas said. “Where are you?”

  She could have told him she was anywhere—shopping in New York, at the local salon, standing in line at Disney World. Somehow the truth was so sad.

  “Rita’s wedding. You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “Who? You have to come home. I need you to come home.”

  “Nicholas, please.” She sighed. “What can’t you find? Whatever it is, just go buy a new one.”

  “Angie.”

  “Hurry it up, sir,” a male voice said in the background.

  “I know. I know.” Nicholas’ voice was strained.

  “Where are you calling from?” she asked.

  “Angie. Call Gavin Hawk.”

  “You want me to call our attorney?”

  “Right after my plane landed, I was arrested for real estate fraud, and I don’t know what else. I don’t understand the charges. You’ve got to call Gavin for me. You’re my one phone call.”

  She heard his voice quiver and felt a fleeting blip of compassion, then she glanced out at Lorenzo and thought of what she would’ve done had he truly been interested in her. Her stomach twisted with the nausea of the profoundly embarrassed. Maybe there never had been love, not the lasting kind, between her and Nicholas. Maybe she’d been holding on to a dream that wasn’t real.

  Maybe she and Nicholas were both members of the not-cut-out-for-intimacy crowd. And life had just hammered the final nail into the coffin holding their marriage.

  “I think they’re going to search the house, Angie. I don’t know what you’ll find when you get home.”

  Their house? The police were going through her things? Of course he’d think she’d obsess about the house, she’d filled it to bursting with the loveliest things she could find. But he hadn’t been home in months. He didn’t know she’d been unable to bear their too quiet, too empty home over the recent holidays. He didn’t know she’d been living in, sleeping in, the recently renovated carriage house above the stables, where she painted.

  Her paintings. Her first solo art exhibition and sale would be held in two weeks. Had the police searched the carriage house? Damaged her work?

  Her marriage was definitely pathetic when she worried more about her paintings than her husband.

  “Angie? Did you hear me? I’m in the county jail.”

  “Nicholas, what have you done now?”

  She couldn’t say she was surprised. His impulsiveness had derailed her life more than once. Envisioning him bending the rules and crossing legal lines wasn’t a stretch. What, exactly, would his actions cost her this time?

  “I’ll call Gavin and catch the first flight home.”

  She hung up.

  “Was that your husband?” Lorenzo called through the French doors.

  She walked to the doorway, looked at the handsome stranger relaxing on the balcony. And closed her eyes against her lonely heart’s pathetic mirage.

  “I’m calling the concierge for a car to take me to the airport. I need to leave as quickly as I can.”

  He smiled. “Ahh. He misses you after all, no?”

  She cleared her throat, trying to dislodge the knot stuck there. “Not exactly.”

  “To have you, he is a very fortunate man.”

  She made her way to the bedroom, closed the door behind her, and retrieved her monogrammed suitcases from the closet.

  “I used to think so,” she said.

  Actually, she used to look at Nicholas and think she was the fortunate one.

  ***

  County jail, Rowe City, Alabama

  Nicholas Rousseau returned the heavy, sticky receiver to its cradle. The black, wall-mounted device was obviously older than him and had the scars to prove it. In the tiny alcove, he turned, faced the armed officer, and met cop eyes—no emotion, not even disdain, despite overhearing Nicholas’ pleas for Angelina’s help.

  The nametag read “Franklin.” The officer was built like a defensive lineman—his round face protruding over a bulging neck as if his uniform were one size too small. He was twice as wide as Nicholas, and if provoked, could probably snap a suspect’s neck without popping a button. He placed a club-like hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. Nick fought not to flinch and lowered his cuffed hands.

  “Will I be spending the night here?” He still couldn’t believe he’d been arrested.

  “A likely possibility.”

  To their right, twenty feet across the processing area, two cops hauled in a man bigger than Franklin.

  “I’ll kill you, cop!” Red-faced, hands bound behind his back, he head-butted then kicked the officer facing him. The officer fell.

  The partner fired a Taser at the suspect. The behemoth went down, smashing through a wooden chair, and writhed on the floor.

  Nicholas froze. He really hoped he wasn’t put in the same cell with that man.

  “Come along, Mr. Rousseau. Just a typical Friday evening.” Franklin took his arm to lead him onward. “You’re going to a holding cell.”

  They passed through a series of metal doors, each buzzed the same jarring tone. Bare concrete replaced tile and absorbed the fluorescent glare from fixtures suspended at least ten feet above the floor. The corridor seemed to slope down into the depths of the earth. The cells weren’t barred like he’d seen in old westerns. Rather, their steel doors lined one narrow hall. Through the tiny peep window in the first, the concrete room looked maybe eight feet deep.

  And he was about to be sealed in one of those rooms, behind one of those doors.

  Chilled sweat dampened his palms. “Officer Franklin, exactly how long will I be detained here?”

  “You hungry?”

  “No.” Who could eat right after being arrested?

  “Good thing. Next meal’s at eight tomorrow mornin’.”

  “But—”

  “You looking to confess anything, Mr. Rousseau?”

  “Of course not. I’m innocent.”

  Franklin huffed. “Everybody is.”

  The officer stopped beside the fourth cell and ran a key card through the slot, punched in a code. The locks hummed and clicked. Franklin opened the door.

  “I don’t understand why I was arrested.”

  “You’ve been Mirandized, Mr. Rousseau. You might want to be quiet until your lawyer gets here.”

  Nick raised his hands to chest level. “Will you remove these now?”

  Officer Franklin motioned with his chin. “Inside. Put ’em through the tray slot below the window.”

  He crossed the threshold of the empty cell. The door snapped shut. Hands shaking, he offered his bound wrists to the officer as ins
tructed. Franklin didn’t look at him as he unlocked the cuffs and walked away.

  He leaned back against the nearest puke-green, block wall, breathing through his mouth against the room’s pungent stench. Quivering with dread, he lowered himself to the edge of the long concrete bench spanning one side of the windowless room.

  The seat was cold. No, it was wet.

  With … urine? Soaking into his prison-orange scrub pants.

  But there was so much of it, he knew if he stood whatever it was would run down his legs.

  He stood anyway. Bile rose in his throat, and he gulped it down. He stripped off the pants—they’d taken his underwear—and used the pants legs to blot dry, then removed his shirt and covered himself with it.

  There he was, naked and locked in the county jail.

  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Gavin would come and get him out before the night’s end, right?

  Think. Think!

  He glanced at his wrist. No watch. He’d been taken from the airport in handcuffs by two policemen. Brought here and photographed and fingerprinted. His watch and other belongings had been taken, bagged, and were somewhere in this building with a case number attached.

  Somewhere in the corridor another door buzzed, opened, and closed. Nicholas peered through the thick glass window. Officer Franklin’s thick body paused outside the door. Nicholas knocked on the glass.

  “Officer? Officer Franklin?”

  The cop’s rotund face filled the window. “Step back, Mr. Rousseau.”

  He complied.

  Franklin opened the door, glanced at the soiled clothing at Nicholas’ feet, then gave a bland look. “Put the scrubs back on.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat, squared his shoulders with as much dignity as he could muster. “Officer Franklin—”

  “I didn’t peg you as a troublemaker, Mr. Rousseau. I’m not usually wrong,” he said. “Guess I’m losing my touch.”

  The air conditioning kicked on. Icy fingers crept over Nick’s bare skin. Yet he felt sweat break out along his spine.

  His brain went into overdrive. Officer Franklin was a man used to facts, figures, reports, the kinds of information Nick used when presenting a proposal to his more intimidating clients.

  “Sir, I mistakenly sat on the bench without first checking its condition, and sat in urine. So I removed the pants. Attempts to dry myself were only partially successful. I would sincerely appreciate clean scrubs. I apologize for the inconvenience. If cuffs are protocol, you have my full cooperation.”

  Franklin looked at the scrubs again, then sniffed.

  “Had a couple of drunk and disorderly gentlemen in here earlier.” Those cop eyes narrowed. “Guess the cleaning crew didn’t get here before you did. Don’t move.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer left, again locking Nick inside. He exhaled a tight breath but stayed where he was. Franklin returned with clean scrubs and four antibacterial wipes. Nick used the wipes and dressed quickly.

  “Hands through. Cuffs go back on for your trip to the interview room.”

  “My lawyer’s here?”

  “Ask your questions in the interview room. Wrists, Mr. Rousseau.”

  Until moments ago, he’d half-thought this was a mistake. When he hadn’t been immediately questioned upon arriving at the jail, he’d figured someone had determined his innocence and was even then processing his release.

  Despite his willingness to bring the clean scrubs, Officer Franklin’s face showed the last sands of patience had just trickled through the hourglass. Nick had no allies here. He was on his own.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Miss?” The airline counter attendant looked hopefully at Angelina. “Have you chosen a flight?”

  She had two options, with almost identical outcomes. Take the red-eye at 12:05 A.M.—with two stops and layovers she’d land at 1:00 P.M. tomorrow. Or she could take the 6:30 A.M. flight in the morning with one stop in Atlanta and arrive in Montgomery at almost the same time.

  She should have called the airline before leaving the hotel, but her brain was addled from misinterpreting Lorenzo’s actions. Instead, she’d spent the ride there calling the attorney’s office and leaving multiple messages on his voicemail.

  Nick said they were going to search the house. Not the carriage house. Still, with Godiva close to delivering a second time, Angelina was glad she’d made arrangements to board her horses with her vet.

  “Miss?”

  “I’ll take the six-thirty tomorrow.” Spending the night on a plane would do her no good. She paid, gathered her belongings, and hailed a luxury car service SUV outside the terminal.

  As the driver stowed her bags, she slid into the back. A news clip of Rita and Thomas enjoying their first dance as husband and wife flashed onto video screens embedded in the front seat headrests.

  “Today Rita Dade, the world famous designer, married for the fourth time,” the commentator said. “She and Thomas Mastrangelo of Italy started the new year by tying the knot today in Las Vegas …”

  The driver climbed in. “Where to?”

  She turned off the screens. She couldn’t go back to her room at the wedding venue. She might run into Lorenzo.

  “Take me to the Paris Hotel.” She closed her eyes.

  She felt them pull away from the curb, glide smoothly into traffic.

  “Lots to do in Vegas,” the driver said. “Take one of my cards from the back in case you need a nice, clean ride.”

  She caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Actually, I’ll need to be back here at five tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll pick you up at four-thirty.”

  “All right.” One less thing to worry about.

  “Just here for one night, huh? Meeting someone? You’re in Vegas, lots of options out there. You don’t have to be alone if you don’t want to, and I might know some people.”

  Did she look that desperate? Like someone reduced to paying for companionship?

  “Not that you’d need help finding a date. You’re a looker, that’s for sure.” He shrugged. “You know, if you wanted something kind of anonymous, it being New Year’s and all.”

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  She stared out the window. A looker. What good did beauty do if your husband was never around to look at you?

  She called ahead to the Paris Hotel. Upon arrival, she checked in quickly and went straight to her suite. Looking across to the Bellagio, she saw the 8:00 P.M. fountains show burst to life. She could cross the street, spend the remainder of the evening strolling through the Richard MacDonald exhibit of his Cirque de Soleil-inspired sculptures. She wanted one. She’d admired his work for years but couldn’t seem to choose.

  A white-haired couple stopped on the sidewalk and shared a long kiss. Arm-in-arm, they watched the lighted water show.

  They’ve probably been married fifty years or more.

  Angelina turned away. She’d fallen to bitter depths, lower than she thought she could ever go.

  What was wrong with her? Was she destined to make the same mistakes as her father? Even after the humiliation of revealing her attraction to Rick and being gently rebuffed a year and a half ago, now she’d been willing to hook up with a random stranger for the weekend.

  Shame rose inside her. If she’d actually cheated, if no one knew but she and Lorenzo, would she have been able to keep the secret and maintain a façade of innocence? Or would she have been driven to confess her guilt?

  She sighed, thought of Nicholas, and dialed Gavin’s number again.

  Whatever Nick had been accused of, was he guilty or innocent? How awful she didn’t immediately think innocent.

  Either way, after what she’d almost done today—for better or worse—their marriage would never be the same.

  ***

  Franklin walked Nicholas back the way they’d come down, up the corridor of cells, through the thick doors. Down another short hall of offices, and past the row of cop desks cluttered with laptop
s, radios, stacks of paperwork, mugs, and cups. They turned left and entered a room smaller than the cell he’d just left. Drab-gray walls, a metal table sat centered on the longest wall flanked by two metal stools bolted to the floor.

  “Sit,” Franklin said.

  Nicholas sat on the small seat. Franklin unlocked one wrist, looped the chain around a metal bar at the end of the table, and re-cuffed him, leaving Nick with both arms locked to his right.

  Another officer, a little older than Franklin but smaller, appeared at the door. “What took so long?”

  “Wardrobe mishap.” Franklin spoke beside Nick.

  The new officer’s tag read “Detective Reedy.” He sat opposite Nick. “Leave us alone for now. Mr. Rousseau, are you willing to talk to me without representation?”

  “For the moment. My wife’s contacting our attorney. I hope to hear from him soon.”

  “That would be your personal attorney, Gavin Hawk. He isn’t a criminal attorney, is he?”

  “No.” But maybe he’d know what Nick should do.

  “Tell me about this key, Mr. Rousseau.” Reedy slid a safe deposit key across the table.

  “Is it mine?”

  “Removed from your key ring moments ago. What’s it for?”

  “My safe deposit box,” Nick said.

  “At People’s Bank in Mobile?”

  “You already knew?”

  “Of course we knew.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “Just checking your level of honesty.” Reedy paused. “When did you rent the box?”

  “Last year.”

  “For?”

  “Keeping documents I didn’t want to keep at home.”

  “And why is that?”

  Because he didn’t want to deal with Angie’s disapproval or anger, or even silence over his latest investment, even though he’d done the deal with her in mind.

  “I wanted to surprise my wife.”

  Reedy smiled a plastic smile. “Really?” He pulled out a photo from a folder and held it to study. “She knows nothing of your business dealings?”

  “No.”

  “Hard to hide things from a beautiful woman. You travel a lot, don’t you?”