Betrayed Bride, page 11
Despite the bad memories, she didn’t know what she wanted to do.
The sun was coming over the horizon as they headed south on I-75 toward Valdosta. Sam said, “I haven’t decided whether I want to keep the house or sell it.” She saw Alex grind his teeth and knew he wanted to say something, but decided against it.
After a minute or two he said, “We’ll talk about it later.”
The rest of the trip continued without conversation. She had no desire to talk. The task looming before her wouldn’t allow her to make any other comments.
They arrived before lunch. Sam stood before the front door. This was the last thing she wanted to do. As she gazed at the bungalow, moisture gathered in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, swallowing back her tears. Her father hated tears and insisted weak women cried. She wasn’t weak.
By the time they cleared the living room she was ready to leave, but Alex insisted they move on. The next room was her bedroom. She stood in the doorway and stared at the lavender walls, the lacy curtains and matching bedspread, the Queen Anne-styled white and gold furniture her father had given her when she was ten. It had been an apology of sorts for the tirade he had when she told him she wanted to go to a regular school, like the other kids on their block.
Before the window looking out into their backyard sat her easel, another gift resulting from one more argument. Was there anything in this house that wasn’t associated with an argument with her father? She gazed at the big maple tree gracing the back of the property. Maybe her father wasn’t all bad. She could see the remnants of her very own tree house that her father had built for her when she’d gone to visit Aunt Jewel that first summer. A weak smile lifted the corners of her mouth. He had been so proud of himself. Now she couldn’t remember if she’d thanked him for building it.
By the time they had cleared her bedroom, she was furious with Alex. She wanted to leave, but he insisted she check off every item and decide what she wanted to do with it. What she wanted to do was pile it up in the backyard and torch it, but she couldn’t admit that to him. That would require explanations she didn’t feel up to today.
“I don’t want to do this,” she snapped as they started for her father’s bedroom. She was acting like a five-year-old.
“Look, let’s get this done, then I’m taking you to the hotel.”
She nodded. Memories, none of them pleasant, were swamping her. There was no way she could to stay in the house, not tonight, nor did she want to come back tomorrow. However, it seemed she didn’t have a choice.
The neighbors she’d known growing up, who might have been willing to sort through all of this for her, had moved away.
They had not yet been able to contact her aunt either. She could have come and cleared the house for Sam, but she was somewhere in the wilds of Africa, helping to set up a local hospital. The missionary group she worked with said they would see she got the message, but there was no indication of when that would be.
By the time Sam finished sorting through the boxes her father had kept of hers, she was ready to leave. She refused to bother with his personal items—clothing, jewelry, and things he used daily. Nor had she started on his office, but she had enough.
With everything she touched, her pain grew until there was nothing left inside of her but a sense of total defeat. Why had her father tried to mold her into what he wanted? She wondered what her life would have been like if her mother had lived. Sam wished that for once in her life Bill Knapp had needed her, really needed her.
Alex booked a two bedroom suite in the local hotel. After she took a bath, she went to bed—alone. She hurt too badly to share a bed with him tonight.
~ * ~
After a quick breakfast, they went back to the house. Sam was determined to finish today, no matter how late she worked. She wanted away from here, away from the reminders, away from the agony of memories.
For the next four hours, she threw stuff into boxes and garbage bags. There was a packet of letters from Aunt Jewel in a red accordion-type file folder she wanted to keep. She found a box in a bottom desk drawer full of small boxes of varying sizes, which must have been her mother’s jewelry. She wanted those, but the rest could be given away for all she cared. Alex suggested she give all the clothing to a charity and she agreed, letting him make arrangements for a local organization to pick them up.
As she threw the red envelope into a box with her mother’s jewelry, Alex asked, “Shouldn’t you look through those things?”
“Not today,” she mumbled and continued to throw papers into a bag to be shredded. She hurt too badly to think about examining anything that could be connected to her father, nor could she explain to Alex how her pain was eating her alive.
“How much longer do you want to work?” he finally asked.
“Until I finish,” she muttered, throwing a stack of what might be letters into another trash bag to be shredded.
“Sam.” Alex grabbed her hands, and although she tried to yank them back, he held on. “We can stay another night. You don’t have to do it all today.”
“Yes, I do.” She gained control and grabbed another stack of papers.
“Do you want me to hire someone to come clean this up? They can put it in some order and you can go through it when you feel up to it.”
“No,” she almost shouted. He didn’t understand. She ignored the sigh Alex heaved and tossed another stack of papers into an overflowing black bag.
“Some of those papers might relate to tax info.”
“His lawyer has anything important. Details always bothered my father. This is junk.”
Alex looked surprised, but she wasn’t about to explain. Her father took care of his businesses and left his lawyer to handle everything else, even the utilities on the house. The grocery money, even her own allowance, had come from the lawyer.
She’d asked her father once to explain why he decided to let a lawyer handle the household funds, but he’d flown into a rage, refusing to explain, and gave her the silent treatment for a week. His apology had been the painting supplies she needed to try oil painting.
Sam never asked him to explain again, and she wasn’t about to wonder now. That was the way he was, for whatever reason. Even though he didn’t approve of the time she spent painting, he’d paid for any supplies she needed. The computer had been the result of another argument, but when the lawyer said she would need one for college, he reluctantly gave his permission. The cost of her education was another expense she hadn’t paid any attention to, because the lawyer paid the bills.
The crescent moon was high in the sky when she gave up. The kitchen was the only room left, and she just couldn’t face that room tonight. Of the rooms in the house, that room was the one she hated the most. After her aunt had taught her how to cook, she’d prepared all the meals, and her father insisted they eat every meal together in the small nook in the kitchen. It was the only room in the house where she was forced to spend time with her father, listening to his rants, enduring his silences, suffering his censure. She wasn’t allowed to leave the table to escape to her room until the meal was finished. It was in this room where she’d learned to keep her thoughts and opinions to herself. How she hated this room.
She thought about the trips they’d taken during one of his silent spells. They, too, were agony. She wasn’t allowed to play the radio, or watch TV at their hotel. Silence was maintained no matter what. It was on those trips she discovered how much she enjoyed visiting the local museums, which her father allowed when he went to his meetings. Of course, when he was no longer angry, he would begin the conversation, frequently expressing the opinion she’d opposed. Then she would receive a gift, something she’d expressed an interest in, or he thought she needed.
If it hadn’t been for Aunt Jewel, she couldn’t imagine what would have happened to her.
There was no way she could clear the kitchen this late at night, and the lights in the house were dim enough so Alex couldn’t read her expression. Which was just as well. She wasn’t going to explain. Instead, she started for the front door, skirting the piles of bags and boxes.
“I’m finished,” she announced.
“The kitchen?”
“You said you could hire someone. I don’t want to do anymore. Please, let’s go back to the hotel.” She let him take her arm and guide her to the car.
“We’ll go home tomorrow. I’ll send someone to finish here and bring that box you wanted home. The house needs a good cleaning.”
“I told you,” Sam said. “I don’t know whether I want to sell it or not.” She could hear the tiredness in her voice and wondered if he heard it too.
“Later, we’ll talk about it later. It doesn’t matter at the moment.”
When they arrived at the hotel, she wanted a long soak in the tub and her bed. She was weary, and she’d been fighting tears for the last few hours. But she would not cry. She’d prove to herself, as well as her dearly departed father, that she was not weak.
Alex filled the tub for her and poured fragrant bath oils into the hot water. She didn’t want to think about where he got the oil, but it smelled heavenly. After he left the room, she stripped and sank to her chin in fragrance and warmth.
She must have fallen asleep, because he woke her and gently lifted her from the tub, wrapping her in a warm bath towel.
At first all that registered was the towel and his arms. Gradually, as she tried for consciousness, she realized all he was wearing was jeans. She huddled into his bare chest and sighed.
The soft bed on which he placed her, and the way he tucked the blankets around her, had her eyes drifting shut. She curled into a ball as reality faded. Her ordeal at the house was finished.
~ * ~
“Sam.” Alex’s voice roused her from a delicious dream. She had been sitting at a table sipping hot chocolate, eating cream cake, and laughing with a handsome man whose features were nothing more than wisps of vapor. She jerked into an upright position. She was starved; no wonder she had dreamed of food.
The smell of coffee and bacon flooded her senses. Alex must have ordered room service. His words confirmed her thoughts.
“Breakfast is here. Hurry up and get dressed. We’ll eat then hit the road.”
She wiggled against the blanket and realized she was naked. Memories of her bath, Alex wrapping her in a towel and carrying her to bed, surfaced. She scrambled out from the covers and raced for the bathroom. Everything she’d worn yesterday was probably in a pile on the bathroom floor. She learned one thing about him over the last months—he didn’t like clutter.
She groaned as she saw her clothing neatly piled on the bathroom bench, her hairbrush and toothbrush tucked away in her cosmetic bag. He’d cleaned up after her. As another scene played through her mind, she staggered to a stop. She was in her office at Melton, sitting at her computer, stacks of paper strewn about the floor and the desk. Alex stood in the doorway glaring at the mess.
Then, like so many times before, this memory vanished as quickly as it came. But this time she knew it was Alex standing there. She debated whether she should mention it to him, then decided there wasn’t enough of a memory to confirm anything. Besides, her head just might be playing tricks on her, because he had been a permanent figure in her life since she’d regained consciousness in the hospital.
The memory of all those stacks of paper scattered around her office intrigued her though. What was with the papers when her hobby had been painting? She worked on canvas, not on paper, so what on earth had she been doing?
Another part of the past lost to her. If only she could have talked to her dad. She grabbed a shirt and jeans and dressed as quickly as she could. The smell of bacon nearly had her drooling. How long had it been since she had a decent meal? She couldn’t remember.
She strode into the living area of the suite and stared at the table. There had to be five, no six, domed lids on the table. There was a carafe of orange juice, one of coffee, and a pot beside cups and plates, along with a covered plate of pineapple slices, strawberries, and melon balls forming a perfect circle.
“Did you plan to feed an army?”
“No, but I hoped to tempt a woman who has lost a few more pounds she can’t afford to lose.”
She grinned. She couldn’t help it. The spread would have tempted anyone and she was starving.
“So you noticed I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”
“Lady, I don’t think you’ve eaten enough in the last month to equal a full meal. You’re going to make yourself sick. Irene will blame me.”
“I didn’t feel like eating. I do now.” She sat down and poured herself a glass of juice. “Have you eaten?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Well, I’m not waiting for you.” She pulled the covers off the plates and helped herself to a piece of French toast sprinkled with powdered sugar. She added a spoonful of scrambled eggs and a scoop of potatoes. Licking her lips, she forked two sausage links and some bacon onto her plate and started to eat.
There were biscuits and toast in a basket next to the sausages. She selected a slice of toast and a biscuit.
He watched her for a moment, shrugged, and filled his own plate. “Don’t make yourself sick.”
“First, you tell me to eat, and now you tell me not to eat. Make up your mind.” She went back to her sausage and potatoes, but she was stunned at her words; she never used to say things like that. On top of that, it sounded like something her father would have said. With a great deal of care, she placed her fork on the plate. The food no longer appealed to her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to spoil your meal,” he said.
“Well, you did.” She raised her eyes and clamped her hand over her mouth. What was wrong with her? She’d never snapped at anyone in her whole life. Had the accident done some kind of damage to her head?
“You’ve changed,” Alex said.
She nodded, pushing herself away from the table. “I’ll go pack so we can start for Melton.”
“Why don’t you call it home? It is your home, you know.”
She ignored him, marching into the bedroom she had used. He was forgetting that the only home she could remember was the one they just cleared.
They were checking out when her father’s lawyer, Mr. Wilson, approached them.
“Heard you were in town. I need to talk to Samantha.”
“Mr. Wilson, I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk to you at the cemetery, but I saw you there. Thank you for being there. I know you and Dad were close.” She sat her overnight case on the floor while she extended her hand. He was older than her father, and wore a beard and mustache as trim and precise as he was.
He shook her hand and glared at Alex. She glanced from one man to the other. Alex looked uneasy, and the expression on Mr. Wilson’s face said the last person he wanted to see here was her husband.
“Samantha, I need to talk to you—alone. I have to explain your father’s will, you have papers to sign, and there are things you need to know.”
“Not now,” Alex said.
“We’re here,” Sam said. “I might as well sign whatever he wants me to sign and get it over with.”
“Not now,” Alex repeated.
Before she could resist, he grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the door and the waiting car.
“Wait! What are you doing? I have papers to sign. Mr. Wilson is waiting for me.”
“Not today,” he said as he pushed her through the door.
“But—”
“Anything he needs signed can be taken care of at a later date.”
What was going on? Alex didn’t want her to talk to Mr. Wilson. What had Mr. Wilson meant when he said there were things she needed to know? She stared at her husband. He was hiding something he didn’t want her to know.
“Why?” she asked. “That wouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes. Why don’t you want me talk to Mr. Wilson?”
Alex looked glum. “Sam, the last two days have been hard on you. You don’t need to listen to your father’s will, or spend time with his lawyer today. Let’s go home, rest, and then some time in the future you can arrange a meeting.”
“But what about Dad’s estate? Doesn’t that have to be settled now?”
“Later.”
There was a note of finality to that word. Sam bit her bottom lip in frustration, because as far as he was concerned, this conversation was closed.
Thirteen
The ride back to Melton was as silent as the ride to Valdosta had been. Sam had questions, but after the way Alex had shoved her out the door at the hotel, she certainly was not going to ask him. He had looked so upset when the lawyer wanted to see her alone. What was going on? Irene might know. She’d insist Irene tell her what she knew.
The next morning, immediately after Alex left for work, Sam headed for the kitchen.
“Irene,” she slipped into the breakfast nook and smoothed her hands over her denim-covered thighs. “I have to ask you some questions, and you have to tell me the truth. I can’t remember a thing about last year, but I have to know. I need to know about my relationship with Alex.”
Their housekeeper giggled. “Honey, you and Alex are like two peas in a pod. The only time you argued was when you wanted to go back to work and he wanted you to stay home and enjoy his money. In fact, when you came back from your honeymoon and you found out you had your own bedroom, you objected.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I remember the look of relief on your husband’s face. You never used that room. No way were you going to sleep in another room.” She paused. “Remember, I change the sheets. And…well…,” she hesitated. “Then there were the other things I saw...” Irene’s cheeks flushed a brilliant red while a scarlet stain worked its way up her neck.
Sam looked down at her hands. “I wondered,” she said, and felt her own cheeks heat a bit. “It was the way Alex reacted to my father’s lawyer yesterday. Mr. Wilson wanted to see me, but alone, because he had stuff for me to sign. But Alex hustled me out to the car as if that poor old man was out to kidnap me.”
