Wife On His Doorstep. Alice Sharpe

      Ah, to be asked. Robert had deplored her bad eating habits, endlessly pointing out what was good for her and what wasn’t, taking it upon himself to wean her from junk food. A fitness freak, he jogged and biked—in fact, the only sport he didn’t train in was swimming, a thought that brought an evil little smile to Megan’s lips. “I’ll have a hamburger. No, wait, make it a cheeseburger. And French fries. And a milk shake.”

      Without comment on her choices, the captain repeated her order into the clown’s mouth and a disembodied voice told them to drive forward.

      “Don’t you want anything?” she asked as she fished the last twenty-dollar bill from the depths of her wallet. “My treat.”

      “Thanks, anyway, but I’m not hungry,” he said as he took the money and advanced to the drive-in window. She watched as he paid the attendant, handed Megan back the change and then accepted the food. He had a strong profile visible because of the restaurant lights. A good nose, chiseled jawline, interesting mouth. He was a big man, but not the least bit bulky. A man who exuded confidence and yet seemed strangely ill-at-ease when he was around her.

      How could she blame him? She’d been hesitant and scared during the ceremony, mad as a hornet when Robert kicked that poor little kitty into the river, and an emotional wreck ever since. No wonder he was skittish!

      He drove as the windshield wipers whacked back and forth and the rain increased. There was nothing like Oregon rain, she thought. She pushed aside the next thought, that if she hadn’t shoved Robert overboard, she’d now be on her way to Australia, where it was probably warm and dry. Wait, that wasn’t right. If Robert hadn’t kicked the little cat, they’d both be on their way to Australia.

      And if that had happened, if the wedding had gone as planned, would she now be delirious with joy or facing the possibility she’d made the biggest mistake of her life? If the wedding had gone as planned, they wouldn’t have thrown accusations at each other, he wouldn’t have accused her of marrying him for his money.

      This thought made her insides boil with righteous indignation. She’d never taken a penny from him, not a penny! The checks he had written were for the hospital’s new rehab center, for which she’d been raising funds when she’d met him, and yet he’d made it sound as if they were personal handouts.

      And since when was she responsible for Uncle Adrian’s debts? If Robert hadn’t wanted to bail him out, then he shouldn’t have bailed him out!

      The truth of the matter was that she’d used almost every dime in her savings and pushed her credit cards to their limits to buy her elaborate wedding dress, bowing to pressure from her mother to make sure it was a gown that wouldn’t “embarrass” Robert. He’d insisted on a fancy wedding and had offered to pay for it, and as Megan didn’t have the funds to finance it herself, nor did her mother, she’d agreed. In retrospect, she’d agreed to everything: rushing into marriage, a gala ceremony she couldn’t afford, a dress that put her in debt, a prenuptial agreement that should have been the last straw.

      She’d been caught in a whirlwind of romance, so enamored by the fact that an important man like Winslow would make such obvious ploys to win her, and so pleased to have her mother happy again, that she’d put her brain on hold. Well, I won’t let it happen again, she swore to herself. I’ll get my life back on track. I’m independent, I don’t need a man to define myself. It’s foolish and it’s dangerous. For me, romance is dead!

      “What did you say?”

      The sound of the captain’s deep voice startled her, sending a few French fries tumbling to her lap. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud. How much had she mumbled? How much had he heard?

      “Nothing,” she muttered as she retrieved errant fries.

      “You’re not eating much.”

      “I guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought,” she told him as she dumped the leftovers into the sack. It was depressing to realize Robert’s eating habits had become hers, as well.

      She pointed toward the windshield and added, “We’re almost there, take the next left.”

      Megan’s mother lived on the same heavily wooded street on which Megan had grown up. Back then, the house had been luxurious and comfortable, a meeting place for her father’s many friends, a warm house full of laughter. Times had changed; the house was now in need of extensive repairs, the neighborhood was turning seedy, and her mother was holding on by a string. Megan had hoped to help her mom relocate after her honeymoon—that dream was gone now, too.

      It had been a very wet, windy winter and a few of the trees had fallen, leaving gaps in the familiar landscape. One fallen tree lay across the front of a neighboring yard, waiting to be hacked into firewood, the root ball positioned toward the road. In the dark and through the rain, the giant fistlike roots clutched the earth in a last, futile attempt to ward off the inevitable.

      The house was a two-story white Colonial, lit to within an inch of its life. It never failed to amaze Megan how much better the place looked at night than in the unforgiving glare of day, when the missing shutters, peeling paint, sagging eaves and cracked brick drew attention to themselves. In the driveway sat a sleek gray car, which sent Megan’s heart into overload.

      “Don’t stop!” she squealed as Captain Vermont slowed and approached the curb.

      He flashed her an annoyed frown. “But that’s the place. Your mother said it was white and—”

      “I grew up here. You think I don’t know my own house? Don’t you see? It’s Robert’s car. He must be here. Keep going.”

      “But, Megan, Miss Morison—”

      “Just keep going!” she demanded as she saw Robert step in front of the living room window, glass in hand.

      Her mother was entertaining him! Knowing how Megan felt, her mother had nevertheless invited Robert Winslow into the house and given him a cold drink—no doubt cranberry juice and gin. What a traitor! Her own mother cavorting with the enemy! How dare she!

      “Turn down here,” she told the captain.

      He shot her a quick look before following her directions, traveling another half a block along a dark, empty side street before pulling up to the curb. Sighing heavily, he turned to face her. “Now what?” he asked, his voice a lot drier than the weather.

      Megan wanted him to keep moving. Her heart was beating so fast it pounded in her ears and she had the irrational notion that somehow Robert had known that the green vehicle rolling past the house belonged to Captain Vermont and that she was inside. She fought the desire to turn around to make sure he wasn’t running down the street after them.

      “Now what?” he repeated.

      Megan glanced over her shoulder. The side street was empty save a few million raindrops that splattered on the pavement and ran in torrents down the gutters.

      “I can’t believe my mother is visiting with that man.” She was practically fuming.

      “Obviously they’re waiting for you to come home.”

      She took a steadying breath.

      “Are you ready now?” he asked her.

      “Ready? Ready for what?”

      “To go back to your mom’s house—”

      “Heaven’s no!” she screeched. Oh, how she yearned for her lost apartment, for the solitude she craved, for time to curl into a ball and sleep, sleep, sleep. With that option lost, the next best thing would be a motel, but she knew her credit card would tilt any machine it was run through. Unless the department store she still had credit at had suddenly gone into the business of renting beds or she could find a place that charged less than fifteen dollars, she was out of luck.

      She lowered her voice. “Would you mind taking me to Uncle Adrian’s house? It’s not far.”

      The captain’s silence filled