Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1. Stephanie Bond

that her husband carried a picture of Carlotta in his wallet.

      Perhaps in deference to the decision she faced, Peter didn’t press her for conversation and instead slid in a Jack Johnson CD and turned up the volume. Dusk was descending early on this ominously overcast day, prompting motorists to flip on their lights. A stiff wind ruffled the riotously blooming crape myrtle trees in the median, sending bright pink blossoms across the flared hood of the Porsche. Sunday afternoon traffic around the mall area was as heavy as her mood.

      But soon the mellow music began to calm Carlotta’s ragged nerves and she laid her head back against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

      She didn’t want to watch as they left the exclusive area of Buckhead and entered the more shabby section of the city where she and Wesley lived in a town house. She just wanted to listen to the music and imagine that her life had turned out exactly as she’d planned.

      In her mind, she and Peter were married and on their way home to their sprawling residence in a gated community where they would relieve their nanny, then tuck in their beautiful children before retiring to the hot tub with a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and making love with a passion that contradicted how long they had been together.

      A touch to her hand startled her and her eyes flew wide open. The music had dimmed and the car had stopped.

      “We’re here,” he said quietly.

      In the falling dusk, the car headlights illuminated a garage door with peeling paint and a driveway riddled with cracks and stray weeds. Embarrassment welled in her chest. She had let things go around the house. Wesley had repaired and cleaned the small deck in the back, but from the front it looked as if a low-class family inhabited the place.

      If the shoe fits, wear it, she thought morosely.

      Who was she kidding? If the shoe fit, she’d buy it with her employee discount.

      Peter adjusted the rearview mirror and stared intently, then checked the side mirrors.

      “Is something wrong?” she asked.

      “It’s probably nothing. I just thought someone was following us.”

      Her pulse picked up and she turned around in her seat. “You’re kidding.” Could her father be tailing them? Jack Terry? A loan shark? Good grief, the possibilities were endless.

      “Like I said, it’s probably nothing. Or just a pesky reporter.”

      “Have reporters really been following you?”

      He shrugged. “A couple were parked outside the subdivision when I left this morning. Guess they wanted to get a shot of the bereaved husband. And I’m sure some of them aren’t quite convinced I had nothing to do with Angela’s … dying.”

      “I’m so sorry.”

      “Why are you sorry? Like Detective Terry said, you’re the one who believed in me when no one else did. How can I ever thank you?”

      She dipped her chin. “Your discretion in this matter with my father is thanks enough.”

      “Carly,” Peter said, picking up her left hand. “It’s really none of my business but what did you do with the engagement ring I gave you?”

      “I … had to sell it.”

      He nodded. “As you should have. I suspect money was tight after your parents left.”

      “It was. But actually, I didn’t sell it until a few weeks ago.” In the wake of Peter’s wife’s murder, the act of pawning the Cartier ring had been as necessary to her emotional security as to her financial security. Keeping it had made her feel as if she were leaving her heart ajar for him to walk back in.

      “I see.” His voice was thick with disappointment.

      “Peter, after running into you again … things were happening too fast between us. I had to do something to slow it down on my end. Pawning the ring helped me to sever ties to the past.”

      He nodded again. “I understand. And I have no right to ask you but I hope that severing ties to our past doesn’t rule out us having a future.”

      Her heart pounded furiously. How many nights had she lain awake dreaming of him returning to her like this, asking her to give their love another chance? “I don’t know about a future with you, Peter,” she said honestly. “As crazy as my life is, I can’t say anything for sure.”

      He squeezed her hand. “Fair enough.” Then he nodded toward the dark windows of the town house. “Looks pretty quiet. Is Wesley working?”

      “No. He’s spending the night with a friend.”

      “Oh?”

      The word vibrated with hope, sending a flush to Carlotta’s chest and face.

      “I could stay,” he offered. “On the couch, of course. I don’t like the idea of you being alone tonight.”

      It was the perfect excuse to be close to Peter, to spend time with him, for them to begin the process of getting to know each other again. He was the only person who could help her sort through this mess with her father. And truth be known, she didn’t want to be alone tonight. Plus she did have that one good bottle of red wine in the cabinet that she’d been waiting for an occasion to uncork.

      She opened her mouth to say yes, but was distracted by the sudden appearance of headlights, then the revving of a diesel engine that brought Hannah Kizer’s big graffiti’d refrigerated van up next to them. The Goth-garbed and stripe-haired Hannah hung out the driver’s side window, arms waving, pierced tongue flapping.

      “Do you know that … person?” Peter asked.

      “Kind of,” Carlotta said with resignation. She lowered her window, half relieved, half irritated at her friend’s timing.

      “What the hell happened to you?” Hannah shouted. “I called you back to tell you all about Coop making me a body mover, but your line was busy and then you didn’t answer all damn afternoon!”

      “Lindy confiscated my phone.”

      “The whore,” Hannah declared, then she narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Peter. “Hope I interrupted something.”

      “Peter gave me a ride home,” Carlotta said quickly, hoping Peter didn’t notice the open hostility rolling off Hannah toward the man who had broken Carlotta’s heart. “The Monte Carlo is in the shop.”

      “I know,” Hannah said sourly. “I was going to swing by the mall and give you a ride, but I see Richie Rich beat me to it.”

      Carlotta gave her friend a stern look. “Hannah, have you ever met Peter Ashford?”

      “Only by reputation.” Hannah addressed Peter in a suspicious tone, “I attended your wife’s memorial service with Carlotta.”

      “Peter, this is my friend Hannah Kizer.”

      “Nice to meet you, Hannah.”

      “Wish I could say the same.”

      “Hannah!”

      “It’s okay,” Peter broke in, putting his warm hand on Carlotta’s knee. “I’ll go. Will your friend stay with you tonight?”

      Carlotta nodded.

      “Call me to let me know what you decide.”

      She was transfixed by the concern shining in his eyes. “I’ll call,” she murmured.

      He leaned across the console and whispered, “I’m here for you, Carly,” then brushed a kiss near her ear.

      The sound of Hannah clearing her throat rent the air. Carlotta gathered her purse and climbed out of the car, waving as Peter backed out of the driveway.

      Hannah jumped out of the van and slammed the door. “Why the hell did you let him drive you home?