a sense of violation and betrayal broke
over her. Could it be true? Was Raymond in debt to some sleazebag loan shark? Was the change she'd sensed in him over the
last several months related to this financial mess instead of another woman, as she'd suspected?
Natalie yanked up the phone and dialed Raymond's cell number with trembling hands, but he didn't answer. She left him a
message to call her, then jogged to the front door and locked herself in, in case the odious Mr. Butler decided to return. He'd
had the gonads to snatch a handful of oatmeal Scotties on his way out, she noticed, frowning at the crumbs on the near-empty
plate, the plastic wrap flapping. She itched to call the police on the thug, but she wanted to talk to Raymond first. Twenty, then
thirty minutes passed with no return call, during which she paced and methodically rearranged the bric-a-brac on her desk.
Her mind raced with scenes from their six-year relationship—meeting Raymond at a medical conference and being swept
off her feet by his charm and good looks, dating around his hectic traveling schedule, then marrying soon after on a whim
during a whirlwind trip to Jamaica. They had adopted a comfortable pattern of separating during the week and reuniting on
most weekends to eat homemade pasta and to share great sex.
Anger, slow and warm, swelled in her chest. Their marriage hadn't been perfect—he hadn't been too keen on leaving St.
Louis for this smaller town, for instance—but she'd given Raymond no cause to withhold information so potentially devastating
to their relationship. Fighting hurt and furious tears, she gave up on hearing from him and left for home.
A storm had blown in, heaping salt onto her gaping wound of misery as she made a mad dash to her car. A howling wind
flipped her umbrella inside out, and rain lashed at her lab coat as she fought her way into her Jeep Cherokee. Once inside,
Natalie summoned the strength to curse, but none seemed forthcoming.
"What a lousy bleeping day," she muttered.
Spring had arrived in Smiley, Missouri, on a low pressure front intent on dumping a few inches of rain by morning,
according to the nasal meteorologist on the radio. She glanced at the women slumped in the cars around her, and wondered
which of them had been delivered a life-changing blow since embarking on their morning commute. Everyone had a cross to
bear—job being phased out, in-laws moving in, teenagers having sex in the basement—but she'd wager none of them had been
shaken down by a hoodlum for their husbands' gambling debts.
Natalie picked up her cell phone and called Raymond's number again, to no avail. She crept toward home in the gray,
slanting rain, alternately worried and angry, concerned and murderous. When she pulled into the driveway, she sat and stared
at their home.
Her home, actually. Her aunt had willed her the residence in Smiley, and Natalie, ready for a change from bustling St.
Louis, had relocated her family practice south to the smallish town. Raymond had grudgingly agreed because the move placed
him more centrally within his sales territory. She'd been looking forward to their spending more time together, but in the six
months since she'd taken possession of the house, Raymond's traveling hadn't slowed.
She loved the house—had loved it since childhood. Every summer she'd spent fourteen precious days with her father's
sister, Rose Marie Blankenship. Rose Marie owned shelves of naughty novels, maintained a bowl of cookie dough in the
refrigerator for emergencies, and grew the most beautiful tea roses in the region. She'd gently guided Natalie through
childhood, puberty, and young adulthood, compensating for her parents' indifference with magical letters and unusual gifts.
When Natalie graduated from medical school, Rose Marie had presented her with the diamond stud earrings that had
belonged to Rose's own mother. "Don't save them for special occasions," she had pleaded. Right about now
over her. Could it be true? Was Raymond in debt to some sleazebag loan shark? Was the change she'd sensed in him over the
last several months related to this financial mess instead of another woman, as she'd suspected?
Natalie yanked up the phone and dialed Raymond's cell number with trembling hands, but he didn't answer. She left him a
message to call her, then jogged to the front door and locked herself in, in case the odious Mr. Butler decided to return. He'd
had the gonads to snatch a handful of oatmeal Scotties on his way out, she noticed, frowning at the crumbs on the near-empty
plate, the plastic wrap flapping. She itched to call the police on the thug, but she wanted to talk to Raymond first. Twenty, then
thirty minutes passed with no return call, during which she paced and methodically rearranged the bric-a-brac on her desk.
Her mind raced with scenes from their six-year relationship—meeting Raymond at a medical conference and being swept
off her feet by his charm and good looks, dating around his hectic traveling schedule, then marrying soon after on a whim
during a whirlwind trip to Jamaica. They had adopted a comfortable pattern of separating during the week and reuniting on
most weekends to eat homemade pasta and to share great sex.
Anger, slow and warm, swelled in her chest. Their marriage hadn't been perfect—he hadn't been too keen on leaving St.
Louis for this smaller town, for instance—but she'd given Raymond no cause to withhold information so potentially devastating
to their relationship. Fighting hurt and furious tears, she gave up on hearing from him and left for home.
A storm had blown in, heaping salt onto her gaping wound of misery as she made a mad dash to her car. A howling wind
flipped her umbrella inside out, and rain lashed at her lab coat as she fought her way into her Jeep Cherokee. Once inside,
Natalie summoned the strength to curse, but none seemed forthcoming.
"What a lousy bleeping day," she muttered.
Spring had arrived in Smiley, Missouri, on a low pressure front intent on dumping a few inches of rain by morning,
according to the nasal meteorologist on the radio. She glanced at the women slumped in the cars around her, and wondered
which of them had been delivered a life-changing blow since embarking on their morning commute. Everyone had a cross to
bear—job being phased out, in-laws moving in, teenagers having sex in the basement—but she'd wager none of them had been
shaken down by a hoodlum for their husbands' gambling debts.
Natalie picked up her cell phone and called Raymond's number again, to no avail. She crept toward home in the gray,
slanting rain, alternately worried and angry, concerned and murderous. When she pulled into the driveway, she sat and stared
at their home.
Her home, actually. Her aunt had willed her the residence in Smiley, and Natalie, ready for a change from bustling St.
Louis, had relocated her family practice south to the smallish town. Raymond had grudgingly agreed because the move placed
him more centrally within his sales territory. She'd been looking forward to their spending more time together, but in the six
months since she'd taken possession of the house, Raymond's traveling hadn't slowed.
She loved the house—had loved it since childhood. Every summer she'd spent fourteen precious days with her father's
sister, Rose Marie Blankenship. Rose Marie owned shelves of naughty novels, maintained a bowl of cookie dough in the
refrigerator for emergencies, and grew the most beautiful tea roses in the region. She'd gently guided Natalie through
childhood, puberty, and young adulthood, compensating for her parents' indifference with magical letters and unusual gifts.
When Natalie graduated from medical school, Rose Marie had presented her with the diamond stud earrings that had
belonged to Rose's own mother. "Don't save them for special occasions," she had pleaded. Right about now
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