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  He slipped a pair of boxers on before climbing beneath the covers. He saw the pot of tea and cookies sitting on a tray. He drew in a deep breath. Just then the thought of putting anything in his mouth made him gag. So much for mind over matter.

  After he relaxed for a while, his stomach calmed down enough for him to take small sips of tea. The cookies weren’t looking all that bad, either. He took one off the plate and bit into it. Heaven, he thought as he took another bite. Never having had much of a sweet tooth, he’d found since getting sick, he constantly had cravings for sweet desserts, cakes and pies. All the things he never ate. It was as though being ill had humanized him in a way he had never thought possible. Eating something that wasn’t beneficial to his health in the past had been something men much weaker than him would choose to do. His body had been strong, fit. He’d spent many hours in the gym making sure he remained in top form. And here he was now, like some schoolboy, getting excited about what was for dessert. It was the illness, he guessed. Probably the chemo made his body crave things it shouldn’t. Whatever the reason, no matter how he tried to rationalize it, if it was sweet, and he could keep it down, he would eat it.

  Exhausted, but feeling much better, Nick decided to take Chelsea out, after all. He’d sip tea if he couldn’t eat. Besides, he needed to be out in the public eye. Places where he was usually seen. They’d go to the club.

  He wasn’t dead yet.

  Lin spent the morning and afternoon at the diner, then went home to change for the dinner crowd. While it wasn’t required, since Jack’s was casual dining, Lin believed that as the owner, she needed to stand out from the staff. In the evenings, when she saw she wasn’t being intrusive, Lin went to each table when her patrons were finished with their meal, spoke with them, and thanked them for their business. She liked the personal touch, and so did her customers. The last few hours were trying, but she managed to get through the evening without thinking about all the terrible lies she’d told.

  And she was about to add a trail of lies to follow those. She remembered how her father used to tell her if you told one lie, then you had to tell another to cover that one up, and, before you knew it, you’d told so many lies, you couldn’t keep them straight. If this was his legacy to her, she was about to put it into action.

  She’d worry about forgiveness later. Just like Scarlett, her idol.

  It was after one when she returned home. Sally was too tired to stop in for their usual doughnuts and coffee. Lin was glad because she had plans to make. With Sally around, it would be impossible.

  Lin put on a pot of coffee after changing into sweats and a T-shirt. She scrunched her hair on top of her head, using a plastic clip to secure it. She took her laptop to the kitchen and plugged it in. While she waited for the computer to boot up, she poured herself a cup of coffee. Telling herself she was being silly, she could not do what she was about to do in her home office. It seemed wrong, like a traitor had invaded her space. Why she thought the kitchen table a better place, she didn’t know. It felt more communal, less personal.

  Clicking on her e-mail, she sent Jason Vinery a lengthy message. If his answer was as she expected, she would start formulating her plans immediately. If not, then she’d go to plan B. Whatever plan B was.

  When she heard the familiar ding letting her know she had received an e-mail, Lin’s heart raced, and her palms were suddenly damp. The e-mail was from Jason. She read it, then read through it a second time. Yes! He’d agreed to her plans.

  Feeling relieved, yet hyperexcited about her mission, Lin shut the computer down. Too wound up to sleep, she went outside. The night air was cool against her skin. She was glad for the warmth of her sweatshirt. She walked the length of the porch, glad that she’d spent the extra money. An extension of her home.

  When she’d first imagined this house, she’d told the architects her dream and it had materialized. Her favorite area was the porch, which wrapped around the entire perimeter of the house. Lin spent as much time there as she did inside, weather permitting. She’d made the place homey and comfortable, with outdoor furniture with plump cushions, lots of colorful throw pillows. There were side tables with plants placed next to rocking chairs, and benches. Books and reading lamps sat next to her favorite chair for those wet days, when she loved nothing more than to hear the sound of rain pelting against the metal roof while reading one of her cherished mystery novels, an addiction she no longer tried to hide.

  Lin had created her dream home. It hadn’t been easy, but it was hers, lock, stock, and barrel. No mortgage, no liens. She’d spent many sleepless nights wondering how she could afford such a costly investment, but she had saved and invested wisely throughout the years, and was able to swing the cost easily. Now that her dreams had come to fruition, she was about to jeopardize everything she’d worked for just to get even.

  Relaxing in the old maple rocker she’d restored last summer, she tucked her feet beneath her. The old chair creaked as she teetered back and forth, its sound comforting, reassuring. Frogs, crickets, and the occasional nightingale enlivened the darkness. Their nighttime harmony complemented her mood, secretive and cunning. Lin sipped her cold coffee as she plotted. There were kinks in her plans, but between her and Jason, they’d work through them.

  Hating to lie to her best friend, she justified doing so by telling herself it was for Sally’s benefit. She’d seen the look on her face on Friday, when Lin told her any future screwing around with Nick was over. The relief was Lin’s deciding factor. She cared about Sally too much to ask her to step up to the plate once again. Sally was right when she said it would take a life-or-death experience to even the score. Somehow, Lin was going to make that happen.

  Lin had her work cut out for her. Knowing she’d need a clear head, she sat a while longer, rocking to the night sounds, before she finally got up and went inside to prepare for bed. Tomorrow would be here soon enough. Actually, tomorrow was already there. The sun just hadn’t risen.

  “I truly don’t think you’re up for this,” Chelsea said as she climbed into the seat next to her husband. “You look awful, Nick, and I’m being kind when I say that.”

  “It’s so nice to know that I can always count on you to cheer me up, I’ll give you that,” Nick snapped.

  “You know what I mean. You’re as pale as a ghost, and you’ve lost so much weight, you look like a Holocaust victim. Someone has to tell you the truth,” Chelsea declared. “You really should stay home. Until you…uh…until you recover.”

  “I told you I was celebrating. After all I’ve been through, I deserve this night out. It’s a reward to myself. If you’d like Herbert to take you home, that can be arranged.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to go home. You’re always trying to put words in my mouth. Of course I want to go with you to…to celebrate. I just think you look like…death warmed over.” Chelsea smiled, knowing she was raining on Nick’s parade. The bastard deserved it.

  “I don’t know if I should slap you or forgive you your ignorance,” Nick commented dryly. Maybe bringing her along wasn’t such a good idea.

  “I don’t think you want a repeat of the Times or the Post. Or maybe you do? Though I’m sure you wouldn’t get a retraction the second time around.” Chelsea observed her husband’s facial expression. “I guess the Times or the Post didn’t have much of a choice, since the very paper their crap is printed on was aboard one of your cargo ships. Lady Luck certainly watches over you, Nick. I have to give you that.”

  “Shut up, Chelsea, or I’ll have Herbert take you home. This is supposed to be a celebration. For me. I know you’re not happy with the news, but I am. The least you can do is pretend you’re pleased.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t happy for you, Nick. You look sick. For the past six weeks you’ve been trying to convince everyone you’re not sick. If they see you now, they’ll know you’ve been lying to them. It’s that simple. Make what you want out of it.” She turned sullen and glared out the window.

  Chels
ea had a point, but no way in hell would he agree with her. “They can think what they want to think. They always do. When I live to be in my eighties like my father, I’ll have the last laugh.”

  “Of course, you’re a Pemberton. How could I forget?”

  Nick pushed the button opening the privacy window that separated the front and back of the Lincoln. “Herbert, please turn around. Mrs. Pemberton would like to go home.”

  “I did not say that, Nicholas,” Chelsea retorted.

  Herbert stopped for a traffic light. “Sir?”

  Nick watched his wife. “Well? It’s your decision. I’m sick of listening to your stupidity.”

  “Herbert, take us to the club,” Chelsea demanded.

  The old man directed his gaze to Nick for confirmation. He nodded and closed the window.

  Half an hour later the couple were ensconced at their private table at Manhattan’s ritzy Supper Club. Nick paid an enormous amount of money for the exclusivity. Privileged people with money only had to name their price. Nick’s father had confessed this to him once, when he was only seven years old. At least his father had been right about that. He could buy anything.

  Nick smiled at the thought. Even his stupid wife. All he’d had to do to regain her loyalty, not that he needed it, was to reinstate her lines of credit and credit cards. It wouldn’t look good if one of Manhattan’s wealthiest women didn’t have the proper funding. A few weeks’ torture had been enough for both of them.

  The waiter took their orders, then quickly disappeared. The staff was as discreet as the nonexistent prices on the menu. Chelsea ordered rare prime rib. Her aversion to red meat during the early days of her pregnancy had ceased soon after the night she had snared Nick. Two drinks later, the waiter returned with their food. Nick’s stomach clenched when he saw the red blood dripping from the prime rib on Chelsea’s plate. He had ordered a bowl of lobster bisque but hadn’t been able to bring himself to try it. The smell of seafood suddenly sickened him.

  He stared at Chelsea as she forked a bite of the nearly raw meat. He wasn’t sure he could contain himself. Quickly excusing himself, he headed to the men’s room, where he emptied what remained in his stomach. Son of a bitch! I should’ve stayed home. Deep breaths and mind over matter, he told himself.

  As he made his way back to the table, he spied Albert Fine, senior vice president of Chase Manhattan Bank. Nick squared his shoulders and plastered a smile on his face.

  “Albert, I haven’t seen you around Wall Street lately. What gives?” Nick cajoled the moneyed man.

  Albert Fine was tall and thin. His skin matched the color of Nick’s, though Nick knew his unnatural pallor wasn’t from an illness. The man spent so much of his time making billions, he probably hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Thinning gray hair barely covered the brown and purple spots that dotted his head.

  “Nick, old boy. Where have you been? Word’s out that you’d died and gone straight to hell.” Albert smiled as he said this, but Nick saw the question in his gaze as he scrutinized him.

  “Then you can put that rumor to rest. I’ve had…E. coli. I got hold of some tainted meat a couple of months back. It’s taken its toll on me.”

  “I’ll say. You sure that’s all?” Albert questioned. “Where on earth did you come across tainted meat? I’ll make sure to avoid it.” He saw right through Nick’s lie.

  “Actually, Nora prepared it at home. Nasty stuff.”

  “It’s good to see you’re out and about. Give me a call. I know a fellow who could use your services.” Albert extended his hand once again.

  “I’ll do that. Good to see you.”

  Nick hoped seeing Albert would quash the rumors that he was dying. Dying simply was not good for business.

  He returned to the table, where Chelsea was continuing to eat as though she were starving.

  Fork and knife in each hand, she stopped in midair. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He sighed. “Let’s go home. I’ve had enough.”

  “I haven’t finished eating, and I was looking forward to the strawberry pie! This was your idea, remember?”

  “Yes, I do remember. I’m leaving now, so either you come with me, or you’ll be calling a taxi.” Nick called Herbert on his cell phone, telling him they’d be waiting outside in five minutes.

  Not wanting to lower herself and ride in a New York taxi, Chelsea took one last bite before racing to the elevator. The doors were closing when she stuck her foot between them. “Wait!” she shrieked.

  Nick was grateful no one else was in the elevator with them. When they were alone, Chelsea had the class of a backstreet hooker.

  They took the elevator down to the private foyer without speaking. Nick hadn’t seen any of the crew that usually frequented the Supper Club. It’d been a pointless evening, except for running into Albert, and Nick had a feeling the banker would delight in spreading even more rumors about him. His earlier optimism felt forced.

  Hell, what did he know? The goddamned doctor could’ve lied to him. He might not live to see another day. Fear crawled up his spine like a serpent. Nick did not want to die. He had too much to live for.

  Herbert was waiting at the curb when they stepped outside. The October air was sharp, cutting through his thin jacket like a switch blade. He shivered. “I’m sorry, Chelsea. This evening was a mistake.

  I don’t feel…never mind.” He’d almost shown her his weakness, his fear of dying. Clearing his mind of negative thoughts, he smiled at his wife. “I appreciate the effort you made this evening. I know I haven’t been the easiest person to live with since I was diagnosed with this damned disease. I just want you to know that I…” He choked up. “I appreciate your sticking around.” God, he was sick.

  Herbert opened the door, and Chelsea climbed inside. She watched Nick as he made his way around the car. She was shocked at his display of emotion. Maybe there was more to the disease than she’d been told. Though she’d never heard of cancer causing a major personality change, at least in a positive way, maybe there was something Nick wasn’t telling her. God, she could only hope he was even sicker than he thought. She wanted him to die. Soon.

  She had plans. Big plans. But she could and would play the nice wife as long as it suited her to do so and not one minute longer.

  “Of course I’ll stick around,” Chelsea lied with a straight face. “I know we’re not the most compatible couple, but, Nick, I would never turn my back on you.” She almost believed her own words.

  She was such an expert at playing games. And to think she’d learned it all at Nick’s knee.

  “Thanks. I think.”

  He smiled at her as though she were a favorite pet. Chelsea waited for him to fluff her between the ears. It didn’t happen.

  The short drive home was silent. It was easier to think about killing Nick when he was an ass. His kindness, however, had melted a bit of the ice around her hard heart.

  No, Chelsea decided, she much preferred his arrogance.

  On Thursday morning Lin crossed her fingers and placed them behind her back, the way she had as a child when she was afraid of getting caught doing something she had no business doing, which wasn’t often—given her father’s severe disciplinary methods.

  Her heart ached with what she had to do, but it had to be done. When it was over, she’d tell Sally the truth. Until then, she’d live with her guilt.

  She dialed her best friend’s number.

  “I’ve had only one cup of coffee, so this better be good,” Sally said when she picked up the phone. Never a hello.

  “Caller ID again?” Lin teased.

  “You found me out. So what’s up?”

  Here goes. The mother of all lies. “I…The doctors from the nursing home just called.” Sweat dotted her upper lip. If Sally saw her, she’d know she was lying. “Apparently, my father has suffered a major heart attack. I need to go to Atlanta.” Lin paused, waiting for Sally to call her a liar. When she didn’t, Lin breathed a sigh of relief. So f
ar, so good.

  “Okay. So when do we leave?” Sally asked.

  Dear Sally. Lin hoped her actions didn’t completely damage her friendship. She would never intentionally hurt Sally’s feelings. “I need to go by myself. This…I need to reconcile with him before he dies. It’s…just something I feel I need to do.”

  “If you’re sure, then go. I’ll take care of the diner.”

  Lin closed her eyes. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I don’t know how long I’ll be. Maybe a few days. I’m not sure yet. I’ll call you when I can. I remember the last time I visited. Something about cell phones being a no-no.” Add that to her ever-lengthening list of lies.

  “Just do what you need to do. What about Will?”

  “I’m going to call him as soon as I hang up. It’s not like he ever knew my father. I probably shouldn’t even trouble him with this. So let’s not tell him anything yet. I’ll just tell him I’m making the trip to visit.” More lies.

  “You know best. So when do you leave?” Sally asked.

  “Soon. Today.”

  “Call me when you get there so I’ll know you made it safely, okay?”

  “Thanks, Sally. I will.”

  Lin hung up the phone. She’d risen before dawn to prepare for her trip. She’d packed, put a hold on her mail via e-mail.

  With nothing left to do, she walked through the house one last time, made sure the windows and doors were locked. She didn’t activate the alarm, knowing Sally would be in and out. There wasn’t a lot of crime in Dalton, anyway.

  With her bags already in the car, Lin grabbed the morning paper from the front lawn, sticking it inside her messenger bag. She never traveled without her letters to Nick; it was sort of sick, but it was something she had to do. With nothing left to keep her, she pulled her bright red Porsche out of the drive to head south on I-75.