Truly Married (3 page)

When she had herself under reasonable control she turned to Elaine, whose cheeks were also wet with tears. “Don’t you have something to say about this?”

Elaine looked Sharon straight in the eye without flinching. “Nothing except to assure you that Fergus has told the truth. We haven’t been intimate, although I’ve let him know that I’d be willing, and I’ve always known that he’d never divorce you.”

She was being searingly honest, and Sharon almost felt sorry for her. This triangle had the elements of a Greek tragedy. It could ruin all three of their lives.

Still holding Elaine’s gaze, Sharon asked, “Are you in love with him?”

The woman didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Sharon winced, then turned to face Fergus. He appeared so tormented, as if he’d been caught in a nightmare and couldn’t wake up.

Her whole being cried out to her to let well enough alone. To accept the situation and let Fergus and Elaine play it out as they’d planned. Sharon would keep her husband, and the other woman would be gone for good. They could all get on with their lives and pretend that none of this had ever happened.

But could they? She wouldn’t know unless she asked Fergus the same question she’d asked Elaine, and she wasn’t sure she had the courage to do that.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, then opened them and put her future on the line.

“Fergus, are you in love with Elaine?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but she hurried on. “I’ve always thought of you as an honorable man, and now I’m appealing to that honor. I don’t want to hear about your duty to me. All I want is the truth. Please. You owe me that much.”

He closed his mouth and shook his head. “Sharon, I... You don’t understand....”

“The truth, Fergus.” She sounded like an attorney cross-examining a witness, but she had to know.

His gaze searched hers, and he must have seen how important this was to her. Slowly he looked from Sharon to Elaine, then back again. “Elaine and I have a close relationship. I care deeply for her, but you’re my wife—”

In spite of the scalding anguish his words caused, Sharon felt a calm dignity as she let out the breath she’d been holding. “That’s not good enough. I’m selfish. I want all or nothing.”

Her voice broke, and she took a deep breath. “There won’t be any need for Elaine to go to California. I’m sorry, but I can’t live with you knowing you’re not totally committed to me. I’ll file for divorce in the morning.”

She held her head high and managed to walk steadily across the room and out of the house even though she was blinded by tears of grief.

Chapter Two

Five years later

S
pring was late arriving this year in St. Louis, Missouri, after a long, cold winter. Sharon had about given up on it, when, almost overnight, it blazoned across the land in a riot of color and bright warming sunshine. Red tulips, yellow daffodils, purple pansies, and peonies in a variety of hues turned the drab landscape into the glory of new life once more affirmed.

New life reaffirmed.
The phrase caught Sharon’s fancy, and she turned it over in her mind and examined it as she stood gazing out the window of the staff conference room on the fifteenth floor of the luxurious Starlight St. Louis Hotel. The view overlooked rambling Jefferson Barracks Park along the Mississippi River; the spectacular Gateway Arch, the tallest man-made national monument in the nation; and the majestic riverboats still plying their trade on the treacherous river that had spilled over its banks and caused such catastrophic damage to the towns and farmland of five states during the floods of ‘93.

Her thoughts returned to that surprising phrase that had popped into her mind unannounced, and she realized it was true. Five years ago when her marriage to Fergus Lachlan had shattered around her she’d thought that the fullness of her life was over, that she was destined to a colorless existence devoid of love and laughter and happiness.

For a long time it had been that way, although she’d managed to camouflage it well. Even then her pride hadn’t allowed her to be an object of pity, and few suspected that she was merely going through the motions.

But gradually she’d begun to heal, and the color, very pale pastel at first, had crept back into her life until now she was once more blooming. Not as brightly as she had during that first blush of youth, but by age twenty-eight she’d gained the courage to really live again. Like the tulip bulbs that lay brown and dormant in the ground for months until, in a miracle of life, they once more burst from the earth in full, glorious blossom.

Not that she’d been reborn unscathed. She hadn’t. She had deep-seated scars that would be with her always, the most damaging of which was her inability to feel sexual desire. She had numerous men friends, and for the past couple of years she even dated frequently, but when they came on to her romantically she froze up inside.

Her soul apparently knew what her mind rejected—that she would never love again with the passionate intensity she’d loved Fergus.

That was no small defect. She didn’t relish spending the rest of her years alone without the companionship of one special man, and a select few of the ones she’d dated had actually met most of her requirements for a lifetime relationship.

On the other hand, there were others who seemed nice at the start, but turned out to be jerks—

“Sharon, snap out of your trance and come sit down. The meeting’s about to start.”

The male voice immediately behind her made her jump. Speak of the devil! Her boss, Floyd Vancleave, was rapidly gaining the title of King of the Jerks.

He put his hand at her waist, but she shied away and turned to face him. He was a spritely looking man in his forties, medium height, with a receding hairline and an evolving paunch. He was also a little too loud, a little too jovial and a whole lot too free with his hands around women he fancied.

“Sorry, Floyd.” Her tone was polite, but cool. “I was woolgathering and didn’t realize that everyone was here.”

She quickly walked away, hoping to find a single seat at the conference table, but he caught up with her and took her arm to lead her to a space with two chairs. She sighed and sat down while he took the place beside her. There was nothing else she could do without making a scene, and unfortunately, he was her immediate supervisor.

When Sharon had fled Chicago after the divorce she’d come to St. Louis, where her grandparents had lived when she was growing up. She’d spent part of her summers here as a child, and although her grandparents had died by the time she’d come to stay she knew the city well and felt at home in the area.

She’d taken a job at the registration desk at the Starlight St. Louis and two years ago had been promoted to assistant to the front-office manager, Floyd Vancleave, who was in charge of the booking office, front desk, bell staff, night auditor and night manager.

At first she’d worked the night shift and hadn’t seen much of Floyd, but a year ago she was transferred to days, which put her in direct contact with him. She’d heard rumors about his being a chauvinist, and at that time she’d experienced it firsthand.

He referred to the women who worked under him as “girls” or “doll” or “honey,” and asked them to run personal errands for him in such a way that they knew it was an order. Most of the female employees, Sharon among them, put up with the irritation, rather than complain and take a chance on being fired.

Lately, though, she’d become aware that he was also a lecher. She’d heard rumors that he solicited sexual favors from some of his younger and prettier “girls,” but again no one had come to her with a complaint, so Sharon hadn’t pursued the gossip. After all, he was married, and his wife was the shy, clinging type who seemed devoted to her husband.

It wasn’t until he started coming on to Sharon that she was forced to face the fact that he was a womanizer, and now he was after her.

The staff meeting was called to order by the hotel’s general manager, and Sharon focused on the business at hand. Not for long, though. Midway through the meeting, when everyone’s attention was on a potentially volatile situation in the housekeeping department, she was startled when Floyd reached under the table and put his hand on her knee.

She moved her leg, hoping to discourage him, but he just patted her knee and kept his hand there. She reached down and brushed it aside, but it landed on her thigh and she heard his low chuckle.

Damn him! He was enjoying her discomfort and was counting on her being too well-bred and embarrassed to make a scene.

The loud discussion around them went on, and he moved his fingers to caress her thigh. Again she reached down to dislodge his hand, but all he did was move it to her knee again.

This time she leaned over and spoke softly into his ear. “Take your goddamn hand off my leg or the next time I’ll tell you loud and clear for everyone to hear!”

The words were spoken before she realized she’d used a profanity. That had not been her intention. It had just slipped out in the heat of anger, but his face lit up with a big smile and he squeezed her knee as he turned his head to answer.

“Come, now, that’s no way for a lady to talk,” he admonished her cheerfully, but in an equally low tone. “I’m surprised. You’re probably the type who likes to talk dirty in bed. We’ll discuss that later.”

He squeezed her knee again, but then put his hand back on the table.

Sharon was furious, and she was still irate when she got home that evening.

Home was a two-story brick Tudor-style house that she shared with two other women in the Forest Park district of the city. The shady streets were lined with huge old trees, and the yards were green and abloom with spring flowers and blossoming bushes.

A red sports car and a blue compact sedan, both fairly new and belonging to her housemates, were parked in the driveway, so Sharon pulled up at the curb and stopped. Obviously both Anna and Tracey had beaten her home, and Anna was coming up the walk toward her, being pulled along by her playful golden retriever, Viking.

Sharon watched as the cool Nordic beauty walked briskly behind the dog. Anna had changed out of her business suit and into snug-fitting blue jeans and an oatmeal-colored ribbed turtleneck sweater. Her long blond hair had been released from its usual daytime chignon, and swung, unbound and shining, to her shoulder blades.

Sharon sighed enviously and waved as she got out of her black sedan and slammed the door shut behind her. Anna Grieg could easily pass for a high-fashion model!

The two women greeted each other, while the dog stood by, wagging his tail and eagerly waiting for Sharon to pet him.

“I see Viking’s taking you for a walk,” Sharon said as she crouched down and nuzzled the impatient pet.

“You got that right,” Anna said with a laugh. “The paperboy apparently missed us this morning, so Viking and I galloped down to the supermarket to pick up a paper.”

She wrapped the dog’s leash around her wrist and took the newspaper from under her arm. “Have you heard that your ex-husband won an acquittal for Sonny Alberts? It made the front page.” She held the paper out to Sharon, who reached for it.

“You mean the athlete who was charged with killing his girlfriend?” she asked as she opened it.

Sure enough, there in the middle of the page was a color picture of the famous, blond, muscular basketball forward and his tall, slender, dark-haired attorney, standing on the steps of the courthouse in Chicago. The headline read Alberts Not Guilty.

“I’m not surprised,” she murmured around the lump in her throat. “Fergus is a brilliant lawyer. He’s been getting a lot of high-profile cases lately.”

Sharon hadn’t seen or talked to Fergus since the divorce, but they had mutual friends in Chicago who considered it their duty to keep her informed on what he was doing. It was one of them who had sent her the clipping from the paper when Fergus and Elaine were married, and another one who had called two years ago with the sad news that Elaine had died suddenly of an aneurysm.

In spite of herself, Sharon’s gaze was drawn back to the picture. Fergus didn’t seem to have changed much. His dark-brown hair was clipped a little shorter, but it was very becoming.

Quickly she refolded the paper and handed it back to Anna. She didn’t want to be reminded of Fergus Lachlan. She’d spent five years trying to forget him!

“Sorry to be late when it’s my night to cook dinner,” she said, switching to another subject. “I’ll change my clothes and get right on it.”

“No need,” Anna said cheerfully. “Tracey volunteered to switch nights with you.” Anna made a face. “She said she didn’t mind at all fixing hamburgers and French fries.”

Both women shuddered, and Sharon straightened up. “It serves me right for being late,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t think that kid will ever understand the concept of nutrition and well-balanced meals.”

Anna was thirty and Sharon twenty-eight, and both were well established in their chosen careers, hotel management for Sharon and real estate for Anna. On the other hand, Tracey Weisner, the newest addition to the house-sharing plan, was a young twenty-three, one year out of college and struggling to get the hang of investment counseling at the bank where she was interning.

Inside the house, Anna stopped to take off Viking’s leash while Sharon hurried through the dining room on her left and on to the kitchen behind it. Little redheaded, freckle-faced Tracey, five-one and ninety-eight pounds, stood at the sink with her back to Sharon, peeling potatoes. She, too, had changed clothes, and was wearing stone-washed jeans and her familiar ragged white sweatshirt with St. Louis University splashed across the front, a comfortable souvenir from her college days.

“Hi, Sharon,” she said cheerfully, without turning her head to look behind her. “I figured you wouldn’t mind if I went ahead and fixed dinner, since you were late and I have a date tonight.”

“How did you know it was me?” Sharon asked. There were times when she’d bet the farm that Tracey Weisner was either a “good” witch or a descendant of one. It was positively spooky the way she seemed to read other people’s minds.