Motherhood Without Parole

A well-paid technical writer in Richmond, Virginia, Kate had always been analytical and goal-oriented: Escape the Dallas neighborhood on the wrong side of Harry Hines Boulevard and her cloying, opportunistic mother. Check. Get an MBA. Check. Climb the career ladder until she was comfortably secure and self-sufficient. Check. By forty, Kate had accomplished enough of her personal objectives to consider finally making more time for a personal life. Especially one that included Paul, a handsome widower and CEO.

When their paths had first crossed two years ago, she’d taken only passing notice of the soft-spoken man still mourning his late wife. He and Kate ran in similar circles with mutual acquaintances, though, and eventually formed an attraction neither could ignore. Paul told her once that he’d been drawn to her strength, a welcome change from those who first noticed Kate’s looks. On her part, she’d been impressed with Paul’s sense of balance. She’d always been something of a loner, whereas he seemed to have well-rounded relationships and a laudable ability to thrive in the business world without resorting to cutthroat tactics. They’d married a month and a half ago, ringing in the New Year with an elegant evening wedding before Paul’s children returned to their prestigious New England boarding school.

Children. Kate caught herself anxiously twisting the wedding band on her finger. Dropping her hands to her sides, she took deep breaths and conjured confidence. It was going to be fine.

She had endured a pressure-filled childhood and a mother most charitably described as “less than nurturing.”

She had persevered her third year of college after ugly rumors of her sleeping with a popular professor had led him to leave his position.

She was fluent in programming languages, dealt with tight deadlines with poise and excelled in a field dominated by men.

She could certainly handle two polite, if withdrawn, children whom she saw only several times a year. Just because Kate hadn’t had a stellar maternal role model didn’t mean she was doomed to emotionally scar Neve and Paul Jr. Preteen Neve had asked to join one of her friend’s families for their upcoming spring break, and eight-year-old PJ was surprisingly quiet and well-behaved for a little boy. How much trouble could he possibly be for a week?

This summer both kids would be home for almost two months, but Kate had time to prepare. She would ask her girlfriend Patti for advice. Then there was Lily, Paul’s former sister-in-law, who dispensed parenting advice whether it was solicited or not. Between Kate’s determination to overcome the challenges of motherhood and Paul’s guidance on how to cope with his kids, they would navigate any family situations that arose. Piece of cake.

Not that she, personally, had ever baked one.

Domestic skills had never been high on Kate’s list of driven priorities…which should make cooking for her new husband even more special. He deserved thoughtful gestures and extra effort. Granted, in the weeks before the wedding Paul had grown uncharacteristically distant, but she’d given him space to work through any unresolved guilt toward his late wife, Heather, who had survived barely a month after the nasty shock of her stage-four cancer diagnosis.

Kate had been right to trust her instincts when it came to letting Paul sort out his feelings. During the short time they’d been married Paul had been attentive and affectionate. Delia joked that the newlywed phase wouldn’t last forever—just one of many reasons she planned never to marry—but Kate was blissfully happy. A decade ago, watching her colleagues divorce and remembering her mother’s unstable relationships with men, she couldn’t have imagined herself married and trying to plan a homemade Valentine’s breakfast. Yet here she stood, chenille bathrobe belted over a turquoise nightie Paul said matched her eyes, humming under her breath.

Kate returned her attention to the book on the countertop; Delia had given her Six-Course Seduction, a cookbook for lovers, as a wedding gift. A feisty, independent woman who lived with a man six years her junior, Delia had expressed surprise that Kate or any bride would “give up” her surname. Well, not even Delia knows everything. Kate had been nearly giddy to say goodbye once and for all to Katherine Brewster of Dallas, Texas.

Pushing thoughts of the past away, Kate reminded herself that the future was bright. The coffee had just stopped percolating when she heard knocking. Several raps at the front door, almost louder than they needed to be, with a borderline impatient cadence.

Frowning, she glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. All the appliances and counters in Paul’s kitchen were the same immaculate white, and Kate loved the bright, spacious feel, even though Patti joked the room would make her feel as if she lived in a bleach commercial. Nine o’clock. While not obscenely early for Saturday, few of their acquaintances would disturb a recently married couple on Valentine’s morning. Could it be someone ignoring the cul-de-sac’s no-soliciting policy?

“Honey? Do we know who that is?” Paul’s voice came from a couple of yards behind her, in the hall that led from their bedroom through the den and into the kitchen. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only expensive jeans and wire-rim glasses as he absently rubbed a towel over his thick salt-and-pepper hair. Patti’s opinion of Paul was a lot more favorable than the one of Paul’s kitchen—she thought he could pass for Richard Gere’s more attractive younger brother. High praise, considering how many times Patti had watched Shall We Dance? and Pretty Woman.

Kate smiled at her husband. “I was planning to ignore them until they go away.”

Another series of staccato raps filled the house.

“Maybe we should check.” He turned toward the front of the house with a sigh. “I’ll get it. Whatever you’re doing in here smells delicious.”

Since all she’d managed so far was their normal coffee and melting some margarine in a pan with vague omelet notions, she laughed. His not being hard to please boded well for their marriage.

Through the cutout in the kitchen wall she watched him cross the living room. Paul had such a gorgeous house there’d been no question of which one of them should move after the wedding. Because of the angle, she couldn’t see the front door, but she heard it open, heard low voices. A swirl of cold air found her, along with the words federal agents and economic crimes unit.

Head-to-toe goose bumps broke out beneath the chenille. Agents?

She took a cleansing breath, unconsciously falling back on relaxation techniques taught by a series of drama coaches. Paul was an important man, the CEO of an up-and-coming communications company. He’d left a more established corporation shortly before learning Heather was sick because he’d believed in this one so strongly. His move had paid off in spades…and stock options. Maybe agents needed to question him about one of the businesses he dealt with regularly? Or they could even want someone of Paul’s expertise to consult on some kind of investigation.

That would be an exciting topic for the next country club event, but the clipped voices she heard and the agitation in Paul’s tone spoiled the fantasy.

With barely a thought to her bathrobe or disheveled dark hair, she rushed to his side, attempting a smile. “Sorry to interrupt, but—”

“Kate.” Paul’s green eyes were wide, glinting with tension and alarm. Something in his trapped expression made her think of a hurt animal who might bite and claw anyone who tried to help. “Call my lawyer.”

She glanced from her husband to the two granite-jawed men in the foyer. One wore sunglasses; the other stared back with an expression so contemptuous she wished he would put on a pair. “I don’t understand. What—”

“Now.” Paul looked briefly like himself again when he added, “Please.”

Dozens of questions collided inside her, but one thing felt certain. The honeymoon was definitely over.

CHAPTER 1

Six months later

“Are you sure you don’t want us to come get you?” Delia asked over the phone. “We’re good listeners. Well, Patti is. But I can get you drunk.”

In the background, Patti Jordan huffed that booze was not a long-term solution.

Delia, who enjoyed riling the housewife with outrageous statements, retorted in a stage whisper that two of the best short-term ways for a woman to forget her troubles were getting nailed or getting hammered.

Actually, the promise of premium Grey Goose was tempting right now, especially since Kate’s financial situation had changed in the past few months. Any liquor purchases she made in the near future would be limited to the affordably generic. Joe’s Vodka? Yikes. But tomorrow would be difficult enough without being hungover.

“I’m sure.” Kate tucked her legs beneath her on the bed, wondering if she’d ever get used to sleeping alone on the king-size mattress. Her old queen was upstairs, but sleeping in the guest room would only make living in Paul’s home without him more surreal. Adjust already. It had been five weeks since the sentencing. “Thanks for the offer, though.”

“In some ways, Katie, I envy you having the place to yourself. There have been one or two occasions I wanted to smother Ringo with his own pillow.” Delia’s live-in lover, Alexander, had been dubbed Ringo to go with Kate’s and Patti’s husbands—Paul and George. No John. But, like Lennon, Paul now had his own FBI file.

Kate fought the mad impulse to get roaring drunk and belt out “I Am The Walrus.”

On the other end of the phone there was a muttered “ouch.” Patti had probably thumped Delia on the shoulder for insensitivity, much the same way that she did whenever Delia tried to light a cigarette in Patti’s home.

“So. Tomorrow.” Delia cleared her throat. “Conjugal visit? Très kinky.”

Federal prisons didn’t allow that kind of visitation, but Kate didn’t comment since Patti was now demanding, “What is wrong with you? Her husband has been sent to prison, you idiot. It’s not a joking matter.”

“You think making everything deadly serious is going to cheer her up?” Delia rejoined.

While Kate’s two incongruous best friends quibbled as if Kate weren’t even on the other end, she stared at her reflection in the vanity against the bedroom wall. Long dark hair, seriously needing a trim and deep conditioning, hung around delicate features pinched with tension. How did I become this woman?

She’d busted her ass to get a degree, leave Texas and start fresh. She’d wanted to become a respected businesswoman with all the trappings of success. Now she was someone who created hushed silences at the club, snickers in her own office and awkward arguments over how to “handle” her during phone calls from friends. Dammit, Paul.

Rage flared, followed immediately by guilt. Was it petty of her to resent a man already suffering the loss of basic rights and privacies?

Though she worked hard to present a composed demeanor to others, she fluctuated wildly between anger over her husband’s screwup and renewed vows to be a more supportive wife. It had been two weeks since the end of his initial no-visitors-allowed period, and she’d yet to see him. The minimum security “camp” in West Virginia might not be Alcatraz, but it was enough to separate Kate from the man she loved. Enough to interrupt not only the life they’d shared but their very lifestyle.

She made a perfectly nice salary, but she wouldn’t have attempted mortgage payments on a house in this neighborhood by herself. The cushion of their savings account had been deflated by a luxurious tropical honeymoon that seemed a lifetime ago and mounting legal fees. In addition to being forced to step down as CEO, Paul had forfeited his stock in the company. Their finances had been so altered that the expensive tuition for his children’s prestigious boarding school was no longer feasible. Kate had a week before the kids returned from a visit with their grandparents in Florida. It will be fine, she assured herself, even though she didn’t have the energy left to dwell on that tonight.

“Dee? Delia! Hey, remember me? The person you called?”

It took a moment to get the woman’s attention. Patti, the homemaker, and Delia, self-described ball breaker, had met through Kate. She was the linchpin of the threesome, but not even her presence kept the other two from occasional spirited bickering. At times it was entertaining, but right now Kate just wanted to go to bed.

“Sorry.” Delia’s tone was sheepish, Patti echoing the apology in the background.

“I think I’m going to turn in, but thanks for checking on me.”