She dared not let herself hear his voice; she was too susceptible. The problem was, she wanted to believe him…. She so badly wanted all of this to go away. That was why she’d impulsively signed up for the knitting class. Knit to Quit. The sign in the yarn shop window had been like a f lashing neon light. If she was going to convince Clark that she was serious—and she was—she’d need a distraction to help her through the next few weeks.
Her hand tightened on her cell phone. Even as her f ingers pushed the buttons to erase Clark’s messages, she yearned to talk to him. She wanted to be reassured of his love, wanted him to offer some plausible reason that would explain his need to seek out other women. However, there were no reasons. No excuses. Nothing he could say would change what he’d done.
“Did you and Clark have another spat?” Bill Boyington, her boss, asked as she started out the door.
The question caught her unawares.
“What makes you ask?” Phoebe had done her utmost to remain professional and therefore unemotional all week. She hadn’t revealed to anyone at work that she’d ended her engagement.
“There were f lowers delivered for you.” He motioned to the receptionist’s desk.
Sure enough, a huge f loral arrangement sat on the corner. She wondered how she’d missed seeing it. Orchids, lilies and roses were interspersed among white hydrangeas; obviously Clark had spared no expense. It occurred to her that they were more f itting for a funeral than a reconciliation. But in many ways this was a funeral and Phoebe felt like weeping all over again. Determined to be strong, she squared her shoulders. “I don’t want them.”
Bill looked at her oddly.
“Take them home to Louise,” she suggested, knowing Bill’s wife would enjoy them.
Her boss didn’t seem convinced. “I’ll bet he spent two hundred bucks on that.”
For a second Phoebe was tempted to forgive him. Clark was so determined, so intent on overcoming her resistance. Still, she couldn’t allow even a small crack in her defenses. She shook her head. “I…I don’t want them. Either give them to Louise or throw them away.”
“You’re serious?” Bill asked, frowning as if this was some weird joke.
“It’s over between Clark and me,” she said bleakly.
“No patching it up this time?”
Phoebe blinked back tears. “No…I really don’t have any choice.”
Her boss patted her shoulder gently. “Do you want to talk about it with anyone? Me or…” He nodded at the receptionist’s desk. Claudia was around the same age as Phoebe’s mother.
“Thanks, but…I don’t think so. I’m still feeling pretty raw.”
Again Bill patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know how much you loved him.”
With a trembling hand, Phoebe reached into her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. Anger and indignation would only carry her so far and then the regrets would take over. Experience had taught her that she needed to be prepared, that she needed an action plan to combat the depression she knew would follow.
“Bill, would you do something for me?”
“Of course.” His unquestioning allegiance and willingness to help made it harder to hold back the emotion.
“I’d appreciate it if you told Claudia to refuse anything else Clark Snowden has delivered here.” Her voice broke just a bit when she said it. If she forgave Clark this time she’d lose all selfrespect. Shunning him would take real effort. She’d have to work at it, just like Caroline Dover worked at making her knee function properly. But eventually Phoebe would learn to stop loving Clark. Eventually her heart would stop aching. Bill hugged her as she left, and that brought fresh tears to her eyes. On her way to the parking garage her cell phone chirped again. She didn’t bother to see who it was. A cheery jingle announced that she had a message. As she walked, her feet slowed. Clark wouldn’t give up easily.
He would hound her, send her gifts, plead with her until she weakened. And she just might. She had before. It was hard to turn away from the man you loved, hard to f ight the desire to accept his excuses. This was familiar ground—territory she’d sworn she’d never travel again and yet…here she was. No, she couldn’t give in. She couldn’t falter. Walking by the phone shop, the same shop she passed f ive days a week, she really noticed it for the f irst time. After a short hesitation, Phoebe turned back. Staring in the window, she saw the latest cell phone accessories.
It went without saying that Clark would continue to call her until he made a dent in her resolve. She knew his plan and had fallen for it once before. If she was truly serious about avoiding Clark she had to send him the right signals. Stepping inside the store, Phoebe looked around.
“You’ll need to take a number,” a harried saleswoman instructed her.
“I have a question.”
“You’ll still need to take a number.”
“Okay.” She got a ticket that read 57 and leaned casually against the wall. There was no reason to rush home. All that awaited her was an empty apartment—well, empty except for her cat, Princess. The cat had more common sense than Phoebe did. Princess had never cared for Clark and the feeling was mutual. He’d said that when they were married, he wanted her to give Princess to her widowed mother. To her own disgust, Phoebe had tentatively agreed. The saleswoman called out “Fifty-seven!” twice before Phoebe realized it was her turn. The process of changing her cell phone number was relatively easy, although it would be a nuisance to notify her family and friends.
Family.
One person she hadn’t updated so far was her mother, who loved Clark and had championed him after the f irst…indiscretion. All Phoebe could do was pray that her mother would take her side this time around.
When she got home, she was feeling less vulnerable. Princess greeted her at the door of her condo, purring as she rubbed Phoebe’s ankles.
Bending down and scooping Princess into her arms, Phoebe buried her face in the soft gray fur. “You were right all along,”
she whispered. “I should have trusted your character assessment. It would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”
The light on her phone blinked madly; Phoebe could guess who’d made most of the calls. So she was surprised to discover that the f irst message was from her mother.
“Call me as soon as you’re home,” Leanne Rylander implored.
“This is important, Phoebe. I have to speak to you.”
Phoebe rested her forehead against the cupboard door. Sooner or later, she’d need to tell her mother, although from the tone of Leanne’s voice, Phoebe suspected she’d already heard. Taking a moment to gather her resolve, she reached for the phone.
“Is that you, Phoebe?” Leanne asked urgently.
“I assume Clark’s contacted you?” Phoebe asked with resignation.
“He did. Oh, Phoebe, he’s beside himself.”
“He should be,” she snapped. “Mother, please don’t tell me you’re on his side.” It was diff icult enough to withstand Clark’s pleas—and nearly impossible to ignore them when her mother’s voice joined his.
“Well, no… What he did was inexcusable.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You have every right to be upset,” her mother continued soothingly.
“Every right!” Phoebe thought fleetingly that Clark had used the same words. She wondered if Leanne knew the full story.
“Mom, do you realize Clark was arrested for solicitation?”
“Yes, he told me. It’s no excuse but he said he just didn’t think being with a prostitute was really cheating.”
The fact that Clark had told her mother the truth, or part of it, anyway, shocked her. “But…he tried to hire a hooker!”
She heard sympathy in her mother’s voice. “Yes, I know.”
“This isn’t his first arrest, either.”
Her mother released a long sigh. “I can only imagine how upset you are.”
“No, you can’t!” she cried. “You can’t begin to imagine how upset and humiliated I am.”
“But, Phoebe, sweetheart, you don’t understand. There are extenuating circumstances. Clark was set up. This is a clear case of entrapment. He assured me it’ll never go to trial. In fact, Clark is considering a lawsuit against the Seattle Police Department for causing him this embarrassment.”
Phoebe closed her eyes. “Mother. Please listen to what you’re saying. It doesn’t matter if this was entrapment. It doesn’t matter that the girl he tried to hire was an undercover policewoman. It doesn’t matter if this goes to court or not. What does matter is that the man I was going to marry has this…this weakness. This need for other women. Not even for a relationship. Just for sex. How humiliating is that? I don’t know if he’s excited by the danger of picking someone up on the street or what. All I know is that I can’t and won’t marry a man who’s betrayed me like this.”
Her mother sighed again. “Phoebe, listen to me. You’re my daughter and I want you to be happy—but you should consider the circumstances.”
The conversation was becoming painful. “The bottom line is that Clark was willing to pay another woman for sex. Can I say it any plainer than that?”
“Oh, Phoebe, enough of that kind of talk. There’s no need to be crude.”
“How would you like me to pretty it up?” she cried. “Clark wanted to sleep with another woman? A woman he paid! Does that make it any less offensive to you?”
“Oh, dear. You are angry, aren’t you?”
“Angry? Angry?” Yes, she was angry, and at the moment outrage was good therapy. “I’m furious, Mom. I’m also hurt, disillusioned, humiliated, devastated and brokenhearted—and that only scratches the surface.”
Her mother didn’t immediately respond. “You should sleep on it before you do anything drastic,” she f inally said.
“Sleep on what? The fact that the man I love is a cheat? Mom, do you actually believe this behavior will stop once we’re married?”
“Men—”
“Mom,” she wailed, cutting her off. “Don’t make excuses for Clark.”
“But, honey, he explained it to me. I know it’s bad but he really doesn’t feel that being with a…you know, call girl is cheating.”
“So that makes it all right? You can’t be serious!”
Her mother paused. “It’s just that Clark’s so well-connected and his mother and I—”
“His mother invited you to the country club and you met all the people you read about in the paper.” It was hard to even say the words, but it was the truth. Leanne enjoyed being affiliated with the Snowdens. They were a wealthy, well-known family.
“Don’t you remember how excited I was when you mentioned your new patient?” her mother said, sounding as brokenhearted now as Phoebe felt. Phoebe did. Her mother’s favorite section of the paper had always been the society pages. When Clark damaged his knee in a skiing accident, she’d been his physical therapist. He’d asked her out after their very f irst session. Phoebe had declined; it was against company policy to date a patient.
