Sweetest Desires (A Sweetest Day Romance) (4 page)

She glanced at her wristwatch and felt a stab of panic. Ohmygosh! It’s almost nine o’clock. She dialed her assistant to say she wouldn’t be in that day and asked her to have the associate director check the calendar and address any urgent matters.

She had to find her husband.

Chapter 4

Something terrible must have happened
to Carson. No matter how stale their marriage had become, Carson loved CJ and Bethany too much to stay out an entire night.

Before she moved another inch, she fell to her knees and spoke to God as though He was sitting right beside her.

The scripture came to her thoughts,
Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness
. Isaiah 41:10 was yet another favorite passage of Katharine’s, but lately she’d failed to adhere to it.

She was indeed dismayed and she needed to do something, anything, to find out why Carson hadn’t come home. After phoning all the major hospitals in metropolitan Atlanta and being told that no Carson O’Connor had been admitted, she called the local p
olice.

When the front doorbell rang twenty minutes later, Katharine’s nerves tightened and the butterflies inside her stomach fluttered madly.

She peeked out the side window and saw a police car parked in front of the house. Two uniformed police officers stood on the porch waiting. Since most of the neighbors were at work or school, it didn’t matter that they’d parked in front of the house.

She opened the decorative storm door and invited the policemen inside. They followed her into the fo
rmal grand room where the O’Connors often entertained guests.

“Please, have a seat,” she offered. One sat on the loveseat and the other took one of three strategically arranged Queen Victoria chairs. Their eyes moved over the room, taking in the oversized, obsolete fa
mily portrait in its magnificent bronze frame above the fireplace and the original artwork on the walls. The watercolors were Katharine’s own. For years, Carson had tried to convince her to publicly display or sell her work. He’d even contacted a curator who agreed with Carson, but Katharine always declined his invitations for an art show.

“My name is Officer Freeman,” said the man on the loveseat. He pointed his chin in his partner’s d
irection. “And that’s Officer Nascarelli.”

Freeman’s handsome, chiseled features reminded Katharine of a young Harry Belafonte. Before he was seated, she’d noticed his bowed legs, which she’d always found appealing. Through a faint smile, she whispered, “Hi.”

Officer Nascarelli raked his index finger along the back of his pink ear. He seemed nervous, as if it rather surprised him to see a black woman living so lavishly. Katharine guessed he’d no doubt expected the O’Connors to be an Irish-American family.

“You say your husband didn’t come home last night?” Officer Freeman asked.

“Yes.” Katharine’s eyes dropped to the lovely arrangement of silk flowers inside a hand-painted ceramic bowl on the coffee table.

“Has your husband ever done this before, Mrs. O’Connor?”

“No. Never.”

“Where is he employed?”

“USA Weekly.”

“Does his job require travel or late hours?”

“Yes.”

“How often does he travel?”

“Frequently. He’s a sports journalist and often attends national and international sporting events.”

For a long while, Katharine thought Na
scarelli wasn’t listening to her question/answer session with Officer Freeman. He seemed more interested in the curio cabinet with its fine china and the marble fireplace. He roamed around the room observing it as if he wanted to buy the house.

“Sure! Of course!” Nascarelli smiled, inviting them into his thoughts. With his red nose and beer belly, he would’ve made a great impression as a young St. Nick. “Cars O’Connor!” his voice rose exci
tedly. “I read his column weekly. He’s a brilliant writer. The wife will be surprised. She says O’Connor’s partly to blame for the lack of communication in our marriage, seeing how my nose is always stuck inside the evening sports pages and his weekly column. His lips formed a crooked grin that indicated she’s right. “Well whaddaya know,” he held his grin. “Ol’ Cars O’Connor himself. The man that doesn’t hold back his tongue—or, should I say, his ink.”

His strong Southern dialect was very familiar. Katharine was certain he’d grown up somewhere in the backwoods of Alabama. But with a name like Nascarelli, she figured him being from somewhere like the Bronx. Exasperated, she thought
, Here he’s talking about his wife’s unhappiness over sports pages when my husband is missing!

Officer Freeman smiled wryly at his partner’s newfound information.

Nascarelli lifted a crimson-and-white letter
A
encased in a gold frame off the mantel. “Roll Tide!” he gleamed. “What sport did your husband letter in? I’m from Gadsden, Alabama, and a diehard Crimson Tide football fan.”

Her suspicions were officially confirmed. “I a
ssumed as much,” was her single response.

“Dad would take us little tikes to the games, ’bout an hour—hour-and-a-half drive to Tuscaloosa.” Nascarelli paused long enough to catch his breath. “Bear Bryant.” He gazed into the air, leaving the name to linger. “Even though he’s way before my time, I’ve been a fan of Coach Bryant for as long as I can remember.” He nodded his head emphatically, agreeing with his own words. “Coach’ll be proud to know how those boys acted out this season.”

Katharine could tell by his goofy smile that Officer Freeman agreed with his sentiment.

“And Joe Namath!” Nascarelli resumed. “Let’s not forget Smoking Joe! My ol’ man loved Namath. Says he was the best player Coach Bryant ever had.”

“My husband and I are both Bama graduates,” Katharine said through clenched teeth. “That happens to be my letter in gymnastics.”

Her words pulled Officer Nascarelli out of his musing and his face turned appropriately crimson.

Officer Freeman looked at Katharine and quickly returned the conversation to Carson’s disappearance. “And you’re sure your husband’s not on a business trip?”

“Yes. Quite sure.” She turned to meet his gaze, determined to be discreet in her words and behavior.

“Exactly when was the last time you saw your husband?”

Calmly and firmly, she responded, “Yesterday morning at breakfast.”

“Did you and your husband have any kind of argument?” Officer Freeman licked his lips and cleared his throat several times, conveying the message he was thirsty.

Katharine ignored his signal and answered the question. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We may have disagreed on a matter or two, but nothing that would call for drastic measures.”

“Have you contacted the Weekly to see if his schedule may have changed or possibl
y
”

“Officer Freeman, or is it Friedman?” Katharine cut in.

“You’re right . . . it’s Freeman as in
free-man
. His smile revealed deep dimples in his cheeks.

The awareness that he was a good-looking man flashed across Katharine’s mind, but she pushed it away and said angrily, “Don’t you think I would have contacted his employer before telling the police that my husband didn’t come home yesterday?”

The dimples disappeared, and he dropped his head as though he was being scolded. “It’s just a formality, ma’am. I understand your concern.”

“Seems to me you’re both more concerned about the Crimson Tide than my husband.” Her eyes drifted to Nascarelli.

“We assure you, ma’am, that isn’t the case,” Officer Nascarelli responded with a slight sneer.

Katharine pursed her lips and said nothing.

“Do you have a photo of your husband we could have?” Officer Freeman inquired.

She stared at him incredulously. Why do they need a photo? They know what he looks like. Katharine gave a subtle nod and moved into the be
droom, returning within three minutes to hand Officer Freeman a duplicate of Carson’s executive profile photograph. “This is a pretty recent picture, taken maybe three months ago.”

Officer Freeman retrieved the photo from her fingers and said, “Mrs. O’Connor, if it’s any consol
ation, we often deal with situations like this. Your husband may have had one drink too many and checked himself into a hotel or maybe slept over at a buddy’s house.”

Although she was certain Carson would never get drunk, a sense of peace settled over her. His words about the hotel corroborated her earlier thoughts.

Freeman stood. “In any case, the subject has to be missing for at least forty-eight hours before we can delve into a thorough investigation.”

Officer Nascarelli pranced over to the baby grand piano and began tickling the keys.

Katharine was appalled at how easily Nascarelli had made himself at home. She wanted him to leave.

“Uh, Officer Freeman,” Katharine began. “I trust that you and the Department will keep this matter in strict confidence,” she concluded, her eyes shifting between the two men.

He nodded and asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us about your husband?”

Katharine had no intention of telling him about the AJA award and watching him gloat in his confi
rmation about Carson hanging out with the boys.

“No. That will be all, thank you.”

“Well, if there’s nothing else, we’ll be leaving.” Officer Freeman extended his hand and looked into her eyes. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. O’Connor.” He called to his partner, “Let’s go, Nascar.” His sight remained on Katharine as she ushered Nascarelli from the room.

Officer Freeman made his way to the door first. He turned to face Katharine and waved the photo in the air. “We’ll hold on to this picture. If you hear from your husband before the forty-eight hour exp
iration, let us know.”

“Sure.” Katharine frowned, anxiously inching the policemen closer to the door.

Freeman looked at Katharine one last time and said, “Good-bye, ma’am. I’m sure everything’ll turn out fine.”

The two men moved in slow motion. Katharine didn’t want to appear rude, but she almost had to force them out the door, closing it on the heels of Nascarelli.

Immediately after she shut the storm door and locked it, she regretted calling them in the first place. She was sure they knew this disappearance had the earmarks of an unfaithful husband but wanted to spare her feelings . . . at least Freeman did—Nascarelli couldn’t care less about her sensibilities. He only felt privileged to be in the home of a popular national sportswriter—or so his actions revealed. “Carson, please don’t do this to me,” she whispered to the air, tears stinging her eyes. Turning it over to God and letting Him handle it was what she needed to do. Instead, she headed for the telephone, but something drew her to begin to pray. Falling to her knees, right on the spot, she felt the warmth and safety of a powerful spirit surrounding her.

“Dear Lord, I’m facing a heavy burden. It’s more than I can bear.”

Cast your cares upon me, for I care for you
, the voice whispered in her head.

“It’s so hard, Father.”

Daughter, is anything too hard for God?

“No, Lord. But I’m afraid.”

My child, I have not given you the spirit of fear. I will give you strength and wisdom if you will trust Me and not doubt.

Katharine felt a breath of air against her face, and it was almost as if a hand had brushed away her fear. She could feel God’s presence and decided to turn her problems over to Him. But just as she got up from her crouched position, she heard another voice in her head saying, “Surely, God needs a helping hand.” She stood frozen and listened to more of what it had to say. When she’d finally withdrawn from her medit
ation, she contradicted her own words and decided to solve the problem by herself.

Katharine had no doubt Carson still loved her, but his love had been misguided. In her unsettled mind, time was of the essence. She had to work quickly or else she would lose Carson entirely.

Chapter 5

Katharine picked up the telephone
again.

“Hey, Kat, what’re you doing home?” Natalie answered, evidently recognizing the number on her caller ID.

“He didn’t come home last night, and I’m worried to death.”

“He what?” Natalie’s voice became muffled.

“Hello! hello?” Katharine called out.

“Okay, I’ll be right with you,” Natalie said, a
pparently speaking to a coworker with her hand cupped around the mouthpiece. “Look, Kat, I’ll call you right back.”

Before Katharine could respond, Natalie had hung up.

The phone remained to her ear as if Natalie were still on the line and could hear her thoughts.
I know you’re at work and busy taking care of your business, but you know my situation. Did you not hear me when I said Carson didn’t come home last night? Couldn’t you have listened for just a few minutes?

A recorded voice cut into her thoughts. “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.” She placed the receiver in its cradle.

Katharine squeezed her eyes and rubbed her face in a circular motion. She’d forgotten about the makeup she was wearing. She moved to the bathroom sink and allowed the water to run until it turned hot. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she became disgusted with herself. Saturating her hands with the liquid soap, she smeared it over her face and then splashed it with clear water to wipe away the cosmetics. She blotted her face with a hand towel and replaced the soiled, makeup-stained towel on the circular rack, not thinking about placing it in the laundry basket.

Glancing at her wristwatch, she saw it was eleven forty-five. She dialed Carson’s cell phone and again the answering machine picked up. Instinctively, she pressed and held number three on her dial pad for a few seconds. His direct office number was in me
mory mode.

“O’Connor,” his voice said in a pleasantly mus
ical tone.

“Carson! Where have you been?” Katharine screeched. Carson didn’t respond. Behind his silence, Katharine heard a voice. A woman whose quick mind, keen humor, and beautiful body had reduced him to puppy love. A woman whose fiery spirit had opened a door to a place he thought he’d never visit again. Katharine had to wave the notion away.

“Sweetheart, is someone in your office?”

She received no response.

“Carson, are you there?”

“Um, yeah. I’m still here. “Listen, Kat, let me call you back. I’m late for a lunch meeting, okay? Bye, now.”

What is this? First Natalie hangs up on me and now Carson.

* * *

Carson always kept clean dress shirts and gym clothes in his car. Back at his office, he and Cindy had been discussing his marital woes. She’d given him a sense of comfort by helping him to communicate his true feelings, but hearing his wife’s voice at such an awkward moment made him feel as if he’d betrayed her.

Carson felt Cindy studying his confused expre
ssion. “Really, Carson, two years is an awfully long time to sit in misery,” she purred. “Have you considered couples counseling?”

He leaned back in his leather chair and tapped his pencil lightly across his lips, considering her words. “Actually, I have, but I’d feel uncomfortable sharing my private life and thoughts with a total stranger, let alone our church pastor. Besides, I don’t like the idea of advertising my business where it could easily leak out.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem sharing your thoughts with me,” Cindy answered, a smile of confidence rested on her lips.

“You’re not a stranger. You’re different. I’ve known you for, what, nearly two years now? Talking with you is like talking to my best bud. When I first met you at the State basketball finals, I’d wondered if you were a parent of one of the boys. I’d approached you because you seemed really into the game.”

“I support the boys wholeheartedly. After all, as the guidance counselor, most of them are constantly in my office receiving ultimatums to improve their grades or be dropped from the team.” She raised her eyebrows high.

“It’s good to hear you’re more concerned about their education than their ball-playing.”

“Of course, I am.” She sounded defensive. “Don’t confuse educational coaching with basketball cheering.”

“No offense.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I’ve just seen too many parents who believe that their son has the talent of LaBron James, that he’s the great Black hope of the family. In fact, they think he’s going to be the answer to their prayers of b
ecoming wealthy and debt-free. For the most part, they disregard his education and focus mainly on how much money he’ll make as an athlete. Unfortunately, a very, very small percentage of boys make it to the next level. And most college athletes never get a chance to play professionally. Playing in the NBA, NFL, or overseas is a pipe dream for most kids. I try hard to convince them to do well in high school so that they can get a scholarship and use their college degree to help them succeed in life. Good basketball or football players are a dime a dozen. It’s like everything else—political—it’s all in who you know. It breaks my heart to see these kids reap disappointment.”

Cindy slid behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “You sound stressed. Here, let me work off some of that tension.” Her fingers moved in a ci
rcular motion across his shoulders, massaging the exact nerves and muscles that needed to relax.

Carson closed his eyes, tilted his head bac
kwards, and inhaled deeply. After a few seconds, he snapped out of his trance and rubbed his eyes. He slid his hands to his shoulders to remove Cindy’s warm, slender fingers and turned to face her. “Are you trying to put me to sleep?” He tendered a one-sided smile. “Seriously, Cindy, you’ve withstood all my complaining about Kat. You’ve helped me to understand what goes on inside a woman’s head.” He reached for Cindy’s hand and covered it with both of his, holding it captive.

“For instance, when I complained about Kat’s lack of concern for her appearance, you told me that when a woman starts to neglect her looks, it’s b
ecause she’s grown tired of her companion but doesn’t want to hurt his feelings by telling him, so she shows him instead by making herself unattractive. I would never have known if you hadn’t enlightened me.” He smiled that one-sided smile again.

Carson recognized the soft look in her face. His lips lightly touched her knuckles before he surre
ndered her hand. “I guess I need to do some work,” he said.

Cindy moved some papers away from his clu
ttered desk and sat in the cleared space with her leg crossed, causing her skirt to rise higher up her thighs. “I not only have the day off, I also have a surprise for you.” She tapped the tip of his nose lightly.

Carson tried to glance inconspicuously at her e
xposed thighs. Although he was a Christian, he was tempted nonetheless.

“Yeah?” A rush of saliva pushed down his throat. “What kind of surprise?”

Their eyes connected.

She glided off the desk and slid her purse strap over her shoulder. After draping her linen raincoat across her arm, she lifted Carson’s suit jacket from the coat rack and helped him put it on.

* * *

Following a quick trip to the pharmacy for ta
mpons, Katharine let herself in the back door. The geraniums in the flowerbeds were drooping with thirst, but she felt too exhausted to water them.

Katharine thought she was experiencing per
imenopause. Between hot flashes and the unusual January temperature, sunny and warm at seventy degrees, she switched on the air-conditioning and laboriously climbed the few stairs to her bedroom. She turned on the overhead fan to stir the sultry air until the air conditioner could take over.

No longer able to tolerate any confinement, she peeled off her panty hose and changed into a full, loose dress with thin straps. The light blue cotton fa
bric swirled around her like a big fluffy cloud.

The thought of food was obnoxious, but she went into the kitchen and fixed a glass of iced tea, liberally spiking it with lemon juice.

Glass in hand, she wandered into the finished basement. She paused as usual to enjoy the sight of it. The beige walls contrasted nicely with the white molding. The sofa and easy chairs were also white but were heaped with pillows in vivid shades of blue, green, and tangerine. As if on command, her eyes strayed to the white brick fireplace, one of four in the house.

Carson had lit a fire in that seldom-used fireplace two nights ago. What had been on his mind when he did that? Had he been thinking of Cindy? Had he wished she were there with him? Katharine had to shake her thoughts away.

She sank into an easy chair and put her feet up on an ottoman, looking up at the photograph of her and Carson that hung over the unmantled fireplace. As she sipped her tea, she stared at the picture. Tomorrow she would buy a new frame for it. Something Victorian with filigree around the edges, possibly, or something simple so as not to detract from the photograph itself. She wasn’t sure.

The one thing she was sure about was her love for her husband. She couldn’t wait for him to come home so he could tell her that he’d slept all alone last night and how he’d missed her terribly. She would forgive him instantly, and he would whisk her u
pstairs and make passionate love to his beloved wife.

Who am I fooling? She wasn’t ready to hear the truth of Carson’s whereabouts last night. She didn’t want to know that his arms were wrapped around Cindy while hers were empty.

Wait on me
, she heard the voice of God respond to her thoughts in the quiet recess of her soul.

“Wait on what? For Cindy to steal my husband?”

Wait, I say, on the Lord
.

“Why are you allowing this to happen to me, Lord?”

Katharine waited for the still, small voice to answer but was met only with silence. She went through the afternoon in a daze, with Carson’s grim words still echoing in her mind
.
Looking down at her tent-sized dress, she sighed.

The house seemed emptier than ever before. Katharine’s thoughts strayed to what Carson was d
oing at that precise instant. The lump in her throat threatened to choke her. She grabbed her garden tools and headed to the backyard patio to work on her plants. Anything was better than thinking.

Katharine tried to ignore the rerun of the moment when Carson told her how she strolled around the house looking like she didn’t care about herself an
ymore, but like a bad song that had gotten stuck in her head, it kept going around and around. She tried to focus on the children, but that thought only brought up other concerns. She wished she could just shut off her brain for the rest of the day, but any hope of peace was gone.