The Saint's Wife

Strong-arm tactics are no match for the power of love.

Chris McQuaid is dying, and David Lamont will move mountains to fulfill his best friend’s last request—to have his estranged wife by his side until the end. A more spiteful, spoiled, callous woman never lived, but David agrees to talk her into it.

Joanna McQuaid reached her breaking point a long time ago, but she couldn’t break things off permanently. Oppressive, manipulative and toxic as Chris is, she can’t divorce him without becoming a pariah for abandoning the pillar of the community in his final days.

That doesn’t mean she has to lay eyes on him, though—until David masterfully plays on her last shred of guilt. After all, what kind of woman breaks a dying man’s heart?

David congratulates himself for successfully dragging Joanna home, until he learns who really mistreated whom…and how far Chris’s betrayal goes. As they unexpectedly draw on each other for strength, Joanna and David discover something more. Something neither of them knew they needed.

Warning: Contains two people who have been way too strong for way too long, a whole lot of justifiably broken vows, and three hearts who are running out of time to find forgiveness.

The Saint’s Wife

Lauren Gallagher

Chapter One

David Lamont never drove without music, but today, every note coming through the Maserati’s speakers annoyed him, so he’d switched off the radio almost a hundred miles ago. In silence, he followed Highway 101, the strip of pavement dividing the forested Oregon coast from the rolling Pacific. The only sounds were the steady thump-squeak of the windshield wipers brushing away the heavy rain, the dull thudding of his thumbs tapping on the wheel, and the occasional snap of his peppermint gum.

With every mile, the irritation burned hotter in his chest. At least the gum kept him from grinding his teeth, but even that wasn’t going to help for much longer. Not as he passed the
Welcome to Tillamook
sign. He stopped tapping on the wheel and gripped it tighter. In spite of the wet road, he gave the Maserati a little gas—the sooner he got there, the sooner this part would be over.

Minutes into Tillamook, he made a left onto the two-lane road that would take him into the hills just outside of town. He had the printout of the directions in the console just in case he’d forgotten how to get there, but he didn’t give them a second look. Though it had been five or six years, he’d been here enough times in the past that he knew the way by heart.

Dozens of memories tried to come crashing into the forefront of his mind, pleasant flashbacks of summers and holidays spent at Chris’s cabin, but he forced them away. Those good times were over now. He was surprised Chris hadn’t tried to sell the place already. Maybe he was still too attached to it, or he was too deep in denial to deal with it. Maybe he just had too much on his plate these days. God knew David wouldn’t have been able to handle everything Chris had been dealing with.

Especially without any support.

David narrowed his eyes at the road ahead and white-knuckled the wheel. If Chris hadn’t asked him to do this, David would have probably been a day or so away from coming down here on his own and giving that bitch a piece of his mind. Maybe he should’ve taken the initiative sooner. Then he could’ve told her what he thought of her, turned around and left. No tact, no persuasion, no possibility of letting his friend down.

Granted, he wouldn’t be the one letting Chris down if Joanna held her ground, but still. He’d made a promise, and he was going to see this through no matter how much the sight of her pissed him off.

His jaw started to ache from gnawing so hard on the hapless piece of gum, so he spat it into his empty coffee cup. Without that to occupy him, he started tapping the wheel again.

Just one conversation. That was all he had to do. Well, he hoped—she was stubborn as hell, especially in situations like this, and it might take more than a conversation to persuade her.

He turned down the familiar dirt road, which led to the equally familiar driveway. As the green peaked roof came into view, a mix of emotions surged through him. Sadness, nostalgia, anger—he hadn’t realized how much he’d loved this place until now. This wasn’t David’s cabin, but he’d definitely left a few significant, if jagged, pieces of himself here, and revisiting those pieces now hurt like hell.

He parked in his usual spot, but there was nothing usual about it without one of Chris’s cars there next to his. Chris always got here first. Always. On a nice day, his candy-apple-red Ferrari would’ve been gleaming in the sunlight. On a day like this, the Land Rover would’ve been there with mud on its fenders. He rarely parked in the cabin’s garage unless the weather was really bad. What was the point of a flashy car if you were going to hide it indoors?

And, God, this place looked desolate without one of those flashy vehicles. Without Chris.

David forced back the lump in his throat as he stepped out of his car. He kept his head down, in part to keep the rain out of his eyes, but also because he didn’t want to remember what the lawn had looked like with that flower-covered white archway at the end of an aisle flanked by folding chairs. Or what Alexandra had looked like on her way down the front porch steps, the wind catching her veil and—

He shook his head.
Fuck, no. Not going there today.

On the front porch, he stood in front of the French doors, put his shoulders back, and reminded himself one last time that he’d promised Chris he’d do this. Which meant keeping his temper in check. No matter what.

He steeled himself one last time, and then rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

Maybe she wasn’t home. Her black Mercedes wasn’t outside, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything—she almost never left her car out in the elements. Chris had been absolutely sure she was staying here, though. If she didn’t answer, David could go into town or—

Soft footsteps on the other side sent his heart into his throat. A silhouette appeared, features blurred by the expensive frosted glass as she approached.

The door opened.

Joanna jumped. Her lips parted. “David…”

For a moment, they just stared at each other over the threshold. She obviously hadn’t been expecting company—jeans, an old Seahawks hoodie, no makeup. Her dark hair had been pulled up into a messy ponytail. And the sharp edges of her jaw and cheekbones were smoother now—before, she’d been so thin at times, people had whispered about whether she was as sick or perhaps sicker than her husband. She looked much healthier now.

She was pretty, that much was undeniable. Much as he didn’t like her, David was the first to admit she was gorgeous.

Well, when she wasn’t annoyed, anyway. She had a lovely smile. The expression she wore now—suspicion bordering on irritation—was hardly flattering.

David swallowed. “May I come in?”

Joanna hesitated, but then stood aside. After she’d closed the door behind him, they faced each other.

Finally, she asked, “Can I, um, get you some coffee?”

“I’m all right. Thanks.” He suddenly wished he still had his gum—he needed it to occupy his nerves. Nothing to be done about it now, though. “We need to talk.”

Joanna folded her arms across her chest. “Did you come on your own? Or did my husband send you?”

He searched her stony expression. “He asked me to come.”

Something in her posture wavered. Her lips tightened. “It’s back, then, isn’t it?”

Avoiding her eyes, David nodded. “It’s spread to his lungs this time.”

Joanna pushed out a heavy breath. “How much time does he have?”

“A few months. They’ve started him on some experimental treatment, but…” He made himself look at her. “He’s not coming back from this one, Joanna.”

Her eyes lost focus for a moment, creases deepening between her flawlessly manicured eyebrows. Then she inhaled slowly, and her arms tightened across her chest as her eyes flicked toward him. “All right. Thank you for the news.” The slight lift of her eyebrows asked if there was anything else. The “now get the fuck out of my house” was there too, but David planted his feet.

“Chris asked me to tell you.” David struggled hard to keep himself calm. “But he also wants you to come home.”

Joanna laughed bitterly. “No.”

Fury shot through him. “For God’s sake, really?”

“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes and spoke through her teeth. “Really.”

“Your husband is
dying
, Joanna.”

“And my marriage died a long time ago.” She gestured down the hall toward the front door, and as she turned on her heel, added, “You know the way out.”

“I promised him I wasn’t leaving without you.”

She stopped, but kept her back to him and didn’t say anything.

“He wants to see you.”

She turned her head so her profile was visible. “I don’t suppose my feelings on the subject are relevant.”

“Jesus Christ, he’s going to
die
.” It took every last iota of self-control he possessed to keep his voice even. “Is it
really
too much to ask for you to come home?”

Joanna finally faced him, and her expression was impossible to read. Her eyes weren’t wet, but he suspected they weren’t far from it. Though her jaw was tight and her chin raised defiantly, she couldn’t hide the slightest quiver in her voice when she said, “Yes. It really is too much to ask.”

“He’s running out of time,” David said as calmly as he could. “He wouldn’t have sent me down here if having you home wasn’t important to him.”

She gave another humorless laugh. “I’m sure he isn’t wanting for company.”

“He wants his wife.”

Joanna winced, but her tone remained hard. “Then maybe he should’ve thought of that a few years before—”

“He can’t change the past, goddammit,” David snarled.

She eyed him coolly. “You’re right. He can’t.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving him alone in the kitchen.

Chapter Two

Joanna made it as far as the landing beneath the second floor before everything caught up with her. She’d held it together, stayed upright through the short confrontation, but now her emotions tried to knock her knees out from under her.

She pressed back against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut. She breathed slowly, evenly, and listened, praying David didn’t follow her up here. No doubt Chris had given him permission to do exactly that.

But then the front door opened. Closed. Heavy footsteps tromped across the porch and down the steps.

Hands clasped beneath her chin, Joanna slid down the wall. She sat on the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest. When the car door closed outside, all the air left her lungs in a single whoosh. Rain battered the roof and the skylights overhead, but she still heard the engine turn over outside, and she whispered, “Thank God” as the sound faded into the distance.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. She let the wall hold her up as her head spun and her mind reeled.

She’d been dreading this day for months. There’d been no guarantee it would come—Chris’s doctor had been optimistic that his remission would last—but deep down, Joanna had believed it was inevitable. The first time, he’d been treated with surgery, since kidney cancer apparently didn’t respond well to radiation or chemo. The surgery hadn’t been an easy one, though. Complications kept him on death’s doorstep for weeks, and it took him a good six months to recover completely.

The second time, the doctors had given him a grim prognosis. They’d caught it in time to keep it from reaching stage four, but just barely. He’d had chemo and radiation this time—even though kidney cancer didn’t tend to respond well to chemo, his doctors had hoped it might weaken or kill any secondary cancers. And there’d been immunotherapy. And countless surgeries. In the end, against all odds, Chris had gone into remission.

But, his doctors had warned, the cancer could still come back. And if it came back, it would likely show up in his lungs or his liver. Which would mean it had metastasized. Stage four. At that point, Chris’s chances of surviving to five years were less than ten percent.

From the moment the doctor had solemnly delivered the news, telling them first that Chris was in remission, but then warning them that if he relapsed, there would be precious little that could be done, Joanna had known. Somehow, she’d just…known. It was only a matter of time before something lit up on a scan, or an “I know this probably isn’t a big deal, but better safe than sorry” doctor visit revealed it was a big deal after all.

Chris had grilled the doctor about signs, symptoms, experimental treatments. He refused to believe this thing would kill him. Not after he’d already come back from the brink so many times. The doctor had gently explained that research was improving the prognosis for cancer patients, but once the insidious disease had reached a certain point, it gained the upper hand. He’d paused, and Joanna’s heart had already been in her throat when he’d looked Chris in the eye and added, “At that stage, realistically we have to begin thinking about quality of life versus prolonged life. We’ll certainly do everything we can to shrink the tumors and slow their spread, but our primary objective at that point would be your comfort. Pain management.” Another pause. “Palliative care.”

Joanna let her head fall back against the wall and gazed up at the rain-spattered skylight, watching the drops streak and smear across the glass bubble.

She’d pretty much known then that this day would come. And now that it was here…

She knew nothing.

Chris’s condition probably wasn’t public yet. In the past, denial and pride had kept him from making any announcements until there was no denying he was ill. When the surgical complications had kept him in the hospital, and the recovery had been slower than anticipated, and shareholders had begun worrying, then there’d been a press conference, and she suspected that would happen this time too. Possibly sooner than later if there was legitimate concern that his condition would deteriorate quickly.

And then there’d be the news coverage. The outpouring of public support. More kidney cancer fundraisers and awareness campaigns with his face all over them. Candlelight vigils outside the hospital, the gates of their posh neighborhood and the company headquarters.

Joanna put a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes for a moment, forcing back the nausea that wanted to rise. If she wasn’t there by his side when he stood in front of that press conference, the speculation would be…

She
almost
couldn’t keep herself from throwing up.

Swallowing hard, she felt around in her pocket for her cell phone and speed-dialed her sister, Kaylie.

“Hey, Jo. What’s up?”

“Chris is sick.”

“Oh shit.” She could almost hear Kaylie’s good mood vanishing. “I’m assuming you don’t mean he has the flu.”

“No. Not the flu.”

Her sister was quiet for a long moment. “Do they know how much time he has?”

Joanna covered her eyes with one hand, resting her elbows on her bent knees. “I don’t know all the details yet. I’m still… I’m still in Tillamook.”

“Does he know you’re there?”

“Apparently.” Joanna’s gaze slid toward the hallway below her, as if she could see around the corner to the kitchen where she and David had talked. “He sent his yes-man to guilt me into going back.”

“Are you going?”

“I don’t know. Should I?”

Another long silence. “You
are
still married to the guy.”

“On paper. God, I feel so selfish, but…” Joanna swallowed. “The thing is, every time I stand up there and pretend to be his supportive wife, a little piece of me dies.”

“You won’t have to do it much longer.”

Joanna rubbed a hand over her face. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.” Kaylie sighed. “Sweetheart, think about it. All the shit that man has put you through, any woman would’ve divorced his sorry ass by now. The only thing stopping you is the cancer.”

“Because the cancer is making him a goddamned saint in everyone’s eyes. It’s like the second he got sick, they all forgot what a manipulative, self-serving bastard he is.” Joanna flinched, half expecting her sister to berate her.

“Not everyone’s forgotten,” Kaylie growled. “Trust me.”

Joanna relaxed a little. “You’re in the minority, believe me. And if I leave him…”

“Exactly. So you might as well at least inherit his estate for your trouble.”

“I don’t want his money, Kay.”

She gave a sharp sniff. “I think you deserve it after putting up with him all this time.”

A sick feeling knotted behind Joanna’s ribs. Chris and his money were as indivisible as him and his illness. She’d heard people talking behind their hands, seen the comments people left on articles about him. They either snarked that he needed to trade her in for a better trophy wife—with many of them volunteering for the role—or called her a gold digger. Never mind the fact that she and Chris had both been broke when they met and barely making ends meet when he scrimped and saved for the modest little engagement ring she still had in a jewelry box somewhere.

Somewhere between the proposal and the wedding, the company he and David founded took off, and suddenly there’d been a three-carat emerald-cut diamond and a white Vera Wang dress and first-class tickets to a honeymoon in France. She was the multimillionaire tycoon’s wife, the blushing bride with the giant rock, and that was all the public knew of her. The woman who’d hit the jackpot.

If she’d ever divorced Chris, she would’ve been a rich whore who’d made off with the wealth of a man who’d been too naively trusting and in love to make a bitch like her sign a prenup.

The more likely scenario, though, was that she wouldn’t divorce him. Instead, she’d be the rich young widow.

Groaning softly, Joanna rubbed her forehead. Shame burned in the back of her throat, especially at the memory of David’s dark eyes narrowing with anger and judgment. “I’m serious. I don’t want his money. I just… I just want to be able to breathe again.”

“So what are you going to do? Are you going back?”

Joanna shuddered. “I’m not sure. But I should probably decide soon.”

“Well, you’ll be in the doghouse for a while no matter what. Waiting a few more days probably won’t make much difference.”

“Yeah, true.” She closed her eyes. “On the other hand, the longer I stay here, the less likely I am to go back.”

“Then don’t go back.”

“And if I don’t, I—”

“Jo. Honey.” She could almost see her sister squaring her shoulders and putting on the “listen up and listen good” look. “That man has treated you like shit for years. Hell, he’s such a toxic bastard, his own
body
is killing him.”

Joanna didn’t laugh. Neither did Kaylie—she wasn’t kidding when she’d suspected from the beginning that Chris’s own venom had turned against him and played a role in his cancer.

Kaylie went on. “You owe him nothing. I don’t care what other people say, especially people who don’t even know you or that asshole you married. You owe him
nothing
.”

“But what kind of person am I if I abandon him on—”

“Are you listening to yourself? If he’s alone on his deathbed, it’s his own doing, not yours. Anything you do is self-preservation, and if someone thinks less of you for that, then fuck them. Chris’s cancer doesn’t negate all the things he’s said and done to you.”

“And I’ll be the one who’s a social pariah.”

Kaylie didn’t respond right away, but then exhaled. “Yeah, I’ll give you that.”

“I don’t know which is worse, honestly. Divorcing a terminally ill man, or pretending to stay married to him.” Joanna let her head fall back against the wall. “I should’ve divorced him when I had the chance.”

“You couldn’t have known he was going to get sick.”

“I think we all knew he was going to get sick,” Joanna whispered.

“Still.” Kaylie sighed. “Honestly, fuck what everyone else thinks. You know your marriage. You know him. If going back there is going to make you miserable, then don’t. Let people talk.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“So is going back and pretending to be the asshole’s adoring wife.”

Joanna stared up at the skylight. Her sister had a point.

“Give it some thought, okay? And call me any time. I’ve got your back.”

Joanna managed a slight smile. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“Okay.”

After they’d hung up, Joanna set her phone on the landing beside her but didn’t get up. She just kept staring at that rain-battered skylight, her mind going a million miles an hour in a thousand different directions.

Stay? Go?

If only it were that simple. Just the thought of walking back through that front door made her stomach turn. She knew all too well how it would go. Everything Chris had ever said or done had long ago been swept under the cancer rug. Only a selfish woman would dredge up the past now. And keeping her on a short leash wasn’t controlling or oppressive. He clearly just wanted to be with her, and with time running out, he deserved as much time with her as he could get. He deserved his wife.

Instead of holding it against him that he’d cheated on her, a kind and sympathetic wife would forgive, forget, and graciously let him spend some of his precious remaining time pretending their marriage was perfect, and he was a wonderful man who hadn’t fathered some other woman’s child
.

Quit being so selfish, Joanna. What the hell is wrong with you?

She let her face fall into her hands.

What choice did she have?

On the bright side, one of Chris’s few saving graces was discretion, even if it was only to save face for himself. It was unlikely that many people knew she was gone. The last time she’d left—only for a week and a half—friends and family had asked about her, and he’d had answers at the ready. Spa weekend alone. Gone to Paris to find the perfect antique fixtures for the newly remodeled dining room. When he’d finally coaxed her home, no one, not even her own mother, had caught on that anything was wrong.

But he couldn’t—and likely wouldn’t—keep this on the down low for much longer. Soon, the treatments would dig their claws in again, and the cancer would begin to eat away at him. It could be a few weeks. It could drag on for months. A stubborn man like Chris who’d already beaten the odds before might survive a year. But he’d be weak. Sick.

And it would only be a matter of time before people started asking where his wife was. Why she wasn’t by his side. Why she didn’t seem to be anywhere near their marital home, never mind next to his bed while the cancer and drugs and surgeries slowly consumed him. No amount of ready-made answers would explain anything without raising more questions.

Whatever she did now—stay here, go back—she had to make her move soon, because it wouldn’t be long before her presence or absence would mean something.

There wouldn’t be any decisions made tonight, though.

Tomorrow, she’d think. She might even act.

But tonight, there’d be tears.

And tequila.

Nothing else.