The Husband She Never Knew. Cynthia Thomason
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Vicki asked.
“Sure have.”
“How did you do that so quickly?”
The detective chuckled. “I’d like to tell you that I used some ultraspecialized procedure known only to the investigative trade, but the truth is, I found him on the Internet.”
Vicki couldn’t contain her surprise. “You’re kidding!”
“Actually I found J.D. Malone. I had to do some further searches to ensure that he was our man, but everything checked out. Turns out your ex is an artist living in a little town in North Carolina.”
Vicki’s first reaction was to declare that she wasn’t paying $150 an hour for this ridiculous, unfounded information. The Jamie Malone who’d persisted in invading her memory the past few hours could hardly be an artist. “Oh, no, Mr. Weaver,” she said. “You must be mistaken.”
“Nope. No mistake here. This is definitely the man you’re looking for.” He read off a grocery list of Jamie’s past. “James Dillon Malone came from Ireland in 1988. Lived a year in Rhode Island on a work visa. Then moved to Florida where his visa was due to expire.” The detective cleared his throat before introducing his next factual detail. “And then it seems his immigration problems were miraculously over, Miss Sorenson. He got his green card after marrying you in 1990.”
Vicki felt a blush of mortification creep up her neck to her cheeks. “I guess that’s him,” she admitted.
“You want his address?” Weaver asked.
“Definitely.”
“It’s simple enough. Jamie Malone, Pintail Point, Bayberry Cove, North Carolina. I looked on a map. It’s in the extreme northern part of the state, on the coast.”
Vicki thanked the detective and told him to send her the bill. After disconnecting, she stared at the address she’d written in her day planner. Those few words abruptly connected her to Jamie Malone in a way she’d never expected to be again. She’d only seen him twice in 1990. Once at the courthouse and then again six months later at an INS office where they’d somehow managed to pass the required post-wedding interview. They’d exchanged extremely personal information over the phone a few days before the interview, and luckily, they’d memorized the very details the official that day had wanted to know.
Today Vicki recalled some of the particulars. Jamie had said he was an early riser. He slept in boxer shorts. As a child he’d had chicken pox and measles, nothing more serious. His mother lived in Ireland, but he hoped to bring her to America. He watched very little television, since soccer matches weren’t broadcast much in the U.S. He didn’t smoke, but appreciated his Guinness. He ate red meat and liked to run in the evenings before his shower. He had no political affiliation, and he wasn’t religious, but if it turned out there was a God, it was okay with him.
Vicki also remembered that Jamie claimed he had a healthy sexual appetite, something Vicki had to admit, as well, in front of the INS agent. In fact, recalling how they’d professed to making love every day of the week made her face flush with heat even now.
At the INS interview, his hair had still been long and wild. There’d still been stains under his fingernails. And his smile had still been eager.
Vicki closed her planner and tucked it into her purse. She’d never have believed she could dredge up so many details about a man she’d only thought of over the years as a problem she’d have to address one day. Well, today was the day, she thought as she picked up the phone again and punched in Louise’s number.
“What’s up, Vic?” Louise asked.
“Draw up my divorce papers, Lulu. I’m heading to Bayberry Cove, North Carolina.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE FIRST SNAG in Vicki’s foolproof plan to obtain an uncontested divorce occurred two days later at the Norfolk, Virginia, airport. Minutes after her plane landed, Vicki and other passengers with schedules to return the next day were summoned by an airline representative. This woman calmly explained to the ticket holders that they should call the airline to confirm that their return flights weren’t being affected by the approaching storm.
Storm? What storm? Vicki remembered a local TV weatherman’s vague reference a couple of days before to a tropical storm in the Atlantic Ocean. But since it was October, near the end of hurricane season, and the system was well north of Florida, she hadn’t paid much attention. Now, suddenly, she was well north of Florida and that feathery white ripple she’d seen on a meteorological radar screen had acquired a name and a circular motion. Unbelievably, Tropical Storm Imogene was targeting a still-unspecified patch of land somewhere along the North Carolina/Virginia coast.
Wonderful. Vicki slung her garment bag over her shoulder and made her way to the rental-car counter. She had a reservation at a hotel near the airport for tonight, but her flight back wasn’t until noon tomorrow. She had more than twenty-four hours to sweat out Imogene’s eventual landfall—at the same time she was sweating out her meeting with Jamie Malone.
After a thorough search, the rental-car agent found the small town of Bayberry Cove on a map. It was situated on the shore of Currituck Sound in the lowland marshes between the North Carolina mainland and the Outer Banks. A bird could have probably made the journey from Norfolk in about half an hour, but thanks to the narrow, twisting two-lane road Vicki had to take, she arrived at the town boundary sixty minutes later.
Now Vicki’s problem was to find the even more elusive Pintail Point. And she didn’t have time to waste driving aimlessly. She headed down Main Street, searching for a busy establishment where locals might direct her to where Jamie Malone lived. She chose the Bayberry Cove Kettle, a small, pleasant-looking café with ruffled curtains in the windows and an open parking space in front.
A hand-printed sign on the door reminded her of the approaching storm: “Closing at 3 p.m. Imogene’s coming.” Vicki entered the crowded restaurant and took the only available seat, a stool at the counter. Apparently the residents of Bayberry Cove were indulging in a last hearty lunch before holing up in their houses for the duration of the storm.
Most of the customers didn’t seem too worried. In fact, several of them were concentrating on triangular-shaped puzzle boards spaced across the length of the counter. Each puzzle had a dozen wooden pegs sticking up from holes. Vicki remembered playing these leap-frog games when she was a little girl in Indiana. These, like the ones she recalled, came with cardboard instruction sheets that described the participant’s mental capacity according to the number of pegs left in the board when he ran out of moves. If the player left one peg, he was a genius. If he left five or more pegs, he was a blockhead.
A full-figured waitress with short platinum hair took Vicki’s order. “What can I get you, honey?” she asked. Her voice was decidedly Southern. So was the name on her lapel badge. Bobbi Lee. Her smile was wide and friendly.
“Just coffee,” Vicki said. “And directions, if you don’t mind.”
Bobbi Lee set a steaming mug of coffee on the counter. She slid a chrome pitcher of cream and two sugar packets toward Vicki. “I don’t mind a bit. I probably know every address in this little town. Lived here all my life.”
Vicki took a sip. It tasted better than Florida coffee, probably because there was a bit of October chill in the North Carolina air. “Do you know where Pintail Point is?”
Bobbi Lee’s cherry-red lips tugged down at the corners. She leaned one well-rounded hip against the counter and stared at Vicki. “Pintail Point? Now why would you want to know where that is? It’s way outta town in the marshes. There’s nothing much out there but ducks.”
“Maybe so,” Vicki said, “but someone lives there I used to know. I need to find him.”
Bobbi Lee tapped her pencil against her order pad. A bit too loudly and a bit too fast. “You just continue down Main Street till you hit Sandy Ridge Road. Turn right and in about three miles you’ll see the causeway that’ll take