The Getaway Bride

“Yeah, Betty Anne, I’ll have her call.”

He hung up the phone and started pacing again. Tiny kitchen. Minuscule living room. Narrow hallway. Small bedroom.

It was hardly a palace he’d brought his bride home to, he thought wryly, but she hadn’t seemed to mind. She’d assured him she would be very happy here, at least until they could afford a bigger place for themselves and the children they both wanted.

Cash was tight now, but Page seemed convinced it was only a matter of time until his fledgling business was a success. The faith she had in him was one of the things he loved most about her.

Gabe had already asked an architect buddy to start drawing up some plans for a three-bedroom house that he wanted to build as soon as he was sure his construction company was securely established—which, he hoped, wouldn’t be much longer. Business had been good lately. Life had been good, as far as Gabe was concerned.

Now, if only he could find his wife....

He tried to think of someone else to call. Page had no family, and not many friends in this area. Her parents had been dead for several years and Gabe remembered being surprised that she’d been on her own a long time, though she was only twenty-five. He admired her self-sufficiency, even if he found her deeply ingrained independence a bit daunting at times.

Without much optimism, he called his mother and his sister, Annie. Neither had heard from Page. Both expressed concern that she’d been missing now for more than three hours.

He called the pastor of the church that Page attended faithfully. Reverend Morgan had married Page and Gabe in a tiny private ceremony in the church sanctuary, with little fanfare and only a handful of witnesses.

Page had called it the most beautiful wedding any woman could have wanted.

“I haven’t heard from her, Gabe,” the minister stated gravely. “Page isn’t a thoughtless person. Have you considered contacting the authorities?”

Gabe thanked the man for his concern, his advice, and his promise of prayer. And then he hung up the phone and buried his face in his hands.

He wasn’t sure what made him suddenly stand and walk back into the bedroom. He rounded the bed, which took up most of the meager floor space, and stumbled over something at the foot. Looking down, he spotted Page’s slippers. He picked one up, cradling the little satin shoe in his big, calloused hand. And then he opened the closet door.

It was immediately apparent that some of Page’s clothes were missing. Not all of them; it looked as though she’d grabbed a few at random and stuffed them into the overnight bag that usually rested on the top shelf. The bag wasn’t there now.

He could feel his heart start to pound, slowly, painfully. There was a strange buzzing in his ears, like the sound of an annoying insect. Or a nagging premonition.

Stiff with dread, he opened the top drawer of the built-in bureau, the one in which Page kept her lingerie. It was empty, except for the small white envelope with his name scrawled across the front. It was all he could do to pick it up.

She hadn’t wanted him to find it too quickly, he realized dully. Why?

The note was brief, the writing hastily scrawled.

Gabe,

I’m so sorry. I can’t explain now, but I have to leave you. I know this will be hard for you to understand, but I’m doing this for your sake. Don’t try to find me. I can’t be with you now. Please believe that I never meant to hurt you. I’m so very sorry.

Page.

Gabe sank slowly to the edge of the bed, staring at the nearly incomprehensible note that seemed to become more blurry the longer he looked at it. It was a very long time before he moved again.

I have to leave you. The words had sliced deeply into him. As he sat there, trying to understand them, the remnants of his youth bled from the wound. Not quite thirty, he had just lost the fire and enthusiasm with which he’d once faced the future.

His bride had taken away much more than her clothing when she left him.

1

PAULA SMITHERS wasn’t exactly popular with the people she saw on a daily basis, and she knew it. In fact, she encouraged it. She went out of her way to hold them at more than arm’s length.

She had no place in her life for friends.

Every morning at exactly 8:00 a.m., she reported to work in the back office of a car dealership in Des Moines, Iowa, where she efficiently processed paperwork in almost undisturbed solitude for eight hours a day, five days a week. The sales staff contacted her only to give instructions and ask questions, and the other employees had given up trying to make her part of their friendly group after their early efforts had been firmly rebuffed.

Paula was never actually rude to the others, but she made no effort to be particularly friendly, either. After five months here, she was convinced that her coworkers considered her an eccentric loner with no social life and little personality. She had worked hard to create that facade.

Occasionally, some well-intentioned individual would try to reach her. Invite her to lunch. Make an effort to befriend her out of pity or kindness. Paula had her response down pat. A cool smile and an unwaveringly brusque rejection of any friendly overture.