Beyond the Quiet: Romantic Thriller Read Online Free Page A

one day when I had wanted to cheer him up, I’d pulled a bulky sweatshirt over my bare breasts. Whether it was the relaxing of my standards or just watching my small breasts bounce, I couldn’t say, but Mac got a kick out of it. I’d felt so sil ly that I never did it again.
    I was the quiet one, an only child conditioned to fading into the woodwork. Mac was tall, blonde, and gregarious, with a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes. He’d loved to tease me, to make me blush. I’d adored him, and we had everything we needed to make it through together.
    Until the cancer.
    With an effort, I pushed the past away. I wouldn’t allow myself to spend another evening wallowing in misery. I was going to make some changes in my life and start over in Minneapolis; I might be a little late and a lot older, but I could do it. I would be there for my daughter and my grandson.
    ***
    To my amazement, I slept well and woke about seven-thirty the next morning. I decided to get some housework done before ret urning the signs to the office.
    But, like a magnet, I was drawn to the notice in my handbag. I studied the date. A year ago this month, Mac had finally admitted that he could no longer struggle to work every day and had retired on disability. Even his desk job as technical illustrator proved to be too strenuous. He was crushed, his ego deflated when he told me, as if my love depended on his masculinity.
    I quit work to care for him. We were home together most of the time, so I couldn’t imagine why he’d need a private post office box. Folding the notice, I stuffed it back into my handbag. It was probably nothing, but I’d ask Stan. As Mac’s executor, he’d know if it was anything to be concerned about.
    I vacuumed the living room and hallway and checked the small bath downstairs. It looked pristine, even after Shanna’s visit—the strawberry hand towels folded neatly on the rod, the dish of pink soaps placed just so, and the sp arkling sink free of soap scum.
    How I’d love to see Mac’s toiletries scattered on the marbled vanity. I wouldn’t even gripe at the little pile of whiskers he’d always left in the sink.
    The last year of Mac’s illness, when he was too weak to climb the stairs, I’d made a bed for him in the living room.
    One day, when we had felt especially disheartened, we looked around at all the drab furnishings and decided we needed some color in our lives. So we sold the white drapes and the beige sofa and chairs, pored over catalogs and ordered new furniture and drapes in a rich, burnished gold. The day everything was delivered, we were as excited as kids at Christmas and admired our new room like parents with a new offspring. Mac got out the wine, poured each o f us a glass and held his high.
    “To all of our years together, some of them good,” he teased.
    “Some of them good?” I repeated, clicking glasses, loving him with every ounce of my being, terrified I was going to lose him.
    “Always remember the good times, and forgive the bad,” he said as his eyes met mine. “Unlock that big heart of yours, Lisa, and let those who love yo u fill your tomorrows.”
    Today, I took my coffee and sat on Mac’s sofa bed, desperately needing to feel something of him, his essence, his spirit for life.
    During the long nights after he died, I’d try to remember the look in his eyes—the frustration, the hopelessness of living with so much pain. He had tried so hard to put on a brave front for me, but all I had to do was look at him and I knew. When it was especially bad, I prayed for his death. Other days I was more selfish because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing him.
    I took a sip of cold coffee and wished I’d been a better wife.
    I had loved him more than anyone and tried to show him, by keeping his clothes immaculate and the house spotless. But something was missing. I just couldn’t let my emotions show. Mac talked to me about it many times, told me he had never felt passion from me. I