For All Their Lives by Fern Michaels

seven. She forced herself to close her eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten. Her eyes snapped open on the count of ten. If anything, she was even more excited. She tried again; this time her eyes circled the room, trying to focus on something that would relax her.
    This was her room. She’d decorated it herself in all the colors she loved, brilliant, flamboyant fabrics, eye-watering carpet, and glass and chrome furniture. The pictures were a mishmash of color and brush strokes by unknown artists in outrageous gilt frames from a bygone era. Because she didn’t like the idea of a wood-burning fireplace, she’d cajoled and whined until the elder Carlin permitted her to change it to gas. Now the flame was constant and her stark white walls didn’t have sooty smudge marks all over them.
    She took another deep breath. She had work to do. She had decided it was time to look into numbers that equaled assets. If he went through with his threat of a divorce—and she didn’t believe for one minute that he would—then she’d need records of everything to give to her attorney.
    As far as she knew, Mac hadn’t put her name on anything, so there were no joint assets. There was no ours, only his. But, Mac had said he was going to leave her power of attorney. All she had to do was weep and wail, and the judge would come across with what she wanted.
    A delicious feeling filled her when she opened the little notebook. She’d had to write small to get everything down on the square little pages. Bank account numbers, balances, property deeds, exact locations, the cusip numbers on the stocks, the bond balances, the dates on the trust fund. She’d been startled when she saw the bank record, and was stunned to find out Mac was the recipient of two trust funds: one from his mother and one from an aunt. She’d actually had to close her eyes and put her head between her knees when she saw the amount of money the funds generated. And four full pages of assets. My God, she hadn’t known there was that much money in the world.
    Damn, where was the power of attorney? She hadn’t seen it in the desk. She brightened momentarily when she remembered Mac had had lunch with his father. He’d probably given it to him. Mac was thorough. If he said he was going to do something, then he would do it.
    The Princess phone was in her hand in a flash. Should she call the judge to confirm it? She would wait until tomorrow, she decided. She didn’t want the judge to think she was money-grubbing.
    She stuffed the notebook under the sofa cushion. Tomorrow she would retrieve it and lock it away in the bottom drawer of her jewel box along with some of the heirloom jewelry the judge allowed her to keep in the house.
    She was nervous now. Had she put everything back into the manila folder just the way she’d found it? Guilt made her uncurl her legs and rush to Mac’s study. The huge brown envelope was gone. She ran to the hall to see if it was on the table in the foyer. It wasn’t. Where in the hell was it? she wondered irritably. It must be in Mac’s room. She crept up the steps, careful to make no noise. She opened the door a crack, then waited until her eyes became accustomed to the moonlight. Mac’s bags were packed and standing by the door, as they had been earlier that day. There was no folder, no envelope on the wide triple dresser.
    Alice watched her husband for a long moment. She felt a second rush of guilt. How vulnerable Mac looked in sleep. She had a sudden urge to run over to the bed and kiss his cheek, but squelched it.
    She hated thinking about Mac; it made her feel disloyal. After all, he had been good to her. Why wasn’t she happy? Why couldn’t she be like Benny’s wife? Was she as self-centered and selfish as Mac said? Why couldn’t she give back a little? Mac wasn’t all that bad; in fact he was kind of nice as far as husbands went. If he were only