Not This Time by Vicki Hinze

Sara had never been the barefoot kind, but at home she used to wear flats or on rare occasions slippers. Now she probably wore heels to shower. Had to be to please Robert. “Take the things off.” Was her instep bruised? Hard to tell with her black hose, but her ankles were definitely swollen.
    “They’re new. I need to break them in.” Sara looked down at the black pumps, then shut her eyes a brief second. “I’m going to call the hotel again.” She strode around the counter, listing heavily to the right, then snagged the wall phone near the gourmet center. “Surely he’s gotten there by now.”
    On returning from the hairdresser, Sara had found a note. Robert had gone to New Orleans to meet an editor interested in publishing his novel. After he and Sara married, he had quit his job in the pharmaceutical industry to pursue his dream of being a novelist.
    “The concierge said he would have Robert call the moment he arrived,” Beth reminded her, knowing it wouldn’t stop her from calling the poor man yet again.
    “I know.” She rubbed at her throat. “But something could have happened to the rental. He could be broken down on the road in a dead zone. That’d explain his phone not working.”
    Or he could be dead in a ditch somewhere . That kind of thinking was reminiscent of Beth’s mother’s. Anything that frightened her she reduced to the morbid, and Sara was becoming more and more like her. Programmed negative . Beth held back another sigh, wishing someone—anyone—in her immediate circle besides Nora wasn’t dysfunctional.
    “His e-mail said the Hummer had a ‘check engine light,’ but the dealer wouldn’t let him take a loaner out of state, so he—”
    The cherry-red Hummer, a wedding gift from Sara. “Went to your regular shop where they could handle the repair and he could get a rental. He also promised he’d call as soon as he checked into the hotel.” Beth had no illusions Sara would listen.
    “The trip should have taken him a little over four hours.” Sara checked her watch. “It’s eleven fifteen. He’s seriously late—and his phone is out of order.”
    “I know.” Beth plucked a bite of ripe tomato from her plate. Robert knew Sara would be worried sick and having fits. He knew what this kind of worrying did to her, and he was putting her through it anyway. So much for being her devoted, besotted husband. He faked it with his high-society friends but didn’t bother with Beth. Ordinary .
    Sara dialed the phone. A pause, then, “This is Sara Tayton again.” Her voice trembled. She smoothed her hand down her slim black skirt. “I’m sorry to keep bothering you, but—”
    She’d called Beth to come over and dressed in black—Sara was already in mourning. Now she gripped a hank of long blond hair near her scalp and shook it. The gesture was too familiar to miss: a bad, bad sign. He wasn’t there.
    “Thank you.” Blinking hard and fast, Sara braced her hand on the countertop for support. It was shaking. “Yes, I will. Sorry to trouble you again.” She hung up, took a deep breath, then again lifted the receiver and punched in a number.
    His cell . Beth rinsed their plates. Sara’s housekeeper, Maria, was devoted to Sara and locked in mutual disdain with Robert. She left early most days to give him a wide berth. Beth loaded the dishwasher, her concern escalating. When Sara hadn’t heard from Robert by lunch, she was a wreck—after the incident at the club, a walking catastrophe. Watching her slide down the slippery slope to one of her debilitating attacks knotted Beth’s insides. Hopefully the jerk would show up before Sara tumbled into a full-fledged breakdown.
    Could either of them survive that again?
    Unsure, Beth shuddered. “Still no answer?”
    “No.” Sara cradled the phone and limped back to the table, twisting a rope of pearls hanging from her neck. “This isn’t like him.”
    Beth hated pearls as much as Sara loved them. They suited her pale, delicate