set both elbows on the desk. Thank goodness. Louise hadn’t forgotten. “That’s right, Mr. Weaver. I need you to locate someone for me as quickly as possible.”
“A former husband, is that right?”
Louise had obviously tried to be discreet, and Vicki saw no reason to correct the misconception by calling Malone her current husband. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“The man’s name?”
“Jamie Malone.”
“Last known address?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Occupation?” Weaver asked questions as if following a script.
Unfortunately Vicki didn’t know her lines. “I’m not positive of that, either. I think he used to work as a carpenter.” She felt incredibly foolish. Certainly any woman would know more about a former husband.
“He changed jobs a lot,” she said to cover her ignorance and tried to overlook the snort of skepticism that came from the earpiece. “I haven’t seen him in thirteen years.”
“His age?”
Vicki let out a breath of relief. She knew this one. There was four years’ difference in their ages. “He’s thirty-eight.”
Mr. Weaver asked a few other pertinent questions to which Vicki responded with embarrassing ambiguity. Finally with a knowing smugness, he said, “Do you happen to have a description of your former husband, Miss Sorenson?”
“Well, of course.” That was truly an honest answer. How could she forget seeing Jamie Malone for the first time on the steps of the Orlando courthouse? Her knees had been knocking. Her palms had been sweating. She’d been trembling like the last leaf in a windstorm on the day she’d agreed to marry him for the generous sum of five thousand dollars.
Besides his physical characteristics, which were still clear in her mind, she remembered the underlying brashness of the man—a trait that was intimidating to a shy twenty-one-year-old farm girl who only wanted to get the disagreeable task over with and collect her money. Even Jamie’s quick smile and misplaced attempt at charm hadn’t put her at ease.
She gave the detective a description of the way Jamie had looked thirteen years ago. Then, grateful that Mr. Weaver didn’t ask more personal questions, she acknowledged his promise to call with information as soon as he had any.
That call came in the early afternoon of the same day.
“You’ve found Jamie Malone already?” 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
