The Men I Didn't Marry Read Online Free PDF Page A

malt scotch—he had fine taste even then—and slept together on the beach?
    Unfortunately, Tom, like most men, isn’t a mind reader. And instead of answering my unspoken question, he says, “Need anything else? Will you be okay getting home?”
    “Of course,” I say, trying to sound again like the confident, composed Hallie I was back in college. In fact, the confident, composed Hallie I was until a few short weeks ago.
    I try not to grimace as I maneuver out of the high-set Jeep and land on my aching ankle. “Listen, you saved my life,” I tell Tom. “I can’t thank you enough.”
    “No problem. But if I were you I’d pick up some Benadryl on the way home. That face isn’t looking too good.”
    At first I’m insulted, but then I laugh. “Thanks, doc,” I say. Sure, I’m less than camera-ready at the moment, but this day wasn’t so bad after all. I lost the battle with the hornets and the big hill, but I survived and I’m here. I made it. And best of all, now I get to go home.
    Tom waves and drives away and I reach into my jacket pocket for my car keys. When they’re not there, I fumble through my backpack, pulling out the contents piece by piece. Where could they be? I take a moment to think rationally, and then I spot them—locked safely on the front seat of the Saab.
    I sigh. The adventures just keep coming.

Chapter TWO
    I CALL THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT with my now cooperating cell phone to explain my problem.
    “Maybe you could give me the phone number of a locksmith?” I suggest.
    “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll send someone,” says the desk sergeant efficiently.
    Crime must not be much of a problem in Cold Spring, because almost before I hang up, three siren-blaring fire trucks, two speeding town patrol cars, and one mounted state trooper rush down the road to save me. The posse, however, doesn’t include an ambulance, so I guess I’ll have to buy the Benadryl on my own.
    By nightfall, I’m finally home. I throw my dirty clothes in the laundry and my unsalvageable Nikes into the wastebasket. Standing in front of the refrigerator, I eat some leftover Nutella, straight from the jar. It occurs to me that when I thank Emily for nudging me out of the house, I’ll spare her the less spectacular details of my day of independence, such as the fact that getting me home required one generous man in a Jeep and the entire Cold Spring rescue squad.
    I turn on Vivaldi’s cello concertos, wrap an ice pack around my ankle, and carefully slip the rest of my battered body into a warm jasmine-scented bath. With my foot dangling over the edge of the tub, I put a soothing gel pack on my face and run my fingers through the foamy bubbles. Closing my eyes, I finally relax.
    When, of course, the phone rings. It has to be one of the kids. Any mother knows that when your kid calls from college, you pick up immediately. If you miss it and try to call back five minutes later, you’re sure to be sent to voice mail limbo—also known as maternal hell. So I brace my arms against the side of the tub, keep my injured ankle outstretched in front of me, and try to lift myself up. I manage to hoist my body out of the bath along with about four gallons of water, and I careen across the Carrera marble floor toward the trilling bedroom phone.
    “Hello,” I say, eager to chat with one of my children.
    I hear a click and then a deep male voice. “Hello, Hallie Lawrence Pierpont. I know you weren’t expecting this call, but can I take just a minute of your time?”
    “No, you can’t have a minute of my time,” I snap angrily. Damn, I got out of the tub for a telemarketer. “You can’t even have a second of my time,” I add venomously, preparing to slam down the receiver.
    But I hear a chuckle. “So you haven’t changed a bit, Hallie. Are you still as sexy as you used to be?”
    Oh god. Can it be? Reflexively, I look down at my naked body and do the inventory. Tummy’s fairly flat, breasts aren’t sagging, but the