ZERO Visibility
© 2015 by Georgia Beers
This ebook original is published by Brisk Press, Brielle New Jersey, 08730
Edited by Heather Flournoy
Cover design by Steff Obkirchner
Author photo by Steff Obkirchner
First printing: January 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the author or the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-098998956-5
By Georgia Beers
Novels
Finding Home
Mine
Fresh Tracks
Too Close to Touch
Thy Neighbor’s Wife
Turning the Page
Starting From Scratch
96 Hours
Slices of Life
Snow Globe
Olive Oil and White Bread
Anthologies
Outsiders
Georgia Beers
www.georgiabeers.com
Acknowledgements
Writing is a very solitary art, and as an introverted writer, I’m absolutely okay with being solitary. That being said, the creation of a book cannot be accomplished by the writer alone. Many other fingers are in the pie, so to speak, and Zero Visibility is no exception.
Thank you to my dear friend, Steff Obkirchner, for so many things. Not only does she serve as my webmistress, cover designer, and personal photographer, she is also a wealth of information. She reads over my work and makes suggestions. She offers up ego boosts and/or pats on the back when I need them (and conversely smacks me in the back of the head when I need that). And she introduced me and Bon to the stunning beauty of the Adirondack Mountains, which led me to write this book. She is irreplaceable in my world.
Thanks to my awesome niece, Allyson Whitney, who gave me a very quick crash-course in the rules of ice hockey. The girl knows her stuff and answered my text questions accurately and immediately. And just for her: Go, Preds!
My deep, heartfelt thanks and love to The Triumvirate. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You keep me sane and make me laugh at the same time. I’m never letting you guys go; I hope you understand that.
To my editor, Heather Flournoy, thank you for your gentle yet knowledgeable hand. I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. As always, thanks to Brisk Press for being so easy to work with. Everybody’s path from writing to printing to publishing should be so smooth. You guys rock.
My eternal gratitude and love to my wife, Bonnie, who puts up with every quirk a writer could possibly have and then some (we are talking about me here), and does it with a positive attitude, some ridiculously good ideas, a sense of humor, and a boatload of love and support. I couldn’t ask for a better partner, in business and in life. Boobs with a hat on, baby.
And last, but never, ever least, thanks to you, my readers. I’m a very lucky woman in that my readers stay with me no matter what path I choose to take. Please keep the e-mails and Facebook notes coming. They mean more to me than you know.
CHAPTER ONE
Cassie Prescott was a big ball of emotion as she drove home a day earlier than expected. The sporting goods conference had been an informative one. She’d come across several new items that would sell well in her store this ski season, and she’d been able to meet a couple of vendors with whom she’d spoken on the phone, but had never seen face-to-face. Texting and e-mail was all fine and good, but nothing beat actual personal contact. Cassie preferred it. A couple nice dinners and a fun happy hour in the hotel bar last night were highlights of the trip so far. She wasn’t due to head home until tomorrow evening, but her mother had called her on her cell to deliver the news that Caroline Rosberg had passed away suddenly the previous night, and calling hours were tomorrow.
Missing the funeral or even the calling hours were not options. Cassie had immediately packed up her stuff, texted her apologies to the folks she’d made plans with for the remainder of the conference, and loaded up the car to make the five hour trek home to Lake Henry.
Normally, she would enjoy the drive. It was mid-October in the Adirondacks, and the mountains of upstate New York were a spectacular visual explosion of reds, oranges, and yellows. It was this array of color that brought the tourists to Lake Henry in droves and kicked off the busy season. The hotels and inns would be stuffed to the rafters until after New Year’s, and even then, things would only slow down a bit. Cassie’s sporting goods store would be filled with customers. Tourists would be milling along Main Street, visiting the shops, eating at some of the finest restaurants in the state, and getting ready to ski. It was her favorite time of year. She loved fall and relished its approach; the change in the scent of the air, the chill in the temperature. She loved unpacking her sweaters and warmer clothes. She loved the promise of winter, which meant roaring fires and hot chocolate and hikes in the snow with her dog. She loved the way the trees looked in all their blazing splendor. But today, the drive went by in a blur as Cassie’s occasional tears mixed with her racing thoughts and prevented her from appreciating any of the beauty around her at all.
Dusk had fallen when she finally passed the sign that normally put a cheerful grin on her face.
You are now entering Lake Henry. We’re glad you’re here!
Lake Henry would be different without Caroline, a woman who was a fixture in their tight-knit community, somebody who’d lived in Lake Henry her entire life. Which, it turned out, hadn’t really been long enough.
Cassie swallowed hard and made the right turn onto Main Street, which circled the whole of Lake Henry, a path she walked with her dog every morning. Thankfully, she was saved from further thoughts of sadness by a sight a bit too common during the busy season, but one that never failed to make her laugh. A woman, dressed in a business suit of jacket, pants, and heels, was trying her best to navigate the cobblestone sidewalk that ran all the way down Main Street. It was a scientific fact that cobblestones and high-heeled shoes did not mix well, and every third or fourth step the woman would stumble slightly, regain her balance, and continue on her way. Behind her, she pulled a large suitcase, which was obviously quite heavy, and the rhythmic bumping of its wheels over the stones was alarmingly loud.
Cassie glanced at her as she drove past, was able to make out short blonde hair, a very tall, lean frame, and a scowl that made the woman look as if she might kill the next person she came across.
Cassie smiled. “Good way to roll an ankle,” she mumbled, and fought to keep from saying it loudly out her slightly open car window. Instead, she simply shook her head. “Tourists.” Heels were so not the dress code for Lake Henry. Hikers? Sneakers? Boots? Skis? Snow shoes? All yes. Heels? Not so much.
At least her drive home didn’t take her past The Lakeshore Inn. That was Caroline’s place; she’d run it ever since Cassie was a kid, and Cassie had spent many a summer helping out with housekeeping and general maintenance to make some extra cash. She still popped in several times a week to see if Caroline or Mary, Caroline’s right hand, needed anything. The Lakeshore Inn was, as its name suggested, right on the lake. But it was in the opposite direction of Cassie’s store, and for that, tonight, she was grateful.
On autopilot, she waved at various people, smiled at others. She knew pretty much all the locals, and they all knew her. She’d lived here for all of her twenty-eight years—with the exception of the four miserable years she went away to college—and she couldn’t imagine living anyplace else. Lake Henry was in her blood.
It was in Caroline’s, too. Cassie knew that. They’d talked about it. Caroline had been given many opportunities to leave, to live someplace warmer, someplace hipper, but she’d always said the same thing to Cassie: “How can I leave? Lake Henry is in my blood.”
And now she’d be buried here.
Cassie swallowed down the ball in her throat and tried to remember where she’d last seen her all-purpose black dress. She was going to need it.
***
“God damn fucking cobblestones,” Emerson Rosberg muttered as she stumbled yet again on the stupid sidewalk. “Who the fuck uses cobblestones anymore? Is it still 1873 here? Have they never heard of cement? Concrete? Asphalt?” She glanced up and saw the big sign lit by an outdoor light aimed up from the ground. The Lakeshore Inn. “Thank freaking god.”
Apparently, she’d been away too long, as she’d forgotten that parking in Lake Henry was at a premium, and The Lakeshore Inn was no exception. Every space was occupied when she arrived. She’d been forced to park down the street—a good half mile away—in a public lot that would end up costing her an arm and a leg if she had to stay there for long.
And what the hell had she packed? Bricks? Her suitcase seemed to have gained a good fifty pounds since she started pulling it behind her, these last few steps the hardest yet. The autumn evening had dropped in temperature, her blazer doing very little to keep the chill away from her skin. Without stopping to take in the building—or the larger one across the street that used to be part of The Lakeshore Inn—she dragged her suitcase down the walkway, letting it bounce roughly down the steps, following the signs to the office.
Inside, the atmosphere was completely different. Warm. Inviting. The counter for the office overlooked a common area set up like a living room, complete with leather couches, bookshelves lined with classics, and a gas fireplace, which was burning brightly now and filling the room with a pleasant coziness. A young couple holding hands quietly excused themselves as they sidled by her. Nobody else was in sight. Emerson thought about just going behind the counter to the kitchen and office she knew were there, but somehow it didn’t feel right. Instead, she gave the little silver bell on the counter a soft tap.
“Be right with you!” The voice was pleasant, high-pitched, and a little sing-song. Emerson scratched at her forehead and waited. When Mary came around the corner and saw Emerson, she stopped dead in her tracks, and her eyes filled with tears. Not for the first time—or even the second or third—judging from how red-rimmed they were. “Oh, Emerson!” Mary came around the counter and before Emerson could take a step, she threw herself into Emerson’s arms and began to cry openly. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Those were the only words Emerson could make out clearly as she stood holding the sobbing woman, awkwardly patting her back and looking around the room for some means of escape. Of course, there was none, so she stood, patted, and waited in extreme discomfort until the older woman pulled herself together and took a step back. She held Emerson at arms’ length with a shockingly strong grip.
“Let me get a good look at you,” she said, and Emerson took the opportunity to do the same. Mary O’Connor was at least a decade older than Emerson’s mother, which would put her in the category of approaching seventy. She had always been a huge bundle of energy, and she still made Emerson think of her as birdlike, the way she flitted around quickly, her tiny frame moving at a speed seemingly twice as fast as everybody else. She was still petite, but her usual peppiness had been tempered. Her eyes were sad, and it was as if the natural light she always carried had dimmed.
“My god, how long has it been?” she asked Emerson now, forcing cheerfulness into her voice.
“Five years,” Emerson replied, trying to hide the embarrassment that now colored her cheeks.
“Five years,” Mary repeated, and her feigned surprise said she knew exactly how long it had been. “My god.”
Five years? Emerson thought, and the fact of it actually surprised her. Five years since she’d returned home. She had her reasons. Oh, she had lots of very logical reasons. But now that her mother was gone, none of them seemed all that important. In fact, they seemed downright ridiculous. She would never come home to her mother again.
I hate this fucking town.
“You must be famished.” Mary’s voice interrupted Emerson’s thoughts, and the mere mention of food made her stomach rumble in response. “I’ve got some leftover chicken soup in the fridge. Come on back to the kitchen, and I’ll heat you up a bowl. And we’ll need to talk about the details for tomorrow.” Her expression was somber as she gestured to Emerson’s suitcase. “I assume you’ll want to stay in your mother’s place.”
Emerson blinked in surprise as she followed Mary around the counter. “Oh. Actually, I thought I’d just crash in one of the rooms.”
Mary glanced over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “Honey, it’s October. We’re booked solid.”
Realizing she hadn’t really thought it through, Emerson gave an embarrassed nod. “Okay,” was all she could think to say.
The mouthwatering aroma of homemade chicken soup filled the kitchen within minutes as Mary said, “Your mother had most of the details for her funeral all written out and in a file, so I was able to follow it pretty well.” She ladled the steaming soup into a big stoneware bowl and handed Emerson a spoon. “I remember her talking about how confusing it was for her when her father passed away, all the sifting through paperwork and looking high and low for forms and information. She vowed never to do that to you.”
Emerson nodded as the first explosion of taste hit her tongue. The soup was amazing and she tried to focus on it instead of this conversation she really didn’t want to have. But Mary continued.
“I chose her favorite outfit for her to be buried in. You can pick something else if you want,” Mary added quickly as she took a seat across the table. “I don’t want to step on your toes.”
Emerson swallowed, then cleared her throat. “No, no. It’s fine. I’m sure you made the right choice for her.” It’s not like I’d have any idea what her favorite clothes were.
“Calling hours are tomorrow from two until four and then again from six until nine. We can go over in the morning and take care of any leftover paperwork. I did what I could, but as Caroline’s next of kin, you’ll need to handle a few things. Obviously.”
Emerson nodded, continued to eat, continued to listen.
“The day after tomorrow, there will be a quick service at the funeral home at ten, then we’ll drive to the cemetery. John and Stella are closing the restaurant so we can have lunch there, then they’ll reopen for dinner.”
“Which restaurant is that?”
The first flicker of disapproval came then, but zipped across Mary’s face so quickly, Emerson almost missed it. “Harbordale.”
“Ah.” Emerson nodded. She had no idea where Harbordale was. Must be new since her last visit. She finished her soup and vacillated between wanting a second bowl and wanting to fall face-down into bed and sleep for a hundred years. A quick internal debate and sleep won out. She took her bowl to the sink and rinsed it out as she spoke. “That was delicious, Mary. Thank you so much.” She set the bowl in the drying rack and turned to face her mother’s best friend. “Hey, is there room for me to park my rental someplace? I’m down the street in the lot.”
“Well, Caroline’s car is here in her spot. You can probably take your rental back and just drive hers.”
Emerson nodded, immediately thinking what a pain in the ass that would be, but she was too tired to think of any alternatives. “Okay.” They stood for a few awkward moments and Emerson said, “I am so tired. Flying just drains me. I think I’m going to hit the hay. If that’s okay with you.”
Mary jumped up. “Of course. Of course. Follow me.”
Her bag rolling along behind her, Emerson trailed Mary out the kitchen door and along a stone pathway. It was too dark to see much at this point, but the smell of the leaves and the wate
r, the sounds of the crickets and the bullfrogs lulled Emerson momentarily back into her childhood. Funny how you could be away for so long, and something as simple as the croak of a frog could bring back decades-old memories.
“Here we are,” Mary said, fitting a key into the door lock of a small, weathered-to-the-point-of-charming cottage. She pushed the door open and reached around to hit the light switch, but didn’t step in. “I had the sheets changed this morning, so they’re fresh. It’s your mom’s place—er—was your mom’s place, so…you don’t need me to tell you anything about it. It’s yours now.” She dropped the keys into Emerson’s hand as her voice caught, and she looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, she simply instructed. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” With a quick spin on her heel, she hurried back to the main house, sniffling softly.
Emerson closed the door behind her, standing in the silence. She hadn’t been in this cottage in a long time, not since her mother had moved in. That was before she’d sold the main building, the huge Lakeview Hotel across the street. She didn’t want to think about that now. She didn’t want to think about anything. She was so tired her eyes wouldn’t focus, but she followed her blurry vision anyway. The layout of the cottage hadn’t changed from when she’d been a kid, so she stumbled along to the bedroom, peeled off her clothes, and fell into bed, sleep claiming her before she had another conscious thought.
CHAPTER TWO
Cassie blew her nose one last time before she reached for the door handle and got out of the car. She slammed the door and gave a full body shake, as if she could rid herself of the awful feelings of sadness and grief simply by jiggling her clothes.
“Well,” Jonathan Brickman said from the driver’s side. He caught Cassie’s eye over the roof of his silver Lexus. “That sucked in a big way.” He looked even more dashing than usual, his toned, six-foot frame clad in a somber black suit with a lavender dress shirt underneath and a black tie accent. His dark hair shone with the copious amounts of product he put in it each morning, and Cassie knew if she touched it, she’d get pricked as if by a porcupine. Jonathan’s hair didn’t move; that was the point. But it looked damn good. Combined with his olive complexion, alarmingly precise goatee, and calming green eyes, he was a beautiful man.
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