Cursing myself a hundred different ways, I took off behind her. She got a good head start, but my longer legs quickly ate up the space between us. When she opened the front door, I’d have caught her if she’d slowed at all to go around the person standing on the porch. Instead, she plowed right into him, and both went down.
Stifling the urge to laugh at the tangle of woman and lawyer on the ground before me, I plunged into the cold to help them up, forgetting that I was barefoot and not wearing a coat. My feet went numb when I hit the snow, but there was no going back. If I couldn’t catch Jess, couldn’t help her understand what I was doing and why, I’d lose her again. This time forever.
If that happened, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
∞ ♡ ∞
Jess
Christa knelt beside me, taking me back to the day I found her at the resort. How things had changed. I’d gone from a youngish widow, a single mother, to a married bisexual on the verge of being abandoned by the person she loved. Again.
Tears welled in my eyes. My ankle throbbed, so I focused my attention on it, wondering how I could possibly salvage my dignity and get back to the car before Christa realized how she’d made me feel. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
“Jess, please listen to me,” she said. “I’m not leaving you. Not exactly.”
Behind me, the man I’d nearly forgotten about cleared his throat. “Is this a bad time?”
Christa stood, handing my purse to him. Great. She was leaving me and robbing me. Exactly what I needed.
“Jess, I’d like you to meet my lawyer, Mr. Robert Bradford of Bradford & Associates. You spoke on the phone after the football game about bailing me out of jail. What you don’t know is that we’ve been working together ever since.”
For the first time, I looked at the stranger standing on my porch, getting more snow on his coat by the second. It had been years, but everyone remembered the face of the man who defended one of the most notorious murderers Boston had ever seen. I’d called him because his name jumped out at me when I skimmed through the lawyer listings online, and because I knew he was good.
What was he doing on my doorstep?
Mr. Bradford leaned down, offering me a hand. “Pleased to meet you at last, Jess. I’ve heard a lot about you. May I help you up?”
I grasped his smooth, warm palm and rose. The longer I stood in the cold, the more numbness replaced the throbbing in my ankle. It also replaced my manners, because instead of introducing myself or thanking him, I blurted out the one thought moving through my head. “You’re not a divorce lawyer.”
“No, I’m not,” he said with a glance at my wife. “Really, if this is a bad time, I could come back.”
Christa stepped forward. “Jess, Robert is a criminal lawyer with associates in Quebec. He helped connect me with a law firm there.”
Things started to fall into place. “Tina.”
Robert said, “We’ve convinced the prosecutor to reduce the charges against your wife in exchange for her spending six months in a minimum-security women’s detention center. Once her time is served and she leaves Canada, she will not be permitted to re-enter the country.”
“That’s it?” After all this time, worrying and living under this black cloud, I couldn’t believe things would be resolved so easily.
“Not entirely,” Christa said. “I had to get a legal name change, and get a passport in that name. That’s what I’ve been working on, when you thought I was just playing games online and doing nothing.”
Not an online affair. Not regretting coming back. No plans to leave again. A wisp of hope fluttered in my stomach.
“You changed your name? To what?”
“Christa Cooper.”
Cooper. My name. No, our name. Christa and Jess Cooper. Christa, Jess, and Ethan Cooper. If ever I needed a sign that she loved me, that she wanted things to work, this was it. For the first time in months, things were finally coming together. I leaned forward and kissed her slowly, trying to put as much love as I could into it.
“Thank you,” I whispered, with tears in my eyes.
“There’s more,” she said. “I also have to forfeit the money in my social insurance account, since it was earned under someone else’s name and number. I have to pay a fine—me, with my money, not you—and pay five thousand Canadian dollars to Tina as restitution. Once that’s done, we’ll be free. The house is still mine, as long as the mortgage gets paid, and I’ll be allowed to sell it. Tina’s agreed to move out, in exchange for not being charged with extortion.”
“So you’re not leaving me?”
“I am, but I swear, it’s only temporary. I have to go back to Quebec for a while.”
“But I bought the Tranquility…” Weak, I knew. My brain wasn’t processing words the way I needed it to.
“I know, and that was a wonderful, sweet, caring thing to do. I love the way you want to take care of me. But I caused this mess, and I’m the one who needs to fix it.”
I gestured to Robert, who’d pulled out his phone and was tactfully pretending he couldn’t hear every word. “Were you two going to just leave? You weren’t going to tell me?”
“Part of me thought you’d be happier without me around. But, yeah, I was going to tell you. Robert and I weren’t planning to leave for a few hours.” Christa pulled me into her arms. Her lips lingered on mine with a heat that seared away the numbness. “I have to do this. I have to go. But I promise, I’ll be back here as soon as I can.”
Even knowing she was right didn’t make it easier. “Don’t come back here,” I said. Her face fell. “Meet me at Tranquility.”
“I will,” she vowed.
“I hate long good-byes,” I said. “So let’s not. Just tell me you’ll see me again soon, and that you love me.”
“I love you, and I’ll see you as soon as I can. I’d stay if I could. I’ll write to you every day.”
We hugged and with one last kiss, she walked away, following Robert to his car. Tears blurred my vision. I wanted to scream, to rage, but my heart knew that walking away was for the best. Only leaving me now would allow Christa to stop running, for the first time in her life. By going to jail, she would finally be free.
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My name is Anna. That's Ahn-a, not Ann-a. People hear my story, they say, "Oh, that's awful." They think it would never happen to them. I thought it would never happen to me, either.
But it did.
CHAPTER ONE
November 10, 2018
The newscasters spent days repeating dire warnings most people didn’t believe. After all, we’d made it through ninety-nine percent of hurricane season without any storms traveling anywhere near us. Early November wasn’t exactly known for its tropical weather in New York City. Still, as Mamá used to say, it’s better to be prepared por si las moscas por si las moscas, or just in case.
Just in case, I stocked up on eggs, milk, and bread (as if I’d be making French toast in a storm), grabbed a box of strawberry-flavored toaster pastries for good measure, froze blocks of ice in plastic containers, and filled my bathtub with water. This basic nod at preparation seemed more than sufficient. It never occurred to me to cover the windows or anything like that.
When the storm hit, the entire northeastern seaboard realized the newscasters hadn’t been overreacting for once. Winds howled and shrieked, shaking the house. Rain obliterated the satellite signal to my television early in the evening. Soon thereafter, I cowered in the basement of my three-bedroom house with a battery-powered lantern from an old camping trip and Hermione, my roommate’s brown tabb
y cat. The two of us huddled in the spot furthest from the row of tiny windows under a sea of blankets as the storm raged overhead. Not long after sunset, my house lost power. The dots of light provided by street lamps winked out at the same time. My phone provided a lifeline to the outer world for almost an hour before the service stopped working. At least the lantern gave off a steady glow.
Alone, scared, and bored, I unfairly cursed my roommate for not being with me. Tara was in the middle of nowhere, taking care of her sick mother. She lived in a tiny trailer with no TV, cell service, or Internet in one of those squarish-type states that started with a vowel. Tara probably would prefer to be with me, storm or no. If she even knew about the storm, isolated as she was.
Still, sitting alone in my basement listening to rain beat against the windows was no fun. My boyfriend, Jay, got stuck working late. By the time he left the office, the Mayor of New York City asked all residents to remain home unless absolutely necessary, keeping the roads clear for emergency vehicles. The last time I talked to him, Jay was about to walk the twelve blocks home to his loft apartment through a downpour so thick he couldn’t see five feet beyond the circle of his umbrella.
Thunder crashed overhead. A streak of lightning lit up the room before the roar ended. I shivered and rearranged my covers. Using my phone as a flashlight, I picked up one of about five dozen old copies of Forbes magazine stored in our basement. My own face smiled up at me from a sidebar on the cover. When the magazine ran its feature on “Up-and-Coming Executives Under Thirty-Five years Old,” I’d warned Tara that my friends and family would read it online, but she insisted on buying all the hard copies she could find. At least Tara’s mother appreciated not having to drive thirty miles into town to read about me. The rest collected dust down here, in case the zombie apocalypse came and I needed a reminder of my old life or a way to start a fire.
The house shook, distracting me from reading about “No. 17: Katherine Ashcroft.” A lovely woman, by all accounts. I saw her at a networking event a while back, but we didn’t talk. I distracted myself by trying to remember the name of her company until thunder crashed on top of me. Rain beat against the windows so loudly, I double-checked the latches. Something banged against the roof. Cringing, I pressed my hands against my ears. The sounds of the storm grew louder, and Hermione squirmed closer against my chest, purring. The basement door rattled in its frame.
Another crash, followed by a bang. A siren wailed next to my ear. It took a moment to realize that the blaring sounded eerily like my car alarm. Uh-oh. Hopefully the wind set it off, and I could turn the blasted thing off from where I sat. Except I’d left my car keys on the kitchen counter. Upstairs, beyond the safety of the basement.
For fifteen minutes, I sat listening, regretting my decision to let the salesman talk me into buying the extended battery. The darn thing would blast all night if no one shut it off. He hadn’t been exaggerating. Putting my hands over my ears was about as effective as trying to put out a forest fire with a Dixie cup of water.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. With a sigh, I threw off my blankets. Hermione glared at me before tearing off toward a pile of crap in the far corner. For her sake, I hoped it was quieter under there. My legs tingled after so much time cowering on the concrete floor. I rubbed them, one at a time, while I willed myself to go deaf. When the feeling returned to my lower limbs and the alarm still blared behind me, I drew a deep breath, pulled myself upright, and told myself there was no reason not to venture into the house for a minute or two. I’d be perfectly safe.
My prosthetic left foot sat against the wall where I’d left it when Hermione and I settled in for the night. It wouldn’t take long to strap it on, but I couldn’t stand the thought of another single unnecessary second listening to that siren. I’d hopped up the basement stairs before, I could do it again. The kitchen lay directly across from the basement door. Less than twenty feet of open space separated me from silence. Lots of windows, lots of potential for broken glass up there, but I had no choice. My shoes were also in the kitchen. Perhaps I should’ve shown the newscasters a little more respect.
A sturdy banister helped me to the top of the stairs. The basement door stuck, especially on humid days. Apparently, “humid” days included hurricane days. I shoved with all my might. The wood didn’t budge. I tried again, with the same lack of results. On the third attempt, I braced my shoulder against the door, rested the bottom of my calf against the step, and slammed my full weight against the wood. The door opened—and whipped away from me. Without the support, I stumbled out into the hall, tripping over the top step. My palms and knees slammed against the ground, knocking the wind out of me.
The kitchen wasn’t overly large, and my keys hung from a hook between the French patio doors and the door to the garage. I braced myself against the gusts, wondering how many windows broke to create this wind tunnel in my hallway. Still, I needed to move forward. Either I turned that alarm off, or I’d lose my mind by morning. With a deep breath, I started across the kitchen floor as quickly as I could.
Before I made it two feet into the room, I came to a dead stop.
“¡Dios mio!”
Wind slapped my face, tearing the words from my mouth. Water drenched my hair and clothes. Shivers immediately followed. Surprised, I glanced toward the glass doors. The panes weren’t broken. They weren’t there at all. Neither were the doors. Or the walls, or the kitchen, or the roof. I stood, shivering, in the middle of the storm, surrounded by granite countertops, peering through the sheets of rain at our beautiful old oak tree, which lay across my newly topless Infiniti, alarm still blaring.
#
By the time the winds died down and the rain slowed, my phone’s battery had long since crapped out. The moon finally peeked through the clouds, sending streaks of white light through the miraculously-still-intact basement windows. I lay huddled in the blankets, wishing for the warmth of the traitor cat that still lurked somewhere in the depths of the basement. I managed a couple of hours of fitful sleep by the time the sun peeked over the horizon.
My first hysterical thought upon opening my eyes was, “I’m going to be late for work.” Of course I was. I also wasn’t likely to make it at all, since the storm smashed the roof of my car in and whisked away my kitchen. I didn’t even know if the house still contained my closet. If not, the only thing I had to wear, other than my navy blue sweatpants and Yankees T-shirt, sat folded in a box of Halloween costumes we stored in the basement. The idea of showing up at work dressed as Slutty Cop brought a ghost of a smile to my lips.
Ugh.
I forced myself to sit up and reached for my prosthetic.
“Mwar?”
“Hey, sweetie.” Now that the danger passed, Hermione was more than happy to rub against my legs and accept petting until I remembered my obligation to feed her. One problem: we stored the cat food in the kitchen. Which could be somewhere over the rainbow for all I knew.
I picked her up and rubbed my face against her soft fur. My own stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten, either. “Let’s see if Mother Nature left us anything in the fridge. Or a fridge.”
Talking to the cat soothed me. I kept up a constant stream of chatter while I found my phone in the tangle of blankets, plugged it in, confirmed that the power remained out, and headed upstairs to assess the damage.
“Well, Hermione, it appears that we lost the kitchen. Luckily, we still have a fridge.” It lay on its side on the ground, and the cord dangled uselessly down the back, plug no longer attached, but I did have a refrigerator. “You like three-day old burrito, right?”
“Mwar?”
Gingerly, I opened the door, thankful at least that the side with the handle landed on top. A tangle of condiments lay against the fall wall, most of the containers still intact. On the top shelf, several plastic containers created a haphazard pyramid. Grabbing the top one, I pulled out a chunk of ground beef, wiped off the rice, and offered it to the cat while I kept dig
ging. “Old lunch meat?”
She stood on her back legs when I opened the package, so I dropped a slice on the floor and grabbed a second for myself while I explored the rest of the house to assess the damage. The spare room, naturally, seemed more or less untouched.
Pretending I wandered someone else’s home was the only thing holding me together at the moment, so I held my head high and tried to imagine an invisible realtor leading me on a tour…of a very water-logged house owned by a messy homeowner.
Not much happened in the bathroom, other than a pile of broken glass in the tub and the complete lack of hot water. I shrugged and shut the door to keep Hermione out before moving on. Then I stood for a long time, surveying Tara’s room, delaying the moment before facing my own. I refused to allow myself to think about what I might find behind my closed door.
My best friend’s room always looked like a hurricane hit it. Truly, I couldn’t tell the difference until I spotted the puddles. Or, I wouldn’t have, if the roof had been attached. Instead, sunlight streamed into every corner of the room as if mocking Tara for spending three hundred dollars on blackout curtains she never opened. My lips twitched upward when I realized the curtains themselves still lay perfectly in place, not even ruffled by the winds. Too bad she wasn’t here, she’d appreciate the irony.
Finally, I turned to my room, on the same side of the house as the kitchen. As the missing pantry. The bedroom window five feet from my smashed car.
The door wouldn’t open. With one shoulder braced against the wood, my hand tightened on the knob. I shoved as hard as I could. For my efforts, the door moved an inch. Something brushed against my face. I screamed and jumped before realizing it was only a tree branch. A branch with no business in my bedroom. Wonderful.
Finding Tranquility Page 24