by Nina Lane
“Well, he’s always been really nice. Maybe you should go out with him.”
“At seven months pregnant, you want me to go on a date with the police lieutenant?” Vanessa twists her mouth. “That would raise some eyebrows.”
“Then you could give people lessons on how to pluck and shape them correctly.”
She chuckles. “Starting with you, right?”
I grin, pleased by the resurgence of our teasing old camaraderie. Maybe there’s hope yet.
“You want to check out the basement with me?” I ask.
“No, you go ahead.” She waves to the basement door. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”
I head downstairs, flicking on the lights. The room is packed with cardboard boxes and plastic containers. My mother’s paintings are stacked along the walls, and dropcloths cover her sculptures. My father’s books teeter in piles on the old shelves.
A few boxes are scrawled with my name—items from the apartment I’d shared with Cole. Many of the boxes remain unopened. I hadn’t wanted my old stuff.
I also don’t want it all moldering here in my parents’ basement. I should clear things out. I take a folder off the top of a box. My heart jumps. Police Reports.
These reports had been the only way I’d been able to illuminate the black hole in my memory. Cole had given his statement of events to the police, but I hadn’t spoken to him after the night he left me. He hadn’t been there to answer my endless questions, to help recreate the accident in my mind, to provide any light.
My hands shake. I open the folder. Time and Location. Type of Accident. Name of Driver. Vehicle Type. Number of Persons Involved.
The boxes are filled in with Chief Henry Peterson’s scrawly black writing. Attached to the first page are several more typewritten sheets outlining the details of the investigation that the police had pieced together from Cole’s statement, a timeline, and physical evidence.
I close the folder and set it aside. I’d read the report so many times I still have it memorized.
It had been raining when we left my parents’ anniversary party at the Seagull Inn. The clock was well past midnight. Both my parents had been drinking champagne, so Cole had offered to drive. I’d sat in the front passenger seat beside him, and my parents and Teddy rode in the back.
We should have arrived home twenty minutes later. Instead, just after Cole crossed the Old Mill Bridge on the coastal Highway 16, the SUV had skidded on a sharp turn. He’d been unable to correct course. The car had careened backward down the steep incline, crashing against a rock formation jutting into the ocean inlet. The velocity had crushed the back end like a tin can.
I’d blacked out. When I woke, I was in the hospital with Vanessa at my side, her eyes bloodshot and face streaked with tears. She told me I’d survived with a concussion and a broken arm. Cole sustained bruises and lacerations. Our parents and Teddy had been killed on impact.
The police reports detailed the events with factual detachment that I’ve tried to put in place of my lost memory. I’d read the reports over and over, hoping they would jar something loose.
How can I not remember the terror of a car careening out of control, the screech of skidding tires, the screams—surely there were screams—the stench of gasoline, the icy ocean water seeping through the doors?
Much later, long after Cole had left me, the investigation determined that he hadn’t been speeding or under the influence. His cell phone showed no evidence of use while driving. The only explanation was that he might have been overtired owing to having worked long hours the previous night and the same day, but the police couldn’t find anything obvious he might have done to stop the accident from happening.
The town, however, had swirled with rumors about Cole’s wrongdoing. During my recovery, I’d heard them as if I were submerged underwater, listening to something I couldn’t understand. After Cole left, I no longer cared what anyone said about him. I no longer cared about him.
The light had gone out on our relationship, once so filled with love and friendship. Nothing was left but the dark.
Chapter 7
Cole
* * *
I can’t stop thinking about her. Her skin as pale as milk and her bright, leaf-green eyes. Her perfect bow-shaped mouth curved with the smile that never failed to lodge right into my heart. Straight dark hair falling to her shoulders, sometimes messy and tangled, sometimes pulled into a ponytail. Oversized T-shirt, torn jeans, boots streaked with paint.
A column of heat rises up my spine. No cloying perfume on her—only soap and shampoo that smelled like lemongrass. And the sweet scent of candy flavored with cherries and strawberries. She always picked the red ones. Red lip balm, red lollipop, red gummy bears, the red Lifesaver.
Her mismatched socks and bright red backpack. The way she nuzzled her nose into the space between my neck and shoulder. The slope of her hips, the breathy gasp in the back of her throat, the slide of her skin against mine. Her delight at opening a brand-new box of tissues with lotion. The way she—
“Knocked out another one like a bowling pin.” Howard, one of the company publicists, puts his tablet on my office desk. “But not without a price.”
“A good one.” Forcing Josie out of my head, I shove the tablet back at him without looking at the screen. “Empire Scotch could never compete with Invicta, and they knew it.”
My uncle Gerald grabs the tablet and scans the headline. “Danforth drowns another small-batch craft distiller. Nice.”
I shrug. “They defaulted on their loan. Not my problem.”
Gerald and Howard exchange wary looks. I stride to the map on my office wall. Dotted with color-coded pins, the map shows every single distiller of spirits across the United States, Mexico and Europe. The red pins indicate the Invicta Spirits holdings, many of which I’ve acquired since my father’s death.
In addition to my own scotch whiskey, Invicta Spirits owns labels of gin, bourbon, rum, vodka, and brandy. Shiny unopened bottles of all our products line the glass shelves on the other side of the room. I’ve targeted a distillery in Mexico, marked with a blue pin on the map, to add tequila to our brands.
“In the past decade, I have pushed this company into the top tier of liquor producing companies in the whole fucking country.” I fold my arms and stare at the map. “Pre-tax profits were up fifty percent last year. Turnover is pushing three quarters of a billion. And you think I’m worried about a headline?”
“The headline is just part of the problem.” Howard shakes his head. “You may have won a legal battle in getting the zoning change and permit to expand the Fernsdown plant last year, but no one has forgotten that Danforth made zero concessions to the protesters.”
“Or that you sent them a big fuck you by ignoring their requests to discuss their concerns about pollution, noise, and ordinance violations,” Gerald adds. “Now in addition to controlling the Spring Hills well, you’ve pissed off the residents of Castille by forcing Blue River Water to shut down.”
“I didn’t force anything. They couldn’t find an investor to save them.”
“Because you blocked all potential interest,” Howard says. “The residents loved that company’s product and story. You still have a chance to soften the blow by hiring the folks who lost their jobs, but you need to move fast. The more time passes, the less people are willing to forgive.”
I stare at the map again. I don’t want forgiveness. And I don’t want Invicta to be one of the top five liquor producing companies in the country. The only place for this company is at the top. Then I’ll focus on expanding outside the country, taking on the biggest beverage companies in the world.
I pull a green pin off the map in northern New Hampshire and stick a red pin in its place. Another one down.
“We have software and analytics for that.” His mouth twisting, Howard gestures to the map. “For a guy with a scorched-earth approach to business, your tracking system is pathetically old-school.”
My shoulders ten
se. “I don’t pay you to give me shit. Go away.”
With a mutter of exasperation, he throws Gerald another pointed look and leaves.
“You pay your publicists to prevent you from destroying this company’s image,” Gerald snaps. “But it’s a waste of damned money if you don’t let them do their job. Even Machiavelli said a ruler has to do good sometimes. At least enough to keep the public from turning on you.”
“He also said business is war.”
“Wars have occasional truces,” he retorts. “This is why we are sponsoring the Bicentennial Festival and why you are attending the events like you’re a politician running for office. You will shake hands, smile, kiss babies, and act like you give a damn about the people of this town.”
Even if you don’t.
He doesn’t have to say that.
Returning to the window overlooking Lantern Square, I sit at my desk. I’d turned the Snapdragon Inn into my personal office for two reasons—to get away from the constant questions, interruptions, and meetings at the main office and to remind Castille’s residents that Cole Danforth isn’t going anywhere.
“Next Saturday night.” Gerald starts toward the door. “The fundraising dinner for the Arts Center. Bring someone who’s reasonably well liked, like that girl Evelyn. People respected her father, so by association they might soften a little toward you. I wouldn’t count on it, but stranger things have happened.”
He heads out the door, slamming it behind him harder than he needs to. Much as my uncle’s sensibility irritates me, it’s one of the reasons I’d brought him onboard at Invicta. He’d been working for Hydrospace when I moved to New York after the accident, and he’d been the one to give me a foot in the door. A year after I started Invicta, Gerald left Hydrospace to join my company. Even then, he’d been the one person I could trust.
He still is. Guess that’s why I keep him around. Even if he does give me constant shit about the way I run the business and my lack of concern about PR.
My father had been good at PR. A master, even. His tight friendships with the mayor, the chief of police, and the city council combined with his image as a fair, charismatic boss had hidden the fact that he was violent and abusive at home. Kevin Danforth, the man who’d funded a new social services building, would never have thrown a bottle of sleeping pills at his wife and told her to kill herself.
Of course not.
Fucking bastard. Let him rot in hell, even if that’s still too good for him.
Swiveling my chair around, I gaze down at Lantern Square, five stories below my top-floor office. People are sitting in the plaza, eating lunch or drinking coffee, and pedestrians wander in and out of the four blocks of shops and restaurants surrounding the island.
Right beside the Snapdragon Inn, on a straight visual line to the left, are the Botanical Gardens, concealed by the wall where Josie thinks she’ll be painting a mural of Castille’s history.
The wall’s proximity to my office is a thorn puncturing deep into my side. I’d be forced to see her every day until she finished, and then the mural itself would be a torturous reminder of both her and her parents. One I’d be confronted with every time I enter the office or look out the window.
Though I deserve the hit, I intend to stop her plan before she even gets started.
It’s close to two. I take a file folder from my desk and walk to City Hall, where Allegra King has summoned me for the committee meeting about the festival. The company lawyers, publicists, and Gerald have been on my case for too long. If I help with the damned festival, maybe they’ll finally shut up.
As I start up the steps, my spine tenses. I stop and turn.
Crossing the street toward me is Josie, carrying a large art portfolio. Her shoulder-length dark hair bounces like a shampoo ad. Faded jeans hug her legs and hips, and beneath her army jacket, her Grateful Dead T-shirt is just tight enough to show the curves of her tits.
Goddamn. I’m a teenager all over again, hard at the sight of her.
She glances both ways before crossing the street, then slows when she sees me.
“What are you doing here?” Her green eyes cloud with wariness.
“Meeting about the Bicentennial Festival. Invicta is sponsoring it.”
“I heard.”
She purses her lips. A protrusion appears in her cheek. Lifesaver? Jolly Rancher? She’s still addicted. I drag my gaze to her mouth, the stain of red on her lower lip. She’d taste the same, sweet like cherries and strawberries. Sticky.
Heat rises to my chest. The taste of her had always gone right to my blood. I hadn’t often been able to kiss her quickly and be done. I was greedy, impatient, wanting more. Sliding my lips from her sugary mouth to her smooth neck, stripping her clothes off, sucking on her pink berry-like nipples, her soft moan filling my head—
My dick twitches. Clenching my teeth, I force myself to refocus. Last thing I need is to walk into the meeting with a raging hard-on.
Josie narrows her eyes. “I also heard you’ve morphed into an evil genius.”
“You heard right.”
Hurt, slight but unmistakable, crosses her features. I steel myself against it. I’m about to hurt her a lot worse.
“So is this sponsorship an attempt to revamp your hardcore image?” she asks.
“According to my PR people and my uncle, yes.” I reach past her to open the door. She passes me in a rush of cool, good-smelling air.
“And according to you?”
She starts toward the main conference room. As I expected, she’s going to the same meeting. Good. Time to put an end to this.
“I don’t care about my image.”
“Yeah, that’s why you wear fifteen-thousand dollar watches and tailored suits.” She throws me a derisive look before striding into the conference room.
Allegra and several members of both the city council and the festival committee are gathered around the table. With tangible surprise, they glance from me to Josie and back again as if not sure how to deal with this.
Allegra’s brow furrows. She crosses the room, putting herself between me and Josie. She says something to Josie in a low tone. Josie shakes her head and responds with a faint but reassuring smile. Then Allegra approaches me, her features set.
“I owe you an apology.” Narrowing her eyes, she glances back at Josie. “I wasn’t thinking when I asked you to be here. I’d forgotten that David…he’s the head of the festival committee…had also asked Josie to attend.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s what she said, but I want you to know it wasn’t intentional.”
“Sure.”
She rolls her eyes slightly in exasperation, then returns to her seat. “If you would both please sit down, we’ll get started right away.”
Josie and I sit at opposite ends of the table. Tension thickens the air. The meeting begins. It’s a mind-numbing discussion of the festival events—concerts on the square, food booths, an open-air Night Market, a kids’ art exhibit, a dog festival at Central Bark. At the center of the activities are the parade and the unveiling of the Lantern Square mural.
Or not. For now, I keep my mouth shut.
“Josie, we’re anxious to see your design,” Allegra says.
Josie takes two poster boards from her portfolio and sets them on a stand at the front of the room. In her intricate, unmistakable style is a sweeping scene of Castille, with the ocean crossing the foreground.
“The proposal for a mural about the history of Castille is almost a decade old,” she explains. “Shortly after the accident, Castille Elementary created a memorial garden for my brother, but the mural proposal for my parents was never completed. I want to change that, both in their memory and for Castille. One of my father’s favorite quotes was from the historian David McCullough. ‘History is who we are and why we are the way we are.’ Castille is a huge part of who I am. Of all of us. But when I think about this town, the first thing that comes to mind is the ocean.”
She ind
icates the drawings. “I think about the lobster boats leaving the cove at the crack of dawn. I think about fishing on Marlett’s Shore, biking on the coastal trail by the lighthouse, hanging out at the pier. I think about swimming at Hyde Beach, the freezing cold water and the blazing sun. And when I was creating this design, I realized that the ocean is a major part of Castille’s history and mine. It’s a constant. The one thing that hasn’t changed.”
She pauses. Her slender throat works with a swallow. I clench my jaw, my insides tightening.
Josie spreads her hand over the white-capped ocean in the foreground, rendered as an underwater view laden with fish and plants. “I envision the mural as the history of the town, starting with Native American and First Nation people, then the colonial era and continuing until today. The ocean is at the forefront, the element that has shaped the town more powerfully than anything else.”
The committee members all murmur with impressed approval. Josie hands out bound folders with details of her concepts, including a section about color and paint type.
“Since arriving several days ago, I’ve looked at the wall and surrounding space more closely,” she continues. “I’ve also taken into consideration the fact that the wall is next to the Botanical Gardens. I plan to use a specific color palette and light effects so the art reflects the unity of the ocean, the gardens, and the town. I’ll use a matte acrylic paint tinted with raw pigment, which will give the entire wall the soft aesthetic of a fresco. This will also contribute to both the natural and historical feeling of the work.”
An old hard pride in her talent floods my chest. I smother it.
With growing pleasure, the committee members study the drawings and ask Josie questions about the subject and technique.
“This is wonderful,” Allegra says. “That wall has needed a facelift for ages, and this is the perfect solution. I’m delighted you approached us with the proposal.”