Unbearable (The Port Fare Series)

by Sherry Gammon

  “Me, too. The past eighteen months have been a nightmare.” I sank back into his arms. “I’m so happy to see everyone. I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

  “Go ahead and put your suitcase in your old room.” Mom kissed my cheek again. “Freshen up. I’m making grilled salmon for lunch.”

  Abby grabbed my hand and dragged me down the hall to the old bedroom we’d shared. Unlike the rest of the house, this room looked completely different. A queen bed and a faded, floral print quilt replaced our twin beds and silky pink bedspreads. The room no longer screamed a couple of teenage girls live here, that’s for sure.

  Abby laughed and plopped down onto the bed, crumpling the bedspread. “Grandma’s old quilt, remember?” I smiled at the faded old thing as she picked up a corner and showed me where my grandmother had hand stitched her name and the date.

  “When did all this happen?” I gestured to the room as I sat next to her.

  “After I got married.” I missed her wedding. Garen insisted we couldn’t afford to go. She leaned over the side, grabbing something from under the bed. “But I saved these.”

  She handed me a CD and my old ballet shoes from when I danced in the Nutcracker as a child. “My Taylor Swift CD.” I remembered Abby had given it to me for Christmas right after I got married, but Garen didn’t care for country music. Being newly married, I didn’t want to rock the boat so I asked Abby to keep it for me until I could soften Garen up a little. That worked out well.

  I flipped the CD over and smiled. Taylor stood there, her curly blonde hair flying everywhere. The word “Fearless” was printed across the bottom. It was exactly how I felt at the time.

  How things had changed.

  Abby went over to the white dresser and took a pushpin from a small glass bowl and pressed it into the wall. She tied the ribbon from my ballet slippers together and hung them over the pin.

  “Thanks, Abby,” I said, setting the CD on the dresser. We lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, neither of us speaking for a bit.

  “Life sure didn’t turn out how I’d imagined it.” I twisted carefully onto my side. “Are you and Calvin happy?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “He’s a wonderful guy, Tess. He treats me like a queen. He . . . ah . . . he has a brother that’s single. After your divorce is final we thought it would be fun to fix you two up.”

  “No. I’m done. I’ll never marry again. I doubt I’ll date again either.” I cringed at the thought. “Lesson learned.”

  She sat up and crossed her legs. “You can’t judge all men by Garen. Calvin’s never hit me. He’s never even come close. He wouldn’t.”

  “I know they’re not all evil like Garen, but I’m not so lucky when it comes to men. Remember Tim Soren in tenth grade? He was a loser, too.” Tim never hit me, but he did struggle with telling the truth and stealing. “Last I heard he was serving time for car theft.”

  “Tess, you dated the guy for two months,” she pointed out.

  I shrugged. “No more men.”

  “After the divorce is final, and you’ve had some time to heal, you’ll feel differently,” she said with confidence. Not wanting to burst her bubble, I let the subject drop.

  “Dad talked to Martha’s dad, Mr. Velazquez. He’s agreed to help with the divorce. From what Mom was saying, he’s pretty sharp.”

  The Velazquez family had hosted my wedding in their backyard. We’d come full circle now. They were there to help me celebrate my wedding, and they’d be there to help me end the nightmare.

  “Garen’s going to cause problems. It’s going to get ugly, and expensive. He considers me his property. No way is he going to let go easily . . . if ever.”

  “Dad said Michael Velazquez would work his fee into the settlement. It won’t cost you a thing, considering the circumstances,” she added softly.

  “Good luck with that. Garen’s pretty tight with his money. We always seemed to have money when he needed something, but never when I did.”

  “Tess, how did it happen? You used to be confident and sure of yourself. Why didn’t you leave when he started hitting you?” Abby asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “At first it seemed insignificant. A slap here, a shove there. I brushed it off, thinking it wasn’t a big deal.” She started to say something and I stopped her. “I know. Major mistake. Hitting and shoving are never okay.” She settled back down.

  “He picked away at my self worth, little by little, every day. I doubted myself and my abilities. I kept trying to please him, to make him happy. I thought if I could get him to see I wasn’t a total mess up, or a waste like he told me I was too many times to count, he’d love me as much as I loved him.” Rubbing my temples to relieve the pounding in my head did little to subdue the pain I now felt from rehashing my failure. “I lost myself.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Finally, I realized I had to get out or he’d eventually kill me. I was trying to get a job so I could save enough money to come home when . . .”

  “Don’t worry. The worst is over.” She wrapped my arm in hers and squeezed.

  I lay back down on the bed as my stomach knotted. My family had no idea what we were up against.

  As I predicted, the divorce proceedings were ugly. I tried shielding my parents from Garen’s lies, worried about my dad’s health, but they overheard enough to figure it out. Garen not only gave his lawyer a copy of the video he’d made of me drugged up, but he had pictures of me that fed his paranoia. The situations were innocent enough, helping a random stranger pick up some spilled groceries, or a lunch with friends. But somehow everything looked salacious simply by the angles of the shot or they’d been cropped to create an intimacy that just wasn’t there. The photo of me having a soda after the dance tryouts was the worst. Whomever Garen hired to follow me positioned the shot so it looked as if I were whispering into one of the male dancer’s ears, which was not the case at all.

  “You have no case, Velazquez. This is one of many men she was having an affair with,” he bellowed during a meeting with my lawyer. He slapped the picture down on Michael’s large oak desk, and I jerked back. Garen demanded the meeting to try and work out our problems without lawyers. He claimed that he wanted to reconcile. I refused to meet without Michael present, which angered him, but he agreed anyway.

  I picked up the photo and pointed out that I was talking to someone next to the dancer, and that the dancer he said I was having an affair with was, in fact, gay. Garen produced several more pictures, most were clearly manipulated, but a couple were damning.

  When Michael stepped out into the hall to take a phone call, leaving the double doors wide open, Garen came next to me. I stood my ground, fighting with all I had not to flinch. “You’re my wife, whore. I’ll destroy you before I let you go. Capiche?”

  “Move away from my client now or I will have you arrested.” Michael had placed a restraining order against Garen, angering my soon to be ex to no end.

  Garen spun around, shooting daggers at Michael with his eyes. “I will destroy you and your client. You’ve been warned.” Garen scurried out of the room like the rat he was, slamming the door behind him.

  I dropped my face into my hands, flooded with feelings of hopelessness. “This is never going to end.”

  “Tess,” Michael said, passing me a tissue, “it will, we just need to get something on him. He has a lot of damaging photos and videos—”

  “All false.” I shot to my feet and crossed the room, staring out the window at the ocean.

  “Be that as it may, they do make you look bad.” He picked up a yellow notepad and sat in his leather chair. “We need something on him. Something big.”

  “How about the fact that he tried to kill me?” I spit out.

  “Unfortunately, that’s your word against his. He’s still claiming your house was broken into.” He rubbed his forehead in frustration.

  Garen went all out to make it look like we had a break-in. The front door to our little house had bee
n kicked open, shattering the doorframe. Our living room furniture was in complete disarray, with the couch flipped onto its back and the chair onto its side. He’d emptied the contents of the dresser drawers onto the floor, and pushed the mattress off the box springs. Garen even went so far as to file a police report.

  “Okay, he works for Senator Graft, who has a pretty shoddy reputation himself. Did Garen ever talk about questionable tactics he participated in? Maybe election fraud or illegal use of power?”

  I spun to face Michael. “Several times. One evening after dinner, they talked about illegal voter registration, and about hacking into emails. Oh, and they said they were going to pay off some judge.”

  A smile grew on Michael’s face. “This could work. I know a top-notch private detective that specializes in political investigations. Let me give him a call and see what we can come up with.”

  It didn’t take long. Two days later Michael came by the house with not only photos of Garen and Senator Graft with a notorious crime boss, but phone records as well.

  “These records are not admissible in court,” he waved the paper at me, “but now that we know what Garen’s been up to, we can request a search warrant and obtain them legally,” he chuckled. “My guess is that Graft will cover his sorry butt and put pressure on Garen into signing the divorce papers, mostly to cover his own skin. Graft’s not going to want this to get out, not with his dream of becoming Governor.”

  That was all we needed. Garen crumbled, just as Michael predicted, though he didn’t go quietly. He called me the night before I signed the papers and laid into me, swearing he’d get even for my threat to expose him and his criminal acts. My dad grabbed the phone, reminding Garen we had a restraining order against him and he’d better not call me again.

  “Here and here, also.” Michael pointed to the last two places I needed to sign the divorce document.

  “I don’t trust Garen. He’s going to come after me. He hates losing. He’s a major control freak, if you haven’t already guessed.” I set the pen down and slid the documents across the desk to Michael.

  “I thought the exact same thing, so I hedged our position. I contacted Senator Graft directly and told him if Garen comes within five miles of you or your family, or if any of the photos or the video mysteriously gets out, my information would be turned over to the attorney general’s office in Texas, ASAP.” Michael beamed proudly.

  I sat back in my chair, relaxing a little for the first time since leaving the hospital. “So this is it. My maiden name’s been restored, and no more Garen Johnson to worry about?” Michael nodded. I wanted to dance around, shout for joy, but part of me still didn’t believe it was over. I knew Garen too well. He didn’t lose, ever.

  It’d been seven weeks since the divorce became final. Six months since I left the hospital broken and crestfallen. Garen was back in Texas working for Graft again, who’d announced his bid for the office of governor. I never heard from Garen. Not a text, not a phone call. Nothing. Life was slowly getting better. My sister was pregnant, and my dad’s cancer treatments had finished. My mother celebrated his success, while dad celebrated that his hair no longer fell out.

  I applied for and got a job teaching ballet to five year olds at a local dance studio, and loved every second of it.

  “Mom, I’m going to get started on the garden,” I called out, grabbing some work gloves and a floppy straw hat.

  “Okay. I have to pay some bills, but I’ll be out soon,” she said from the office.

  The sun shone bright. I turned my face upward and soaked in the warmth. Exhilarating. I worked the soil along the edge of the garden spot. Dad loved to garden. I decided to plant one for him this year since he didn’t quite have the energy to do it himself. I loved watching his face as the vegetables began sprouting. He got such a kick out of it.

  I turned over the soil and smoothed out the clumps. After an hour, my stiff back and tight shoulders demanded a break. I speared the shovel into the soil and twisted at the waist to loosen my back.

  “Hello, whore.”

  My knees gave out at the sound of Garen’s voice. My heart beat so hard it reverberated in my ears. His shoes crunched on some loose gravel scattered across the driveway. I turned to face him.

  “Stop,” I croaked while trying to regain my composure. Garen chuckled the sick depraved laugh I’d grown to hate. “The restraining order is still in effect.”

  He shrugged. “Not a problem. I have women who will vow I was with them when you died. In fact, Senator Graft will vouch for me.”

  He lifted his hands up. Only then did I notice the rope wrapped around them. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t run. I stood frozen, staring at his hands twisting the rope. “Guess you should have brought your gun out here with you, whore. Then you just may have surv—”

  “Get off my property before I call the police.” My mother stood firm behind Garen, her feet planted shoulder width apart, and dad’s favorite Glock in her hand. Only it was no good. Garen knew my mom hated guns and had never shot one. I doubted the gun was loaded.

  Garen turned to her and grinned warmly, as if greeting an old friend. “Hello, Jenny.”

  “It’s Mrs. Selleck to you. Now leave before I make a mess of your freshly pressed shirt.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” He stepped closer to her. She lifted the gun higher, pointing it at his chest.

  Garen raised his hands, letting the rope dangle from one. “Mrs. Selleck, I thought you and I were on the same side of gun control.”

  “I’m on the side of protecting my family from scum like you. Now leave.” My mom’s voice oozed anger. Garen had a good six inches on her, and yet she didn’t flinch.

  “Sorry. I have something to take care of first.” He pointed to me. “She’s mine. She left me, and threatened me. She needs to be taught a lesson.”

  Garen looked back at me; my mom never saw him coming. Like the wind, he twisted around and ripped the gun away from her, punching her in the face, and knocking her into the side of the house. She slid to the ground. He raised his fist to hit her again, only I was faster.

  I grabbed the shovel from the garden and ran at him, bringing it down onto his head with all I had. He fell to the ground, hitting the concrete with a thud. Blood poured from the back of his head. He didn’t move. I ran to my mom and helped her up.

  “Are you okay?” I looked at her jaw with its angry red streak, courtesy of my crazy ex-husband.

  “I’m fine. Grab the gun.” She pointed to the gun that was now just out of Garen’s reach. I scooped it up, surprised to find it loaded.

  The back door opened and my father came out holding his favorite rifle. “I thought I heard that scumbag’s voice. Is he dead?”

  My body shook violently as the adrenalin wore off. “Dead?” I turned to Garen’s body. A small puddle of blood now lay next to him. “There’s so much blood.” I’d never been bothered by blood before, but that . . . that was so much, too much blood. I fell to my knees and vomited on the driveway.

  My dad went over to Garen’s body and felt for a pulse. “He’s alive.” Disappointment hung in his voice. He pulled out his cell phone. As he spoke to someone on the other end, my mom wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

  “Come inside, Tess.” She stroked my hair.

  “This is never going to end. He’s not going to stop until I’m dead.” My brother’s car came tearing into the driveway a few minutes later.

  “Why is Craig here?” I asked. My brother jumped out of his car and ran over to Garen and felt for a pulse.

  “Tess, your father and I worried that Garen would come back so we created an emergency plan in case he did,” Mom explained. “We need to hide you, or you’re right, he’ll kill you.” She swatted away a tear.

  “Is the bag in the house?” Craig asked Dad.

  “Yes, under our bed,” Dad answered.

  “What is going on?” I asked, still sick to my stomach.

  “Craig’s going to take you to the women’s shelter i
n town. There’s ten thousand dollars in the suitcase, along with some clothes. There’s also a number you can call . . .” Tears rolled down Dad’s cheeks. “This guy, he can get you some . . . new ID. A driver’s license, a Social Security card.” He broke down in my arms. “Be safe, Sugar Cube.”

  No. I didn’t want to go. I was back with my family. I looked at my mother’s jaw. The red streak had started to turn black.

  I had to leave.

  “I love you, Daddy,” I said as our tears mixed. He led me to the car as my mother threw her arms around me one more time.

  “I love you.” Her words were muffled against my neck. I tightened my arms around her.

  “The shelter will help you to relocate, Tess.” Dad opened the car door. “Pick somewhere Garen will never guess. And whatever you do, do not tell us or anyone where you are going.”

  All this was so unfair, yet I had no choice. Garen would never stop, not until I was dead. Never. Knowing that didn’t make it easier. Both my parents drew me into another embrace.

  “Please be careful,” Mom said, letting go. “Please.”

  “I love you, Mom.” I hugged them both, squeezing with all I had.

  I glared back at the motionless Garen on the driveway as Craig put my suitcase in the backseat and got in the car. “Wait. What about him?”

  “I got it all covered.” Dad patted my shoulder. “Garen attacked your mother when he came here looking for you. I grabbed the first thing I could find to protect her, the shovel, and hit him over the head with it.” My father seemed proud of his story. He wiped the shovel clean of my fingerprints with his shirttails as he spoke. The man who prided himself on honesty was about to perjure himself.

  “What if he dies? That’s murder,” I said. No way would I allow my sick father to go to jail for me.

  “He’s not going to die,” my brother said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the car. “We have to go. The ambulance is on its way.” A siren cut through the air as he spoke.

  “Daddy, I can’t—”

  “Tess.” He took my hand through the window. “I’m not going to force this on you. Maybe I’m wrong.” He looked at the unconscious Garen, then back at me. Doubt weighed heavy in his eyes. “You know Garen better than all of us. Do you believe he’s going to stop coming after you?”