I chuckled. “I don’t think they care about how much of a gentleman Mr. Darcy is.”
“See, that there is the problem. Instead of using library books to hide weapons, they should be educating themselves. No wonder they cut the freaking library budget.”
“I heard they did that.” I knew how much getting the women into the library, for reading groups and to teach them computer skills, meant to Fatima. “I’m sorry.”
She sighed heavily. “Shit, I knew it was coming. I’ll just make do with what I got. Anyhow, how was your date last night?”
“I told you it wasn’t a date.” Andrew and I didn’t date.
She shook her head in disappointment. “You need your head checked. So does this idiot you’re hooking up with. Nothing sweeter than coming home to your man after a long day at work.”
I looked at the gold wedding band she was subconsciously touching. “That’s not what you said last week when you were complaining about Derek forgetting to do the laundry, or the week before, when his idea of doing food shopping consisted of buying a year’s supply of beer and Cheetos.”
Fatima scowled at me. “Do you remember absolutely everything?”
“Pretty much.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Noted.” I laughed.
“Okay, so I want to kill Derek as much as I want to make sweet love to the man, but it’s nice living with my best friend. You should get yourself one and kick that Dr. Commitment-Phobe to the curb.”
“I told you, I like not being in a relationship.”
She grunted at me like she didn’t believe me, but the truth was I did like keeping things casual. I’d never had a serious relationship in my life. I came and went as I pleased. I made all the decisions in my life and got to live each day my way.
And on the days I got a little “fris-frisky” I had Andrew on speed dial.
“I’m setting you up.” Fatima got up from the desk with determination. “How do you feel about chocolate?” She winked at me.
Laughing, I shook my head. “Chocolate is very nice, but right now I am happy with my casual dose of vanilla.”
“That particular slice of vanilla is boring.” She huffed and her pager beeped. She checked it and all amusement fled her features.
“Everything okay?”
“Fight in the yard. Gotta go.”
“Be careful!” I called after her.
“Always am.”
The door slammed closed behind her and I felt a wave of uneasiness in my stomach. The uneasiness wouldn’t go away until she returned to let me know she was okay.
As I turned back to my computer my eye caught on the book Fatima had left on my desk. Curious, I took the old book in hand, feeling sad that the classic had been mutilated. I flicked open to the front pages and felt even sadder. The book was printed in 1940. A vintage copy of Pride and Prejudice would have some value. Not a lot, but some. Mostly its value was in its history.
And someone had destroyed it, completely oblivious to all that.
I flicked through the broken pages to the end and was just about to put the book down with a sigh when my thumb brushed over the back binding.
Hmm. It felt a little spongy—a little thicker than it should. With curious fingers I prodded at it. A faint line at the bottom near the spine drew my gaze. It looked like the paper that covered the leather there had been cut and opened and then resealed.
Why?
I pressed at the thickness.
There was something in there.
My heart rate started to speed up a little at the mystery of what the book might contain.
I looked up at the glass windows around my office. No one out there. No one watching.
The book and Mr. Darcy were already defiled so it wasn’t like I could do much further harm—I picked and picked at the line until eventually I was able to rip the paper back.
“What the . . .” I stared down at what had been placed inside the binding of the book. Tipping them over onto my lap, I stared at four small envelopes.
There was a name and address scrawled on all four.
The same name and address.
Mr. George Beckwith
131 Providence Road
Hartwell, DE 19972
Had an inmate hidden these letters in the book?
And when?
My fingers itched to rip open one of the envelopes.
The phone on my desk blared to life, making me jump. “Dr. Huntington,” I answered.
“An inmate on their way up. Yard fight. Nothing more serious than a deep cut.”
“Thanks,” I said and hung up. Without thinking about why, I stuffed the four little envelopes into my purse and hid it under my desk. I glued the paper back down on the binding of the book and put it aside for Fatima for when she came to collect it.
My door burst open as Fatima and Shayla, an inmate I was familiar with, came in. Shayla was hanging on to Fatima and clutching her stomach. “Fucking bitch!” she screeched. “I’m gonna fucking kill that motherfucking bitch!”
Fatima rolled her eyes at me as if to say, Is this our life? Really?
“Outstanding,” Andrew grunted out as he came.
I had a little giggle to myself as he rolled off of me and collapsed on his back.
Every time Andrew climaxed he grunted out the word “outstanding.” It was a nice compliment, but the longer our casual arrangement of sleeping together went on, the funnier I was beginning to find it.
And comedy wasn’t really high up on my list of dirty talk that worked for me. Although I did remind myself it was way better than the guy who kept referring to his dick as his rocket. Finally, while we were in the middle of sex, he told me that if I didn’t do something quick his rocket was going to launch and detonate. I started laughing before I could stop myself and he had no choice but to pull out of me. I tried to apologize, because it really wasn’t nice of me to laugh, but he stormed off in a huff. I never saw him again. I think that was for the best.
Andrew turned his head on the pillow and grinned at me.
I smiled back and he bounced up off the bed with the kind of energy a surgeon needed. Once he’d disappeared into the bathroom to dispose of the condom, I got up out of the bed. Inside my pants pocket I found my pager and checked it, even though I was pretty sure I hadn’t heard it go off. Sure enough, it was quiet.
“You are so sexy.”
I glanced up at Andrew. He was leaning against the bathroom door with his arms crossed over his chest, completely at ease with his nakedness. I felt the same way about being naked in front of him and grinned at him. “You’re kind of sexy yourself.” And it was true. The man worked out at the gym in his fancy-ass hospital between patients. He had a sleek, hard, athletic body that was a delight to explore in bed.
As for me, I normally wasn’t this sexually confident woman who walked around naked with ease. It was just that Andrew and I had been at this whole fuck-buddy thing for about three years now on and off. About a year after we’d started sleeping together, he met a woman and started dating her seriously, so we stopped. They broke up after about nine months, and Andrew realized he was just too much like me and we started our casual relationship back up again. Once you’d been naked with a guy that many times and he kept coming back for more, you were pretty confident that he liked your body, so I didn’t feel self-conscious around him.
“Just kind of?” He guffawed.
I didn’t say any more. The man had enough of an ego to fill the entire state of Delaware. It was best to keep him on his toes so it didn’t get even more out of hand than it already was.
“What are you doing?” he said as I began pulling my pants on.
“Going home.”
He pushed off the door frame, frowning as he strode toward me. He picked up my shirt and held it out of my reach.
“We just started. I put aside two hours for you.”
I tried not to roll my eyes at him. Andrew liked to think everything should be done on his schedule since he was the big important cardiothoracic surgeon. And in the interest of saving lives it probably should, but that didn’t mean I had to stick around when I didn’t want to. “I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”
Pouting—yes, pouting—he continued to withhold my shirt.
I stared him down. When we weren’t having sex it only reminded me of what a jackass he could be. Which was one of the reasons it would only ever be sex between us. His arrogance and self-involved sense of importance would drive me up the wall.
He thrust the shirt at me when he realized I wouldn’t back down. “So what is so important that it’s worth messing up my schedule?”
“I said I’d cover Dr. Whitaker’s shift at the prison,” I lied. In truth I was desperate to get home so I could finally open the letters I’d found. They had been on my mind my entire shift. For a moment I’d considered canceling my sex date with Andrew so I could read them, but I remembered he said he had a conference in Sweden coming up. Our sex dates were weekly and I’d gotten used to getting myself a little something-something on a regular basis so I figured I’d better get it while he was around to give it.
I watched his delicious ass as Andrew stomped across his bedroom to grab his neatly folded pants off a chair. “Why on earth do you insist on working in that shithole?”
My blood turned instantly hot at his condescending attitude toward my job. I swore to God, if the man didn’t know what to do with those hands of his I’d have wiped my own clean of him long since. “Quit it,” I bit out.
“No.” He spun around, his hands on his hips. “Jessica, you’re a fantastic, talented doctor. It’s a crying shame that you’re locked up in some dingy prison doctor’s office when you should be a surgical resident.” He donned his shirt, a look of disgust on his face. “I still can’t believe you left your residency and gave up the chance of a fellowship at the hospital. No one can.”
“Can we not do this again?” I snapped. We’d been having this argument for two years.
“Maybe if you’d tell me what the allure of the prison is, then yes. Why do you insist on staying there?”
Instead of answering I sighed, grabbed my bag, and walked over to him. I brushed my fingertips over the frown line between his brows and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his mouth. “Good night, Andrew.”
I walked out of his apartment, knowing he’d gotten the reminder.
We were just fuck buddies.
He had no right to answers about anything in my life.
THREE
Jessica
Despite the fact that I spent little time away from work, I stretched myself financially to rent my two-bedroom apartment downtown. I’d wanted the extra space so that my best friend, Matthew, his wife, Helena, and my goddaughter, Perry, could visit whenever they wanted.
It was a spacious and airy apartment with an open-plan kitchen and living room. It was stylish and comfortable, and my whole body seemed to sigh with relief every time I stepped inside it. I didn’t get much alone time here, but when I did, I savored it.
The first thing I did was shower, hurrying through the process and then speeding through blowing out my hair. It was still damp when I changed into my pajamas and wandered casually into the kitchen. The kitchen was the reason I chose the place. It was sleek, glossy, and white—white cabinets, white tile flooring, white sink, white stove: white, white, white. But the whiteness was broken up by the backsplash of leaf tiles—copper foil encased in glass. It was a glamorous touch of luxury, as was the huge picture window at the end of the kitchen that gave me a fantastic view of the city.
I grabbed a cold beer and stood at my kitchen counter, staring out the large window as if I hadn’t a care in the world. But trying to relax was impossible when my eyes kept drifting to my purse. I’d left it sitting on my favorite armchair.
Screw it.
I couldn’t wait anymore.
With cold beer in hand I curled up on the chair and pulled the envelopes out of my purse. Part of me wondered why whoever wrote them didn’t mail them, and why they stuck them inside of a book. Did they want them to be found eventually? Or was it wrong of me to read them?
I let my conscience decide it was the former. Putting my beer down, I opened all the envelopes. Inside were letters with lovely feminine handwriting. I checked each for a date.
They were written in 1976, forty years ago.
Wow.
I got little goose bumps just from touching the decades-old paper.
Putting them into chronological order, I picked up the first one, along with my beer, and settled in to read.
Sarah Randall
Inmate No. 50678
Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility
Wilmington, DE 19801
April 14, 1976
My darling George,
What you must think of me. I dread it. In fact, I can barely breathe under the weight of my secrets, secrets that have kept me from you. Secrets that have destroyed all the good you ever thought of me.
Perhaps it’s too late to explain. It’s definitely too late to change my circumstances. But not too late to change yours. Not too late to change how you think of me. I think I’d be okay if I knew you could forgive me.
You need to know that I love you. I have loved you from the moment we collided on the boardwalk and you picked up my books and asked me if you could carry them for me. It was such an old-fashioned gesture, when all the other boys were too busy trying to be cool. You were always just you. And you were the kindest, most thoughtful boy I’d ever met. And you made me laugh. I never knew I could laugh like that until I met you.
Do you remember the day Kitty Green put my clothes down the toilet after gym class? I had to wear my gym clothes all day and everyone knew and laughed and teased me. Not only did you stand up for me, you took me to the boardwalk after school and you did all these funny impressions of Kitty and the mean girls. You turned my tears into laughter.
You have always turned my tears into laughter.
It was real between us. You have to know that. From that first smile, to our first kiss, to the first time you made love to me.
I never wanted those moments with anyone else.
If you believe anything in this world, believe that.
Believe that I love you more than any other person and that that love will never die. You’ll be the last image in my mind the day I leave this world, and I hope that image of your goodness, the love I feel for you, will be enough for God to recognize that I know of Heaven and I cherish its value. Perhaps in that knowledge He will forgive me and welcome me home.
Forever yours,
Sarah
It took me a moment to reach for the next letter. Already my chest ached. It was so desperately sad to read the woman’s profession of love without knowing why this stranger had been separated from someone she cared so deeply for. A small part of me envied her, her love. The larger part of me knew I shouldn’t. She had clearly suffered even though she had known love.
I picked up the next letter, desperate to know the reason for their separation and her incarceration.
Sarah Randall
Inmate No. 50678
Women’s Correctional and Rehabilitation Facility
Wilmington, DE 19801
April 23, 1976
My darling George,
I am so sorry. I meant to explain everything in my first letter. I truly did. For a moment I lost courage. All that seemed important was telling you I loved you. But as important as that is, I realize it’s just as important for you to hear that I didn’t love Ron.
I pleaded guilty because it was the truth, George. I killed Ron. I killed my husband.
He didn’t deserve the
title. He was cruel. Beyond cruel. There is no excuse good enough for taking a man’s life, I know that. But I was protecting myself. I’d taken so much for so long. He kept hurting me. From the night of our wedding until the day I shot him, Ron hurt me.
I didn’t want to marry him. He forced my hand. On the night of our wedding he took . . . I never wanted him. Not once throughout our marriage did I want him.
I was becoming nothing. I lost myself and it was his fault. He took everything from me. He took you from me.
That night he came home angry about something. He was so angry. He’d threatened to kill me before, and the last time he’d been so angry that he’d almost succeeded. He beat me so bad I lost consciousness for hours. He had a doctor come in from out of town. He paid him a lot of money to keep quiet. Ron told everyone I’d gone to a spa for a few weeks. He almost killed me and yet he told people he’d paid for me to go to a spa.
So I knew. I knew that night when he came home that he was going to kill me. I felt it coming. I can’t explain it. I just knew in my gut. He managed to get a few hits in before I got away from him and got to his gun. I knew where he hid it. I made sure I knew after that last time.
He sneered at me. Said I didn’t have the backbone to do it.
I shot him in the heart. And I was surprised. Really surprised when it killed him. I just wanted him to stop.
I shot him.
Please forgive me, George.
I feel guilty. Ashamed. I do. But I also feel relief that I’m free of him. Maybe if you forgive me, I can forgive myself.
Forever yours,
Sarah
I was surprised at the splash of water that fell on the paper and I jerked it away from my tears. The ache in my chest had intensified as I read the second letter and for the first time in a long time I cried. I cried for this faceless woman. I cried for the powerlessness, the pain, and the truthful shame of that freedom that Sarah’s words invoked.
My phone suddenly rang and I felt like I jumped a foot in fright. For a moment there, everything had disappeared, including the apartment.
The One Real Thing (Hart's Boardwalk) Page 2