by Heidi Brod
“Six plus one.”
“Good.”
“What do you do if he is choking you?” Jacob asks.
“I strike at his eyes.”
Jacob says, “That’s right, and use the same motion as Superman ripping off his shirt, up and out, sending your elbow into his face. You will need to think fast. Counter with something that will do the most damage or just cause enough pain to distract him, and then strike again until you win.”
I can shut out the past. I will keep moving forward. I am getting stronger.
Jacob says, “A warrior’s strength is measured by his capacity to empathize and forgive. You will be able to stand up in the face of adversity for the ones you love. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
Hope is the only thing that conquers fear. I am completely focused. My mind is open, and I will train to the point of exhaustion.
“Trust me: with three intense days of training, you will leave with enough skill to feel safe in your mind, out in the world, and in your own home. Nobody should have to live in fear. You have a family to protect.”
I think of Harper and Sky. He’s right. I need to see Harper.
We have so much damage between us, it’s hard to know if we’re broken beyond repair, shooting arrows at each other and striking at the heart.
If Harper is truly sorry, he will have to let me go, at least long enough to find the killer.
Eighteen
HARPER AND SERAPHINA
Gravitation is a natural phenomenon, the force of attraction that draws together any two objects in the universe. Our love has always been magnetic, and now I find myself pacing outside the Greenwich Hotel with its vermillion tapestry, trying to control the unseen forces that keep trying to rip us apart.
Even after Jessa and all that Harper has put me through, a part of me still wants him. When I see him walking toward me, looking tired and broken, my heart breaks with him. The strength of our love is still bonded by history and a child, and I have to fight for my own peace if I want to close the gap between us.
We walk through Locande Verde, getting lost in the rustic and industrial vibe and buzz of conversation swirling around us.
Harper is wearing a baseball hat, jeans, and a dark hoodie. We blend in and make our way into the lobby, where the breathtaking design, woodsy scent, and a shot of tequila soothe my nerves like Novocain.
We let the silence surround us, taking comfort in each other. I close my eyes for a moment and let the feeling of being safe surround me, that feeling of being alive and in this moment.
“You look like shit, Harp.”
“I’m sorry. I should have trusted you. I didn’t believe you. Can you forgive me?” Harper says.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore or who to trust. All I know is our family is in trouble and I can’t wait around for someone to save me.”
He waits, knowing me and that I won’t let him off that easily.
“I think I can forgive you for the affair, but not for doubting me. If you had believed me, none of this would have ever happened. We took an oath: in sickness and in health. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“It means everything to me.”
“I was alone with Sky. I needed you. You left me alone, carrying the weight of all of it. You were out every day and every night.”
He waits, looking deep into me, taking in every word. “And what I’m doing, raising our child, is just as important, and it’s all right if nobody else sees it that way. But not you. You were supposed to get it. So when did you stop believing in me and start doubting us?”
“I’m sorry, but everything I’ve done is for us, our family. And your anger, it’s like a fire that burns through everything. It’s explosive, and I can’t talk to you.”
“I’ve always been that way, and you’ve always been able to take that kind of heat. You’re my husband, my partner. You came into this with eyes open. I haven’t changed. What kind of person turns away when someone they love is in need? How do you expect me to trust you and for us to have a future?”
“You pushed me away.”
“I’m sorry for that. I really am.”
Harper says, “I wish I could go back in time and do it all over again, but I can’t. I know that I still love you, and I don’t want to lose you. What more can I do? I miss you all the time. I know I fucked up. I’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you. But the kind of love we have is rare, and I’ll do whatever it takes to get you back.”
He has tears in his eyes. “What can I do now to save our family?”
“Believe in me now. That is how you can support me and build back my trust. You cheated on me, Harp. I’m not sure if I can forgive you. I know our family is in danger.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve learned how to shoot a 9-mm Glock. I’m wearing it now. I’ve been learning Krav Maga, so next time I find myself alone in a dark alley, I won’t be the victim.”
“I think it’s too dangerous.”
“I don’t care what you think. It’s too late for your opinion about this to matter. I feel I’m facing life and death, and I want to live. Finally, I want to live.”
In his eyes, I see something I haven’t seen for a long time: his fear and pain.
“I need you to take care of our daughter, get to know her, because she’s amazing, and right now, she’s the best thing about the two of us, if there even is an ‘us.’”
I can see Harper visibly flinch, as if I have punched him in the stomach.
“I’m going to put my life back together so I can be a mother to my child. That’s really all I ever wanted to be.”
Harper says, “I never stopped loving you. And I never will.”
As I walk away, I can feel my spirit, and with it a new light. I remember the lines and colors of the phoenix I painted, and I can see it now, rising up from a bed of lies.
All of these years, banging my head against a wall, as I walk out into the darkness, spilling onto Greenwich Street, I find the strength that I have always been looking for. With each step, I grow stronger, the cobblestone streets of Tribeca stretching out underneath me.
Nineteen
SERAPHINA AND JACOB
I spend the weekend with Jacob, reenacting the attack and preparing myself for another violent encounter. Jacob pushes, to the point of breaking me in half. Stress drills, counterattacking strategies, targeted strikes to vulnerable points, and maintaining awareness of my surroundings, these are things that matter most in the case of another attack.
I call home to check on Sky. The sound of her voice brings tears to my eyes.
Now I feel like I need to keep pushing, train to get stronger, and blow off a little steam. I need to be alone, to think about everything, including Harper and last night’s conversation.
As I enter Central Park, I’m struck by the dramatic view of the Manhattan skyline.
I decide to go for a run around the reservoir, which used to be one of my favorite things to do when we lived in the city. I lose myself in the pounding of my feet as they hit the soft surface of the dirt road, kicking up smoke. The fresh air and sweeping views of the park revive me.
It is a warm day, and the city is quiet. Memorial Day weekend is just on the horizon, unfolding into the start of summer. I lose myself in the rhythm of my surroundings.
My mind is clear and ready, and it doesn’t take long for me to realize that someone is following me, tracking my every move. I test it by veering off onto another trail. This evil presence follows me, without breaking stride.
My senses heightened and on alert, I fight that feeling of regret, questioning my decision to venture out alone. I focus on the moment, staying calm and breathing, sharp and focused. No more regrets. If this is my moment, I own it.
I have no one to blame but myself for this decision.
I haven’t seen anyone else nearby since I came around the last bend. I scan for joggers, anyone to give me some sense of safety. It’s all quiet. I’m alone with my thoughts.
In the distance, the sun is setting in shades of glowing amber. I can feel my heart rate accelerating, the increased speed and strength in my limbs as I run faster.
For a moment, doubt creeps in, and I wonder if this is all in my mind, but the training has conditioned me to trust the instinct that I am in danger.
Someone is stalking me.
I trip over a rock; the stress from the rising fear makes me lose some of my fine motor skills.
I can hear Jacob’s voice in my head: “Remain calm. Keep breathing. Don’t let the fear take over.”
This is hard. The pain from my past is coming back to haunt me. That fear alone is powerful and hungry, like a wolf circling, threatening to devour me. I feel the outline of my gun. I am down to a two-second draw. This gives me comfort. I have the maximum number of rounds in the chamber.
I reach and draw the gun, turning to face my attacker. But nothing is there. I don’t see a fierce man or beast.
All I hear are the faint sounds of nature and the whistle of the breeze as it gently shakes the leaves.
Nobody is on this path but me. It’s dangerously quiet, and it’s getting late. I veer off onto another path I think leads out of the park.
I think of the Robert Frost poem, “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”
I can’t find my way out, and I’m alone.
I picked the wrong path, and it takes me around another winding bend, the quickest one out of the park and back into plain sight.
I put the gun away, realizing I’m in Central Park and I just took out my weapon. It must be my mind playing tricks after all. I convince myself it’s just me, out here all alone.
I run faster. The path sweeps underneath a bridge, dark and twisty. I stop and listen. I look for a way around it, even if it means running up a hill, cutting through poison ivy, or climbing a tree. Anything is better than the dark path inside that tunnel.
Finally seeing no way around it, I edge forward, my face ashen and pallid. My hands are clammy, my legs weakening.
As I move through it, I hear a branch snap behind me. I run quickly through the tunnel and out into the sunlight. I stop on the other side and turn to look back, and another runner shoots by me, focusing only on his own race and getting to the finish line.
Then I’m alone again.
I focus on my breath. Easy. In and out.
The clouds have rolled in on a wave of my anxiety. I wish it away, imagining it rises up above the clouds on wings of pixie dust and sand.
I see a path winding up and out of the park, and I change course. I take a few more slow breaths. I am tired of running.
In that moment, I don’t see him as he steps out of the tunnel and grabs me by the hair, drawing me back inside the darkness.
At first I don’t fight back; I let him pull me backward.
I can hear Jacob’s voice in my head: “Stay calm. You know what to do. Breathe. Stay present.”
My heart racing, I move my hands back as far as I can, with force, remembering the Superman motion, plucking his hands straight down, bringing my elbows to my sides.
I step back and send an elbow into his face as hard as I can, turning toward him.
He’s wearing a black mask and I continue striking until he retreats and falls to the ground.
That’s when I hear a familiar voice. “Seraphina. You can stop now. It’s me, Jacob. I think you broke my nose.”
I tear off his mask.
“Are you crazy? I could have shot and killed you.”
“I know. But I’m wearing a bulletproof vest, and I taught you to aim for the heart. So really, it was a calculated risk,” Jacob says, taking me in his arms. “I’m sorry.”
We stand in silence, holding each other, my heart still pounding inside my chest.
Jacob wraps his arms around me tighter. I look up into his eyes, and they are blurred by violence and the depth of his emotions.
He turns me so I’m facing away from him and says, “I need to know that when you leave tomorrow, you will have the skills to defend yourself.”
“Haven’t I been tested enough? You didn’t have to do that. I’m ready,” I say.
“I didn’t do it for you,” he says.
Jacob kisses my hair softly, taking a deep breath in, both of us intoxicated by the undeniable thrill of his chase.
That night, I dream of Jacob, and I’m filled with love and desire for him. The streets are crowded and charged with erotic energy. We enter a movie theater, and I stumble through the darkness.
In front of me, I can see two rooms, one covered by a curtain of white light. I look inside and watch as Jacob and I make love.
Twenty
SERAPHINA AND CARTER
“Have you ever taken off from the water?” the pilot asks.
“Never,” I say, fastening my seat belt, safely in Carter’s private seaplane, taking me to Montauk.
As the sun stretches out over the East River, the water sparkles and shimmers, like a treasure chest filled with gold. Soon we are up and soaring above it all, the water smooth as glass, a peaceful quiet place that calms the unrest churning deep inside me.
This view is infinitely better than the one from the Long Island Expressway, with droves of Manhattanites sardined along the highway, making the pilgrimage “out east” for the first big summer weekend in the Hamptons.
I will always love Montauk, the low-key cousin of the Hamptons, with its jewel-toned sunsets, high sand dunes, and beaches populated with wispy American beach grass.
Yesterday with Jacob, although terrifying, demonstrated his perversity—and an undeniable attraction growing between us.
Was I also intoxicated by the thrill of his chase? That rush of adrenaline and the power that comes from fighting back is turning into a twisted desire. The roles of teacher and student have always been precarious for me. Something inside me is drawn to darkness, chaos, and self-immolation, and now I have to fight the temptation of another vice.
As I step off the Cessna, my mood lifts, and I wonder about Carter. It feels good to be out of the city and away from the media circus that our lives have become.
Again I’m reminded of my first summer in Montauk with Harper.
I am positive Carter will show up with his car and driver. I squint and put my hand to my forehead for shade. I can see him by the curb now, just waiting.
I remember the last time we saw each other in Cambridge. He was angry that I was leaving. He had asked me to travel the world with him, just commit to a life of adventure and learning.
I wasn’t ready for it at the time. It just wasn’t the life I saw for myself.
For Carter, life was easy. He never had to work for anything. His family money left him spoiled and unwilling to accept anything less than the best of what life has to offer.
“Hi, beautiful. Look at you. It’s great to see you.” He stands there for a moment, gazing at me, taking in every detail.
“You too. I mean, you look great,” I say, hugging him and letting him pull me close.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says.
Carter has an easy, breezy style about him, dressed in colored chinos and a Ralph Lauren oxford with driving moccasins and sunglasses. He fits in perfectly, very Hamptons chic.
“I’m not sure I want any more surprises,” I say.
He opens the door, and I climb into the back of the SUV.
Carter is still rugged and handsome. For a moment, I feel like I’m back at school, hooking up in the stacks of Widener Library.
“I’m sorry to hear about everything you’re going through, and you know I’m here for you,
” Carter says. “I’m always here for you.”
“Thank you. That’s part of the reason I’m here. I want to talk to you about what happened in Boston.”
“I know. I got your message. I thought it might be nice to go to Deep Hollow Ranch, and then we can talk over lunch. It’s such a nice day, and I’m sure you need a break. Horseback riding always used to clear your mind. Do you still like to ride?”
“I do. That sounds great, but I didn’t bring anything to wear,” I say.
“I’ve got everything here. I had my assistant pick up some clothing and riding gear. I hope that’s all right. Maybe we can take a tour of part of the former Warhol estate if you like,” Carter says.
“That would be amazing. I have always wanted to see that estate. I’ve only seen it in pictures, that collection of white cottages overlooking the ocean and those sweeping views. It looks incredible. So many of my idols have passed through that estate—Jackie O., Lee Radziwill, the Rolling Stones, Truman Capote.”
It feels so easy to be back with Carter. I never have to worry about anything. He takes care of it all.
I say, “Isn’t it next to Peter Beard’s house? My father is a collector of the End of the Game series, when he lived in Africa and documented the elephants and wildlife. Amazing stuff.”
“I didn’t know your father collected photography. I spent two years in Africa studying traditional African medicine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I sent you a letter. Did you ever get it?”
“No, I never got anything from you.”
“Well, I did.”
“I’m sorry. I would have written you back. I never got it.”
“Nothing really. It’s no big deal. Peter Beard was Warhol’s crazy next-door neighbor. Rumor has it that he used to cut himself and paint in his own blood.”
Carter adds, “And that he jumped in and out of a snake pit in his own home just to keep things interesting. I can show you his property. It’s high up on the bluff.”
He takes out a bottle of chilled rosé, opens it, and hands me a glass. It’s strikingly pale in color, and I breathe in the aroma, fresh and fruity. It reminds me of summer.