Burned Bridges: Oliana Mercer Series Prequel (Crossing Series)

by Marguerite Ashton

  “Your injured your knee in a car accident?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And it still hurts after all of this time?”

  “Not usually. Lately, though.”

  “Did they get the person responsible?”

  “She was in the car with me.”

  “I see. My guess is, the extra weight you’re putting on with your pregnancy is the culprit. Try using ice packs for your knee, and if it doesn’t alleviate the pain, I’ll write you a script for a pregnancy-safe painkiller.”

  Dr. Tellis laid me back on the table and lifted my gown, exposing my belly.

  “Are you ready to see your little one?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Tellis picked up a bottle, squirting warm goo on my bare skin. He switched on the ultrasound machine, and a warbling sound sprang from the speakers. He searched on my right side for my baby’s heartbeat.

  Wubbawubbawubbawubba. It was music to my soul.

  “Nice and strong,” he said, continuing to move the Doppler over my belly. “Looking at this I’d say you’re two days shy of your second trimester.”

  “What? That can’t be. The nurse told me ten or eleven.”

  “You’re almost fourteen weeks.”

  “But I—”

  “With irregular menstrual cycles, like yours, it’s easy to lose track of when you had your last period. Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

  You could say that. “I fell off the wagon about a couple of weeks back,” I confessed. “I’m scared I may have hurt my baby.”

  “You may have, it’s true. But statistics for fetal alcohol syndrome vary. We know that the less alcohol you drink the less your baby’s risk for FAS. I tell all my patients, just to be on the safe side, no drinking. Relax. Don’t let yourself live in fear. You can’t change the past anyway. Just resolve to take charge of your future.”

  “When will we be able to tell?”

  “At six months we’ll do an amniocentesis to determine genetic abnormalities and the overall health of the fetus. After you give birth, we will run another series of tests.”

  Nothing he said relieved any of my fears. Knowing that I may have jeopardized my little one’s health was almost unbearable but I resolved not to obsess over my mistake. I would hold steadfast. From now on, I would do everything in my power to keep my baby healthy.

  When I got into the car, I checked my phone to see if Marc had called, but there was nothing from him. The pain in my knee returned with a vengeance. How could he demand to come first in my life if he didn’t allow me – and his child – to come first in his?

  Chapter 19

  The day for Mr. Edwards’ party was approaching. After my fight with Marc, I had become so distracted I even forgot about my meeting with the head chef. With only seven days left before the party, I had to scramble to play catch-up.

  “Traci, come see me,” Mr. Edwards demanded, coming up to my desk.

  I followed him into his office.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The chef informed me that we’re behind two days.”

  “Don’t worry Mr. Edwards. I’m back on top. I just finished a video chat with him in the conference room, and we have a menu.”

  “What did you decide?”

  “Appetizers will be lobster mini-pot pies and assorted cheese cubes. Greek and fruit salads. Seafood and steak for the main course. The drinks will be sparkling water, soda, and a full bar.”

  “How many have responded?”

  “We’re at fifty.”

  “Wonderful. I want to make sure everyone on the list is coming. Including you.”

  And a full bar. “Mr. Edwards, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Traci, I need to know your head is in this. You’re my other half as far as this team effort thing goes; you need to be there. And I will not take no for an answer.”

  I felt trapped. I could attend and not go near the bar, right? Right?

  “The court date for the Dawson case has been set. I marked it on your calendar,” I said, turning to leave.

  “Good. I know I can count on you,” he called as I closed the door behind me.

  Not long after I returned to my desk, my phone chimed with a text message.

  “L.”

  I frowned and texted back. “What do you want?”

  A long moment passed. Long enough for me to wonder if I would receive a response. Then: “For her to take responsibility.”

  I looked up and saw Marc taking long strides in my direction. I closed my phone and tossed it in my top drawer. As he neared, I could smell the strong scent of his cologne.

  “I was wondering if you had plans for tonight?”

  “I’m very busy. I need to finish going over the RSVP list for Mr. Edwards,” I said.

  “I know I screwed up by missing your doctor’s appointment. And I said things I shouldn’t last night.”

  My heart slowed down to a different rhythm. Was he apologizing? It was hard to tell, especially while fighting the annoying doubts bouncing around in my brain.

  “Looking at this list, I don’t think going out tonight is possible,” I said, fidgeting with the edge of the tablet.

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” he said, moving in close to me and whispering in my ear. “We need to fix this.”

  His breath on my neck was so warm, strong and reassuring. He was my personal living, breathing addiction, and I no longer had any desire or willpower to fight him. “Where are we going?” I asked, clenching my teeth.

  If he wanted to apologize, I would let him. Besides, it would help me to enjoy a night out on the town with my man.

  “I’ll pick you up after work.”

  I nodded, opening my notebook and skimming the list of invited party guests. It was my polite way of informing him that we were done with this conversation. For now.

  The hours passed quickly. I returned calls and verified who was coming to the party. Again, my cell beeped. I plucked it from the drawer to look at the text.

  “I.”

  “Are you ready to go?” Marc asked.

  I fumbled with the phone. “Crap. Could you not sneak up on me like that?”

  He laughed and gently kissed my forehead.

  “Traci, I whistled all the way to your desk. You were too wrapped up in your phone to hear me.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Marc drove, silent and swift. The hurt from his absence earlier still lingered, but I realized he was trying to apologize the only way he knew how. I learned early in our relationship that if he were at fault during a fight, he would never say he was sorry. Instead, he buys me an elaborate gift or takes me out for a night out on the town.

  Marc had made reservations at Chez Chou, a popular French restaurant and the most expensive one in the city. The atmosphere was spectacular. A string quartet played classical music while the impeccably dressed wait staff attended to the people dining.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Drake. Table for two?”

  “Oui, Pierre.”

  Pierre led us to a table located outside on the balcony. After we had been seated, he and Marc conversed in French.

  I picked up the menu, then put it down, confused and embarrassed. “I can’t read French.”

  Marc said, “Sweetheart, let me order for you.”

  “I would like to know at least what’s on the menu.”

  “Don’t worry. I have great taste when it comes to French food.”

  “I want to know what I’m eating, Marc.”

  “Trust me. I know what you want.”

  If he knew what I wanted, he’d stop acting like an insensitive jerk and take the time to go over the menu with me.

  Intrigued by the vintage menu, I scanned the floral design covering the front while Marc ordered. Although it was written in French, the headings were self-explanatory.

  A few minutes later, the waiter collected our menus while another waiter arrived with sparkling mineral water and poured some into our gl
ass. After the waiters left, Marc turned to me.

  “Hope you like French cuisine.”

  I was determined to make the best of our situation. This was Marc’s way of atoning for what happened last night. The last thing I wanted to do was create more problems that might hinder us from moving forward. “It’s perfect.”

  “Is this your first time at a French restaurant?”

  I nodded.

  “I have another surprise for you after the restaurant,” Marc said.

  Perhaps now was not the best time to tell him how I hate surprises. “What’s that?”

  “I’ve arranged an overnight at a bed and breakfast. It’s in Boulder.”

  “I’d like that. I’ll need to call Kevin and see if he can let Sam out.”

  I dialed Kevin and finished our conversation just before the hors d’oeuvres arrived. I managed to make it through the first two courses. Marc’s selections helped curb my cravings, but they couldn’t replace a juicy cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate shake.

  The maître d' arrived, set up his table and prepared a tender cut of beef with some seasoning. He added some butter and brandy to a skillet before placing the meat inside. He mixed in mushrooms and scallions and continued cooking. The smell of the food made my stomach growl.

  “Mademoiselle,” the waiter said, placing my dinner in front of me.

  “It’s Steak Diane,” Marc said.

  “Smells delicious,” I said, inhaling the aroma.

  The conversation of diners was a welcomed distraction from the animosity that I felt from our fight. I would have let the subject drop, but I sensed from Marc’s body language he wasn’t going to let that happen.

  “Do you forgive me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lying.”

  The food was scrumptious, but I didn’t have any room for dessert. At the end of the meal, I finished my decaffeinated coffee and excused myself to the ladies’ room. When I returned, Marc was at the end of a hushed phone call. He hung up and hurried to help me into my seat.

  “Do you have to go back to the office?”

  “No. Ready to go?”

  I nodded.

  Marc paid the check and took my hand in his.

  “Don’t be so paranoid,” my head told me. But my heart knew better. Something in how Marc had spoken on the phone had given him away. Tears trickled down my cheek, though I managed to wipe them dry before he noticed. My heart thumped in my chest as I read between the lines. Who was on the other end of the phone?

  Chapter 20

  The Boulder Turnpike brought us straight into town where it turned into 28th Street. We passed quaint boutiques and galleries for two blocks until we made a left onto Arapahoe Avenue. The road continued for a while, leading us to a red brick home surrounded by evergreen trees.

  Marc helped me out of the car, threaded my arm through his and led me up the path dotted with landscape lights.

  Soon we were inside, waiting.

  An older woman shuffled up front, adjusting the black shawl covering her petite frame. “Here’s your key,” the woman said. She made a few notes on our registration card and handed us a brochure. “Everything you need to know is in there. Quiet hours start at ten o’clock. Breakfast is from six to nine.”

  I left Marc’s side, turned in a circle and admired the interior of the home. The great room had vaulted ceilings, wood floors and winding staircase that led up to the rooms.

  “Enjoy your stay,” said the woman.

  “Thank you,” I said, following Marc up the stairs to our room.

  “I got us a suite,” Mark said, opening the door.

  The room had beige walls with artwork to match the oversized log canopy bed and the mantel over the fireplace. Facing the bed, a picture window, captured a panoramic view of the Continental Divide, framed by white lace curtains with an m-shaped valance.

  Off to the right was an adjoining dressing room where fluffy white robes hung on a hook next to a private shower and whirlpool.

  Finally, we were alone with no friends or work to demand our attention.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said.

  “I was hoping you’d be happy.” Marc got down on one knee and placed a gold ring in my hand.

  I looked closer at the ruby placed in the center. “It’s my birthstone.”

  “It’s a promise ring. I wanted this to signify how much I appreciate you carrying my child. I promise to make sure you and the baby are well taken care of.”

  “You’ll make sure that we’re taken care of? What does that mean?”

  “It means that I won’t abandon you.”

  Hold the phone. My man just gave me an I-won’t-abandon-you ring? “What about the possibility of marriage?

  He snorted. “Sweetheart, getting married is the last thing on my mind. I’m too busy kissing corporate ass trying to make partner. Once I do that, then we can probably discuss marriage.”

  “Probably?”

  “You know what I mean. Right now is a bad time for me. I’m not able to dedicate my time to a marriage. I’m hardly home.”

  My hopes for a wedding before I gave birth were stillborn.

  “Come on,” Marc said. “You know I love you. I’m trying to reconnect with you.”

  He leaned in to kiss me and my body immediately responded. I was angry at my lack of self-control, but I wanted him. I missed him, and I needed him.

  With his strong arms around me, he softly laid me down on the bed. We peeled off our clothes, and soon his gorgeous naked body lingered over mine.

  Our lips touched. Then, Marc kissed me feverishly while his hand and lips traveled down the left side of my body. I shivered under his touch. Tingles swept over me as his fingers continued all the way down to my feet.

  “You have such beautiful feet.”

  Suddenly, I felt his lips on the tips of my toes.

  “Marc, wait.”

  “Please don’t pull away from me.” Marc’s tongue swiped at my nipples.

  I closed my eyes and relented. As my body responded, Marc continued to make love to me with his mouth. Soon I was filled with wonderful sensations exploding from deep within, making me crave for more.

  After we had made love, he lowered my head down onto his chest. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to think. All I knew was he had never made love to me like that before.

  Soon, he was snoring. As gently as possible, I removed myself from under his arm and slinked out of bed.

  The impulse to allay my suspicions took over. I went to the closet and checked the breast and side pockets of Marc’s suit.

  Empty.

  Then I found his slacks and lifted them off the floor. As I did, loose change fell out, landed on the carpet and rolled off onto the hardwood floor.

  I froze.

  Marc turned over and continued snoring.

  I finished going through the pockets until I found his phone. I touched the screen, expecting to find it locked.

  It lit up.

  I clicked on the call log tab, read the last number called and pushed the green phone icon next to it.

  It rang and rang.

  “Marc, Sugar, it’s late. Did you forget to tell me something?”

  The sound of Stephanie’s sleepy voice made my fingers curl. There was no reason for Marc to be still talking to that tramp and yet she was the one he had called back at the restaurant. A burning sensation tugged at my heart as I ended the call and put the phone back where I found it.

  Like a haunting, the night Marc and Stephanie were alone in my home played over in my mind.

  Her hand on his shoulder.

  His smile.

  I wished I could burn the images of those two together like I wanted to forget about seeing Olivia kill her brother. But it was too late.

  Hours later, I took a shower and got dressed. I glanced over at Marc splayed out on the bed. You’re not worth me losing sobriety. I went down to breakfast, ate what my stomach could tolerate and took a stroll along Bou
lder Creek Path.

  It was secluded and peaceful. No media. No drama. I didn’t want to leave.

  So much was happening and it was hard to make sense of everything. It was like being on top of the Breckenridge ski slope, unable to breathe. My sanity was teetering on that moment of peace as I looked out over the vista trying to decide which path to choose.

  In the beginning, everything seemed clear. I believed I had chosen the correct path. Being with Marc. Lying to the police to protect Olivia. Now that path seemed muddied, and there was no turning back.

  I ended my walk and went back to the suite. When I opened the door, Marc was sitting up on the edge of the bed.

  Marc looked at me. “Do you know why my change was all on the floor?”

  “I’m ready to go home. Olivia is being sentenced today, and I need to be there.”

  “Of course.”

  I was still seething inside. I wanted to confront him about his betrayal, but I’m sure he had a brilliant excuse as to why he was on the phone with Stephanie during our date.

  Maybe there was a good reason for him to be talking to her. Maybe I had imagined the guilt on his face. Maybe she called everyone “Sugar.” No, what I knew wasn’t enough to throw what we shared away. I would wait patiently, giving him the benefit of the doubt, until I found something more concrete.

  During the ride home, Marc did most of the talking, oblivious to my one-word answers. The reality that hit me was, even though I wanted to know, I wished that I didn’t.

  As we came closer to my turnoff, I thought I was in the clear about discussing my predicament with Olivia. I was wrong.

  “I’m a good listener,” Marc said, cutting off the engine in my driveway.

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “You’re being difficult.”

  “Difficult? This is the first time I’ve ever kept something from you. Just trust me.” I took off my seatbelt, opened the door and got out.

  “Traci, wait.” Marc followed me as I began walking towards the front door. “I’m not trying to pressure you, but how can we establish trust if you won’t talk to me?”