by Kendra Leigh
“Yes. You want to figure out a way to get back control of your assets, yes?” She nods. “I think we may be able to help, with the company, at least.”
“How?”
“Angel went on a bit of a fishing expedition. Found out some stuff about the company. Your company.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Well, last night wasn’t exactly what you thought it was—or what I thought it was, for that matter. I know you’ve heard it before and it seems like I don’t know a lot of what’s going on around me, but I swear I didn’t know what she was planning until I saw you there last night.”
“What was she planning?”
“She was only trying to help, but she concocted the event last night because she wanted to orchestrate a chance meeting between us.”
“The entire evening was a ploy to get us together?”
“In a nutshell, yes. I’d like to say I’m sorry, that she shouldn’t have intervened, but I’m not because we wouldn’t be here now discussing this if she hadn’t poked her nose in. Anyway, the reason she was able to guarantee your attendance is because the invitation was strictly for full attendance of the company’s board of directors, of which you’re one. You’re also still named as a shareholder, although the share isn’t substantial enough to gain you any leverage.”
“Oh, well at least that explains why Nick invited me; he couldn’t attend without me … Wait a minute, what do you mean, my shareholding isn’t large enough? I was under the impression that I was still the majority shareholder but had no influence over the running of the business. I remember Nick saying that the way to get the best out of his team was to allow them to invest, and I recall signing some shares over, but I thought it was minimal.” I see worry mar her features as the reality of her situation takes shape. “I mean, I don’t know anything about running the business, which is why I was happy to let Nick and his dad take over, but I thought it was still mine to sell if I wanted to. I was planning on seeing my lawyers, find out what I need to do to get the ball rolling. What does all this mean?”
“It means he’s a conniving son-of-a-bitch that’s been slowly bleeding you dry, although I suspect that’s the part you already know. I’m afraid it also means, at least on paper, that the business isn’t yours to sell.” She looks panic stricken, so I quickly add, “Don’t worry, there’s still a way back from it.”
“Really?” Her tone is full of doubt.
“Yes. But you have to trust me … well, us actually. Ethan and me. Let us do some legwork first, and then we’ll let you know what you need to do.”
“Is that what he’s doing now? Ethan, I mean? Is it the reason he’s with Nick?”
“Yes. Let’s just say he’s showing an interest in the business. Dangling a carrot. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Thank you.”
“Please don’t thank me. It makes me feel like you’re grateful for a service I’m providing.” She hitches a brow on a half smile, and I roll my eyes, knowing I’ve walked myself right into it. “Yes, alright, you’re well aware of the service I provide. And, if I remember rightly, you were grateful. Very grateful.”
Her cheeks pink a little. “You didn’t exactly sign up for the aftercare though, did you?”
“Is that what bothers you about this? You think I want to help because I feel obliged? I don’t …” I look down at the ground, trying to hold back, afraid of blowing this whole thing apart, but I owe it to both of us to be completely honest. “Savannah, I know you don’t want to hear it, but I want this. I want you—”
“Shh.” She places a finger to my lips, and I turn instantly into her touch. “It’s not that I don’t want to hear it. I’m just not ready. Not yet.”
The hope those words instill blooms in my chest and it’s enough. If it’s all that’s offered right now, I’ll take it. It’s enough. Reaching out, I stroke her hair away from her face, my fingertips brushing over her sweet scented skin. I want to hold her so much, to kiss her, and more, so much more. “I should just throw your ass over my shoulder and drag you kicking and screaming as far away from here as possible.”
She laughs and it’s a beautiful sight. “I seem to remember you already tried that.”
“Ah, yes. So I did. Don’t make me regret not trying for a second time. Promise me you won’t put yourself in unnecessary danger.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Can I walk you back?” I ask, wanting to spend as much time with her as possible.
“Probably best if you don’t. Mrs. Draper will no doubt have her pen poised over her notepad as we speak.”
“Your nosy neighbor?”
“Yes. She reports back to him with my every move. The time I leave the house, the time I return. What I’m wearing. If I speak to anyone. If I get a parcel delivered.”
“Jesus. He’s really that bad?” She nods as I suddenly remember something. “Wait. That’s why you changed your clothes out of the Beetle. The ones you were wearing, the baggy oversized sweats … they’re what he told you to wear?”
She doesn’t speak, just shrugs her shoulders slightly.
“I can’t imagine you having to live like that.”
“Yeah, well, not for much longer.”
No, not for much longer. Not if I have anything to do with it, I think but don’t say. She needs to be in control at this turning point in her life—to evolve and take shape—and I can totally understand why. Though I feel desperately afraid for her—and for me, if I’m completely honest, because I have no idea how I’ll cope if anything happens to her. For now, I have no choice than to respect her wishes and keep my distance. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do whatever it takes to protect her from afar.
We part ways at the entrance to the park. I watch her walk away with the sun in her hair, her tiny perfectly proportioned frame swaying with each step. Her wings are clipped, I see that now, but I also see the flames sparking to life beneath them. What were once just smoldering embers will one day be a burning inferno.
Chapter Thirty-One
Savannah
INSIDE, I FEEL LIKE I’M smiling. When I woke this morning, I felt despondent at best, but now it’s like I took a giant leap when I’ve been standing stock-still in the same position for years. This is what hope feels like. It’s what looking forward to a future feels like. Exciting. Having Jackson look into the workings of the company is the right thing to do. It’s the place to start, and as much as I want to do this alone, I do need help with some of it. I see that now. Knowing he’s there for me if I need him, that he wants to be with me, is a huge part of the reason I’m smiling. I cannot deny it.
Spurred into action from my meeting with Jackson, I begin my afternoon making a list of everything I need to do and put in place before I can finally take the steps to doing what I’ve only ever dreamed of before: leave Nick. When I’m done, I prepare to tick off the first thing on the list, and I pick up the phone to make the calls I was instructed to make by my husband before he left.
The first is to Helen who is astounded to hear from me. I tell her that Nick has insisted I call to apologize, but contrary to his instructions, my actual reason for the call is to assuage any doubt she might have that Nick murdered my cat and had her fur made into gloves. That the injury to my hand was caused by Nick in response to calling him out on it in public. And finally, to her assure her that I am not, nor have I ever been, suffering from psychosis. I end the call by advising her not to pursue any kind of relationship with my husband outside of the professional one connected with her husband, but that if she chooses to, I am happy to keep her secret in return for her discretion about what we’ve discussed.
Following that, I ring the driver we used last night. Nick has left a card by the phone with his name and number and he answers on the first ring.
“Hi, is this Eric?” I say.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“My name’s Savannah. Savannah Harper. You drove my husband and me
last night, to and from a venue in Manhattan.”
“Of course, Mrs. Harper, I remember. Are you okay?” I hear the tone in his voice change from one of recognition to one of concern.
“Yes. I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me? What for? I didn’t do anything. I felt a little useless, truth be told. It’s been playing on my mind.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to trouble you. I just wanted you … to be aware. To remember me, just in case. And you did that, actually. Your eyes, in the rearview, told me you understood, and I felt safer because of it. So you did exactly what I wanted you to do, Eric. And that’s why I wanted to thank you.”
“Oh, well in that case, it’s a pleasure, Mrs. Harper. I won’t forget. You can count on me.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and, Mrs. Harper?”
“Yes?”
“If you ever need someone to drive you—whatever the time—you call me. Don’t hesitate. I’m only a few minutes from you. I’ll come straight away.”
“Thank you, Eric.” I smile at his kindness. “I’ll remember that.”
When Nick returns from the city, he looks almost jovial. I know it’s because of his meeting with Ethan Wilde, and I’m desperate to know what it was about. His good mood distracts him from returning to the events of last night, and he doesn’t even mention the phone calls he instructed me to make. After dinner, he heads for the whiskey bottle, so I make myself scarce, disappearing to my room and locking the door, just in case the liquor reinstates his vile temper.
At 1:00 am I wake up thirsty, craving a drink of iced water, so I creep down to the kitchen to get one. Nick is lying on the sofa, snoring, comatose, an empty whiskey bottle abandoned on the floor. For a while, I stand looking at him, taking in his unruly hair and skewed tie, his shirt spilling from pants unbuttoned at the waist. His lips flap with the force of his breath pushing through as he sleeps, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. He looks pathetic, his usual belligerence zapped by the ignorance of sleep. Slowly, I bend down, and holding out my pointy finger, I guide it toward his face. With absolute precision, I stab him once in the space between his eyes. He doesn’t flinch. His breathing doesn’t even falter. A slow smile spreads over my face as I move nearer, close enough to smell the fumes from his rancid breath, and very quietly whisper, I’m coming for you, Nick Harper. You’re not going to know what hit you.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Savannah
IT’S ONLY BEEN A FEW days, but I feel stronger already, both mentally and physically. I spend every waking hour making plans, dreaming of what life might be like after. I think of Jackson often. All the time, actually. My head just goes there without warning. I’ve begun running. Every day. Instead of parking myself under the shade of a tree and drawing or writing as I did in the height of summer, I run. And my thoughts of the future, of Jackson, they fuel me, giving me the impetus to push myself further than I ever have, chasing my dreams as the promise of fall chases away the summer.
Today, as I always do, I slow as I reach the bench where Jackson and I sat and check my watch. I’ve beat my best time yet. As I lean into my stretches, I notice a small backpack on the seat and just ahead on the grass is a woman performing some sort of martial arts activity. Her movements are slow and controlled, almost meditative, but you can see the effort needed to execute them from the rippling tautness of her muscles. This woman is ultra fit. Mesmerized, I sit down on the bench and watch her move gracefully through her routine. She’s tiny, no bigger than me, and Asian. Chinese, I think.
After five minutes or so, she stops and comes over to her bag on the bench, retrieving a bottle of water and taking a sip.
“Hi,” she says suddenly.
I’m so used to spending my days talking to no one but myself or Nick that hearing her voice startles me.
“Hi.”
“You interested in martial arts?”
She must have seen me watching her, and I feel my cheeks heat. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I didn’t distract you, did I?”
“That’s okay, don’t apologize. I don’t mind you watching in the least. Is it okay if I sit?” She motions to the bench and the space beside me.
“Oh, sure. You were here first.” She sits down and continues to sip her water. “So, what was that? Some kind of karate?”
“Sort of. A type of Chinese kickboxing. Sanshou.” Though her accent is entirely American, she speaks the last word with a Chinese pronunciation.
“It looked powerful. I thought kickboxing was supposed to be fast, though?”
Her smile is wide and friendly and it lights up her face. She’s extraordinarily attractive. “It is powerful, but it’s not just about external power. Slowing your movements and developing breathing control allows you to internalize the power and strength that you want to achieve, to connect with what’s going on inside. Speed is important to increase the energy behind your technique and it can restrict your opponent’s ability to block, but if you can’t execute the techniques slowly, then you can’t do it at speed. So the best way to practice precision is in slow motion.”
“It’s fascinating,” I say honestly.
She laughs. “Yes, it is. So. You want to work out?”
“Me?” I’m horrified.
“Yes, you.”
“Now?”
“Sure, why not?”
I shrug, unable to find a good reason, which in turn makes me laugh. The idea of clumsy old me learning kickboxing or Sanshou, as she called it, seems utterly bizarre.
“So let’s get started.” Smiling, she holds out her hand. “I’m Jia, by the way.”
* * *
Jia is a breath of fresh air. Quite literally. She’s blown into my life with the feistiness of a hurricane and a moral fiber to be envious of. We don’t speak of our personal lives, but she doesn’t strike me as a character that would ever tolerate any of my circumstances, and I genuinely think she could wipe the floor with Nick. The thought makes me laugh.
In the week and a half I have known her, she’s taught me so much. We meet in the same spot almost daily and work through a routine that involves the most demanding strength exercises, and more recently combining them with the rules and the maneuvers of Sanshou. I’ve learned to focus as we work, to listen to her voice while she talks me through each move. It was developed by the Chinese military, she tells me, and based on the traditional martial arts of Kung Fu. She teaches me punches and kicks, throws and sweeps, kick catches and wrestling and takedowns. She even mixes it with techniques from other styles of kickboxing: chokeholds, armlocks and wristholds, and moves which are apparently forbidden competitively, such as elbow and knee strikes.
“All strictly for the sake of self-defense,” she reiterates as she laughs.
I’m sore and I’m bruised, but I love it, and let’s be honest, I’m not exactly a stranger to pain.
The difference in my muscle strength and tone is astonishing, but it’s the improvement in my mental strength that astounds me the most. Each day I’m more inspired, more determined to push through and meet my goals, and each night before I sleep, I tick off my accomplishments.
Much of my mom and dad’s estate is intact, only the house and the company remain an issue. I was able to get in touch with an old friend of my parents’, the lawyer who dealt with their estate when they died. He was able to answer a lot of questions and, although now retired, has agreed to handle the legalities of my finances with the utmost discretion. I might have to take a loss on the house, I’m told. Though it was paid for with the money my parents left me, it will be the quickest and smoothest way to pay Nick off. Although the question of his debts—what he owes and who to—will be the deciding factor. The future of the company is unknown until I speak with Jackson.
Today, when I round the corner to the space by the bench in the park, I’m expecting to see Jia already in training, but she’s not there. Instead, an older woman sits on the bench, early sixties, portly with
graying hair shaped around a kind looking face. She’s holding something in her hands and seems to be muttering to herself. Not wanting to disturb her, I set off for a run, thinking maybe Jia has done the same or settled into an alternative spot if our usual one was taken. I run for ten minutes through the pathways of the park, but there’s no sign of her, so I head back toward the bench, thinking I’ll make a start on some stretches and some strength exercises.
“You make it look easy,” the woman calls over to me as I finish up.
“Oh, gosh, do I? I don’t know how, I’m still new to it actually.”
“I used to be fit when I was younger. You keep at it for as long as you can, that’s my advice. Soon as you stop, that’s when you start feeling your age.” She pulls a bag of candy from her pocket and offers out the bag to me. “Want one?”
“Thank you.” I take one and sit down beside her, and as I do I notice the thing she was holding earlier bunched up in her other fist. It looks like rosary beads. “Are you religious?”
“I beg your pardon? Oh, these,” she says when she realizes I’m talking about the beads. “No, darling, these are worry beads. I mean, I’m not not religious. I don’t mind either way if that’s your thing, but praying never really did me any good, if I’m honest. Neither did worrying, for that matter. I use them to count on. My blessings, usually. I like to sit in the sun, if it’s around, and rhyme off all the things I have to be thankful for. Keeps me positive.”
I smile, thinking how nice it must be to have so much to be thankful for that there’s a risk you could lose count. “You must have lots to be thankful for.”
She grins. “I have my kids and my grandkids.”
“That must be nice.”
“You got kids?”
“Me? No.”
“Married?”
I feel my smile fade as I hesitate in answering. I don’t feel married anymore. It’s strange. Now I’ve made the decision to leave, it’s like Nick is already becoming a part of my past.