Chasing Adonis

by Gina Ardito

  Henry Silver held up a hand for quiet. “I’m going to read a brief statement, but I will not answer any specific questions. Needless to say, the District Attorney’s office is thrilled with the outcome of today’s verdict. Certainly, many thanks go to Adara Berros for her courage throughout this ordeal.”

  Adara heard no more as Shane hustled her across the parking lot and into his car. He quickly started the engine and drove out of the state office building complex. Once on the parkway, he reached for her hand and squeezed gently.

  “Where to?”

  “Home,” she replied wistfully, leaning against the leather seat back. It would feel so good to go home.

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Yours. I haven’t seen Tyler all week. I want to be there when he gets off the school bus today.”

  Lifting their clasped hands, he kissed her knuckles. “He loves you, you know. Almost as much as I do.”

  “I love him, too. Almost as much as I love you.”

  Blissfully content, she watched his face for a moment, enjoying the way the afternoon sun painted white light across his cheeks. Instinctively, her hand touched the medallion at her neck—not in fear, but out of gratitude. How did she get so lucky? Shane Griffin’s love was the greatest gift she’d ever received, and she sometimes found it impossible to measure her good fortune. Who could have guessed that winding up as Cherry’s target in a suspicious car accident would bring such happiness her way?

  They completed the drive in silence and reached Shane’s small home with a few minutes to spare before Tyler’s bus arrived.

  Doting grandma, Pauline, waited at the corner. Her smile widened when Shane slowed the car beside her. “I heard the news on the radio.” She leaned into the passenger window to kiss Adara’s cheek with fondness. “I was hoping you’d make it back in time. Tyler will be thrilled to see you here. He’s missed you, you know.”

  The car barely stopped in the driveway before Adara climbed out to stand beside Pauline. “I’ve missed him, too.”

  The school bus pulled up outside, red lights flashing, and Adara stood, waiting for the precious child to notice her. It didn’t take long.

  “Adara!” He bounded down the steps and raced into her outstretched arms. “I knew you’d come today. I knew it!”

  “Oh, I missed you so much,” she replied, squeezing him tightly and inhaling the strawberry scent of his baby shampoo.

  She’d only met Tyler a few times since her relationship with Shane had changed from professional to romantic, but the boy had a heart as huge as Montana and a smile that made her melt. In no time at all, they were extremely close. On several occasions, they’d watched his favorite television show, Prufrock and the Nuclear Wasteoids, or played Prufrock games with his action figures. Knowing Tyler’s tragic past, she showered him with affection yet never tried to undermine or replace the love the boy had for his guardian or grandmother.

  “Come inside,” Tyler announced. “Uncle Shane and I have a present for you in the house.”

  Her gaze moved from the excited child’s features to the suddenly mysterious expression on Shane’s face. “You do?”

  “I was going to wait until tonight,” Shane admitted. “But since Tyler’s already let the cat out of the bag…”

  “Come on.” Tyler tugged at her hand. “Come see.”

  “In a minute, Tyler,” Shane told him. “Go with Grandma. I want to talk to Adara alone for a minute.”

  “Okay.” Skooching his backpack higher up on his shoulders, he scampered across the walk and into the house.

  “Well?” Adara asked when the door closed. “What’s up?”

  “This,” he said and leaned forward to capture her lips in a kiss.

  Time stood still, and the world around her melted as she lost herself in the incredible delicacy of his lips and tongue. Only when something yanked up and down on her skirt several times did she break away to see Tyler waiting to be noticed. He held a small velvet box in his hand and looked to Shane for confirmation before handing it to Adara.

  “Do it just like we practiced, Tyler,” Shane advised.

  There, on the sidewalk outside the pretty little house on Waycroft Street, two males, one adult and one child, knelt and offered her the box.

  “Adara?” Great seriousness etched lines in Tyler’s childish brow. “Will you be my aunt?”

  With shaking hands, Adara took the box and flipped it open. Inside, nestled on jet black velvet, sat a perfect diamond solitaire. Rapture surrounded her, filled her senses, and sang inside her head.

  “Yes,” she exclaimed, hugging both Shane and Tyler against her fiercely. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

  Once again, the question flitted into her mind unbidden. How did she get so lucky? While one hand clutched the velvet box, the other reached up to touch her medallion. Somewhere in her life, she must have done something wonderful to deserve to know such happiness now.

  Epilogue

  Ted Pha turned on the television in his Malibu beach house and flipped on the evening news.

  “Ted,” his latest nubile young co-star whined, “I thought we were going to spend some time alone together before Barbara Walters and the television crew showed up for your interview.”

  “We will, Colette,” he replied. “I need to see something first.”

  Ted turned up the volume when a bubbly, blond anchorwoman filled the plasma screen. She reported, “In New York, the strange saga of Benjamin Cherry and Adara Berros came to a surprising and happy end today. We reported last June that, after a second trial, the gang leader was sentenced to three consecutive life terms on a laundry list of charges ranging from murder to racketeering to tax evasion. Ms. Berros, an eyewitness to the murder of physical education teacher, Terence McGill, testified for the prosecution at last year’s trial. Well, this afternoon, in a lovely outdoor ceremony, Ms. Berros married police detective, Shane Griffin. Mr. Griffin was assigned to protect Ms. Berros during the trial, and the two have been almost inseparable ever since. The newlyweds, accompanied by Mr. Griffin’s nephew, will spend their honeymoon in Florida at the famous KidLand resort.”

  A clip of the beautiful bride, swathed in white lace, smiling as she clutched the arm of her handsome husband and climbed into a white Rolls Royce, appeared on the screen.

  “Pretty girl,” Colette remarked. “Who is she?”

  Ted Pha absentmindedly fingered the Academy Award for Best Actor sitting on the table beside the couch. “Just someone I knew a long time ago…”

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at Gina’s paranormal romance, Eternally Yours.

  Chapter 1

  Jodie Devlin sucked at life. So she refused to screw up her death. No turning back, no chickening out, hoping life would get better tomorrow. Like, magically, some genie would appear to make her successful, beautiful, happy. Loveable.

  The Jeep explosion so many years ago in Castelan, El Salvador had stolen her parents, scarred her flesh, and ruined any possible chance she’d know love. Gabe had never loved her. She understood that now.

  He didn’t deserve you, some inner voice told her.

  No more fantasies, she fired back. After all, she knew the truth. She hadn’t deserved him.

  For once, though, she’d do something right. Her suicide tonight would go down perfectly. A combination of over-the-counter sleep aids, a brand new bottle of Grey Goose, and a filled bathtub gave her a trifecta guaranteed to succeed.

  On a half-dozen gulps of vodka, she downed all thirty blue pills, a handful at a time. The mixture hit her stomach like a prize fighter’s punch, but she swallowed hard to keep it all down. No way did she intend to exit like that 1940’s starlet she’d read about—Lupe Something-or-other. The Mexican Spitfire had set up a gorgeous room, donned the perfect gown, hand-picked the flowers and candles. Unfortunately when the cops found her the next day, poor Lupe sat hunched face-first in the toilet.

  Jodie required more dignity for her end. The dignity she’d never gained in life. Shivering a
t the bitter memories, she stepped into the hot, glistening water. Aaaahhhh. Who knew death could come so pleasantly?

  Gentle hands caressed her as she began her slow descent into nothingness. A cote of doves surrounded her, lifting her on snowy wings. Their feathers whisked her cheeks like the kisses of angels. Peace rolled over her, wrapped her in a precious homespun afghan. Her pain evaporated, leaving only sweet vanilla warmth. Closing her eyes, she allowed the birds to carry her onward…

  “Next! Yoo-hoo? Next!”

  Jodie snapped alert at the snotty woman’s prompt. Where was she? Was this hell?

  Blinking, she studied the polished golden marble walls and floor. Red velvet ropes with brass fittings encased her in a serpentine line along with a host of other barely attentive people. Each figure—male or female, tall or short, fat or thin—wore a diaphanous lavender toga. When she looked at her own body, she saw the same garment draping her limbs, soft as spun spider webs.

  They stood in a tremendous reception area of what might have been a five-star hotel lobby. Deep mahogany wood framed the glass elevators and a wraparound railing one story above her. Although a dozen doors broke up the monotony of solid walls, none held an exit sign or window which might lend a clue to her whereabouts. From the ceiling, at least a hundred stories up, chandeliers dripped filaments of colored light like purple rain. Was she in Prince’s house? Oh, God, this was hell!

  But no. Behind her, a waterfall, surrounded by lush ferns and majestic palm trees, splashed cool mist into primavera air. Men and women, garbed in white uniforms with gold braid, raced around life-sized white marble statues of angels, unicorns, and smiling dragons.

  “Neeeee-exxxxt!” The woman’s voice turned the one syllable word into two.

  Jodie’s gaze flew to a long reception desk with ten clerks behind and nine customers in front. A dark-haired, sloe-eyed woman in the same white and gold uniform leaned forward from the open slot and signaled to Jodie with a crooked finger. Confusion dogging her steps, she inched forward. The woman’s attention veered to a computer monitor and keyboard, fingers clickety-clacking with expediency. “Name?”

  “Jodie Devlin,” she replied through dry lips.

  “Any middle initial?”

  “R. Rosalind.”

  The woman frowned. “Date of death?”

  She almost answered with her birth date, but then stopped to think. “Date of…” A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed with difficulty. “…death?”

  Over the polished mahogany top, the woman’s hands rolled in mid-air. “Can we speed this up, please? There are a thousand people behind you. What was your date of death?”

  “The eighth of A-April.”

  Brow cocked, the clerk sighed. “You’re not on my reservations list. Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”

  Was she? She had absolutely no idea. After another glance at the marble and mahogany décor, the crowds of lost sheep, and the harried attendants, she leaned over the counter to whisper, “Ummm…where exactly is here?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Palms against the marble edge, the woman pushed away from the keyboard. Her barstool-style wheeled chair skidded across the floor. Leaning, she slammed a large red button on a table behind her. “Sherman? I think I’ve got a thirty-six-slash-eleven over here.” She rolled back behind the counter, eyes narrowed. “Are you, perhaps, a suicide?”

  Heat rocketed into Jodie’s cheeks—did she have cheeks? Whatever she had, embarrassment shot flames through her face. She managed a slight nod, and then turned away.

  Through the milling crowd, a small man, only about as high as her shoulder and narrow as a swizzle stick, strode toward her. He was garbed entirely in white except for the gold studs winking in his earlobes. Despite the snow white clipboard he clutched under one arm, he extended his hands in greeting. “Miss? My name is Sherman, and I’m the spirit guide here. How can I help you?”

  He had a face like an apple left too long on a windowsill, ruddy bronze with sunken cheeks, wizened to a state that made him appear ancient, yet ageless. Long white hair, a lion’s mane, swept away from his high forehead and fell to his padded shoulders.

  “She doesn’t have a reservation,” the woman said with a sneer. “At least not for her current date of death.”

  Understanding dawned on his mushy face. “Ah. Miss…?”

  “Devlin.” Jodie’s reply sounded hoarse in her sandpaper throat. Swallowing, she tried again. “Jodie Devlin.”

  “Miss Devlin, why don’t you step away from the reception desk so we can continue moving others forward? If you’ll follow me, I’m sure we can straighten this out.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned to head back into the crowd.

  Sidling away from the snotty clerk, Jodie hurried to catch up to Sherman. “Straighten what out? What’s going on? Where are we? Is this heaven?”

  “Please, Miss Devlin. Follow me.” He led her beneath a carved marble archway to a set of double-doors. As he approached, the doors whisked open on a sigh of air. Inside, gold leather club chairs sat at each corner of an enormous white marble desk. He pointed to the chair nearest the entrance. “Have a seat, please.” He tossed his clipboard on the desktop and took up residence in the kingpin’s seat.

  Too antsy to relax, she sat on the edge of the club chair, fingernails digging holes into the supple leather armrests.

  From the top drawer, he pulled out what looked like a small hand mirror and passed it to her. “Please focus your eyes directly in the two areas drawn on this device.”

  Taking the mirror, she noted twin dark circles in the center of the glass. “What is this?”

  “An identification scan,” he replied. “Now if you’d focus your gaze on those two pinpoints and count to ten, please? Oh, and try not to blink until after you’ve reached ten.”

  She lined up the two miniature circles with her pupils and counted. “One, two, three…”

  By the time she reached ten, the gentleman had turned his attention to the clipboard, which had suddenly begun to blink with an increasing and decreasing purple glow. Strange neon characters raced like ants across the clipboard’s face.

  “Ah, here we are. Jodie Rosalind Devlin. Only child of Rachel Andrea Gibbons Devlin and John Michael—also known as Jack—Devlin. Both deceased during a violent political coup in Central America. You were severely injured, but survived and returned to the United States where you attempted to rebuild your life. And you almost succeeded.” He looked up at her, brow steepled. “Your date of death should have been June 26, 2068.”

  The hand mirror doohickey fell from her hands and splintered into shards on the marble floor. “Wh-what?”

  He shot a glance at the shattered glass, frowned, and then reverted his steely gaze to her. “Oh, yes. You heard me correctly. More than fifty years from your suicide. Do you want to know what would have happened had you decided against designing your untimely end?”

  Nausea rose in her throat, and tremors danced across her flesh. Too stunned to speak, she nodded.

  “According to your file, which, of course, will now have to be updated, Jodie Rosalind Devlin, only child of Rachel Andrea Gibbons Devlin and—”

  “You said that already.”

  He waved a hand at her. “Jodie Rosalind Devlin married Gabriel David Sachs on September 8, 2012. Subsequently, she gave birth to three children: Jacqueline Monet Sachs, Iona Renoir Sachs, and Aidan Degas Sachs.”

  An ocean of self-pity threatened to drown her. Dear God, what had she done? Of course. Gabe, the art historian, would insist on naming his children after the Impressionists. She fisted her hand in her mouth to keep her agony inside.

  “These three children presented the couple with eight grandchildren,” Sherman continued reading, apparently unaware of her turmoil—or else, he didn’t care. “Would you like to know their names?”

  She shook her head, her tongue too thick inside her mouth to form words.

  Folding his arms on the desktop, he looked up at her, his agate g
aze solemn. “You bore so much pain after the loss of your parents, my dear. I felt your agony when the fire ate your flesh in that explosion. I know the scars you try desperately to hide. I have ached for your loneliness. I have seen you struggle time and again to connect with someone in the outside world. Gabriel was your gift, your reward for a life lived with so much suffering. Had you been able to withstand this last test, you would have known a joyful life. Your choice to self-terminate destroyed your chance at happiness. And such a selfish act not only affected your future, but the future of your husband, your children, their spouses, their children, and so on and so on.”

  Rubbing fingertips over his eyes, he frowned. “Surely, then, you understand why we become perturbed at those who end their lives precipitously. Your rashness has disrupted the natural order we struggle to maintain here in the Afterlife.”

  Shame forced her head down, and she looked at the puckered pink flesh above her bare feet. “I’m sorry.”

  His sigh communicated indulgent surrender. “We’re accustomed to these kinds of glitches and will make the necessary rearrangements. However…” He paused to study the clipboard again.

  To keep from biting her nails, she sat on her hands. The silence in the room became a wall, threatening to suffocate her. “However?” she prompted.

  He shrugged. “Your rooms are not prepared because you’ve arrived long before your reservation is due to be processed.”

  “S-so…” She tried to force a light-hearted tone. Her stutter and his arched brows suggested she’d failed. “W-what happens now?”

  “We have contingency plans in effect for all untimely deaths, including suicides. You’ll be assigned a job here until such time as arrangements can be made for you to be transferred elsewhere.”

  “Transferred?” An icy hand clutched her throat. Shit. She’d totally screwed up. What would happen to her now? “Transferred to where? Purgatory?”

  His laughter diminished her little spurt of curiosity, shrank her into the leather until she felt as large as a hobnail. “There is no purgatory, my dear. Or heaven or hell. There is only the Afterlife.”