The Darkest Joy

by Marata Eros

  I give him a look and he slides my way, expertly shifting his weight and flattening his body between groups of formal-clad guests, pianists, and one bored Alaskan . . . itching so bad to get back to the sea I can hardly think.

  “Sir?” he asks in an affected air, but his eyes flash on me and he immediately knows I’m not part of the beautiful throng that surrounds us.

  “How can a guy get a beer in this joint?” I ask and he smiles, despite himself.

  “One must only ask, sir,” he replies with a poker face and I grin. His lips twitch as he empties his tray on his way back to the kitchen.

  I look at everyone, but Brooke is the one where my eyes move back to. She looks so right here—everywhere. She’s changed into an outfit I know set her back a grand. She didn’t want to buy it; I made her. A rite of passage, I’d told her.

  The waiter comes back, his tray absent of everything but a single frosted mug with a cold brown bottle beside it—no label.

  “Awesome, my man,” I say when he appears beside me. I give him a good clap on the back and grab the bottle right off the tray.

  “Sir,” he sputters as I take a long pull and about die from the chilling pleasure of a cold beer.

  “Yeah,” I say, ogling Brooke, my eye traveling a slit that nearly reaches her hip.

  “Don’t you want the mug?” he asks by way of encouragement.

  “Nah, but thanks for pulling the strings.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says, following my gaze to Brooke. “Is she your lady?” he asks and I nod.

  “She is.”

  “You are most fortunate,” he says. After a moment of our mutual contemplation of Brooke he steps away.

  I move toward her.

  She gives a great laugh at something and I watch her throw her head back, mouth open, teeth gleaming, throat exposed. And I immediately want to be anywhere but here. Somewhere quiet.

  Private.

  “Hey, Chance,” Brooke says, her earlier laughter remaining in a genuine smile. I’m happy to see it; there’s been so many more of those.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  I’m so ready.

  “Yes . . . First, let me introduce you to Marianne and Kenneth.”

  I look at them, the two who had lost their families, and Kenneth raises a beer bottle and I grin. “Thank God, I thought I was the only one who hated champagne.”

  “Nope,” Kenneth says, rocking back on his heels, one hand stuffed into his pocket and a big smile plastered on his face.

  We clink chilled necks and swig.

  Brooke laughs. “This is Chance, guys.”

  “The fisherman,” Marianne says.

  I nod.

  Brooke looks at me with shining eyes. “Yeah . . . he’s that and much more.”

  I take her free hand in mine. “You’ve got yourself a good woman here, Chance,” Kenneth says, tipping his beer toward me.

  “Thanks,” I say. Then, “A good woman who’s getting up early to go north.”

  Marianne’s eyes widen and she slaps her forehead. Her aqua dress in shimmering sequins glitters with the movement. “I forgot, you’re running off to no-man’s-land to what? Fish?” she ask in disbelief.

  Brooke looks down at her feet, the fragile silver heels sparkling with the mix of candles and low amber light of the large room. “Actually, I think I’ll play instead . . . and maybe garden.”

  “Oh that’s right! You’ve got your great-aunt’s cabin up there,” Kenneth says.

  “Yeah,” Brooke says softly, and the four of us grow quiet.

  “Well, good luck,” Marianne says. Her eyes have a sheen and I know she’s holding back.

  Brooke suddenly looks up. “It’s not about luck.”

  Kenneth looks in my direction, lifting his beer to me in a salute. “Maybe it’s Chance.”

  Brooke gives me a radiant smile, the deep violet of her formal dress making her eyes look like a watercolor in violet, the sweep of her black hair framing them like startled jewels in the ivory of her face.

  “That’s got a lot to do with it,” she admits, her cheeks turning pink as she looks at me.

  God, I love her.

  I take her into my arms and kiss her.

  She kisses me back like no one’s watching.

  Just the way I like it.

  I speak quietly into the cell. “Are you sure you left it there?” I nod at the next few words. “Right on the keys?” I clarify.

  I get an affirmative and heave a sigh of relief.

  “Chance!” Brooke yells from the door, the place smelling like a big lemon, better than when we moved in last year with the hot humid summer of New York melting our asses like candles.

  “Coming!” I yell back, spying our drop-off keys on the surface of our rented furniture.

  Into the phone I tell Jake, “See ya in a two weeks.”

  “You bet, sonny, and . . . you’re a tad sneakier than I gave you credit for,” he says in his gruff voice. I can almost see the smoke from his pipe. God I miss Alaska.

  I smile. “I’ve got to have something up my sleeve when I have a clever relative like you running around.”

  “Humph!” Jake says, hanging up the phone.

  He thinks I’m full of shit.

  Maybe just a little.

  I whistle as I set my matching set of keys on the apartment table, take one last look around, and lock the front door, walking to the Bronco. Still baby-shit green.

  Brooke still looks great framed by all that green. One slim ankle and foot hang out the window, spring warming the air, the promise of summer felt like a vibration all around us. The trees’ blooms have come and gone and are leafing out in preparation for the heat of June.

  But we’ll be back in the temperate heart of Alaska in two weeks. I take a deep breath of city air and jog around the front of the car, Brooke’s eyes following me like I’m the last solid thing in the world.

  She’s got it wrong.

  Brooke is.

  Brooke

  My eyes feel like sand has been ground into them I’m so tired, but we’re home and this is definitely where my heart is. I turn on my side and watch Chance sleep. The shadow of a beard caresses his chin, black hair a short cap of ink on his head, soft to the touch. Dark lashes lay against the dusky skin of his cheek as he breathes in and out.

  Neither one of us will be hurting for money . . . with my inheritance, and Chance’s; working is a choice.

  However, life is not about money, it’s about living. Sometimes it takes tragedy to understand that. I heard a quote once I never forgot: give me the tortured, for they make the best of friends.

  Now I have three more years and I am a graduate of the finest music institution in America.

  Ask me if that’s the thing that makes me most happy, that is the most precious.

  If you did, I would answer no.

  I look at the man who lies beside me.

  No.

  It would be a person, not an accomplishment.

  Chance is worth the risk.

  “Let me see, Chance!” I say, laughter choking me. His hands are wrapped around my eyes, blinding me.

  “No . . . No!” he says, pushing me forward with his front against my back.

  “Nice, Chance,” I say, but it’s a total distraction and I can feel my face heat.

  “Did you like that?” he whispers, pressing harder against me and my breath catches.

  “You know I do,” I hiss at him.

  He springs his hands off my eyes and I’m facing Milli’s cabin.

  Or something that’s pretending to be Milli’s cabin.

  Every single log glows like it’s brand-new, every pane of glass glitters in the sunlight like a polished gem. A cedar picket fence and arched arbor crosses the small patch of grass in front of the broad steps leading to the front porch, and the sides run to the backyard where a garden sits. My eyes roam the six-foot-tall chicken-wire fence, anchored in all four corners by six-by-six cedar posts that will weather to a driftwood gray. The rai
sed beds have little green tufts of seedlings sprouting out of the rich black dirt.

  Finally my eyes find the outhouse where the small window on the side sports a window box filled to bursting with pansies.

  The hollowed-out moon has been painted a deep violet blue.

  I turn and look at Chance, speechless.

  He grasps both my hands as my tears fall. “How?” I ask through my tears.

  “Jake,” he answers.

  “How . . . could he . . . know?”

  Chance gives a soft smile, wrapping me in his arms as we look at the transformed cabin, my eyes taking in more details second by second.

  “He remembers what it looked like before . . . when it was new.”

  I shake my head in wonder. “This must have taken . . .” I don’t even know.

  “Nine months. In fact, I think he put the seeds in the ground two weeks ago.”

  I close my eyes and lean back against Chance. A sudden thought occurs to me and I whirl around. “Wait a second!” I say. “You’re not going to want to give up your place.”

  He smiles at me, kissing the tip of my nose, and it shoots tingles everywhere he touches and places he doesn’t. “Don’t have to.”

  Chance’s eyes are suddenly serious. “It’s for posterity, babe.”

  I cock my eyebrow, dragging him through the new arbor and to the front steps of the cabin. “I can’t let that piece of you go. But this!” I say, putting my hand to my chest, and he grabs me around the back and knees, lifting me off my feet, and I squeal.

  “It’s not all for us.”

  I look into his face and ask, “Who then?”

  “For our children, Brooke. The children we’ll have one day.”

  I stare at him openmouthed, then with a little cry I wrap my hands around his strong neck.

  “There’s one more surprise,” he says, kicking the door open.

  This time he doesn’t cover my eyes, setting me gently on the top of the stairs that lead to my aunt’s quirky basement. I turn, puzzled, and he slaps my butt. “Get going, Brooke.”

  “Bossy,” I say with a giggle and his eyes darken. It almost makes me disobey.

  Almost.

  I tread softly down the nine or so steps to the bottom and my eyes take in the strange light that floods the low and narrow basement windows. I scan the room, everything as I remember it: the old photos, the small tables with their knickknacks, doilies, and glass paperweights.

  My eyes settle on the square grand sitting like a graceful wooden elephant in the center of the room.

  Then they stop on a small black box centered perfectly on the ivory keys.

  I move toward that tiny velvet cube that sits on the piano keys. I sense Chance’s heated presence behind me.

  I pick up the box, the press of the velvet caressing my hand, and open it.

  A glittering stone lies in the puckered satin, deep, perfect blue riding the fine line of almost-violet. It’s obscenely big, and perfect. Tanzanite.

  So perfect.

  I can see through it like it’s a block of ice, cured by violet fire, and suddenly Chance is behind me, pressing his lips to my neck, the hard length of his body behind me like a solid presence of love. His arms slip around my waist, plucking the ring from my hand and slipping it onto my left ring finger.

  It shimmers softly in the light that seeps inside this quiet, deep room where my aunt used to play her piano.

  Where I got engaged.

  I turn in Chance’s arms, staring into his eyes.

  “Stay with me . . . not for a season, but for life, Brooke.”

  There’s only one response. The only one I’ve ever had.

  “Yes,” I say, and he lifts me off my feet, hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe.

  Yet I do. I feel like for the first time, I finally can.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank:

  Levi, who revealed the villain to me.

  You, my reader.

  My husband, who is my biggest supporter without reading a word.

  My parents, who didn’t know, but believed anyway.

  Erica Spellman-Silverman: smart, savvy, and devoted don’t cover it. Thank you for all you do as my advocate. And the team at Trident Media Group for giving me a chance!

  Simon and Schuster

  Lauren, for believing in me.

  Alex, you’ve improved my work; it’s better because of you. Thank you for entreating the tender from the brutal.

  Faren, my copy editor.

  Angie

  Autumn

  Crystal

  Dianne

  Lori

  Scott Haller

  Shana

  Tabitha

  Elizabeth and Karie: you kept things straight.

  Scott and Josh: for the morale boost this summer.

  AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY DAN BLODGETT

  MARATA EROS is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of new adult novels A Terrible Love and A Brutal Tenderness. She lives in South Dakota.

  FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Marata-Eros

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  ALSO BY MARATA EROS

  A Terrible Love

  A Brutal Tenderness

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Marata Eros

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Gallery Books trade paperback edition February 2014

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  Cover photographs by Shutterstock

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Eros, Marata

  The darkest joy: a novel/Marata Eros

  pages cm

  I. Title.

  PS3602.L647D37 2014

  813'.6—dc232013032686

  ISBN 978-1-4767-5221-1

  ISBN 978-1-4767-5222-8 (ebook)