Zach backed up. He edged his way to the rear door and put his hand behind his back feeling for the knob. “Look, what do you want from me, just name it, I’ll do it, okay?” Zach was at the door now. He turned the knob and felt the latch come free.
“I want you to pay for what you’ve done to me, to my life. You used me and then took what mattered most to me. That wasn’t very nice, Zach, now was it?”
“Okay, I screwed up, I admit it. Are you satisfied?” Zach had the door open now. Just a few more seconds and he would be outside; he’d have a chance. “I’ll make it right,” Zach said through his panic.
“You can’t,” said the shadow.
Zach slung the door open and ran backwards. His long legs would carry him fast; he knew that. He ran along the edge of the cliff. It was hard to see in the murky half-light. He heard a shot and fell to the ground. His heart was pounding, but he was unhurt except for a scraped knee. He had to crawl now or be seen. The ground was riddled with frozen, jagged rocks. He could see the flickering lights in the city below, but they offered him no safety or assistance.
Zach decided to risk another run. He stood halfway up and ran only ten yards when he heard the second shot whiz far above his head. He jerked forward, stumbled, and tripped. Zach’s legs and arms were flailing as lost his footing on the icy rocks and fell backward, over the side wall, bouncing off the ledge, and down fifty feet of loose razor edged shale that cut his flesh. The frightened fugitive landed on a narrow shelf of loose glacial rock.
The taste and sour smell of his own blood reached his consciousness. Zachary Trudeau shook his head. He tried to move and couldn’t feel his legs. It was like they weren’t there. His fingers felt fuzzy, and he nearly passed out again from the pain in the back of his head.
Darkness fully draped Shay Mountain in a deep purple blackness. Zach realized no one would see him or have any idea he was even there. He shook his head again to get his eyes to focus. Bobbie will look for me, he thought. She’ll find me and throw down a rope. But what if she doesn’t find me? I might be stuck here all night.
Zach didn’t know where the gun and the gun’s owner were, but he yelled for help anyway. Better to die quick from a gun, he thought, than fall off the mountain.
“I’m hurt. Help! Help! Help me!” Zach cried out, weaker each time. His head was on fire.
Above him, the voice seemed detached from any human body. It yelled down at him, “Not ‘til hell freezes over.” And then laughter, a cold, angry cackle piercing the icy air as he turned away from the cliff, not shaking even from the cold, he walked, placing one deliberate foot in front of the other. Sam Jansen slid in behind the wheel of his car. For a brief moment, Zach could see headlights shining above him, before melting into the blackness.
Zack told himself this had to be an incredible nightmare, something out of a stupid movie. Of course, he would wake up and find his wife where he left her, his house in one piece, his office still his, and everything would be fine. Good, he thought, it will all be normal and right when I wake up. He closed his eyes, and the city disappeared into blackness.
CHAPTER 45
Abby woke suddenly. She looked out the jet’s window. She checked behind her. No one was there, but she could feel him. She half expected Zach to materialize in front of her face. He felt that close, like he was breathing, panting, beside her. The sensation would not leave Abby, so she left her seat to look for a magazine, someone to talk to, anything to keep him away. She was crawling out of her skin. Zach was too close, but how?
The sun shone on the knife-sharp horizon off the wing tip, and a dusky darkness began to creep across the sky like a black cat. Her head began to pound as though something were on the inside trying to get out. Abby tried to calm herself. She returned to her seat and placed the headphones over her ears. Carole King’s liquid voice resonated through her brain... It’s too late, baby, now it’s too late, though we really did try to make it. Something inside has died... She wondered what Zach was doing right now.
Through the haze, he could see Touchdown. She was snorting at him, nuzzling him, begging for a ride. He felt himself smile. He could feel the sweat on her back, and then she vanished, and the sweat he felt was his own, dripping, oozing, passion heat. He was looking down at Desiree lying naked on that attic bed. It was covered with blood. Zach screamed inside his head, but no sound came out. Then Abby’s face floated in and out of his vision. Her face was screaming and running from him, but he couldn’t hear her. He tried to run after her, but his arms were frozen to his sides and his legs were cut off. She vanished, and Zach fell into another black hole that spun him around and around.
The cold was overpowering. Abby wrapped up in three airline blankets, took off her boots and tucked her feet under her body for warmth. She could not shake the icy air that surrounded her. She complained to the flight attendant, but he told her that the cabin was seventy-four degrees. They were less than an hour away from New Orleans. Abby forced herself to think about her new life, life without Zach. She pictured Wills pitching hay for the cows and then touching her cheek, like he always used to do. A smile formed on her lips. She noticed the more she thought of Wills, the less she felt Zach’s presence and the cold.
Abby closed her eyes and imagined Wills undressing her, first with his chestnut eyes and then with his strong, gentle hands. He would kiss her neck and rub the inside of her legs with the back of his fingers. He would whisper in her ear how much he loved her and turn down the light. A quilt would be soft beneath them and embrace her back. Wherever he touched her skin, it would be warm. She would let him do whatever he wanted to pleasure her. Abby felt a warm flush rush to her groin, and her breathing quickened. She was suddenly so heated she threw off all but the one blanket that concealed the placement of her hands. Her breaths were quick and shallow as she discreetly caressed her body where Wills had been so long ago. She swallowed her moans, and her breathing slowly returned to normal.
Abby’s eyes popped open. Thank God, no one was watching. The plane was descending now. She could feel the slight change in engine speed and the downward dip of the jet’s nose. The humming in her ears was the music that would take her home.
Numbness encased him. Zach could feel nothing. He could see nothing but the swirling blackness inside his head. Suddenly he was washed with light, and it hurt his eyes. It could have been a searchlight, a beacon calling out to sea. He squinted until he could just barely make out his grandfather. He could barely make out a shock of silvery white hair spilling out over his deep grey robe.
“Zachary?” his grandfather asked. “Are you ready to come home, son?”
“Oh, yes, Granddaddy, let’s go ridin’, let’s ride away,” Zach heard himself say.
“It’s time, then. Come, Zachary, I will show you the way. You have much to learn. Come.”
Zach held out his hand. He felt he was a small boy again, but he wasn’t frightened and he wasn’t numb. He could feel his legs, but he couldn’t feel the ground. He ran and laughed, and his grandfather scooped him up in his arms and led him to the loving beacon of light.
The 747’s wheels touched down with a bounce and a squeal. The backdraft made Abby’s ears feel fuzzy and pop. She felt light, free and full of energy – such a new sensation when only an hour ago she had been choking from the closeness of Zach. She grabbed her bag and almost skipped off the plane, feeling more like eighteen than forty-five. She couldn’t get to the end of the walkway fast enough.
Standing at the end of the gateway was Wills, grinning his best schoolboy grin. In his fist, he held at least a dozen of the biggest, brightest red balloons she’d ever seen. His deep brown eyes misted over. Abby dropped her bag. Gasps of air thundered through her bruised lungs, and she leaped into his waiting arms.
“Take me home, Wills. Take me home.”
EPILOGUE
Abigail Frances Taylor rocked back and forth on the front porch while she waited for Emmy and John to drive up for the day. Her hair was long again and still
glistened in the sun like a shiny copper penny. She looked peaceful, her shining blue eyes alert and alive. Hanging on the line behind the house were her husband’s faded blue overalls, boxer shorts, and her white nursing uniforms.
The spring breeze felt warm and fresh, and Abby drank in the rich flavor of the farm while she sipped her lemonade. For three glorious years she had been home again, absorbing every subtle whiff of the freshly turned earth and new cut hay, pinching herself now and then to make sure it was real, that she was real, that the delicious man who lay next to her every night was real.
Wills and his companions came out of the barn and waved to her. He was real all right, and draped over the old mare he led was Wills’ grandson, Jed. The boy buried his face in old Josephine’s mane and laughed a high-pitched child’s giggle.
“Y’all look like you’re havin’ a good time,” Abby said as she smiled and waved back.
She warmed at the sight of her husband. Abby felt as if they had been together for a lifetime. Their blended families all seemed to be one big clan, now, except for Zoe. She had moved to California, as far away as she could get, it seemed to Abby. Zoe had said she wanted to be a bank executive, or maybe an actress. Abby thought she just wanted to forget for a while. Luke was going to be a doctor, like his uncle Nathan. He had been uncomfortable with Wills at first, but now, when Luke came home, the men were inseparable.
And the grandchildren— ZJ had married a nice girl from Georgia, and they already had two little girls. It seemed to Abby that her eldest son had finally come into his own after his father died. All four of Wills’ children had had babies in the last two years. Nowadays, the weekends and holidays brought a house full of ankle biters, much to their grandparent’s delight.
There were some dates that just don’t leave your mind, and this day, the anniversary of her marriage to Zach, was one of them for Abby. Most of the time, he was gone from her thoughts, but not today. Zach’s death never sat right with her. At first she felt overwhelming guilt, certain that her leaving had caused it somehow. But then the pieces did not fit. The sheepskin rug, the glasses of liquor, the garage door, the missing Jeep. Something very wrong had happened on Shay Mountain the day she left. Abby finally agreed with Wills when he said, “Zach made enemies with his shenanigans, and one of them must have scared him to death.”
And what a hideous way to die. Zach had frozen on the cliffs below their house, just over three years ago. Somehow, and she’ll never know how she did it, Abby had the presence of mind to make sure that any usable organs were donated and that Zach’s bone marrow, preserved in the bitter cold that killed him, would be saved for David. It seemed an odd justice that, through death, Zach saved his son when in life, he had refused.
She turned her thoughts to Wills as he guided a delighted Jed around the yard.
Abby could hardly imagine ever being anywhere else. What was it she saw just last week? EXPECT A MIRACLE. That was it. It was a bumper sticker plastered on an old VW bus. Yes, Abby thought, life was good, miraculous even—if only Zoe would come home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I began to write this book at night after my children were in bed, on the weekends, and even on family vacations. I was obsessed. It took over my life for three years. That was twenty-five years ago. Maybe there is a Guinness Book of Records for the longest time between writing and publishing a book! There were times I would return to my little Mac SE (which I still have and which still works with old floppy disks) and see an entire chapter that I barely remember writing – it felt like someone else had told me what to write. Perhaps it was my muse, or channeling, or just being so tired. Who knows, but some of the most powerful chapters landed on the page that way. It was a lot like writing the story down as fast as I was seeing it, almost like a movie in front of my eyes – almost.
After many very friendly and mostly handwritten rejections, I rewrote it and removed most of the Mary and Frank story to focus much more on Abby’s story. So if anyone wants to know the whole yummy Mary and Frank story, I’ve got it and it’s probably another book!
Some agents and publishers said it might end up being my “trunk novel” and told me I should keep writing! And then along came Leticia Gomez, my brilliant and always abundant thinking agent from Savvy Literary Services, and she loved it. She took it to John Koehler, publisher of Koehler Books, and he loved it. John gave it to my loving editor Joe Coccaro, and thankfully he loved it, too! In fact, this book was supposed to be about 50 pages shorter, but Joe was pretty happy with the original book and cut very little and caught a bunch of my mistakes. Bless him!
Cross of Ivy IS in your hands now because of these three talented and passionate book people; it really is.
I would also like to thank my two smart, loving, and strong daughters, Lara and Jenna, for understanding as well as they could when they were very young that “Mommy just has to write this down before it goes away!” I would be remiss to leave out Richard Curtis, who more than two decades ago, declined the opportunity to become my agent, but not until he agreed to read the first 100 pages, for which I happily sent him his favorite hot dogs! Alas, my book wasn’t in his wheelhouse, but he wrote me the most beautiful rejection letter an author can hope for and indeed, it gave me hope.
To my friends, too numerous to mention or too close to the bone, I thank you for listening to me, catching my mistakes over and over again, and for helping me with accuracy and the story arc, especially Marc for WWII insights and Tom and Anita for the north to south train ride and the essential Baton Rouge plantation and street tours. You all helped me so much!
I’ve always known I have to write, but sometimes I forget – so for reminding me, I thank Writer’s Digest Magazine and all the contributors and editors over the years. Many times when thought I should just give it up, something in WD would cheer me on, help me over the doubting hump and I’d begin to write once again.
A dream come true. Thank you all.
March, 2015
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