Riverstorm

by Tess Thompson

  RIVERSTORM

  THE RIVER VALLEY SERIES, BOOK 5

  TESS THOMPSON

  United States, 2017

  COPYRIGHT 2017 TESS THOMPSON

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  Also by Tess Thompson

  Cliffside Bay Series

  Traded: Brody and Kara

  Deleted: Jackson and Maggie

  Jaded: Zane and Honor

  Marred: Kyle and Violet

  Tainted: Lance and Mary

  Missed: Rafael and Lisa

  Cliffside Bay Christmas

  The Blue Mountain Series

  Blue Midnight

  Blue Moon

  Blue Ink

  The Legley Bay Series

  Caramel and Magnolias

  Tea and Primroses

  The River Valley Series

  Riversong

  Riverbend

  Riverstar

  A River Valley Christmas: Tommy's Wish

  Riversnow

  The River Valley Series: Riversong, Riverbend, Riverstar, Riversnow

  Riverstorm

  Standalone

  Duet for Three Hands

  Miller's Secret

  The Santa Trial

  Cliffside Bay Bundle, Volume 1-3

  Watch for more at Tess Thompson’s site.

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  FROM MERCHANT OF VENICE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  For my Dad,

  Who taught me how to tell a good story.

  “The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.”

  ~William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice

  CHAPTER ONE

  Grant

  THE TEQUILA SHOTS had seemed like a good idea at the time. However, when Grant woke on his kitchen floor with a half-eaten quesadilla clasped in the palm of his hand, a dry mouth, a thudding headache and swirling gut, he conceded that his assured belief from the night before was not only inaccurate but also an outright lie. Tequila was evil, not awesome. Currently, it seeped from his pores. How many shots had it been? He remembered three for sure, along with the accompanied toasts from his friends. To the end of your captivity. So long to the wicked witch. Here’s to you keeping all your stuff. After that, it was a fuzzy collusion of lime, salt, and expensive tequila. He’d tied one on with a bow the size of a big, black Cadillac.

  He lifted his head and looked around his kitchen. Spilled salsa, shredded cheese, and several blackened tortillas decorated the counter. Why did I do this to myself? Drinking until two in the morning was not something he did. Ever. He worked. That was his life, especially since his marriage broke up a year ago. Or, rather, his wife left him. That was more accurate. She left him. For another man. A hedge fund manager. Today, his divorce was final. Later this afternoon, he would sign papers. Over and done with. Time to move on.

  God, his head hurt. He had no business drinking like he had. At thirty-four and a partner at a law firm, he had responsibilities and a reputation to worry about. Who knew what stupid things he may have said or done. He remembered next to nothing. His friends had stuck him in an Uber, and he’d managed to get inside his house without any mishaps, other than the quesadilla. Only by the grace of God.

  Grant dragged himself from the floor and up to his bathroom. A dull ache in his groin and calves hinted at some unusual physical activity. Dancing? Had he danced? An image of a disco ball and a blond skidded in and out of his consciousness. She had a tattoo of a cow on her shoulder. A cow? Was it a cow or a buffalo? It didn’t matter. Thankfully he had not ended the night with the blond in his bed. There was that at least.

  Sweat pooled on his forehead as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The bright June sunlight streaming through the skylight was not his friend. Just like the tequila. Puffy face, dark circles, and bloodshot eyes stared back at him.

  He slipped out of his shirt and slacks that reeked of booze and perspiration. No idea what happened to his tie. He turned on the shower and rested his cheek against the cool tile as he waited for the water to warm. When the water was finally hot, he stood under the weak stream of the water-conservation showerhead and soaped his body as fast as he could. The California drought had gone on for years. This last winter had brought a lot of rain, but the Los Angeles Mayor had encouraged citizens to continue their good habits. Short showers. Drought resistant plants. Damn California. One couldn’t even shower without feeling guilty about the planet.

  As he lathered his hair, a memory from last night invaded his consciousness. Had he been talking about Lizzie to the guys? He had. Oh God, he’d droned on and on about her. He’d admitted that working with her on the Murphy case last year had awakened all the old feelings. I still love her. He hadn’t talked about his wife, Mandy, on the eve of his divorce. No, it was all about Lizzie. His girlfriend from ten years ago. What an idiot. I will never drink too much again. Hell, I may never drink again.

  Out of the shower, he shaved, using a blade. No electric razor for him. He liked the scent of the shaving cream and the feel of the close shave. Twice, he cut himself. The pink, angry gashes screamed to the world—this guy is broken. He brushed his teeth. Amazingly satisfying. Never underestimate the power of a clean mouth. He took three ibuprofens. Sorry, liver, but head wins this round.

  He donned one of his summer suits, light fabric in dark blue with a faint tan pinstripe. He’d have to send the suit from last night to the cleaners. One should never go out right after work for just a few rounds to “celebrate” one’s divorce while wearing a designer suit. He wasn’t even sure if the jacket had made it home with him.

  He reviewed his schedule for the day. Two items: sign divorce paperwork and meet with his boss, Raymond Aden. Something to look forward to. The Aden of the Law firm of Aden, Flick, Beardon, and Hoff believed that all the attorneys in the firm should be assigned a senior partner to serve as their mentor. Grant was one of the lucky ones. For ten years, Raymond had been his mentor.

  He chose a lavender tie from his walk-in closet. The color reminded him of his mother. No idea why, but it did. After tying it, he stood back to look at himself. T
he shower, shave, and clothes had done their part to disguise the hangover. It was time to go do it. Sign the divorce papers. Move on with his life.

  **

  Grant arrived at Raymond’s office a few minutes before two that afternoon. Minnie, Raymond’s secretary, was not at her desk. Instead, a young woman he recognized from their IT department sat behind her computer, obviously troubleshooting a technical problem. As Grant approached, she looked up from her work and flashed him a salacious smile. “Hey, Grant.” She bit her bottom lip and tilted her head like she was posing for a selfie. “Did you just work out?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” His workout during lunch had been excruciating, given the state of his aching head. Afterward, as usual, he felt better. Strong mind, strong body. Man needed both to function to their full potential, according to Raymond.

  “Wet hair gave you away.” She bit her lip again. “Nothing better than a man with a wet head.”

  Why did all the girls bite their lips now? Cow tattoo girl had bitten her lip last night too. I remember that but not how I got home?

  “I love your shirt,” she said.

  “It’s a standard white button-down. Nothing special.”

  “It looks special on you.”

  “Well…thanks.” What is her name? Ashley? Be humble. Be interested. These were two of the mantras Raymond had taught him. Despite his foul mood, he smiled. “How are things going for you here at the firm?”

  “Fantastic. I’m killing it.” She swept her long hair behind one shoulder. “I’m a little disappointed that I’ve been here eight months already without a promotion or raise. But hey, what’re you gonna do? There are more jobs like this one all over town. I keep my options open.”

  “Sure. Well, keep up the good work and you’ll be rewarded.” These young people they’d hired in the past few years possessed feverish self-confidence with seemingly little understanding of what one did to earn esteem and prestige. It was as if they assumed a predestination to greatness, rather than the urgent insecurity he had felt as a younger man.

  “So, a bunch of us are going down to the bar after work. It’s Ashley’s birthday. You should totally come.”

  Wait. Wasn’t this one Ashley? They were all named Ashley or Hannah or Taylor. The Ashleys. A millennial girl rock band.

  “We’ve all been talking about how sad you seem lately, and we’d love to cheer you up,” she said.

  Here it is.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  Right, yes. She expected an answer. “No, thanks. I have plans tonight.”

  “You’re seeing someone? So soon?”

  The Ashleys had no sense of boundaries. He would never have spoken so personally to someone he barely knew, especially at work.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name,” he said.

  She smiled and flipped her hair to the other shoulder. “I’m Jessica. Jessica Park. You interviewed me.”

  Jessica. Yes, of course. So many Jessicas. “Right. Sorry. I just blanked there for a moment. Jessica, while I appreciate the invitation, but it isn’t inappropriate for a partner to accompany his young coworkers out for drinks.”

  “It isn’t?” She blinked. “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so. Have fun, though. Tell Ashley happy birthday. Excuse me. I’m late for a meeting with Raymond.”

  “But are you seeing someone?” Jessica asked.

  He didn’t bother to answer. No, I’m not seeing someone. Do I look like a man with a good woman?

  Raymond’s office door was open. He stood looking out the window, his hands folded behind his back. Grant knocked softly on the door. “You ready for me?”

  Raymond turned and smiled. That smile, like a soft blanket, never ceased to ease Grant’s worry. One couldn’t learn to smile like that. Genuine warmth was either there or not. “Yes, yes. Please come in.” His office, on the twentieth floor of a downtown L.A. skyrise, was decorated in sparse, modern lines, everything silver and angular, like Raymond himself. The mid-afternoon light filtered through the porous gray shades and softened the angles of the room as well as the lines on Raymond’s face.

  One of the first lessons Grant had learned when he’d moved from the small Oregon coast town of Legley Bay to Los Angeles—rich people knew other rich people. When he graduated from law school, Lizzie’s dad had secured Grant an interview with his golfing buddy, Raymond Aden. His life changed in an instant. He hadn’t looked back, working hard and staying focused on the goal—be someone who matters. Ten years later, he was a non-equity partner, earning more money in a year than his father had in a lifetime as a fisherman on the Oregon coast.

  “Thanks for moving your schedule around so we could meet.” Raymond slipped out of his gray suit jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. “We’re going to have a drink.”

  “We are?” He almost groaned. His hangover was still hanging around to remind him of his earlier oath to never drink again. But if Raymond wanted a drink, so be it. Why did he want a drink? In the ten years Grant had worked for him, he had never suggested a drink during normal business hours. Something’s wrong.

  “Yes, we are.” Raymond went to the cabinet where he kept a half-dozen bottles of various boozes and poured them each a three-finger scotch.

  Raymond handed him the drink and invited him over to the armchairs by the window. After they were both seated, Raymond sipped from his glass and gazed out the window.

  Why won’t he look at me? I’m being fired. No, of course not, idiot. They wouldn’t fire me now. Not after the amount of money I’ve brought into the firm the past few years, thanks to Stefan’s rich friends.

  “Julia’s gravely ill.”

  “What?” Impossible. She’s the picture of health. Last month, Raymond and Julia had celebrated their forty-fifth wedding anniversary. Grant had been honored to attend the party, consisting of only family and a few close friends. She’d been vibrant that afternoon. Not gravely ill.

  “She has cancer. Lung.”

  “But she doesn’t smoke,” Grant said.

  Raymond nodded, and a flicker of pain flashed across his aristocratic features. “I know. Neither of us ever have. The doctor said it happens sometimes. They believe she has six to twelve months without treatment. More if she wants to go through chemo, but it would probably only extend her life by another six months. And, no guarantees.”

  No. This can’t be happening. Not to Julia and Raymond.

  “I want her to do whatever it takes to get a few more months with her,” Raymond said. “But that’s not how she sees it.”

  “She doesn’t want to spend the time she has left feeling awful,” said Grant.

  “That’s right.” Raymond’s mouth twisted into a half smile. “She made a joke of it, claiming she’s too vain to die without her hair.” His voice wavered. “Julia wants to enjoy whatever time she has left, instead of spending it in the cancer ward getting poisoned. Her words.”

  “I can understand.” Grant sipped from his glass. Swallowing was like eating liver when he was a kid. I might vomit in front of Raymond.

  “Julia and I got married right after I graduated from law school. Her parents insisted we take a long honeymoon in Europe—her mother’s idea. She thought a son-in-law with a law degree from Harvard was nice and all, but that one grew in character and depth by traveling the world. They gave us enough money for six months. It was the most exquisite time of my life. Julia’s too. When we learned of her diagnosis, she asked that we spend the rest of her good days revisiting the same spots we went to on our honeymoon. Perhaps, find some new ones.”

  The lump in Grant’s throat replaced his headache in intensity. How could this be happing? Raymond and Julia were exquisite, as individuals and together. Generous, kind, fun-loving. They were the couple everyone wanted to emulate. Raymond was a man who deserved a happy retirement with his bride by his side. Grant pushed his fingers into his eyes. Beautiful Julia, dying. It’s impossible to think of. Do not cry. Think of something
comforting. But there was nothing to say. No words could fix this.

  Raymond’s voice was husky as he continued. “When we couldn’t have children, Julia grieved. She never said much about it, but I could see the way her eyes misted over when we encountered young mothers and their babies. I hurt because she hurt, but I always had her, and she was enough. She was my everything.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand to indicate the office. “All of this. It was for her. I wanted to give her every earthly possession to show my love. Because I was poor growing up, I had this yearning for wealth, success, comfort. Houses, cars, clothes. Everything the best money could buy. But now, I wonder, was it the right gift? Should I have given her my time instead? Since her diagnosis, I’ve been thinking of all the hours I spent here when I could’ve been holding her, making her laugh, listening to her. How I wish I’d listened more. Listened better.” He finished his drink before looking back at Grant. “I’m haunted by all the hours I’ll never get back.”

  “You told me once that everyone has events or decisions they can’t take back, can’t change,” Grant said. “The most important thing is to move forward, letting your mistakes inform your present.”

  “Very sound advice.” Raymond smiled, then cleared his throat as he got up from the chair and went to the cabinet to pour more scotch in his glass. When he returned, he didn’t sit but lingered by the window. “I won’t be taking a sabbatical. I’m retiring.”

  Grant nodded; his stomach dropped like he was in a free-falling elevator. What could he say that didn’t sound completely selfish? This was the worst news he could have, especially right now. These offices without Raymond? Not seeing him almost every day of the year? Raymond had been the one aspect of his life that remained unchanged. He was a mentor and a friend. He filled the hollow places left by his father. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t it be best to have work to come back to?”