Devine's Providence: A Novel

by Stephen Reney

  Terry was ultimately given a slap on the wrist. Probation and community service. Maybe it was because the raid on her grow operation was linked to Delgado as retribution. Maybe it was because of her age and otherwise clean record and upstanding citizen status. She said it was due to a more relaxed public opinion of marijuana use. Personally, I think she was simply well-enough connected to pull the right strings. But the one thing I knew for sure is that, as with most things with Terry, we’d never know for sure.

  With all of her pot confiscated, she settled into retirement, which did not settle well with Terry. She ended up working part time for Devine and Associates as a secretary. I promoted her to research assistant, but she insisted on introducing herself as “the associate of Devine and Associates.” She even printed up her own business cards.

  Chelsea and I never got a proper goodbye. The night on the rooftop, I was whisked away to jail. Chelsea gave the police the story we had come up for her (she was just my poor little girlfriend trying to stop me from being a hero), then she returned to California. After the dust had settled down and I finally got back to work, a package arrived at my office one day. It was a vinyl record, “The Unaccompanied Cello Suites of J.S. Bach.”

  There was no card or sender information, but I knew who it was from.

  About six months after the events, she aired a podcast episode about the Providence SmartPark scandal. She kept it impersonal, sticking to only the facts that were disclosed in the news, and leaving our experiences completely out of it.

  Tonally, it was a departure from all of her previous episodes. She accentuated the good people that helped to bring Delgado down, like Ernie and Zachetti. She downplayed the widespread corruption. Instead of a startling expose on the failures and shortcomings of the city of Providence, it was ultimately a positive story on good people overcoming seemingly impossible odds to do the right thing.

  I was both outwardly relieved and secretly disappointed that she had left me out of the narrative as well. Although I couldn’t help but notice that the soundtrack in the background consisted entirely of Miles Davis songs, with the exception of “Into the Mystic” at the very end.

  From that point forward, her podcasts and blog noticeably changed. They focused less on the sinister underworld dealings of their locales, and more on the hard-working do-gooders trying to turn things around. Law enforcement agencies in many communities even started inviting her to ride-along on cases, giving her followers an inside look on the first responders in action.

  Her popularity surged.

  Chelsea herself finally emerged from her place in the shadows and could be seen doing television interviews pretty regularly. She had a true crime book deal in the works, and became a standard crime expert correspondent on CNN and Good Morning America.

  I would watch her, staring into her green eyes through the TV, looking for…I don’t know, something. But as usual, I couldn’t figure her out. My only hope was that she found some peace with everything swirling around in her tumultuous mind. She would scrunch up her face when she disagreed with something, or bite her lower lip while she was thinking, and an unexplainable sense of comfort would come over me.

  And I cut down on my drinking. Didn’t give it up completely, mind you, but learned to at least only enjoy it when it was socially acceptable. Like at a Saturday night party with friends, not so much on a Wednesday morning alone. It’s been difficult, but I have found it easier now that I at least want to change.

  I started seeing a counselor for my depression. It hasn’t fixed it as instantly as I was hoping, but it did allow me to see things in a more clinical light, which helped immensely.

  I learned in general to enjoy my life as it was, not what it could have been or what I wish it could have been.

  One day at a time.

  I kept in touch with Zachetti and would go over for dinner with his family now and then. On one such Monday night, I entered the house, handed a bottle of wine and a kiss on the cheek to Mrs. Zachetti, and entered the living room to see Susan sitting there. I turned to leave immediately, but the doorway was blocked by Zachetti, who stared me down before I sulked back in and sat down.

  I didn’t say a word to her, I refused to even look at her, but I made some stupid little joke during dinner and she giggled. Just the way she always used to giggle at all my stupid little jokes during dinner. I glanced up and accidentally made eye contact with her. We still didn’t talk, but when Jake invited me back for dinner the following week, I begrudgingly accepted, unsurprised to find Susan there again. This time, I went so far as to ask her to pass me the mashed potatoes, which she obliged with a smile.

  The Zachettis made Monday night dinner a weekly occurrence, with both Susan and I having standing invites. I eventually warmed up to her and things gradually got less awkward, bit by bit. Being with the Zachettis, just like old times, helped. It wasn’t nearly like it was. It was an entirely new thing.

  But it wasn’t bad.

  As time passed, our Monday night dinners with the Zachettis were supplemented by Friday night movies (just the two of us), and the occasional fancy night-out during Providence Restaurant Week every few months.

  We’ve held hands, but nothing more—yet. We’re taking it slow. Painstakingly so. But that’s fine. She’s clean, and I’m (more) sober. It’s a weird mashup of just starting to date a stranger, but also reconnecting with someone who was once so close they were practically a part of you.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if we’ll ever get back together, or if we’ll just drift apart again. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Chelsea again. But I do know that it doesn’t matter.

  I tend to not worry about the future as much anymore. And I try not to dwell on the past as much, either. I’m making every effort to try to enjoy the present.

  Because life isn’t the movies. It’s not all dramatic dialogue and thrilling escapades and sprawling character arcs.

  Or happy endings.

  But there can be happy nows.

  And that’s good enough for me.

  Good enough, indeed.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, this book simply would not have been written if it were not for the encouragement, input, and enthusiasm of the more-talented-than-I folks in the Writing on the Wall group. Michael, Tom, Nathan, Noah; being constantly on-call to field questions and concerns—or just to lend an ear to my rantings and frustrations—that makes this book as much yours as it is mine. An extra, extra special thanks to our tireless leader and master-of-prose, Carissa Broadbent, who is the singular most supportive person I know. Her positive vibes and sage advice places me forever in her debt.

  A very special thanks to those who have read this story in various stages along the way—including but not limited to: Darlene, Kristen, Jackie, Valerie—your feedback has proven invaluable.

  Thank you to designer Caroline Johnson, whose totally awesome cover and interior prove that her artistic prowess is matched only in her patience in dealing with the likes of me.

  Thanks to my editor, the terrific Dominic Wakeford, who had the herculean task of making sure I used all my hyphens correctly (I did-not).

  To the cavalcade of folks who have offered their support and encouragement throughout this long and strange endeavor…I am very blessed to have you in my life, each and every one of you. The outpouring of well-wishes since I first announced this project has been humbling, to say the least.

  Thank you to a certain classic movie channel, and their late-night showings. Eddie Muller beaming into my living room to present the great Film Noir standards (and some more obscure treasures) has easily been the most enjoyable research I’ve done for anything, ever.

  Lastly, I need to thank my best friend, the Nora to my Nick Charles, my wife Lauren. Her putting up with the rantings, ravings, isolation, and mood swings of a writer earns her a ticket straight
to heaven. To reference Sabrina one last time, may she never forget to turn the oven on.