The Silver Cord
THE LILY LOCKWOOD SERIES: BOOK TWO
Alison Caiola
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perception and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.
Copyright © 2015 by Alison Caiola
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author and publisher.
THE WONDERLAND PRESS, NEW YORK
First Edition: January, 2015
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN-13:9781508475040
eBook ISBN: 5155431
ISBN-10:1508475040
Library of Congress Control Number: TXu001903243
Caiola Alison. The Silver Cord
Cover artwork by Eric Hutchison
Cover design by Inbeon Studios
Author photo by Jen Rozenbaum
For my son, J. D., with love.
Acknowledgements
This acknowledgment page is a great opportunity
To thank the people who mean the world to me.
So I beg a moment of your time,
To do so now, in this rhyme.
To John Campbell—my agent, a voice on the end of a phone,
You have become my dear friend and mentor, as our relationship has grown.
Steven Schnurman—you are so loving and true blue—like no other,
Even when you pretend to act like my bratty kid brother.
Donna Harris-Richards—my Pali, my bestie, my cherished sister-friend,
We shall be the keeper of each other’s secrets ‘til the very bitter end.
To my nephew, Jesse—you did a fine job checking military strategies and names.
Now who said that nothing good can come from playing video games?
To my dear cousins Alissa, Melinda and Pammy,
Thanks for being supportive friends as well as loving family.
To Joyce, Anita, Elyn, Jimmy, Lita, Patt, Tania, Ken, Art, Jill, Jeanne H. & Jeanne N.
Cheerleaders all—I am blessed and honored to call you my family of friends.
When a silver cord ties two hearts together, neither time nor distance can sever the bond.
—Alison Caiola
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Prologue
The prisoner drifted in and out of consciousness. Moments of oblivion were a welcome reprieve from the pain, which stemmed from the harsh body blows he had received from the fat, sweaty guard. Two other guards held the prisoner’s arms while the third, larger one pummeled his body. The prisoner’s head throbbed and his eyes were swollen shut. As the hours passed, the metallic taste of blood became more pervasive. The prisoner’s hands were tied and his eyes newly blindfolded, so he could not see when the next blows would be delivered, nor could he protect himself when they landed.
A group of ten uniformed sentinels burst into the room, shouted loudly in a language the prisoner did not understand, and tied him to a chair. The prisoner told them he knew nothing and that he was unable to understand what they were saying. He pleaded with them to bring someone into the room who spoke English, but the more he pleaded, the louder the guards laughed.
A few minutes later, the fat sweaty one emerged from the group, wielding a large sledgehammer. He smiled, stepped closer to the prisoner, lifted the heavy hammer slowly, swung it back, and pounded the prisoner’s left kneecap. Hot, searing pain resulted from the crippling crunch. The guards untied the prisoner and left him screaming on the floor, writhing in pain.
From that moment on, their dark faces and uniformed bodies became indistinguishable. The prisoner strained to listen for the steel boots that would again kick open the door and, soon thereafter, his head. It was sweltering in the room and the heat had reactivated the stench of urine, blood, feces, and sweat embedded in the cracks and crevices of the tiny space.
He remembered his mother’s garden at home and tried to conjure the scent of the heavily fragrant Texas Mockorange and Gardenias that lined the driveway. He would ride his bicycle out of the garage and speed past the aromatic hedges, holding his nose to ward off the aromas that competed desperately for attention.
The prisoner thought of his parents, certain that the physical agony he was experiencing was nothing in comparison to the emotional pain his situation was causing them. He could not bear bringing even the smallest discomfort to them. He was one of the lucky ones: a golden son in a family where everyone not only loved each other, but also liked one another, too. Their home was located on five acres out in the country. It had been in his mother’s family for generations—all proud Texans to the very core.
He and his brother spent summers in a Tom Sawyer-like bliss, making forts, climbing trees, and riding horses. On the hottest days, they’d swing for hours on the ropes their father had tied atop the two tallest elm trees, next to the crystal-blue lake. They’d let out Tarzan-worthy yodels before plunging into the ice-cold water.
No matter what memory he conjured up, his mind always wandered to the recent past and he thought of her. He could almost smell the fragrance of her hair when she stepped out of the shower; the mischievous twinkle of her eyes, a tip off that she was about to say something sarcastic. Her laughter rang like a bell, starting low and slow, then escalated in pitch and speed. How she would always tilt her head to the right and stare into his eyes a few seconds before kissing him. Her kisses tasted of peppermint. He memorized every inch of her body. She was generous with it—never holding back. He marveled at the change in her face when they made love and how it took on a primal look of fierce pleasure.
He tensed as he heard the stomping of their boots on the floor down the hall. He could feel the vibration through the thin walls even before hearing their voices and loud laughter. Too soon the door would open and he prayed that this time it would be swift. He heard her laughter, felt her body underneath his, gazed into her hazel eyes, kissed her lips—the taste of peppermint…
Crack. Crack. Crack. Lightning. Darkness.
Chapter 1
Tap, tap, tap. Her fingers flew across the keyboard with lightning speed. There was a knock on the door but Lily ignored it and continued typing. Another three knocks, this time more insistent.
Lily didn’t look up from the keyboard. “Not now. Please go away.”
“Miss Lily, the baby—she’s very sick.”
Lil
y pushed back her chair, jumped up, and ran to unlock the door. Her housekeeper, Gladys, was standing on the other side, chubby arms folded across her abundant breasts, with a cat-that-ate–the-canary grin on her round face.
“My God, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Little Miss Daisy Rose is fine, sleeping soundly. She’s perfect—like a little angel. Don’t you remember you said, ‘Gladys, no matter what you have to do, just make sure I stop my writing when Mr. Fernando gets here?’”
Lily breathed a sigh of relief. She was annoyed, but in all fairness to her housekeeper, she had indeed instructed Gladys to do this.
“So Mario called from the lobby. Mr. Fernando is on his way up now.”
Gladys started walking toward the front door, then turned dramatically to say, “Now you know for sure that you’re not the only actress in this house, right? Watch out, ‘cause I may be the one up for the award next year.” Gladys laughed. Lily smiled and went back into her office, closing and locking the door behind her.
She walked over to her desk, read the last paragraph she had written, and pressed “Control S” on her laptop. Today Lily was on a writer’s roll, one that didn’t come often to her. But today the words were flowing fast from an invisible faucet and she was hesitant to slow the momentum, lest it dry up forever.
Her first book had been extremely well received and lauded by critics and readers alike. But while writing her second book, she found the process more slow-going—to the point where she actually fell into an agonizing spell of writer’s block. In fact, she seriously wondered if she would be able to successfully complete a second novel—one that people would be drawn to read. What if she were only capable of authoring that one book? What if the first one was a fluke? She often wondered how long it would take and how many books she would have to write before she felt like a real author. Sometimes, especially after a fruitless writing session, she would come down so hard on herself that she felt perhaps she should give up writing altogether and stick to what she knew best and was good at—acting. Acting was the reason that particular day promised to be an exciting one.
The door knob turned but did not open. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave the door unlocked?”
Lily opened the door and once again, Gladys was standing on the other side.
“And how many times do I have to tell you that you are not my mother, you are only my housekeeper.” Lily said.
Gladys’s face turned beet red. “Only your housekeeper? Really, is that what I am—only your housekeeper? Someone should’ve told me that twenty years ago when I sat with your mother, by your sick bed, all night long, taking turns with Daisy wiping the sweat that was dripping from your forehead. Or the time, when you were 16 years old and I picked you up from that party because you were drunk and afraid to call your mother. Then I had to clean the puke off of you, before I put you into bed.”
Gladys spun around and stomped down the hall toward the front foyer.
Lily called after her, “Gladys, come on, don’t be mad. I didn’t mean it like that.”
When her housekeeper refused to reply, Lily went back into her office, closed the door, and made sure not to lock it. Gladys had been her mother’s housekeeper since Lily was a child and even though she was often overbearing, Lily knew Gladys loved her—and now loved her daughter, too. Lily had to remind herself that Gladys had been her rock since Daisy passed away.
Moments later, the door flung open and Fernando burst into the room. His assistant Stefan, carrying a small table and two large canvas bags, trailed behind shyly. They made quite the pair—Fernando with his movie-star good lucks, tall, with a full head of lustrous hair, standing next to the homely Stefan, bald and a mere 5’2”, who, as usual, was doing all the heavy lifting. Fernando practically ran across the room and grabbed Lily’s cheeks with both hands.
“It’s a beautiful day to get dolled up and stand in front of millions of people to accept your very first Tony Award for Leading Actress in a Play, isn’t it my love?”
A flutter of butterflies engulfed Lily’s tiny stomach. “Don’t say that, Ferny. You’ll make me barf, truly.
“Nonsense, you’re a Lockwood, and, as everyone knows, Lockwood women never get shaken.” He winked at Stefan, “Stirred, but never shaken.” He threw his head back, gave his long brown hair a dramatic flip and laughed.
After catching his breath, Fernando stepped back, folded his arms, and took a good look at Lily. “Now, darling, tell me that you’ve showered already.”
“Sorry, I got caught up in my manuscript and lost track of the time,” she said sheepishly.
“Of course you did, Miss New York Times Bestselling Author.” He clapped his hands twice and proclaimed, “Chop, chop: Get into the shower right now.”
“Boy, you would make a fantastic drill sergeant.”
“Oh I think not—that ‘don’t ask, don’t tell thing’ would seriously cramp my style. Now, go!”
Lily saluted, “Yes, sir, on my way, sir.” On that note, she hurried out of the room.
With the precision of a seasoned scrub nurse, Stefan began to lay out what Fernando fondly called his “weapons of mass creation”: liquid and powder foundation, eye shadows, false eye lashes, lipsticks, bottles and jars of hair gels, conditioners, hairspray, various-sized flat and round brushes, barrel curlers, flat irons, and a high-speed blow dryer.
As was their routine, Fernando watched him like a hawk. When Stefan put out and straightened the last item, Ferny nodded his approval and said, “While she’s in the shower, I’m going to visit the little princess.”
He walked down the hallway and opened the third door to the right. No matter how many times he entered this room, he was always struck by the mural of hundreds of hand-painted roses, in every shade of pink imaginable that adorned the wall behind the white crib. He walked in and nodded to the nanny, Margaret, who was seated in the rocking chair, knitting, over in the corner of the room. His eyes glanced at a photo of Lily’s beloved mother Daisy that had a place of honor on top of the dresser next to the changing table. Daisy had been one of his dearest friends and the photo had been taken only a few months before she died tragically in a car crash. Her wide smile looked as if the camera had caught her in mid-laughter, her green eyes twinkling mischievously. His gaze lingered on the picture for a few seconds. There would never be another Daisy; she was one in a million. The familiar feeling of loss washed over him as he sighed and tiptoed over to the crib.
Baby Daisy Rose, in purple and pink pajamas, was sound asleep, her face almost completely covered by tousled blond ringlets. Fernando smiled, knowing that in years to come he would be the one tasked to tame those curls, just as he had done for her grandmother. He gently pushed her hair away from her face and marveled at how much she had changed in the past three weeks since he and his partner, Tommy, had babysat her.
They were playing horsey and he was down on all fours while Daisy Rose was seated on his back. Her chubby fingers grabbed and pulled at his long mane as he pranced around the room. Daisy Rose squealed with delight. Tommy, of course, was right behind them every step of the way, hands outstretched to catch the toddler if she tumbled. In retrospect, Ferny realized that this scenario summed up their relationship perfectly: Fernando was the wild card, changing directions on a whim, while Tommy was always nearby—Fernando’s safety net—arms outstretched always ready to catch him. Their roles fit them like the Italian suits that line their walk-in closets. The last ten years were proof positive that opposites not only attract but that they can successfully endure the ups and downs of life.
Fernando marveled at how much the toddler resembled her beautiful mother. He adamantly told anyone who would listen that she looked nothing like Jamie, whom he called “the social-climbing actor who happened to be the sperm donor.” Fernando would rather die than say it aloud, but he was surprised at how Jamie had stepped up and taken responsibility for the baby. Well, time would tell with that one. He had never liked Jamie, but he liked Jami
e even less after the way the actor had blatantly cheated on Lily. Jamie would be forever dead to Fernando.
Lily, her hair wrapped in a towel, entered the room in a long white bathrobe and stood next to her dear friend for a good moment, watching her child breathe in and out. Thankfully after Daisy Rose was born, Lily had found renewed joy in life. They all did. After Daisy’s fatal accident, they had become a small army of the walking wounded. Lily, of course, had suffered the most. Losing a mother—and one as extraordinary as Daisy—was unfathomably painful. Lily and Daisy had been closer than any mother and daughter whom Fernando had ever met. How on earth would Lily recover? Time does not heal all wounds; Fernando knew that was bullshit. And then, when Robbie left her, it added weight to Lily’s downhill free-fall. The birth of Daisy Rose had brought not only into their world this precious child who lay sleeping in front of them, but also a deep sense of renewal and hope for them all.
Fernando nodded that it was time to go. They left the room and quietly closed the door, allowing the princess to sleep undisturbed.
“Voilà. I present to you Audrey Hepburn 2.0.” Fernando held the mirror up behind her so that Lily could see the back of the masterpiece that had taken nearly two hours to create. The chignon was stunning, very Breakfast at Tiffany’s, with a modern 21st-century twist. Fernando had added one of Daisy’s antique crystal hair ornaments above Lily’s bangs. She stood up and turned around to get a glimpse of every gorgeous angle. The golden highlights in her chestnut hair sparkled and brought out the flecks of yellow in her large, hazel eyes. She spun around and hugged Fernando.
“Thank you, thank you, Ferny, I love it!”
“Of course you do, darling. Was there ever any doubt?” Fernando nodded his head, giving Stefan the go-ahead to start packing up.
“Have to leave, lovey. Donna’s waiting, I’m going to do her hair and makeup and then I’ll get dressed. The limo will pick us up at 5:00 p.m. and then we’ll swing by and pick you up about fifteen minutes later. This will give us plenty of time to walk the red carpet together, wave to your myriad adoring fans, and even give an interview or two.”
The Silver Cord: The Lily Lockwood Series: Book Two Page 1
