by T L Swan
“Yes, I am. Is she available?”
“I’ll put you straight through.”
“Thank you.”
I wait, and then she answers. “Hello, Claire speaking.”
I close my eyes at the sound of her voice . . . sexy, husky . . . enticing.
“Hello, Claire. It’s Tristan.”
“Oh.” She falls silent.
Fuck . . . Marley didn’t tell her it was me.
An unfamiliar feeling begins to seep into my bones. “I just wanted to see if you were okay after our meeting. I’m sorry if I upset you.” I screw up my face . . . what are you doing? This is not in the plan.
“My feelings are no concern of yours, Mr. Miles.”
“Tristan,” I correct her.
“How can I help you?” she snaps impatiently.
My mind goes blank . . .
“Tristan?” she prompts me.
“I wanted to see if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night.” My eyes close in horror . . . what the fuck am I doing right now?
She stays silent for a moment and then replies in surprise, “You’re asking me out on a date?”
I screw up my face. “I don’t like the way we met. I would like to start again.”
She chuckles in a condescending tone. “You have got to be kidding. I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man on earth.” Then she whispers, “Money and looks don’t impress me, Mr. Miles.”
I bite my bottom lip . . . ouch. “Our meeting was nothing personal, Claire.”
“It was very personal to me. Go and find a bimbo to wine and dine, Tristan. I have no interest in dating a cold, soul-sucking bastard like you.” The phone clicks as she hangs up.
I stare at the phone in my hand. Adrenaline is pumping through my system at her fighting words.
I don’t know whether I’m shocked or impressed.
Perhaps a bit of both.
I’ve never been rejected before and definitely never been spoken to like that.
I turn to my computer and type into Google: Who is Claire Anderson?
Chapter 2
Six months later
I read the invitation in front of me.
MASTER YOUR MIND.
Oh God, what a crock of crap.
I need to get out of this—I honestly can’t think of anything worse.
“I think this is going to be great for you,” Marley says.
I look up to my trusty best friend as she does her best sales pitch, trying to push me out of my comfort zone. I know her heart is in the right place, but this is just going too far. “Marley, I can tell you straight up, right now, that if you think a motivational conference with all those crazies is going to help me, you are more insane than I ever realized.”
“Stop it; it’s gonna be fantastic. You go away, regroup, and refocus, and you’ll come back refreshed, and the company and your life and everything else is all going to fall into place.”
I roll my eyes.
“Come on—can we at least agree that you need to change your mind-set?” she asks me as she sits on my desk.
“Possibly.” I sigh, dejected.
“And it’s not your fault you’re flat. You’ve been through so much: your husband’s unexpected death, caring for three boys, and struggling to keep the company afloat. It’s been hell. And realistically you’ve been fighting since Wade’s death five years ago.”
“Do you have to say it out loud? Sounds even more depressing.” I sigh again.
A knock sounds at my office door.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens, and Gabriel smiles broadly. “Ready for lunch, Missy?” His eyes flick to Marley. “Hey, Marls.”
“Hi.” She smiles goofily.
I smile as well. “Mr. Ferrara.” I glance at my watch. “You’re early. Lunch isn’t for an hour. I thought you said two?”
“My meeting finished early, and I’m hungry. Let’s go now.”
I look over at the gorgeous Italian, tall, dark, and handsome in his designer suit. Gabriel Ferrara is a rock star in New York, but to me he is just a dear friend. He knew my late husband, and although I never met him when Wade was alive, he got in contact with me not long after his death. He owns one of the largest media companies in the world, and his building isn’t far from here. He gives me advice here and there, and we catch up for lunch when we can. It’s completely platonic between us—he’s a rock that I lean on from time to time.
“Gabe, tell Claire that she needs to go to this conference.” Marley sighs in exasperation.
He frowns as he looks between us. “All right . . . Claire, you need to go to this conference,” he repeats unenthusiastically. “Now let’s eat. Sushi awaits.”
Marley’s eyes find mine. “Can you just have a week off and go to Paris? Take some time for yourself. Get away from the kids. I can look after everything back here at the office. We had that cash injection—things are okay around here for the moment. Use the time to recharge.”
I exhale heavily. I know I need to pull myself out of this funk. My life is so dull; I’ve lost enthusiasm for everything. My life that was once wild and carefree has been replaced with animosity. Sometimes I’m so furious at Wade for leaving me with this mess that I tell him off in my head, as if he can hear me, and then afterward, I feel so guilty because I know he would have given anything to see his sons grow up and that leaving me would have never been his choice.
Life just isn’t fair sometimes.
They say that only the good die young—what about the best? Why did he have to go too?
“Go to the conference,” Marley urges me. “You are not going to lunch until you agree to this.”
“Hurry up, woman. Yes. It’s agreed; she’s going.” Gabriel tries to finish the conversation. When I don’t move, he exhales heavily and falls onto the couch.
“You know I don’t know how to do the motivational mumbo jumbo.” I stand and begin to pack files away. “The crap that they go on with is next-level batshit crazy.”
“I think you need some batshit crazy, because batshit broke isn’t a fun place to visit.” Marley sighs again.
I smirk.
“This is true.” Gabriel smiles as he scrolls through his phone.
I continue putting things away. This is true. Batshit broke is not somewhere I want to visit at all. I sit back in my chair and stare at my hopeful friend.
“Go, recharge. It’s in Épernay in the Champagne district of France, for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get any more beautiful than this, Claire. It’s a tax deduction; you either pay for this or pay it in taxes—the choice is yours. At the very least, you can get a massage every afternoon and then drink two liters of champagne every night with your gourmet dinner and fall into bed in a blissful stupor.”
“Épernay is beautiful,” Gabriel mutters, distracted. “I would go just for the location.”
“You’ve been there?” I ask him.
“A few times. I went with Sophia last summer,” he replies. “She loves it there.”
I imagine myself alone in a luxurious hotel room. It’s been so long since I’ve gotten away. Five years, actually. “Now, a gourmet dinner and champagne . . . that is tempting.”
“If the conference part of the trip is boring, just ditch it, and have a week to yourself in France. You need this break,” Marley says.
Gabriel stands. “Agreed. You’re going. Hurry up; I’m ravenous.”
I exhale heavily.
“Will you just go for me?” Marley takes my hand in hers. “Please.” She smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes as she tries to be cute.
Oh God, she’s not going to let this go. “Fine.” I sigh. “I’ll go.”
She bounces off my desk and claps her hands in excitement. “Yes, this is going to be so good for you, Claire—just what you need.” She rushes toward the door. “I’m going to book flights now before you change your mind.”
I roll my eyes as I pick up my handbag. “I’m already dreading i
t.”
“Eep, I’m so excited.” She flaps her hands around and rushes out of the office.
“We going?” Gabriel asks.
“Yeah. I’m not feeling sushi, though.”
“Fine.” He holds his hand toward the door. “You choose, but make it fast. I’m about to faint.”
“Okay. Let’s go over the details,” Marley says as she sips her drink.
I nod as I take a bite of food. We are in a restaurant having lunch. It’s the day before I leave for my conference. “Your bags are packed.”
Marley gets out her diary and begins to read from her list.
“Uh-huh.”
She ticks the first checkbox on her list. “Hair done—tick.” She continues going through her list. “Appointments cleared,” she mumbles to herself as she reads through her list.
I keep eating my lunch, totally unexcited about the next week.
“Oh.” She frowns and looks up at me. “Did you get laser?”
I roll my eyes.
“There are a lot of hot opportunities at these kinds of conferences, Claire.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stare at her deadpan. “You want me to go to this conference so I can get laid?”
“Well.” She shrugs. “Why not?”
“Marley.” I drop my knife and fork with a clang. “Sex is the very last thing I want. I still feel very married to one man.”
Her face falls, and she puts her pen and paper down. “But you’re not, Claire.” She takes my hand over the table. “Wade died, honey. Five years ago now . . . and I know for a fact that he wouldn’t want you living alone forever.”
My eyes drop to the plate of food in front of me.
“He would want you to be living life to the fullest . . . for both of you.”
I feel a lump in my throat begin to build.
“He would want you to be happy and cared for . . . loved.”
I twist my fingers together on my lap. “I just . . .” My voice trails off.
“You just what?”
“I just don’t think I’ll ever move on, Marl,” I say sadly. “How could any man ever live up to Wade Anderson?”
“Nobody will ever replace him, Claire. He’s your husband.” She smiles softly. “I’m just saying go on a few dates. Have some fun . . . that’s all.”
“Maybe,” I lie.
“You need to take your wedding rings off and put them on the other hand.”
Tears instantly threaten at the very thought.
“No men are coming near you because they think you’re married.”
“I’m happy with that.”
“Wade’s not. And when he finds someone that he thinks is worthy of you, he will send him. But you need to be ready.”
I stare at my beautiful friend through tears.
“He’s still with you. He will always be with you. Trust him to watch over you. You need to let him go, Claire.”
My eyes hold hers.
“You didn’t die in the accident with him. Live while you can.”
I drop my head and stare at my plate on the table, my appetite suddenly diminished.
“I’m going to book you for some laser this afternoon.”
I pick up my knife and fork once more. “They’re going to need a machete. I’ve been rocking the full-bush vibe.”
She giggles. “Yeah, that mess has got to go.”
I pull my car up and stare at the house in front of me.
Our house.
The one that Wade and I built together—the one we planned on getting old in.
Our small patch of paradise on Long Island. Wade was adamant that his children grow up in a semirural area. He grew up in New York City himself, and all he ever wanted for his children was a large patch of land for them to play freely on whenever they wanted.
We bought a block of land and built our home. It’s not flashy and fancy. It’s made of weatherboard and has a large veranda around the edge, a big garage, and a driveway with a basketball hoop. Four bedrooms, two living areas, and a big rustic kitchen.
It’s so Wade. At the time we could have afforded much better, but when it came down to it, he wanted a country home filled with laughter and children.
And that’s what we had.
My mind goes back to that early morning when the police knocked on my door.
“Are you Mrs. Claire Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry; there’s been an accident.”
The hours that followed were monumental and painful. They are so clear in my mind—the way I felt, the words I said, what I was wearing.
The way my heart was breaking.
I get a vision of myself crying over him in the morgue and whispering to his lifeless body, offering him an eternal promise as I brushed the hair back from his face.
“I’ll raise our children as you wanted. I’ll carry on what we started. I’ll keep all your dreams alive . . . you have my word. I love you, my darling.”
My face screws up in tears, and I snap my thoughts back to the present. It doesn’t do me any good letting that memory linger. If I let myself go back there, it’s like I lose him all over again.
The pain never goes away, but some days it feels like it might just kill me. I’m an empty shell. My body functions as it should, but I’m barely breathing.
I’m suffocating in a world of responsibilities.
The promises I made my husband in the hours after his death have come at a heavy cost.
I don’t go out at night, I don’t socialize anymore, I work my fingers to the bone . . . both at home and in the office.
Devoted to keeping Wade’s dreams alive, to keeping his children loved and protected. To keeping his company afloat. It’s hard, and it’s lonely, and damn it, I just wish he’d walk through the fucking door and save me.
Marley’s words from earlier today run through my mind.
“He’s still with you. He will always be with you. Trust him to watch over you. You need to let him go, Claire.”
In the pit of my stomach, I know she’s right. Like a song hanging in the wind, her words are lingering with me. Chipping away at my sensibility.
I stare into space as an empty sadness surrounds me . . . he’s not coming back.
He’s never coming back.
It’s time; I know it’s time.
That doesn’t make it any less painful.
I couldn’t imagine living without him. I don’t know how I’m doing it.
I don’t want to have to learn to.
I stare down at my wedding rings and grip them with my fingers as I prepare myself to do the unthinkable.
I blink through the tears; a suffocating weight is on my chest, and I slowly pull them off. They catch on my knuckle, and finally they slide free.
I close my hand into a fist. It feels light without the weight of my rings, and I stare down at the white band left on my bare finger. The sun’s reminder of what I have lost.
I hate my hand without his ring.
I hate my life without his love.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I put my head down onto the steering wheel . . . and for the first time in a long time, I allow myself to cry.
I throw the last pair of shoes into my suitcase. I leave tomorrow for the conference. “I think that’s it.”
“Did you get your toothbrush?” Patrick asks as he lies on his stomach on my bed, beside my suitcase. My youngest child is also my wisest. He never forgets a thing. “Not yet. I still have to use it. I’ll pack it in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“So Grandma will be here when you get home from school,” I remind him.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he says with an eye roll. “And I have to call you the moment Harry’s naughty or if Fletcher gets short tempered.” He sighs as he recites my orders.
“Yes, that’s right.” Little do his brothers know, but Patrick is also my tattletale. I know what his brothers have done before they even finish doing it.
I have
three sons. Fletcher is seventeen and has taken on the unofficial job as my personal bodyguard. Harry is thirteen, and I swear to God he’s either going to end up a Nobel Prize–winning genius or in jail. He is the most mischievous human being I know, always getting into some kind of trouble—mostly at school.
And then there’s my baby, Patrick, just nine years old. He’s sweet and gentle and sensible and everything his brothers are not. He’s also my biggest worry. He was only four when his father died, and he missed out the most.
He doesn’t even remember his dad.
He has photos of him strewed all over his room. He hero-worships him. I mean, we all do. But Patrick’s obsession is almost over the top. He asks me to tell him a story about his father at least twice a day. He smiles and listens intently as I relay past events and tell him stories about Wade. He knows all of Wade’s favorite meals at restaurants and then always wants to order the same. He sleeps in one of his dad’s old T-shirts. I do this too, but I would never let on that I do.
To be honest, I kind of dread story time. We all laugh and make jokes over the memory. Then the children go to bed and fall into a blissful slumber, and my mind goes over the scene time after time.
Wishing we could do it all over again.
Wade still lives here with us, just not in flesh and blood.
He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.
I’m stuck in the middle, halfway between heaven and hell.
Madly in love with my husband’s ghost.
“Okay, read out my list,” I continue.
“Bus . . .” Patrick frowns as he reads. “Bus-in-ess.”
“Business clothes.”
“Yes.” He smiles proudly that he nearly got it.
I mess up his dark hair that is curling up at the ends. “Check.”
He ticks the word. “Cas . . .” He frowns, as if stuck.
“Casual clothes?” I ask.
He nods.
“Check.”
“Pj’s.” He hunches his shoulders in excitement. “I knew that one.”
“I know—look at you all growing up and reading.” Patrick has dyslexia, and reading is hard for him, but we’re getting there. I check the suitcase. “Got them.”
He ticks and then goes to the next item on the list. “Shoes?”
