Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2)

by Tess Thompson

  Blue Moon

  Tess Thompson

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle WA 2015

  Copyright 2015 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.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: info@booktrope.com

  Cover Design by Shari Ryan

  Edited by Vicki Sly

  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.

  Print ISBN 978-1-5137-0076-2

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-5137-0097-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015911298

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Tess Thompson

  More Great Reads from Booktrope

  For Maria Petrone Palmer (Petronie), a true and generous friend, for more years than either of us care to admit.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the team at Booktrope: Katherine Sears, Ken Shear, Andy Roberts and Jennifer Gilbert for your continued belief in my books. Equal thanks goes to the book bloggers and my loyal fans who eagerly await the next book. They are an inspiration on those rare sunny days in Seattle to remain Butt In Seat. Thank you to my street team for offering to be early readers and helping spread the word. Thank you to Shari Ryan for the gorgeous cover and my proofer Ellen Margulies. Thank you to my talented editor Vicki Sly for insightful notes and steadfast encouragement and support, not to mention her expertise on the contents of Merriam-Webster. She is a writer’s dream. Finally, thank you to my partner in crime, MaryAnn Schaefer, the marketing yin to my writer yang. Her dedication and belief in me is more appreciated than I could express. To my little girls, Ella and Emerson, for loving me despite how often I pick them up from school still dressed in my workout clothes because I got lost in the work. Finally, thanks to Jesse James Freeman, for always having my back no matter the occasion.

  blue moon

  noun

  1.

  the second full moon occurring within a calendar month

  2.

  (informal) once in a blue moon, very rarely; almost never

  Chapter 1

  UNDER A CLOSE OREGON SKY the color of white marble, I clicked along the sidewalks of downtown Portland in my black high-heeled boots, pulling my ultrafine merino wool jacket tight against my chest. It was cold, instead of our customary mild rain. Not a drop shed for at least twenty-four hours. No umbrellas. No mist to curl my hair up on one side and down on the other. On a typical November morning, umbrellas float in the air above their owners, almost touching but just missing, like bubbles in a champagne glass. They hide and protect us from the rain and also from one another, making us distinguishable only by the pattern, width and color of our bumbershoots.

  Temperatures had dropped the day before to below freezing, icing over highways, streets and sidewalks. This might have been an indication that something dramatic was about to shift in the trajectory of my life, but I couldn’t see clearly back then. Like a racehorse with blinders, shiny and groomed, muscles primed for speed, mind focused and ready, I had no view other than what was right in front of me, striding without hesitation the five blocks from my condominium building to my office. With my figurative blinders on I paid little attention to the weather or anything around me except for the need and subsequent retrieval of my leather gloves that normally spooned happily with my business cards in the side pocket of a Kate Spade purse, both waiting for their usefulness.

  After tugging the gloves over my manicured hands, I tucked the cards back into the side pocket. I’d need them later for a cocktail networking event where I would meet hundreds of people I didn’t know and didn’t especially want to know, dressed in various-hued business suits, all the while trying not to cringe when I said my name. Bliss Heywood. Bliss does not sound like the name of a CEO, a shark, a mover and shaker. Bliss is the name of an unfortunate soul born in the early seventies to a hippie mother and spineless father. Like Johnny Cash’s Boy Named Sue, I’ve spent most of my life fighting to prove I am no Bliss.

  A gust of cold wind stung my ears and travelled up my skirt, the warmth of the hot yoga class I’d taken before work a distant memory. The streets of downtown Portland were narrow and congested. Buildings made of brick and concrete hinted at a simpler era when this river town was the home of rugged longshoremen working the swift waters of the Willamette. Statues of Portland’s own Beverly Cleary’s characters peppered the sidewalks: Henry and Ramona and Beezuz—all friends from my youth, when I spent a majority of time with my nose in a book. Today, despite the cold, sidewalks bustled with business people in suits and shiny shoes; young adults with piercings, tattoos and unwashed hair waiting for public transit; and mothers pushing strollers while wearing those horribly ugly comfortable leather shoes the women in the Pacific Northwest are so fond of.

  I reached my office building and stopped at the foot of the stairs, searching for Sam and Sweetheart. They weren’t in their usual spot. My chest tightened as I scanned the street, suddenly feeling the cold. Had the weather driven them away? Where would they go? Were they hurt? But I needn’t have worried. They were tucked under a blanket just inside the space between the buildings, seeking shelter from the wind, no doubt. I walked toward them, reaching into my purse and pulling out a five-dollar bill from the inner zipper pocket where I kept my “Sam money.” At the beginning of every month I walked into my local bank and asked for enough cash for every business day of the month in five-dollar bills. Not knowing if it would be safe to give it to him all at once, I gave him only five dollars at a time, except for Friday when I gave him enough to carry him through the weekend.

  Sam, bearded and dirty, dressed in layers and layers of clothes regardless of the season, lived on the streets with Sweetheart, his three-legged border collie. He carried a tin coffee can with a simple note attached to it: “Sam and Sweetheart.” I wasn’t sure where he went at night, but every morning he was at the steps of my office building with Sweetheart and his can. I wanted to ask him
where he slept and how he ate and so many other questions, but it was futile. Sam was mute.

  I caught his gaze and smiled before leaning over to pet Sweetheart. And that dog! She never let me down. At the first sight of me, the little black and white furry love machine always ambled onto her three legs and wagged her tail so fiercely it might have knocked over a small child. Today was no different. I scratched behind her ears, taking off one of my gloves so she could lick my fingers, before reaching into my coat pocket for a doggie treat. I had no idea what Sam did with the money I gave him—booze or food. I hoped it was food, of course, for Sweetheart and himself. He certainly never appeared intoxicated or drugged. Sweetheart, when I felt the space near her ribs, seemed perfectly fit.

  I know what people would say about this small and perhaps foolish gesture of kindness. I did it to assuage my guilt because I had so much and he had so little. I understand this sentiment, but it wasn’t exactly true. I know some might say, too, that there are better ways to give back, through charity donations and foundations. I understood this to be true, of course, and having come from poverty I gave generously every year to several charities for underprivileged youth and battered women. But this was different. This was personal.

  There was Sweetheart, of course. She was special. Anyone could see that. Animals, especially dogs, were much easier for me to be around than people. They seemed to understand what I needed without having to ask. It had been on my list for years to get a dog of my own, but I knew it wouldn’t be fair to them because I traveled frequently. I couldn’t bear thinking of a dog alone for half the month, or worse, stuck in a kennel.

  And Sam? Well, the truth is, he reminded me of my late father. Mostly it was his eyes, faded blue and unfocused like he wasn’t sure whether he knew you for a second or two, until several rapid blinks brought recognition.

  I leaned over and dropped the money in his can. He put his hand over his heart; the corners of his mouth twitched. This was his way of expressing gratitude. I understood.

  I met his eyes, watery today from the cold, and red-rimmed. Sad, defeated. They conjured the father that I knew mostly from photographs, as he’d died when I was nine years old. Blythe says he was kind but overwhelmed, that even his ordinary life proved too much for him. She’d recently told me she wondered if his car accident was really an accident. When she brought it up, I waved away the question and made an excuse to get off the phone. I prefer dogs and mute homeless men to hard questions from the sister I adore.

  “Sam, I’m worried about the weather. It’s supposed to get even colder. Do you have a warm place to sleep tonight?”

  He nodded and pulled Sweetheart closer, as if to say, “The mutt will keep me warm.”

  “Okay, well, stay safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Again, the hand over his heart.

  * * *

  After I left Sam and Sweetheart, I walked up the stairs to the lobby of my office building, thinking how fast my two years in Portland had passed. Throughout my career I’d lived in ten cities across the country. Because of its aesthetic and historical charms, Portland was one of my favorites, even though I sometimes felt conspicuously different than the general population. I’m a snob when it comes to fashion. I admit it. The number of granola types in Portland is enough to wake Coco Chanel from the dead. I blame the lack of vitamin D rather than a general disregard for beauty. How else do you explain the number of misguided souls who think Birkenstocks are an appropriate footwear for, well, anyone? Is there a more unattractive sandal? No! Followed shortly thereafter by those plastic “hiking” sandals, which have the added bonus of stinking like a boys’ locker room after a football game. And the fleece vests that come in all colors and seemingly for all seasons for both men and women? I shudder just thinking of them.

  Although the people of every city are as varied as the religious beliefs in America, it has surprised me that it’s possible to buy a condo in any metropolitan area identical to the one from which you just moved. Despite my vow each time to try something different, I always ended up with the same white-walled, sparse condo with high ceilings and large windows that overlooked the city. During the first few mornings after moving, just for a moment, I didn’t know in which city I was waking. But it didn’t matter, because the closet that looked just like the last closet in the last city I lived in still held my designer shoes and dresses. There is comfort in the familiar.

  I always arranged my furniture, which consisted of a couch and bed and a couple of tables, in the same configuration, telling myself that this time I would hire a decorator. But I never quite got around to it. Down the street, a salon and spa gave me the identical haircut and color to the one before: honey with straw-colored highlights, sleek, long bob. Nordstrom, strangely, no matter the city, was always just two, maybe four blocks over from my condo. When I walked into a new job every other year or so and started to categorize those who would remain and those who would be sent away, and that which would become streamlined and that which could be abandoned, I always felt at ease. Work was my spouse, my family, my purpose.

  As I stepped into the elevator to go up to my offices on the twelfth floor, I felt good, almost giddy. I’d successfully taken CreateBiz public three days ago, and I anticipated a warm reception from my board, replete with accolades for the high valuation of the company that had subsequently made the stock worth almost twenty dollars a share on our first day out on the public market. While most games for girls are centered on fashion or beauty, our product created virtual businesses. For the most part, I think games are a ridiculous waste of time given how many wonderful books there are in the world, but being the entrepreneur and capitalist that I am, I was enamored with our product. It was fun, thought-provoking, creative and educational all at once. On my first day on the job I told my new staff it was the smart girls’ answer to virtual gaming, a phrase which our marketing executive immediately seized upon and implemented into a full-fledged campaign that yielded huge numbers within its first month on the market. We were a sensation, the most sought-after product of last year’s Christmas season, and similar sales were predicted for the upcoming holiday season.

  The founder, Ralph Butters, was a young, male version of a crazy cat lady, designing genius games in the basement of his house with six cats at his feet. He sported a receding hairline and a greasy ponytail—yes, it is possible to have both. A nervous twitch made his right hand jerk about like Mick Jagger holding a microphone on the last night of the last tour of his life. All of which rendered him completely unable to interact in the real world. I secretly wondered if he created games as a way to cope with his loneliness.

  Regardless of the reasons for Ralph’s creation, his strangeness made it necessary to hire me. My goal, as it had been many times throughout my career, was to make it profitable and take it public. I did that, in two years, which no one thought we could do, including my board of directors. As was usually the case, we had an impressive board from the high-tech community to whom I was accountable. The board had not only invested substantial amounts of money into CreateBiz, it also advised me on certain aspects of the business. However, Ralph was still in charge, as he owned a majority of the shares, so ultimately I answered to him. So far that hadn’t been an issue. The one and only time I’d met him, he sweated so profusely—I assume from nerves—that he hadn’t ventured into the offices again. He left me alone for the most part, deferring to my experience and business acumen. For my part, I had the utmost respect for his mind and creativity, knowing he was certainly a genius, whilst I was merely good at business. There’s a difference, and I’m humble enough to know it. Having worked with many creative geniuses over the years, I’ve noticed that the smarter they are, the less likely they are to be comfortable with people. On a certain level, I understood this frailty, as I also found human, emotional connection difficult. I presented a persona of well-dressed, polished businesswoman, charmed rooms full of people with ease, made n
etworking connections that led to deals and steered large groups of employees in a common direction. But that was only on the surface. No one was allowed inside weakness. I made a conscious choice to remain uninvolved with anyone in any emotional capacity, with the lone exception of my sister. This quality was a blessing as an executive. I could make decisions from a place of logic rather than emotion. But in my personal life? Perhaps I was more like Ralph than I cared to admit, minus the cats.

  After stepping off the elevator, I stood for a moment just inside the glass doors of our office. It was abuzz with productivity, with excitement, with people doing good work. Was there anything better? I’m sure there was, for people lucky enough to have families and lives outside of work. Here, I felt useful and grounded. It smelled of coffee, new carpet, various perfumes and colognes, burned popcorn from one of the absentminded software developers. The sounds of various printers, the buzz from the overhead lights, phones ringing, the receptionist putting calls through were a type of music to me.

  I sighed happily as I waved a greeting to our receptionist and headed to my office. I had five minutes before my first meeting and wanted to check with Charlotte about the schedule for the rest of the day. Charlotte, my reliable assistant, had been with me since I started two years ago. A single woman in her thirties with an English degree and a dream of getting her mystery novels published, Charlotte made a living by working a day job for me. As was the case with all good assistants, I couldn’t function without her. She sat at her desk, already typing at her computer, and looked up with a wan smile. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her usually perfect makeup had been either rubbed or cried off. Had she been out all night? It was not like her to be out late partying, but she might have been celebrating the Initial Public Offering. I had made sure she received a handsome stock grant to reward her for all her hard work, hoping that someday she would make enough on the stock that she could devote herself to writing full-time.