Moon Over Alcatraz

by Patricia Yager Delagrange

  “I had too much to drink. I don’t remember. Just forget about it, all right?” I could tell he wouldn’t open up to me. We were already beyond the point of having a decent conversation.

  I rubbed my temples, holding the phone in the crook of my neck, a small drum pounding inside my head. “You’re never drunk, West. What’s going on with you? I’m worried.”

  “You won’t let me get near you for months and don’t tell me why. Then you tell me you have visions of our child dying every time I touch you. Isn’t that enough to upset a man, Brandy?” He sounded hostile, angry, his attitude defensive and confrontational.

  “You’ve taken everything I shared with you about my depression over Christine and not being intimate, and turned it into something it’s not,” I said, feeling myself getting angrier as this discussion dissolved. “This time away from each other was supposed to give me a chance to sort things through, figure out what’s going on in my head.

  “You’ve used this time apart to purposely misconstrue what I told you, giving you an excuse to behave out of character, getting drunk all the time, maybe doing things that would cause you to call me and apologize for them. Then you have the gall to pretend you don’t know what you were talking about, blaming it on the alcohol.”

  “Why don’t you just come right out and say what you’re thinking.”

  “I didn’t know you had a personal secretary. Does she figure into this equation?”

  “She’s my secretary. She works for me. That’s it.”

  “Just because she’s your secretary doesn’t automatically take her out of the equation. You’re being purposefully obtuse, Weston. She had an attitude when I called today and behaved possessively about my contacting you. Is she rude to all your callers or was she reacting to the fact I’m your wife?”

  “This conversation is getting us nowhere, Brandy. Let’s call it a night. I’m tired. You’re tired. It’s late.”

  “You’re right. Why don’t you give me a call when you can see beyond your anger and hostility toward me. And perhaps you should explain who I am to Miss Smith.” I slammed the phone down on the handset, turned off the light and stared out the bedroom window, my heart pounding.

  I hated it when conversations deteriorated to this degree. Certain subjects needed to be dealt with face to face, and the telephone was not the venue for discussing marital problems.

  But what was going on with him? He’d been so drunk when he asked me if I still loved him that he didn’t remember I’d reassured him several times I loved him very much. And didn’t he understand why I wouldn’t want to talk to him when he was in such a stupor?

  Thoughts and worries whirled around my brain like mosquitoes on a windowpane the entire night. At five a.m. I pulled back the comforter and climbed out of bed, lethargic from lack of rest and weary from worry. Making a conscious effort to put aside my concerns, I decided to wait until he called me. Labor Day was approaching. Maybe he could fly home for the weekend, giving us time to sort out our problems and talk one-on-one.

  Chapter 6

  With that hopeful plan in mind, I put on shorts and running shoes and jogged along the beach on my way to Peet’s. A typical August morning for Alameda, fog hugged the coast, occasional breaks in the clouds allowing a bit of sun to shine through, sixty-four degrees. The refreshing wind along the shoreline cooled me as my feet pounded the sand. Turning up Park Street, I slowed to a quick walk until I reached the coffee shop.

  The baristas were busy this morning, the waiting line extending all the way to the front door. I took the opportunity to buy a copy of the town newspaper, the Alameda Times Star, reading while my place in line slowly inched toward the front counter. Latte in hand, I noticed a young woman and her toddler getting ready to leave, giving me the rare chance to sit at one of the window seats where I could watch people walking along the busy street.

  While sipping my coffee, a gentleman dressed in an impeccable dark grey suit, red tie and baby-blue shirt approached my table.

  “This is the only unoccupied chair. Do you mind?”

  I looked over at the empty seat and nodded. “Go ahead,” I mumbled then continued reading. I turned the page and noticed his hand reach across the small round table, handing me my keys.

  “Oh, my God! I must have dropped them. Thank—” I looked up at his face. “Edward? Edward Barnes?” My eyes widened. “Is that really you?”

  He pulled out the chair and sat down, his blue eyes snagging me with an intense stare. “Brandy Donovan?”

  “Brandy Chambers now. I don’t think I’ve seen you since high school graduation.”

  “I left for NYU two days later and—”

  “Law school, right?”

  “You remembered.” He smiled, revealing beautiful straight teeth. “Then I came back here and I’ve been practicing law ever since.”

  “What type of law?”

  “Criminal. What about you, Mrs. Chambers?” he teased.

  “Well, I married Weston after I graduated from Cal. He works as a structural engineer on the San Francisco Bay Bridge project.”

  “And you? A mom? Two point five kids?”

  I looked down into my paper coffee cup, fiddled with the top. “No, no kids yet.” Feeling too raw to discuss it now, I changed the subject. “Do you work here in Alameda?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He glanced down at his wrist watch. “I’d love to continue our discussion but I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. How about lunch soon? Remember how I was planning on becoming a chef some day?”

  I laughed, recalling his regaling me with the list of applications he’d received for culinary institutes all over the world. “I remember all right. And you were always demanding I taste your latest creation, asking if I thought it needed more spice or a little less olive oil.”

  He stood, pushing the chair back toward the table. “I’ll have to cook for you one of these days. Sometimes I think I’m a better chef than I am a lawyer.”

  “Well, most of the time you were a fantastic chef.”

  He grinned mischievously. “And you were always a bad liar. Some of the dishes I served you should never have made it onto the plate.”

  I laughed again. He’d always been nice looking but now he was older, he’d matured, no longer a gangly teenager. He’d filled out but was still slender with long legs and he appeared to be at least six foot five inches tall. He turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Grabbing the corner of his sleeve, I smiled up at him. “It was nice seeing you again, Edward.”

  He looked right through me with that blue-eyed stare. “It certainly was, Brandy. You take care now.” He tipped his head once in acknowledgement then wended his way through the crowd toward the door.

  “Edward Barnes,” I whispered to myself. “I’ll be darned.”

  I threw my cup in the recycling can and speed-walked out of Peet’s, jogging home in less than ten minutes. What a surprise, meeting Edward after so many years. I plopped down on the front room couch and gazed up at the ceiling.

  Edward Barnes in the flesh, I reflected. He looked so different than when we’d known each other in high school. He’d become a strikingly handsome man, a perfectly shaped nose widened a bit at the bottom, a dark mustache hovered over his now-straightened teeth, an impressively square jaw, crescent-shaped eyebrows, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen without contact lenses.

  He reminded me of the guy who played a private detective in Magnum, P.I.—Tom Selleck—in his younger days! And he’d always had a fantastic personality, funnier than hell, joked around a lot. I’d enjoyed hanging around him in the classes we shared at St. Joseph’s Notre Dame High School. It would be fun to catch up on old times, along with playing guinea pig to one of his homemade meals.

  I shoved these thoughts to the back of my mind and got on with my day, keeping busy with chores, working on my current novel, blogging on my personal website to promote my first book—a comfortable routine, giving me a sense of solidity. These days I wasn’t so mentally scat
tered, obsessing about my loss or my feelings toward Weston every moment. I was getting better, just as I’d hoped.

  Curled up in the corner of the front room couch one morning, absorbed in revising a scene in the first chapter, the phone jangled my thoughts away from the intense concentration.

  “How’s the writing going?” It was Brent.

  My agent rarely called me on a whim to ask me how I was doing. I surmised he had an agenda he’d reveal soon enough. “It’s coming along, Brent. I’m on my hundredth revision. I’ve taken your suggestions to heart, making Annabella much more likable. I agree with you, readers will put the book down if she’s a complete bitch. There’s gotta be something appealing to her. I’m finding it really difficult, though, changing her from a self-centered diva to a devoted wife.”

  I could hear him chuckle. “You want to sell your book, Brandy, you’ll listen to me. You know that by now. Wasn’t I right about your first book?”

  Brent was a superb agent. He’d bent over backwards from the day I’d received “the call” when he agreed to represent me, and he was correct now in the revisions necessary for my second novel to sell. I could hear him inhale his twentieth cigarette of the day and shook my head. He knew the business inside and out though he was a bit rough around the edges. After reading the first draft, he was certain he could find a publisher for my current book.

  “Yeah, Brent, you were right about the first book.” I laughed. He loved to be right and I didn’t mind telling him. “Why did you call?”

  “Can’t I call one of my favorite authors just to see how she’s doing?”

  I closed my eyes, anticipating any number of avenues this conversation might take. Perhaps someone wanted changes to the plot or the ending. I braced myself for the bad news.

  “There’s been some discussion about a sequel to your second book.”

  This was a surprise. I’d never given any thought to writing a sequel. In fact, right at the moment I couldn’t imagine how I’d change the ending to my current draft so my characters’ lives could continue into the future.

  “You do recall my protagonist dies, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know she dies at the end. You can change that.”

  I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, along with the inevitable frustration this conversation had already created. “I’ll think about it.”

  A pregnant pause interrupted our conversation. “Carmichael wants an answer right away.”

  My stomach clenched, along with my teeth. This put me in a difficult situation because I really wanted to work with this publishing house. “So, I either say I’ll let my heroine live and write a sequel or my entire book’s dead in the water. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “In a nutshell.” His voice held no emotion—an even keel of authority.

  “I don’t want to lose this opportunity to have them publish my book, Brent. You know that.”

  “My hands are tied.” He paused. “But if you’re not in a hurry, and I don’t think you are, then I can keep shopping around. I didn’t think you’d want to write a sequel but I had to put it on the table, Brandy.”

  I tried to imagine writing the book with a completely different ending, changing my characters’ lives and loves and emotions, everything I’d worked on for months. I’d dedicated my heart and soul to my current manuscript, through the trauma of losing Christine and my strained relationship with Weston. And they wanted me to change it to meet some nebulous plan to make more money by producing a sequel?

  “You said Carmichael wants to know right away. When do I have to decide?” My heart lodged in my throat where my stomach had already risen.

  A few seconds of silence passed. “They have to know today.”

  He knew me pretty well by now, through the revision process of my first book, the death of my baby, and a little about my problems with Weston. He and I had spoken about how I’d used those experiences to flesh out my characters, making the novel what it was today.

  “I’d say take your time, but I can’t, Bran.”

  “I have to say no. I just can’t do it. I know signing a deal for this manuscript and a sequel would mean major bucks for me and for you but…I have to go with my gut. And it’s telling me not to do it.”

  I could hear him cough then take a long drag from the perennial cigarette, no doubt dangling out of the side of his mouth, as always. So easy to picture him, so classic for Brent Martin. “Okay then. I’ll call you back after I’ve talked to another editor I’ve worked with before. I think he might like your book as much as I do.”

  “Thanks, Brent. I’m sorry but I know you understand.”

  He coughed again then drew in another drag on his cigarette. “Gotta go. I’ll pitch the book as a single title. No sequel.” Long pause. “I’ll call you.”

  I slowly placed the phone down on the table. We’d come so close to getting an offer. This was really disappointing. But I trusted Brent. He’d been my agent for several years now, took me on when no one else had faith my first novel would sell. And money had never been the main focus for why I’d become a writer. I poured my emotions and feelings into my books, hoping readers would find an outlet for theirs while reading my novel. The almighty dollar was not the ruler of my world.

  And I wasn’t in a hurry either. I’d leave the hard part for Brent and, in the meantime, I’d continue writing and revising my second book while promoting my first novel on the internet, working on keeping my marriage intact, and fighting against the insidious depression. Did I feel up to the task? Hell yes!

  What other choice did I have?

  Chapter 7

  When I needed a break from writing, I researched the Romance Writers of America website for conferences I might attend in the future. Writing was such a solitary endeavor. Days went by when I never left the house other than my daily run to Peet’s Coffee. One afternoon the phone rang, and I was surprised to hear Weston’s voice. I hadn’t heard from him in several days.

  “You don’t usually call at this time. How are you doing?” I was in a better mood, albeit busier than I’d ever imagined, blogging on my website and revising my book to be as perfect as I could make it. Keeping busy and focused, as well as jogging, was doing wonders for my mental health.

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “I apologize for the argument we had the other night. I…”

  “I’m sorry too, West. Listen, I was thinking…is there a chance you could fly home for Labor Day weekend?”

  Silence greeted my question, then he answered with a sigh, “I can’t, Brandy.”

  “Why not? This would be a perfect opportunity for us to hang out for the three-day holiday and I thought—”

  “It’s impossible. A fifty-thousand-ton piece of bridge is on its way from China and is supposed to arrive sometime over that weekend. I’m supervising the project and I’ll be working 24/7.”

  I blew out a puff of air in exasperation. It seemed the Fates were against us at every turn. “I understand.”

  “Anyway, I’m surprised you’d want to be with me after what you said the other night. You know, about having horrifying visions every time I touch you and—”

  “Saying I’m having trouble making love isn’t the same as saying I don’t love you, Weston,” I interrupted, feeling overwhelmingly annoyed at having to repeat myself. “Don’t you understand there’s a difference or can you only think with your dick?”

  Crude, but it was the only thing that made sense right now.

  “I guess thinking is the only thing I can do with it since I can’t use it at home, right?”

  “Then use it in New York, or have you already done that?” By this time I was shouting, frustration getting the best of me.

  “You’re referring to my secretary?”

  “If the shoe fits,” I replied, gritting my teeth. Maybe there was some truth to my implications. Perhaps I wasn’t fabricating the feelings of jealousy I’d felt from Miss Smith.

  “We’re getting nowhere again, Brandy�
�Labor Day’s out of the question. I’ll talk to Frank, see when I can get away for a few days, all right?”

  “Whatever.” Our conversation hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped and I was deeply disappointed and hurt. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I put the phone down. I’d been hoping we could spend some quality time together, sooner rather than later. And it didn’t look like that would happen. I could feel myself getting depressed again and wished someone was here to give me a hug.

  But that wasn’t going to happen either. Closing my MacBook, I rushed upstairs and changed my shoes. Maybe a jog along the beach would pick up my spirits. I could only wish it were that easy.

  I was out the door within minutes, hair up in a ponytail, my faithful running shoes on my feet. Another beautiful day in Alameda, never too hot and the wind along the beach sweet with the scent of ocean and seaweed.

  I reached the end of the boardwalk in twenty minutes and turned up Park Street, headed for Peet’s. A cold frappuccino sounded heavenly, and I deserved one after the conversation I’d just had with Weston. I felt so alone right now. The only person on my side these days was my friend Cecilia.

  The coffee house was far less crowded this time of day. An empty seat facing the window greeted me where I could watch people passing by, the occasional dog leading its owner by the leash.

  Sipping my ice-cold drink, gazing toward the sidewalk, I sensed a figure approaching my table. “We meet again, Mrs. Chambers.” It was Edward.

  I smiled and motioned for him to sit down. “Please join me, Mr. Barnes.”

  He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down with his coffee, staring at me with those big blue eyes. “You’re looking well, Brandy. I didn’t ask you when I saw you last time, do you have flexible work hours or do you run a business out of your home or what?”

  I stared down at my cup and took a sip, savoring the thick whipped blend of coffee and cream.

  “Sorry,” he interrupted my thoughts. “I wasn’t prying. It’s none of my business anyway.” He turned his wrist inward, looked at his watch. “I should really go. It was nice—”