38
EVER AFTER
—Joseph—
Beverly was already waiting for me under her cherry tree with that coy grin on her lips as I walked up.
"You're late," she teased.
I rolled my eyes. C'mon. Two minutes isn't late. Besides, it was kind of her fault. Having her buzzing around in my brain was making me go lax on all my routines lately.
She took my hand and we left the house, making the short walk around the corner to where I'd discreetly parked my truck. There was a joyful spring in her step. I could see the excitement on her face. Her dark eyes glittered happily as she beamed up at me.
"You think it'll be warm enough to swim this time?"
I doubted that. Not without a wetsuit. Sure, it was a warmer night, but this was the Pacific we were talking about. You want warm water, go to Florida.
Besides, once we got there, I doubted swimming would be her priority.
We listened to the radio while she ate her cheeseburger with extra bacon and extra pickles. Then she started exploring my truck, going through my ancient collection of CDs, and asking me about other things she wanted us to do.
"I was thinking maybe we could go see a movie one night," she suggested. "I think I could handle that. Especially if it’s not too bright in the lobby. I could wear long sleeves and layer on my sunscreen. It's worth a shot, right? I haven't been to see a movie in forever."
It was a good idea. Very date-ish and way more normal than anything else we'd done so far. I smiled and nodded, which only excited her more.
She went on about other ideas of what we could do for outings. Walks in the park. Dancing clubs. The library—if I could go in ahead and explain the situation, maybe they'd agree to shut the lights off for her for a little while.
Good ideas. But I knew better than to dwell on them. After all, this was goodbye.
She just didn't know it yet.
I parked in the same place inside the state park. Across the lot, there was another vehicle already there—a nondescript rental van with blacked out windows.
"More partiers?" Bev asked as she climbed out of my truck.
I shrugged, acting indifferent as I shut the door.
Together, we strolled down the long boardwalk, over the rustling sea grass, to the beachfront. The moon was shining brilliantly, hanging over the water like a giant pearl. It made the sand look like powdered silver. The wind was so calm it was almost eerie, as though the night were holding its breath.
I spotted her first, standing down by the water with her back to us. But I didn't say anything. Instead, I watched and waited.
Beverly was taking off her shoes, still smiling and blissfully unaware. But when she stood up to face the sea, I saw her expression change from carefree joy to something spookily blank.
Her mother was standing there, only about twenty yards away. Slowly, she turned around to look at us.
Bev went completely still. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth opened a little. I saw her breathing become deeper and deeper, more and more frantic.
"Mom?" She screamed over the rumble of the waves.
"Beverly!" Her mother was running toward us, arms outstretched.
The two women embraced and began to sob as they squeezed one another tightly. They spoke in frantic, broken voices. I couldn't make out any of what they said, not that it mattered. They were together now.
My work was done.
After a moment or two, Bev seemed to remember I was there. She turned back, looking at me with sudden realization. "Y-you did this?"
I managed a small, sheepish smile.
"He did," her mother verified. "He and his brother have been working on it for months. Everything is ready. You don't have to stay in that house anymore. You don’t have to ever go back there. You can come home with me. We can leave tonight, and Ed will never take you away again."
Bev started crying again. I couldn’t tell if it was because she was happy, sad, or just totally overwhelmed. She took a shaking step toward me. Her expression was desperate. "You're coming too, aren't you?"
My lips parted. Then I shook my head slowly.
"N-no! You have to come. I won't go without you!" She sounded angry, but what I saw in her eyes was something closer to sadness.
Sadness and understanding. She already knew what was going to happen. No way was she going to choose me over going back to live with her mom.
And I didn’t blame her for that.
I walked out across the sand. Beverly met me halfway and threw her arms around my neck. While she cried, I combed my fingers through her hair. She stood on her toes and grasped the sides of my face while she kissed me.
"How am I supposed to live without you?" Her voice trembled.
I took her arm and traced out my reply.
Happily.
39
SWIMMING WITH SHARKS
—Joseph—
"Something came for you today."
My landlord was sitting outside his apartment, smoking what was most likely his second pack of the day. He held a white, first-class mailing envelope out to me.
I traded him for the rent check I had in my hand. The address printed on the front of the envelope wasn’t familiar to me, and whoever had sent it hadn’t put their name on it, either.
"They just dropped it by," he added as he blew smoke out his nostrils like a fat, lazy, hairy dragon. Granted, I did like the guy. He didn't give me a hard time or treat me like I was made of glass. But he smelled awful, and I had a feeling someday I might have to cut that lawn chair off his ass. "Wanna shot?"
God, yes. I threw myself into the lawn chair next to him and waited for him to pour me a glass of whatever he was having. Today it was cheap tequila.
"How's the job?" He kept it casual as he handed me a red plastic cup with what amounted to a couple of shots' worth of gasoline in the bottom.
I took my gloves off and shrugged, giving him my best "it is what it is" face.
He took a long drag off his cigarette. "I don't know how you do it, boy. It's already colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra and you're out there busting your rear every day."
I smirked.
He certainly had a way with words. He was right, though. This job sucked in the winter. Especially compared to working on the Filibrault place all spring. But, surprise surprise, Rhonda and I had both gotten fired about a week after Pearce woke up to find Beverly gone. According to Rhonda, the poor girl had vanished in the night without a single trace. Everyone kept expecting to get a call from some local hotel after someone found her dead from anaphylactic shock.
But after the week passed and no one found her, there was no reason to keep the chef and handyman around anymore.
The police came and went. Rhonda and I were questioned about our knowledge leading up to Bev’s disappearance. Piece of cake for me, though. It's easy to lie when all you can do is write down a statement that basically surmounts to "I dunno, I'm just the lawn guy."
Short version? Beverly was long gone. Back to somewhere in Virginia, probably. And there wasn't shit her dad could do about it. She wasn't a minor anymore. All she had to do was break the chains. Or rather, I'd broken them for her. But there was no evidence that would lead back to me. She was free to start over.
Edmond Dawning had given up the search for his daughter pretty quickly. Apparently he didn't have much use for a ballerina he assumed would never be able to perform again. That, and I was sure the police had explained to him what I already knew—she wasn't his property.
She could leave if she wanted to.
Edmond came to the house only once, long enough to leer around at the gloomy place with a disapproving curl to his lip. He was a short, slim, expensive-looking man in his fifties. You know, the sort of guy who probably paid more for his haircuts than I did for a month’s rent. I could tell he’d been trying to Botox himself back a few years because his features had that signature, stretched, unnatural shape to them.
It was pure accident tha
t I even saw him at all.
I was there to gather up the last of my tools and collect my last paycheck when he came striding out from the back seat of a snazzy black car sporting a crisp, steel-colored suit and tie. Our eyes met as he climbed the steps to the front door. The cold, deadpan look in his eyes reminded of the sharks I’d seen at the aquarium when I was a kid—an emotionless, opportunistic predator swishing silently past with only a thin pane of glass between us.
He spoke to Pearce on the porch for a few minutes. Then he whistled at me, summoning me like a dog. I took off my work gloves, cramming them into my back pocket as I shuffled up the steps to meet them.
I held out a hand to shake as Pearce introduced me as “the mute handyman who did satisfactory work.”
Edmond never moved. Instead, he eyed me up and down slowly without a word. If it was an effort to intimidate me, it didn’t work. He’d have to grow about six inches for that.
I tried searching for some trace of Bev in his warped, cosmetically preserved features. I saw nothing of her in him, though. Not even a hint to suggest they might be related.
He went cruising by me on his way back to his car, smelling strongly of Italian leather upholstery and pricy cologne. That was the last I’d see of him—I hoped. Whatever world he came from, I was pretty damn sure I never wanted to be a part of it.
Anyway, my progress on fixing up the Filibrault place hadn't gone unnoticed. Almost as soon as I was unemployed, I started getting calls from other people in the area who wanted old homes refurbished. It had been six months now, and I still had more work lined up than I knew what to do with. Making rent was never an issue. I even bought furniture, some of it from the flea market.
Whether I liked it or not, this handyman thing was becoming a career. Eventually, I'd decided my family was onto something and I went to school long enough to get properly educated and certified as a professional contractor. They didn't teach me much I hadn't already known via the school of hard knocks, but now I was legit. There was some security in that, and it made my growing list of customers happy.
"Sad to see that Filibrault place sitting empty again. Especially after you did all that work fixing it up," my landlord rambled on while he topped off his own cup. He was mixing light beer and shots of tequila today. The cigarettes had probably fried his taste buds, cause he drank the stuff like water. You could practically hear his liver screaming for help.
I nodded in agreement.
Now there was a “for sale” sign on the front lawn of the Filibrault place. I drove past it sometimes on the way to a job, although I tried my damndest not to.
Not that I didn’t miss the place. It just hurt like hell every single time because I couldn't help but look for her in the window.
Of course, she was never there.
With a tired sigh, I tore open the envelope, half expecting it to be one of those mailer contest scams or maybe some new contracting job offer. But I couldn't see anything inside.
Who sends an empty first class envelope?
I turned it upside down and shook it. One slip of paper fell out onto my lap.
It was some kind of ticket.
My landlord was leaning over to snoop. "Going somewhere?"
Apparently so.
The ticket was a nonstop first class flight from Seattle to New York leaving first thing tomorrow morning.
40
CHARITY
—Joseph—
I wasn't typically a first-class kind of guy. I'd never been first in anything, except maybe first in line at the principal’s office in high school. But sitting on that cushy leather seat, enjoying a few complimentary whiskey and sodas? Yeah, I could get used to that.
I still had no idea why I was going to New York, who had bought the ticket, or what I was supposed to do when I got there. For now, I was enjoying the ride. I hadn't even packed anything but a change of clothes and my toothbrush. What else did you bring on a last minute vacation you didn't plan?
When we touched down in New York, I grabbed my backpack out of the overhead bin and followed the herd of flight attendants, dead-eyed businessmen, and tourists down to baggage claim.
I wasn't looking for a bag, obviously. Rather, I was looking for some clue as to why I'd been brought here.
Finally, I found a man in a nondescript black suit waiting on the curb outside. He was holding up a sign with my name on it—literally. I thought that kind of thing only happened in movies.
We made awkward eye contact for a moment before I pointed to the sign then myself.
He shook my hand and flashed a welcoming smile. "Ah yes. Hello, Mr. Clancey. I hope you had a good flight. Right this way."
I followed him to a sleek black car. Something about it gave me a bad feeling. I’d seen a similar car before, about six months ago.
When he opened the back door, gesturing like he wanted me to get inside, I leaned down to see if there was anyone waiting for me in there. The backseat was empty. I tossed him a confused, reluctant glance. Just what exactly was going on here?
"I've been instructed to take you immediately to your hotel," he clarified in a pleasant, disarming tone.
Hotel? What hotel? Who was sending me to a hotel?
Naturally, I couldn't ask the guy. And something told me he might not tell me even if I could.
The longer I thought about it, the more suspicious I became. I only knew of one person who lived in New York and rode around in cars like this. He was not someone I ever cared to see again. Frankly, I seriously doubted he would have gone to the trouble to fly me out here like this. If he wanted to have me killed, he seemed like the kind of guy who would send a lackey for that.
As the driver pulled up to the front of the Plaza Hotel, I started to get more concerned. I didn't know anyone else who could afford a room there.
Shit.
Sure enough, at the front desk I found out someone had made a reservation for me for one of the hotels finest suites.
“The room has already been prepared for you. Your minibar key is in the desk drawer, and everything has already been paid for in full. Have a pleasant stay and please let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”
I stared at the clerk behind the counter like she was speaking a foreign language.
When it started to get awkward, I finally took the little keycard for my room and wandered away toward the elevator. As I rode up to the top floor, I tried to figure out which deity I had angered that would make Edmond come after me like this. I mean, why else would he bring me here other than to interrogate me on his home turf? Maybe Pearce had figured it out? So what was the play here—lull me into a false sense of security and then shoot me out back behind the hotel dumpster?
I half expected to find Edmond already sitting in my room, waiting to blow my head off as I opened the door, like something from an old mafia movie.
But he wasn't.
Instead, I found a slick-looking black tuxedo, complete with bow tie and cuff links, laid out on the king sized bed. There was a crisp envelope placed on top of the suit, and inside, a note printed on the hotel stationary.
My apologies if the fit isn't exact. I had to guess at your size. Try not to be late.
Late? Late for what?
I looked inside the envelope and found another ticket. This time it was for a show downtown. And not just any show.
A ballet.
My heart dropped into the soles of my work boots.
God, no. He'd found her somehow. He'd taken her back. That's the only explanation I could come up with.
I looked at the note, the suit, and all around the swanky hotel room …
None of this made sense. If he’d brought me here as some kind of power play, to witness that he had Bev back in his clutches, why go to so much trouble? Why put me up in a place like this?
I was going to have to wait and find out.
I took a shower and shaved, taking my time to sniff all the hotel shampoos. Not bad, but I’d always been an Old Spice guy
myself. My hair had gotten a little longer, so I had to take a little time to comb it out.
I put on the tuxedo and shiny black dress shoes, wondering halfway through when the last time was that I had ever worn anything like this. High school prom, maybe?
I put in the cuff links and adjusted the bow tie, taking a minute to critique my reflection. Not bad, except for the look of withheld terror on my face. Couldn't do much about that, though.
I found myself wishing Jacob was here. He always knew what to say to keep me from freaking out at a time like this. He’d straighten my collar, remind me of my manners, and wish me good luck.
It wasn’t the first time in the past six months I’d thought of him. It wouldn’t be the last. Every morning when I woke up in that apartment alone, or drove past the entrance to the neighborhood where he and Kara Anne had lived, I thought about him. Every time my cell phone buzzed, I hoped it would be a text message from him. Every time I looked into my mom’s eyes, I saw him.
And during all those times, whenever Jacob came to mind, I thought about how it should have been me that died.
God, it should have been me.
I was the one who’d always made reckless mistakes. He was always so damn careful. I was the soldier. He was the doctor. He helped people, tried to save them, or held their hands when he couldn’t. What had I ever done?
Pain like a white-hot poker burned in my gut. I doubled over, gripping the sides of the sink.
It should have been me.
The driver was waiting for me outside at the curb. He glanced me over quickly, then adjusted my tie some more and gave me a thumb's up. "Very nice, sir. I took the liberty of stopping at a florist."
A florist?
In the back seat sat a bouquet of two-dozen red roses. I sat down beside them, staring at the big, scarlet red blossoms that bobbed whenever the car took a turn. I was willing to bet an arrangement like that would cost two hundred bucks easy.
The Distance Between Stars Page 10
