by M. E. Nesser
Passion Never Dies
M. E. Nesser
Copyright © 2016 M. E. Nesser
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 153499744X
ISBN 13: 9781534997448
for Suzy
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Prologue
I was married to the most wonderful man in the world. We had a twenty-seven year romance that was as close to perfect as any couple could ever dream of. I thought I would spend the rest of my life with him. That didn’t happen. A year ago, he had a massive heart attack, and he died instantly. Now, at forty-five years old, I am alone. My heart is broken, and I’m finding it impossible to move forward. Being widowed totally and completely sucks.
I’m thankful for our wonderful son, Jackson. He is a reminder of the love I shared with my husband, Bryce, and he has helped me through Bryce’s death better than any son should be expected to. But his existence can’t fill the incredible void in my heart, and now he’s away at college. I feel more alone than ever.
Not everyone can say they experienced true love in their life, but I did. I know I should be grateful for the time we had together, but I want more. I need more. I deserve more. Bryce was as constant as the air I breathed, and my longing for him is agonizing.
One night, talking about the future, Bryce and I made a pact: if one of us died, the living spouse promised to find passion in his or her life once more. It sounded like a pretty good plan at the time, but now that it’s time to act on that promise, I can’t imagine being with another man. The mere thought of it makes that empty feeling even vaster. No other man could love me as much or make me feel as cherished as he did.
We also agreed that, if at all possible, we would send the other person a sign—a reminder that we hadn’t completely left. I know it probably sounds silly, but the thought of living without one another was terrifying. Our agreement provided us with some reassurance that we would never be alone, even if it was just words. The intellectual part of my brain knew at the time that our promise was futile, but now my ability to be logical has been buried with my beautiful husband. I’m a walking zombie in the chaotic world of New York City.
After work, Bryce and I had always taken time to sit down together and talk about our day; it was our chance to catch up on whatever was going on with one another and just to reconnect. Our drink of choice during our special time together was a gin and tonic garnished with two olives. We agreed that if we ever found two pimentos in an olive while drinking a gin and tonic, that would be the sign—and a reminder that we needed to find passion again. In forty-five years, I’ve never seen two pimentos in any olive, but it seemed like a probable scenario at the time. Now the notion seems absurd.
Time passes quickly. Time drags on. It has been a lifetime since Bryce died—or maybe just a nanosecond. According to the calendar, it has been a year. I am sitting at a quiet bar in Manhattan, having my usual after-work drink and staring into oblivion. I’m feeling void of any emotion; I am exhausted, and barely functioning. I have delegated a staggering amount of my duties to other attorneys in my practice, as well as to the two paralegals I hired to help me deal with my cases. I’m hardly eating or sleeping, and my body is depleted. I know I must look terrible, but I don’t care. There is no one to tell me I am beautiful, and I don’t think I will ever feel beautiful again. I can’t seem to find any beauty around me, either. Living is hard.
I look down at my gin and tonic, trying to find the strength to raise it to my mouth. The bartender gave me two olives, just the way I like it. He has worked here for as long as I can remember. His name is Carl, and he has been married for over twenty years. He can be social, but he can also be quiet and discreet. He knew Bryce, because we came to this bar often, and I can tell he feels sorry for me. He pours my drink without even asking what I want. He engages in conversation only if I initiate it first. Otherwise, he leaves me alone. I’m glad he gives me my space: I don’t have the energy for small talk.
This small reminder of our daily ritual should bring me some comfort, but all it brings me is even more despair. I miss Bryce as much today as I did on that fateful day when the police officers came to my office to tell me the news. My eyes cloud with tears, and I know tonight is going to be another long one. I dread going back to our place, but I barely have enough strength left in me to sit up straight at the bar.
I wipe my eyes with the little napkin under my drink and notice something peculiar in my glass. I wipe them again and even shake my head a little, trying to get the exhausted, fuzzy feeling out of my brain. I must be hallucinating—maybe I’m having a psychotic episode. No, this looks real, and I don’t think I’ve become completely crazy quite yet. In front of me is the sign that Bryce and I talked about all those years ago: one of the olives has two pimentos in it. I can barely breathe. Is it possible? Is Bryce sending me a sign? I cover my mouth with my hand so I don’t make any strange sounds as the tears stream down my face.
My thoughts race, and my heart is threatening to beat out of my chest. I’m not sure if I’m scared or excited. I pull the olive off the swizzle stick it’s perched on and examine it closely, then set it down on a napkin and just stare at it. Too much adrenalin is passing through my body; I feel dizzy. I try to calm myself down, but it’s impossible. My hands are shaking, and I’m breathing heavily. Two pimentos? Oh my God, Bryce, what are you trying to tell me?
I’m not sure how long I was sitting there staring at the olive. I was frozen in my seat and finding it difficult to breathe. Suddenly, I had a strange sensation come over me. I could feel someone staring at me. I guess that shouldn’t have been surprising, since I was sitting here alone, crying and staring at an olive like it was the most fascinating object in the world. I look up to see a beautiful man with light blue eyes and tussled salt and pepper hair looking my way. He smiles at me, and I can’t help but smile back. There’s something about him; I can’t explain it. Smiling actually feels strange; it has been so long that I’ve practically forgotten how to bend my mouth that way. Tears still streaming down my face, I look at him quizzically. Who is this man?
I still can’t speak. I just stare at him, like I’m having some kind of out-of-body experience. I want to say hello, but the words are trapped inside my head. I look around for other signs of Bryce, but there’s nothing. Of course not—he’s dead. There’s no way he could be at this bar. But now there’s this man, and I can’t help but stare into his eyes. I open my mouth slightly, more to get oxygen in my lungs than to respond to him.
“Are you OK?” he asks me sympathetically. Oh my God, his voice is intoxicating.
I wipe off my face and try to gather my wits. My hands are shaking. There are two pimentos in my fucking olive. What the hell is happening?
“Do you have a name?” he murmurs, and I wonder if Sirens can appear as men, because this man could definitely lure me with his words.
“It’s Katharine,” I say in a shaky, barely audible voice.
“Katharine is a beautiful name.” He stands up and moves to the empty barstool next to me. I look at him skeptically, but his eyes never leave mine. I feel very confused.
I told this man that my name was Katharine because I made the decision after Bryce died that I would no longer introduce myself as Katie. Bryce always called me Katie, and it was another sad reminder that I couldn’t deal with. I had been insisting people call me Katharine since the day he died, and it seems to have stuck.
“Thank you,” I reply quietly. I know I must have sounded weak and flustered, but he just kept smiling at me. It was unnerving.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he offers. “You look as though you could use one.”
“No thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I ate anything today, so I better not have another drink or I may fall asleep right here on the bar,” I admit.
“You aren’t sure if you ate? That means you are most definitely working too hard. It sounds like you need a good meal, Katharine. Please let me buy you dinner.”
1
Oh Katie, it worked. I didn’t know if it would or not. I’ve been watching you self-destruct for over a year, and it’s breaking my heart. You don’t eat. You barely sleep. You rarely smile. Grief is aging you. I never see you hang out with your family or friends anymore. Thank God Jack comes home from Yale once in a while—at least you’re forced to have meals with him. And when he’s home, you can’t sleep on the couch. You sleep in our bed and actually get some rest.
Our bed should bring you wonderful memories, not just sorrowful ones. We made incredible love so often there, and I want you to remember all the passion we shared. I want you to remember how happy our life was. There aren’t many people who can say that their love affair started when they were seventeen years old.
We were so lucky to have found each other. We took each other’s virginity, and it was the most amazing experience in the entire world. I miss you every day. I don’t know why my time was up. There are certain things in our lives that are out of our control. I hate that I was forced to leave, but I am so thankful for every day I had with you. Why can’t you embrace my memory—and move on and find some happiness in your life?
It seems to me that you’ve forgotten the pact we made: neither of us should have to live the rest of our lives alone, remember? That was our deal. You have so much love in your heart, and so much passion in your body. I can’t stand by and watch you die while you still have a whole lifetime ahead of you. Don’t let my death kill you as well. It isn’t fair to our son. Jackson needs you. I need to know that you are OK. Please don’t forget how to feel good things. Remember what we promised each other.
Give Ian a chance.
2
Dinner? I supposed dinner with him would be OK. I was having a hard time thinking clearly, but it was almost as if there was a little voice in the back of my head urging me to give him a chance. It should have been unsettling, but for some reason, it wasn’t. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a full meal. I had definitely not been to a restaurant for dinner in months. I’d had a few lunch meetings at restaurants over the past year, but those were strictly business, never personal. The only dinners I had out at restaurants were with Jackson when he came home for breaks from school. I guessed a meal with this man wouldn’t hurt. Besides, I definitely needed to eat something.
“Dinner would be nice for a change,” I said to him.
“For a change? Most people skip breakfast. Do you make it a habit to skip dinner?” he asked me with what seemed like genuine concern.
“Not exactly. I um…just work a lot.” I wasn’t about to explain myself to this man; I could barely believe I’d said yes to dinner with him. He’d probably wish I hadn’t—the depth of my sadness could fill hours of agonizing conversation. And it would be a conversation that left me even more heartbroken and desolate. Life was complicated. Actually, life sucked. Talking about the last year would be excruciating. Why didn’t I eat dinner? Who wanted to eat alone? Also, I just hadn’t enjoyed food since Bryce died. We’d loved to cook gourmet meals and go out to dinner. Eating was another painful reminder of what I’d lost. Besides, my stomach was so knotted up all of the time that it was often hard to swallow water. Coffee was the only form of sustenance that was getting me through my days. Food nauseated me. So yeah, “I work a lot” would suffice for now.
“There’s an Italian place a few blocks away. We could walk. Are you game?” he asked me with the most beautiful smile. As he spoke, I swear his eyes sparkled. This masculine Siren was definitely luring me.
“That sounds nice. Thank you,” I said. I was feeling timid and unsure, but there was no way I was saying no to him. For some inexplicable reason, I had to go.
He grabbed my hand gently to help me off my barstool. It was a gentlemanly gesture that I found appealing and very sweet. A strange electrical current passed between us when he touched my hand. He must have felt it too, because he looked up quizzically when our skin touched. Time stood still for a moment as we registered the sensation. It was odd, but not frightening. I was about to walk away from the bar when I stopped and looked at the olive.
“Hold on a second. I need to get something,” I told him.
I wrapped the olive with the two pimentos in a napkin and slipped it into my purse. I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and said thank you to Carl. I didn’t often speak when I was there. I stopped by for a drink almost every day after work and rarely spoke to anyone. Carl gave me the most affectionate smile. I couldn’t help but smile back at him. I got the feeling that Carl approved of my leaving with this man. That was reassuring.
Ian gave me a questioning stare when he saw me wrap up the olive, but he didn’t say anything. I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, and I really didn’t care. There was no way I was leaving that olive on the counter. It was a sign from my beloved husband. I was sure of it. Ian slipped his hand into the crook of my arm and led me out into the street.
The air felt good. After finding the olive and agreeing to dinner, I needed the fresh air, so I was glad he’d suggested we walk instead of hailing a cab. We chatted casually as we walked to the restaurant. He seemed very bright, and our conversation came naturally. It was easy to talk to him. After a few minutes, I could actually feel myself relaxing. I had been in such a fog the past year that I’d forgotten how much I loved this city, especially walking through the streets. There is a life and energy in New York that is constant and liberating. It’s hard to explain if you have never been here, but it’s wonderful all the same.
Ian made me laugh with his quirky observations about the city. We talked about the staggering price of living in New York. It was obscene how much people paid to live in this crazy place. We noticed a man with a shopping cart resting against a building. He joked that the homeless man had the best rent in town, and it was hard not to laugh with him. Then he handed the man a twenty-dollar bill and thanked him for keeping our streets safe. The man thanked him politely and told us to have a pleasant evening. That, for the first time
in far too long, was exactly what I planned to do. Ian took my hand after he handed the man the bill, and we continued to walk toward the restaurant. I thought he might have done it because I looked so frail, but I didn’t mind. Holding his hand felt good. He was funny, generous and kind. It was an endearing combination that made me smile.
He teased me about the high-heeled shoes I was wearing, following his ribbing with a compliment on how well I was able to walk in them. He said he couldn’t understand how women walked in heels all day. He was convinced that Carrie Bradshaw from Sex in the City had put some kind of spell on the women of New York that made them capable of walking for miles in expensive heels. As I looked around, I thought he might be right. There were a lot of women walking up and down the streets in high heels. It cracked me up that not only did he know the name of the show, he knew the main character’s name as well. His varied comments and observations were piquing my interest.
When we got to the restaurant, it was really crowded; throngs of people were waiting to be seated. I felt a moment of disappointment that we wouldn’t be able to get a table for a long time—I wasn’t sure how long I could go without collapsing in exhaustion. He must have sensed my unease, because he grabbed my hand again and walked me past the patrons waiting for tables. As we approached the hostess, she smiled at Ian and said, “Good evening, Mr. Jensen. Two for dinner, sir?”
“Yes please, Andrea.”
The hostess grabbed two menus and asked us to follow her into a back seating area that wasn’t as loud or as crowded as the main dining area. We sat down, and she handed each of us a menu. She offered Ian a smaller menu—the wine listings, I assumed—with a big smile, and he thanked her graciously.
“You must come here often,” I observed.
“Actually, I’m part owner of this place. My brother is my partner. He’s also the head chef. I’m so proud of him. It’s a great story actually. He’s wanted to own a restaurant in New York City since he was a kid. I knew it was only a matter of time before it happened. When he finished his culinary training in Florence, Italy, I offered him the financial backing to open the restaurant. I knew he would make it a huge success. We opened Pane Vino about three years ago, and it has been doing really well since day one,” he explained proudly.
