When I’d left Chicago this morning, the forecast had been clear. The weathercaster said that snow wasn’t supposed to arrive until late tomorrow. With only a seven-hour drive, my plan was to arrive at the hotel in Ashland, Wisconsin, before nightfall and get a feel for the city. With less than ten thousand people, it would be drastically different from what I was used to in Chicago.
That, in a nutshell, was exactly why I applied for this job.
“Good plan, Julia,” I said aloud to myself.
Maybe after hours of driving north from Chicago, I was hungry to hear a human voice, one not singing or on a podcast. Or perhaps, I was too exasperated with my situation to keep quiet any longer.
“Did you ever wonder why this job was available? It’s because whomever this client is could be a psycho and on top of that, it’s located in the middle of nowhere.”
Sadly, nowhere was exactly what I’d sought.
Going back to my analogy of a shaken snow globe, that was my life.
Shaken.
Hours of driving had given me a new perspective, one that benefited from a bit of distance. I knew there were many people who faced greater obstacles and more adversity. I also wasn’t the princess in the ivory tower that many believed.
My eyes narrowed as I tried to make out the road before me. The headlights created a tunnel of illumination filled with glistening large snowflakes above a thick white blanket.
“Come on, you can make it. Just” —I looked again at the GPS— “another hour.”
My stomach growled as I held tighter to the steering wheel, feeling the way the wind gusts pushed me sideways. I shook my head, wondering if I’d see any signs of civilization: a gas station or small town. The darker the sky became as my car plowed through the accumulating snow, the more I admitted if only to myself that I should have stopped in the last town.
As I crept onward, the phrase ‘should have’ seemed to repeat on a loop in my thoughts.
I should have stopped in the last town, filled the gas tank, gotten something to eat, and found a hotel.
I should have said no to Skylar Butler when he asked me to marry him. I should have seen the writing on the wall. I should have discouraged my parents from planning the most lavish wedding of the century. I should have known his parents were more excited about our nuptials than he was. I should have questioned Skylar’s schedule, his trips and the times he didn’t answer his cell phone. I should have trusted what I’d known most of our lives.
In my defense, as the sayings went, hindsight was twenty-twenty and love was blind.
In my case, I think a more accurate assessment of our impending nuptials was that our love didn’t have vision problems; it quite simply never existed, not in the way that made your heart beat faster or palms dampen. It wasn’t that Skylar was bad on the eyes.
He was handsome and he knew it.
That has been an issue since we were young.
Skylar was also capable when it came to foreplay.
Further than that, and I was in the minority of women in Skylar’s orbit. I didn’t know if the rumors of his sexual prowess were accurate. We’d agreed to wait for that final consummation of our relationship. That’s not to say we hadn’t gotten close. The thing was, we’d been a couple since either of us could walk or talk. It was difficult to think of one another in romantic terms.
The agreement of remaining pure was implied.
Apparently, it was an agreement between Skylar and me, not him and...well, anyone else.
My grip intensified on the steering wheel. It wasn’t the worsening conditions, but the memory of finding the text message from my best friend and maid of honor, Beth.
Let me backtrack.
A year ago, at a large holiday gathering surrounded by family and friends along with some of the most powerful people in both our families’ world, Skylar took my hand and on bended knee proposed. Like everything else in his life, the entire scene was a performance. My smile and acceptance weren’t as important as the hushed whispers, the pregnant pause waiting for my answer, and the cheers from the crowd when I said yes.
And then my fiancé was off for cigars and bourbon with our fathers and others in the industry to celebrate the uniting of our families. It wasn’t as if I were forgotten. No, I now had an important role. I was immediately surrounded by our mothers and all the ladies in Chicago’s high society who could welcome me into the married world of Chicago’s finest.
Becoming Mrs. Skylar Butler was a destination I never questioned. The road map had been not only sketched but written in ink since the day of my birth, just three months after Skylar’s.
Time moved on. My wedding showers were completed. Our newly constructed home was mostly complete, filled with gifts and all the luxuries money could buy. Our two-week overseas honeymoon trip was booked, and RSVPs to the big day were coming in by the hundreds.
Our wedding was set for New Year’s Eve.
It will be—was to be—the event of the decade.
No expense had been spared for the union of Julia McGrath and Skylar Butler.
This was not only a love story—according to all the society pages—but the business deal of the century. My family lost majority interest in Wade Pharmaceuticals before 2000 when our hold went below fifty percent. The reasons could be cited as bad management, the economy, or a number of decisions that didn’t pan out. Regardless, my family lost what we’d possessed since my great-grandfather founded the company.
My father’s controlling interest existed by a paper-thin margin.
He blamed it all on my grandfather’s decision to take Wade public, to allow investors. Over time, there had been buyouts, splits, and turnovers. As was spelled out in my grandfather’s will, the shares of Wade Pharmaceutical would go to me upon my fulfillment of his criteria, the final step being marriage.
The Butlers held roughly twenty-five percent of Wade stock. By uniting the Butler and McGrath stock, the founding family could once again fend off attacks from Big Pharma. It was my father’s constant belief that a coup was in the works. He believed that the giants in the industry were picking up shares here, with another there, to swoop in and swallow up Wade.
With my family’s thirty-nine percent and the Butler’s twenty-five, Wade would be secure.
The evening after my last bridal shower and a week before Christmas, Skylar and I were to attend a charity event at the Chicago Philharmonic. Before the performance, we drove out to our new estate, west of the city, on a sprawling twenty-acre plot of land—our future home.
Skylar had laid his phone on the kitchen counter before going out back to check on some last-minute construction changes. Our wedding was only two weeks away and the house needed to be ready upon our return from our honeymoon.
When I saw my best friend’s name flash on the screen of his phone, I envisioned a planned pre-wedding surprise. I justified that she’d call Skylar; after all, she was also the maid of honor in our wedding.
Opening the text message, I was without a doubt surprised.
“Oh no.” My scream echoed as the rental car lost its footing and began to spin, flinging me from the thoughts of the recent past to the here and now.
Still a ways from my destination, my life flashed before my eyes as the white ribbon appeared to be replaced by trees and then back to the ribbon. Like a child’s top, I continued around and around.
In those visions, I saw Skylar and myself as we were growing children. I recalled my desire to pursue literature and journalism, an unacceptable major for the future owner of a pharmaceutical company. Double majoring in business and literature, I squeezed in a minor in journalism from Northwestern. The academic road took me an additional semester, allowing me to complete my degree in time for the grand engagement.
The car came to a stop, bringing me back to the present.
Letting out the breath, I laid my forehead on the steering wheel and closed my eyes. Opening them, I saw that I was no longer on the white ribbon of road. The hood of the
car was mostly buried in a snowbank and from my vantage, it looked like the bumper must have stopped inches from a tall pine tree.
I reached for my cell phone. There was no signal.
Glancing into the rearview mirror, I saw my own blue eyes. “Happy holidays, Julia. You had a fiancé, a family, a company, and a brand-new home. Maybe you should have stayed.”
Swallowing, I stared out at the white surrounding me.
With each passing minute, determination surged through my veins.
If I stayed where I was, I’d freeze.
If I began walking, I could freeze.
“You didn’t get here by staying put.”
It was a conversation with myself, but it was accurate.
After learning that my best friend was expecting my fiancé’s baby, I bolted from our newly constructed home, leaving Skylar stranded. As I drove away, I recalled a job listing I’d seen nearly a month earlier.
Pulling over outside Chicago, I searched, only to find the listing still existed. It read:
* * *
Financier seeks writer to pen memoirs. No experience required. Must be willing to live on-site until the project is complete. Salary negotiable. Contact Fields and Smith Agency for more information.
* * *
It was a crazy idea—a crazy idea that would allow me to walk away from my life’s planned trajectory, and in the process, utilize my degree in literature and journalism. From the side of the road, I sent a message to the Fields and Smith Agency, a legal firm in Ashland, Wisconsin.
Less than an hour later, I received a phone call. The gentleman sounded older. He asked all the appropriate questions. It was when I asked who the financier was that Mr. Fields informed me that his client wanted to remain anonymous until it was time to meet a candidate.
“Have I heard of this person?” I asked on the call.
“I’m not certain who you’ve heard of, Miss McGrath.”
“Is he old? Or is he a she?”
“You will have your own quarters. My client’s gender and age are irrelevant.”
“Is there something wrong with your client?”
“No, miss. My client prefers his privacy, and this project is something he takes seriously. I assure you, if you are selected, you will be well compensated.”
The only clue I’d managed to glean was that the client was male.
It wasn’t compensation I wanted. It was the chance to get away from my commitments and obligations—my shares of Wade would remain in my father’s hands, to take some time away from all the lies I’d accepted, and to find out what it was I truly wanted.
“I’d like to have an interview, Mr. Fields.”
“How soon can you be to Ashland?”
“In a few days.”
“There is the holiday.”
“I am aware, Mr. Fields, but I’d like to move on to this or to something else.”
My note to my parents simply said that the wedding was cancelled, and I would be in touch. Throwing clothes and cosmetics into two suitcases, I waited until morning and began to drive. Hell, I didn’t even know who this client was who wanted privacy. I envisioned an old man on death’s door with war stories to tell—stories he felt would be relevant to someone.
Before they’d passed, I’d been close with my grandparents. The idea of listening to some old man’s stories in the middle of nowhere and writing them down wasn’t unappealing. I wished I’d spent more time listening to my grandfather’s stories.
Taking a deep breath, I secured my lined boots, added another layer of a down coat, and donned my gloves and hat. As I took one last look in the rearview mirror, determination continued to grow. I was here and by God, I wasn’t going to freeze to death in a car on the side of the road.
Reaching for the door handle, I opened the latch. It took pushing with my full weight, but I wedged the door open into the snow bank.
After securing my belongings in the trunk, I climbed up onto what was the road. Ducking my head from the pelting snow, I continued to follow the white ribbon.
Chapter 2
The monologue in my head lost its ferocity. My self-absorbed determination to leave my life behind became more morose as I contemplated the possibility that I had facilitated that very goal—leaving my life, not by choice but by death.
Despite my gloved hand protecting my face, my cheeks ached from the cold. My fingers and toes were no longer felt as I trudged forward. During the hours of my drive, I’d only seen a half dozen other vehicles, and yet as I moved forward, that was what I yearned to see.
The snow glistened as white light danced on the newly fallen accumulation.
Looking back, I hoped to see a car, a truck, or maybe a snow plow.
I’d read once about igloos. The thought came and went as I imagined digging into the growing drifts. It still seemed as if it would be cold, but at least I’d be out of the wind.
The howl of the blowing played tricks as I searched again for a vehicle.
Nothing.
Time lost meaning as my thoughts went to my parents. I couldn’t imagine their disappointment at my behavior, at leaving the city before the holiday and two weeks before my wedding. And yet I loved them and I knew they loved me. We would work this out, unless I never returned.
I spun again at the sound of something over the howling wind.
Do mirages only appear in deserts?
Two headlights pierced the snow-filled darkness, growing bigger and brighter.
Is this real?
My heart beat faster, my circulation returning and delivering pain to my extremities.
Tears threatened to freeze on my cheeks as through the darkness, a black snow-covered truck appeared.
Waving my arms with what little energy remained, as the truck came to a stop, my knees gave out, and I fell to the snow. A face appeared before me. The air filled with small vapors as a man spoke.
“Jesus, lady, are you all right?”
Piercing green eyes stared down at me from below a bright orange hat and above a brown heavy coat.
“Cold.” It was all I could articulate with my frozen lips.
“Fuck,” the man muttered as he reached for my hand.
“Ouch,” I called out as pain radiated from my fingers.
The man’s head shook as he reached beneath me. “Can you lift your arms?” His deep voice rumbled through my freezing mind, cracking the ice, and infiltrating it with warmth.
I wasn’t sure if I answered, nodded, or spoke. My concentration was on doing as he asked and lifting my arms around his neck. Strong arms lifted me from the snow and pulled me toward his coat-covered chest. I tucked my cheek against him. Inhaling against the warm material, the scent of a campfire such as those from real wood filled my senses.
“What are you doing out here?”
My teeth chattered as I tried to speak.
Holding me with one arm, he opened the door to his truck and placed me on the seat. “I’m going to get you someplace warm.”
Strapping the seatbelt over me, he inclined the seat. Marvelous warmth blew from the vents as I closed my eyes. The scent of burning wood brought back a happier time. I remembered sitting by the fireplace in my grandparents’ cottage. It was on a lake with a real wood burning fireplace.
Memories lulled me to sleep.
I snuggled against the softness of the warm blanket moments before my eyelids fluttered open.
Before me was a raging fire, flames jumped as damp logs snapped and crackled. The fireplace was made of sandstone, much like the one at my grandparents’.
Panic bubbled within me at the prospect that maybe this was heaven, a place of comfort in my memory. Maybe there weren’t clouds, harps, streets of gold, and pearly gates. Instead, the afterlife was one of comfort. My stomach twisted in hunger.
I shouldn’t be hungry in heaven.
Raking my fingers through my disheveled hair, I began to look around. The only illumination was from the fire and a small kerosene lamp sitting on a ta
ble. Sitting up, I wrapped the quilt tighter around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my clothes, lying over the footboard of the bed, stretched out to dry. Peeking under the quilt, I confirmed that I was only wearing my bra and panties.
Wiggling my fingers and toes, I could feel them ache. The skin was red. My cheeks felt sun burnt, and my hair was disheveled.
Quickly, I turned from side to side, wondering who I’d see, who was with me, and who took off my clothes.
The cabin where I found myself was rustic like my grandparents’ place, but smaller.
“Hello?” I called.
The only answer came from the fire’s sounds and the wind beyond the cabin walls. Beyond the windows the night sky was still filled with falling snow. It wasn’t difficult to tell that I was alone. There was nowhere to hide in one room.
Faint memories of a man came to mind. Green eyes, an orange hat, and a deep voice.
With my feet bare, yet warmed, I stood, the aftereffects of the cold sent needles and pins to the soles. Tentatively, I walked around, admiring the quaintness of the furnishings. In the warm firelight, I ran my hand over each piece. Most appeared handmade, a table and two chairs, a bed with a wooden headboard and footboard, and a wooden sofa with long cushions.
Near the bed was a table with an old-fashioned pitcher and wash basin. Above the old china set was a cloudy oval mirror. The reflection wasn’t of the heir to Wade Pharmaceuticals or the future Mrs. Butler.
My long brown hair was wavy from the snow and drying by the fire. Any makeup I’d applied was gone, yet Mother Nature had left her mark. My cheeks and lips were pink. I ran my tongue over the bottom lip and then the top, bringing a bit of moisture.
A quick check confirmed that my clothes were still too wet to be worn.
The kitchen area, separated by the small table, consisted of a sink with an old pump, the kind that needed priming, a counter, some shelves, cupboards, and a stove that also used wood as heat. Upon the two metal burners were an old coffee pot and a pan filled with water.
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