Act of Contrition
by
Linda Rettstatt
Act of Contrition
Copyright © 2013, Linda Rettstatt
Digital ISBN: 9781622371051
Editor, Jacquie Daher
Cover Art Design by KJ Jacobs
Digital Release, January, 2013
Published by Turquoise Morning Press for Smashwords
Turquoise Morning, LLC
www.turquoisemorningpress.com
Turquoise Morning, LLC
P.O. Box 43958
Louisville, KY 40253-0958
Smashwords Edition, License
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Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the publisher, Turquoise Morning Press.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author's imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
ABOUT LINDA RETTSTATT
TURQUOISE MORNING PRESS
Acknowledgements
This is where I get to recognize and thank those people who helped me bring this book to life. It’s probably the hardest part of the book to write because I worry about who I might overlook. Hopefully, I’ve not missed anyone.
Act of Contrition began as a writing exercise. I was vacationing on the coast of Maine in a small cabin facing Penobscot Bay and the sunrise. I woke early one morning and sat curled in a chair trying to quietly write from the light of my cell phone so as not to waken my friend, Sue Ann, who traveled with me. That early morning exercise stretched into two hours of writing by hand on legal pads (I’d determined to take a vacation without my laptop). I first have to thank Sue Ann for her constant support and encouragement but, more importantly, for tiptoeing around the cabin that morning and allowing me to slip into that world we writer’s disappear into when a new story grabs us.
My critique partners at Women Fiction Writers then helped me to take the raw beginnings of a story and turn it into a novel. Thanks, ladies. And, finally, to Kim Jacobs at Turquoise Morning Press for offering to publish this book and to Jacqueline Daher, my editor, who gave the manuscript fresh eyes and new perspective.
Lastly, but certainly not in the least, thanks to my readers. I hope this book is the beginning of a long and happy friendship.
Note for Book Clubs: I am available to engage in book club discussions of Act of Contrition in person or via live chat. Contact me at [email protected].
ACT OF CONTRITION
The argument ended as blinding headlights bore down on her. The steering wheel spun beneath Jenny’s fingers. A horn blared, and then…nothing. Jennifer Barnes wakens to learn she is the sole survivor of the crash that claimed her husband and eight-year-old son.
Why did she survive? The question haunts her even after she retreats to her cottage on the coast of Maine. She is seeking a place to grieve and to escape the guilt that eats at her. Instead of the solitude she anticipates, Jenny comes face to face with her past.
Act of Contrition: a repentant prayer; an admission of guilt; a request for forgiveness.
Penance: self-punishment performed to show sorrow for having committed a sin.
Chapter One
“I can end this right now,” Matt growled.
The steering wheel spun beneath Jenny’s hands, jerked from her grip. Blinding light bore down on her and a horn blared. Cooper cried out. Metal exploded. Then silence.
****
Jenny forced her eyelids open and squinted against the light. She tried to lift her head, but sharp pain forced her back down. A thin tube ran from the back of her right hand into an IV box mounted on a metal pole beside the bed. With her left hand, she reached up, every movement sending shards of pain through her body. Her fingers encountered a large patch of gauze around her neck.
A hazy figure hovered over her. Ashley Rogers. “Jenny? Oh, thank God. Don’t try to talk.”
Jenny blinked until Ashley’s face became clear. “Wha…?” The question rasped in her dry throat.
“Shhhh. You’re in the hospital.” Ashley took Jenny’s unencumbered hand in her own. “There was an accident. You’ve been out of it for two days.”
Panic sent Jenny’s heart into a rapid tattoo. “Coo…Cooper?”
Ashley glanced away. “I need to let the nurse know you’re awake.”
“Wait. Is Cooper okay?”
Her friend’s eyes filled.
“No! No! No!”
The door flew open and a nurse stepped in front of Ashley. “You need to be still, Mrs. Barnes.” The nurse produced a syringe, injecting liquid into the IV. “I’m giving you something to help you sleep.”
Jenny tried to fight the medication that sucked her down and into blackness.
****
A line of pale gold widened and forms took shape—trees, rocks, the coastline and, in the distance, Cooper’s Island. The island served as a break wall, separating the mainland and Penobscot Bay from the sea. The narrow slash of light tore across the steel gray sky like a rip in a drawn window shade. Jenny poured a cup of coffee and stepped out onto the deck into the morning mist. She breathed in the sweet scent of the pines that separated the property from the bay. The putter of a boat engine drew her attention.
A small craft cut across the bay, heading toward the island. She recognized the boat and the pilot—Patrick Doyle. Jenny’s chest tightened and memories flooded her. The sound faded as the boat slid across the glass-like surface, leaving a narrow wake that quickly folded back into the silver water.
When Jenny was a child, Cooper’s Island had seemed a mystical place—appearing suddenly through the mist and fading again into the fog. She loved to watch the island rise fro
m its morning sleep as the sun crested its sloping brow.
Waves lapped at the rocky coastline, making light slapping sounds, dragging Jenny back from the memory. The early autumn chill prickled her flesh, and the sharp aroma of wood smoke penetrated her nose, burning the back of her throat. Pine branches hung heavy with dew, glistening in the golden light. A pair of loons swam close to shore, their plaintive calls rising over the lap, lap of waves.
Jenny watched Patrick’s boat disappear into the shadows of the island. Heaviness weighted her chest, causing her to draw in a shuddering breath. She pulled the thermal hoodie around her and folded her arms together. The warmth didn’t reach her center.
There was a time when Jenny would have accompanied Patrick and his father to the island while Mike Doyle made his daily rounds to check the summer homes left in his care. And a time when she and Patrick would have stood along the shore and angled smooth, flat stones into the water, counting the number of skips. There was the time when she sat on the sloped bank, her head on Patrick’s shoulder, relishing her first kiss.
Then there was the time she left.
Chapter Two
Heads turned as Jenny opened the door, sounding the bell over the diner entrance. She instinctively tugged at her turtleneck, pulling it higher to hide the ropey scarred flesh that ran from her left ear down her neck. A mixture of comforting aromas welcomed her—bacon, cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee. As she walked past the backs of the men seated on stools at the counter, Mack Grogan turned his head and nodded. “Jenny.”
“Hi, Mr. Grogan.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Everything okay at your cottage?”
Her loss. She immediately thought of Cooper, her beautiful boy. “Yes, thank you. Have you been well?”
He smiled. “I’m all right, for an old man.”
“Good.” She proceeded by the heads that turned, eyes watching, searching, she thought, for some outward sign of her sorrow and guilt.
She unzipped her jacket and dropped into a booth, sitting so her right side faced them—the unscathed part of her. A steaming cup of coffee slid across the table in front of her.
Shelly wiped her hands on her apron and sat in the opposite seat. “How’re you doing?”
Jenny shrugged, wrapping her hands around the hot mug, her eyes flitting across her friend’s face. “I’m okay. How are Greg and the girls?”
“Greg’s good. The girls are growing up too fast. Annie will be eight next month. Gracie just turned five. You know how they are at that age.”
She knew all too well. Cooper would forever be eight years old.
Shelly reached for her hand. “Oh, Jen, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.”
“It’s all right,” her voice cracked.
Shelly held her gaze. “You know, if you need anything, need to talk…”
Jenny nodded. “I know. Thanks. I just need time.” How often had she said that lately? How much time? How long would it take for the gaping hole in her soul to close?
The bell announced another customer. “I’m sorry.” Shelly pulled herself to her feet. “Back to work. You want anything besides coffee?”
“No. I just stopped in to take off the chill. Thanks.”
“You’ll have to come to dinner some night. I know Greg would love to see you.”
Jenny nodded, knowing she would never accept the invitation. She could not face a happy family, laughing children—life going on. Bits of hushed conversation wafted within earshot—‘son and husband killed’, ‘rainy night’, ‘she was driving’. She took a few sips of coffee, tossed a five on the table, and grabbed her jacket. Hurrying past the counter, she wrenched the door open and stepped outside. She turned and ran headlong into a wall of denim and flannel.
“Oops. Sorry.” She stepped back.
Hands grasped her shoulders. “You all right?”
The voice had deepened over the years, but still sounded like silk to her. She looked up and into eyes that had once turned her legs to rubber. “Patrick.”
Patrick’s face tightened, and he released his grip. “Jenny.”
“I’m sorry. I should watch where I’m going.” She stumbled backward.
“No problem. I heard you were in town.”
“Yes.” Her face burned with heat, in spite of the cold air whipping off the sound. She sidestepped the same time he did, and they continued to face one another. “Sorry, again.” She moved around him, lowering her head into the wind.
“Jenny?”
She stopped and looked back, tugging at the collar of her jacket.
“I heard about Matt and Cooper. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
They stood for a moment, neither speaking. His arms, once a place of comfort and safety, hung limply at his sides.
She met his gaze. A familiar feeling stirred in her—a ghost of a memory her body harbored. She shifted on her feet to hide the shiver that rolled through her. “I saw you crossing to the island this morning.”
He nodded.
“So… Good seeing you.” She turned and walked away.
When she made the decision to return to Miley’s Cove, Jenny knew she would eventually have to face Patrick. She wasn’t ready to do it so soon. She wasn’t ready for much of anything. Her venture to the diner had been her first outing since she arrived at the cottage a week earlier. Patrick had been difficult to read. Was he surprised to see her, or still angry? Perhaps both. She climbed into her SUV and started the engine before taking in a deep breath.
The encounter had unraveled something in her. She intended to go home but, when she reached the driveway, she kept driving. The leased Forester easily navigated the rutted dirt road leading to Miley’s Cove Beach. A canoe sliced across the placid water of the cove. Gulls swooped and dove, scavenging for remnants washed onto the rocky shore.
Her fingers wrapped around the steering wheel and Jenny rested her forehead on the backs of her hands. There seemed no bottom to her grief. Seeing Patrick had made her acutely aware of exactly how alone she was.
Dropping her head back against the headrest, she closed her eyes. A string of sleepless nights caught up with her, and she drifted into semi-consciousness. A series of video clips played through her mind—Cooper as an infant, flashing a wet, toothless smile. His first steps, and the surprised look in his clear, blue eyes when he tottered, then landed on his well-padded bottom. And, more recently, the way he had scanned the audience for her at his school play. The grin that stretched his mouth when his eyes found her in the stands as he trotted out onto the soccer field.
Then she was in the car, arguing with Cooper, telling him to stop whining, and angry with Matt for overriding her decision that Cooper was too young to go camping with his friend’s family for a weekend. Angry. For that—and so many other things. Just angry.
A child’s laughter dragged her from the dark memory moments before the skid and the impact. She jerked to full consciousness, taking in a sharp breath. Two boys knelt at the shoreline. They were probably nine or ten years old—a milestone her son would never reach. So many things Cooper would never become.
Each time the nightmare enveloped her, she prayed for a different ending, prayed that, this time, she wouldn’t awaken. In her head, a mantra from a prayer learned in her childhood repeated like the news ticker in Times Square—”Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry….”
She traced her fingertips over the scar that began at the base of her left ear and cut a ragged line down to the knob of her collarbone. She had been “lucky,” the doctor had said. A little deeper and she would have bled out. Funny how luck looks different depending upon where you stand. He had recommended a plastic surgeon that “can make that scar all but disappear.”
She needed the scar. It represented her pain, served to speak for her: “See, I didn’t really escape unscathed. Not really.”
The scar justified her having survived.
She needed it, not to gain pity, but to ward of judgment. The problem was no
one judged her more than Jenny herself.
Chapter Three
Sixteen years earlier
Jenny stood in front of the mirror and pulled the tank top tight against her body. At thirteen, she had barely begun to develop. “A late bloomer,” her grandmother had said. Jenny scrutinized the slight swell of her breasts, torn between embarrassment and a pleasurable pride. Grandma promised to take her shopping next week to buy her first real bra, not the flimsy piece of stretch fabric she now wore. She had been mortified when one of the girls at school teased her about being “in training.” What were the barely visible mounds of her breasts training for? The molehill Olympics? But in the past month, they had begun to change, take more discernible shape.
“Hey, Jenny,” Patrick called from beneath her window.
“Coming.” She gave her hair one last brush before racing down the stairs. “Grandma, I’m going with Patrick and Mr. Doyle over to the island.”
Her grandmother smiled from the kitchen. “Tell Patrick I’m making blueberry pies and to come and get one before he and his father go home.”
“Okay. Later.” She bounded out the door.
Patrick Doyle, one year older and a head taller, leaned against the mailbox post.
Jenny stopped short, noticing for the first time the dimples that deepened when he smiled. She had noticed more about him lately, things that caused unsettling feelings she couldn’t explain.
He started walking and called back to her. “You coming or what?”
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