by Amy Isaman
“What paper is that? I need to read it again. And why only two cards? What happened to The Tower? It was the first card I found.”
“I’ll send you the link. But more importantly, are you going to call him now?”
“No, why would I do that?”
Laurel groaned. “Oh, my God, Mom. Why won’t you call him? He was into you.”
“Laurel, we’ve gone through this. After what happened to you, I was ready to leave that adventure behind.”
She rolled her eyes, but I really couldn’t blame her. She’d never recovered her memory of her time with Collin and Lucy, and for that I was thankful. She’d slept the entire time. And I couldn’t tell her that I hadn’t called Darius because I was afraid I murdered Lucy.
Darius had reached out to me, though I never shared that with Laurel. He called and texted for weeks after we got home, and I hadn’t responded. I refused to implicate him in my crimes. Then, when I finally accepted that Lucy survived, it was too late. What could I say? I left with no note, no nothing, and ignored him for months.
He gave up. And I couldn’t blame him for that. Nor could I call and say, “Hi, it’s me. We live thousands of miles apart, and I ignored you because I thought I might be extradited for murder and didn’t want you to be arrested too. But, hey, we had an exciting few days together, didn’t we?”
“Do you think he’ll be there? At the opening?” Laurel asked.
“I have no idea,” I said, but I’d never admit that I wondered the same thing.
“Well, you’re going. So, plan on it. Book your tickets now.”
“Did you read the article? It said a ‘private viewing for patrons,’ that would not be me.”
Epilogue
I BRUSHED THE FRONT OF my black dress down again. It draped beautifully. I’d managed to keep the weight off that I lost upon our return home. It wasn’t much, but enough that I felt gorgeous. A little curvy, but not pudgy. Something about the fear of extradition curbs the appetite.
I’d tried to forget about the opening until an envelope arrived earlier in the week. It had been hand-delivered, the paper thick and lush. A note inside written in calligraphy requested our presence at the Morgan Museum in New York City at 7:00 pm on February 10th for the private viewing of the new additions to their tarot collection.
There was only one reason I’d been invited to this event.
Darius.
I came alone, leaving Trent with his grandmother and Laurel spreading her wings and traipsing through New Zealand. This trip was not a mother-daughter trip. It was for me.
My heart fluttered in my chest as I stood outside the museum on Madison Avenue.
I saw him the instant I entered the exhibition room. He wore an exquisitely cut tuxedo, his dark hair brushed back from his face. He chatted with an older woman, and I felt my pulse quicken. I’d been right. We did have a ‘thing’ or at least I did for him. And I hoped he still did for me, too.
The cards stood in a beautiful case in the middle of the room. I was here for one reason, and one reason only. I traversed the room toward the case anyway, not wanting to interrupt Darius’ conversation. I stared at the cards. They’d been meticulously restored, and I found myself again entranced with their strange beauty. A warm hand on my shoulder interrupted my study of the cards. I straightened and immediately Darius wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. I hugged back, a softer hug than all the others in London when I grasped desperately to him as we’d raced around on his motorcycle or I fell apart in fear for Laurel.
His arms felt like home.
“You left London,” he whispered in my ear. “And you didn’t call me back.”
“I couldn’t. I thought I killed Lucy. I didn’t want you implicated if—”
“Shhh,” he interrupted. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here. We can get caught up later.”
I leaned back and looked into his eyes. “I’d like that.”
He ran his fingers over my chin and the scar that had formed there.
“That’s part of the story,” I said.
He smiled. “It’s quite a tale. I think I’ve got it mostly figured out, but there are still a few holes.”
“I’d be happy to fill them in for you.”
“I think I can oblige you. Would you join me for dinner this evening?”
My heart skipped a beat, and I wondered what kept me from calling this man. All of my excuses—it was rude after ignoring him, I was too busy, he lived too far away, Trent had one more year in high school—felt ridiculous.
We turned back to the case and studied the cards together, our hands intertwined. “I’m wondering, why are there only two cards here? Why did you keep The Tower and not the Knight?” I paused and turned toward him. “You know, you are the Knight of Coins, don’t you?”
“Yes, that too is a long story.” He laughed. “I tried to be your knight but didn’t quite pull it off.”
“Actually, I have to disagree. You were quite knightly. But I’m seeing now that you can be a little devilish, too. I’d rather you kept the Knight. Perhaps you can trade it back for The Devil.”
He leaned back, studying me. “What, exactly, are you saying?”
“Do you recall what Anna Teresa said about the Devil? That it ‘resides with the beginning’?”
Darius nodded.
“I know where that is. Would you like to start over, at the beginning, and retrieve it with me?”
An appropriately devilish grin covered Darius’ face. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Thank you & About the Author
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About the Author
Amy Isaman has always loved stories and history, and she’s combined both of these loves in her fiction with historical elements playing key roles in contemporary stories. In the Cards is her second novel, and the first in the Tricia Seaver Mystery Series.
The Overlander’s Daughter is her first novel. It has a dual-timeline narrative with two women who lived 150 years apart but share a quilt.
Amy lives in rural Nevada and is married to her beloved high school sweetheart with whom she’s raised their amazing but not-so-little anymore son and daughter.
Connect with Amy online:
www.amyisaman.com
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www.instagram.com/amyisamancreative
Acknowledgements
Writing and publishing a book takes a team, and I’m so incredibly grateful for the key players on mine who’ve suited up and joined me in getting this book written, edited, and published.
First and foremost, thank you to my family for their unending support and especially my beloved husband, Gary, for putting up with all of my creative endeavors and for feeding me, so I don’t starve while I’m engrossed in writing. He is the best person I know, I love him more than I can express here, and I’m so incredibly lucky to be his wife.
Thanks to Gillian Archer, the most patient and helpful writing partner ever. We first bonded by catching one another’s eye during a truly torturous meeting. There might have even been an eye-roll or two involved, definitely a smothered laugh, and we’ve been writing partners ever since. Her brainstorming, editing, and feedback of every word I write for my novels has made me a better writer. And her sarcasm and humor has made me a happier person.
I’m eternally grateful to my editor Megan Thatcher for reading every word several times and catching all the little details that needed fixing – exactly what an amazing editor does. Anjanette Fennell also was incredibly helpful with a developmental edit on an early draft, and Crystal Blanton helped immensely with a final proofread.
Also by Amy Isaman
The Overlander’s Series
&nb
sp; The Overlander’s Daughter
Tricia Seaver Mystery Series
In the Cards (book 1)
Cold Hard Cache (book 2)
Read on for an excerpt of Cold Hard Cache
Book 2 in the Tricia Seaver Mystery Series
Chapter 1
I walked slowly behind my mom, my hands held low, ready to catch her in case her hip gave out and she couldn’t hold her weight with the walker. She shuffled along, pain and frustration clear in every audible breath as she worked her way down the hall toward the bathroom. I hated seeing her in so much pain.
We finally made it to the bathroom, and mom navigated the corner. I held onto her and pulled the walker out of the way, turning it so she could get herself up when she was done. I stepped outside to give her some privacy.
While I stood like a sentry outside the bathroom and waited, I studied the pictures from my childhood lining the hallway. My favorite was one where she kneeled by a stream with my baby sister on her hip. I stood next to her, maybe five years old, holding a miniature fishing pole with a teeny tiny trout dangling from the hook. A huge smile covered her young face which was now aged with soft wrinkles, many of which I knew my sister and I helped etch there.
The bang of the front door flinging open jarred me, and I heard my sixteen-year-old niece Madi, before I saw her. “Auntie Trish? You here? Where’s Grams?”
“She’s in the bathroom. We’ll be right out,” I yelled.
Madi was going to be her Grams’ sitter for a few hours while I met my childhood best friend for a glass of wine and dinner. I think my mom was looking forward to a few hours with her granddaughter as much as I looked forward to a break. Caregiving was rough, as my mom was in pain and more demanding than she normally was. But I could never vent my frustration to my sister who’d been taking care of her, getting her to all of her appointments, being the good daughter for years, which she managed to point out at least once a day for the past week.
For the past hour, Mom must have glanced at the clock or her watch every four or five minutes and commented about Madi’s arrival. Every week, they watched one of those talent-competition shows together and had since Madi was little. It was their thing, and obviously a highlight of my mom’s week.
My highlight was getting together with my high school bestie, Debbie. We hadn’t seen one another in person in well over a decade, though we exchanged the requisite Christmas cards, commented on one another’s social media posts, and chatted on the occasional birthday phone call, but no in-person hugs.
“I’m ready,” my mom yelled.
I opened the door to find her standing and gripping her walker, “You’re up!”
She laughed. “I almost feel like a regular adult. I sat down, peed, and stood up all by myself. I feel like I’m getting a little stronger.”
“That’s great. And Madi just got here.”
My mom smiled and moved slowly down the hall with her walker. I followed her to the family room and stood by as she got herself seated on her hard chair while she looked longingly at her comfy recliner. I hurried to the kitchen for my purse, which sat on the new shiny granite counter. My sister and mom had completely redone the front of the house a few years ago. Now, it was stylish and sleek, but I missed the country-blue and mauve kitchen that she loved so much when she redecorated it in the eighties.
I left the house and headed toward main street. It was only eight blocks to Shepherds, and little had changed since I’d been gone. Some of the houses had changed hands. New owners had repainted the Schmidt’s old house a bright turquoise and hung a variety of bird houses and wind chimes from the porch. The Wood’s house had also gotten a make-over. A stroller was parked on the front walk, so a younger family lived there now. I pulled my cardigan tighter as a cool spring breeze ruffled the just budding leaves on the trees, and I regretted not grabbing a heavier jacket from the hall closet. Instead, I sped up my walk and hurried to the restaurant.
Debbie waited for me by the bar, two glasses of red wine in front of her. We hugged, and she handed me one.
“Cheers! Let’s hope it’s not another twelve years before I see your face. Are you hungry? Our table is ready if you are. I’m starving.”
I laughed. She hadn’t changed. She was tall and thin, and her figure never seemed to reflect her love of a good meal like mine did. We walked across the bar to the dining room. This place hadn’t changed either. Maybe they’d added a few new photos of hunters with their trophies, smiling guys in baseball caps gripping the antlers of huge elk and deer, but other than that, it felt exactly like it did thirty years ago.
As soon as we sat, Debbie leaned in. “So, tell me about London. And Darius. Your life is so exciting, and I’m still here. I want to hear everything.”
I smiled and dove into sharing the biggest adventure of my life which happened last summer in London.
“Wow,” she said when I finished. “I’ve always felt safe here in Elk Creek. It’s a small town. Nothing crazy like that ever happens. But then I think back to what we did to entertain ourselves when we were younger. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, like blindfolding whoever was driving and navigating the streets of our small town, telling them to go faster, slower, and where to turn before we took off the blindfolds and drove the thirty miles to the nearest Dairy Queen where we could get a Dilly Bar? That?” I shook my head, unable to imagine my own kids doing that in San Francisco where we lived. I’d have a heart attack, but back then, I hadn’t given it a second thought. We thought that riding around with a blindfolded driver was fun.
Debbie laughed. “Yes, that. And drag racing. And 4-wheeling in the mountains. Nobody knew where we were or what we were doing. Drinking way too much beer that we stole from our parent’s garage refrigerators. I don’t know how many times I drove drunk because it wasn’t a thing not to. More than that, it’s a perfect miracle that we didn’t kill ourselves or somebody else. It terrifies me to think that our kids are as stupid as we were.”
“I wonder if those terrifying traditions have been passed down. Do you think they still do that? I’ll have to ask Madi. Then again, maybe not. I certainly don’t want to be the one to resurrect it, even though the streets haven’t gotten that much busier since I’ve been gone.”
“God, I hope they don’t do that anymore. My kids would lose all driving privileges forever if they are.”
“You know what’s crazy,” I added. “I always thought that raising my kids in the city was more dangerous than this small town, but I don’t think so. We were dumb, and I’m sure my kids were too.”
“I’m sure they are in their own way,” Debbie added. “And we probably do too much for them and protect them a bit much, too. We had so much more freedom.” And then we were off again, reminiscing about old friends and what happened to who.
Ninety minutes later, I leaned back in my chair and sighed. I felt stuffed. One thing I’d learned in my years away from home was that not many restaurants, even the finest steak houses in a metropolitan city, could beat the lamb at a local Basque house. Nor did other restaurants serve nearly as much food as a family-style meal at Shepherds. My face hurt too from laughing, and I tried to stretch out my cheeks.
As I set my purse on my lap, my phone pinged… again. It had gone off a few times during dinner, but I’d ignored it.
“Do you need to grab that?” Debbie asked.
I glanced at the screen and groaned. “No, I do not.” I slid my phone across the table toward her, and she began snorting with laughter.
I had nine missed notifications from the dating app that Laurel set up for me the day before. She thought that maybe a little online romance might make my stay at my mom’s more fun. Debbie read the messages out loud, and we howled, though not one enticed me to reach out to the sender. My whole face hurt from smiling.
“Oh, good lord. That’s funny,” she said. “Thanks for the laugh. Are you going to respond to any of them?”
“Not any of those. Would you?”
&
nbsp; Debbie shook her head. “Probably not.”
I pushed open the door of Shepherds and gave Debbie one last hug. I waved at her husband, a man I’d known since the 4th grade who waited for her in front of the restaurant. He waved back as I turned to head home. Thankfully, it was close. Uber drivers could never make a living out here, so it was either walk, call a friend, or drive a little tipsy. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate that much food in one sitting. I welcomed the walk and the empty streets, happy that I didn’t need to worry about walking around at night with my guard up, like I did at home. It hadn’t even occurred to me to feel scared here, though out of habit I did have my purse zipped all the way up, worn across my body and tucked almost into my armpit.
Two blocks away, I could hear pounding music and shouting pouring from the propped open doors of Charlie’s Bar. A small group spilled onto the sidewalk, and I crossed the street to avoid the crowd. Getting off Main Street would be quieter and a bit more peaceful. My mom’s house was almost stiflingly quiet, compared to my San Francisco apartment where absolute silence never reigned. But peaceful wasn’t necessarily how I’d describe my mom’s either, not with my little sister popping in and out to make sure I was taking care of mom “right.”
I wrapped my cardigan around me in the cool spring air and gazed up at the stars, which I could see here. That was something I missed. It had been hard getting used to seeing a starless sky when I left and seeing them now made me feel at home in a way I hadn’t since I arrived.
I reached the end of the block and turned right at the Laundromat that looked exactly the same. The word “Laundromat” had always been painted in red across the white concrete block building. The words were faded a bit but still legible. The plate-glass windows on this side of the entry showed that the interior hadn’t changed much, if at all.
