Rolling in the Deep

by Rebecca Rogers Maher

  Rolling in the Deep is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Rebecca Rogers Maher

  Excerpt from Just Give Me a Reason by Rebecca Rogers Maher copyright © 2015 by Rebecca Rogers Maher

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from Just Give Me a Reason by Rebecca Rogers Maher. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9780804181488

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: Uwe Krejci / Getty Images

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Holly

  Chapter 2: Ray

  Chapter 3: Holly

  Chapter 4: Ray

  Chapter 5: Holly

  Chapter 6: Ray

  Chapter 7: Holly

  Chapter 8: Ray

  Chapter 9: Holly

  Chapter 10: Ray

  Chapter 11: Holly

  Chapter 12: Ray

  Chapter 13: Holly

  Chapter 14: Ray

  Chapter 15: Holly

  Chapter 16: Ray

  Chapter 17: Holly

  Chapter 18: Ray

  Epilogue: Holly

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Just Give Me a Reason

  Chapter 1

  Holly

  When you meditate, you’re supposed to breathe deeply and become one with the universe. At least that’s what the size-two yoga instructor said on the Today show this morning. She probably wasn’t picturing the candy aisle at Cogmans when she offered this advice, but considering how stressed I am all the time, it’s worth a shot. Before I begin my workday, I close my eyes and breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

  My universe smells faintly of melting cheese.

  It’s a big store—a superstore—housed on a plot of land that once belonged to a strip mall. Before that, it was a field strewn with empty bottles, and before that, a creek and stretch of woods. That was before my time, though. It’s been a Cogmans for ten years, and hardly anyone remembers what it used to be. Every county in suburban New York has a Cogmans now. The whole state is practically owned by Cogmans. And we all shop here even if we don’t want to, because it’s what we can afford. We buy everything we need at this store, from frozen peas to a sectional sofa—all in one stop.

  We work here, too, if we need to. Which I do.

  I may have breathed in a bit too deeply when leaning against a sleeve of chocolate donuts. Because now I want to rip open the package and eat every last one. I usually try to eat sensibly, but I’ve been up since 5:00 AM making Drew’s breakfast and organizing a backpack for his week with his dad. Then I shuttled him across the river to school, dropped him off, and drove south for my 8:00 AM shift. All I want right now is to be stuffed with donuts until donuts are all that I am and all I can feel. That’s healthy, right?

  They’re going skiing this weekend. Drew and his dad and his perfect stepmother—a woman who in addition to being rich and beautiful is also nice as hell. She didn’t even have the courtesy to be evil.

  If I were a better mother I’d be happy for Drew. Happy that my ex-husband’s wife is kind to my kid, that she has a chalet in the Catskills and a seat on the board of Drew’s private school. Happy that Drew has all the clothes and toys and after-school activities an eight-year-old boy could ever want. Happy to drive ninety minutes round-trip to get him to a fancy school I could never pay for on my own.

  My child is well cared for, and I get to see him every other week. I get to see him in my rented Poughkeepsie apartment, where we eat rice and beans and play board games because that’s what I can afford. I should be grateful. And I am. It’s just that I’m tired. Tired like a hamster on a wheel is tired. Tired of running as fast as I can and getting nowhere.

  My day off is in two days. I can make it that long. I can make it to the one day a week when I have time to haul my clothes to the Laundromat. And clean the house and carry my coupons to the grocery store. And pay the bills, which is always a creative exercise. I can only pray there will be enough to spread around this month, since God knows Drew and I cut every possible corner.

  It could be worse—I realize that. I know that I’m lucky. I have a child who is everything to me, a steady job, a roof over my head. I have friends. I have a volunteer shift at the community garden in a few days with Beth, and it will all be fine. She’ll tell me not to worry so much, and for a while I’ll listen. For a while I’ll put this all aside and try to rest my mind, which lately feels like it’s always spinning.

  Drew brought home a book from school yesterday about Niagara Falls. He was all excited about planning a visit there. It’s not far—right here in upstate New York, and he’d love it, I know that. We’d both love it. He wants to ride on the Maid of the Mist, to plunge headfirst into the power of all that water. He wants to see New York from the Canada side and dream about diving over the edge in a rain barrel, about walking over the Falls on a tightrope. He wants to have adventures he can write comic books about, and all things considered, Niagara Falls is a modest goal. Most families would be able to make a trip like that, wouldn’t they?

  But the fact is, I can’t afford it. Every penny I earn at Cogmans goes straight to bills. Every penny of Brett’s paltry child support. There is nothing left over. How do you explain that to an eight-year-old? Especially one who lives with his dad every other week, where money flows out of designer faucets and no one thinks twice about what things cost. They could take him to the Falls. They probably will before I save up enough money to do it.

  Maybe tonight I’ll take Drew to the diner in New Paltz. It’s our one night out—our weekly splurge before dropping him off at his dad’s house. We can have breakfast for dinner. Drew would like that.

  Afterward, I’ll say goodbye to my son for a full week, as I do every other week. I’ll say goodbye and release him into the hands of a man who hates me. A man who will never forgive me for leaving him even though his life by every measure is happier now. After all he put up with, he says—my selfishness, my incompetence—if either of us were going to break it off, it should have been him. Now he relishes every occasion he gets to take Drew from my arms. It’s my punishment for destroying our family.

  It never fails to annihilate, no matter how many times I do it. And I’ve done it for five years now, ever since our divorce was finalized. I’m picturing today’s goodbye—dreading it—when the new guy at work turns down the aisle pushing a cart full of chewing gum.

  “Heard you were down here.” Ray stops mid-grin when he sees my face, and I belatedly realize my eyes are filled with tears.

  Stupid eyes. Stupid face that can never compose itself quickly enough. It’s what Brett always railed against in our endless looping fights—the walking guilt trip my face presented. Every time he came home smelling like another woman’s perfume. I guess I was supposed to lump it, like a true lady.

  I’ve never been good at acting like a lady should.

  Exhibit A: I was in too much of a rush this
morning for anything but a quick swipe of powder, and now that I think about it, I don’t remember brushing my hair. Not that it matters—it was raining this morning and the mist made a frizz of everything anyway. The fluorescent lighting in this place is doing my complexion no favors and neither is the cobalt blue polyester vest I’m required to wear.

  I fix a smile for Ray’s benefit, though, because none of this is his fault, and my mother always told me to put a brave face out to the world. Nobody likes a complainer, she’d say, and I know she was right.

  “Allergies,” I tell Ray, and wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

  He pauses for only a second before deciding to accept that, bless him. “They’re the worst this time of year.”

  He’s new to the store. Moved up from the city a month or two ago, if I remember correctly. From Queens, I think. A part of the world I’ve stepped foot in only once—to see the Unisphere with Drew and Beth at the site of the World’s Fair. I remember it felt majestic, and afterward we had dim sum.

  I don’t usually give much time to the new people, although I try to be friendly. You never know how long someone’s going to stay at Cogmans since turnover is so high. They could easily be leaving as soon as they’ve arrived. But I know how disorienting the first few weeks on a job can be. I help out when I can.

  The trouble is, Ray here might be interpreting that the wrong way. Like I’m interested in him. Like I’m putting the feelers out.

  I’m not putting out any feelers. My feelers long ago shriveled up and fell over dead. I’d tell him so straight out but I think that would embarrass us both.

  Anyway, he’s a nice enough guy. If compelled in a court of law I might even admit he’s good-looking. But I’m far too tired for man-hunting, even if the dead zone of Cogmans were conducive to romance. Which it most certainly is not. Fortunately, that makes conversation with male coworkers and customers fairly easy. I have no energy for worrying about whether they find me attractive. So I can just be myself.

  “How’s it going, Ray? You having a good day?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s great.” He takes some packs of gum and starts arranging them on the opposite shelf. “No place I’d rather be than stocking candy at Cogmans on a Friday afternoon. Sun shining outside? Who cares? Got me some Phil Collins playing on the intercom, got a cart full of Juicy Fruit. What more could a man want?”

  I snort and pick up a stack of candy bars. “A polyester uniform vest? You could have that.”

  “Got it.” He does a little sidestep and adds gum to the shelf. “A matching tie?”

  “Oh, look.” I point to his chest. “You’ve got that, too.” Then I turn back to my candy shelf, because when Ray smiles, a dimple creases out on his right cheek.

  Okay, maybe he’s a little more than good-looking. With his brown eyes and thick hair, his strong hands. At the moment he’s a bit too close and I realize I can smell him. His aftershave, I guess, which is kind of smoky and sweet.

  Like barbecue potato chips. That is what I just compared this poor man to. I realize that in all the hubbub this morning I forgot to make myself breakfast.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ray continues behind me. “Working at Cogmans is great and all that. What with the nonstop buzzing of track lighting over our heads. And the cranky customers. And the total lack of health insurance. But after work I’m thinking I’ll hop down to my private plane and jet on over to the Vineyard for a round of golf.”

  “Martha’s Vineyard?” I line up boxes of candy one after another, so that all of their corners match.

  “Naturally. Where else does one go on the weekend?” He’s got a bit of a New York City accent usually, and mixed with the faux-British he’s trying hard to tackle, it’s doing something weird to my midsection. His voice is too deep, I think. Even joking around, it vibrates.

  “Martha’s Vineyard is definitely where I’m gonna go,” I say. “Soon as I win the lottery. Maybe the Cape while I’m at it.”

  “Or the Hamptons.” Ray turns and leans against his cart. “We’d fit right in, you know, you and me. All the golfers wear large buttons like ours that say, ‘How may I help you?’ ”

  “Oh, for sure. Alongside their name tags that identify them by first name only.” I crack a smile and face him, and immediately wish I hadn’t. There’s the dimple again, and his eyes, which crinkle at the corners.

  “You know there’s a Powerball drawing coming up,” he says. “Nobody’s won in ages. It’s over four hundred million.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s definitely play the lottery. Because that’s not rigged at all. We’ll totally win.”

  He edges his cart closer to mine. “Why not? You never know.”

  “Seriously? You don’t actually play, do you?”

  “Sure I do. Don’t you? Can’t win if you don’t play and all that.”

  “Yeah, but it’s like a zillion-to-one chance.” I cross my arms over my chest, and then drop them when Ray’s gaze almost imperceptibly follows the resulting pushing-up of my boobs. He looks back to my face so quickly you’d barely know he’d wavered. Except for the slight color in his cheeks. I press on to rescue both of us. “It’s a waste of money.”

  “Maybe. But it’s only two dollars. I spend two dollars on a soda if I’m real thirsty. Don’t mind wasting that much for the sake of a little dreaming.”

  I tilt my head at him. “You make it sound reasonable. When in fact it’s completely insane and illogical.”

  “See, but that’s how I draw you in.” He smiles. “With my rakish charm and unerring man-logic. Right here in the candy aisle I lay my trap. First it’s a little light gambling. And then before you know it, it’s the drinkin’. And the druggin’.”

  “Next thing you know I’m driving the getaway car to Toronto.”

  “Exactly.” He holds out his hand. His nails are neatly trimmed, his fingers broad. “Give me a dollar.”

  “What? Why?” I’d take a tiny step back, but my cart’s in the way. Its piles of candy bars stare up at me accusingly. Any minute our manager will pop his head around the corner and chastise us for slacking off on the job.

  “Powerball ticket’s two bucks. We’ll go in on one. See what happens.” His hand waits, open and extended out to me. I want to place my own hand against it, palm to palm, and feel the warmth there. He’s not kidding about the charm.

  “You want me to give you a dollar and we’ll split a Powerball ticket.”

  He nods. “Yup.”

  “How does it even work?”

  “Drawing is tomorrow night. You can watch it on TV at like eight o’clock. I’ll go to the store after work, give them our two bucks, they print out a ticket, and that’s our shot. Wait, how do you want to do it? You want to pick the numbers? It’s five numbers plus a bonus one, the Powerball one. You can pick your own or the computer generates one for you.”

  “Let’s do the computer.” It’s out of my mouth before I even realize I’m in. But I’m in, I guess. Like Ray says, why not? It’s no worse a distraction than eating a bag of donuts, and significantly better for my blood sugar. Maybe it will actually take my mind off my worries for five minutes, which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. “Might as well use the computer numbers and be totally random about the whole thing.”

  “Sure, yeah.” Ray’s teeth are very white. He has a good mouth, a soft mouth.

  I shouldn’t be looking at his mouth.

  “Random,” he says. “I like that.”

  I dig in my pocket for a dollar. When I hand it over, his fingers brush mine. I pretend not to notice the zing that races through me.

  But I fail.

  I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

  Chapter 2

  Ray

  If there’s one place I never imagined I’d be it’s in the boondocks upstate working at a Cogmans. They don’t even allow that chain of stores in the city. Not that there’s much respect for the dying mom-and-pop places, either, but still. City folk, by their own estimation, are far too sophis
ticated for the likes of Cogmans.

  It’s different up here in the country. Quieter. Whiter, for sure. Here in the store parking lot I’m definitely on the margins in a way I rarely felt in Queens. Same with the night shift I work at the restaurant—everyone assumes I’m the dishwasher. They practice their high school Spanish on me and occasionally I play along for fun. I spoke in broken Spanglish to one of the waiters for a week before someone told him I was born in midtown Manhattan. It’s fun to mess with people sometimes.

  I guess how I look is just more of an obvious difference up here in the country. In the city you’ve got people from all over and no one pays much attention. Or if we do, we just talk about it straight-up instead of dancing all around it like they do here.

  Still, it’s prettier in the country. Calmer. All you need to do for quiet is drive a few miles out of town. Soon it’s long empty roads. Fields of frogs and crickets. It’s like another world.

  I guide my truck out of the lot and into light afternoon traffic. Every mile or so is another gas station, but I wait to buy the Powerball ticket until I’m closer to home. I like the little deli down the street from my house. Reminds me of a bodega, although unlike in the city it closes at 7:00 PM. If you want a midnight pint of ice cream in the country, you’d better plan ahead. Only one of many things I’m still getting used to.

  Still, I’m finding my way. I’m supposed to do six months at a quality restaurant before I apply to the Culinary Institute. Well, technically I could apply at any time. I just need to have six months’ experience before I enroll, and apparently growing up in the kitchen of a Queens diner doesn’t count.

  I promised my mother before she died that I’d get a degree, become a real chef, start my own restaurant. It seemed plausible at the time, and the last thing I wanted to do was let her down.