by Nicole Meier
ALSO BY NICOLE MEIER
The House of Bradbury
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Nicole Meier
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904637
ISBN-10: 1503904636
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Tim Green
In memory of ARJR, the first sculptor in my life.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE SARA
CHAPTER TWO SARA
CHAPTER THREE SARA
CHAPTER FOUR TR
CHAPTER FIVE SARA
CHAPTER SIX SARA
CHAPTER SEVEN SARA
CHAPTER EIGHT TR
CHAPTER NINE SARA
CHAPTER TEN SARA
CHAPTER ELEVEN SARA
CHAPTER TWELVE TR
CHAPTER THIRTEEN SARA
CHAPTER FOURTEEN SARA
CHAPTER FIFTEEN SARA
CHAPTER SIXTEEN TR
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN SARA
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN SARA
CHAPTER NINETEEN SARA
CHAPTER TWENTY TR
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE SARA
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO SARA
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE TR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR SARA
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE SARA
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX SARA
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN TR
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT SARA
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE SARA
CHAPTER THIRTY SARA
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE TR
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO SARA
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE SARA
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR TR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE SARA
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
The fire came without warning. Just as the predawn mist began to clear, the first flames licked the sky. It started with a dull crackle, followed by a hiss, and then an ominous coil of inky smoke snaked upward. It wasn’t long before flashes of bright orange lunged in hungry strokes across the pale horizon. A merciless heat spread as the flames gathered strength and tumbled outward, taking down everything in their way. A searing, ripping fervor enveloped and consumed all that it could. Later on, after the ashes settled, someone would say they’d heard the fury of it, likening it to a rabid animal rushing through dense underbrush. Much later, another would claim they saw a figure flee the scene and disappear at the water’s edge without a trace, like a ghost into the fog. But no one was really sure. The only surety was the fire itself: a living, breathing thing that rose up and gutted and destroyed.
CHAPTER ONE
SARA
If Sara had known what was waiting to greet her that morning, she would’ve stayed in bed. At 6:45 a.m. she startled awake. The stillness of her room had been disturbed, though she noticed the alarm had yet to sound. Probably the dog, she told herself as she sat upright and peeled away the covers. Her toes were the first to slip reluctantly from under the warmth as she let them drift just above the braided rug. Reaching for her robe, she glanced across a tangle of sheets. No Charlie. Again.
She still couldn’t understand why her husband had agreed, after all these years, to increase his schedule. Why now? Perhaps if she really allowed herself to give it serious thought, she’d admit she knew the reason.
A dog’s yip traveled through the house, commanding her attention. Like it or not, it was officially time to greet the day. Sara hadn’t any time for brooding. She was needed elsewhere. Another yip was followed by a dramatic shushing. Sam.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she grumbled under her breath. Her view of the vacant bed caused her to yank a forceful knot into the sash of her robe. She sighed. Strong coffee was in order. Arriving in the kitchen, she squinted, her eyes adjusting to the light of day. Two expectant faces peered back at her, and Sara’s mood lifted.
“Well, hello there.” She smiled wide, doing her best to erase any signs of agitation. “How long have you two been up?” She glanced from the dog to the boy who hovered with his pet in the middle of the tiled floor. Sam’s deep-brown eyes blinked back from under a fringe of long lashes, and Sara’s insides melted a little. How she loved those eyes.
“Acer woke up first, then me,” Sam announced matter-of-factly.
Her son was clutching a cereal spoon in one hand, and just beyond him, on the farm table she adored, sat a half-full breakfast bowl surrounded by splashes of milk. Apparently Sam had taken matters into his own hands in the absence of his parents.
She scanned the bright kitchen, the hub of the house. While the other rooms in their midsize Craftsman were perhaps “overly decorated,” according to Charlie, this space—with its warm oak beams, distressed white cabinets, and slate-gray countertops—was where the family spent most of their time. Sara loved to stand at the deep farm sink and gaze out the window to watch Charlie chase a soccer ball around with Sam in the yard. A year ago, on a whim of inspiration, she had a contractor take down all the upper cabinets and replace them with open shelving she’d seen on a home renovation show. It turned out pretty well, if she did say so herself. She loved how inviting this part of the house felt. Her little desk was tucked into a corner, allowing her to sip coffee and take in the natural light while organizing bits of her life.
“Did you use your inhaler this morning?” She glanced out the window. Tree pollen had been considerable this fall; streaks of yellow dust were in evidence all over the neighborhood yards.
“Yep, did my inhaler.”
“What about your nose spray?”
“Yes, Mom.” She detected a note of irritation.
“Okay, good then.” Sara knew this part of their morning had become robotic and repetitive, but she couldn’t help it. As Charlie would say, micromanaging was in her DNA. Sam scooted out his chair and went back to his Cheerios. Sara relaxed. He was good about taking care of himself. She really needn’t worry so much.
With his back to her now, he hunched over his spoon and made slurping noises. Her son’s caramel-colored hair shot up in a collection of wild tufts at the crown, evidence of a hard night’s sleep. The hem of his pajama shirt crept up, revealing a peek of his curving spine. At ten years old, Sam was getting too big to cuddle, but at that moment she had a strong desire to pull him in for a tight hug. She stepped forward to place a hand on his shoulder, but just then Acer appeared by her side, shifting his weight and whining. Right, she thought. The dog had to go out.
Why couldn’t all this happen after her coffee had been poured?
She ushered the dog through the sliding glass doors and out onto a patch of grass that needed mowing. Charlie used to be good about taking care of things like that.
“Your cell phone’s been buzzing, by the way,” Sam said over his shoulder.
“It has?” A pebble of anxiety materialized in Sara’s gut. If someone was trying to reach her before dawn, it likely wasn’t good news.
Where was her phone? She’d been overcommitting herself lately, and the toll of her volunteer schedule had been catching up to her—last night she’d neglected her usual routine of charging a
ll her devices before collapsing into bed. Her eyes now skimmed over an open laptop and an adjacent cup of disregarded tea. Her heart beat in double time as she sped up her search.
Never in a thousand years did she ever think marrying a commercial airline pilot would entail any real sense of danger. But that was eighteen years ago, before 9/11 and before a recent run of terror alerts flooded the airwaves. Just last week, several major airports had been shut down and occupied by Homeland Security in response to so-called credible threats. Thankfully, nothing had come of it, but the ordeal had caused Sara’s anxiety levels to spike for days.
“I think I heard it from over there.” Sam gestured in the direction of her pine desk.
“Thanks, buddy.” She patted him on the head and scurried to retrieve the device.
Three missed calls from an unknown number. An unsettling prickle crept along Sara’s scalp, and as she hesitated, the phone suddenly illuminated. With a jumpy finger she punched in her access code and played the waiting voice mails.
“Yes, I’m trying to reach someone named Sara. This is Carrie from Pacific Memorial Hospital. Could you please contact me when you get this? Ask for the nurses’ station.” A number was rattled off too quickly. Sara swore, unable to locate a pen in time.
Her heart quickened. Why was a hospital calling her? Oh, please, no. Was it Charlie? Where was he flying this week?
Abandoning the remainder of the messages, she hastily searched for a callback number. Her teeth latched on to a cuticle and gnawed as she scanned the screen. Pacific Memorial was somewhere on the coast, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the name of any of the local hospitals, as far as Sara could recall. At least not any of the big ones in Portland. Panic bloomed as she pressed “Redial” and waited for the line to pick up.
To her dismay, the only voice that answered was that of an automated recording. Sara listened to the directory of extensions but realized she had no idea who she was calling. All the previous message told her to do was to ask for the nurses’ station. Which one? She was keenly aware of the jackhammering of her heart as she dialed zero and willed a live body to greet her on the other end. No such luck. Her request was immediately transferred back into the maddening black hole of hospital extensions.
“Dammit!” She went back to the voice mails.
“Hi, I’m calling for Sara, I believe. It’s important that you call back. Pacific Memorial. Ask to be put through to the third-floor nurses’ station. Thank you.” No number. These people were going to get an earful if she ever got through.
The next message was a male voice, deep and stern. “Hello, this is Dr. Burke trying to locate a”—the voice broke off, as if the caller were reading from something—“a Ms. Sara Harlow for a Mr. Thomas Robert Harlow. It’s imperative you call Pacific Memorial as soon as possible. If this is the wrong number, I apologize. Thank you.”
Harlow. The name hung in the air like an omen.
Sara listened to the last message twice. Her ears somehow didn’t feel as if they were cooperating with her brain.
She’d been wrong. She should be relieved. These calls weren’t regarding her husband at all. But the revelation didn’t quell Sara’s dread whatsoever.
They’d been about her father. Something had happened. Something big enough to send people calling for her.
But the question was, did she want to call back?
CHAPTER TWO
SARA
Sara had to get out of the house, to create distance between herself and that damned phone. It was ridiculous, really, that a handful of voice mails could set her spinning. But they had done exactly that.
After scooting Sam off to school and leashing the dog, she zipped up her fleece jacket and set out on a brisk walk. She’d hoped the crisp fall air would jar the dread from her brain.
This was typically her favorite time of year, when the autumn season blew across Oregon and magically transformed the foliage of her Portland suburb into a rainbow of warm, spice-colored hues. A cold snap had caused the big maples lining her street to shimmer with leaves aglow in color. Ash and aspen trees also showed off, displaying a rich spectrum of impressive ochers and scarlets. Hundreds of pine needles had been released and showered down to create a woodland carpet on the nearby walking trails. The entire display held the power to make Sara feel fuzzy inside.
Normally.
But today her feet moved in an unsteady clip. Her limbs wouldn’t quite perform and instead acted like unstable rubber bands. Her insides were just as jittery. Regardless, she willed her body to move. She usually did her best thinking on walks like these. And now, more than ever, she needed to think.
Acer yanked her forward, weaving along the narrow sidewalk with his nose pushing downward. This was his big moment outdoors, and Sara knew he wasn’t going to let anything stop him. He tugged again, clearly oblivious to his owner’s inner turmoil. So much for loyalty, she thought.
Loyalty. Now there’s a laugh, she said to herself. Does TR truly expect me to be loyal, after all this time? After everything? Knowing him, he was probably just holed up in a room, plugged into an IV and recovering from a bad bender. She snorted, offended at the thought. He should know better than to reach out to her.
But her father had summoned her anyway. “TR.” The great Thomas Robert Harlow. And she was expected to respond.
Yet there was also something grimmer to consider: Did TR ask someone to contact her? Was he on his deathbed and wanted to have one final conversation with his estranged daughter? Was his time limited?
Or was he lying helpless in a gurney in critical condition, completely unaware? Perhaps he had no idea that his daughter had been informed. Maybe the nurses took it upon themselves to hunt her down without his consent. This idea was equally upsetting.
Her sneakers created a muted crunching over the damp leaves as she moved along her street a little faster. She wasn’t certain she wanted to revisit any deep-seated feelings toward her father that might arise from seeing him. But if this crisis with TR really was a life-or-death matter, the grieving little girl in her wasn’t sure she was willing to let him slip away either.
A young jogger passed by, casting Sara a funny look as he sped across the road. She realized she had been shaking her head forcefully, going over the options as she walked.
It would have been nice to discuss things with Charlie right now, to have another adult with whom to share her precarious situation. But he was maddeningly MIA.
Even if she were to get ahold of her husband, Sara knew what he would say. He’d shrug and claim it was up to her. Charlie liked to consider himself an even-keeled type of guy. Always neutral. Sometimes she just wanted to shake loose some sort of uncontrolled passion from the man she’d been married to for nearly two decades. There were instances when it was all she could do not to shout, “Throw a plate against a wall! Scoop me into your arms and tell me you’ve missed me! Anything!”
But then again, that’s what she’d been so desperately seeking when she met Charlie. A calm soul. Something so opposite from her past, so opposite from her father.
Now Sara was just plain seeking him. Before leaving the house, she’d shot up a series of red flares in the form of harried texts. Charlie, I’m having a crisis. Please call me.
The only response was dead air.
What was she doing?
She stopped, sudden urgency sweeping over her. “Come on, Acer,” she called. “Let’s cut this walk short and head home. There’s something important I need to take care of.”
Sara had been placed on hold twice now. The minutes on the wall clock ticked by, and suddenly she worried she’d foolishly wasted too much of the morning debating. Her foot twitched as she suffered through recorded promotional messages regarding the hospital’s “excellent staff” and “winning reputation.” Not so much, she thought, since a confused receptionist had already rerouted her and transferred her to the wrong floor more than once.
“Answer!” she hollered into the receiver. She shook her fist in mi
dair just as a voice echoed back in response.
“Hello, third-floor nurses’ station. How can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m returning a call I received earlier this morning. This is Sara Young. Well, you probably have me down as Sara Harlow.” Her tongue grew unpleasantly thick at pronouncing the name she hadn’t uttered in so long. The name she’d shed so many years ago. “I think I’m calling about a patient of yours?”
“Sara Harlow Young, you say?” The girl’s voice answered back in staccato. Sara suddenly felt as if she’d said something absurd.
“Yes, that’s right. Dr. Burke called me.”
“Okay, hold please.” Click.
“No!” Too late. She’d been placed into the void of the annoying promotional loop once more. What was it with this place?
Instead of allowing herself to fall down the rabbit hole of imagining TR dying, she racked her brain, trying to remember where she’d last heard he was living. As the years went by, she’d stopped monitoring. There was Madrid, then Greece, then stateside in New York City, a stint in Santa Fe, and back to New York. At some point the news articles fizzled and then dried up completely. They had been Sara’s only source for tracing her father’s existence. He seemed to have vaporized into obscurity a decade ago. Even the salacious tabloids tired of covering the washed-up, wild-heart personality after a while, regardless that his artwork was still considered prestigious in certain circles.
“Hello, Ms. Harlow?” A different woman’s voice came across the line this time, her tone laced with weariness.
Sara’s back stiffened against the frame of the kitchen chair. “Yes. Hello. That’s right.” I used to be that person. That girl with the name I’ve worked so hard to forget.
A rustle of papers came through the line. “Ms. Harlow, I’m an RN at Pacific Memorial Hospital. We’ve been trying to track you down. One of our patients in the burn unit has been asking that we locate you.”
Burn unit.
“So he’s . . . alive?” She could barely get the words out.
“Yes,” the woman answered. “He’s badly injured, but he’s going to be all right.”
