by Jen Talty
And now she was alone.
Really alone.
At least she wasn’t homeless anymore. “Is there any reason I’d have to leave the house?” She’d only arrived in Lake George less than a week ago. When she’d arrived at the house, the front door had been wide open. She thought maybe the paramedics left it open. That was until she walked into her grandpa’s guest bedroom, which had also been his office, and all his desk drawers had been pulled out, files everywhere.
But the kicker had been the next morning when she walked into the kitchen and the back door had been open and she knew damn well she hadn’t left it unlocked. She called 9-1-1 and the cops had been nice enough, but couldn’t really do anything but talk to a few of the neighbors.
“No reason why you can’t stay at the house.”
“What about the money?” God, she sounded like a cold-hearted bitch. She wanted to scream I loved my grandpa. He was the best man in the world! But again, what would be the point. Both her parents and her grandparents had taught her to be practical. Being jobless required her to be practical.
Facing a misdemeanor charge of assault and a civil lawsuit required her to be balanced and level headed.
“There are various legalities we need to jump through, but this is a simple estate, so I suspect two months at the most.”
Brooke did a mental calculation of her bank accounts and her current bills, the biggest one being the Camaro convertible she’d splurged on when she’d been promoted to Regional Sales Manager. She could sell the car and buy a Hundai. Easy Peasy.
Not.
Acid bubbled up her esophagus. She loved that damn car.
“What about my pending legal situation?”
“It could slow things up, but not by much.”
Brooke supposed life could be worse, but she couldn’t picture anything worse than this.
“I just need a few signatures on these papers.” The lawyer pushed a few documents across the desk.
“Thanks for your help.” She scanned the documents, which were all requests to probate court and signed them.
“I’ll be in touch,” Jessica said.
Brooke nodded as she gathered up her belongings. The lawyer’s secretary walked her to the front door of the small offices of Holden & Holden, which Brooke suspected that Jessica was the only Holden currently working.
She stepped onto the sidewalk, her brand new black Camaro, parked right in front of the building. Her grandfather had been so proud of her accomplishments, always reminding her that her parents and grandmother were smiling down at her. She looked to the sky and waved. “Sorry. Seems I’ve developed a temper.”
People walked by, giving her a few weird looks. She shrugged it off. Let people think she were nuts. She hopped in the car, revved the engine while the top folded down, before she slammed it into drive and pulled out onto the street, heading for the main drag of Lake George, Village. Once she turned off Beach Road and headed up East Shore drive, tears rolled freely down the sides of her face, probably taking thick clumps of mascara with them. With no cars in sight, she pressed the gas. Her fingers curled around the steering wheel at ten and two. The wind blowing through here hair, taunting her to ram her foot down on that peddle and take the upcoming forty-five degree turn as fast and as hard as she could.
Fire flew from her skin as hot as it did when she went ballistic in her office. Ballistic Brook, that’s what her ex-coworkers called her as she’d been escorted out of the building.
Don’t let them see your weak side. A saying her mother drilled into her head since birth.
She eased up on the gas, knowing if she continued, she’d flip the car going around the corner. Her heart skipped a beat as she wondered if that thought had been in her subconscious.
She pulled into the country store at the corner of Cleverdale and 9L. When she’d been little, her grandfather would give her a dollar and she’d walk down to the store and buy an ice cream. Talking a few calming breaths, she leaned forward and cleaned up her face. She really wasn’t a vein woman, but her grandmother taught her that a little style and grace made a powerful woman less intimidating.
She laughed as she clicked the key fob, locking the car, but left the top down. The idea that anyone perceived her as intimidating had always amused her because she found the world to be a daunting place, filled with uncertainty. Only, she chose to embrace it, where others let it demoralize them, filling them with panic.
The bell rung above the door, just like it always had. The pimpled faced kid behind the register didn’t even look up, his fingers tapping away on a smartphone. She made a beeline for the freezer and snagged three boxes of Éclair’s ice cream on a stick. The chocolate ones. Her father’s favorite. After that, she stopped in the beer section and picked up a case of her parent’s favorite beer.
The kid looked up at her when she dropped the case on the counter.
“I.D. Please.”
She laughed, though it sounded more like a snooty grunt. At almost thirty, getting proofed didn’t happen as often. “Thanks.” She signed the credit card receipt and picked up her groceries, turning on her heels, nearly walking right into Mrs. Georgina Ramsworth. “Excuse me,” Brooke muttered, adjusting her bag and her beer.
“I would say so.” Stuffy Mrs. Ramsworth lowered her gaze to Brooke’s feet, then followed it up to her face with a scowl. “I’m sorry for your loss. We were very grateful to your grandfather for being our driver these last ten years, especially since he’d retired.” The words might be kind, but the woman giving them was anything but. “He will be missed.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“If you need anything, we are right down the street.”
Right, like she’d let Brooke through the front gate. “Nice to see you again.” Not. “I need to get going.”
Mrs. Ramsworth pointed at the case of beer. “That isn’t going to solve anything, dear. I know you’re hurting, but really not the way to deal with it.”
Why? Because it’s not a five-hundred-dollar bottle of wine?
“I have a friend dropping by, so it’s not all for me.” Wow. She just resorted to lying to a woman who would judge her no matter what she did. Her grandfather just rolled over in his grave.
Brooke scooted around the snobby socialite and ran for her car, dumping her ice cream and beer into the passenger seat. When she turned and caught the ugly gaze of Wendell Ramsworth, the eldest grandson. Great. Just what she needed.
“Hello, Brooke,” he said as he leaned against her car. “I’m real sorry about your grandfather. He’d been very supported this last year with my situation, so if there is there anything you need, just let me know.”
“Really?” She gritted her teeth. “It’s one thing for your grandmother to be fake nice to me, but you?”
“There’s no reason for me not to be nice and I know Michelle would love to see you.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “You know how to reach us if there is anything we can help you with.”
“Thanks to you, Michelle and I haven’t talked in years, so don’t go acting like we’re all honkey dory.” Wendell didn’t care about anyone else but himself. He acted all nice and sweet, but deep down he was a ruthless, self-serving bastard and he proved that the day he made her out to be a lair in the eyes of her best friend.
He laughed. “I’ll tell Michelle you said hello.”
“Whatever.” She hoped into her car. Heat bristled off her finger tips as she slammed the gearshift into reverse, practically spinning the car out of control before peeling out of the country store. Her tires squealed as her backend fishtailed. She didn’t care about anything other than the pounding of her heart against her chest. Tears once again stung at her eyes, but she swallowed them as best she could, holding the peddle down, the wind slapping at her eyelids.
Sirens bleeped behind her.
She jumped, lifting her foot up, slowing the car down. She blinked a few times, trying to pull herself back to reality from wherever she’d jus
t gone. Her hands trembled as she rolled the car to a stop on the side of the road, shifting it back into park. Her heart beat so fast it smacked the back of her throat.
What the fucked was she doing? Had she lost her ever lovin’ mind?
She pulled over, checking the review mirror and did her best to rub the black smudged under her puffy, bloodshot eyes.
The State Trooper stepped from his vehicle, looking around as if he didn’t have a care in the world as he adjusted his hat and hooked his sunglasses into his pocket.
She turned around, clutching her chest, wondering if she should get her license and registration out. She’d been pulled over before. Most cops were nice enough, even if they did give you a ticket, but since her night behind bars, cops all of a sudden gave her heartburn.
“Ma’am,” the trooper said, resting his hand on the door.
She closed her eyes, mustering up courage to look at him.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
She nodded, gripping the steering wheel, trying to peel her eyes open. “I’ve had a bad day,” she whispered as she turned her head, opening her eyes. She gasped at the deep color of his eyes. Intense dark chocolate eyes.
“Are you okay?” He arched a brow, leaning a little closer.
She blinked a few times, mesmerized by richness of his stare.
“Ma’am?”
“Umm…yeah. I’m okay.”
He cleared his throat. “Not to be rude, but you look like you’ve been crying. Did something happen back at the store?”
“What?”
“I noticed you talking with a gentleman before peeling out of the parking lot. Did he upset you? Hurt you?”
She shook her head, closing her eyes. When she opened them, she made damn sure she didn’t focus on his pupils, which was like staring into the eyes of a cobra, but one that didn’t want to strike. Or maybe he did. “No. I was upset before I ran into that ass…Mr. Ramsworth.” She wiped her cheeks.
He cracked a smile, which annoyed her, but hopefully he didn’t notice that.
“Is there something I can help you with? Did someone cause these tears?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine, really.” She snagged her purse, pulling out her wallet. “I’ve honestly had one of the worst weeks of my life.”
“Where are you headed?”
She leaned across the car, flipping open the glove box, contemplating on how to answer. Was it home? Her grandfathers? “Home,” she said.
“You live on Cleverdale?”
“No.” She stuck her hand out realizing by his squinted eyes, her voice had the ‘bitch tone’ to it. “I live near the Marina.”
His hand covered hers in a protective gesture. One she hadn’t been prepared for, or expected. She jerked her arm back.
“Drive home without peeling out or going over the speed limit.” He tipped his hat. “I hope you start having a better week.”
“Yes, sir…um…thank you.” She stared at the trooper while he sauntered away as causally as he’d arrived. He took his hat off, put his shades on, and slid into his car. When he drove passed her, he waved, like they were old friends.
Sucking in a few deep cleansing breaths, she put the car in gear and looked over her shoulder before easing out on to the road and drove exactly one mile under the speed limit. Her hands still trembled. Her mind racing with questions.
As she past Ramsworth Manor—the summer residence for probably the wealthiest family in the entire county, she did her best to ignore the rush of a different kind of emotional stress. It maddened her that the mere site of the mansion would still bring up so much pain. Turning onto Mason Road, she told herself she’d gotten over it. That all this was a combination of grief…for a lot of things.
Four houses down on the right side of Mason Road, she pulled into the gravel driveway and parked under the car port, forcing her mind to think beyond the last few days.
Looking around, she could see so much potential to her grandparent’s place. It had never been a thing of beauty, but since her grandma had passed, it had become too much for her grandpa. She’d begged him to sell it, even offered for him to come live with her and Larry, though Larry told her ‘under my dead body.’ Should have been the first sign, but sadly, she ignored it, like she ignored so many.
Fumbling with her keys, trying to hold the case of beer and ice cream in her hands, she gave the door a good hip check and stumbled in, tripping over something. “Crap,” she muttered doing her best to stop from falling on her face. She looked around the small family room and a new level of indigntion filled her already bottomless pit of sorrow, sending heat from her toes to her head. The cousins from her grandparent’s antique sofa had been tossed haphazardly on the floor. Her grandmother would be having a fit if she saw the armoire desk drawers hanging open, while personal papers littered the chair.
“Again!?”
She kicked one of the cushions and stomped off to the closed off kitchen, putting the ice cream in a small cooler with some ice. She cracked open a fresh beer, enjoying cackle-sizzle as the metal separated. The bubbles tickled the back of her throat as she guzzled half the can, then coughed, some of it coming back up. Beer wasn’t her drink of choice.
She put the other eleven cans in the cooler, closing the lid tight and leaned against the counter, contemplating if she should even bother to call the cops again. They’d probably think she was one of those women who called regularly because either she was nuts or needed attention, which was bat shit crazy in another way.
A single business card tacked to the corkboard that her grandmother used to keep track of important things, but her grandfather used for absolutely nothing, but refused to take it down, taunted her. She racked her brain, trying to remember if it had been there the last time she had visited.
Christmas Eve.
Seven long months ago. How could have let that much time pass without seeing him? The fact she talked to him every week via FaceTime wouldn’t make up for the lost moments she could have spent with him had she not been so wrapped up in making a name for herself, and trying to get her now ex-boyfriend, Larry, to marry her. What a waste of precious time.
She chugged the rest of the first beer, then took baby steps across the kitchen, squinting, trying to make out the name on the card. It wasn’t until she stood two feet away that she could read the words: Sargent Tristan Reid, New York State Police. Also imprinted on the card was a local address, phone number, and a cell number.
She glided her fingers across the stock paper with raised letters. A clear tack held it up at the center, something her grandmother would have lost her mind over. Always…Always tack papers upper center, or at both corners. Never…Never in the middle. Brooke twirled the pendant hanging from her neck that her grandmother had given her the day her parents died, so she could carry their spirits with her wherever she went.
Now she carried her parents and grandparents in the way of their wedding pictures.
Holding the card in her hands, she wondered why her grandfather kept it, much less tacked it to the board. The day after his beloved bride died, he took down all her business cards, putting the information into his smartphone, but he refused to take down her board. Weird.
So, it made no sense that her grandfather tacked any card on it, unless it was something very important.
“All right Tristan Reid, Mr. State Trooper. Why does my grandfather have your card on his board and will you help me?”
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