by J A Stone
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.
Text copyright © 2015, 2016 by J.A. Stone
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: 9781503939998
ISBN-10: 1503939995
Cover design by Danielle Christopher
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
“You coming, squirt?”
Corey fought to open her eyes. When she did, she saw her dad’s weathered face only inches from hers. For just a moment, she considered saying no, rolling over, and going back to sleep.
“Yeah,” she mumbled. As pleasurable as sleeping in might seem at that moment, even in her half-awake state, Corey knew that she’d kick herself later if she didn’t get up and go with him.
“Good,” her dad whispered before straightening up and heading for the bedroom door. “Be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay.” She threw back her covers. Why do fishermen always have to leave so early? Corey knew that she and her dad caught just as many fish midmorning as they did during the first couple of hours after dawn. So why couldn’t they sleep just a little bit later?
Corey put on her swimsuit and then pulled on a ratty pair of shorts and an old T-shirt. She tiptoed down the stairs to keep from waking her sister, Diane, and her friend Fran, who were sleeping in the room next to hers. Her mother, in her faded-blue housedress, was standing behind the breakfast bar spreading mayonnaise on pieces of white bread. She looked up and welcomed Corey with a warm smile. “You want ham or turkey?”
“I don’t care. Do I have to eat breakfast?”
“Of course.”
“Why can’t I eat a honey bun on the boat like dad?”
“You’re wasting your time arguing. Hurry up or your dad will leave you.”
Corey poured milk over a bowl of Cap’n Crunch cereal and began to shovel the food into her mouth. She watched as her mother wrapped the sandwiches in plastic and then put them into another plastic sack. She added a bag of potato chips and some cheese crackers. “Take off your shirt.”
Corey paused long enough between bites to pull off her shirt. If she’d learned anything in her ten years of life, it was that her mother was serious about sunscreen. “Oh . . . that’s cold.” She arched her shoulders as her mother squirted Coppertone suntan lotion down her back. Her mother didn’t reply but just kept rubbing vigorously.
“I’m done,” Corey said as her mother wiped the remaining lotion onto the sides of her arms. Corey started to pull her shirt back over her head.
“Wait,” her mother ordered. “Do you want to rub off what I just put on you? And here, take these sandwiches.” With all her tasks done, she deposited a kiss on Corey’s cheek and handed her the bag of food.
“Okay, Mom.” Corey sighed as she headed out the door carrying both her shirt and the bag. Her father was already waiting for her in his old, red Dodge truck parked at the bottom of the stairs. He looked at his watch as she climbed in. “You’re five minutes late.”
“Mom’s fault. Had to have breakfast and, you know, sunscreen. Besides, does it really matter what time we leave?”
“According to last night’s fishing report, the best time to fish for Spanish mackerel is between now and nine a.m.”
Corey let out another sigh. Her parents were as predictable and constant as the ocean’s tides that her father followed so closely.
At the marina, her dad climbed into the flatbed of his truck and handed the fishing poles down to Corey. Then he jumped down, opened the ice chest, and put the sandwiches in. The air already seemed heavy as they started toward their boat slip. Corey struggled to balance the heavy fishing poles and keep the lines from tangling at the top. Ahead, she could see that their beach neighbors, Bob MacKinnon and his son, Tripp, were already on their boat. A curly-headed boy whom Corey didn’t know was peering over the back of the boat, pointing excitedly at something floating in the dark water.
“Morning, Bob, Tripp.” Corey’s dad put the ice chest down in front of the MacKinnon boat. “Y’all heading out to the buoy line today?”
“Morning, Frank. Yeah, we’re hoping to catch some Kings today. How about y’all?”
“We’re going trolling for Spanish. I’ve heard they’re striking close into shore.”
During the adults’ exchange, Tripp and the other boy pointedly ignored Corey. Feeling awkwardly uncomfortable, Corey wouldn’t put the fishing poles down, figuring that if she did so, it would only encourage her dad to talk longer. Finally, her dad noticed her discomfort, finished with the chitchat, picked up the ice chest, and began walking again. As Corey followed him, she looked back over her shoulder to where Tripp was busy untying the MacKinnon boat from the dock. Just you wait, Tripp MacKinnon, she secretly promised him. The next time you come around my house wanting me to go fishing with you, I’ll show you how it feels to be ignored.
Within minutes, Corey and her father had their boat out of its slip. The morning sunlight was beginning to peek through the tops of the trees as they chugged slowly along the canal. The familiar smells of stagnant water and gasoline followed them as they went. The water in the canal was smooth like glass except for the ripples radiating out from the back of their boat. In the distance, Corey could see the ocean waves crashing against the rocks at the canal’s end. She held her breath in anticipation. Her dad had to turn the boat sharply into the oncoming waves and throttle up the power—or risk having the waves hit the side of the boat and push it back against the rocks. Corey knew that with her dad at the controls, she had no reason to be afraid. Nevertheless, her heart always beat just a bit faster as they approached the end of the smooth waters. She thought it strange that she was only nervous about going out of the canal, particularly as the ocean waves were usually much higher and rougher by the time they returned. Yet it was only the going out that made her nervous. She never gave a second thought to the dangers of the rocks when they were coming home.
CHAPTER 1
Corey Bennett paced back and forth and back and forth, like some errant schoolchild waiting for the principal. She looked at her watch once again. The minute hand was moving forward, but time within the large, mahogany-paneled, and heavily carpeted room seemed to be at a standstill. She had experienced this same sensation of timelessness during her job interview in this room. Barely twenty-six and just out of law school, she hadn’t known if the interview was lasting minutes or hours. Perhaps
this office had been designed so that important people making careful, deliberate decisions never felt pressured to hurry—very unlike Corey’s small, cramped office where she was certain her waiting client was very aware of the time rapidly passing by. But what could she do? Larry Forrester, the managing partner of Landon, Crane, and Forrester, had asked to meet with her. An associate didn’t refuse his invitation, although Corey had done her best to postpone it.
“Can’t we do this later?” Corey had asked Larry’s assistant, Barbara, upon discovering that Larry was running late. “Couldn’t you just reschedule me for later this afternoon?”
“No, Ms. Bennett.” Barbara’s voice was as firm as the bun twisted tightly at the back of her head. “He said for you to go on in and wait. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” Since Barbara had made a career out of enforcing Larry’s directives, Corey knew there was no point in arguing with her further.
Now those few minutes had become thirty, and Corey’s anxiety had grown with each one. She wished she knew what this meeting was about. It was unusual for Larry to call her to his office like this, so it must be important. Still, she was on the verge of leaving, regardless of the consequences, when the massive carved oak door swung open. “I’m so sorry,” Larry said. He surged into the room with the air of a man much younger than his fifty-seven years. His salt-and-pepper hair was the only characteristic somewhat appropriate for a man of his age. “I’ve been downstairs in the lobby for half an hour talking to Jerry Sentell. And no matter how many times I said to him, ‘Jerry, I’ve got an appointment, I’ve really got to go,’ he just kept right on talking. I think he has some sort of problem. Have a seat.”
“That’s okay,” Corey said in a voice that she hoped didn’t sound as annoyed as she felt, “but I do have a client waiting for me in my office.” Corey chose to sit in the upholstered wing chair by the fireplace rather than in the utilitarian leather chair in front of Larry’s desk.
“This won’t take long.” Larry quickly looked at a note on his desk before sitting down in the wing chair opposite her. He cleared his throat. “Corey, the partners had a breakfast meeting this morning, and you were one of the topics we discussed.”
Corey felt a tinge of anticipation. Were they about to make her a partner? On average, associates were either let go or promoted after five years. Since she was still here, perhaps it was finally her time. “I hope it was a good discussion,” she said with a slight smile.
Pointedly ignoring her comment, Larry went on. “One of your clients approached Tom Crane at a wedding last weekend.”
At the mention of Tom Crane’s name, Corey’s anticipation turned to apprehension. If Tom Crane, the firm’s most senior partner, was the reason for this unscheduled meeting, it wasn’t going to be good for her. She had three major faults, as far as Tom was concerned, and she could do nothing about two of the three. She couldn’t change the fact that she was a woman. Tom might not voice his negative opinions about women openly, but the lack of women partners in a firm as large as theirs (and only a handful of women associates) spoke volumes about his feelings. Neither could Corey change the fact that she hadn’t received either her undergraduate or her law degree from the University of Georgia. Tom knew she wasn’t even peripherally connected to the “dawg” network through which a large amount of Atlanta business was conducted. Finally, and perhaps most damning for Corey, she didn’t play golf. She’d heard Tom say on more than one occasion, “More business gets done on a golf course than in all the boardrooms in America.” She’d been meaning to take up golf because she intended to be the first woman partner at Landon, Crane, and Forrester.
“Was this person upset about some problem with my work?” Corey asked curiously, but she felt confident about Larry’s answer. She knew she was good at what she did. It was the one area of her life about which she had few doubts.
“No, no,” Larry said matter-of-factly. “Your work is good. And you know you’re one of the most productive associates at this firm. What the client said was that he’s been meeting with you regularly for the past several weeks, and each time you’ve looked more . . . haggard was the word he used. Have you looked at yourself lately? You look terrible.”
“Well, thanks a lot.” Corey reflexively put her hand up to her temple, where a slight throbbing was beginning. It was midafternoon, and all she’d eaten so far that day was an apple—probably not a good idea. She wasn’t sure how to respond to these charges that she didn’t look good, so she just waited for what Larry was going to say next.
Larry’s voice softened just a bit. “Although the partners certainly appreciate how much hard work you do, we’ve decided that it is in your best interest and ours for you to take some time off. You should have done it right after Luke’s death.”
Corey swallowed hard. Her heart, which had been quietly minding its own business, suddenly went into overdrive. She wondered if Larry could possibly see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she experienced what her doctor had told her in a patronizing voice was merely a slight panic attack.
“I had to work,” Corey finally managed to say. “I got way behind on my billable hours during Luke’s illness.” She didn’t add that work seemed to be the only thing she was capable of doing anymore. She wasn’t sleeping well, food had no taste, and she hated to be alone in her condo. The condo always seemed eerily quiet regardless of what electronic device she had on for company. She’d woken up two days after the funeral, the day after everyone had gone home, and she hadn’t known what to do. Her life had revolved around Luke and work. Luke was gone. She’d decided she might as well go to work, reaching for that comfortable routine like a lifeline. Once at work, she’d faced stares of disbelief in the hallways and heard whispers after she walked by. “Didn’t she just bury her husband?” Corey hadn’t cared about the stares or the whispers—they were better than the nothingness that waited for her at home.
Larry interrupted her reverie. “Corey, you’re the first person here in the morning and the last to leave at night, and you can’t keep this up. No one could. So take the next two days and brief John on whatever you’ve got pending. After that, I better not see your face around here for two weeks. Go somewhere where you can relax. Get drunk. Sleep all day. Eat pasta and put some weight back on those bones. And those are orders.”
“I don’t know about this, Larry. I . . . ,” Corey began.
“Corey,” Larry stated unequivocally, “this isn’t open for discussion. The partners made the decision this morning. I’m just the messenger.”
Corey stopped in Larry’s executive washroom to try to compose herself before heading back to her own office. After all, Mabel Johnson had been waiting for her this long. She could wait just a little bit longer. She stared at her reflection in the mirror as she took deep breaths. How long had it been since she’d really looked at herself? Gaunt cheekbones surrounded by dull, shoulder-length brown hair, dark circles under listless blue eyes, unusually pale skin. She supposed Larry was right. She did look sick. She looked much like Luke had during that last year—sunken eyes, pasty skin. Corey took a deep breath. What was she to do for two weeks?
She would go crazy if she stayed in her condo by herself doing nothing. Lately she’d been thinking that selling the condo might be a good idea. Luke had found the fixer-upper right before they’d married. Corey had thought the place was a dump—a 1950s apartment that had been converted into a condo sometime in the eighties and had unfortunately never left that era. Luke had convinced her otherwise. “It’s got great bones, and we can’t beat its Virginia-Highland location. We’ll have fun renovating it. Just wait and see.”
However, agonizing over paint and carpet colors at Home Depot had not been her idea of fun. Corey found it easy to leave those decisions to Luke. She much preferred when they went cruising yard and estate sales looking for that perfect piece of eclectic furniture for their new home. The last thing they’d bought at one of those yard sales had been a ficus tree. They’d paid a crazy woman five d
ollars for the plant after assuring her that they would provide it with a good home. It was the kind of quirky purchase she loved to make. However, once Luke was diagnosed with cancer, the house and the ficus tree hardly entered into their consciousness. And now that Luke was gone, the ficus tree’s pale-yellow leaves fell in piles on the floor, accusing her of neglect. More and more, Corey wanted to sell the condo and take the plant back to its previous owner before it died.
Corey’s heartbeat finally slowed to its normal pace as she silently repeated her mantra of the past nine months: Focus on work. Focus on work. It was what she said to herself each day in order to make herself get out of bed. It was why everyone had been telling her how wonderful she was doing. Without her work for the next two weeks, Corey might actually have to face the fact that Luke was gone. But not today. Right now she had a client waiting for her in her office, and Mabel Johnson was probably irate. Yet Corey knew that she could handle Mrs. Johnson’s wrath a lot easier than she could handle what was left of her life.
By four that afternoon, when John Kowlowski stuck his curly brown head around the door of her office, Corey had already logged in eight hours of work, and her day was far from finished. She had e-mailed John and asked him to stop by her office before leaving.
“Is this a good time?” John asked, flashing his breezy, salesmanlike smile her way.
Corey waved him in. “Thanks for coming by.” When the rest of John’s body followed his head around the door, she wasn’t surprised to see that he was already wearing a starched yellow golf shirt and crisp khaki shorts. “Going to the practice range?” Corey asked drily.
“No.” His smile faded to a fake grimace. “I’m playing nine holes with Lester Inman this afternoon at the Country Club of the South. We’re still trying to finalize that Cobb County deal, you know.”
“Yeah, I’d heard it was taking longer than anticipated.” Corey knew this golf outing would be primarily business for John. Still, it was hard to feel sorry for him when he would be spending the remainder of his afternoon out in the sunshine, drinking beer, and doing something he did every weekend for fun. Corey didn’t dislike John, but she was wary of him. He’d been hired almost a year after Corey, and she’d been his mentor during his first six months of employment. Luke had jokingly called him “Eddie,” after the Leave It to Beaver character Eddie Haskell, who was always sucking up to the parents while doing all sorts of bad things behind their backs. To the best of Corey’s knowledge, John had never done anything to hurt her, yet she remained cautious around him. A sixth sense told her to be on guard.
