Copyright © 2018 by J. Lynn Bailey
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.jlynnbaileybooks.com
Cover Designer: Hang Le, By Hang Le, www.byhangle.com
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
Proofreader: Julie Deaton
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7324855-0-1
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Note to the Reader
About the Author
Other Books Written by J. Lynn Bailey
Prologue
Brooklyn, New York
1980
“Just leave.”
“Nancy, just a minute,” I say, reaching out, touching her arm.
Her eyes sear right through me. “Don’t touch me.” Her words are vicious and cold, and she pushes my hand away.
“But, Daddy, when will you be back?” My son tugs on my pant leg.
I bend down, pick him up, and kiss him on the nose. “Before you know it, buddy. Before you know it.” I push his head to my chest. “Do you hear my heart?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Remember that. When you miss me, remember the rhythm, all right?” I kiss his hair. Take a big breath in to absorb his scent. Tears start to form in the corners of my eyes.
Nancy grabs our son. “You don’t get to cry. You’re making a decision, asshole.”
Standing, helpless, I say, “My father is sick, Nancy. What do you want me to do?”
“You have a family here. And you’re leaving us.”
“I won’t be gone forever, Nancy. Just a month or so. Come back with me.”
“No.” She glares at me, our son still in her arms.
“I wanna go with you, Daddy.”
“No.” Nancy snaps. She turns so my son can’t see me.
“Please, Nancy,” I plead.
“I will not let you take my son three thousand miles away.” Her voice is hostile and quivering, all at the same time, remnants of fear hanging in her tone.
This is a side that I’ve seen before, only on a few occasions. I always know when Nancy has reached her limit. I also know when to stop pushing. “Okay, okay.” I pause. “Can I give my son one more kiss before I go?”
Angrily, she gives me the boy and stomps away to the bedroom we once shared, slamming the door.
“Daddy, please don’t go. Don’t make Mommy mad.” Tears fill his eyes as he wipes away my tears. “Please don’t cry, Daddy. Please stay.”
Humboldt County Superior Court
Eureka, California
Nine Years Later
1989
The judge sucks on a piece of candy, one he popped in his mouth earlier, as he stares me down.
Idiot.
His mostly gray eyebrows pull together as he casts his eyes upon me.
You’ll remember my face, fucker. I’ll be sure of it.
I give him a smile he’ll never forget.
Punish me. It will only push me. Punish me. It will only push me, I chant in my head over and over and over again.
“You’ve been nothing but a nuisance since you arrived in my county, Mr. Mahoney. You’ve set fires. You’ve done cruel things to animals. You don’t deserve the light of day, young man. You have the rest of your future still ahead of you.” He glances down at my rap sheet in front of him.
My file. What-the-fuck-ever.
“You’re seventeen years old. I hope you clean up your act before it’s too late.” He eases back in his seat, head resting between the L that forms with his thumb and pointer finger. “You will go back to the state of New York in custody of the state. I don’t want you to ever return here again. Do you understand me?”
Smile, Mahoney. Just smile. Bide your time.
I smile. Nod.
“Do you understand?” the judge asks again. “Answer me.” His eyebrows string together in a thick line.
My smile grows as my anger refuels. The shaking of excitement moves up my spine.
Threaten me, Judge Lindell. Threaten me, and I’ll kill your family. I’ll find out where you live.
“Yes,” I hiss as the S lingers on my lips too long, “Your Honor.”
“Get him out of my courtroom,” he spits.
And something inside me snaps. Like I’m a piece of trash, an irritation. Tossed away. Again. Given up on. “Judge Lindell, I’ll find out where you live. I’ll kill your wife.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that a threat, Mr. Mahoney?” He laughs and then stops abruptly.
Hate ravages through me, and seeing red is the only lens I have. I begin to tremble. This happens every single time before the kill.
“Trust me, I’ve sentenced far more violent criminals than you, Mr. Mahoney. And I’ll add another felony for threatening a government official. Take him away.”
The bailiff pulls me out of the courtroom, my bright orange jumpsuit claiming me as a threat to society. But I’ll follow the rules. In prison, I can’t get my to-do list done, so I’ll follow the rules. I take in a deep breath. I’ll add the Honorable Dan Lindell to my list, right under Alex Fisher.
One
Alex
October 1, 2017
I slide the comb through his thinning, wet, peppered hair.
Snip.
Pull.
Snip.
Snip.
We listen to the silence, and the lies that we bear.
The lie that he isn’t dying a slow death.
The lie that I’ll be fine once he’s gone.
Because, in reality, nothing will be fine, but it will have to be okay.
“Remember when I asked you to marry me, Meredith?” His voice is calm, slow.
“I’m Alex. Remember, Dad? I’m your daughter.”
Philip nods, patiently chewing on his leftover lunch that my mom prepared for him.
The next part will take my breath away. It always does. Every week that I cut his hair, we do a two-step around the fact that he’s not getting any better.
“I don’t have a daughter.”
My insides stop. Ache. Move again by going about their business, making my body work hard.
Breathe in, out.
“I’m the daughter God gave you from the stork,” I whisper. A tear slides into my mouth. It’s the story he used to tell me as a child. I cling to the memories like timeless pictures of a family that doesn’t
exist anymore. And the only living proof that it did is the people who lived them. Life is different now.
“Meredith, did Kyle die? Is Alex still sad?”
I freeze. This is new. He’s never asked this question before. But I’m tired. Tired of resisting the future. Tired of clinging to what used to be. Just so tired.
“Yes, Philip, he did. Alex is still sad.” I play the part of my mother.
Silence.
Snip.
Pull.
Snip.
Pull.
Snip.
“You’re all done, Dad.” I pull him in for a hug from behind and burrow my cheek against his neck, his scent of Old Spice taking me back to when days weren’t so tender, nights weren’t so long, and things were just easier.
“Looking sharp, Mr. Fisher.” My mom, Meredith, stands as my dad unfolds out of a kitchen chair, tall. The bright blue in his eyes stare back.
He’s back. Not living in the past, not in a time that existed before my mom and me. Us. Here and now. I’m his daughter again.
“I love you, kiddo.”
I’m a thirty-two-year-old jobless writer, and he still calls me kiddo.
“I’m going to go shower.” He kisses my mom on the cheek, and she curls around it.
His faded Wranglers and old jean jacket stick to his persona as he moves through the doorway.
I fold up the apron, and my mom grabs the broom. We don’t say what we’re thinking right now. We don’t dare breathe a word, for fear, if our words leak from our mouths, it will make our worries a reality.
My mom met Philip when I was two. She’d moved away for college, gotten pregnant after a one-night stand, had me, and come back to Belle’s Hollow to get a job, knowing it would be too hard to raise a daughter, make a living, and go to school. Philip hired her on the spot at Fisher and Jones, Certified Public Accountants. He waltzed in one day with his ten-gallon cowboy hat and never left us again.
Some would call him a good old boy, raised in Belle’s Hollow after generations. He was ten years older than my mom.
But my mom always says, “You know when you know.”
Philip adopted me when I was three. I’m their only child.
“He’s gotten worse.” My mom brings me to the present.
He asked me about Kyle, I want to say but don’t.
The last thing I need is for Meredith Fisher to be worried about her daughter—again.
The diamond sits on the ring finger of my left hand.
It’s been three years, Alexandra. When will you get better?
“Dr. McGoldrick said some days will be better than others, Mom,” I remind her, dumping his hair in the trash. I want to tell her about the postcard I received, but it will wait. I know she’s concerned. I can tell by the way she’s standing. Arms crossed, her pointer finger tapping on her opposite arm, she chews her lip.
“I’m going to run home.” I give her a quick kiss on her cheek, grab my purse, and turn toward the door.
“Alex?”
I turn back.
“How’s the writing coming along?”
It’s not.
I stare at a blank computer screen, Mom, for eight hours a day, praying the right words will come, but they never do.
After submitting two unaccepted manuscripts, Bellencourt Publishing sent me a letter. It wasn’t a form letter either. It was sincere. It was from Anastasia Lucas, the vice president of Bellencourt Publishing, who flew up to our little town of Belle’s Hollow to check on me after Kyle died.
“It’s fine, Mom.”
She knows about the letter from Bellencourt. I think she asked, not really looking for an answer, but instead looking for a way to evaluate my answer, to check on my well-being.
“They don’t know what they’re missing,” says the mom who adores my work, no matter how shitty it can be.
I quietly shut the side door to the kitchen and head home.
The home that Kyle and I bought sits on an acre. It’s a single-story home with windows that overlook Belle’s Hollow, Lake Providence, and Mason, California.
Larry, my Maine Coon, is at my heels, waiting for his wet food. He pads down the hallway after me, to the bathroom. He lets out a long, pronounced meow.
“I know. In a minute.”
He curls around my legs as I tie my hair back and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
You need something different, Alex.
The dark circles under my brown eyes tell me that the four hours of sleep each night are clearly insufficient.
That night comes to the forefront of my mind, but I push it away as quickly as it appeared. My stomach grows queasy. Quickly, I turn on the cold water and wash it over my face to deter my mind from Kyle’s screams.
Wash it away, Alex. Wash it all away.
Larry wasn’t my cat to begin with. Kyle brought him home from a fire he’d been on. It was just supposed to be for a few days until we could find him a home. That was eight years ago.
“You’re a mess,” I say as I pick all twenty-two pounds of him up and carry him into the kitchen.
His green irises look as though God took light-green pieces of paper, twisted them into balls, unfolded them, attempted to smooth them out, and gave them to Larry to serve as a backdrop to his pupils.
As grab the wet food from the refrigerator, my phone vibrates against the counter.
It’s Bryce.
Bryce: Hey. How’d it go with Philip?
Me: Same. Maybe a little worse.
I lie. It’s a lot worse, not a little worse.
Bryce: Can I bring you the pita chips you like from Trader Joe’s?
Me: No, thanks. Just bring yourself. :)
I know she’ll bring the pita chips regardless of what I say. She’ll bring the pita chips because that’s what best friends do. Not only is Bryce my best friend, but she’s also my literary agent. I submitted my first book to Reedley Literary Agency, and she was the agent I queried eight years ago. We’ve been inseparable since, except she lives in Los Angeles and I live five hundred miles north in Northern California. After Bellencourt Publishing checked out, left, there she was, on my front porch with cheese puffs and a bottle of wine.
Bryce: I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.
I put down my phone. I should text my mom and see how Dad is doing, but my stomach growls, a sound I’m all too familiar with. I set Larry’s wet food down and turn back to the refrigerator.
A half-eaten, moldy block of cheese.
Hot dogs. Probably dated.
Months old Crystal Light.
A six-pack of Downtown Brown that belonged to Kyle.
I push the cheese out of the way, so I can get a better view of the beer that’s been sitting in my refrigerator for over one thousand days.
Only three years ago, my career took a turn that I’d never expected—in a good way. Kyle was promoted to battalion chief at California Fire Tech, a state-funded fire protection agency for the state of California. The night Kyle was killed, we had gone out to celebrate our accomplishments.
Kyle and I had grown up in Belle’s Hollow. High school sweethearts, we navigated college together. Moved back to Belle’s. Started our lives as the Beaumonts, no longer Alexandra Fisher and Kyle Beaumont.
Kyle had a way about him. Like, when he spoke to you, you were the most important person in the room. Whether it was Stacy down at Belle’s Hollow Grocery or Eddie, who took our trash from the curb, or Mrs. Allen, sitting behind the desk at Dr. McGoldrick’s office, it didn’t matter. He listened intently. Made sure you knew you mattered.
Kyle was great with people, but he was an even better husband. I think that’s what attracted me to him in the first place. He said he fell in love with me when we were in the third grade. My mom saved the love note to prove it. Kyle said later that it was a moment on the playground when Shannon Wentworth asked why my skin was so pasty white.
He said that I’d said, “So, people like you ask stupid questions. God wants to make sure I’m wel
l equipped with patience, I guess.”
Belle’s Hollow is a tiny town tucked into the redwood forest, built around the ocean line, on California’s northern coast. Population: 5,002.
It’s a place where town gossip spreads like wildfire and town events shut down Main Street. It’s a place, during the holidays, where Christmas wreathes go on every lamppost. In the summertime, those same lampposts adorn pictures of our active military residents with their names and military branch. It’s a place where American flags line Main Street on Veterans Day and Memorial Day.
And this town we grew up in where we built memories and made plans, since losing Kyle, has somehow become a place of suffocation. Everywhere I turn, after three years, there are constant reminders of him. From Centerville Beach where he proposed to the town square where we danced in the rain. Our home, the glass walls and fragile secrets that kept us from having a baby, which we’d tried for two years, and never could conceive.
And people who care ask silly questions like:
People: “How are you, Alex?”
People: “Are you tired, Alex?”
People: “You look thin, Alex. Are you eating all right?”
People: “Have you tried Dr. Elizabeth, Alex? She helped me with …”
So, I don’t go out much anymore. I’m okay with surviving on Amazon, Whole Foods, and Healthy Fresh—a meal delivery service—with my cat, Larry, and visits to my mom and dad’s and Bryce.
When creating Bryce Hayes, it was like God took a country girl and placed her in the city to see how she’d thrive. That she did. She became a literary agent at twenty-four. Signed her first author at twenty-five, which grew into a multimillion-dollar deal. And she’s never looked back. Her push is success, not so much the money. She likes the thrill of a challenge.
I watch her as she sits across the table from me, telling my mother about ASMR.
“Oh, it’s the latest trend among kids now. It stands for Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response.” Bryce takes another bite of my mom’s peach cobbler.
My mom pauses. “So, you watch people eat pickles? Noodles?” Mom shakes her head. “I don’t get it.”
Bryce nods, swallowing. “I’ll show you on my phone when we’re done.”
Peony Red (The Granite Harbor Series Book 1) Page 1
