by Brad Graber
She cocked her head. “This sounds serious.”
Harry’s eyes glistened. “We have something very important in common,” he said. “I loved your uncle very much. And, had Richard lived, you would have been my niece. We’d have been family.”
Rikki bit her lip. “I’ve thought about that.”
Harry rubbed his nose with his thumb. “Do you think that there’s any way you might consider . . . I mean could we . . . somehow . . . only if you wanted to . . . stay connected? Remain friends?”
Rikki broke into a smile. It was Richard’s smile. “Why, of course,” she said with delight as she stood up and offered Harry a hug. “I was hoping that we might.”
“Good,” Harry said.
Edward’s voice carried from down the hallway “Come on, Harry. Let’s get a move on. I’ve got the bags in the car.”
“We’re coming,” Harry hollered back. “Just another second.” He took Rikki’s hands in his as he admired her lovely face. “It would really mean a lot to me,” he said, giving her hands a gentle shake.
“Lord,” Edward sighed, as he stood in the doorway. “Harry, you are the slowest person I’ve ever met.”
“Yes,” Harry said, putting an arm about Rikki’s shoulder and pulling her in for a final hug. “It’s taken me a lifetime to find Rikki, and now that I have, I won’t be letting her go.”
◆
Rikki waved to Edward as the car pulled away from the curb. Rita, seated next to her, had directed Barney to sit up front with Harry. “A little distance might do you two some good,” she said as Barney followed her command.
Rikki leaned her head against the passenger window as the car made its way out of the Arizona Biltmore, turning onto 24th street and passing a jogger. My poor mother, Rikki thought as Macy’s in the Biltmore Fashion Park came into view. Now the living, breathing, essence of Elle seemed forever tied to the horrible circumstance of her death.
Rita reached over and gently squeezed Rikki’s hand. Rikki wondered if her grandmother had read her mind. Were these the same thoughts that had troubled Rita? Was this the pain her grandmother had wanted to shield her from?
As the car merged onto AZ-51, Rikki’s thoughts drifted to Harry and her uncle. She didn’t understand why her mother had not gone to the hospital or why Rita had so many issues with her son. That all seemed too complicated and overwhelming for her to think about. For now, she’d found a connection to Richard through Harry. Perhaps that was good enough.
“Hey, check this out,” Barney yelled over the roar of engines, stretching his neck to catch a better view as an airplane passed overhead, coming in low for a landing at Phoenix Sky Harbor. “Wow.”
“Wow, indeed,” Rita said sarcastically. “Stop distracting the driver,” she scolded Barney.
“I’m fine,” Harry assured her as the shadow of the jet passed over the car.
In the momentary shifting of the light, Elle’s face flashed. Rikki had tripped and gashed her knee. They were together in the bathroom back in the Michigan house. Rikki, propped up on the toilet seat, Elle leaning down dabbing at the wound with ointment before applying a Band-Aid. “There’s my brave girl” Elle said as she examined her handy work. “Now you’re ready to face the world,” Elle’s voice so sweet, so tender, Rikki couldn’t help but smile at the memory.
“She’ll always be with you,” Rita suddenly said.
Rikki glanced over at her grandmother.
There was a tear in Rita’s eye. “Trust me. I know.”
Rikki nodded. Despite the pain, she’d found Elle, met Harry, and reconnected with Evelyn. And her feelings for Barney had blossomed. She took a deep breath. It had been a journey worth taking. A journey she was certain never to forget.
Did You Enjoy Reading After the Fall?
Then please:
Rate the novel on a retail site like Amazon.com
Join Brad Graber’s email list at bradgraber.com and receive his blog: There, I Said it!
Consider giving it as a gift to friends and family
Recommend the book to your local book club
Mention you loved the book on your social media platform. Use the hashtag #AftertheFall
Write a review on your blog
Follow Brad Graber on social media: Twitter @Jefbra1 and Like Brad Graber’s Facebook page
And most importantly—don’t give away the ending!
Read on for a selection from The Intersect
If a Stranger Knocked on Your Door Would You Welcome Them In?
Set against Arizona’s political and cultural vortex at the start of 2010, The Intersect explores the issues of day by weaving together the lives of disparate characters struggling to survive in a world where the strongest link, and most lasting connection, is made among strangers.
Enjoy the first two chapters of this award-winning novel.
Available now on Amazon.com and all fine retailers in paperback or e-book.
1
* * *
US Airways Flight #610 took a sharp bounce, jostling Dave Greenway in his seat. It was the 6:00 a.m. flight out of San Francisco to Phoenix. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the first-class cabin as he planted his size tens firmly on the floor beneath him, hoping against hope, to stabilize the Airbus 320.
It didn’t work.
The plane took another nasty hop.
As Dave struggled to hold his cup steady, coffee splashed everywhere. “Dammit, I knew that was going to happen,” he muttered, his hand soaked as he downed the last of the liquid.
Again, the plane bucked hard.
A woman nearby let out a muffled cry. Everyone else fell dead silent. An elderly gentleman emerged from the first-class restroom, zipper down, a surprised look on his face, the front of his khakis wet. As he stumbled to his seat, the unlatched door swung freely. A stewardess jumped up to secure it, balancing herself precariously with one hand on the cockpit door.
Perfect, Dave thought, turning a ghostly white. He pulled his seat belt tighter. We leave earthquake country and die in a plane crash.
Seated beside him, his partner Charlie nudged him with an elbow. “It’s just a little turbulence,” he said confidently. “There’s nothing to worry about. Hey, check this out.” He held up an old issue of People that he’d lifted from the airplane magazine rack. Ryan Reynolds offered a seductive stare.
“Very nice,” Dave said dryly, still unnerved by the plane’s erratic motion. He searched Charlie’s angular face for any sign of tension. “How can you be so calm?”
“Thermal inversion,” Charlie said, as he returned to perusing the magazine. “It happens over the desert. If you’re scared, just look down at your sweater.”
For the big travel day, Dave had worn his favorite black pullover, purchased on a whim at a Greg Norman sale. It contrasted nicely with the silver coursing through his mostly dark hair which he wore conservatively parted on the side. The cotton/poly blend with a zippered collar at the neck, sported the signature shark logo encircled by Norman’s motto—Attack Life—an attitude Dave admired. Dave loved the primary colors of the shark logo and wondered if it was the designer’s nod to the rainbow flag.
The plane jumped side-to-side. Dave gripped the armrests.
“There’s no point freaking out,” Charlie said, still reading, oblivious to the motion, the dark-grey wispy curls atop his head indifferent to Dave’s need for order. “Think of it like riding a roller-coaster. Go with the flow. Tensing up only creates sore muscles.”
Dave tried to relax. If Charlie was so blasé, there couldn’t be any real danger. After all, Charlie had logged hundreds of thousands of air miles. “I take paradise and put up a parking lot,” he’d told Dave when they’d met some twenty years earlier at a Human Rights Campaign Fund Dinner. Dave had returned a blank stare as Charlie, tall, tanned, and dapper in a black tux, explained that he worked with developers on site locations for new stores. Since then, Dave had watched Charlie ricochet around the country, providing market re
search to support trade area development for retailers, investment banks, and anyone who needed predictive sales modeling.
Charlie closed the People magazine. He looked over at Dave. “March is really a great time to move to Phoenix. The weather’s ideal. And I can finally say goodbye to all those flight delays at SFO. No more morning fog.” He practically sang the last few words.
The motion of the plane calmed as Dave assumed Charlie’s joyous mood. “No more jumbo mortgage on that tiny Mill Valley house we once called home.”
Charlie’s hazel green eyes lit up. “Good riddance to those break-the-bank California taxes.”
“Adieu to the rain that arrives in November and stays until April. And a fond farewell to those outrageous gasoline prices.”
Charlie smiled. “We’re going to save a shitload of money.”
“We will,” Dave agreed as the plane unexpectedly lost altitude. Dave’s gut pressed hard against the seat belt. A second later, his bottom reunited with the cushion, and the mood turned serious. “Beware the Ides of March,” he mumbled.
“What the hell does that mean?” Charlie asked, perplexed by the ominous reference.
Dave had no trouble explaining. He’d already given it considerable thought. “Gay people flock to San Francisco. Everyone wants to live in the Bay Area. And here we’re leaving. And tomorrow, March 15th of all days, I start my new job.”
Charlie sought a positive spin. “With scientists predicting the next big one, we’d have been crazy to stay. If our home had been destroyed in an earthquake, we’d have still been on the hook to pay off that huge mortgage.”
“True,” Dave said, impressed by Charlie’s ability to turn the argument. “An earthquake is a terrific strategy to minimize overcrowding in the Bay Area,” Dave laughed. “But moving to Arizona . . . a red state?”
“How do you think red states turn blue?” Charlie’s eyes twinkled. “Pioneers like us. One day we’ll look back and say, remember when Arizona was red?”
Dave relented. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
“Sure. And there’s a large gay community in Phoenix.” Charlie reached down and retrieved his black leather briefcase. Unzipping the front pocket, he pulled out a full-color Phoenix Homes magazine. “You have to check out these properties,” he said thumbing through the pages. “I’ve already hooked up with a realtor to show us around.”
“Show you around,” Dave corrected. “I’ll be in the office tomorrow. Physician practices need to be managed. From now on, my life will be one long operations meeting, physicians in the morning, physicians at night.”
“Well, you took the lead in getting us settled in the Bay Area when we left Michigan. Now it’s my turn. God knows I’ll have plenty of time. With credit frozen, consumer spending down . . . retail’s in such a deep slump. Last Christmas was a real bust. I don’t think 2010 will be much better. I should have plenty of time to get us set up. There’s not much business on my plate at the moment.”
Dave felt bad for Charlie. He’d worked so hard to build a successful business. “Well, Obama really pulled us back from the brink,” Dave said, still uncertain that the worst of it was over.
“With so many Americans out of work, it’s more like a depression than a recession,” Charlie observed glumly. “But we should look on the bright side. With such high employment . . . you have a new job. That’s freaking amazing.”
“It feels really out of step,” Dave agreed, still ambivalent about his good fortune. “Kind of unsettling.”
“You’re nuts. You should be ecstatic.”
“I’m too on edge. I have all these crazy thoughts running through my head,” Dave admitted, a nervous tingling shooting through his body.
Charlie gave Dave his full attention. “Tell me. I want to hear.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Dave admitted, blushing. “It’s too silly.”
“Tell me,” Charlie insisted. “I want to know.”
Dave relented. He hoped Charlie would be understanding. “Okay. Take my car. It’s black with a black interior.”
“And?” Charlie asked, stifling a laugh.
Dave continued. “It gets brutally hot in Phoenix during the summer. Black retains the heat.”
Charlie offered a huge smile. “You’re kidding, right? You know you can’t get incinerated driving to work.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “There’s such a thing as air conditioning. And if it’s a real problem, you’ll trade that car in for a white one. Problem solved. What else?”
Dave hesitated.
“What else, what else?” Charlie probed, eager to hear the next concern.
Dave took a deep breath. “You know I’m susceptible to nosebleeds. It’s dry in Arizona. I read on the Internet that it’s the nosebleed capital of the world.”
Charlie gave Dave a sidelong glance. “Now you’re making that one up.”
“I read it,” Dave insisted.
“Your body will adjust,” Charlie promised. “You’ll be fine. So that’s what’s worrying you? Here I thought you had concerns about the job.”
“I should have kept it to myself. Real men never share,” Dave sharply remarked.
Charlie placed a hand on Dave’s thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Real men who love each other do. Why not look on the bright side? We’ll have domestic partner benefits. For the first time, I can get health insurance through you. No more HMO. Hello, Blue Cross Blue Shield.”
“Yeah, that is pretty progressive,” Dave agreed, “And of all places . . . Arizona.”
“That’s what happens when you stop working for Catholic organizations.”
“True.”
“And the roof won’t leak. It barely ever rains in Phoenix. And . . . get ready . . . here it comes . . . we can buy a new house. We could never afford that in the Bay Area.”
Dave perked up. Images of Sub-Zeros, marble countertops, pebble-tech pools, and flagstone patios danced in his head. “A new house . . . wouldn’t that be something?”
“We can do whatever we want,” Charlie answered, once again opening the People magazine and flipping through the pages.
Dave looked over Charlie’s shoulder. “My God,” he said, pointing at a photo of Gilles Marini. “He looks a bit like you when you were young. You had the same five o’clock shadow and all that jet-black hair.”
“I was hot,” Charlie agreed. “But if I worked out like you,” Charlie rubbed his tummy, “I’d probably drop these last ten pounds.”
“Hey, I’m at the gym to manage stress,” Dave emphasized, explaining his obsessive need to work out.
Charlie shot him a doubtful look. “Maybe you should try Xanax.”
“No drugs,” Dave pushed back. “I don’t need them,” he said, defending himself against what he felt were Charlie’s hurtful accusations.
“Dave, there’s no shame in medication.”
Dave gave Charlie a piercing look. The conversation was over.
Charlie regrouped. “Well, I’m glad we took the first flight out. The sun will be coming up soon. We’ll have all day to settle in, unpack, and go grocery shopping.”
Dave shifted, stretching his arms overhead to ease the tightness in his lower back. “I hope we like living in Phoenix.”
“We’ll love it. And if it’s any consolation, I’m proud of you. Not many men in their fifties would have the courage to take a new job. It’s says a lot about you.”
“That I’m an idiot,” Dave said tongue-in-cheek, as he twisted about his finger the black onyx ring Charlie had given him years earlier.
Charlie shook his head. “No, you have faith in the future,” he countered as the plane suddenly shook violently, the thrust so sharp, it caught both men off guard. Dave grabbed Charlie’s hand as the yellow oxygen masks dropped, dangling just above their heads.
“Oh my God,” Charlie said, his voice dead serious.
“It’s just a little thermal inversion,” Dave snapped as he slipped the plastic mask over his head, all the while trying
to remember to breathe normally.
* * *
Daisy Ellen Lee was a fixture in her Biltmore Greens neighborhood. Spry and energetic, she attributed her vigor to the Phoenix climate. While others complained about the intense summer heat, Daisy likened herself to the mighty saguaro, the desert cactus that dotted the Arizona landscape. During the summer months the saguaro stood tall, defying the searing desert sun. Come the monsoon season, the prickly succulent miraculously budded, yielding an array of bright white flowers. Daisy admired the saguaro’s resilience. If the saguaro was a survivor, then so was she.
Each morning, Daisy walked the gated community, part ambassador, part drill sergeant, undertaking the morning inspection of the grounds. She was barely five foot two, even with her blond bouffant teased to a fluffy fullness. Final Net held it perfectly in place. From a distance, in her green lululemon yoga attire, she resembled a yellow poppy on the march.
The exclusive neighborhood of Biltmore Greens abutted the grounds of the Arizona Biltmore Hotel, a five-star resort opened in 1929 and visited by United States presidents, the Hollywood elite, and foreign and national dignitaries. Designed in the architectural style of Frank Lloyd Wright, the Arizona Biltmore, and the developments that encircled the property were a much-desired address in Phoenix.
“Well, good Sunday morning. You’re certainly up early,” called out Sheila, who worked the midnight shift on the security gate. Her bright red hair was pulled tightly back from her moon-shaped face into a neatly knotted bun that rested at the back of her head just above the neck. The severity of her hairstyle matched her uniform of blue polyester pants and jacket, interrupted by a white cotton button-down shirt.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Daisy admitted, eyeing the broken concrete block on the base of the little gatehouse.
