by Ev Bishop
She knew her feelings for him were stupid—and maybe even a sign she wasn’t doing as well as she hoped. Wasn’t being infatuated with someone who was fully and completely unavailable just another way to avoid having to tackle any possibility of a real relationship? But she couldn’t help herself. She was drawn to him, regardless of her damage—and his. It seemed terribly unjust that they only met after life dealt blows guaranteed to alienate them from each other.
“Bingo!” Sam’s exclamation made Mia jump.
Her uneasiness increased as Sam pushed her laptop closer. “This is one of those True Crime report sites, so its tone’s a bit sensational, but its facts are right.”
Mia reluctantly perused the article Sam had tracked down.
Constable Gray Edward Robertson was halfway out the door of his quiet suburban home in Langley, BC, about to join his wife Celine Simone Robertson and six-year-old son Simon, who were already waiting for him in their Honda Civic, eagerly anticipating a family movie night at a local theatre. Then he heard their family landline ring and turned back to answer.
Robertson didn’t get to the phone, however. Instead he was thrown off his feet by a blast so powerful it propelled his family’s small sedan through the wall of their carport, sending burning debris and pieces of metal flying into the air and landing blocks away.
The decorated officer and stunned father of one staggered through the massive hole in his garage into his backyard in time to see his vehicle burst into flames.
Desperate to save his wife and son from being burned alive, Robertson ran to the burning vehicle but failed to successfully pull either loved one from the blaze.
Investigators discovered a homemade bomb planted beneath the car, consisting of a metal pipe stuffed with ball bearings and ammunition, which they believe was triggered by a remote control.
Robertson, who sustained career-ending injuries in the rescue attempt, will be “badly missed” according to department chief, Ralph Edgaris. Fellow officers also mourn his loss, calling him “a second to none police officer, who loved his wife and son above all else” and “a truly compassionate guy.” Robertson himself is unavailable for comment.
Mia was nauseas with grief. Poor Gray.
The article went on to identify the man behind the brutal attack as one Raymond Howard, who was 51 years old and well known to the police. Gray had testified against him in family court. Howard apparently had a long history of charges that had been dropped due to “mental incompetence.” There was another lengthy paragraph citing a lack of adequate mental health resources and commenting on the complex issues surrounding people who are suffering mental illness.
Swallowing against the awfulness of it all, Mia took in the article’s closing lines.
Shortly after the explosion, officers were dispatched to Howard’s townhouse in a nearby subdivision. After refusing to exit for more than an hour, at approximately 9:35 p.m., Howard fled his home, fired multiple rounds from a hunting rifle, then retreated back inside.
When neighbours were cleared from surrounding housing units, a SWAT team entered Howard’s residence, where he was found deceased. According to RCMP spokesperson Marie Cleric preliminary autopsy results indicate cause of death as being a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Mia shut her eyes. How random and cruel. And meaningless. So utterly and tragically meaningless. No wonder Gray had retreated to a world for one. He’d spent his days striving to protect others from crime and violence, only to lose the people he loved most in the world in the most horrific of ways.
Eventually, she turned to Sam, still without words.
Sam’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “I didn’t know what, if anything, you knew about Gray’s story. I thought it might make a difference.”
“I don’t understand. Make a difference how? I already knew he’d lost his family and his job. I just didn’t know details.” Mia fiddled with her now empty mug in agitation, then shoved it away.
“I’ve known Gray, or, rather, have known of Gray, for years, but in all that time, I’ve never known him to have any close friends, let alone to crawl out of the bush to actively pursue a friendship or invite someone to his home.”
“What about Jo and Callum?”
Sam steepled her fingers, looking thoughtful. “True, his visits to Jo and Callum have increased slowly over the past year or so. Maybe he was finally starting to heal up a bit, even before he met you.”
Mia narrowed her eyes. “Look, I have no clue what you’re getting at and being subtle doesn’t suit you, so spill it.”
Sam blinked, then laughed. “Okay, bossy pants. You got me. What I want to know is when you’re going to stop mooning over Gray and jump him already?”
Jump him already? There was no way for Sam to know its history—and thus avoid—that chord-striking phrase, but the words reverberated in the tender places in Mia’s psyche nonetheless. Why don’t you jump me already, you little slut? You know you want to. It had been one of the mildest forms of abuse Ryland had sent her over and over again—ironically talking about himself, though she hadn’t known it, of course.
“I’m not going to . . . what you said, ever.” Mia tried to swallow down the disgust that was rising through her like a physical thing.
Sam looked bewildered. Then troubled. Then apologetic. “I’m sorry. That was crass. I just meant . . . I think maybe you guys have something.”
Mia shook her head. “You thought wrong.”
“Oh,” said Sam. She sounded sad—and it angered Mia.
“Oh what?”
Sam didn’t say anything.
“Come on, out with it. I know you want to say something—that you think you know something.”
Sam shook her head. “I don’t know anything. I just understood something I didn’t before.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that, great wise one?”
Sam’s eyes hardened, but she didn’t take the bait—or at least not with any heat. “Some things go too deep.”
Some things go too deep. Like she was too damaged and could never be whole again? Even if it were true, how dare Sam think she was so almighty and all-seeing as to make that call? How dare—
Sam held up a hand. “Whatever rage you’re brewing? Put it in a song and spare me—but I do have one question. If I’m wrong, if it’s not old wounds keeping you guys apart, what is it? If you sincerely aren’t interested, fine. But if you are and you both let your pasts keep you from going for it . . . well, you suck.”
Mia grabbed the coffee decanter and refilled her mug. “Tell me how you really feel, why don’t you?”
“Oh, don’t take it so hard. That’s the price you pay for being my honorary sister.”
Jo returned at that moment and overheard the end of Sam’s comment. She sank into a chair beside Mia. “Oh, no,” she groaned. “What has she said or done now?”
“Nothing important at all,” Mia said.
Sam rolled her eyes, and it made Mia smile the tiniest bit, despite herself. “But for the record, even if I was ever remotely interested in more than friendship with Gray, and decided not to chicken out, it’s not in the cards. He doesn’t want more—for whatever reason—and that’s totally his personal business. Not yours or mine.”
Sam sniffed.
“Wow.” Jo glanced from Sam to Mia. “I really did miss something.”
Sam shrugged. Mia shook her head. “Nothing that talking about will fix, so let’s skip it and discuss something else.”
“Like your new business?” Sam raised her coffee cup in a toast when Mia nodded.
“Hear, hear!” Jo lifted her mug too. “Sam’s hinted at your exciting news, but as ever, despite all her big talk, she’s close-mouthed about any real details.”
Mia forced away all thoughts of Gray and let happy excitement in. “Well,” she began, “it all kind of snowballed when I saw the cutest little shop for sale in town. . . .”
Chapter 21
The changes in the landscape were impossible for Mia
to get her head around. In a mere week, the greens, blues, golds and reds that made up fall at River’s Sigh had disappeared. All color was so thoroughly erased it was like recalling a lovely dream or fantasy, not a memory of reality. Her new world was monochrome: unyielding stretches of snow, marred only by leafless, skeletal deciduous trees and conifers so dark and gloomy they appeared black. Dawn was indistinguishable from midday which became evening without any discernible difference in the quality of light.
A few weeks earlier, Mia started the regular habit of eating breakfast with whatever guests were staying at River’s Sigh—and boy was she glad for the company now, especially with the weather making her stir crazy and slightly claustrophobic.
“It won’t always be so dismal,” Jo said over waffles in the big dining hall on yet another day of heavy snow. “You’ll get used to it, for one. And there will be sunny winter days too, though it might be hard to believe right now. Also, Callum and I have been stringing lights all week. River’s Sigh will be a wonderland again soon, you’ll see.”
“I have absolutely no doubt,” Mia said, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. All she could think about was how insular and isolated from the rest of the world the place felt, cut off by snow that made everywhere except snow-blown paths and plowed parking areas inhospitable and impassable. And it was barely December. What would it be like in January?
You’re not worried about January, her inner self corrected snidely. You’re worried about Gray.
And she was. Why deny it? All her thoughts were full of him—and his cabin was no longer cozy in her mind. It was more like a prison. How many months would he go without hot chocolate in the company of a friend? How long would he exist without talking to anyone?
“Mia?” Jo asked. “What do you think?”
“Pardon? Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.”
Jo’s brow furrowed but she didn’t get a chance to repeat herself. Sam burst in on the arm of a handsome man in a huggable oatmeal sweater, which Mia instantly coveted—the sweater, not the man. Although the way he looked at Sam did cause a pang. She had imagined Gray sometimes looked at her that way.
“Mia, this is my husband Charlie—see, I told you he was real.”
Mia grinned and was about to say hello, but Sam waved her silent. “Charlie, this is Mia, the friend I told about. I’d spend more time on introductions and small talk, but we have an emergency.”
Charlie didn’t appear panicked in the slightest. Jo jumped to her feet, however, and Mia felt a trickle of worry too.
“What is it?” Jo asked.
“Our band canceled,” Sam wailed. “Their lead singer broke his foot or something and needs surgery in Vancouver. Klutz.”
“Sam is very sympathetic, of course,” Charlie added, smiling.
“Of course, I am. For us,” Sam emphasized, but a twinkle in her eye suggested her extreme diva mode was mostly put on. She sobered. “But seriously, Jo. We’ve already advertised that River’s Sigh’s big Christmas shindig is going to have live music.”
Jo frowned. “Even getting a DJ on such short notice will be super tough. Every business and their dog has a party this time of year. Maybe we should lower the ticket price or refund—”
“Don’t be silly,” Mia blurted, and a river of shock streamed through her at the next words out of her mouth. “You have a singer right here. Ask the band if I can fill in.”
Sam, Jo, and Charlie all gaped at her in total and complete silence, which made two things obvious to Mia. One, Sam must’ve spilled all the dirt about Mia’s various issues to him, and two, they didn’t realize she was—Ta-da!—much better. Or so she hoped, anyway.
Jo recovered first. “Are you sure? I mean—” She darted a quick glance at her sister, as if confirming some secret fact, but Sam’s face was unreadable. “I thought you hadn’t played or sang in, well, a long time.”
“Sam had old information, actually.”
Sam winced. “I wasn’t gossiping, I—”
“Whatever you said, it’s fine. I should’ve told you guys the good news when we talked about the shop. I’ve not only started playing again for my own enjoyment and sanity, I’m even—ah—” No, it wasn’t time to talk about her writing. She wasn’t that cured yet. “They’re just a cover band, right? I can do covers. It’ll be fun.”
Charlie nodded, but both Sam and Jo’s friendly faces wore matching looks of concerned skepticism.
“Seriously, it’ll be great, and actually, you’ll be doing me a favor, putting me in touch with people with musical connections in the community. After all, I’m going to need someone to buy instruments, use the recording studio, and help promote my music lessons.”
As she talked, Sam and Jo’s obvious nervousness on her behalf softened into something close to delight.
“Besides, if I’m going to freeze up and have another breakdown or something that forces me into complete privacy again, I’d rather do it when it’s your party at stake, not once I’ve started a business.”
Jo’s mouth fell open in dismayed protest, but Sam started laughing. “Okay, it looks like we have a singer—and it’s Mia Clark. We should up the ticket prices.”
They decided, of course, not to inflate the cost of admission, and at Mia’s request, they agreed not to drop her name into any of the advertising, but to focus on the band alone.
Sam made it clear she thought Mia’s hiding her identity was a terrible business move—that she should “capitalize” on being Mia Clark, which just made Mia laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to hide it or deny it anymore, but in reality, I’m no longer that old Mia anyway. Whatever my new business is going to end up being, it will evolve naturally.”
Both Jo and Charlie nodded with understanding; Sam rolled her eyes. “Natural, smatural. Letting things evolve on their own is highly overrated if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Mia quipped.
“Touché,” said Sam.
Jo laughed and laughed.
Chapter 22
Mia’s nerves jingled and jangled enough to compete with any Christmas carol as she made her way to the stage Callum and his brother Brian had constructed at the edge of a huge clearing behind River’s Sigh B & B’s big dining hall. The rest of the band would join her shortly and they’d check their set and do a sound test, but for now she was alone.
She climbed the stairs and took center stage. None of the main spotlights were on yet, but the trees encircling the clearing glowed with twinkling white lights. The smooth white earth—snow-blown to create a dance floor—sparkled. Colorful strobes danced and pulsed. It was a wintery disco delight, and Mia hoped desperately that she’d add to the fun, not detract from it.
Laughter and chatter from wining and dining guests carried in the night air from the direction of the hall, but Mia was almost oblivious to it. She stared out into the imagined crowd.
Why had she volunteered to fill in for the injured lead singer? Had she completely lost her mind? It wasn’t performance anxiety that plagued her, however. Even though they’d only practiced together three times, she and the band clicked. It would be a good show. No, what she couldn’t believe was that she was putting herself in the spotlight again, period.
What if she couldn’t handle the memories it brought up? What if she had a total freak out? She’d joked about the possibility to Sam and Jo, being purposely cavalier to set their minds at ease—but it was a legitimate concern. What if someone didn’t like her—or, worse, liked her too much? She had promised herself she could spend the rest of her life living invisibly if that’s what she needed. . . .
The thought came swift and certain: But that’s not what you need. And not what you want.
Her blood buzzed hot and itchy beneath her skin, a high octane mix of excitement and dread. “You can do this,” she muttered. “You can. It will even be fun.”
She wasn’t sure the last part of her statement was remotely true, but then again, whether it was fun or not didn’t matter. If she could do this, it
would prove buying the shop wasn’t a mistake, would show she really was ready to do things in the public eye again. The naysaying part of her brain that kept shooting darts of indecision and self-doubt would have to shut up. For good.
She visualized herself as a sound board, a trick her mom suggested when she was a shy kid just starting out that she’d held onto because it was silly and made her happy. She adjusted her nerves down, cranked her energy up—and felt it working. She was pumped! Couldn’t wait for the band to hurry up and get out there too! She grabbed a mic stand and waltzed it close in an exaggerated manner, then crooned, “Yep, all the inner critics can shut the hell up.”
The mic was turned off and she had whispered. No one further than a few feet away could’ve possibly heard her—but to her huge dismay and a massive spike in blood pressure, someone let out a low catcall, then clapped, three times, very slowly.
Mia’s skin crawled, and some detached part of her observed that it was awful how even something as innocent as applause could sound sinister.
“Well, well,” a smarmy male voice oozed from the shadows, “I heard the rumor, but I can’t believe it’s true. Mia Clark in Greenridge, BC of all places.”
Mia had known her presence would get out eventually, especially once she said she’d sing. She’d asked the band to not make a big deal out of it, but she hadn’t sworn them to secrecy about her identity because that would be . . . weird. And yeah, it was a semi-private party and Jo and Callum knew most of the guests—but it was still a ticketed event. It’s not like they turned anybody away until it was full.
She let the mic stand rock back into place. The happy energy fueling her mood turned to sludge. She was imagining the creep factor, adding something oily and off putting to the spectator’s presence because of her history. She was damaged. Paranoid. A walking mental case—
Except, wait. No. She didn’t owe anyone anything. Not a civil reply. Not the benefit of the doubt. Nothing.
