reading

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com.

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

For my dear friend Sharol
Thank you for so often asking the questions
I most need to answer…

You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.
Mark Twain

If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
Virginia Woolf

Chapter 1

MELANIE

At least, that’s Craig’s assertion—one he’s maintained through twenty-three years of marriage. Why do the odd-numbered years feel less certain? But I don’t run away. I’m present. I live in the moment. It just happens that sometimes the moment takes place in an alternate reality.

The conversation is on a loop, set to repeat at least once a year. It came around again last night over seared sturgeon at Ella, where we dined to mark an odd year of marriage.

Fingertips poised on the keyboard, I squint at the computer display on my desk and read the last scene I wrote. It doesn’t work. Something’s off. My forehead furrows in a way I’ve noticed is leaving a crevice between my eyebrows—a mocking cleft that suggests Botox is my singular hope for redemption from the evils of age. I let the muscles in my face go lax and open my eyes wide. Run away, my foot. Wrinkles are real. They’re right now. And I’ll deal with them. I move the cursor from my document to the Safari icon and do a search for Wrinkle Creams. After several clicks, I end up on Amazon, where I pay $29.95 for one fluid ounce of “the most potent serum available,” guaranteed to restore my skin to its once smooth and youthful appearance.

$29.95? That’s almost four dollars more than my last royalty check. Note to self: destroy the receipt.

I click back to my WIP—Work in Progress—or in this case, Worst Imaginable Project. But rather than read the scene again, my gaze lands on the Apple insignia on the bottom of my display, and my stomach rumbles. I push away from my desk, slide bare feet into slippers, and pad down the hallway to the kitchen, where I set a fresh pot of coffee to brew. I munch on a tart Gravenstein while I wait. In a moment of pure delusion, I bought the Gravs thinking I’d bake a pie for Craig. But who was I kidding? I don’t have time to bake. I’m on deadline. After tossing the core into the compactor, I reach for a mug, but the cabinet is empty. My cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my robe as I begin unloading the dishwasher. “Hi there.”

Craig raises his voice against the nail gun popping in the background. “How’s your afternoon going? Words flowing?”

Afternoon? I glance at the clock on the microwave. “Dribbling. The words are dribbling. You’re on-site?”

With the phone propped between my ear and shoulder, I set a stack of plates down and lean against the quartz countertop. “Yeah, me too. I’d hoped to make it up to you when we got home, but—”

“Probably not. I need to get back to the office and get caught up. Late night.”

I slip the phone back into my pocket and rub at the knot that’s formed in my neck, a result of either cradling the phone or hearing the tension in Craig’s tone—I’m not sure which. “Sorry I’m late. Sorry I’m tired. Sorry I yelled.” He’s apologized a lot in recent months. Fallout from the job, he says—pressure as he adjusts to building high-end custom homes for wealthy clients, those who still enjoy liquid assets in this ongoing recession. The tract developments he built for so long are a thing of the past, at least until the economy recovers.

“Building sixty tract homes was so much easier than building one custom for entitled clients who think they own me.” Craig’s oft-stated complaint plays again. After reaping the benefits of a booming housing market in the Sacramento area and calling his own shots, Craig’s frustration is palpable. Daily. However, his current clients, Serena Buchanan and her daughter—the homeowners—do sound like the epitome of entitlement, according to Craig’s descriptions. Although, it seems his attitude toward Serena has softened in recent weeks. He said something about her being widowed last year, didn’t he?

Widowed or divorced? I finish unloading the dishwasher as I attempt to recall details, but my memory of the conversation is fuzzy. What’s clear is the feeling the conversation evoked—a feeling I didn’t care to explore. That’s it. Serena Buchanan was widowed.

Menopause is rodent-like in the way it nibbles holes in one’s memory. Or maybe Craig is right—my mind is always somewhere else. “Are you listening, Mel?” How often has that question punctuated our conversations? Too many times to consider.

“Is Craig ever going to fix that door?” Jill walks into the kitchen, grabs a mug out of the cabinet, and pours herself a cup of coffee.

She laughs and then turns to me, looks me over, and, still smiling, raises one perfectly plucked auburn eyebrow. “Nice outfit.”

I glance down at the black satin peeking from under my robe and the plaid cotton PJ bottoms I pulled on with my nightgown this morning. I pull the robe tight. “I’m working.”

Jill holds up one hand. “Hold on.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Why is your coffee always better than mine?”

“Because I made it. Anything we don’t make ourselves is always better, remember?”

“Right. Listen, this is your afternoon reminder—we have group tonight, and you’re leading. 7:00 p.m.”

“No.” I pour myself a cup of the fresh French roast. “You know, this thing you do”—I motion between the two of us—“it’s called codependency.”

“It’s just…Craig is working late, so I thought I would, too. This story”—I shake my head—“isn’t going anywhere.”

“So come and brainstorm. We’re the Deep Inkers. We’ll energize you, stimulate your creativity…. We’ll work our writers’ group magic. You know when you isolate yourself it dulls your vision. Anyway, you’re leading—you have to come.”

“Facilitating.” I look at my neighbor and, next to Craig, the closest thing I have to a best friend, and I wish, as I often do, that I had just half her energy. Not only is she a sought-after freelance editor, but she also has three little ones to chase after. Somehow she accomplishes more in one day than I do in a week. Of course, I remind myself again, she’s also twelve years younger. “Since you’re reminding me, remind me where we’re meeting.”

She takes a deep breath. “The kids are with Marcos’s parents for the afternoon and evening. Marcos took the afternoon off and is there with them.” She glances at her watch. “I have a cobbler in the oven.” She goes to the sink, dumps the rest of her coffee, and then rinses her cup. After she rinses it, she reaches under my sink for the dish soap, thoroughly washes the mug, and then opens the dishwasher and sets the overturned mug on the top rack. Then she goes back to the sink and washes her hands, using the same antibacterial dish soap. She puts the soap back under the sink.

I watch her routine, mentally calling her plays like a sportscaster, but I know better than to say anything. We all have our quirks.

I follow her through the laundry room to the back door. “What kind of cobbler?”

I toss my robe on the bathroom counter, peel off my black satin nightgown and pajama bottoms, and then reach into the shower to test the water. Shivering, I wait for the hot water to make its way to the upstairs master bath. Where’s a hot flash when you need one? I turn toward the mirror and startle at the image reflected back to me. I run my fingers across the pooch of my abdomen mapped with stretch marks. Having had children might make the marks worthwhile, but mine only remind me of the multiple pounds gained and lost over the last few decades. I turn to the side to view my profile and then lift my sagging breasts. It’s evident I need more than wrinkle cream or Botox can offer. A silver landing strip has appeared atop my head since just yesterday, highlighting my once-natural, now bottled, ash-blond tone. Who am I kidding? My ash-blond is almost platinum now. Every time I’ve seen my stylist in the last year, she’s dyed my hair a shade lighter so the gray roots show less, but they only hide for so long.

Is it any wonder Craig doesn’t want to come home or falls asleep on me when he is here?

With steam collecting on the mirror and obscuring my reflection, I turn away and step into the retreat of the warm shower, grateful for an excuse to take a break from my manuscript. With hot water pelting my back, the tension in my neck and shoulders eases. But just as I begin to relax, an annoying question poses itself: What does Serena Buchanan look like?

I close my eyes and turn my face to the spray of water, considering the question for a moment. Then I file it in a thick folder titled Things to Think About Later and stuff it into a dusty cabinet somewhere in the back of my mind.

I was five years old the first time I lost myself in a maze of words printed on a page. Or maybe I found myself there. As I sounded out the words, a new world came to life. The beat of my heart quickened as I ran with Dick and Jane. The sweet scent of freshly cut grass swirled as we yelled, “Go, Spot, go.” Jane and Sally became the sisters I never had, and Spot was the dog I’d longed for. With head bent over that first book, my imagination filled in the details between the lines. Or maybe the lines blurred the details of my reality. Either way, as a child, books became my savior.

I began writing during the years we were working to conceive. And it was work. I charted my basal body temperature each morning and wooed Craig home from the jobsite each time I ovulated. And every month, the cramping of my uterus reminded me of my failure. After two years of trying, we succumbed to testing and discovered I was the problem. I was unable to conceive.

Craig said he didn’t blame me, but I blamed myself. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t fulfill the most primal act of womanhood? I straddled the chasm of grief and self-loathing.

Now we’re godparents to Jill and Marcos’s brood. If anything ever happened to them… I shudder at the thought. Those tykes would run us into the ground.

After showering and dressing, I return to my desk and take stock. My word count for the day thus far is a paltry 453 words. This, my sixteenth novel, may be my undoing. I click my calendar icon and count the number of days between now, August 8, and October 1, my deadline. I divide the number of words still needed for the manuscript, approximately 78,000, by the number of days, and come up with the daily average I need to write: 1,472 words. That’s doable. Although, I didn’t account for weekends, unforeseen circumstances, or days like today, when the words refuse to show themselves on the screen.

I have three hours until our meeting. “All right, time to buckle down.” I take a deep breath and read the last scene again. It’s bad—so bad. I have no choice. I highlight the scene—approximately 2,000 words, including the 453 I wrote earlier—and press DELETE. For the next sixty minutes, I write and delete, write and delete, write and delete. By 6:00 p.m., I still have a negative word count for the day.

I get up from my desk, lift my arms to the ceiling, and bend at the waist, stretching my back. I grab my mug, go to the kitchen, and pour the last of the cold coffee from the pot, popping my mug into the microwave. In the forty-five seconds it takes my coffee to heat, it occurs to me what’s wrong with the scene I’m trying to write. It needs to be told from another character’s viewpoint. But whose? A male character’s, maybe?

I wander back to my office and settle in my desk chair. If I add a male character, he could ask Chloe, my protagonist, pertinent questions and offer a different perspective. I lift the mug of hot coffee to my lips. He could give the reader the understanding they need of Chloe’s struggle. My fingers twitch, anxious for their place on the keyboard. Once there, my pulse pounds. Caffeine? No. “It’s creative energy, ol’ girl, remember?” I open a new document and begin typing notes, considering plot points a new character might facilitate. I bullet point several ideas—just enough to remind me of the thoughts as they form. After several minutes, I lean back in my chair, read my notes, and smile.

I drop down a few spaces in my document, ready to create a persona. I stare at the monitor for a moment. “So, who are you?” I ask my unknown character, half expecting to hear him answer. Again, I bullet point information:

• Stature: 6′2″—195 pounds—fit

• Hair: dark brown, cropped short

I think of Craig’s hair—the way it’s grayed at the temples this past year, giving him a distinguished, okay, even sexy George Cloony-ish look. Why is age so much kinder to men? I go back and add “graying at the temples” to my description.

• Eyes: hazel

• Age: 50-ish

I spend the next hour imagining, developing, creating Dr. Elliot Hammond, psychologist. After I have a solid physical composite, I make notes about his personality and emotions. I even go as far as assigning him a personality type based on the Meyers-Briggs Type Indicator. Once that work is done, I open my Internet browser and do a search for the actor I had in mind when I listed Elliot’s physical features—there are hundreds of pictures to choose from. I pick a close-up and print it. When I hear the printer stop, I get up, grab the photo, and pin it next to the pictures of the other characters gracing the bulletin board that hangs above my computer.

I stand back and stare at the photo. He seems almost familiar—like someone I’ve met or known. Something stirs within me, but I don’t ponder the feeling long enough to name it. Instead, I smile.

“How many words have you written?” Valerie, a nonfiction writer and the newest member of the Deep Inkers, asks.

I glance at Jill, the freelance editor whom the publisher has hired for my last three books—and for this one. I swallow. “Seventeen thousand-ish.”

Quinn, a young blogger who never has to write more than five hundred words to complete a post, taps on her phone, pulling up what I fear is her beloved calculator app. “And your deadline is—”

I hold up one hand. “I know, I know, I know.” I fire my declarations in rapid succession. Then I take a deep breath. “You don’t need to remind me. I’m behind. I know.”

“You haven’t missed a deadline yet,” Jill encourages. “We’ll brainstorm with you.”

“Okay”—I glance at my watch—“Quinn, keep track of the time for me, will you?”

Quinn nods and looks at the phone still in her hand. “And three, two, one, go.” She points at me.

Because our group is small tonight, I have a full thirty minutes rather than the standard twenty minutes to discuss my project. “Okay, so the good news is that I created a new character this afternoon. A therapist—someone Chloe can talk to.”

Valerie leans forward. “Why did she seek out a therapist? What’s she working through?”

“Oh…” I’d forgotten that Valerie is a therapist—a marriage and family counselor is what I think Jill told me when she mentioned Valerie joining the group. “Well, she’s…you know…” I slump in my seat. “She’s…struggling. But Dr. Hammond—this character—he’s good. He’s going to be important.”

Jill and Craig got together at some point, I’m certain, and designated my nickname as code for “confront her.” I square my shoulders.

“Does this story line, a struggling protagonist seeing a therapist, fit your brand?”

“Or maybe you’re ready to write something deeper?” Valerie sits, pen poised above a notepad, her reading glasses low on her nose.

Jill smiles. “You’re a great writer. You can write whatever you set your mind to as long as it fits your brand. But if you find yourself going off-brand, let your agent know ASAP. He’ll need to work through the change with the publisher. And let me read a few chapters so I can ease the way with the publisher, too.” Jill, always the mom, makes sure all the bases are covered.

“Okay, great, but that doesn’t answer Valerie’s question. What’s Chloe working through? Maybe she’s just…struggling with life. You know? She’s discontent.” I slap my hands on my legs. “That’s it. She’s disgruntled. Discontent. And doesn’t know why. Just because Elliot’s—”

“Dr. Hammond. Just because he’s a therapist doesn’t mean I have to dredge the depths, right, Val?”

“It’s Valerie, and you’re right. Maybe Chloe is lonely, needs someone to talk to, someone to process life with.” She sets her pen on the notepad on her lap. “I know I don’t write fiction, so I’m not the expert, but don’t you need tension in the story—something to keep the reader turning pages?”

I look over to Jill. “Where’s that cobbler you mentioned this afternoon?” I’ve had enough tension for one evening.

Our yard is dark as I cross the strip of lawn between Marcos and Jill’s house and ours. Craig must have set the yard lights to come on later. Looking up, I see the house is still dark, too, which means he’s still at the office. Either that or he’s working by candlelight in the house to save utility expenses. The man gets loony about lights left on, at least lately. I make my way to the side garage door, feel for the switch, and then turn it on. Craig’s empty garage stall confirms that he’s still working. Once I reach the door adjoining the house, I’m sure to switch the garage light off again.

I drop my bag on the counter in the laundry room and then shuffle through the darkened kitchen and down the hallway. I stop outside my office door. “Maybe Chloe is lonely.” Valerie’s right: there’s no tension in that plot. Maybe Jill is right, too: I’m in over my head with this story line. I know that’s not what she said, but isn’t it what she meant? I write fluff. Jill would never say that either, but maybe it’s true.

Who am I kidding? I’m just not all that deep. I laugh—a staccato burst of air that echoes in the empty house.

“Time for bed,” I tell myself as I head for the stairs, but I pause before I get there. I put one hand on my chest. My heart has taken off round the track and is racing toward the finish line. The caffeine that was my friend earlier in the day has betrayed me now. The prospect of staring at the ceiling until Craig gets home doesn’t appeal. Instead, I two-step back to my office and drop into the chair at my desk, where I sit enveloped in darkness.

I’m used to a silent house. No children. An absent husband. Not even a pet. I shift in my chair. Nothing to distract me as I write.

I reach for the lamp on my desk and switch it on. The light illuminates the bulletin board hanging above, where Elliot smiles down at me.

I lean back in my chair, my shoulders relaxing. “Well, hello there, handsome. And here I thought I was all alone.”

Then I wink at the picture of the actor, now known as Dr. Elliot Hammond. “Elliot, you’re not only going to make this story more interesting, you’re going to make my life more interesting.”

What’ll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?
F. Scott Fitzgerald

Chapter 2

CRAIG

A developer married to a tree hugger. That’s me and Mel. Polar opposites. I used to poke fun, telling her the pages of her books murdered more trees than the homes I built, but then came the e-book. Her books are still available in print, but a lot of her sales are electronic now. And the houses I once framed with Douglas fir I now build with steel framing systems. Long live the tree.

Our differences never bothered me. At twenty-six, my attraction to Melanie hit like a hammer to the head. It still does, when I’m not too beat to notice. Mel’s a looker. Long slender legs and big, round—I smile—eyes. A man could drown in those pools. And yeah, I fell asleep on her last night. But…I stick my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and look up at the newly hung Sheetrock on the twelve-foot walls of Serena Buchanan’s butler’s pantry. I shake my head. “Yo, Dan!”

“What?” He yells from the kitchen, where he and his guys are hanging rock now.

“Come here.” But physical attraction isn’t enough, you know? It’s great. But it’s not all. Our differences used to keep it interesting, but now—

“Look.” I point to the gaps in the Sheetrock above the header. “There’s not enough tape and mud anywhere to cover that mess.” Dan takes off his baseball cap and wipes the August heat from his forehead. He looks down, shakes his head, then puts the cap back on. “I’ll take care of it.”

Last night, last year, the last two decades, Melanie has checked out. Not out of the marriage. Just out of the moment. I get that she’s introverted—she lives in her head. But it’s more than that. I glance at my watch. Serena and her daughter are late for our meeting, so I continue my walk through without them. When did Melanie change? Or was she always this way? Nah, it’s gotten worse through the years. The woman is an emotional Houdini, able to escape any hardship. Which means the hardships fall on me. I tried to explain it again last night, but we ended up on the well-worn alternate reality path—she lives the realities she writes. So then I tried to get specific. “Mel, we’re not making it. We’re going in the hole every month.”

Her question had surprised me—the fact that she’d engaged enough to ask. But I was already geared for a fight. “How much? The answer will dish more reality than you’ll find appetizing.”

“What?” She’d laughed. “What did you say? Will dish more reality than I’ll find appetizing? That’s such a clever line!” She’d pulled a notebook out of her purse and wrote it down. “I can use that.”

“Just forget it.” That’s when the waiter showed up with our sturgeon, which we ate in silence. Or I ate in silence. Mel apologized and tried to get the conversation back on track, but I was ticked. I have to give her credit though—

“Good.” Serena smiles and puts out her hand. “Hi, Craig.” Under her other arm is a set of blueprints.

“Sorry we’re late. Wow…look at this, Ash.” She does a slow turn in the middle of the master bedroom, head tilted up. “I love the way the tray ceiling turned out. Sheetrock changes everything. This is always my favorite stage of a project.”

Serena looks back at me. “Great shirt, Craig. It brings out the green flecks in your eyes.” She takes a step forward and brushes Sheetrock dust off the right shoulder of the sage-colored oxford Melanie bought for me.

She’s a beautiful girl. Eighteen years old. When I met her, I couldn’t help but think that if Mel had gotten pregnant, we’d have a child about the same age now. A college student. I’d have taken a boy, a girl, or three of each, for that matter. But I accept that this wasn’t God’s plan for us. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though. I respect Serena’s choice to stay in the area for Ashley’s sake. “You know, Cow Town is a bit passé for this city girl, but it’s home for Ashley, and she needs stability now that her father’s gone,” Serena had told me during our initial consultation on the house. I knew after researching Serena that she could live anywhere she chose. Her clients hail from places like London, Paris, New York, and Beverly Hills. Architectural Digest did a spread on her last year. Sacramento might be the state capital, but it’s still Hicksville in her world. But it was home for her family—her husband was California’s attorney general before a heart attack took his life.

“I know. I know. We only spec’d a shower for her bathroom, but I’d like to surprise her.”

“It just means moving the wall between her bedroom and bath—say, five feet? There’s that nook in her room on the other side of the bathroom. We can use that space.”

One of the advantages—or disadvantages, maybe—of building for an interior designer is that she gets how it’s done. I feared she’d be a diva about the whole thing, but I was wrong.

“Thanks.” She steps back, looks at me, and tilts her head to one side. “You seem a little down, Craig. You okay?”

The thing I’ve always liked about building houses is the clear beginning, middle, and end. You start with a slab or subfloor, frame the beast, let the electrician and plumber do their thing, rock and mud it, and then do the finish work—flooring, cabinets, trim, appliances. Maybe a little landscaping. Whether it’s one house or thirty, the process is the same. Sure, plans differ, but the beginning always leads to the end.

Marriage, on the other hand, gets stuck somewhere in the middle. You’re never aiming for that moment when you turn the house key over to someone else.

Not that I’m looking for the end. It’s just that the middle is feeling…long. The problems we began with are, for the most part, the same problems we are facing twenty-three years later. Somewhere along the way, we lost sight of the goal. The dream. Or whatever it was we were working toward.

It’s late when I pull into our driveway. I stare at the four carriage-style garage doors with forged iron hardware. I built spaces for both our cars, a bay for our boat, and an extra space for my workbench and tools. I reach for the garage door opener but then change my mind. Opening it would wake Melanie who, at this hour, is asleep in the master bedroom above the garage. I put my truck in PARK, look around the neighborhood—a gated community of large custom homes—and then rest my forehead on the steering wheel. Unless the economy does a fast turnaround, we need to put the house on the market. We can’t hang on to it. I sigh and rake my hair with my fingers. I need to man up and tell Mel.

I open the door of the truck but don’t move. C’mon buddy, go into the house. Climb into bed with your wife. Again. Twenty-three years? That’s a lot of time spent with the same person. I’ll go to bed, get up tomorrow, drink a cup of coffee with her, and give her a peck on the cheek before I leave for work. I swing one leg out the door and then stop. I’ll call her sometime during the afternoon to check in and then come home for dinner, go to bed, and get up and do the same thing all over again. There was a time when the routine represented comfort. But lately…

Chapter 3

MELANIE

I’ve just turned off the lamp in my office when two orbs of light shine through the sheer drapes and then bounce across the walls of the room. Craig’s home. I turn to leave the office and meet him when he comes in, but I pause. Instead, I turn back to the window, pull the drapes aside, and watch—waiting for him to open the garage door and pull the truck inside. Only the silhouette of his form is visible in the cab of his truck. It appears he’s resting his head on the steering wheel. It’s well past midnight—he must be exhausted.

When I see him lift his head and open the driver’s side door, I realize he assumed I was asleep and didn’t want to wake me by opening the garage door. He’s thoughtful that way. I leave the window, make my way down the dark hallway, and flip the light on in the laundry room. I open the door that leads out to the garage and tap the garage door opener—I know he doesn’t like leaving his truck in the driveway overnight. As the door lifts, I see the wheels of his truck backing out of the driveway. “Craig?” I dash down the steps and through the garage. “Wait!”

When I reach the driveway, I track his taillights to the exit of our gated community. I stand motionless for several minutes, a warm delta breeze swirling, carrying the sweet scent of honeysuckle from Jill and Mark’s front yard as stars wink through the branches of the giant oak that shelters me. I wait for the knot in my stomach to unbind itself. “He probably just forgot something at the office,” I whisper to the sultry night.

As I go back inside, it occurs to me that my cell phone is still in my purse in the laundry room where I left it when I came home from Jill’s. I’m sure Craig called and I just didn’t hear the phone ring. He’ll have left a message. I rummage through my purse, find the phone, and then go to the kitchen for a glass of water to moisten my dry mouth before looking to see if Craig called.

After a few swallows of water, I set the glass in the sink and punch in the code to unlock my phone, but there are no messages. Not even a missed call. I never was the popular girl.

I lean against the counter and call Craig’s number. Will I tell him I saw him arrive and then leave? Will he tell me he came and went?

“Nah…” He hesitates. “I left the office twenty minutes ago. I pulled into the driveway, assumed you were asleep, and knew I was too keyed up to go to bed.”

“Yeah, so…listen, Mel, I just need some time. Go to sleep. I’ll be home soon.”

“It’s almost 1:00 a.m.—where are you going? Can’t you just come home?” There’s more bite in my tone than I intend. “Sorry.” I take a deep breath. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just keyed up, like I said. I’ll come home when I’m ready.”

As children, when the dust on the playground settled and we went to our respective homes, I opened the front door of an apartment with the key I wore on a chain around my neck. Craig walked through the front door of a four-bedroom, three-bath, Tudor-style home that smelled of freshly baked pies. His mom poured him a glass of milk, while my mom received other people’s soiled clothing at the neighborhood dry cleaner.

Home is either the sturdy foundation or the crumbling underpinnings a child is built upon. Leave it to a builder’s wife to come up with that line. My underpinnings crumbled early. I was eight years old when my father left on a warm summer night. I stood outside and watched the taillights of his Buick until they turned the corner away from our apartment building.

I tug the chain on the bedside lamp, pull the sheet over me, and fluff my pillow. Then I stare into the dark. I roll over, kick the sheet off, and will myself to sleep. I must have dozed, because I wake with a start and sit up. I’m drenched. A glance to my left tells me Craig hasn’t returned. The digital clock reads 2:23 a.m. “Shoot!” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and push my damp bangs off my slick forehead. I’m not sure which has me more frustrated, the night sweat or Craig’s disappearing act. My nightgown is soaked through, and the sheets on my side of the bed are damp. I get up, turn the overhead fan to high, and stand under its breeze, arms outstretched, until my body, my betrayer, cools.

After taking a tepid shower, donning a fresh nightgown, and changing the sheets on our king-sized bed, I’m wide awake. I was certain by the time I got out of the shower he’d be back. I stare at the clean, crisp sheets on the bed and debate. If I don’t get some sleep, I won’t be able to write later today. Instead, I’ll stare, glassy-eyed, at the computer screen all day while consuming enough caffeine to restart the heart of a mummy. Yet I know sleep won’t come again soon—especially with Craig still absent. I grab my robe and stomp my way downstairs to my office. I might as well use the time now to eke out as many words as I can.

At my computer, I open the scene I worked on after our writers’ group meeting. Why my single, on-the-verge-of-turning-thirty, shopping-obsessed protagonist needed a therapist still wasn’t clear to me when I came home, but I decided not to worry about it. The story will come, just as it always does. Jill was right—I haven’t missed a deadline yet.

Michael Bublé’s voice, smooth as melted chocolate, interrupted Chloe’s reverie. The lyrics of the song reminded her of all she’d left behind. “I have to change that ringtone.” She reached for her phone and recognized the number she’d called just an hour ago. Recalling the message she left, her tongue threatened to stick to the roof of her mouth as she answered, “Hello?”

“May I speak to Chloe?”

“This is Chloe.”

“Chloe, this is Dr. Hammond. I received your message and understand you have a few questions about the therapy process. And likely about me as a therapist, which is very common. If you have a few minutes now, I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have.”

The timbre of his voice was solid, deep, and sure. It resonated somewhere in the cavern of her soul. “Yes, now’s fine.”

The cavern of her soul. I like the sound of that. Who says I can’t write a deep, meaningful scene? Okay, no one has ever actually said that, but Jill’s right, cavernous souls aren’t exactly my style. But Quinn was right, too—I can bend this to fit my brand. I think. Aren’t unfulfilled longings the core issue for each of my protagonists? I just don’t often choose to focus on the state of my characters’ souls. I usually write more about the deficiencies of their wardrobes and love lives. Shopping cures all, or something like that. Well, at least until the bank account is empty. Then chocolate usually does the trick.

After getting the answers to her questions and listening as Dr. Hammond described the therapy process, she hung up, leaned back against the sofa, and inhaled the damp, warm air. The rhythm of her heart beat strong and steady as one word played in her mind over and over: safe. Dr. Hammond was safe. The resonance of his voice—the way it burrowed into the depth of her being in those first moments of conversation—told her all she needed to know.

Burrowed into the depth of her being? “Who am I kidding?” I stretch my right pinky toward the DELETE key, but with the realization that my word count for yesterday—I glance at the time displayed in the upper corner of my monitor—and for today is still in the negative zone, I stop myself and leave the sentence as written. It’s only a draft.

Leaning back in my chair, I twist my robe tie around my index finger then untwist it, lift my fingers back to the keyboard, and rest them there. “So, Chloe, what’s your deal? What is it you’ve left behind? And why do you need a shrink?” Is shrink a derogatory term? I’ll have to ask Valerie.

In fact, there’s a lot I’ll have to ask Valerie. She’s a great resource. Glad she joined the Deep Inkers when she did. What a boon. I’d hate to have to make an appointment with a therapist just for the sake of research.

I press RETURN, center the cursor, and type the POUND key, indicating a scene break and a POV shift. It’s time to see things from Dr. Hammond’s point of view. But just as my fingers begin flying over the keys, the sound of the garage door going up pulls me from the new scene. Craig obviously saw my light on and parked inside. I exhale, drop my hands to my lap, and wait until his steps echo in the hallway.

He stops at my office and leans against the door frame. “Why are you still up?”

He runs his hand through his thick hair. “Yeah, I am.” He turns to go then stops. “Mel…I love you. You know that, right?”

I love you, too. The words drifted through my mind but were hijacked somewhere between there and my mouth. Where did he go tonight? I save my document and shut down the computer. Why didn’t I ask him where he went? My breathing becomes shallow and my shoulders tighten. I didn’t ask because I’m not sure I want to know. I get up from my desk, turn off the light, and follow Craig. But when I reach the bottom of the stairs, the question I filed away hours and hours ago returns. What does Serena Buchanan look like?

Why did he tell me he loved me? Did the declaration come from a guilty conscience?

“Where’s Dr. Hammond when I need him?” I mumble. The irony isn’t lost on me: the idea of me walking into a therapist’s office is laughable. It makes for an interesting story line, but I’m all about looking forward, not back.

As I climb up the stairs, I drag leaden legs. Five steps up, I stop, sit on the step, and rest my head against the wall.

But as hard as I try to convince myself of that, dread tunnels like a mole into my carefully preserved sense of well-being.

Chapter 4

JILL

Dessert plates stand at attention and coffee cups sit ordered in a row on the upper shelf of the dishwasher. I close it, start it, and wipe the countertop. Then I spray it with disinfectant and wipe it again.

“I should have bought stock in paper towels before I married you—we’d be millionaires by now.”

I drop the clump of towels into the trash can under the sink and then turn toward Marcos, who stands in the entry of the kitchen watching me. His dark hair is mussed and his faded Cal-Poly gym shorts, left over from his college days, ride low on his hips. “A million isn’t what it used to be.”

“True.” He moves into the kitchen and settles onto one of the stools at the counter. “So, did the Deep Inkers resolve the issues of the literary world?”

“Melanie? I thought she cranked out manuscripts like a machine.” He leans his elbows on the countertop.

“Usually, but this one is challenging her, which is good. I think the only thing she’d allow to challenge her is a manuscript.”

He nods. He’s heard my concerns about Melanie before. And he’s likely heard some of the same concerns from Craig, though Marcos would never tell me what Craig shares in confidence.

“I know. I’ll get her recipe someday.” Though I know that isn’t true. Why would I attempt to duplicate what his mother has already perfected? I glance at the clock on the microwave. “Thank you for slipping in and putting the kids to bed. I thought you’d gone to bed, too.”

I come around behind him and put my arms around his smooth bare back and chest. I drop a light kiss on the nape of his neck and whisper in his ear, “You are the sweetest.”

He shrugs. “Mi padre…” He shakes his head. “I think his memory is going.”

“No. Your dad? He’s sharp.” I pull out the barstool next to his and sit down.

He shakes his head. “After we had dessert tonight—Mom’s sopapillas, his favorite, right?—I got up and helped her clear the table. She took my dad’s plate first and then grabbed a few other things and took them to the kitchen. I took the kids’ plates and followed her. She was rinsing dishes when he yells from the dining room, ‘Gabriella, what about the sopapillas?’”

“I thought so. I went back into the dining room, laughed, and accused him of trying to pull one over on us. But his expression”—he turns and looks at me—“was blank. Nothing registered in his eyes, you know? Then it was like he tried to cover his blunder. He smiled and said there was always room for more. But before that? Nothing.”

“Yeah, later. But she blew it off. ‘Marcos, you know your padre—always teasing.’”

He leans over, kisses my forehead, and then gets up. “Don’t use all the paper towels.”

I swivel the barstool I’m sitting on and watch him walk down the hallway to the master bedroom. When I think he’s gone back to bed, I get up, straighten both barstools under the counter, and then tear a few more paper towels from the roll. I reach for the disinfectant and go back to the bar top where Marcos had leaned his elbows. I spray not only that area but the entire slab of granite and begin wiping it clean again.

Marcos was waiting tables in SLO—San Luis Obispo—when we met. I’d just graduated from UC Berkeley with an MA in English and was taking a trip along the coast with a couple of girlfriends before beginning my dream career as an editor for a New York publishing house. It was an opportunity I’d like to think my GPA and reputation garnered for me, but I also suspected the offer came through one of my father’s connections.

Marcos would graduate the following week with a BS in engineering and would begin graduate studies in the fall.

He wiped his hand on the apron tied around his waist before shaking mine. “You too. An MA is an accomplishment.”

“As is a bachelor’s.” The warmth of his hand seeped into mine, and I didn’t want to let go. Heat scaled its way up my neck and into my cheeks. Was he the cause, or was it the hot coffee he’d served me a few minutes earlier? I would soon learn Marcos was the one with the power to ignite me.

My girlfriends told me later they could almost see the current arcing between us, so they gave us some space to talk. Fortunately, it was also a drizzly afternoon during finals week—most of the tables in the restaurant were unoccupied.

As we chatted across the bar, I learned Marcos was working to put himself through school. My parents, on the other hand, had opened a tax-advantaged ESA when I was a child to save for my college expenses. Marcos and I were the same age, but I’d sailed ahead of him in school on the ship of privilege.

His work ethic earned my respect. And the roped muscles I noticed in his forearm when he shook my hand earned that first heated blush.

Two years later, following too many long-distance phone conversations to count and numerous flights between the East Coast and the West Coast, I was promoted to senior editor of fiction and told I could work remotely. I packed a few boxes, shipped them to Marcos’s apartment, and then went home and stayed with my parents until Marcos and I married under a perfect harvest moon just a month later.

I’d had the idyllic childhood—parents who loved and supported me, the trappings of money and ease, which included getting straight A’s from the time I was in kindergarten, not because I studied and worked hard, but rather because I didn’t have to. I had a career I loved, and I married a man who exceeded everything I’d hoped for in a partner. As the years progressed, three babies were born, all with ten fingers, ten toes, and stellar APGAR scores.

But somewhere along the way, the whispered warnings from my personal antagonist began. Be careful, Jill. Perfection isn’t sustainable. You’ll lose it all.

Contents

Chapter 1

MELANIE

Chapter 2

CRAIG

Chapter 3

MELANIE

Chapter 4

JILL