Traci looked around the room. The wall-mounted flat-screen television was on, tuned to Fred’s favorite financial news network, with the volume muted. It was an endless scroll of numbers—the highs and lows of the stock market, banking news. This, she supposed, was the only thing that regularly gave him joy—watching his net worth grow.
Such a depressing thought.
“Okay, I’m gonna go now,” Traci said, standing. “Sleep well.”
As soon as she walked in the door of her own bungalow, she collapsed into the nearest chair, overcome with guilt—for not doing more for Fred, even though she knew he silently detested her, and grief—oh God, the grief, the endless, relentless waves that rolled over her at the most unexpected times, and every day threatened to submerge her back into the darkness of that first, unbearable year after the plane crash.
And now, once again, she was wrestling with those two demon emotions. Hoke had been painfully aware of his father’s many failings, as a father, a husband, an employer, but to Hoke, family loyalty was everything. So she tried to treat her father-in-law with compassion.
But every encounter with the old bastard left her with this… rage. Why should this dreadful man still be alive, at his age, while Hoke, her first and only love, a truly decent man who had so much to give to the world… why shouldhebe the one moldering in a grave? Where was the fairness in that?
Traci went into the kitchen, opened the door of the under- counter wine fridge, and reached for the nearest bottle, a nicely chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc. She was about to pour herself a glass, but paused.
Rebecca, her therapist, had warned against using alcohol as a crutch at times like these. Mindfulness, Rebecca counseled. Practice mindfulness.
She heard her cell phone ringing.
UNKNOWN CALLER. She clicked Connect anyway.
“Hello? This is Traci Eddings.”
A woman’s voice, husky, vibrating with fury. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
They hadn’t talked in decades, but she recognized that voice in an instant.
“Hi, Shannon,” she said. “How lovely to hear from you after all these years.”
CHAPTER 14
The sound of Traci’s voice—the recently acquired creamy, nuanced accent of a card-carrying country club Junior Leaguer—triggered something in Shannon.
“We need to talk,” she said abruptly.
“So talk. I’m listening.”
“I meant in person. Livvy’s in the next room. She’s already pissed at me for interfering.”
“Shannon, I’ve had a long, brutal day. I just want to take off my bra, run a bath, and get in bed with a book. I frankly don’t see what difference—”
“Youoweme this much,” Shannon said, cutting her off. “Meet me at Pour Willy’s. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
Traci let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “I need twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes. Back booth,” Shannon said, and she disconnected.
Shannon hadn’t been back to their old hangout in years. Not much had changed. Loud tunes blared from the jukebox. The same old neon Pabst Blue Ribbon signs blinked in the windows. It was a weeknight, so no bouncer met her at the door. Or maybe they didn’t have bouncers now? The floor was still sticky; probably hadn’t been mopped since the last time she was here. She hadn’t been toanybars since she quit drinking, but as soon as she pushed open theheavy wooden door at Pour Willy’s, Shannon found herself craving a beer.
“You don’t really want a drink,” she scolded herself as she shouldered through the throngs of young people standing three deep at the bar, waving away the haze of cigarette smoke. The county had adopted a ban on indoor smoking years earlier, but the news had apparently escaped the crowd here.
The back booth, their booth—the one just past the jukebox, closest to the bathroom—was occupied by a gaggle of college girls with a table full of sickly-sweet-looking parasol drinks. Back in her day, you’d have been bounced out of the place if you’d asked for anything other than a shot or a beer. These chicks were all sloppy drunk and definitely underaged.
Shannon fixed the kid seated at the near edge of the booth with an icy stare. The girl’s makeup was smeared and her eyes were glassy. She looked up at the stranger with a goofy grin.
“Heyyyy. What’s up?”
“I need to see some ID,” Shannon said, holding out her hand.
“You’re not a cop,” one of the girls piped up. “If you’re a cop, show us your badge.”
