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Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014
Copyright © Holly Peterson 2014
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Holly Peterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007233052
Ebook Edition © September 2014 ISBN: 9780007583881
Version: 2014-08-05
Dedication
To my four parents in their starring roles as role models: Sally for teaching empathy, Pete for personifying drive, Joan for dispensing wisdom at every turn, and Michael for setting a high intellectual bar for all of us.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1. Memory Lane
2. Homefront
3. Power Jaunt
4. Party in the House
5. That Woman Again
6. Bizarre Behavior
7. Wifely Conundrums
8. Pulled Toward the Edge
9. No Choice but the Grindstone
10. Necessary Reckoning
11. Crash Course
12. Left-Field Curveball
13. Date with Destruction?
14. Danger Zone
15. Spin Cycle
16. Confrontation Catalyst
17. Torn in All Directions
18. Guests at the Masquerade
19. Focused and Frustrated
20. Playing the Procrastinator
21. Under His Spell
22. Blasting Heat
23. Landed Gentry
24. The Guard Saw All
25. Texan Rage
26. How to Keep It Clean Now?
27. Can’t Climax Yet
28. Simmering Situations
29. Please Don’t Let This Happen
30. Rare Moment of Maturity
31. Life in Boxes
32. Fear of the Unknown
33. Percolating Problems
34. Girl Loses Girl?
35. Cash Call
36. Afternoon Feast
37. Girls Can Hurt More Than Boys
38. Hold on Tight
39. Surprise in the SUV
40. Courtesy Call
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Author
About the Publisher
1
Memory Lane
The taxi driver took off down Seventh Avenue as if he’d just mainlined a pound of crystal meth. This guy was on a kamikaze mission, reckless even by New York standards where taxi drivers charge down the streets with no regard for their passengers’ lives.
“Slow down, sir, please!” I yelled through the opening in the glass partition as I contemplated ditching this driver at the next corner.
He slammed on his brakes. “Okay, lady! I’ll slow it down a little. Yeah.” But when the light turned green, he began weaving between cars and playing chicken to blow past the giant city buses. We brushed a bike messenger who retaliated with a fisted punch on the trunk. I again waffled about getting out, but it was that bustling time of early rush hour just before the taxi shift change, when I wouldn’t be able to get another, so I stayed put and latched my seat belt. Besides, my kids were waiting for me at home, and I was already half an hour late leaving the office.
I sat strapped in the ratty backseat, tossed back and forth down the length of Manhattan’s Seventh Avenue like a Ping-Pong ball.
This car is going to crash.
The lethal night of the plane accident came back to me in waves, starting with the instinctual pangs telling me not to step up from the tarmac onto the slippery, rickety staircase of the little six-seater. This plane is not made for all this stormy snow, I had said to myself that night. And I was right.
So much of my life had gone according to plan since then, much of it mapped out in a two-decades’-long fit to fix wrongs—the most evil happening on the eve of my sixteenth birthday that winter night, eighteen-years and four-months ago.
MY FATHER HAD been planning the trip all year. He had told Mom it was his chance to spend a few days one-on-one with his only child, teaching me the secrets of ice fishing at his favorite spot on Diamond Lake up north. He’d been talking about this as long as I could remember, and, finally, a week before my sixteenth birthday, Mom said I was old enough to go.
Dad had handed in his boarding pass outside, and he came onto the small commuter plane in Montreal, dusting snow off his beard and shoulders once he managed to jam his huge frame into the seat. I knew Dad saw the fear in my face and tried his best to reassure me. All I could think about was how small and fragile that plane seemed against the howling winds outside. Deep down that voice was telling me this was a bad idea, but I kept my mouth shut at first. I didn’t want to look like a frightened little girl.
Dad smelled of metal and cold air, a scent that further unsettled me because it was so far from his usual salty warmth. I rubbed his arm to chase away the odor and he smiled down at me.
On the plane, I thought danger was nearby but I didn’t want to scare anybody. Others have certainly had that same feeling before they board a plane with severe weather forecast in the flight path, wondering if they should resist getting on because this could be the one that goes down. A moment’s hesitation before they step over that little gap and feel the rush of cold outside air between the boarding ramp and the aircraft front galley. Is my mind playing tricks or do I somehow know this plane is going down? Am I having some kind of psychic experience? Am I going to be on the local news as the one person who survived only because I didn’t get on at the last minute?
The whole body stiffens on the ramp for a moment to stall and consider the possibility.
But then, No. That’s ridiculous. Screw it. I’m getting on. Statistics say it is more dangerous to drive to the airport than to get on this plane.
At least most often it goes like that. I guess you don’t need to be clairvoyant to know that during a blizzard, when a lumberjack pilot in a plaid shirt working for a low-budget commuter airline in Canada’s outback says, “It’s just a little snow,” you get out of the twin-engine Cessna and run for your life.
MY PLAN SINCE then has been to run for my life. Run away from a boyfriend who kept traveling too far, run into a marriage that I thought would work. Rush to have kids to cement the union. Rush home to them today. This plan means I’ve tried to solve everything quickly before all hell descended on me again. Trauma is like that. It smashes into your life out of the blue and just lingers, dripping like a broken egg.
The kamikaze taxi lurched me back into the New York present, and the frayed seat belt snapped into place, jerking me hard. “Please slow down, sir,” I yelled again at the driver. “That light was clearly turning red, and you were never going to make it, so you don’t need to speed up just to slam the brakes.”
“Okay, lady. Thanks for the driving tip. All I need at the end of my shift.” This time he took off two full seconds before the light even turned green. I clenched my teeth and again started to feel that old tingle I’d felt in my bones as the pilot had swung the plane out of the boarding area some eighteen years earlier.
THE ENGINES HAD revved up as he made a ninety-degree tight turn at the end of the snowy runway. I gripped my armrests, imagining how my funeral would be. Matching father-daughter coffins. That’s what it would look like. I blinked hard against the image.
Dad seemed oblivious to my fears. “You don’t actually sit outside and fish all day. You can leave the lines in and then go check them,” Dad went on. “You’re gonna love it, Allie Lamb. No trout tastes like this anywhere in the world. This lake is crystal clear in the winter; beneath five feet of ice those damn fish still manage to …”
“Dad,” I rasped. “The snow, it’s just …”
He held my hand and kissed my forehead. “It’s okay, honey. A dozen guys I know have flown to this paradise in weather like this. All good.”
The plane made a high-pitched whine as we sped down the runway into a cloudy, billowy, late-afternoon haze. The takeoff was absolutely normal, save a few little bumps when we made the initial ascent, and I let out a small breath. Dad patted my thigh. “You see, honey. It’s all fine. We’ll be above the clouds soon and see the sun.” Our craft coasted up toward the sky.
OUTSIDE THE WINDOW of the taxi, I could see we were now speeding west across Forty-Second Street, past a seedy commercial section of town, heading toward the flashing lights of Times Square and standstill traffic. I said through the glass, “You might want to loop over to Ninth …”
The guy slammed on the brakes and turned around. “Look, lady, I’m gonna get you there.” Two blocks later, we were parked in traffic. I did the math: it would take me about twenty minutes to walk, but if this traffic jam broke after five minutes, then it would only take fifteen more to reach home. Same difference. Same exploding anxiety over something with the same result that I couldn’t change. I sat back against the seat again, frustrated and sweaty, my hands clammy from the plane ride down memory lane.
“YOU’RE NEVER GOING to forget the first time the fish bite, it’s so exciting out there, the nature so delicate,” Dad yelled over the whirl of the propellers, still gaining altitude. He cradled me in the crook of his elbow and kissed the top of my head.
My dad couldn’t contain his excitement about introducing me to his greatest joy, and I couldn’t spoil everything for him, so intoxicating was his commitment to seek that thrill with his own daughter. I wanted to warn the pilot that I felt we were in serious trouble, but I kept silent. I felt we shouldn’t even take off in this weather. Maybe I was too young to protest, to be taken seriously. And I loved my dad too much to drag him through my worries. Downers were anathema to everything he stood for.
But there was that unmistakable ice on the wing. I’d seen something on TV about ice buildup that doomed a big plane, and I wasn’t sure if it was the same thing. Or was it just beads of water pooled out there that would slide off somehow? Or was my mind conjuring up troubles? It sure looked like little bubbles of ice were popping up. Maybe the lights on the wing were just reflecting off beads of water. But would there be water at this altitude and at this temperature? I had reminded myself the takeoff was absolutely normal. Surely my mind was playing tricks.
It was getting dark and the lights on the wings were flashing intermittently so I couldn’t tell how bad the storm was. The snow socked us in with zero visibility. We did not see one ray of that sun Dad had promised me.
“Dad. It’s, like, pouring snow. Are you sure …”
“Allie. Don’t worry, we are doing just fine.”
Ten minutes passed, and the plane dipped into a mini wind pocket and then jerked up again. It felt like we just dropped fifteen feet, hit something hard, and bounced right back up. The metal on the wings rattled. I gasped.
“Hey, pull those belts extra-tight back there; it’s getting pretty damn windy,” the pilot yelled to us. “We’re beginning our descent, but it’s gonna be bumpy.”
The wings now alternated up and down like a seesaw with our passenger capsule in the middle. Dad tried to get my mind off things. “What about the summer? I don’t want you selling T-shirts at that ratty shop downtown. Scooping ice cream just off my dock will be easier to get to and …”
He paused and looked out the window; the last bump was so big he had to rest his arm on his head for protection. “Now I know teenagers veer toward doing whatever their friends are doing downtown, but …” Dad’s chatter went on, with him talking faster and faster, while the teeny cabin shook so much his words came out all jumpy.
I think he might have been scared too and wanted to distract us both. He kept looking out the window, pausing, then talking again quickly. “I sure don’t want you in cars of any teenagers, so I’d have to drive you, and that won’t work for my early morning work schedule …” I don’t know what was really going on for him. God, the number of times I’ve wondered. How I wish to have been able to ask him. I’ll never know if he knew what I felt at that point.
My father grabbed my hand. The plane seemed to fall twenty feet and then lunge forward.
The pilot yelled. “We’re descending fast. Hold on!” Dad’s eyes grew large. He then knew what I knew. For a millisecond, part of me felt relief that my fears were justified, but then seeing him anxious did anything but quell them.
“Hold on, honey!!!” he screamed at me.
I’d never seen fear in his eyes before. Ever. I screamed. I think everyone did, but I’m not sure. Seconds later, metal crunched everywhere around me.
I remember every jolt of force throwing me forward as we bumped along the icy grass. They say I must have blacked out for a while after the crash, but I know I remember it. Blood sloshed around my mouth. I smelled the burned fibers of the synthetic royal blue seat fabric.
After we slowed to a deceiving, gentle stop: total silence.
“Dad!” I screamed. “Dad!”
Wind whistled through the cracks in the metal, and snow started whirling into the now shattered front windshield. It was way too calm inside. And next I knew, maybe three full minutes later, the skidding sound of vehicles outside the craft penetrated the eeriness inside. A man in a yellow suit with reflective silver stripes started coaxing me through the wreckage, the gusts of snowfall obscuring the beam of his flashlight. I couldn’t see my father or the pilot. I knew they were hurt. I didn’t hear them and they weren’t taking care of me, the child, in the wreckage. And I had the sudden sense they were dead.
Once they pried open the window, the men asked if we could move. I was curled upside down and waited for my father to answer.
“Dad?”
That was the worst moment of all: the silence after I asked again. I would have actually been relieved to hear him screaming in pain at that point.
Freezing wind was now howling through the front window and the sides of the open plane. The men asked again if we could move, if anyone heard them. I finally said out loud, “I’m okay.”
“Good. That’s good. Can you try to get through this window?”
“I don’t know if anyone else is okay.”
“C’mon, sweetie, we’ll get them; you just get yourself through the window. Undo your seat belt if you can. There’s room for you to get out from under the seat. Crawl through right here.” The top of my hand was cut badly and my bones felt rattled, but, as far as I could tell, nothing was broken. The red light of the ambulance siren reflected off the snow and metal, blinding me every time it whipped around like a lighthouse beam. I did not want to leave that plane.
I shook my head. “I gotta get my father. I gotta get my dad!”
“We’re going to get him for you. We have to get you out first; you are next to the exit.” He grabbed my upper arm with one hand and supported my lower arm with the other. “Can you get out this way?” I thought that metal had somehow gotten lodged in my mouth. My tongue felt jagged, shattered teeth on the right side. I remember worrying the edges were going to cut my tongue.
“Where’s my dad! Where’s my dad!” I screamed, the taste of iron from the blood in my mouth now thick and soupy. My head filled with pounding wrath.
How dare Dad let us take off.
And how dare he let two other people from back home get on the plane with us.
“HEY, LADY, YOU gonna pay or what? What are you doin’ so quietly back there, knitting an entire sweater? I don’t got all day. We’re here already,” the taxi driver said, knocking on the partition to stir me out of my trance. In a flash, I was back in the taxi, shaking with a rage I hadn’t felt in years.
How dare he die on me so young.
I had to wipe my trembling hand on my jeans before I could open my wallet and pay for the sickening ride.
2
Homefront
When I walked through my front door, I had to push every memory from that taxi ride out of my head. Lucy, in particular, would need me to focus on the excitement she’d had wearing the caterpillar costume made out of foam and pipe cleaners we’d worked on for days. Even after dinner, Lucy wouldn’t let me take off her green face paint from the caterpillar role until her daddy got to see her.
“Wade. You have to make a big deal about Lucy’s face,” I whispered. My husband arrived home about an hour after I had that night, work forcing him to miss Lucy’s kindergarten staging of Alice in Wonderland.
“Where’s my superstar?” Wade said to Lucy on cue, as he rushed into our bedroom with a bouquet of purple tulips he had picked up at the corner market for her. “I hate that I had to be at boring meetings at the magazine all day and miss your show!”
Lucy jumped up onto the bed to see him at eye level. “Daddy! I didn’t forget anything this time.”
He hugged her hard and then held her at arm’s length. “You have a little something green on your face,” he said in a mockserious way that made Lucy first furrow her brow and then break into a giant smile once she got the joke. Wade released her, and she snuggled back up beside me as he pulled off his work shirt and tie in one big motion, throwing both into the hamper.
That’s when a very strange thing happened. A casino chip with Five Thousand Dollars written on it fell out of his shirt pocket. I wouldn’t necessarily have noticed had Wade not dove for the chip like a linebacker. I didn’t let on that I’d seen it or the more alarming amount; instead I made a mental note of his unusually athletic attempt to hide it. Something inside made my heart break for no concrete reason except that it felt suspicious.
Once he got up off the floor and surreptitiously stuffed the chip into his khaki pants, I looked at my husband like I didn’t even know him. He grabbed Lucy and carried her back to her room sack-of-potatoes style.
I stood in the doorway of the bedroom in our cramped New York apartment mulling over that chip. We didn’t have five thousand dollars to throw around or to keep in our pants’ pockets. Wade was the editor of a flashy newsmagazine, but that didn’t mean we had a comfortable amount of savings. New York is like that. Everyone here except the Wall Street, one-percenter crowd is living on a financial edge where close to nothing is left over. My PR firm salary combined with his editor salary didn’t pay for much beyond a small apartment and two private-school tuitions. Five thousand dollars really mattered to our bottom line.
And Wade wasn’t a gambler. He didn’t hide things from me. We were opposites, but we came together at a safe place in the middle where I harbored a notion that trust was key. When I first met Wade, he had six people glued onto him like a snake charmer and still had enough juice to lure me across a room and into his comforting spell. And despite the distraction of a persistent flame from my past, and to be honest, partially because of that flame, I leaped into a frenetic New York City life with Wade, covering my eyes and holding my breath.
I heard Lucy screaming from the bedroom, “Daddy, air lift!” I entered and saw Wade hoisting her skyward, missing the light fixture by mere inches.
“Wade. Please! You’re going to hurt her on the light! And make sure you give Blake some attention before bedtime; he’s upset over …”
“Who gets every joy of the earth?” he asked as he threw Lucy up again, giving me the eye.
“Lucy!” she shrieked, falling back into his strong hands.
“And who was the best caterpillar in the show?”
“Daddy, there’s only ONE caterpillar!”
“And what girl does Daddy love best in the world?”
“Lucy!” They collapsed onto the bed, and Wade tickled her until she yelled out for him to stop, happy tears streaming down her face. Wade cradled her in his arms for a few more moments, singing a little song he had made up when she was a baby, then turned to me and held my face in his hands, dispelling any residual wifely annoyance over the casino chip I preferred to ask him about later.
“Allie, I know all you do to make the kids happy—making her costume so intensely the night before and keeping all your work pressures out of the kids’ lives—and I love you for it.” He kissed my nose. “And don’t worry about Blake; I know you’re worrying about him too. I see that concern in your face.”
“Yes, I’m worried about him. They don’t include him in so many of the little things his group does all day. All because of one kid who loves the power to exclude. I want so badly to call Jeremy’s mom again and—”
“You cannot do that again. No way. She is going to tell the kid exactly what you said on the call even though she promises to handle it discreetly. And that’ll just make Jeremy ostracize Blake more, and then you get busted for interfering. Fourth grade is rough, but he’s got to learn to handle his friendships on his own.”
“Wade, I know you are right, but his circle is edging him out again, and I don’t know how a nine-year-old is supposed to figure that out. They went to get snacks at the vending machine again at recess and told him he couldn’t come.”
“Well, I’m going to help him man up a little, and then he’ll work this out for himself.”
Another thing I loved about Wade: he knew exactly what our kids needed when they were down. What woman doesn’t love a man for that? But that casino chip would pop up again and, in time, signal a transgression no wife could ignore.
3
Power Jaunt
The next morning, I rushed to see my boss for fifteen minutes before a client meeting at New York’s famed Tudor Room. It didn’t help my mood that I was meeting him at a restaurant that operated more like a private club for high-octane achievers than a pleasant place for lunch. Absolutely nothing in my makeup or past experiences prepared me to hold my own in the ring with the wealthy gladiators who lunched there regularly; I just happened to be employed by one of them. I walked into the restaurant lobby with a confident stride, wondering if the people watching my entrance pegged me as an imposter.