Wednesday, January 4
Months ago, Angelica never would have guessed what the new year held in store for her.
Maybe she should have. The anguish of confrontations, abuse, murder, and shocking, heartbreaking revelations had been building toward this moment.
If she’s honest with herself, this year will be as much of a struggle as her recovery from her physical injuries.
But she’s taken the first step on that journey.
No one would accompany her to a psychiatrist. She went first thing this morning.
She had to take a tale that bordered on War and Peace and abridge it into a one-hour short story for Dr. Tenny.
The doctor was very sympathetic, and Angelica came away with a follow-up appointment, two prescriptions—which she promptly filled—and words to the wise—don’t drink!
She’s glad she went; the first step is always the hardest when you’re paralyzed.
Before she set out on her actual journey, she saw Leah and her three children off.
They didn’t leave with cookies, but they didn’t leave empty-handed, either.
They took Daisy along with all her gear.
The kitty didn’t travel lightly. They should have a fun two weeks.
Daisy would enjoy all the attention. Angelica had been neglecting her poor little friend as of late.
She opened the suitcase from last weekend and dumped its contents into a pile on the floor in the corner near the dresser. Those clothes, especially the cocktail dress, were unsuitable; this trip required a different wardrobe.
Rummaging through her dresser, Angelica tossed items onto the bed. She draped tops and bottoms from the closet over her arm. Fourteen days with nothing to be worn more than once meant plenty of everything. All those outfits and lingerie needed another suitcase.
She must have been somewhere before. You don’t own two suitcases unless you’ve traveled. Or did she just plan to go away? All she remembered was her hometown and Avalone, a narrow view of life. She didn’t even remember them very clearly. It was a hollow world.
Blanks. It’s funny; she grew up in Joseph Blanks’s turn-of-the-century dream town, Blankville. Isn’t that fitting? She didn’t need to move to Blankville to live there; it followed her wherever she went. It symbolized her beginning, her end, her downfall, and who she actually is.
Angelica once searched for her lost self, but she gave up long ago.
She couldn’t know that the unknown was reality, and she lived in an illusion—her imagination.
She existed on the outside of her world because she couldn’t recall the inside.
She’s suddenly trapped in a place where everything’s a lie.
The only real thing is her cat. How awful is that?
She finished packing in the reverse order, starting from the wrong end.
With the suitcases closed, Angelica set out on a mission.
She rifled through the drawers, searching for the key to her trip—her passport.
She couldn’t board the plane without it.
She knew where it had been, but it wasn’t where it should be.
Matt disrupted that. She blinked back a tear.
She discovered it beneath the blue Tiffany box—a passport with no stamps, one that had never left the USA. Now it would take her thousands of miles from her broken reality.
Sitting on her bed, her passport clenched in her hand, she did what she did when she barely slept; her tears fell freely. Through her bleary eyes, Angelica fumbled for her clock. It had to be set. She scheduled a rideshare to pick her up at five tomorrow morning and take her to the capital airport.
* * *
Garrett couldn’t concentrate. He figured he’d never be able to focus again, or at least not for about ten years. He’d succumb to cirrhosis before then, anyhow. He was back to drinking beer. Lots of it.
If he couldn’t die in Angelica’s arms, his second choice was Coors. Since the first option was impossible, he doubled his consumption of the foam-topped brew.
Garrett never had any luck with women. He was a geek who flunked puberty. He had no luck in high school, in college, or afterward, certainly not with his wife or Angelica. His deck was full of jokers.
Were there a contest, he’d win first prize in the “Unlucky with Women” category.
Garrett figured he would’ve fared better if he’d been more like Matthew Jenkins, a ladies’ man.
But then again, that guy ended up dead. Still, not all ladies’ men wind up in the morgue.
They do, however, end up with many women, which is way better than he’s doing.
He hadn’t been able to hold on to a woman for very long.
Apparently, treating a woman with genuine respect is passé and not appreciated.
Who the hell did he take after? Not his father. His father didn’t even show interest in his mother. No role model at home. And all his uncles and the guys at the firehouse lived and breathed fire fumes. No gentlemen there, either.
As hard as he tried—no, he didn’t try—he found it came naturally to act like a gentleman around Angelica.
She noticed that part—yet she didn’t notice anything else.
She never saw the adoration in his eyes.
He must have had that love-sick, goofy look.
You can only hide so much. But Garrett had never suppressed his kindness, gentleness, or concern.
What’s he supposed to do, tell a woman on the first date that he might fall in love with her so they would keep their signals straight?
If Angelica couldn’t sleep except in his arms, he couldn’t sleep without her in his. What a combination they made.
But he was more adrift than she was. Baggage weighed him down—not just a gym bag, but an army of duffel bags. He should have gotten help after Carolyn. Nevertheless, men rarely seek help, do they? The unbalanced ones go around killing people. A room full of homicide files proves that.
Despite his troubled state of mind, he wouldn’t kill anyone, not even Ponte, only himself. It would be a lingering, painful death from booze. Sitting on his sofa in front of the fireplace, Garrett lifted his fifth beer of the evening.
Hell, no more women. This hurts too much.
He should have listened to Ed, who wasn’t that far off base—get a dog.
Dogs know from the start that you like them.
They don’t need fancy words, courting, or jewelry.
Basic dry food, nothing special, and they never cheat on you, want a divorce, or ditch you at the altar.
Pet or not, he had to get the hell out of this place. Not just Greenhill County, but the whole friggin’ state and the region.
The reason for moving wasn’t that Garrett wanted to avoid running into Mrs. Ponte because it would be too painful.
(That was a moot point.) It was that he hated her ass of a husband, who was flooding the airwaves and TV channels with his damn Ponte Luxury Motors commercials.
Listening to those lousy ads tortured him, knowing Angelica lay in Ponte’s arms. Hell, he wasn’t that tough. He’d never be that tough.
Garrett reached for the phone. He’d make the call. His college buddy Christopher was now a sheriff in New Mexico. It’s as good a place as any to start over. He’d even stay in law enforcement to get the hell out of here.
How far must he go to escape Ponte? New Mexico would be far enough—plenty far. Distant enough to leave the memory of Angelica behind? Garrett doubted it. Her ghost would, undeniably, board the plane to New Mexico and sit in the seat next to him. It resided hauntingly in his heart.
* * *
A knock rattled his office door. Nicholas ignored it. The person on the other side didn’t give up; this time, they knocked twice.
“What the hell do you want?” he grumbled, slamming his fist down on the desk, jostling the assorted bric-a-brac and office equipment that had been peacefully resting there.
The door inched open, and Dominick peeked inside. “What are you doing sitting in the dark, Nick?”
“I like the dark!”
“Don’t snap at me,” his friend said, raising a hand as he slipped into the room. “I’m on your side. I’ve always been on your side. My connections have gotten us this far.”
Nicholas turned on his goose-neck desk lamp. He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Don’t I know it. You took care of my problem. I owe you one.” He winked.
“Make that two. We’re here now because of the first one. That was the start of it all,” Dominick chuckled smugly, gripping the back of a side chair. “On a different matter … I hate to bring it up, but the realtor called about the last house you toured.”
Nicholas sat up and rolled closer to the desk. “I’m not looking anymore. Alone, that is. When I go again, I’m bringing Angelica along. I’ll let her pick it out.”
“That’s a wise decision. My wife wouldn’t be happy with me if I bought a house without her.”
Angelica’s not happy with him about something far more serious than buying a house. “I hear you on that, Dom.”
The accountant straightened the chair, setting it back into the small indentations in the carpet. “I’m heading home. The boys want me to watch a game on TV with them tonight,” he said.
Nicholas never watched television with Sofia.
Her mother was the one dancing around, singing Sesame Street songs with their daughter, reading bedtime stories, and teaching her to scribble with crayons.
That was when Sofia wasn’t finger-painting on the kitchen wall with spaghetti sauce.
He adored his child, nonetheless. Regrettably, he spent more time away from Sofia than with her—time he’d never get back. His temples began to throb.
“Thanks, Dominick. Enjoy. Say hi to Connie for me ...” Nicholas trailed off.
When the door closed, Nicholas stared at the only photo on his desk. He took her out on a pontoon boat that day. You take her swimming; she doesn’t want to get out of the water. That’s why he bought her this riverfront condo.
Angelica used to be so carefree and bubbly, laughing endlessly. Despite the absence of her joy for life, she’s still just as beautiful as she was back then. And his beautiful wife won’t answer his calls or respond to his emails. Nicholas sighed.
He stood up and switched off the lamp. If he hasn’t heard from Angelica by tomorrow night, he’ll drive up Friday morning. Nicholas can’t fix anything until he can hold his wife in his arms and make love to her.