Chapter 2
Breezy
The wipers can’t keep up as snowflakes smear across my windshield in thick and frantic strokes.
“Visibility is near zero,” a man’s voice warns on the radio. “If you don’t have to be on the roads tonight, don’t. Conditions are expected to worsen and won’t let up until three a.m.”
Welp. That’s not ideal. I immediately flick off the dial because I don’t want to hear it.
I didn’t want to hear it when I called Bennett earlier today to let him know I was coming and he advised me to wait out the weather until morning, and I don’t want to hear it now, when I’ve already made it this far.
I couldn’t stay in the city a single minute longer, dangerous blizzard conditions or not.
My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are as white as the snow. I ease my foot off the gas of my Range Rover as it slips and slides gently from side to side, and then I put power back into it when I see a freshly plowed patch of highway ahead.
The snow keeps coming down, but I swallow hard against the anxiety and tell myself if I managed to keep my grandfather Harold Bishop’s art legacy alive amid arson scandals and piss-poor financial management from just about everyone but me, I can certainly handle a little snow.
Except this isn’t a little snow, Breeze. It’s a blizzard.
The sky is ink-black, the road ahead barely visible, and my back is so stiff I think my body might’ve replaced my spine with a metal rod.
The drive from New York to Vermont has been nerve-racking to say the least, but I’m so close I can almost taste the cider donuts, and if I did stop now, I don’t even know where I would go.
Red Bridge 5 miles, the roadway sign harkens as I blow by it at a mind-bending one mile per hour.
See? Only a little while longer, I tell myself, instead of daring to do the actual math. You’re almost there. I speed up when the equation solves itself against my will, knowing I don’t have another five hours in me. Fifteen miles per hour, it is. Life on the edge.
I just have to keep my eyes focused on the road, and I’ll be inside my brother’s warm house in Red Bridge in no time at all.
In fact…
I should give him a heads-up that I didn’t take his advice to wait for morning, so he knows to expect me.
I take one hand off the wheel and unearth my phone from my purse, dialing Bennett’s number and waiting for it to ring. I pull it away from my ear at the sharp bleat of a failed call and try three more times before I realize I’m not getting any damn service.
“Of course,” I mutter, dropping my phone in the passenger seat and returning my hand to its previous position to grip the steering wheel tighter.
I drive along at a snail’s pace as a big tractor-trailer truck zooms past me like they haven’t a care in the world, and the New Yorker in me wants to flip them off and honk my horn, but I’m too busy trying to keep myself from sliding off the road to give in to the urge.
Mile by mile, I fight to keep my jaw unlocked until the exit off the highway comes into view.
The snow is relentless, but the back road I just turned onto is mostly empty, and I even see Red Bridge’s infamous yellow bridge in the distance.
“Yes! I did it! I’m he—oh shit!”
In an instant, I go from straight and steady to the back end of my Range Rover fishtailing violently. My tires skid as I try to correct it, but the SUV ends up spinning across the empty road before I can even figure out what’s happening.
“Oh no!” I mutter to myself as a big snowbank on the side of the road comes into view, my car bouncing toward it like the Plinko disk on The Price is Right.
I slam my foot on my brakes and scream, but it’s useless—the Rover noses straight into it with a sickening lurch that I half expect to trigger the ghost of Bob Barker.
“Son of a bitch!” I cry out into the quiet of the cab, my heart trilling at a gallop. I’m so close! I can make it! I put the engine in reverse and hit the gas, but spitting snow and the perilous crunch of my hood as it strains against the bank in front of me are the only results.
Shifting from reverse to neutral and back again, I try it again, making the car rock. And again. And again, to no avail. My situation doesn’t change; I’m officially stuck.
“Damn it!” I slam both hands onto the steering wheel.
Now what do I do?
A deep, strangled sigh escapes my lungs, and I throw the engine into park.
I yank my gloves out of my Birkin bag on the passenger seat, shove them over my hands, and climb out, squeezing through the sliver of space the snowbank leaves me to open my door.
The snow is still coming down hard, and the cold air is a bitter slap to my face, but the real kicker is the feeling of wet feet as my favorite black suede YSL heels sink instantly into the drift.
Ugh. That’s just perfect.
I step back and survey the tilt of my SUV half buried in a snow mountain and pull my coat tighter. Well, shit. Unless I can miraculously gain the strength of ten men, I am well and truly fucked.
Behind me, a beam of light blooms through the thick white bluster.
I move to the side of my SUV again, anxiety over the level of visibility I know the driver of whatever’s coming doesn’t have ratcheting up to an eleven.
My legs shake and my lip quivers, as the silhouette of a truck finally appears.
The engine is loud, and the combination of snow and headlights makes it impossible to see who’s behind the wheel, which makes the relief over not being physically run over as it pulls to a stop behind my Rover incredibly short-lived.
I’ve hardly had time to watch television or follow true crime podcasts on the internet for the last two decades of my life, but I’ve seen and heard enough to know this is how the worst stories start.
Eleven at night. Lone female. Stranded on a snowy back road. No witnesses. I sure hope Bennett and Norah use a nice photo on my missing person’s poster.
The passenger door squeaks on old hinges as it busts open with a bang, the shadow of a man climbing up and into the V between the door and the cab about all I can make out in the heavy snow.
The sky is absolutely shitting it at this point.
“Breezy Bishop, is that you?” a male voice calls out, way too jovially for the circumstances.
My panic eases slightly—happenstance, snowbank murderers don’t normally know your name—and I answer hesitantly, my voice quavering with the cold. “Um, yeah. Unfortunately, that’s me.”
When the driver’s door opens in kind and another tall figure steps out, I finally recognize the shadows as the sheep-farming Hanson brothers. Everyone in Red Bridge knows them, especially the ones who are of the single female variety.
Tad Hanson jumps down from the passenger side and stumbles a little as his boots skid across the slippery road, nearly eating it before catching himself on my bumper.
His face is lit up in a sloppy grin, and his cheeks are as red as Rudolph’s nose.
Behind him, his brother Randy moves steadier, and his mouth is set in a neutral line as he assesses my current stuck-in-the-snow situation.
Unsurprisingly, tonight, Tad is Chatty Cathy and Randy is Broody Betty. It’s not a change from their usual dynamic, but it is an interesting twist to my evening as a damsel in distress.
“Nice car,” Tad announces proudly, patting my Range Rover like it’s a prized cow. “But that’s a god-awful parking spot.”
“Oh, this snowbank isn’t an ideal place to park?” I toss back. “You know us city girls. We don’t drive much.”
Tad’s grin grows.
“You’ll learn. Red Bridge has plenty better spo-ots,” he says, the words moving loosely over his tongue in a way that suggests Tad Hanson is more than a little boozed up.
He rubs a hand over his light brown beard as he weaves just slightly on his feet.
His cheerful eyes look me up and down, but when his gaze catches sight of my shoes, that grin of his dials up again. “You’re wearing heels. In a blizzard.”
“They’re weatherproof,” I deadpan.
“Woman, those shoes are ten seconds away from calling 9-1-1 themselves,” Tad answers with a chuckle. “Please, Mr. Emergency Man, our suede is mel-ting.”
“Tad.” Randy’s voice cuts through the cold and Tad’s laugh. He throws me an apologetic glance. “Ignore him. He’s a little indisposed.”
“Definitely had enough drinks to feel good and numb. Been a real great night,” Tad chimes in. He slaps the hood of my SUV again and nearly tips over as his feet tangle on the stacked snow, catching himself on the wheel. “Whoops.”
Randy exhales through his nose. “God help me.”
Tad keeps on chattering away as he looks between me and my SUV. “Breezy, you’re bee-you-ti-ful, but your driving could use a little work.”
I should be annoyed, but Tad Hanson’s handsome grin and teasing charm have me laughing instead. “Can’t argue that tonight,” I agree on a snort.
“Would you like a hand?” Tad offers, bowing gallantly and making Randy groan.
Before he can finish his descent, and before I can answer, his boot slips on the ice and he windmills both arms, fighting to keep his face from smacking the ground. I lunge forward out of instinct, only to end up slipping too, and Randy curses behind us like he’s seen this show before.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Somehow, despite his drunken state, Tad manages to stabilize us both by wrapping me up in a bear hug. He grins down at me and winks. “I got ya, Breezy.”
“You do realize you’re the reason we almost fell, right?”
“The ice is a little icy.” He’s still holding on to me tightly. “By the way, you smell real good. Like flowers and fucking sunshine and soft breeze on a summer day. Pretty Breezy smells like a breeze.” He snorts. “It’s kinda perfect.”
“Thanks.” I gently remove myself from his embrace. “But if one of us dies out here, I want it in my obituary that I was dragged down by Tad Hanson.”
Tad beams. “I’d be honored.”