Freefall E-Book

Robin Brande

• Herausgeber: Ryer Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Eliza Shepherd is known for the exciting adventure columns she writes with her husband, Jamey.  But when Jamey dies while climbing, Eliza finds herself lost, confused, and trying to rebuild a life on her own.

When Jamey's mother is widowed, too, Eliza makes a decision:  to accompany her mother-in-law back to Jamey's hometown and help settle her in over the next several months.  It will give Eliza the chance to work on the book she's writing about Jamey, and take her away from a life that isn't working for her anymore.

She doesn't expect the pain she'll find there--or the pleasure.

Eliza has already had one good man in her life, and isn't looking for another.  But love has a way of appearing, whether you're ready for it or not.
 

Leseprobe

FREEFALL

ROBIN BRANDE

RYER PUBLISHING

FREEFALL

by Robin Brande

Published by Ryer Publishing

www.ryerpublishing.com

Original Copyright 2012 by Elizabeth Ruston/Robin Brande

Revised Copyright 2014 by Robin Brande

All rights reserved.

Cover photos Dreamstime.com

Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design, Inc.

http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Created with Vellum

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Heart of Ice

About the Author

Also by Robin Brande

1

It was her last column for Outdoor Adventure.

Their last column.

Eliza had waited three months until she could write it, could bear to look at the picture of him taken on that last day—the picture she knew she’d have to let them print at the top of the page. Because their columns always came with a picture.

She could have waited longer—people understood, no one was pushing her—but she wanted to write it while she was still angry at him, because those had always been their funniest columns, those he said-she said renditions of some disastrous adventure they’d both just barely survived.

This one wasn’t funny at all.

Is it better to die doing what you love, or to be more careful so you can stay alive and keep doing it? Jamey and I had those fights all the time—when he’d go diving with sharks in baited water. Or backpacking alone, deep in grizzly country during a salmon run, no contact with the outside world until a plane was scheduled to pick him up a week or ten days later. Or climbing in a country where even the toddlers carried guns.

Or that time we were hiking up Conundrum Pass in Colorado, and a freak storm blew in early in the morning, trapping us high on an exposed ridge above 13,000 feet. The hail beat down on us as lightning flashed all around. A bolt slammed the ridge right above me, blinding me for a moment with light I didn’t know could be that white.

And what did Jamey do? He pulled out his camera. He stood on that ridge with electricity raining down on top of us and he pulled out his damn camera.

“What are you doing?” I screamed as I topped the hill and prepared to keep running down the other side.

“It’s so beautiful!” he shouted back, aiming at the sky.

“You’re going to die, you a**hole!” I’m not proud to say I shouted, and as I tore down the hill desperate for the safety of treeline, it went through my head that those would be my last words to my husband, and some time a few hours later, when the storm passed, I’d have to trudge my way back up that mountain to retrieve his lifeless body. I actually started working out how I was going to carry him down. It kept my mind occupied and pushed out the terror of being struck by lightning myself. Cursing helped, too, and I had an awful lot to curse about with a husband who was such a reckless idiot.

But of course he didn’t die. Because Jamey was incredibly lucky that way. Everyone knew it—it’s what made being with him and reading about all his exploits in the wilderness so exciting.

But this time he is dead. From doing something so easy, something he’d done twenty, forty, fifty times before. Climbing up one of our local pitches, perfect blue-sky day, no wind, no weather, just Jamey and his friends out for a leisurely afternoon. He was supposed to be home by five. We were going to an early movie.

But it doesn’t matter how lucky or handsome or funny or charming or well-loved—fiercely-loved—you are, you can still die when you’re 29 and leave behind a bewildered, pissed off wife who doesn’t know how to be a widow any more than she knew how not to fall in love with the likes of you, Jamey Shepherd, from the first time I saw you in our college English class 11 years ago. You hooked me in the first time you spoke, and even though I was a lifelong chicken you somehow turned me into an adventurer, into a partner who could do half the crazy things you did, and I know if we’d have had time to start that family we talked about, our children would have been more like you than like me, because everyone always wanted to be you.

But now that’s over and that’s it, and all the amazing, daring, hilarious things you would have done and written about for all of us to see will never happen. Because of a stupid anchor bolt.

Wasn’t that a history lesson? “For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe, the horse was lost; for want of a horse, the battle was lost...” Because little details matter. Sometimes little details are all that matter.

The point is, Jamey, you robbed us. You went out one day with just a kiss at the door, and you promised to come back and you didn’t. You took that joyous, carefree life of yours and played with one too many risks. And now you’re never coming back, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.

We should all be monumentally pissed.

2

Eliza passed the kitchen window on the way to her mother-in-law’s back door. Daisy sat on guard duty just inside. She started barking before Eliza could knock.

“Good,” Hildy called to her. “I’ve got coffee.”

Eliza opened the door slowly, her foot extended to prevent Daisy from dashing. Still, the dog tried. Eliza reached down and scooped her up. “Why would you run away? Not spoiled enough here?” The dog panted. “Brat.”

Eliza set the terrier down and gave her mother-in-law’s thin shoulders a squeeze. “How are you feeling?”

“Rotten.” Hildy’s voice was deep and throaty, with the broad tones of her New York girlhood still intact. “The phone never stops.”

“Take it off the hook—you’re allowed. I did when Jamey died.”

“That’s because reporters were calling you. It’s just my friends calling me—but they won’t stop.”

The phone rang to prove her point.

“Leave it,” Eliza said.

Hildy shrugged. Eliza freshened her mother-in-law’s cup of coffee and poured one for herself. At the fifth ring the answering machine took over.

“Hi,” Hildy’s deep voice cut in, “Ron and Hildy can’t come to the phone...”

“I’ll have to change that,” Hildy mused, a slight break in her voice. She quickly doused it with a sip of coffee. “So, how you doing?”

“Fine. I thought you might like some company. Did you sleep much?”

“I’ll take a nap later...” Hildy paused to listen to the end of her friend’s message.

“—so give us a call—any time—I mean it. We’re thinking of you. Bye now.”

“That’s nice,” Hildy said. “They’re all so nice.”

“You should take them up on it, you know. That was the mistake I made—I hardly left the house for weeks.”

Hildy patted her daughter-in-law’s hand. “It’s not the same, is it? Jamey was such a surprise. Ronny...well, we knew about that for a long time, didn’t we?”

A stroke had destroyed Ron Shepherd’s great engineering mind, but left his body still relatively untouched. He deteriorated more slowly than he wanted to, Eliza suspected, knowing all along that his mind would never return. When finally his body began breaking down, he made it clear he was ready to go. Then a cold brought on pneumonia, and Hildy abided by his wishes not take any extraordinary measures. He had died quietly in his bed a few nights ago while Hildy sat holding his hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” Hildy said. She took another sip of coffee, then leaned back in her chair and peered at her daughter-in-law. “You’re going to say I shouldn’t, so let me tell you right now my mind’s already made up.”

“Okay,” Eliza said with a smile. “That’s typical.”

Hildy fidgeted with the edge of her placemat. “I’ve still got the house, you know—in Careyville.”

It had been Jamey’s childhood home in a small suburb of Syracuse, New York. He had left it for college at the opposite end of the country, deliberately choosing the hottest, brightest place he could find after a lifetime of cold, dark winters. Eliza had grown up in Henderson, Nevada, close to Las Vegas, had never left, and was grateful for it when Jamey showed up that first day of college at UNLV. Jamey’s parents had followed him to the desert a few years later, enticed by the warm winters.

Ron and Hildy had rented out their Careyville house to a series of tenants over the years, and the last family had been a disaster. After bouncing several rent checks, they moved out without notice and left the house in disrepair. The property manager had called with the bad news only a few days before Ron’s death.

“I was thinking I should go back and take care of that.”

“Why?” Eliza asked. “Let the management company do it—that’s what you pay them for.”

“No, I mean live there—move back there. Stay there.”

Eliza took a moment to absorb the news. “But why? I thought you hated New York—it’s too cold.”

“I don’t hate it,” Hildy said. “I just stopped liking it for a while. But maybe I can like it again—who knows?”

“But you have all your friends here. And me.”

“I have friends there, too. I don’t know, honey, it’s hard to explain. I just don’t feel so...right here anymore. First Jamey, now Ronny—all my boys are gone. I don’t think I want to live here without them anymore.”

“But your work—”

“I can get it going up there, too. Some of those people still remember me. I can work for a caterer, maybe, while I build my clientele back up again.”

“But Hildy...” Eliza cast about for a better argument. What exactly, she wondered, was her objection?

“I’m only sixty-nine,” Hildy continued. “I’m not ready to curl up and die yet. My mother lived until she was ninety-one, the mean old bag—”

“Hildy...”

“I have at least ten or fifteen more years of good honest work in me.” Hildy reached for her daughter-in-law’s hand. The older woman’s skin was warm and soft, and Eliza’s fingers were still cold from her early springtime walk.

“Lizzy, you’ve always lived here, so you don’t know what it’s like to miss your home. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss those miserable winters in Syracuse—at least you know when it’s Christmas. Here I can hardly get in the mood for it—some years I’m still wearing my bathing suit on Christmas Eve.”

“That’s not true.”

“Close enough. What I’m saying is, maybe I forgot how much I hated it, but I swear I miss it. I think it’s time for a change. Again. I want to go home.”

“You are home,” Eliza urged. “You can move in with me if you don’t want to live alone.”

“I don’t mind living alone. I like the quiet—you know that. Besides, I’ve been living alone the past few years, haven’t I? The way Ron was.”

The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, each absorbed in her own thoughts.

The decision came easily, almost unconsciously. Eliza was almost surprised to hear herself say it. “Then I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You wouldn’t last a winter,” Hildy said.

“I’m a hardy girl—you’ve always said so. Besides, it would be good for the book. I could fill in all the details about Jamey’s childhood—I wouldn’t have to rely on just you and what Jamey told me and a bunch of old pictures.”

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing for you there. Believe me.”

“Hildy,” Eliza answered softly, “there’s nothing for me here anymore, either. I’m coming with you. You might as well get used to it.”

It wasn’t entirely true, that part about there being nothing for her there. Eliza still had her own family—mother, stepfather, two brothers and their wives and a niece and nephew.

Which was why her mother couldn’t understand the impulse to go.

“I just want to see her through this year,” Eliza told her mother. “Make sure she’s okay. Jamey would want me to.”

“A whole year?” Joyce said.

“At least through Christmas. Come on, Mom, you know it’s the right thing to do.”

Joyce sighed. “But what about our movie dates? And all the birthdays and holidays you’ll miss? It’s only March—how are we going to do without you the rest of the year?”

Eliza had those same misgivings. It’s why she hadn’t gone away to college. She liked being close to everyone and everything she knew. But Jamey had already drawn her out of that shell, teaching her the pleasures of travel and outdoor excursions. She would just have to look at this as one longer expedition. Once it was over, she could come home again and burrow back into her routines.

“I think a change would do me good for a while,” Eliza said, hoping to convince herself as much as her mother. “I haven’t been able to work on the book at all—I’ve been too distracted. The publisher already paid me a good chunk of money for it. I’m supposed to deliver a manuscript by next year.”

“It’s just so long,” Joyce argued. “And what about your house?”

“It’ll be okay. The neighbors can check it every now and then. Really, Mom, it’ll be fine.”

Eliza decided to pack light. It was a skill she learned from living with Jamey for so long. He could get an assignment, get an invitation to go climbing or rafting or caving, and he’d be packed and out the door in a few hours. No puzzling over what to wear for formal versus casual events, what to wear if the weather went south—just his standard kit of zip-off pants, a few synthetic shirts, rain gear, and a layer of fleece.

Eliza had developed her own standard kit in the two years since Jamey died.

A widow’s wardrobe, she once told her readers, can play tricks on the eyes.

It’s like a nun’s habit. It draws attention to the woman, but it also allows her to hide behind it.

Think of the last time you saw a nun in the grocery store. You couldn’t help but stare at her—right?—no matter how briefly. But did you really see her? What color were her eyes? Were her lips full or thin? Did she have freckles or moles or a scar above her lip? Admit it: All you saw was the outfit. You forgot that behind it she was somebody’s daughter once, and that she had a life before she became what her clothes said she was.

Eliza fished through her widow’s wardrobe now: the black fleece pants and jacket, the gray sweaters and dress, the black dress pants and matching jacket. She added a few pair of jeans, some shorts and T-shirts, then considered her packing complete. She wasn’t going to Careyville to try to impress anyone. She was going to be a companion to her mother-in-law.

And to finally force herself sit down and write the book she had agreed to write. Even if it was going to hurt.

3

Snow covered the daffodils. They, like Eliza, had been tricked into believing spring had come to Careyville to stay.

Eliza layered long johns under her sweatpants and coat, and snugged a gray fleece cap over her ears. She left her long brown hair out of its customary ponytail so it could keep the back of her neck warm.

“Come on, Daisy.”

The terrier leapt from her sentry post on top of the couch. She had been sitting there since dawn, erect in front of the second-story window, eyes trained on the street below to guard against cats invading the Shepherd yard. So far she had warned away three.

This time of day Daisy faced south. Later, at a shifting of the guard Eliza still didn’t understand, Daisy would pad toward the window on the opposite side of the house, take up her station on one of the kitchen chairs, and guard the back yard instead. Eliza had to admit that the dog had adjusted to their new life in Careyville far faster—and better—than she had. For Eliza it was still a work in progress.

“That mutt has it too good,” Hildy said as Eliza scratched the terrier’s ears and then clipped on a leash.

“She won’t think so when I’m out there dragging her through the snow.”

“Eh, it’s good for her—remind her what a Syracuse dog is supposed to be like. She’s gotten soft—haven’t you, Daze?”

The dog raced down the stairs and waited for Eliza at the bottom. “We won’t be gone long,” Eliza said. “It’s probably too cold for both of us.”

“I’ve got that meeting at Walsh’s this morning,” Hildy reminded her. “I might not be here when you get back.”

“Good luck,” Eliza called, then she and Daisy stepped out into the morning chill.

It had been two weeks since they arrived—two weeks of unpacking and organizing and cleaning and otherwise avoiding the reality of the situation. For Eliza, at least, it was all still make-believe. She wondered when it would finally sink in that she had left the city where she had lived all her life, left friends and family and the familiar routines of her day, to hide in a strange town for the next eight and a half months.

“Daisy, stop.” Eliza tugged back on the leash and the dog strained forward. It was a daily contest for superiority, and Daisy, despite her size, normally won. Eliza didn’t have the heart to discipline the dog, even though the terrier sorely needed it.

Among her other personality defects, Daisy seemed to object to every four-footed creature she met. She couldn’t pass a Husky or a Doberman without lunging at it. She was less aggressive toward dogs her own size, but still growled at every one of them. And cats—why were they even allowed? Daisy seemed to have made it her personal mission to chase every single one of them off the earth.

Eliza and the dog puffed their way up the steep slope at the west end of Careybrook Lane. Eliza’s boots slipped in the snow, but Daisy continued on. She might be handy in the Iditarod, Eliza thought, if only someone would believe in her and give her a chance.

“Hold on,” Eliza warned, tugging back on the leash while she steadied her feet on the steep hill. But the dog ignored her and lunged ahead, leaving Eliza no choice but to keep scrambling.

At the top of the hill, to the north, was a web of cross-country trails where lately Eliza did her best thinking before writing. In addition to working on the book about Jamey, she also had her syndicated newspaper column to write every two weeks, and regular monthly assignments from various women’s magazines.

It had been a struggle, these past two years, to keep the magazines interested. During Eliza’s adventure days she could always sell her essays easily, and for good money. She’d even been able to compile some of her best ones into a book which sold reasonably well. Not as well as Jamey’s books—those were still popular, and maybe even more so with certain people now that he was gone.

As the dog pulled her along, Eliza practiced saying what she meant to write as soon as she got around to it that afternoon.

Change is inevitable. The cells moving through your veins right now aren’t the ones that were there last month...

Is that true? Eliza wondered. She’d have to check on the Internet when she got back.

Change is inevitable. You can stand where you are and let the waves crash over you, or you can dive in head first to meet them...

Well, Eliza thought, at least the first line was all right, but she’d have to keep working on the rest. It was her monthly essay for Outdoor Woman, and even though Eliza hadn’t been outdoors for more than a walk or a run since Jamey died, so far the editor hadn’t seemed to notice. As long as Eliza still had lessons to draw from the life she used to lead, she hoped she could continue writing the words that might inspire other women to do what she used to do.

Eliza and Daisy passed a wooden bench dedicated to one of Hildy’s old neighbors who used to rest under that particular maple tree. Then they strode up a small incline, toward a fork in the trail. To their left was the path leading to the lake and some of the fancier homes in Careyville, to their right a trail across the meadow. It forked further on, offering a choice between the woods or a long walk out in the open beneath a power line.

“No, Daisy, I want the sun,” Eliza said, fighting with the dog to stay left. But Daisy must have caught some scent in the woods, Eliza realized, because the dog was set on going that way.

Eliza gave in, as usual.

They were trotting along the path to the woods when Eliza heard a loud grunt, and then the sound of something bounding down the trail behind her. It sounded like an animal—something big.

“Bear!” a man shouted.

Eliza whirled around. She barely had time to register that there were bears in that part of New York, when a huge mass of black fur came tearing toward her and Daisy.

Eliza stumbled back just as Daisy lunged forward, jerking the leash from Eliza’s hand. The terrier attacked, leaping into the face of a large black Labrador, snarling and snapping and barking.

“Daisy! Stop!” Eliza tried to grab the leash, but it was lost in the tornado of teeth and bodies.

“Call your dog!” the man shouted, racing to catch up.

“I’m trying! Daisy!”

The Labrador’s owner, a man in sweats and a T-shirt and running shoes, immediately tried to break them apart. He hoisted his dog by the collar and kicked Daisy to keep her off.

“Hey!” Eliza shouted.

“Well, get your dog!”

“I’m trying!”

Eliza reached for Daisy’s collar just as the man kicked again.

“Ow! Damn it!” Eliza collapsed to her knees and cradled her wrist.

“I’m sorry—”

“Damn it!”

Meanwhile the terrier continued her insane assault. “Daisy, would you shut up!” Eliza managed to reach over with her good hand and grab the dog’s leash. She jerked Daisy to her side.

The man pulled his own dog a few feet off the trail. “Bear, sit.” The Lab plopped his tail into the snow and panted in a friendly way.

“Are you all right?” the man asked.

Eliza rotated her wrist to test it. “I’ll live. You didn’t need to kick her.”

The man’s voice was icy in return. “You should learn to control your dog.”

You should learn to control yourself, Eliza thought, but she didn’t say it. Because the truth was Hildy’s dog was a menace.

Eliza pushed to her feet and faced the jogger. And wasn’t prepared for his reaction.

The man took a step backward. “You’re...I’m...I’m s-sorry.” He suddenly seemed very interested in the trees off to the side.

Eliza yanked on the leash. “Come on, Daisy. Miserable dog.”

“I’m sorry,” the man said again.

Eliza sighed and looked at him. “No, I’m sorry. She’s just... protective. Or possessed, whichever one you believe.”

The man still wouldn’t meet her gaze. “It’s...f—” He seemed to struggle with the word. “Fine. Come on, Bear.” He headed left and continued jogging down the trail that followed the power line.

Eliza’s shoulders slumped. She knelt down beside the terrier. “Daisy, you are beyond a doubt the worst dog in the world—you know that, don’t you?”

Daisy’s soft tongue swept Eliza’s nose.

“Don’t even try it.” Eliza straightened and gazed out over the white-encrusted field to follow the progress of the jogger. He moved quickly, and she understood why she hadn’t heard him before she did. With her mind occupied and Bear and his owner running at that pace, she never had a chance to react.

“Thanks a lot,” Eliza muttered to the dog, who happily set out for the woods. It was a full ten minutes before Eliza felt her heart beat slow down.

They completed their loop and emerged back on Careybrook Lane at the opposite end from where they had started. Birds fluttered from branches as Eliza and the dog passed, sending showers of snow to the frosty lawns below.

They had just passed a house with a basketball hoop chained to the mailbox at the end of the driveway when Eliza heard a girl call out, “I like your dog.”

Eliza turned and answered wearily, “I don’t. You can have her.”

“Really?” A chestnut-haired girl of about ten wearing a purple coat and matching wool hat bounded from her front steps down to the edge of her driveway.

“No, not really,” Eliza answered with a smile. “I’m just not a big fan of hers at the moment. But she’s not mine—afraid I’ll have to take her back home.”

The girl squatted beside the dog and stroked her back. “What’s her name?”

“Daisy the Destroyer. Daisy the Demented.”

The girl laughed.

“What’s yours?” Eliza asked.

“Katie.”

“Hi, Katie, I’m Eliza.”

The girl stood up and offered her hand. Eliza was impressed to find the girl’s grip so strong. And unlike some girls Eliza had met, Katie had no trouble looking her directly in the eye. It was a mark of confidence Eliza loved to see in girls of any age.

“Isn’t today Monday?” Eliza asked, looking at the date on her watch. She often lost track of the days of the week—they were all the same to her unless she had some reason to remember, like a deadline. “Does school start this late here?”

“The teachers had a meeting or something this morning,” Katie said.

A woman emerged from the house carrying an armful of blankets. “Katie—oh.” She hesitated when she saw Eliza, but quickly recovered and smiled. “Hello.”

“Hi, I’m Eliza Shepherd. I live just down the street.”

“Oh. Hilda Shepherd’s girl, right?”

“Well, sort of—her daughter-in-law.”

“Oh, that’s right. Come on, honey, we have to go.” Katie’s mother set the blankets on the back seat of the car and walked around to the front.

“Well, see you later,” Eliza told Katie.

“Okay.” The girl scuffed her boots up the driveway and made room for herself in the back seat.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said, walking toward Eliza. “Where are my manners? I’m Carolyn Jackson. I’ve never met your mother-in-law, but my husband knows her. He’s lived here for ages.”

Eliza shook her hand. “Nice to meet you. I won’t keep you.” She waved to Katie and set off down the street.

The car slowed as it passed her. Carolyn rolled down the front passenger window. “I’m sorry—I meant to stop by when I saw you moving in. Is everything all right? Are the two of you settled?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“We should have coffee sometime. I’m free Thursday morning—maybe then?”

“Sure. That sounds nice. I don’t know if Hildy—”

“I’m sorry, I really have to hurry,” Carolyn interrupted. “We’re late. Why don’t you walk down Thursday. Around nine-thirty?” She waved and drove off before Eliza could answer, but what would she have said except yes? Now that the initial flurry of moving was over, Eliza had begun to realize just how isolated she was. She had never been the new girl in school, never had to begin from scratch building a life with friends and activities and new routines. She felt unsteady, and that was what she was struggling to convey in her Outdoor Woman essay. Like waves crashing against your shins...

She’d have to keep working on that.

“Well, it took some canoodling, but Teddy Walsh finally agreed.”

Eliza looked up from her laptop. “To classes?”

“No, better,” Hildy said. “We’re going to cater his new opening.”

“We?”

“Just one night—do you mind? I’ll do all the cooking, but I told him there’d be two of us to dish it out.”

“Hildy—”

“There’ll be lots of other tables—ours will be just inside the door when they first walk in. I thought I’d make my champagne potatoes...”

Eliza squinted skeptically at her mother-in-law. Hildy had talked her into gigs like this before: “Just a few hours...you won’t have to do a thing...it’ll be fun…”

Eliza saved the work on her laptop and sat back in her chair. “Tell me.”

Hildy smiled, as if she already knew she would get her way. “I met with Teddy—I was expecting his brother, but for some reason it was Teddy, but that was all right because I know him even better from when Jamey was growing up—”

“Cut to the chase.”

Hildy laughed her husky laugh. “It’s just for one night—just a few hours. I thought you might like a behind-the-scenes look at some of the people around here.”

“What do I have to wear?”

“Black. I know you’ve got plenty of that.”

To Hildy’s credit, she didn’t seem uncomfortable making the crack about Eliza’s clothes. Hildy, more than anyone else, had always been willing to acknowledge the death of her son and talk about it openly. It was a skill Eliza was still trying to learn.

Eliza sighed. “When is it?”

“A week from Friday.”

“And this is for what?”

“The Walshes are opening a new store in Monarch—it’s the town just over.”

“I thought you were going to talk to them about holding classes.”

“Teddy says he’ll think about that, too. We talked about doing some wine-pairings like the ones I did at Fancy Foods.”

In addition to running a catering business and teaching cooking classes, Hildy had worked out an arrangement with the largest specialty grocer in Las Vegas to combine cooking lessons with wine-tastings that would highlight the store’s selection. Every other Friday night she would haul her hot plates and cooking supplies to the store, and teach groups of half-inebriated customers how to whip up something besides cheese and crackers to go with their pinot noir or chilled chardonnay.

“Your dog got me yelled at today,” Eliza tattled. She recounted the morning walk. “Oh, and I met Carolyn...Jackson, I think she said.”

“Hmm, must be Willy Jackson’s wife.”

Eliza smiled. Everyone was a “y” to Hildy—Ronny, Jamey, Teddy, Willy, Lizzy. Eliza wouldn’t have been surprised to hear her mother-in-law call the President by a nickname if he had grown up in her neighborhood.

“She invited us for coffee Thursday morning.”

“If I can,” Hildy said. “You should go, though. You need to start making friends.”

“Thanks, I think I noticed that.”

“It’s not good for you to hang around with an old woman all day.”

“That’s why I keep walking her obnoxious dog,” Eliza said. She awakened her sleeping computer. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll be happy to be your servant girl next Friday.”

Hildy smiled. “Good.” She bolted from her chair as if all her earlier relaxation were just an illusion. “I have to go shopping. I told Teddy Walsh I’d bring by a few samples tonight.”

“I thought you already had the job.”

“You don’t know Teddy,” Hildy said. “That boy has always loved to eat.”

Eliza wondered if she had made a mistake. Somehow she’d let Hildy talk her into going with her to Ted Walsh’s.

“We’ll just pop in and out,” Hildy said. “But you should see how the other half lives—the Walshes have always had the best houses.”

They sat in Hildy’s car, lights off, taking in the view.

“How big do you think that is?” Eliza asked.

“Three story—I’m sure there’s a basement. Mmm, maybe five or six thousand square feet? It’s not as big as his parents’ house used to be, but it’s still plenty big.”

“And he lives there by himself?”

“I know—what a waste,” Hildy said.

“What do people do with houses that big?”

“Wander from room to room counting all their toys.”

Eliza shook her head. “All I can think of is having to clean it.”

“That’s what cleaning women are for.”

“Wouldn’t you feel lonely in a house that big?”

“Let’s go ask him.” Hildy exited the car, leaving Eliza to wonder if her mother-in-law really would ask that question. Yes, she decided, Hildy probably would.

Eliza followed Hildy to the door, feeling more like a fraud with every step. Here she was—semi-famous writer, lecturer, former adventurer—dressed in her nicest pair of pants and her one dress sweater, walking up the heated concrete driveway to Theodore Walsh’s home, hot dish cradled in her arms, prepared to pretend she was Hildy Shepherd’s assistant chef just so she could steal a peek inside and satisfy her curiosity about the lifestyles of rich people.

Research, she told herself. For that novel she might write some day. Or for a magazine piece on the trap of possessions versus the freedom of the wilderness. Or something like that.

“I’m just going to carry this in and leave.”

“No, you’re not,” Hildy scolded. “You’ll stand there and let me introduce you and you’ll talk like a normal human being.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t want to meet me.”

“Of course he does—he just doesn’t know it yet. And you’re going to try to talk fast and scoot right out of there, but I’m not going to let you. It’s time you practice making small talk.”

Eliza suppressed a smile. “You’re a bossy old witch, aren’t you?”

“You’re not going to sit around every night watching my hair turn gray.”

“It’s already gr—”

The door swung open. A man in his early thirties stood before them dressed in jeans, wool socks, and a Syracuse University sweatshirt.

Eliza felt overdressed.

“Hi, Teddy, here we are,” Hildy said, sweeping past him into the front room.

From Hildy’s comment about how much Ted Walsh liked to eat, Eliza expected him to be overweight. To the contrary: He was handsome and fit, with sandy brown hair, wire-rim glasses, and a charming half-smile that he directed toward Eliza.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi.”

She kept her head down and followed Hildy.

“Where’s the kitchen?” Hildy demanded.

“Through there,” Ted said, pointing straight ahead. He and Eliza followed. “Bossy, isn’t she?” he murmured.

“I was just telling her that.”

The kitchen looked new and unused. A half-eaten microwave dinner sat on the counter beside the sink. Eliza took in the cherry wood cabinets, the oak floor, the clean granite countertops in muted grays and greens. The room was cozy, despite how enormous it was. But it lacked something. The appliances all looked brand new—not even a smudge on their black and stainless steel exteriors. The track lighting cast a cheery glow, but what was wrong with this picture?

“I see you made yourself dinner,” Hildy smirked, setting her casserole dish on the counter.

“Yes. Cooked it myself,” Ted said. “Would you like one?”

Hildy made a face. “I don’t know how people eat that garbage. Why don’t you bring yourself home some soup from your store? I saw some nice ones in there today.”

“I didn’t have time to stop,” Ted answered. “I was expecting some ladies.”

“Oh, well we’ll get out of your hair—”

Ted smiled at Hildy. “I meant you two.”

Hildy laughed. “Well, you could have dressed up a little more.”

“I didn’t want to shock you.”

Hildy squeezed his arm. “It takes a lot to shock an old woman like me.”

Eliza watched in amazement. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother-in-law so flirtatious. And Ted Walsh seemed to be enjoying it as much as she did.

“Well, let’s see if we can feed you something better,” Hildy said, unveiling her creations with a flourish. “Take your pick.”

Ted withdrew a spoon from a drawer and sampled what was in the casserole dish. “Mmmm...”

“Horseradish mashed potatoes,” Hildy said with pride. “I like to serve those in champagne glasses—people really get a kick out of that. Of course we can use plastic glasses if you like.”

“I think we’d better. People get awfully sloppy at these things.” Ted leaned over the counter and continued sampling Hildy’s work. He reached for a stuffed mushroom.

“That one has garlic and—”

Ted held up his hand. “Let me guess.” He maneuvered it over his tongue while he gazed at the ceiling for inspiration. “Lemon, maybe some curry—”

“No,” Hildy said.

“Butter—”

“Of course—”

Ted turned to Eliza. “Did you make these or did she?”

Eliza wasn’t prepared for any attention. “Uh...no, she made them all.”

“You’re the assistant she talked about?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be cooking for this event?”

Eliza glanced at Hildy.

“She always does,” Hildy lied. “What difference does it make?”

“Just asking.” Ted made another selection. With his mouth full of smoked salmon and capers on crostini, he asked Eliza, “How long have you worked for Miss Hildy?”

“Uh, off and on, a few years.”

“Hm,” he said, swallowing. “That isn’t what I heard.”

Eliza tensed. “Oh?”

“I heard you’re Hildy’s daughter-in-law Eliza Shepherd, you’re about thirty-one, grew up in Nevada, two brothers, you majored in English, you’re a writer—what else have I missed?”

Eliza stared. “How could you possibly know all that?”

Ted shrugged and picked up another mushroom. “Word gets around.”

“Gossip,” Hildy said.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Ted asked.

“So far,” Eliza confirmed. “Did anyone guess my height and weight?”

Ted considered her. “Five foot four, maybe? Weight about...nah, I’m really bad at that. Let’s just say under two hundred—”

“Close enough,” Eliza said.

“Truth is, I met you once.”

“You did? When?”

“Maybe ten years ago? Long time. You and Jamey were up here visiting the folks.”

“Must have been the year after you got married,” Hildy said. “’Cause we moved out to Nevada—”

“I don’t remember,” Eliza interrupted. She wanted to head them both off before they felt it necessary to talk about Jamey. “Remember meeting you, I mean. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not surprised,” Ted answered. “As I recall, you only had eyes for Jamey.”

She nodded politely. It was still hard for her, hearing people talk about him so easily. With Hildy it was one thing—Eliza had learned to listen without flinching while Hildy reminisced about this or that from her son’s life—but she still had trouble hearing about Jamey from strangers. She supposed people felt entitled to talk about him. His life in the public eye made him other people’s property, not just hers.

“I saw something you wrote once,” Ted said.

“You did?”

“Some trip you did with Jamey—Antarctica, maybe? Somewhere where there were a lot of glaciers.”

“I didn’t go with him on the Antarctica trip,” Eliza said. “It must have been either Alaska or France.”

“Right—Alaska. Jamey took some great pictures, didn’t he? I liked the one of you climbing that frozen waterfall—”

“Listen,” Eliza said, “I don’t really—”

“I liked your article, too. Really vivid.”

“Thanks.” Eliza felt a mix of emotions: pride at the difficulty and success of that trip, joy at the memory of sharing it with Jamey, the pain of knowing that part of her life was over.

“Lizzy writes beautifully, doesn’t she?” Hildy said.

“She does. You do.”

“They made an excellent team.”

“I’m sure,” Ted said. “Anyway, I was sorry to hear about Jamey.”

Eliza cleared her throat. “Yeah, well.... So, will any of this food do?”

“All of it,” he said. “Can we do that?”

“Sure,” Hildy answered. “I’ll set it out in shifts. Start with the mushrooms—”

“However you want it,” Ted said. “Set up by four o’clock. I expect it’ll go till around eleven.”

“All for a grocery store?” Eliza asked before thinking it might offend him.

“Not just a grocery store,” Ted corrected her, “a shopping and dining experience.” He stood erect and placed his hand over his heart and recited solemnly, “‘At Walsh’s we don’t just promise the finest selection of foods in central New York, we promise a shopping and dining experience your family will want to return to again and again.’” He rotated his hand in the air. “And again and again and again. Seriously, we put up some great stores. Have you been in one yet?”

“No, sorry, I haven’t gotten out much.” Eliza thought guiltily about a conversation she’d had just a few days after arriving, when Hildy had suggested they stock up on groceries at Walsh’s.

“That place?” Eliza had said. “Too big, too loud, too trendy.” She’d driven past it a few times and always kept on going. She preferred the small, homey market just up the street from Hildy’s house. They might not have every food and gadget Walsh’s did, but at least Eliza could shop there in peace without having to compete with the crowds.

“I’ll leave all these for you,” Hildy told Teddy. “You can give me back my dishes later.”

“No, here, take them now.” Ted swiftly transferred the food from Hildy’s dishes into some of his own. When Hildy reached for her casserole dish, Ted pulled it back and rinsed it in the sink first.

Hildy nudged her daughter-in-law. “Wow, what manners—huh, Lizzy?”

Eliza shot Hildy a warning look. “Yes. Very nice.”

“So, Teddy,” Hildy said, “we’ll see you next Friday, then? Or maybe before? We just got here, and Lizzy doesn’t know many people yet—”

“That’s okay—”

“No, Lizzy—Eliza,” Ted said, “Hildy’s right. I should show you around the greater sights of Careyville before too long. Have you seen the post office yet?”

“I’m pretty busy.”

“Doing what?” Hildy scoffed. “Walking the dog? Clicking at your computer? You should go.”

Eliza glared at her. Hildy shrugged.

“You could come by the store tomorrow,” Ted said. “Oh, no, wait, I have to be at the Delmar store tomorrow. How about Thursday—lunch? I’ll give you a tour so you can see the full Walsh’s shopping experience. Maybe even sneak you a free lunch.”

“No, thanks, I’d pay—I mean, if I came—which I probably won’t—”

Ted smiled and there was mischief in his eyes, making Eliza feel even more flustered. She wasn’t used to men looking at her that way anymore. In fact, she had made a point over the last two years of not inviting any attention at all. She dressed plainly, usually in jeans and a black or blue shirt of some kind. She wore little or no makeup, kept her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and had switched from contacts back to glasses.

“I have to go,” Eliza said. “Come on, Hildy, I still have work to do.”

“Writing something?” Ted asked.

“Her magazine column,” Hildy said.

“Yeah, and it’s due day after tomorrow.” Eliza pulled at her mother-in-law’s sleeve. “We have to go. Nice meeting you—um, seeing you again.”

When they were safe in the car, Eliza turned to the older woman and said, “What was that?”

“What?” Hildy answered innocently.

“I’m not that lonely.”

“He’s a nice man—and very good looking, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure he is, but I’m not interested.”

“He’s very nice.”

“How do you even know? When’s the last time you talked to him before today?”

“He was one of Jamey’s friends in school.”

“Oh, I see, so we’re talking historically here. Well, they can’t have been that good of friends—Jamey never mentioned him.”

“It was when they were younger.”

“Hildy, honestly—I’m not looking for male companionship.”

“Honey, you’re going to have to start thinking about it some time. I’m not going to have any more sons, you know. You’re going to have to start looking around.”

Eliza groaned in frustration. “Please, please, don’t do that again. It’s embarrassing.”

“Why? He’s good looking, you’re gorgeous, if you’d fix yourself up a little—”

“Hildy, I’m serious.”

Hildy laid her hand on Eliza’s wrist. Eliza winced—the wrist was still tender from having been kicked that morning.

“It wouldn’t hurt to be a little friendly. You need the practice.”

“I’m plenty friendly.” Eliza gave her best fake smile. “See?”

“You know,” Hildy said, “I might get married again, for the right man.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I sure would. You think I’m too old for that? You think no one would want me?”

“No, of course I don’t think that. But even if you did, that’s you, all right? I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”

“You think you’re going to live with me until death do us part? No way,” Hildy said. “The first sign someone’s interested in me, you’re out on your can.”

“Start the car. I’m freezing.”

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Hildy pressed.

“He’s rich and he’s charming, and you know I can’t stand either of those things.”

“So that’s why my Jamey never made a success.”

“He was plenty successful and you know it.”

“He could have been a millionaire,” Hildy said wistfully, “but he loved his wife too much...”

“Start the car.”

“I can’t,” Hildy said. “He’s coming.”

Eliza slunk down in her seat. Hildy started the engine and rolled down Eliza’s window.

“I forgot,” Ted said, leaning in. “I can’t do Thursday lunch—I have a meeting. How about dinner instead?”

“Um...no, thanks. I can’t.”

“Yes, she can,” Hildy said.

Without turning her head Eliza flicked her hand against Hildy’s thigh. “I really can’t. Sorry.”

“Okay, too bad,” Ted said. “Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah, maybe. Good night.”

“’Night.”

Eliza rolled up her window and mumbled from the side of her mouth, “Can we please go now?”

Hildy waved to Ted before backing into the street. “He’s a very nice man.”

Eliza’s breath steamed the window. I had a nice man, she thought. One was enough.

4

Eliza awoke just after five o’clock Wednesday morning and put the coffee on. She sat at the kitchen table and booted up her laptop. She checked her essay one more time, then e-mailed it to her editor.

Change is inevitable.

When Eliza first stopped writing what she thought of as her Widow Columns, she received mixed reviews from her readers.

“Glad you’re moving on...”

“You understood exactly what I was feeling. I wish you the best, but I’m not ready...”

“Thank God. You were depressing the hell out of me...”

“I am a single white male, 35, non-smoker...”

It was Jamey’s idea, six years ago, that she taper off writing outdoor adventure articles and concentrate instead of writing more personal pieces. “You’re getting bored.”

“No, I’m not,” Eliza had argued.

“I can tell—your writing’s gotten flat.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Jamey tilted his head in his irresistible puppy doggish way. “Liz, you know what I mean. I love having you on these trips, but you shouldn’t feel like you always have to come. Maybe it’s time you started writing other things.”

“Go ahead and say it—you have a girlfriend.”

“It’s true.”

“She’s five foot-ten, blonde, an expert mountain climber, and you’d rather have her belaying you than me.”

“It’s all true, but that’s not why I’m saying this.”

“Then why?”

“Simple—I think you’re a great writer.”

The compliment had pleased her more than he could know. Jamey Shepherd had worked with some of the best outdoor writers in the world, and even though Eliza knew he was biased, she still soaked up his praise.

“And I think you have more to say than this,” Jamey continued. “A lot more.”

That one discussion had led to a whole separate career for Eliza. She began with a compilation of essays on overcoming her fears to become an outdoor adventurer, and that in turn led to a book about other women who embraced the risky life. Soon Eliza caught the attention of various women’s magazines, and for the last few years she had made her living through a combination of freelance work and the modest royalties from hers and Jamey’s books.

She also managed to make some money here and there from teaching and speaking fees. She taught writing workshops a few times a year, and she was often invited to speak at conferences around the country.

One of her more popular talks arose from an article she once wrote about creating a Life List. The first group to invite her to speak about that was a conference of women executives who wanted to be inspired in their personal lives. Eliza handed out several sheets of loose leaf paper to each woman, then over the next half hour she had them write quickly, without self-editing, listing every single thing they wanted to do before they died.

“Let’s hear some of them,” Eliza prompted when the half hour was over.

A dignified-looking woman in her mid-fifties stood and read, “I want to learn French.”

“Go hiking in the Alps,” said another.

“Learn to make a great chocolate mousse.”

Some ideas were simple—learn to drive stick shift—some more complicated—“Finally let go of all my anger.” Before she dismissed the group, Eliza made them all stand, raise their right hands, and pledge to begin pursuing just one thing on their list that very day.

“Can you go to Greece this afternoon? Probably not,” she said. “But you can get on the phone or the Internet and check out prices and make a plan to start saving and get yourself there next year or the year after that. Right?”

“Right,” the crowd agreed.

“How many of you said you wanted to learn a foreign language?” Hands went up. “You can call your community college as soon as you get back to the office and sign up for the next class. Or you can buy yourself a software program and practice for an hour every night. Right?”

“Right,” they all agreed.

“Okay, then. Don’t make me come back here,” she threatened, and the women cheered.

She had been invited back there three times so far. Other engagements around the country followed.

But that stopped when Jamey died. Eliza started turning down offers. She lost the urge to leave home. She lost the urge to tell other people what to do—she had forgotten what to do herself.

Instead she turned inward and wrote about what she found there, and the offers to speak dwindled. She wondered if her readership did, too.

Over the past year she had been working to bring them all back. She played at being upbeat again, funny—ready, she pretended, to enjoy life along with everyone else.

Daisy’s tags tinkled against her bowl as she drank. The terrier followed Eliza into the living room for the next stage of their routine.

Eliza flicked on the reading lamp beside the couch, and nestled beneath the lap quilt Hildy had made for her husband. Then Eliza opened her journal and prepared to tell the truth.

Her readers thought they saw her—knew her—but Eliza was well aware the woman she seemed to be in her columns was an illusion. Her essays were designed to inspire, challenge, uplift. More times than not Eliza used the columns to convince herself of changes she needed to make in her own life, even though she knew people reading the essay probably assumed she already had everything figured out.

But here in her daily journal she could be as petty and angry and awkward and stupid and pitiful as she really felt inside. Some days she might cover a sheet with lists of things to do, or whine about how someone had mistreated her, or go on and on for pages about how unfair it was that Jamey had died so young, just when they had talked about finally slowing down and raising a family.

Eliza had bent every ear around her for months after Jamey died, but she knew that even her dearest friends and her supportive family had their limits. No one wants to be around someone who cries all the time—a little goes a long way. Eliza learned to temper herself—to keep things breezy and light, to avoid certain topics that were sure to set her off—and then wait until she was alone with her journal pages to pour out the mean, ugly, pathetic truth.

She knew before she set pen to paper exactly who her topic would be that morning. She had already lost sleep over him last night. But first she needed to warm up, to dawdle.

Another cold morning, but sunny. Underslept. Got the column off just now. Maybe go to the bookstore later today? Get a copy of John Steinbeck’s journal. Maybe get a haircut?

Eliza searched the window for the first rays of morning. She stood, stretched, refilled her coffee. Daisy dozed on the couch—her sentry shift had not yet begun.

Eliza curled up on the couch again and rambled for another paragraph or two before finally acknowledging what was on her mind.