Before Ever After

Prologue

Epilogue

J
asmine
.

It was not Max Gallus’s top choice for his last thought, but it would have to do. He wondered if there was time to say it out loud.

He had difficulty telling which came first: his phone shattering against his cheek, his skin tearing from his ribs, or the flames taking dibs on what was left. He was certain though that the Silence came last. It always did.

E
ggs and engagements. Though slightly odd, they were a harmless pairing on most days, even with a greasy pile of bacon on the side. But today was not like most days, because in less than an hour, they would make Shelley Gallus a twenty-six-year-old widow.

Shelley did not know this yet, so for now she was happy to listen to Brad’s eighth retelling of how Simon had proposed to him. This was, after all, why she and Max had driven down from London for a holiday with their friends. The last time all four of them had been together was two years earlier, when they had met on a budget European tour. Toasting the engagement was a good excuse for a reunion and excessive amounts of Rioja.

The trip was also Max’s chance to continue his long-time pursuit of the perfect Spanish omelet. His passion for eggs almost rivaled his devotion to chickens, though generally he preferred the latter off a plate than on it. Max staunchly believed you could get through anything if you had a chicken, and the clucking kind, in his expert opinion, had far more uses than the ones nesting on warm mashed potatoes and gravy.

Shelley never fully understood her husband’s ethos on poultry and
chalked it up as just another item on his long list of quirks. His rabid love of the Bee Gees topped that list, while his two-year reign as strip Scrabble champion fell somewhere in the middle. (Shelley was, by default, first runner-up, being the only other contestant in their Saturday-night tournaments.) Still, she loved all of Max’s quirks equally, and the sum of them even more.

Accompanying Max on his omelet excursion was to have been the first thing on Shelley’s morning agenda, but a rogue prawn from the previous night’s paella had other plans. Shelley insisted that Max go on his egg hunt without her, and Simon decided to tag along. She didn’t have a hard time guessing why Brad had opted to stay behind and play nurse to his captive, albeit slightly green, audience.

Shelley flushed the toilet and drowned out the last lines of Brad’s latest blow-by-blow account from the other side of the bathroom door. She squirted bright pink soap onto her palm during the interlude of her gastric flamenco. The scent of strawberries, or rather what strawberries might smell like if they were made from melted plastic and disinfectant, filled the white-tiled room. She turned off the tap and stepped into the bedroom. “Simon certainly outdid himself. I will never look at cheesecake in the same way again.”

“You didn’t think that he could hold out for long, did you?” Brad brushed his sandy blond hair from his brow and held up the large Nikon dangling from his neck. His permanent dimpled smirk peeked out beneath the camera. He focused its lens and chased the laughter sprinting across her face.

Shelley’s laugh followed its familiar trail up to her aquamarine eyes, flitted through her dark lashes, and settled where the almond slant of her eyelids met the faint crinkles above her golden cheeks. This was the point where most people caught their breath and wondered from which continent she could have been so magnificently misplaced. Shelley was oblivious to the serendipity of her curious beauty and a lifetime on the receiving end of this involuntary half-gasp had left her convinced that everyone she knew was asthmatic.

Shelley’s gut twisted. Intermission was over.

“You really should take something for that, you know,” Brad said. “I’m sure Simon has some Tums tucked away somewhere.”

“I’ll try my luck with some tea first. Chewing cherry-flavored chalk can be Plan B.”

“Sure thing. One cup coming up.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll survive a trip to the kitchen. I’m tired of staring at the ceiling.” Shelley made her way to the sunflower-yellow kitchenette. The clicking of Brad’s camera trailed her, chronicling the swish of her wavy dark ponytail against her nape.

She stood on tiptoe to reach inside the cupboard, then pulled out a tea-stained cup and set it on the counter. She scoured the pantry for a tea bag.

Brad snapped a portrait of Shelley’s sole find, capturing the flutter of a cobweb on the ancient jar of coffee creamer sitting on the shelf.

Shelley sighed, picked up her phone, and pressed the speed dial.

Black coffee with a hint of gravel answered. “Miss me already, luv?”

Despite the din of the Madrid rush hour in the background, Shelley could tell from her husband’s voice that he was grinning. After two years of marriage, she still got butterflies when that flash of mischief crossed Max’s dark and scruffily handsome features. Unfortunately for Shelley, butterflies and toxic crustaceans, as a rule, do not get along. She stifled a groan and grasped the counter. Her fingertips nudged the teacup closer to the edge.

“Are you all right, Shell? You sound worse.”

“I’m fine.”

Max eyed the train door. The last of the passengers were filing in. He pushed through the crowd. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I just called to ask if you could get some tea on your way back.”

“Simon and I can head back now,” Max suggested as he trampled on more toes.

“No, don’t. It can wait.”

Brad found his next subject. Two clicks immortalized his now empty pack of peppermint gum that Simon had, as usual, promptly polished off.

“All right.” Max stopped squeezing between shoulders. The door began to slide shut just as he reached it. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Oh, and Max, please make sure you get …”

“Jasmine,” Max was about to guess correctly. Something grazed his foot as he stepped back from the door. It was a blue backpack. Or was it purple? Colors tended to look the same when they exploded.

Shelley’s hand slipped from the counter.

The teacup shattered on the floor.

Click
.