Seasons of the Fool (12 page)

Now, he was laughing in earnest. Shaking his head at her. Pulling a handgun from the waistband of his pants.

She brought the poker down, hard, on his wrist. The gun skittered away, under the sofa. “Shit!” he said, clutching his hand to his stomach.

“Get. Out,” she repeated. Still brandishing the poker, she began angling out from behind the coffee table, toward the gun.

“You bitch,” he hissed, and lunged for his weapon. She stabbed at him with the blunt end of the poker and was horrified when she felt his skin give way beneath the tip. He screamed as a bright red stain blossomed around a hole in his shirt.

Someone pounded hard on the front door. “Police! Open up!” a muffled voice yelled.

“Oh, God,” she breathed. Then she yelled, “Come in! Please come in! He’s going to rape me!”

The door sprang open, ricocheting off the wall with a bang, and two uniformed cops rushed in. “Hands up!” one of them yelled, training a gun on them. “Both of you!”

Ron was grimacing in pain. He pointed at her with his good hand, clutching his wounded arm to the puncture. “Arrest that bitch! She stabbed me and broke my hand!”

“Hands up, I said!” the cop shouted. Julia dropped the poker and raised her hands.

The second cop, who also had a weapon drawn, was eyeing Ron. “I remember you,” he said. “You were here before.”

“That’s right,” she said, her hands still in the air. “This time, he broke in and was waiting for me. See the window?” She tilted her head back, toward the source of the draft.

Ron shot a look of pure malice at her.

“His gun is under the sofa,” she went on. “He dropped it when I hit him with the poker.”

Cop number two knelt and retrieved the gun, pocketing it. Then he picked up the poker. “We’ll have to hold this as evidence, ma’am,” he said. “And both of you will have to come with us.” He stepped toward Ron and began to wrap his wrists together with a zip-tie.

“I understand,” Julia said, beginning at last to tremble.

~

Darkness had fallen by the time she returned home. The cop who gave her a ride helped her duct-tape a plastic garbage bag over the broken window pane. She wondered numbly when she would have the money to get it fixed.

In the process of booking Ron, the police had discovered outstanding assault warrants against him in Wisconsin and Illinois. They assured her that he was not going to be released from custody any time soon. “He’s going to be out of commission for a very long time,” one of the cops had told her.

She wished she could believe him.

Right now, though, staring at the plastic bag billowing in the breeze, she could not wrap her brain around the concept of
safe.

She had been defiled any number of times over the past fifteen years. Handing over her money to Jesse was one thing; she had done that of her own free will. Lance’s affairs had damaged their marriage, but it might not have been destroyed if she had not stepped out on him, too.

This break-in, though – she had had no part in this. This was not her fault.

Except that she had agreed to go out with Ron in the first place.

But going out to dinner with someone wasn’t acquiescence to a sexual assault. It didn’t justify a home invasion.

She was supposed to be
safe
here.

Reeling away from the violated window, she turned to the only thing she had that was still hers alone. She went to her office and shut the door, turning the pitifully inadequate lock. Then she opened her laptop and began to write.

~~~~

~~~~

Julia stood and stretched, easing the ache in her spine, as she dusted the dirt from her hands. She had been sitting too much lately, parked in front of her computer in her chilly office, putting the finishing touches on her book and learning how to promote it. The learning curve was steep, but rewarding; as she picked up and polished each new skill, her self-confidence grew. And she was finding her theater background useful. She had uploaded a video of herself reading an excerpt from her novel to a bunch of social media sites, and she was beginning to find an audience for the book. Some of her friends from her old life in Chicago had even congratulated her, marveling at her talent. At least one of them – a frustrated novelist herself – had posted several sniping comments on her Facebook page, and then blocked her.

Oh, well. Her loss.

She was also recovering from the home invasion. Reluctant to leave the house at first, she had arranged for a few sessions with her therapist via Skype. Now, weeks later, she could view the incident as a victory: she had successfully defended herself and her home against a criminal, which was no small thing. She was still upset every time she saw the duct-taped window, which she still hadn’t had repaired. But her feelings were morphing from shame, to anger at Ron for breaking in. Still, sometimes, she turned the anger on herself, for getting involved with him in the first place. But that was happening less and less often as time went on.

Her writing had helped with that, too.

With all of these small successes, her house had begun to seem stuffy as winter waned. It felt good to be outside, doing something other than staring at pixels on a screen.

“Hello!” Ms. Thea called from the street. “Nice to see you out and about!” The older woman let herself in at the gate. She was dressed in her usual jeans and flannel shirt, her gray hair caught back in a green bandanna. She carried a paper bag, which she presented now to Julia.

“Thank you,” Julia said automatically, and then peered into the bag. “Oh! Thank you! What are they?”

“Dahlias, mostly.” Ms. Thea reached into the bag and poked the bulbs around with a forefinger. “These bigger ones are iris. I was hoping to have some freesias for you, too, but something must have eaten them.”

“That’s too bad.”

Ms. Thea shrugged. “It happens. Everything has to eat – even the deer and the moles. How are you, dear? Elsie and I were just talking about how we haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“I know,” said Julia, chagrined. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy trying to publish my novel.”

“How exciting,” said Ms. Thea. “What’s it about?”

“Oh, this and that.”

Ms. Thea gave her a penetrating look, but let it drop. Instead, she said, “We were wondering whether you’d heard anything from that jerk of a handyman.”

“Not since the break-in, thank God,” she said. “I did hear back from the police, though. He’s been extradited to Racine, and I guess the charges up there are bad enough that he may never be tried here – which suits me just fine. It’s bad enough that I have to testify against Lance. I’d rather not have to testify against Ron, too.” She grinned weakly. “The fewer criminal courtrooms I see the inside of, the happier I’ll be.”

Ms. Thea gave her another hard look, but again, she let the matter drop. “I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better, anyway,” she said. “I’ll be sure to tell Elsie. I know she’ll be relieved.” She stepped back as if she were getting ready to go, but paused and said, a little too nonchalantly, “Oh, I meant to ask you. Have you heard from David?”

“No,” she said. “I haven’t talked to him in weeks.” That her stomach did a flip when she heard his name, she refused to either acknowledge or examine.

“Strange,” Ms. Thea mused. “He’s usually out here on the weekends by now, getting the house ready for the summer season. If you talk to him, tell him we were asking after him, would you?”

“Of course,” she said automatically. “Thanks again for the bulbs, Ms. Thea. Give Ms. Elsie my love.”

Ms. Thea waved and let herself out at the gate.

With a sigh, Julia picked up her spade again and went back to turning over the soil in the flower bed. The conversation with Ms. Thea had brought reality back to her with a vengeance. Maybe physical labor would keep her from wondering yet again why she hadn’t heard from Dave since that text he’d sent, promising her that he would call.

She doubted it would work, but she couldn’t think of an alternative.

~

The next morning, she pulled the trigger and uploaded her book to a number of sales sites. Over the next few hours, as the e-mailed acknowledgements of its availability rolled in, she posted about it on all the social media sites she could think of.

Then, wishing she had someone to celebrate with, she went to raid her stash of booze.

She bypassed Lance’s best whiskey – too many uncomfortable associations – in favor of a bottle of expensive cognac that had been gathering dust in the back of the liquor cabinet in Evanston for at least ten years. It had been a gift from one of Lance’s clients, and he had kept it only because it was high-end hooch; he didn’t particularly care for brandy. She wasn’t sure if she liked it, either. But she intended to find out.

The bottle itself was a work of art. She admired its sleek, almost womanly curves as she poured a couple of fingers of the stuff into a stemless wine glass. Standing at the kitchen counter in her rustic cottage, she took a tentative sip, smiling as it warmed her all the way down. Then she picked up the bottle and brought it with her into the living room.

It was still chilly enough on this late April afternoon that a fire would feel cozy. She set about lighting a blaze in the fireplace while she sipped her drink. When the fire looked as if it would take, she settled back on the couch with her cognac and her e-reader.

Ten minutes later, she set the e-reader aside and picked up her phone.

Where
was
Dave, anyway?

She pulled up a blank text, her thumbs hovering over the keypad for a few moments. Then she tossed off the last of the cognac and started typing.

I’m published, as of today. Look me up on Amazon.

She refilled her glass from the bottle on the floor and settled in to wait. But only a few moments later, her phone buzzed. She grinned as she read his response:
Hey, congrats! That’s great.

Thanks!
Her thumbs hovered over the phone again. Then she chided herself for her hesitation. After all, they were friends, weren’t they?
What’s new with you?

A longer pause this time.
More trouble in paradise,
he finally texted back.
Tell you when I see you.

Her hopes rose.
When?

This weekend.

She paused again, but only for a moment. The liquor gave her the courage to plunge on.
Can’t wait. I miss you.

She finished her drink and had poured herself another before he replied.
I miss you too. See you soon.

Her inhibitions were loose enough that she might have added a sappier message, but she was not so far gone as to think it a good idea. She closed the message app to remove temptation. Only then did she notice the little red circles on her social media apps all sported numbers with three digits.

Curious, she went into her office and opened Twitter on her laptop. Then she gasped. Lavinia Thorne – one of the biggest indie-author names in romance – had tweeted about how much she loved Julia’s book, and her legions of followers were duly passing it along.

Thank you!
she immediately tweeted to Lavinia.
You read it awfully fast! It’s only been out for a few hours.

Lavinia responded right away:
I’ve been awaiting this book since I saw your video. Bought and read it immediately, and was not disappointed. Kudos! Telling everyone I know!

Julia thanked her again and sat back in shock.
I have a fan. I’ve been a published author for less than a day, and already I have a fan, and it’s Lavinia Thorne.

She polished off her latest drink and poured another. With it, she toasted Lavinia Thorne and everyone Lavinia knew.

~

When she checked her sales statistics that night, she came to understand exactly how many friends Lavinia Thorne had. Apparently, several thousand people had bought copies of her book.

She was sure it was a mistake – some kind of clerical error that would be fixed the next day. But no. The next day, her book had edged even higher on the sales charts.

On day three – Friday – her book made the Hot New Releases list. It dawned on her that the best way to capitalize on this unexpected success was to write another book – and the sooner, the better. Not only that, but working on a new book would keep her from refreshing her sales stats page every five minutes.

She was beginning to draft a new storyline when her phone rang. Distracted, she answered it without checking the number first. “Hello?”

“Julia, it’s Andy.”

Panicked, she glanced at the date in the corner of her computer screen. “I’m not supposed to be in court today, am I?” she asked.

He chuckled. “No, no, nothing like that. The trial was continued until May 4th, remember?”

She relaxed. “Right. Yes. I remember now. So then why…?”

“Well,” he said, “we should probably get together within the next week or so to go over your testimony. Just to talk about the kinds of questions you can expect, and what you should wear to court. Things like that.”

“Oh. Right.” She supposed that made sense. “When did you want me to come in? I mean, I assume you’ll want me to come to your office.”

“I would, yes. Let’s say next Friday, May 1st, at 10:00 a.m. Is that convenient? You’ll need to block off the whole day.”

“Um, sure.”

“Good! I’ll have my staff order lunch for us. See you then.”

She ended the call, and typed the appointment into her calendar with shaking hands. Then she blew out a breath and sat back. She was on the verge of having everything she’d said she wanted: she was a published author with a bestselling book; she would be done with Lance in a very short time, as soon as she delivered her testimony before the judge; and Dave would be here tomorrow.

It seemed almost too good to be true.

~

Dave beat time on the steering wheel to the song on the radio, and grinned at the kids in the rear-view mirror. Ritchie, fiddling with his video game, didn’t notice. But Randi looked up from her book and gave him a sunny smile in return.

He had promised them both a weekend away from the craziness their life had become. Nina had survived her suicide attempt, and then spent two weeks in the hospital while they adjusted her medications. She came home functional, but subdued. Her doctor said the new meds would even out Nina’s mood. She told Dave that the drugs made it so that she couldn’t feel
anything
, and that if this is what it took to be normal, she wasn’t sure she could do it.

Two weeks after her return home, she tried to kill herself again. She had been in the hospital ever since.

The kids continued to roll with the punches, although Ritchie’s grades were suffering as he retreated to his video games, and Randi often acted far too mature for her eleven years. Dave thought if he got them out to Michiana for the summer, he could get them to be kids again.

In any case, the summer house needed his attention. The doors and trim needed painting, and there was a persistent problem with the automatic sprinkler system that he had been meaning to address for the past two years. The weather this weekend promised to be beautiful – warmer than usual for late April, and with no rain in the forecast. He could at least get at the painting. The kids would probably enjoy helping.

And to be perfectly honest, he wanted Julia to meet his kids. Not that he was auditioning her for the role of stepmother – that would be far too premature. But Randi was getting to the age where she needed a female adult in her life – someone who wasn’t caught up in their day-to-day madness.

Madness. Craziness. Insanity. No matter which word he used to describe their lives, it always came back to Nina.

He made the turn off U.S. 12 into Michiana, and rolled into their driveway a few minutes later. “Last stop,” he called. “Everybody out.”

“Can we go down to the lake?” Randi asked.

“How about if we unpack the car first? Here you go, buddy.” He handed Ritchie his backpack from the back of the SUV. The boy slung it over one shoulder while still focused on his handheld game.

Randi had grabbed her own backpack. “Do we have anything to eat? I’m starving.”

“There’s some canned tuna in the cupboard, I think.” As Randi made a face, he added, “And the stuff we brought in the cooler. But we’ll need to go to the grocery store.” He hoisted his own suitcase out of the car and started for the stairs.

“Hello!” Julia called from the road. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I saw you pull in.”

“Mind?” He was grinning from ear to ear. “Of course not. Guys, this is Julia Morton. She lives in that cottage near the end of the street. Julia, this is Randi and Ritchie.”