Wreckage, p.1
Wreckage, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Emily Bleeker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477821930
ISBN-10: 1477821937
Cover design by Shasta O’Leary-Soudant / SOS CREATIVE LLC
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916226
To my husband, Joe—You are my best friend, my confidant, and the one person I’d love to be stranded with on a deserted island.
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
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
LILLIAN
Present
Sometimes you have to lie. Sometimes it’s the only way to protect the ones you love. Lillian replayed the phrase in her head, fiddling with her wedding ring. She’d said it every day for the last eight months. Maybe today she’d believe it. The only way, Lillian repeated, spinning the plain gold band around her finger, once for each lie that she’d told. Losing track for the third time in a row, she shoved her hand under her thigh to keep from counting again. If only it were harder to lie, maybe she could stop. But lying was easy. Well, easier than telling the truth.
And no crying, she coached herself firmly. She’d had her fill of crying in front of total strangers. Today she was determined to show the world her strong side, not her ugly-cry face. No one wants to see that. Plus, crying would ruin the makeup coated all over her face. It was more than she’d worn in years, and a nice young lady named Jasmine was smearing on another layer.
When Jasmine pulled out a large pink aerosol can, spraying till Lillian’s hair could be labeled a fire hazard, it seemed she was finished. Stepping back to examine the final product, the girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say, That’s as good as it’s gonna get. Not exactly confidence boosting.
As the makeup girl bounced away, Lillian sat quietly, examining her manicured burgundy nails, feeling like she was playing dress-up. A tomboy as a kid and now a mother of two boys, she never thought much of makeovers, but she couldn’t deny the allure of pretending to be a whole new person. If she couldn’t be the old Lillian and she couldn’t stand her new self, then fake Lillian was probably the best option.
The house, like Lillian, had also been transformed in preparation for the film crew. After a week of cleaning on her own, Lillian finally gave up and hired a service that left the two-story colonial immaculate. Of course, it took a pair of production assistants less than five minutes to decide it was all wrong.
They’d burst through the front door just after sunrise. Too nervous to eat breakfast, Lillian watched in silence as one of the high-strung assistants, the one who smelled of coffee and tobacco, ran from room to room collecting every single family picture on display throughout the house. After moving the antique wingback chairs from the study to either side of the Lindens’ upright piano in the living room, they strategically placed the pictures across the piano’s lid.
Blowing a piece of crackly hair from her eyes, Lillian studied the photos’ final positions. The family portrait from the main hall replaced the floral canvas that used to hang above the piano, and the picture of Jerry and the boys from Josh’s nightstand nestled against the silver-framed picture of Lillian holding hands with two little boys wearing backpacks.
She looked like a stranger in that photo. How long had it been? Three, maybe four years? That long brown hair tumbling around her face and a real smile lending brightness to her emerald eyes. Her skin back then was creamy as buttermilk, with freckles tossed across her nose like cinnamon. If Lillian met that woman at a PTA meeting, she’d want to have her over for a playdate and ice cream. She looked happy.
Two frames over was a picture from the upstairs hall. It was taken several months ago when Jerry realized they hadn’t sat for a family portrait together since . . . since she came home. Jerry picked out the final prints because Lillian wanted to pass on it. They turned out horrible. The boys looked uncomfortable in their matching ties and Jerry’s arm seemed to hover around Lillian like he couldn’t bear to touch her. Now it was going to be on national television. Everyone would see the two Lillians, side by side, before and after. The “after” Lillian cut off her long hair and clipped her bangs away from her face. Her smile was tight, forced, and her eyes were no longer the color of emeralds but the pale green of jade.
Lillian imagined walking over to the piano and shoving every last one of those photos onto the floor. It would only take one sweep of her arm to get them all. They’d crash to the ground in a pile of glass and glossy paper. Biting her top lip, she held back an amused smile. Even visualizing it was so satisfying, but the last thing she wanted to do right now was draw more attention to herself.
To avoid further violent fantasies, Lillian shifted her gaze away from the line of frames filled with smiling faces and focused on searching the piano for dust. The mahogany surface was a magnet for dirt, and the smell of the orange oil she’d rubbed over it still hung in the air. Lillian loved that piano. Just before Josh was born, she’d practically forced Jerry to buy it. He laughed at her since neither of them could play a note, but she had insisted. The piano wasn’t for them; it was for the baby growing inside her, for Josh and then Daniel.
Lillian shook her head. No wonder that young mother in the pictures smiled so easily. She didn’t know yet that sometimes life makes different choices than you do. Stupid life.
The heavy oak front door banged open, making Lillian jump. A tall, fine-boned woman in a tan suit barged through as if she’d lived there her whole life. Lillian watched her with fascination. She’d recognize that face anywhere: the long, thin nose and high, hollow cheekbones, her blonde hair moving like a helmet of styled straw, and those eyes, so light blue they almost faded away. They all belonged, unmistakably, to Genevieve Randall from Headline News. Lillian and Jerry used to watch the news program every Friday night, arguing playfully about the real-life sagas Ms. Randall narrated on the screen. She was even thinner in real life.
Great. The camera really does add ten pounds. Lillian sucked her stomach roll behind her belt.
The crew snaked a mic through the back of the investigative reporter’s coat jacket and shirt, then clipped it discreetly on her lapel. Lillian was impressed at how well Genevieve Randall ignored the hands grasping around inside her blouse. She shuffled through a deck of notecards until they finished. Then, she straightened her suit coat, fluffing the white silk blouse that peeked out through the vee of her lapels. Snatching up a few more papers, she stacked them into a neat pile before resting her ghostly gaze on Lillian.
For a brief moment it felt as though the reporter was staring through her, or more like into her, like she could see all of the secrets lined up inside Lillian’s mind. It made Lillian want to wrap her arms around her body to ward off the X-ray eyes.
“Mrs. Linden,” Genevieve Randall called from across the room, her voice echoing in the two-story-high entryway. “It’s so good to see you in person. Thank you for agreeing to talk to us today.” Her red-soled stilettos clacked loudly on the wood floor as she crossed to the second wingback chair, across from Lillian.
How does Genevieve Randall know me? Lillian wondered briefly. Then she remembered. Everyone knew who Lillian Linden was; her face had been all over the TV off and on for the past two and a half years. It was a fact that still took her by surprise.
Genevieve Randall sat down in the chair like a feather falling, immediately assuming the reporter position: back straight, shoulders relaxed, and a flashing smile on her face. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Linden,” the reporter said, extending a hand with long, thin fingers.
“Likewise,” Lillian whispered, pressing on a nervous smile, shaking the cold hand, hoping her lingering calluses didn’t scratch Ms. Randall’s baby-soft skin.
“I was excited when my producer green-lighted this project.” Ms. Randall folded her hands demurely over a stack of papers in her lap. “I’ve followed your story from the beginning. I can’t wait to hear it from your point of vi
“Well, thank you for coming.” Lillian shifted in her seat.
“My pleasure. Now, we’ll get started in a few minutes. And please remember, when I’m interviewing you try to feel comfortable. Answer the questions like we’re friends sitting down for a cup of coffee. Okay?
“Remember that list of questions I sent you? I plan on sticking to those, so no surprises. All I need from you is to be as descriptive and accurate as possible in your responses. Does that seem manageable?” She smiled, her teeth whitened so often they bordered on see-through.
“I . . . I’ll do my best.” Sweat beaded on Lillian’s forehead, threatening to drip down and ruin her makeup mask.
“And you do understand that this is an exclusive interview? After signing our contract, you can’t accept any other offers.”
“I understand completely.” Lillian chewed on the inside of her cheek. The exclusivity clause in her contract was the only reason she’d agreed to an interview with Headline News. That little phrase was her escape hatch out of the media circus that had become her life. If she could get through this one interview, she’d finally be safe.
“Okay. Had to get the legal stuff out of the way.” Genevieve glanced around. “Now, where’s your husband, Mrs. Linden? Jerry? I was hoping to talk to him once we’re finished.”
“He’s upstairs getting ready.” Lillian brought her thumb up to nibble on the nail but stopped when she remembered the shiny polish. “I told him he didn’t have to watch my whole interview. It’s easier for both of us that way.”
“That’s fine. This is about you. Whatever makes you the most comfortable is what I want. How about the kids?” The cap of a chunky red Sharpie clacked against her teeth as she reviewed her notes.
“At the neighbor’s house,” Lillian said, eyes narrowing. “I thought I made it clear I didn’t want them involved.” The kids had gone through too much already. No more interviews. She and Jerry agreed on that a long time ago.
Genevieve glanced up. “No, no, I was hoping we could get one family shot at the end. Don’t worry, Lillian, no questions.”
“Okay, maybe one shot.” Cameras were fairly commonplace for Josh and Daniel the past few years. They probably wouldn’t notice one clicking away in the background.
“All right, I’m almost ready here,” Genevieve snapped expectantly to the man with the headphones. “My questions, Ralph.”
The young guy with dusty-blond hair and oversize black-rimmed glasses who’d rearranged all Lillian’s pictures ran toward the reporter, staring at the ground like a dog dominated by his alpha. She flipped some rumpled pages scrawled with ink into the intern’s hand, then resumed going through her stack of cards.
“Run over those notes with Steve before we get this going,” Genevieve Randall ordered. The young man slinked away in submission. Lillian was sufficiently intimidated.
After running a sound check with the crew, Ralph helped Lillian check her mic and then called Jasmine in for a last-minute touch-up on both women, though Lillian was sure it was purely for her benefit. Then everything became eerily still with Genevieve the only one in motion. Smoothing her already perfect hair, she said, “Roll tape.” The cameras were on.
“Five, four, three, two, one . . . interview with Lillian Linden.”
CHAPTER 2
LILY-DAY 1
Fiji
The doors open easily, and the moist heat of Fiji floods in and mingles with the stale air-conditioning from inside the small airport. I take a deep breath. The smell of cooled air escaping into the atmosphere is apparently the same in all parts of the world.
“Well, Lillian, look at us, a couple of jet-setters.” Margaret slips her age-spotted hand into the crook of my arm, rushing us toward a tiny jet appearing on the horizon. “I wish you would’ve worn something a little more . . . appropriate for the occasion.”
Back at the resort I had thrown on a pair of cutoff jeans and a worn green tank top over my swimsuit two minutes before the limo arrived. I’d barely slipped on my ratty Nikes as the bellhop tossed my bags in the car. No one but Margaret cares what we look like in Fiji. I could walk down the beach naked and the cabana boys would just ask me if I wanted a refill on my cocktail.
We’ve been in Fiji a week already and I haven’t carried my own bag once. Everyone seems to be on strict orders to treat us like celebrities. Between the crazy amounts of food and the compulsory lack of exercise, I might return home twenty pounds heavier.
“Sorry, Margaret, it’s all I had clean. No one told me there’s a dress code.”
“It’s not a dress code, it’s a sense of self-respect. If you can’t do it for yourself, please at least think of me. Would it hurt to put on a touch of makeup or put up your hair?” She flips her own hair as if to illustrate the kind of work one should put into her appearance. “You have such a pretty face, why don’t you let others see that?” Dozens of comebacks dance on my tongue but I don’t say anything. I never do.
“I have some makeup in my bag. I’ll put some on when we sit down if that’ll make you feel better.” Margaret cringes, glancing at my grungy blue JanSport from college, which is my version of a purse. It totally drives Margaret crazy. I have a closet full of purses she’s given me over the nine years Jerry and I have been married, each one an effort to lure me away from the pack. I might use them for special occasions but I never use them around Margaret; it’s my super-passive-aggressive way of saying she’s not in charge of me.
“Yes, dear, thank you.” Shockingly, she doesn’t comment on the bag this time. “I think you’ll find it makes you feel better as well.” She pats my arm emphatically and I swallow my words. They go down harder every time.
Margaret now seems born for this lifestyle, not that she’s ever lived it. As a young widow of a deputy in rural Iowa, she was a bargain shopper and coupon clipper. But in the past week she’s mastered the art of waving toward the luggage and slipping a tip through gently touched fingers.
Today she’s dressed in all white, wearing an outfit that looks like it’s from 1983. She definitely looks more prepared for a ladies’ lunch than a plane trip, but she thinks it’s the height of fashion. Aside from the suit, she looks pretty cute. Her hair’s teased into a halo of creamy honey, sunglasses resting casually on the bridge of her nose. When she smiles, the delicate wrinkles on her cheeks emphasize the powdery sheen of makeup she carefully applied this morning.
“Now, here we are.” She gasps.
Up close, the jet’s even less impressive. A red-and-blue racing stripe runs down the side, making the plane look more like a prop in a movie than a machine we’re supposed to fly in. It’s small, much smaller than I would’ve guessed a jet would be. I count three windows trailing out toward the tail and no discernible cargo area.
The daily agenda slipped under our door this morning said we’d be on this plane for nearly four and a half hours. Some guy from Carlton Yogurt is supposed to meet us on the plane and escort us to the “private island.” Four hours with my mother-in-law and a complete stranger? I might need to grab one of Margaret’s sleeping pills to get through the trip.
There are only three stairs to climb to reach the entrance of the tiny gray jet. Margaret marches up the steps first and I don’t resist. This has been her vacation from the start, so I go with the flow. It works for both of us; she gets her way most of the time, and, as a trade-off, I don’t go insane.
When she called and told us she won a free trip to Fiji from a sweepstakes she’d entered, I didn’t believe her. I thought she’d been snookered by a fast-talking salesman. She lives four hours away from us in a retirement community in The Middle of Nowhere, Iowa, and Margaret’s the only person in the world who looks forward to getting calls from telemarketers.
I really do love Margaret, in my own way, but that doesn’t mean she’s an easy lady to get along with. Before coming to Fiji I thought of this vacation the way I think of a trip to the gynecologist: necessary but uncomfortable. But Jerry thought I needed a break from my life as a mom and Margaret thought it would be good “bonding”—so here I am.
Thank goodness I listened. Fiji is pure bliss, even with Margaret attached to my hip. I don’t know if it’s the perfect weather or the intoxicating scent of flowers in the air, but something is different about her, about us. Without Jerry and the boys around, Margaret’s “suggestions” on how to be the perfect wife and mother are at a minimum. As a result I’m finding it much easier to enjoy paradise than I originally thought.
