“He took his second wife, Mary’s, virginity on her mother’s grave,” Nora explained, like that cleared up everything. “Then that same Mary went and wroteFrankenstein.”
“Huh.” Not going to lie—it was kinda cool being related to a walking Wikipedia.
“Anyway, I digress. Take the car.” Nora’s tone was final. “Later, I’ll text you and you can come back and get us.”
“Deal.” He fisted the keys. “Be good. Don’t talk to strangers.”
Nora gave him a double thumbs-up. “If anyone offers us a lolly, I’ll kick ’em in the shins.”
Tucker kept the smile plastered on his face until he walked through the door. Out in the square, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the rhythmic strike of his footfalls echoing against the cobblestones. Night mist hung low, full of woodsmoke and the earthy scent of decaying leaves—a far cry from Zamboni fumes and chlorinated ice. The brick row houses flanking him on all four sides could be from a storybook, except he didn’t believe in fairy tales. Only the hard truth scraping against the back of his mind.
Shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t be here.
He made his way over to Nora’s Mini Cooper. It was as boxy as a toaster. He opened the door and frowned down at the passenger seat. Shit. Wrong side. Walking around, he made a mental note:Drive on the left.
Inside, his knees smashed against the steering wheel as he shoved the key in the ignition, and he had to drop his jaw down to his chest to fit. He snorted. This was a glorified go-cart. Reaching for the seat belt, he jumped as his elbow beeped the horn. Scratch that—this was a clown car.
Walking might have been easier. Even with the cold.
Downshifting and releasing the clutch, he eased into the empty laneway. Condensation veiled the windows, obscuring his view. With a reluctant grimace, he opened the window, bracing himself against the bitter gust of December air that rushed in like an uninvited guest. Crossing a stone bridge over a creek on the outskirts of town, he had just reached for the radio dial when a cry drowned out the trickle of water over rocks.
A sheepdog bolted from a farmhouse on the hill, heading straight for the road. Hot on its tail was a boy in flannel pajamas and too-big rubber boots. Tucker’s stomach hollowed as hestomped on the brakes. Shit. Black ice. The dog and kid, illuminated by the headlights, froze in front of him, wide-eyed. Tires screeched. This wasn’t going to work. He’d strike them. Without a second thought, he violently jerked the wheel to the right, throwing him off the road like a rodeo cowboy on a wild bull. He bucked and bounced, out of control, through the snow toward a frozen pond.
With a roll, the car hit on the driver’s side, and there was a heavy crack of breaking ice. Frigid water funneled through the open window. As he clenched and unclenched his fists, he fought to relax. He focused on the sensation of his nails digging into his palms, the slight sting helping to ground him in the present moment. Calm down. No big deal. This was like the cold-water immersion therapy the PT staff used to make him do to help muscle recovery after tough games. He needed to breathe through it—slow and steady. With a quick motion, he got the seat belt off, and just in time. The car was sinking fast.
He pushed away the thought as he rattled the door. Stuck. Damn. He’d have to squeeze through the window.
He was a pro athlete and used to be able to run through box jumps, ladder drills, sprints, and cycling to keep his cardio fitness in top form. But last week, he’d gone jogging and had to dial it down to a walk after a measly quarter mile.
Fuck cancer.
He still had his mental fortitude, though. He was paid to stay cool under pressure. He needed to imagine himself by a roaring fire, dry and warm, recounting the story to Nora. He rehearsed it, visualized it, and, with a determined crawl, got halfway through the open window before his belt caught on something.
He pushed, but his arms might as well have been made of wet noodles. His strength leached out by the second.
Failure wasn’t an option. He wouldn’t go out like this. Not after everything he’d survived. He bit his cheek, wrangling his focus. He had to control and execute each movement efficiently—no room for error or wasted effort.
His heart jackhammered in his ears as he finally kicked free and started swimming for the surface. The top of his head cracked against a frozen ceiling. Unyielding. No way out. Everything was so cold, yet his lungs were a firestorm, burning with fierce intensity. He punched violently. His knuckles scraped a wall of ice. His nails tore, ripping and breaking. No exit.Shit!He felt his strength ebb as his cells screamed for oxygen. Black water pressed on all sides. He couldn’t resist the urge. Had to breathe. As he reflexively gasped, the darkness rushed in. An intense emptiness took hold, coupled with a whirling chaos, a sense he was at the end of everything. And then... nothing.
Chapter Two
My Most Neglectful Offspring,
I set pen to paper to address the conspicuous silence that followed my previous letter. I can only surmise that your leisurely diversions have left scant moments for correspondence.
This past Monday, I had the pleasure of taking an excursion through Kensington Gardens with Lavinia Throckmorton. Amidst this floral profusion, dear Lavinia unveiled a most astonishing revelation—her Augusta, at a mere eighteen years of age, has found herself betrothed. A marvel, considering you, my dear, have now completed seven and twenty orbits around the sun in solitary splendor.
In her usual delicate manner, Lavinia sought news of your well-being, and I conveyed that you were finding the rural air most invigorating. My dearest fugitive, you embarked upon your pastoral sojourn to visit your cousin with a promise to be gone for a fortnight. It’s now been twice that time.
In your absence, your brother has undertaken the task (again) of identifying suitable gentlemen who, against allodds, remain unattached. I don’t have to remind you that opportunities for a union are diminishing with each passing day. I eagerly await your prompt return.
With the deepest affection and a hint of maternal vexation,
Your Loving Mother
A hint? A hint! Lizzy dropped the letter to her lap with a snort. Hell’s teeth. Her self-proclaimed Loving Mother was ready to paint the words “Please Marry My Daughter” on a bedsheet to hang out the front window of the family’s Mayfair home.
