They say the only thing certain in life is death. As Jay leaned his head against the window of the seven-passenger Beaver floatplane, he felt that certainty like a tumor in his chest. It rooted its stems through his heart and coiled branches around his lungs, constricting, strangling. Her death had no intention of letting go.
They also say death gets easier. He was much less certain about that. The plan was to spend the next few months oscillating between being pissed off at her and unproductively depressed. Maybe he would write a few angst-filled songs to express the utter helplessness of his mind.
Tony sat in the front, beside the contracted pilot, her hands folded in her lap. As the plane nosed down for descent, the vivid blues and greens of Birch Lake filled the horizon. The humidity in the air lay in a thin mist over the glassy water. Across the cove, his four-thousand-square-foot lodge stretched along the shoreline, interrupting the tundra of wild shrubs, sedges and pines.
Isolated and pristine, his corner of the thirty-five mile lake was only accessible by plane or boat. He’d ventured there twice since demolishing the original structures, but his last visit had been before he met Charlee.
The caretaker had moved into the guesthouse the year the construction completed. Thomas lived there year round, the only person who had resided on the property since Jay was six years old.
Dipping in for the landing, the floats skidded over the water’s surface, dispersing a flock of ring-necked ducks into the curling fog. When the plane drifted to a stop at the edge of his dock, he grabbed his duffle bag and guitar case and climbed out. Tony’s soft footfalls lagged behind.
The mustiness of dark rich soil mingled with nearby mint and the floral of woodland laurel, bathing his lungs. Charlee would’ve loved the authenticity of the land, and for a moment, he let himself imagine her walking along the dock with him, smiling as the scenery saturated her brilliant eyes.
Did her soul exist in an eternal place? He’d hoped so right up until Roy Oxford uttered his despicable final words. But could Jay cope with the alternative? The thought of her dwindling into an airy nothing was more than he could bear.
Cradled by the lowlying forest, he followed the rocky path to the cabin and stopped.
Two silhouettes darkened the floor-to-ceiling windows that plated the length of the cabin. He expected Thomas, but his curiosity about the other person prodded his boots into motion, drawing him toward the house.
The overcast sky muddled the details of the profiles moving past the windows to the backdoor. As he neared, the floatplane’s single engine sounded its departure and gravel crunched behind him.
He slowed his pace. “Tony, who’s here?”
Jogging to catch up, she adjusted a large tote on her shoulder. “Nathan.”
Though Jay had told her not to come, he wasn’t surprised she did and was even less surprised she’d want her lover there, too. Neither he nor Tony had seen Nathan in two weeks.
The backdoor swung open, and Nathan ran out, tugged her bag to the ground, and pulled her to his chest in an adoring kiss.
A storm of hunger and loneliness twisted brutally inside Jay. No way would he be able to share the house with the two of them. He swallowed thickly and forced his feet to move.
“Jay.” Nathan joined his side, his tone hushed with pity. “I’m sorry. That was…insensitive. Listen. We need to talk.” He put a hand on Jay’s arm, staring at it as if the world might come crashing down.
There wouldn’t be any detonations. The triggers were gone, and Jay was already standing on ground zero. “Can this wait, Nathan? It’s been a long trip.”
“No. It’s—”
The drone of a familiar two-stroke engine rumbled in the distance, growing rapidly louder, closer.
Jay set down his bag and guitar and moved to the side of the house in the direction of the sputtering. “Who’s on my dirt bike?”
The caretaker was in the house, so it wasn’t him. Jay glanced over his shoulder and caught Nathan’s thinned lips before they relaxed. Tony’s eyebrows pinched together, her eyes narrowed on Nathan.
What the hell was going on? The croak of the engine labored under whoever was racing it through the forest. The two-stroke was his most reliable bike. He’d had it shipped the twenty-two hundred miles from L.A. the night Roy swallowed the bullet. Three long days ago. “Who’s here, Nathan?”
The put-put-put of the exhaust popped over the hill, snapping Jay’s head toward it. The orange fender flashed through the woods on the zigzag trail. The rider swung the bike right to left, narrowly missing trees and shrubs, the foliage giving glimpses of a small frame, blue jeans, red hair…Red hair…Oh God, Oh god…Red hair.
He stopped breathing. A stinging sensation numbed his skin. He clutched his chest, strained his eyes, and realized he was lurching along the path through trees, sprinting toward the bike.
The rider rocketed around the bend ahead, the wind whipping the tangle of red hair behind huge blue eyes. She skidded to a stop, sliding the bike sideways along the trail.