She climbed out of the closet and sat on their bed with the box in her lap. Forgetting the deed, Cara picked up the photo. She was a pretty girl, young with peachy skin and a radiant smile. Staring at it, she felt no jealousy, just a morbid curiosity. This had to be Ashley, the young woman Brett had once been in love with. The young woman who had died in that terrible motorcycle accident. Brett had been driving. It wasn’t his fault, but that didn’t matter to him. The incident had scarred him deeply and left him changed. The thought that they were together again in heaven popped into her head. She shook it away. Though it stung to see he’d kept her photograph, she told herself that it was only right. Ashley had been an important person in his life. She set the picture back in the box.
She carried the box to his office. His was an old desk that had once belonged to his father—a crackled leather top, missing handles. He’d loved it. Scattered among the tall tilting piles of papers on top of his desk she found receipts, gum wrappers, lottery tickets, index cards filled with to-do lists. She ran her finger over his distinctive bold printing. She collected his blank checks and checkbook from the middle drawer and a file marked Insurance far back in the bottom desk drawer. His life insurance was what she needed most, and she sighed with relief and sat in the chair and began reading the policy.
Her blood chilled. She reread it.
It couldn’t be true. She covered her open mouth with her palm. Brett hadn’t kept up with his payments. He’d let the policy lapse.
“Oh, Brett,” she breathed out on a long sigh, feeling a rush of dismay. She slipped down into the chair, a deep heaviness in her heart. She felt in shock again and rested her forehead against her fingers. Then she slowly shook her head in disbelief. Brett wasn’t good with money. He wasn’t one to think of planning for a future. But allowing a life insurance policy to lapse was one of the worst financial decisions possible. The policy could have been a lifeline for her, now that he was gone. A way to ensure his wife was taken care of, her future preserved—or the reverse, if she had been the first to go. But it was lost. Gone up in the ether, despite all the payments they’d made.
They’d been having difficulties financially, but why hadn’t he come to her if he couldn’t make the payments? She would have begged, borrowed, or stolen to front the cost. What was he thinking?
Cara rubbed her eyes. He must have been that sure that neither of them would die young. That they had time to take care of their future. Cara could feel the tongues of financial ruin licking at her heels. She quelled the sudden panic and straightened her shoulders. No time for self pity. She had to be sensible now. Think! she told herself. She was never one to gloss over a problem. She preferred to deal with it head-on.
She felt cold, whether from anger or fear she didn’t know. Maybe a little of both. She set the shoebox and insurance policy on the dining table, then went to fetch the box of cookies and a second cup of coffee. Next she carried the large laundry basket filled to the brim with mail to the table as well. Emmi had been collecting it in the basket for her to plow through when she was ready. It was shocking to see how much mail could accumulate in a month’s time. Well, ready or not, Cara had to deal with it.
First she sorted the mail into three piles: bills, personal, and junk. The junk pile went straight into a recycling bag. She sifted through the personal letters, checking return addresses. Most of them were cards or letters of sympathy that she saved to read later. The bill pile was alarmingly high. She’d missed her credit card payments, but she thought she could probably get the overdue charges eliminated when she explained the situation. Her heart skipped a beat, however, when she saw the thick file from the hospital. She’d been given the file when she left the day Brett had died, but she’d never read anything in it. With trepidation, she slowly studied one page, then the next, one after another. Most of them were medical insurance forms with instructions for how to fill them out. Her hand stilled when she saw the medical report. The Emergency Department Physician’s Record had been filled out by hand.
Brett Beauchamps was received for triage at 3:40 p.m. There was no pulse. The physician noted: Cardiac arrest. Massive. DOA. Pronounced 3:53 p.m.
DOA. Dead on arrival. No chance for survival.
She sat motionless for quite a while, trying to digest the information. When the doorbell rang, she jumped. Reading this report, the doorbell was too eerily a reenactment of that day.
The doorbell rang again.
Just go away, she thought. Strangers at the door were only bad news. She couldn’t talk to anyone, especially not right now. She’d been spoiled by having Emmi here to cover for her, telling everyone to go away. The doorbell rang again. But Emmi wasn’t here now, she told herself. She’d promised to try to live a “normal” life.
The doorbell rang again, this time followed swiftly by three strong knocks.
Cara reluctantly set down the mail and went to the door. Peeking out the window, she saw it was Robert, Brett’s cocaptain at the tour business. With unexpected joy, she swung open the door.
“Robert! I’m so glad to see you.”
Robert was short, wiry, and deeply tanned. His short blond hair was spiky, stiff from the salt and sun. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral, and it did her heart good to see the man who had been like a brother to Brett. They’d been colleagues and friends since he’d started Coastal Ecotour.
They hugged, feeling each other’s grief in the gesture. She’d needed a hug just then. Badly.
“Come in,” Cara said, ushering him inside the house.
Robert’s eyes appeared clouded with concern as he looked at her. “Are you all right?”
“Me?” she asked, surprised he’d ask such a thing. “No, of course not. But I’m managing.”
“I thought Emmi was here with you.”
“She was, but she’s gone home now. She has her own life, and, like I said, I’m managing.”
He gave her a doubtful look. “Are you eating?”
She went to the table and lifted the box of cookies. “I am. Can I offer you one? A cup of coffee?”
Robert shook his head and walked closer. He appeared uncomfortable, even nervous. “No, thanks, I don’t have a lot of time.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “I have to get back to the boat. The new guy, Phillip, is a good enough captain, but he’s young. He has a lot to learn. But he’s willing to work for less, which is a good thing, eh? I don’t want to leave him alone too long. We’ve been slammed.”
“That’s good to hear. What about the Caretta Caretta?” she asked, referring to the luxury boat.
Robert made a face and shook his head. “Sorry. It’s slow. No takers there, I’m afraid.”
Cara was afraid, too. She and Robert both knew that the boat was an albatross around the tour business’s neck. “So then, Robert. Is this a social call? Or business?”
“Business, I’m afraid.”
Cara indicated a seat and they both sat at the table.
“I hate to bother you with this,” Robert began apologetically. “Brett used to handle this sort of thing.”
Cara didn’t know what he was talking about. “Handle what?”
“Payroll. It’s, uh, due today.”