Part 25 (2/2)

Amy spoke in hushed tones into the phone in Gary's upstairs bathroom. What was she doing? Her voice slurred, and she was afraid that Hilary would think she was drunk and playing games with her. A few sips of wine, and she was was drunk. She tried to concentrate on her words, but she found that her brain and her mouth kept missing each other. drunk. She tried to concentrate on her words, but she found that her brain and her mouth kept missing each other.

'I was at the - that is, I was down on - in Florida. Last week.'

'Yes, I know, Amy, I was there too. You did great. Congratulations.'

Amy tried to think. Tried to figure out what to say. 'I know what's going on with you. I'm really apology. Sorry. I mean, sorry.'

'Amy, are you OK?'

'I don't know.'

'Have you been drinking?'

'I guess. That's - that must be it. My coach.' 'What?'

'My coach. My coach. Do you know him?'

'I've heard of him,' Hilary told her. 'What's his name? Johnson?'

'Jensen. Gary Jensen. Yes. Gary.'

'What about him?'

Amy heard his voice again. He was at the base of the stairs. His voice was suddenly low and suspicious. 'Amy?' he called again. 'Amy, are you up there? What are you doing?'

She heard him climbing the twisting steps. Getting closer to her.

'Florida,' she said into the phone.

'Amy, you're not making any sense,' Hilary told her.

Amy banged her knuckles against her head. The words wouldn't come. She felt as if she would throw up. Her tongue felt thick. 'Gary,' she murmured. And then: 'Glory.'

'What?' Hilary's voice was insistent. 'Amy, did you say Glory? Are you talking about Glory Fischer? What about her?'

Amy couldn't feel her fingers. The phone slipped from her hand and dropped to the tile floor. The plastic back popped off, and the battery skidded away. It was dead. She heard Gary knocking on the closed door. He was inches away from her.

'Amy?' he called.

She backed up. The k.n.o.b turned; he was coming in. She grabbed the shower curtain, and the rings popped from the rod one by one, and she followed the curtain to the floor. The door opened. He stood there, watching her from the doorway. His face showed no emotion or surprise. He knew; he'd been waiting for this to happen. She had to run. Get up, get past him. Except there was nowhere to go.

Amy crawled two steps, and her knees gave way. She was unconscious as her face struck the floor.

PART THREE.

VENGEANCE IS MINE.

Chapter Thirty.

Mark Bradley made the ferry crossing through Death's Door and drove to their favorite open-air market between the towns of Ellison Bay and Sister Bay. It was one of the few farmers' markets that was open year round, baking hot pies daily and lining the shelves with produce canned in the kitchen at the rear of the store. He loved the smell of sugar and flowers and the samples of mustards and cheeses between the open wooden bins. He carried a paper bag through the aisles, filling it as he went. Some of the locals stared at him, but he shrugged it off. He didn't care what anyone thought of him.

He only cared what one person thought. Hilary.

The morning had felt like a turning point between them after a bad, bad night. He'd slept alone, feeling her absence. He hadn't blamed her for doubting him, but he'd worried that doubt was like a genie you couldn't put back in the bottle once it was free. Every day for the rest of their lives, he feared that she would look at him and a single thought would flit through the back of her mind, even if she never said it out loud. Did he? Did he?

Then Hilary came home. She arrived on the first ferry to the island in the morning. They didn't say a word. Something shook loose in both of them. Her lips were on his, and his fingers were on her clothes, and they stripped on the new carpet he'd laid in the living room and made frantic love, soundless except for the pace of their breathing. The tenderness of their bruises didn't matter. The graffiti hiding under the fresh paint didn't matter. They were alone and connected for the first time in days, and in the aftermath, as he stroked her bare skin, he felt as if he'd won her faith back.

She was sleeping now. He'd left her a note that he was going to the mainland for a few hours.

At the bakery counter, Mark ordered a loaf of rosemary-garlic bread and a cherry pie, warm from the oven. Everything in Door County was cherries. Fresh cherries, cherry pies, cherry soda, cherry caramels, cherry jam, cherry cider, cherry ice cream, cherry wine. There were cherries in tomato sauce, cherries in cheese, cherries stuffed in peppers, cherries stuffed in olives, cherries stuffed in roast beef. He didn't really even like cherries, but that was like living in Chicago and not rooting for the Bears. He'd become a cherry fan out of sheer necessity, because you couldn't escape them here.

He balanced the pie box on his hand. The tin was hot through the cardboard, and he juggled it. At the end of an aisle, he put down his shopping bag and dipped a pretzel stick in mustard. It was cherry mustard. Of course. He actually liked it. He took a jar and put it in the bag.

Mark heard his phone ringing. He had a special ring tone for Hilary, which was Aerosmith's 'Dude Looks Like a Lady'. She'd got very drunk one night at a bar in downtown Chicago and danced to it solo, and he'd never let her forget it.

'I really needed to sleep,' she said.

'I figured.'

'That was a nice way to come home.'

'Will I get the same treatment tonight?' he asked.

'Come home and see.'

'Soon. I'll swing by the Pig for groceries and get some wine at the liquor store and then head for the ferry. Do you need anything?'

'You.'

'That's a date,' he said.

He hung up the phone and realized he was smiling, because he felt a glimmer of the life they'd enjoyed in their first year. Before Tresa. Before Glory. When they were first living on the island and commuting together to their teaching jobs, he'd wondered what he had done to deserve that kind of happiness. He'd feared in his secret soul that one day fate would want to take it all back and even the score.

Sure enough, fate did.

Even now, he couldn't escape it.

Mark looked up, holding his phone in his hand, still smiling at the thought of going home to Hilary. He found an older man with slicked, jet-black hair standing in front of him. Alcohol wafted from the man's breath. They were nearly the same height, but the man's shoulders were rounded by age, and he held himself at an angle, as if one leg was weaker than the other. The man jabbed a finger in Mark's face.

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