SARA'S REWARD By Joan Early
© copyright September 2007, Joan Early Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, © copyright September 2007 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Prologue
It was an easy seduction. The smell of river rot mixed with jasmine and magnolias. The beguiling warmth of a Southern welcome served on beds of lazy sexuality. It was a perfect place to forget the past. Michael Bengalis flew from New York to New Orleans, rented a Jeep and drove to Venice, the last stop before Chaumière Isle, his final destination. He knew nothing of the tiny fishing town perched on the toe of the Louisiana boot, but there he hoped to find a time better than the one in which he lived. In dire need of a restroom, he stopped in front of a rundown shack that advertised cheap gas and generic cigarettes for $.49 per pack. The interior smelled of fish, but three cups of airline coffee narrowed his choices to enduring the stench or heading to the woods. Remembering the dead snake about fifty feet back left only one choice. He maneuvered around stacks of beer and sodas and followed the sound of a television down a long counter that cut the room in half. Behind the sign littered divider, a grizzled man wearing a dirty T-shirt leaned on the counter laughing up at the small TV screen perched above the cash register. Cigarettes, cigars, and a variety of magazines filled the walls behind the counter, while jars containing pickled pig feet, two-for-a-nickel cookies, and Paula's Famous Pralines covered most of the counter space. Without interrupting his enjoyment of the sitcom, the man removed a key from a metal ring at the bottom of an old Jax Beer sign, and used it to point to a door at the far corner of the room. Saving his questions for later, Michael thanked his host, rushed into the rancid room and closed the door. A low wattage light bulb swinging from the water-soiled ceiling cast eerie shadows on the whitewashed walls. Michael hurried, ran cold water over his hands, wiped them on his pants, and returned to the counter. Before he could express his appreciation, the man held out his palm for the key and drawled through his coffee-stained mustache. "I 'spect now you gonna' ask directions." "Guess I look like a tourist." Michael smiled. "You said it--I didn't." Michael opened the cooler door, selected a soda, and placed a dollar bill on the counter. "I'm going to Chaumière Isle. Can you point me in the right direction?" The man nodded to his right. "There's the bridge that'll take you there." "Does the bridge lead anywhere but Chaumière Isle?" "Not 'less you wanna drive inta the water." Michael started the Jeep and sat, staring into the distance. In his past, a failed career and lost love united in a staggering catalogue of heartache. Before him, he hoped to find laughter and happiness. Chaumière Isle. It was magical. A peaceful paradise. He knew this because an intriguing woman named Ayeo had told him so.
CHAPTER ONE
With the smell of morning stinging her nostrils, Sara Lowell clutched a handful of soft cotton to her chin and rolled to the center of the bed. The sedative had worn off and even the subtle hues of the bedroom walls seemed bright and dynamic. She was fully awake and entombed in the same labyrinth of pain that had zapped her strength for almost a week. Footsteps bounced off the hallway tile. Sara scrunched down under the covers and closed her eyes, pretending it was all a nightmare. She would awaken and find her world still intact. The doorknob turned and she braced herself against the pillows. "Hi, honey." The cheery voice of the man she had loved enough to marry beamed into the room. "I brought you coffee and your favorite raisin toast." Without looking at Clarke's face, she knew he was smiling. "Thanks, but you shouldn't have bothered. You'll be late for work, and I'm not really hungry", she answered but didn't turn over, not even when the bed sank under his weight and he was beside her. "Today will be a short Friday." He removed the stack of books from her nightstand to make room for the tray. "I'm worried about you, not work." He pulled the covers away from her face and stroked her forehead. She winced under his touch. "We're all worried about you, Sara. I wish you'd see someone. Tony will be glad to visit with you anytime you need to talk." "I'm fine." She wilted from the thoughts that whizzed through her mind. "And I wish you wouldn't discuss my problems with your brother." "I can't discuss your problems, Sara. I don't know what they are. We're both heartbroken over losing the baby and I thought we were both recovering, but you're worse than before and I don't know why. You won't talk to me and you aren't eating. Don't you think that's reason enough for us to worry?" Gently grasping her shoulders, he leaned and kissed her face. "You've moped around all week. Surely you know that's not normal." "Everyone heals differently." She shrugged. Pain from the miscarriage was only one part of her agony. Clarke had cheated. That part was hard to enough to swallow, but he had slept with the woman she thought of as a sister. Her fury was so intense. She knew she could claw out his eyes without feeling a shred of remorse. Clarke took a deep breath and exhaled his impatience. "You're a clinical psychologist, Sara. You know more about healing than I do, which means you should realize that this setback is not within the realm of normalcy." He hovered over her, his hot breath steaming her neck. "We can have another baby. Doctor Schaefer said there's nothing to worry about. Just give your body time to heal and we'll try again." He cuddled her next to him, covers and all. "I'm more than ready to start trying. Right now if you'd like." "Let's not discuss this now, Clarke." "If it isn't the baby then what is it? I know you're upset about something. I've never seen you this way. I want to help, but I can't unless you tell me what's wrong. You were fine on Friday. You were okay when I came home Saturday morning. I fell asleep in your arms." He sat up. "Where did you go while I was sleeping?" She lifted her head and turned into the tea-colored eyes that had been so intoxicating when they first met. Back then she had been surprised when the tall, handsome Stanford junior sidestepped the bevy of women vying for his attention and chose her. He was third generation wealthy with smooth butter-colored skin and thick, curly hair. He lived in a luxury apartment and drove a shiny new car. She was on full academic scholarship, shared a dorm room with her best friend Gayle, and earned spending money by working in the campus bookstore. "I'm fine. Just go on with your life as before and quit worrying about me. I am different. My life is different. People change." His face crinkled. "What does that mean?" She felt herself sagging under his inquisition. "It means you should go to work or wherever you need to go. It means you should quit telling Tony or anyone else that I'm-in your words-in distress." She had been profoundly ashamed when confronted with that term by Clarke's sister-in-law. "You're my wife, Sara. I love you. We lost our baby, but we're in this together, and we'll get through it together. I want to be there for you. Please don't pull away." Her throat ached and her head throbbed. "You're right. We will get through it. I just need a little time alone, so go to work and quit worrying." She tried to smile. "I'll be okay." His hand slid under her pajamas and pulled her close. "Eat your breakfast so you can get your strength back." His lips grazed her cheek. "I love you. I'll call you later." She unclenched her fists when the door closed behind him, swung her feet to the floor and took the tray into the kitchen. After pouring the coffee down the sink and dumping the toast, she took the newspaper and a banana, stretched out on the breakfast room banquette, and stared at the haze hovering over the Des Plains River. After trying to read but not being able to concentrate, Sara paced the confines of the 12,000 square feet of luxury, thinking of her childhood and ignoring the ringing phone. Her thoughts were constantly interrupted by words that kept circulating her mind like lyrics to a catchy tune. Forgiveness is the hallmark of love. She thought about her career choice and the reason for it, and felt a different kind of sadness. Her aunt had taken her to a grief counselor after her parents were killed in an automobile accident when she was nine years old. It was only one visit but enough to convince her to choose a career where she could offer the same kind of help to people in a crisis situation. She had counseled parents whose children died violent deaths. She had comforted abandoned spouses, as well as victims of rape and incest, but when faced with her own emotional trauma, she became silent and withdrawn. The advice she had given so often was of no use. It was different then. It was happening to someone else. She felt that her soul had divided and two lives were living inside of her. Sara, the practical realist, knew confrontation was inevitable. Sara, the reticent victim, could not stand to know the truth. She played out various scenarios in her head. Clarke would deny having an affair and prove the scattered details of her discovery false, admit he had never loved her and wanted out of the marriage, or reveal even more painful facts about their relationship. Maybe she was afraid that knowing would be worse than speculating, or maybe, in spite of his betrayal, she wasn't ready for her marriage to end. Forgiveness is the hallmark of love. She wanted to go back to yesterday, to erase the ugliness that had quaked her serenity. Walking the long hallway from the east side to the west side of the house brought her face to face with the things Clarke found necessary for a wonderful life. Imported chandeliers. Double hand carved staircases. A bronze metal ceiling and a brass bed that reportedly belonged to a Russian Tsar were the things that seemed to matter most. A large statue of David sculpted by a brilliant, but little known Italian sculptor rested on an Italian marble table in the center of the foyer. Sara shook her head in wonder. It was all there, but she always felt something was missing. Going back to the kitchen, she lifted the receiver from the wall phone, dialed and waited for the one voice she could always count on to lift her spirits. "Hi, Aunt Liv." "Sara, honey. You shouldn't have bothered to call me back. I was just checking on you last night." "I know, and I'm sorry I couldn't talk longer. I had taken a sedative and was beginning to feel drowsy." She crossed her fingers, knowing her words were only half-truths and that Olivia could sometimes read her thoughts. "I didn't realize you were still having problems sleeping. I don't like the idea of you having to take medicine every night." "I don't take them often. In fact, this is the same prescription the doctor gave me after the miscarriage. I still have most of it left. I had a checkup yesterday and going to the doctor's office brought it all back, so I took a pill last night." "You said your last checkup went well. Are you having problems now?" Lying was distasteful, especially to the woman who had loved and cared for her, so she carefully phrased her response. "I'm okay physically. I get emotional some days, probably from having too much time to think." "Just put it in God's hands, Sara. We don't always understand why things happen, but there is always a plan. Look at me. I was never given a gift of my womb, but when my mother died, I raised my youngest sister, and when God took her, I had you to love. No mother could love a child more than I loved your mother, or more than I love you." Tears stung Sara's eyes. "I love you too, and I know things will work out." She changed the subject. "How've you been feeling? Has your knee been giving you problems?" "Oh honey, I'm past seventy years old. If something didn't give me problems, I'd have to wonder if I was still alive." She chuckled. "I don't want you to worry about me, but there are some things I need to tell you when you're feeling better." Sara heard either urgency or distress in her aunt's voice. "I'm feeling okay. You can tell me now." "It can wait. You have enough on your mind already. Maybe when you're feeling better you can come for a visit and we'll talk." The conversation continued, but guilt had taken control of Sara's thoughts. Olivia's voice sounded frail, and she wondered if it was there before and she simply failed to notice. She said goodbye but really wanted to say that having Clarke's child was now the furthest thing from her mind. Instead, she promised to take her aunt's advice and not worry. Hunger pains reminded her of the breakfast she had dumped, and the grandfather clock in the hallway loudly announced noon's arrival. She watched the sun push through the river's gray haze while preparing scrambled eggs and toast. Her comfort food. Thoughts of Olivia dogged her mind. She worried about her aunt's health and she needed the kind of tranquility she could only find in Chaumière Isle. She started to call Olivia but feared being cautioned against traveling and dialed her travel agent instead. Clarke arrived just as she started packing. "Sara!" He yelled from the kitchen door. She pushed the intercom and answered. "I'm in the bedroom." His inquisitive frown peeped into the room. "I've been calling here all day and so has Gayle. Did you go out?" "No, I was here all day. I just didn't feel like talking." "I don't understand what's gotten into you, Sara." He threw his briefcase down with enough force to send it skidding across the dresser. "I was worried sick and so was Gayle. You should ... what are you doing?" "Packing. I spoke with Aunt Liv today. She's not well and I haven't been home in months. I have to go and check on her." "When are you leaving?" His voice was heavy with concern. "Tomorrow." "I'm in the middle of closing the Merchant deal, but I don't want you traveling that far alone. Wait until next week and I'll go with you." His offer surprised her. "Why? You never want to go to Chaumière Isle." He didn't answer, and she continued stuffing clothes in the bag. "Now that I think about it, maybe a trip home is what you need. I guess I worry too much." He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "I also don't like staying in this big house alone." "Stay at the Pyramid like you did last Friday night." "That's our place." He seemed unaware of the dry sarcasm in her voice. "I only stayed there without you Friday night because I had too much to drink and that rain was blinding. Even then, I didn't sleep well. I never do unless you're lying next to me." She asked herself, as she had done all week, if this was a good time to face her suspicions, and decided it was not. He sat on the bed and pulled her down into his lap. "I was talking to Joey today and he made a suggestion that I want you to consider. Why not adopt a baby? The theory is that once you do, you relax and get pregnant right away." He walked his fingers down her arm. "At least we can have fun trying. What do you think?" "I don't have a problem getting pregnant, Clarke. I was pregnant. Remember? Adoption can't enable me to carry a child to full term." "It was a fluke, Sara. Both Doctor Schaefer and Doctor Winchell said so. You'll get pregnant again and you'll carry the baby to term. I just don't want you worrying yourself sick about it, and if adoption would make you feel better, I'm all for it." His concern sounded genuine. She considered accepting the comforts of his arms and begging for assurance of his love but couldn't bring herself to do so. "Let's just wait and see what happens." She looked at the clock. "I'm surprised you're home so early. It's only three o'clock." "I told you I'd be home early. I thought an evening out together would do us both a world of good. I made reservations at Emilio's. They start serving dinner at five. We can have a quiet meal before the crowd arrives, come home and ... oh I don't know." He shrugged and smiled. "Maybe get reacquainted." She had felt little passion since the miscarriage, but the need to be held brought momentary surrender. When her mind drifted back to the pain and confusion she felt inside and the reason for it, she became tense, and for reasons she did not understand, frightened. The touch that once brought pleasure was foreign and repulsive. She removed his hand from under her blouse. "I can't go out looking like this. I'd better shower, curl my hair and find something to wear that isn't too tight around my waist." "Do you want to call Gayle and let her know you're okay?" "Why don't you call her? Tell her I'm fine." She left Clarke to make the call, and later listened to his complaints about his latest case during the drive to the restaurant. He ordered martinis. Sara drank hers in one gulp and immediately ordered another. Clarke frowned but her hard stare rendered him silent. She barely ate the ravioli she liked so well and picked at her dessert, but asked for an after dinner drink. They were home before seven-thirty, a rarity for the two of them, especially on Friday night. "You didn't eat much." Clarke sat next to her on the sofa and began rubbing her feet. "Can I get you something to drink? Some tea maybe?" "A martini would be nice." She swung her feet around to the floor and unbuttoned her top for comfort. She had always been thin. A perfect size 6. Doctor Schaeffer had been amazed at the gentle swell of her stomach so early in her pregnancy. It was that remaining bulge, slight though it was, that made her uncomfortable in her clothes and sometimes made her weep. "A martini?" Clarke stood but hesitated. "That was the only thing you seemed to enjoy at Emilio's. You had three, and a shot of cognac. Sure you want another one?" The doorbell rang before she could answer. Frowning, she buttoned her blouse. "Are you expecting someone?" "No. I was about to ask you the same thing. It must be someone we know or the guard would have called." Living in a gated community had been one of Clarke's first priorities for home ownership. He waited until she had rearranged her clothing and opened the door. "Gayle. Hey. Come on in. Sara and I just got back from dinner." Sara's heartbeat quickened. "Hey, girl." Gayle swept into the room. "Sara, Clarke, I want you to meet Bobby Crawford." A large man with an even larger smile ambled in and stood next to her. She hugged Clarke and kissed Sara's forehead. "I don't know if you remember, but Bobby played with the Oakland Raiders." "Clarke isn't much of a football fan, and I don't know the game." Sara pretended not to notice Gayle's puckered brow. Gayle was the one who didn't understand football. Sara loved it. "Hi, Sara. Clarke." Bobby covered Sara's hand with his. "We're on our way to my brother's nightclub, but Gayle insisted we stop and say hello. Hope we're not interrupting." "I told him you wouldn't mind. I never date a man unless my family gives him the once over, and Sara is the closest family I have...." Sara was no longer listening. Gayle's words shoveled sand into the raw trenches of her heart. How could she pretend that everything was the same? Clarke offered to make drinks and Sara silently prayed Gayle and Bobby would say no. "I'll just have one, but I'll make a pitcher," Gayle said. "I don't mean to trample your generosity Clarke, but your bartending skills need a little work. Sara is the one with the magic touch. Of course everything Sara does is first rate." "I can't disagree with that." Clarke took his place next to Sara on the sofa. "What nightclub does your brother own, Bobby?" Sara listened, knowing Clarke was pretending to be polite. He never liked the men Gayle dated, but he also claimed to dislike Gayle. Bobby's story ended with a litany of reasons for being unemployed, and Sara concluded that Gayle was still on her losing streak when it came to men. "I made enough for the two of you to get drunk when we leave." Gayle set the tray on the table next to Sara. "Hey, why don't you come out with us? His brother's place is really nice. That's where we met. There's a wonderful jazz band playing tonight." "Thanks, but we'll pass this time," Sara quickly replied. "Why don't we go, honey?" Clarke's face lit up. "We could have a few drinks, listen to a little jazz. Sounds like fun." "Yeah," Gayle added. "A night on the town might make you feel better." "I don't think a night on the town is what I need right now, but thanks for asking." She smiled obligingly. "You two go on and have fun." "Are you sure? You could wear that dress you bought last Friday. Has Clarke seen it?" "No, but I'll bet she looks great in it." Clarke smiled and took Sara's hand. "Come on, baby. We could both use a little cheering up." Sara looked at Gayle and even in the miasma of her agony, knew it was time to learn the truth. "Your new outfit looks great. Why didn't you wear the lapis earrings with it?" "I ... truth is, don't hate me, but I can't find one of them. It's either somewhere in the apartment or I lost it the week before last when I went home to Philly. I love those earrings so much. I wear them everywhere." Sara's denial ended. "You didn't lose the earring in Philly. You were wearing them Friday when you tried on that outfit and we both thought they matched so well. That's the reason I asked why you aren't wearing them tonight." "Oh ... yeah, you're right. I did wear them on Friday. I'm sure it's somewhere in my bedroom. I'll look again-" "Excuse me for a second." Sara stood. "I'll be right back." She hurried from the room on shaky legs and collapsed against the closed bedroom door. Gayle was lying and that could only mean one thing. Her hands shook and her heart hammered against her chest. She took the wad of tissue from her keepsake box. The time had come to face the truth, and Sara wasn't sure who she dreaded losing most-her husband or her best friend. "Honey," Clarke said when she returned. "I thought you were getting dressed. Bobby just told me about the band that's playing at his brother's place tonight. Sounds like fun." "As I said earlier, I'm not going out tonight." She turned to Gayle. "Here's your other earring." She dropped the tissue in Gayle's hand. "I didn't want you spending time searching for it. You lost it Friday night." Gayle looked at Clarke. "I don't understand." Sara's body trembled. "I didn't either, or I guess I did, but didn't want to think the worst of the two people closest to me." She looked at Clarke. "If you felt the need to become intimate with another woman, don't you think you could have found someone other than my best friend?" "Sara, it's not what you think." Seeming to have forgotten the man sitting next to her, Gayle burst into tears. "I said we should have told her. Now it looks like something happened, and it didn't." "She's right," Clarke said, calmly. "I ran into Gayle when I was leaving the restaurant. I joined her for another drink, realized I had one too many to drive home, especially in the pouring rain. I didn't even feel capable of driving to the hotel. I called you and then called two cabs, but it was raining so hard, we were lucky to get one, so we agreed to share. The plan was for the cab to drop me off at the hotel and then take Gayle home." His words were hollow and meaningless. He had lied to her. He and Gayle had spent the night together. She wanted to lash out, to hurt them as she had been hurt. She watched Gayle sob, saw the trapped look in Clarke's eyes, and almost felt pity. "I was barely able to stand when we arrived at the hotel. Gayle started to help me in and realized she was in worse shape than I was. I paid the taxi driver and we went in to get Gayle a room, but they were booked solid. Nothing happened, Sara. Gayle slept in the bed and I stretched out in a chair. That's the truth." "Look," Bobby finally spoke. "I don't know what's going on here, but I think I'd better leave." Sara looked from Clarke to Gayle before she turned to Bobby. "I'm sorry. You're a guest in our home and it was rude of me to place you in such an awkward position. I've been carrying this around since Pierre called Saturday morning and said one of my earrings had been found in room 302. I designed those earrings for the two of us, so I was sure there wasn't another pair exactly like them, but I still wanted to believe they belonged to someone else." "Sara, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. Gayle suggested I tell you and I would have but you've been so upset lately, I didn't want to ... nothing remotely intimate happened that night. I swear." "So that's your story and you're sticking to it. Then why did you lie?" Sara's smile was stiff and painful. "Don't do this, Sara." Gayle sobbed harder. "I would never do anything to hurt you." "That's the thing I kept telling myself, and then I remembered Paul Whittaker. The two of you had an affair while you pretended to be Trudy's friend." "Paul and Trudy weren't married at the time, and I didn't love Trudy. You're the closest family I have. I could never hurt you." "Why don't you and your date go on to the club? We'll talk another time." She could no longer stand the sight of Gayle. "I can't leave things this way. Please believe me, Sara," Gayle pleaded. "Clarke and I were both soused. He passed out first and I followed." Sara felt unclean and wondered how she could have spent so many hours listening to the lurid stories of her patients. "So you're saying nothing happened because you both passed out?" "I'm not discussing this any further, Sara." Clarke lashed out. "I've had my personal life parodied in front of a stranger. You're making much more of this than you need to." "How repressive of me to destroy your image this way." After giving Gayle a final stare, she went to the bedroom, closed the door and waited. She heard Gayle's sobs and Clarke's calm insistence, and then silence until Clarke stormed into the room. "Why did you do that, Sara? You embarrassed me in front of a stranger, not to mention what you did to Gayle." "My husband and my best friend stayed in a hotel room together and lied about it. Now I'm at fault for embarrassing you?" "What you are is delusional. You've been moping around here for three months and just when you start behaving like a reasonable adult, you find another reason to act like a basket case. I know the miscarriage was a rough blow but this is nonsense and you know it. If you ask me, you've been listening to too many crazy patients." "Don't analyze me, Clarke, and don't think your yelling will make me cower. You spent the night in a hotel with another woman. Everything you said to justify your filthy little affair only made it worse. You both passed out. How convenient. If Pierre hadn't recognized that earring...." "And that's another thing." He threw the one shoe he had removed against the wall. "I'm going to have that son of bitch fired." "Why? The man recognized the earring and thought he was doing me a favor by returning it. How was he supposed to know you'd been wallowing around with my best friend?" "I'm not going to argue over this all night." He headed to his closet. "I'm going for a swim, and I suggest you stay in Chaumière Isle until you come to your senses. I said nothing happened and I don't give a damn if you don't believe me. If you had been acting more like a wife, I would have been home instead of drinking in a bar." His voice faded as he hurried down the hallway to the heated indoor pool. She hugged her arms around her body and wondered why the passion between then had changed shortly after she became pregnant. It wasn't physical or emotional on her part. Clarke had changed. Sara stretched out on the bed, too tired to think anymore and too upset to sleep. She ruled out taking a sleeping pill. The cover had been lifted and the ugly secrets revealed. She had to face this, and she had to do it with as much cognizance as possible. Besides, she was going home tomorrow. Chaumière Isle. Aunt Liv. I'll rest then. |
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Epic Novel = 100,000 words and up; 400 pages and up (double-spaced) SWEET: behind-closed-doors sex and/or very mild love scenes and sexual encounters
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